Flashback Continues…
Chapter 3
It was early Friday morning, the day before the festival — the day everybody had been waiting for. The excitement in our village was thick enough to slice with a knife. Schools were shut; even stubborn traders who wouldn't close shop for rain or thunder decided to respect tradition. It was officially declared a public holiday, and people used it to sweep compounds, wash wrappers, plait hair — all to prepare for tomorrow's big show.
I was outside, broom in hand, pretending to sweep but mostly chasing the dust from one corner to another. That was when Eniola showed up like a surprise announcement.
She was standing right in front of me — young, beautiful, almost glowing, like the sun had decided to play favorites.
Eniola: "Good morning."
Her voice was gentle, but there was also something mischievous hiding in it.
Me: "Good morning."
Eniola: "I came to thank you for trying to save me the other day."
I gave a small awkward laugh.
Me: "Thank you."
(As if she was the one who risked her neck for me.)
Eniola: "I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused. I hope your parents didn't punish you."
Me: "No o, they didn't."
At that exact moment, the door creaked and my mother stepped out, tying her wrapper tighter as if she was about to enter a gossip competition. Eniola quickly bent her knees and greeted in our dialect.
Eniola: "Eka aro, Mama."
Mama: "Eka aro, my dear. How was your night?"
Eniola: "Fine, Mama. My father asked me to come greet your family, to say thank you for what your son did."
Mama: "Ah, it's nothing serious, my daughter. May God protect you."
Eniola: "He also said he'll come personally when he gets time."
Mama: "No wahala. You're welcome any day."
Then Mama turned to me, eyes narrowing.
Mama: "You — have you even greeted me today?"
My heart jumped. I scratched my head.
Me: "Ah, sorry, Ma. Good morning, Ma."
Mama: "Good morning. Try to remember next time."
She looked at Eniola again, softened her face, and said,
Mama: "Sit down, my dear. Let me go and see Mama Ifeoma."
Eniola: "Thank you, Mama."
She perched on a broken block near our outdoor kitchen. Meanwhile, I was still battling the dust.
But my eyes? They had resigned from work and were busy feasting on her. She noticed.
Eniola: "So what happened when you got home that day?"
Me: "Hmm... they didn't talk to me for almost an hour. That silent punishment."
Eniola: "Me, they poured medicine down my throat as if I was a goat, then rubbed me with so many hot things I nearly changed color."
She leaned closer, studying my face.
Eniola: "Did they at least give you milk or tea?"
I gave her a grin that was half pain, half pride.
Me: "Not only tea and coffee."
Which in our local sarcasm meant: they didn't even give me common water, talk less of tea.
She burst into laughter, nodding. She understood perfectly.
When I finally swept the dirt into a pile, she surprised me by picking up the broom to help. Her hand brushed mine. My heartbeat jumped so high, it probably waved at the palm trees.
I caught myself staring again. When our eyes met, I quickly turned my head like my ear had become the most interesting part of my body.
Then she asked softly,
Eniola: "Can you escort me home?"
Me: "Why not?"
I dashed inside to tell Papa I'd be back. When I returned, we set off down the dusty path. The road was scattered with early preparations — girls fetching water, old men sharpening drums, boys practicing dance steps.
Eniola: "Have you been to this festival before?"
Me: "Many times. It's always full of noise, drumming that can control your waist without permission, masquerades chasing people up and down, food that tastes like the angels cooked it themselves."
She laughed.
Eniola: "But what's the actual meaning of the festival?"
I scratched my head, embarrassment heating my cheeks.
Me: "Honestly, I don't know. I'll try to find out at home. I just know it's important."
Eniola: "No problem. We'll still enjoy it."
Then she tilted her head.
Eniola: "What do you want to become in life?"
Me: "A story writer. Maybe an artist too."
Eniola: "Ah, two heavy dreams for one person. Can you actually write stories?"
Me: "Yes, and even sing a bit."
Eniola: "Good. Tomorrow, sing for me. I won't forget o."
I nodded, heart dancing like festival drums.
When we reached her grandfather's house, I stopped.
Those dogs were already announcing their annoyance from inside.
Me: "I'll come tomorrow, either before or after the festival. Let me respect myself and your family's dogs today."
She laughed, held my hand gently.
Eniola: "Thank you. Really."
Then she waved. I waved back.
And I walked home wearing a smile wide enough to swallow all my worries.
End of Chapter 3