I would give anything not to see her look at me this way. The way she hugs her end of the car seat, I must stink. When you spend two months in a holding cell – that is with little or no running water, you’d stink too.
Is this rock bottom? Because it sure feels like it. What is it I see in her eyes? Is that disdain?
My phone rings again, but this time I don’t answer. It is Mama. How do I begin to tell her that I do not have the bus fare from Lagos to Enugu?
How much does this Uber even cost, and why is it so damn hot?
‘is this A.C working at all?’ I asked the driver. And here goes that look again. This time, she is also muttering words that I cannot hear.
Everything goes to shit when I don’t follow my instincts. What was I thinking? Any average thinking person would have known that Femi would choose a big assed woman over me. The ragamuffin threw me into the streets of Brussels because of big ass.
He turned me into his cook alright, but at least I had a roof over my head. I knew my days at the house was coming to an end the evening he brought the Cuban lady home. Things were going okay until they weren’t. I had to learn to sleep with the television on; she was a night person who cared less about the homeless guy squatting on another man’s couch.
Being illegal in Brussels means you are alone.
I was deported, yes. It has been sixteen hours since I arrived at Lagos, yes. She is yet to stop staring at me as if I were a stranger she picked from the roadside, yes. However, I am glad I had someone to get me from the airport. I am pleased that I have a roof over my head. And even though I had to make her buy my bus ticket to Enugu because I couldn’t deal with the embarrassment of taking the cash from her, I am still hopeful that somewhere in there, amid the resentment and pity is my Ralu.
(fiction)