(Episode 05) Puff & Power Girls: A Blast From The Past

Click here for Episode 04.

Writer’s Note: This blog post features a scene written in the Yoruba language. To enable your understanding please make use of the language translation feature at the bottom of the page, or the translation provided at the bottom of the post.

A Blast From The Past, March 1998

At 18:45 the sun turned a bright orange colour, staining the sky as it came to rest on the horizon, ready to call it a night. There was a scarcity of cars on the highway, leaving the Peugeot 306 in solitude, almost deserted. From time to time drivers breezed past, driving out of sight in seconds. The driver of the Peugeot relished the moment, windows down, radio silence, the only frequent sounds being the whirl of the wind sometimes accompanied by a lengthy horn hunk from a trailer far from the

car. She savoured every moment of the sojourn, driving ever forward. Her mind slowy wandered off, letting the past steal her thoughts. In the month of January 1996, Roseline Ronke was unfortunate to wake up everyday wondering where her life had gone wrong. On new year's day the facade of festivities and promises of a new person had completely slipped away. All that was left to celebrate was the gift of life, nothing more and nothing less. On the second day of January 1996 she smoked her first cigarette, the one that claimed her to be a chain smoker. Her life had become baseless and only full of childhood memories. On the 12th day of January she awoke with a headache, a sign that she yet again had too much to drink the night before. It was becoming usual and habitual.

The ceiling fan came to a halt. "NEPA." She made a quiet descend from the top bunk of the bed, careful not to wake her bed and housemate up. Making it all the way to the door, she turned the handle and stepped into the living room. The room carried a history with it. The walls, formerly white, were flaking, stained and detiorating. The ceiling looked nothing familiar to what it was during days of calling the flat a home. Heavy rainfalls were common during rainy season, so were the roof leakages, and so were the calls for a repair man. She dragged her feet, walking past empty bottles and a pack of cigars, determined not to pick them up simply because she planned to drink again. What was the point?

Soon the bottles will be replaced again, she thought to herself.

There stood an old wooden cabinet by the front door. It was the first purchase she and her housemate made for the flat. Years had come and gone and it became a storage cabinet. Old school books, glass cups, ceramic mugs, forgotten receipts, over read magazines, calenders from past years, wine glasses. Former glory. Stretching an arm into the cabinet, she reached for a glass cup, ready to hydrate before lighting a cigar. She filled the glass with tap water and retired in the living room, a cigar in hand. She drank slowly, there was no rush, only a feeling of emptiness she needed to fill with something, anything. The smoke did the trick: 27 years of age, no loved ones, except for my housemate Shola of course, no boyfriend, no husband. Stuck with a university degree in mass communication that has gotten me no where except under the sheets with this or that lecturer or this or that professor.

What's worse? They never give me the jobs they promise. God am I cursed? I am tired of this life. Everyday I wake up and the hole in my heart grows wider. If Ronke believed in prayers she would have prayed for mercy. But her hope did not lie in her faith, her hope was in her ability to make positive life changing decisions. Yet, her ability was failing her when she needed it the most. With no hope and no positivity, she finished off the cigar. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was destiny, maybe it was God but Ronke's habitual state of depression became difficult for her housemate to ignore any longer.

Shola stepped into the living room facing Ronke, standing.

"Ki ni i?*" Ronke spoke first.

"O ti mu siga.*"

"Ehn, good morning."

"Ronke do not give me that, when did you start smoking?"

"Since my life became meaningless."

Shola took a few more steps forward then paused, noticing the empty bottles.

"Is it that bad? Try and give it meaning instead of becoming a drunkard."

"Please, emi kii se omo.***"' "You are behaving like a child!" She quickly blurted out. "Ronke you have a roof to live under, you eat everyday, you have a job, what else do you want?" "A life. Did you say a job? A job? When did sleeping around become a job. You and I are jobless and getting old, soon these old men will stop looking at us. I want a life Shola, I'm tired of settling."

She sat next to Ronke. There was a long moment of silence. Both women were fixiated on the effect of their words. The conversation had grown cold and the room silent. The only sound came from outside the flat, prayers from a mosque. "Shola!" Ronke screamed, dropping the empty cup on the center table. What of that Alhaja? The one who promised us a job."

"Alhaja?" "You mentioned to me last year that you met with an Alhaja, you said she spoke to you about a job in FCT."

"I thought you said sleeping around is not a job."

"Yes, but this is different Shola. This is different, this involves politicians in FCT."

"I don't like working with politicians, you know."

"Do you think you can contact her? On my behalf. I'm ready to take the job."

The horn blast from the trailer was so loud, Ronke nearly forgot that she was in traffic. Time flies when visiting the past. She peered into the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of an angry driver, he had every reason to be, there was no car before her. She steered the Peugeot forward, moving at 35km an hour, still stuck in the past.

On the 12th day of January 1996, although oblivious to her at the time, Ronke's life changed forever. Had she not woken up feeling battered, useless and without a reason to live, she might have never met Aisha Frida.

It naturally took all manner of convincing to get Shola to consider an idea not conceived under a personal thought process. Days after, she finally agreed to contact the Alhaja, if not for herself, at least for Ronke. She wrote a handwritten letter to Aisha Frida, sealed it in a brown envelope, marked it with a stamp and handed it to Ronke. It will appear that till this day, Ronke was never privy to know the content of the letter. Shola refused to tell her, she refused to ask more than once. The days following the postal were undeniably long. Morning after morning she refused to leave the house save her frequent trips to Mallam Farouq's kiosk, cigarettes became a part of her weekly supply. Shola will complain, Ronke will ignore. The habit helped pass time, as slow as it was. And then the response came.

Dear Shola,

It pleases me to receive a letter from you. The brain's memory often surprises us. Had you not written to me during this time I wonder how long until I would have

forgotten meeting a wonderful girl like you. I am doing great, and so are my children.

Thank you. As much as it warms my heart to receive word from you, it troubles me. I recall during the times we interacted that you scorned over my clientele, giving me enough reasons to turn down my offer, even after I tried, with error, to get you to see my side of things. Nonetheless, the opportunity remains slightly open. I speak with limits because for me to grant you the offer again I will need to meet with you face to face again. Should you recieve this letter without delay, you can reach me on this line: xXXXXXXXXXX

I hope all is well with you.

Yours Faithfully,

Alhaja Aisha Frida.

Shola insisted on calling immediately, Ronke was of a different opinion:

"I'm moving to Abuja tomorrow."

"What?"

"I've packed my things."

Time flies when you're visiting the past. The car in front of Ronke came to a sudden halt, forcing her to step hard on the brakes. She jolted forward, blasted her horn loud and long, not processing events in real time. As soon as she recognised the car, she steered to the side of the road, parked, unfastened her seatbelt and alighted from the car, a blind rage growing inside of her.

"Amaka are you a mad person?"

She screamed into the moving traffic, alongside drivers and pedestrians.

"Do you want to kill me? Are you suddenly stupid?" All the questions were lost in the commotion but the questions did not stop. At the

same time, Amaka steered her own car, stopping to park in front of Ronke's Peugeot.

Ronke screamed louder.

"Amaka! Why are you here? How did you get here?

Amaka alighted from her car, hands raised up in surrender.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I did not mean to stop like that.!"

"Why did you even stop? I left Villa before you, why are you here?" Pedestrians became onlookers, it was rare to see two women screaming at each other on the highway.

"Ronke reduce your voice, people are looking." "Are you stupid? You nearly got me killed." She continued with the same voice, if not louder. "I do not know what it is that has come over you in the last 24 hours but you need to stay away from me. You're starting to act like my village people sent you."

She reached for the door handle, ready to calm herself within the confines of her car. The door opened, Amaka pushed it, the door opened, Amaka pushed it, the door

opened yet again and yet again Amaka pushed it.

"You're definitely mad." Ronke said in a calm tone. "I followed you from Villa, but you were driving too slow. By now we ought to be at the meeting room. But it doesn't matter, let's talk in my car, its getting dark."

"Is that why you nearly killed me, so we can talk?"

"I'm sorry, it's urgent."

"You got to Villa before me didn't you?"

"Yes, but that's not important." "I understand that you are steps ahead of me and that you aware of things that I am

not but that does not mean you get to act like someone on hard drugs."

"So will you listen to me?" Ronke's gaze shifted to the door frame, Amaka's hand was still planted on it. "Do I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice."

"What do you want to talk about?" "First, about your situation with General Yasser and secondly I have a tape I want you to listen to.!"

"Who's on the tape?"

"The big boys."

"Which of them?"

"Yasser, Sani and Mustapha. Get in the car."

To be continued…

Translations:

*What ? ** You are smoking cigar. *** I am not a child.