Uchechukwu J. Oputa | The Fifth Stage

She did not cry at Prince’s burial. It wasn’t for lack of effort or motivation; she did try her best but the tears just would not come. He had been her closest friend and confidante for as long as she could remember, and then suddenly he was not. He had simply become erased from earthly existence, demoted from a living statistic to a mere memory.  Gone.

They had been close friends since the years of superhero comics and bubble gum stick-on tattoos, back when the neighborhood still muttered “Tomboy” whenever she passed by, as though the term defined extraterrestrial oddities.  Those were the years when the thrill of Mortal Kombat sent every young boy into a frenzy of flailing limbs and fantastic imaginations. He would be Liu Kang and she would be Johnny Cage, and the day would end with bruises on her body and tongue-lashings from her mother about rough housing with boys. And when she began to notice, much to her consternation, that mounds were suddenly growing on her chest and backside, he was the first to gingerly touch them and say “Chinwe, you are changing o” in a way that made her feel a sense of pride like she had done the work. He was the reason she stopped flattening her growing breasts by tying a thin scarf tightly around her chest.

The crowd that gathered around the open grave swayed in that strange dance of grief. Every now and then, a fresh wave of sorrow would ripple through the gathering and make many shoulders quake to a silent beat. They each seemed to be reaching deep down into the sanctuary of every fond memory they had of him, constantly renewing the paleness of their grief with new recoveries. She felt a pang of guilt that she could not do the same, so she tried to think of the last time they had been happy together.  Where had it been? His house… Hers? Their favorite karaoke spot on Eke Street that somehow always smelt of burnt suya?  “It’s the best part, you know. The burnt, crispy parts,” he used to say, and she would make faces at him and call him abush man from the caves of Arochukwu.

The day she learned of his ailment was the first time they had both seen Simi perform live, at her office’s year-end party. They had danced together to Duduke beneath a starry night sky embellished with fireworks and euphoric promises. But on the drive home he had suddenly grown quiet, and when she suggested that they check out the new nightclub on Brown Avenue, he responded with “Chinwe, I have cancer… pancreatic. It’s in stage four.”

Stage four. What happened after that? Was cancer like video games with stage bosses that had to be defeated in order to level up? She did not speak to him again that night. She was mad at him, for spoiling everything. For assuming that she had the willpower to absorb the news in such a way. For acting like the problem was his alone to tackle. For excluding her. Why hadn’t he informed her before? Fucking reticent jerk. Later that night, when she saw the text from him that read: “I’m sorry Cee, please forgive me” she broke down and cried hard into her throw pillows.

The officiating priest led the gathering around the grave in a song. It was one of the many gloomy numbers by Jim Reeves.

“I’ll fly away, oh glory! I’ll fly away,

When I die, halleluyah bye and bye,

I’ll fly away.”

She wondered what singing these sorts of songs at funerals symbolized. If death was oh so nice and glorious, why then were they all in a state of mourning? They should all be chinking champagne flutes in honor of Prince’s ascension to ‘God’s celestial shores’. She imagined herself walking over to the amplifier and yanking off the power cord. She envisioned the collective gasps and stares of disbelief that would follow. She imagined Prince climbing out of the casket, holding his ribs, laughing.

Laughing once again.

The shadow of a smile played across her lips, and she furtively looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Her search met the gaze of Prince’s father from the other side of the open grave and her heart sank in her chest. Had he seen her smiling? Did he now think that his late son’s ‘friend’ was some sort of apathetic droid? She hastily mouthed the words ‘I’m sorry’ but he had already turned away to console his wife who was literally choking on sobs.

Prince was dead.

Dead.

She considered the word as one would consider a dried-up coconut husk, and decided that it made her feel hollow and weightless. What was it like–to die? To suddenly become a bloated up, lifeless mass of congealed blood and water. To be limited to existing in fragmented memories owned by everyone you have ever encountered but yourself, and having that existence inadvertently subject to expiration due to simple mundane distractions or the steady passage of time. She watched as his coffin was lowered into the grave and wondered if he could see them. Perhaps he could, from the vantage point beyond that hacked off plantain stump at the corner of the clearing. He would be watching with that amused expression that strangers found condescending, thrilled to see how many people showed up to compete in the cry-to-win-a-hug contest held in his honor. She let out a sigh and shuffled her feet to shake off an adventurous ant laboriously making its way up her leg. The coffin’s descent was beginning to piss her off. Why couldn’t they just let the damn thing down a little faster to shorten the duration of agony for everyone? She looked at the impeccably dressed pallbearers in their cream suits, with grim faces that had probably undergone lots of practice at fake solemnity, and decided that she hated them. Did they measure the success of their job according to how much pain was extracted from the bereaved? Had years of burying people made them insensitive to simple decency and compassion?  Was Prince’s death nothing more than just another paycheck to them? She glared at the man who pushed the switch that lowered the coffin and hissed underneath her breath. Sadists.

The coffin was maroon-red. Prince would have hated that. He had always favored black. While they were yet teens, he had once explained that it was because he was actively embracing unorthodoxy, and whether she hadn’t noticed that black people tended to prefer things that did not represent their race, because they were psychologically conditioned to think negatively of themselves. He said those who did that were hypocrites living in a prison of ‘racial denial’. When she asked him about the black people whose color preferences had no racial influence whatsoever, and just liked yellow or white for the hell of it, he looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted elf ears. She had blamed his madness on the Malcolm X and Louis Farrakhan audio tapes he constantly listened to. He, in return, blamed her ignorance on too much of Big Brother Africa.

In retrospect, perhaps he was right. Maybe she was ignorant. Ignorant and stupid. At least that would explain how she constantly managed to find herself in the dark about so many things. Like, how come she had failed to catch the signs of stages one through three? Or how come she had been oblivious to her ex’s infidelity, until she unwittingly caught the two-timing man-whore in the act. It happened the day before the new president was inaugurated. A rumor had circulated that the price of petrol would skyrocket the next day because oil tanker drivers were planning a strike. So she hurriedly drove to a fuel station during her lunch break and purchased a hundred liters of petrol with which she intended to surprise the fool. Instead, it was she who had been surprised with the sight of Tamuno’s head buried deep between the flailing legs of a young girl, barely eighteen.  Tamuno. Her Tamuno, using his well sculptured mouth, a feature that she had come to worship, as a mop for a kid’s wet crotch. 

Later that day, when Prince found her in tears curled up beneath folds of thick blankets on his ivory-white couch, he had calmly pointed and said “I think your period has started,” whereupon he left to purchase some sanitary pads. She knew he was angry at her. For her refusal to heed his advice to leave Tamuno in the past. ‘That weasel’ is what he called him. But he did not rub his correctness in her face as she might have done, had the table been turned. No, he held her in his arms instead, stroking her hair as they binge-watched the entire eighth season of Game of Thrones. That was the way Prince was; infused with easy grace and empathy. Although, they never spoke about that day, every time she visited, she would steal uneasy glances at the little dark stain on his couch and squirm. She constantly offered to gift him an entirely new set of leather sofas, and each time, he would bluntly turn down the offer. So, one day, while he was away on a business trip, she let herself into his apartment and scrubbed at the stain until it disappeared.

Soil thumped onto the casket’s smooth and shiny exterior as close friends and family took turns at shoveling dirt into the grave. The symbolism of this action represented a finality that she was not yet ready to accept. So, when the eyes of Prince’s older brother, Henry, searched her out from across the clearing with a look that seemed to say “Come take the shovel, you need to do this,” she quickly turned away and pretended to be engrossed in studying the funeral programme.

The voice of the priest erupted in song again, and this time she sang along.

“God be with you till we meet again,

By His counsel’s guide, uphold you

With His sheep securely fold you…”

The week before Prince’s interment, his family had set up a website to receive tributes and condolences. For days she had blankly stared at her laptop for hours on end, at a loss for what to write. Finally, she had written ‘Thank you’ but did not sign her name. He would know it was her when he saw it. If he saw it. Did ghosts surf the internet? Was that what he was now; a ghost who would eagerly read through pages of pretentious eulogies and superfluous poems? She did not see her entry in the tributes segment of the circulated funeral programme booklet. It was just as well; it might have spoiled the general aesthetic.

The crowd slowly dispersed as the two grave diggers began to cover the grave. Muscularly and toned with bloodshot eyes, they both seemed to have attained their sinewy physique entirely from the action of burying corpses over the years. They weren’t dressed in fancy outfits like the pallbearers; they were shirtless, muddy and set apart for the sole purpose of scarifying the earth. And like the scatterings of dandelions around the grave, they too blended into the background, unnoticed—or rather ignored by everyone else, a displacement in the gathering of well-dressed mourners. There was a certain evasiveness to them; they constantly avoided eye contact with people. She wondered if their bashfulness was because they were ashamed of their chosen profession, or that the weight of burying too many people had so deadened them inside, that they thought themselves unworthy of human connection. But, unlike the pallbearers, they were quick with their objective and soon, a small heap of fresh dark soil had replaced the gaping hole in the ground.

When she went to place a rose on the grave and noticed some plastic flowers among the assortment of bouquets already there, she went down on her knees and began to fling them away. She paid no mind when onlookers began to point and whisper animatedly, nor did she look up when Prince’s mother joined her, their knees scraping the very soil that he had now become a part of.

 On the drive home, she stopped at the Suya stall in front of the Karaoke lounge on Eke Street. It was yet evening, but a small crowd had already formed around the old meat vendor and his greasy, soot-coated grill. Thick smoke from the fire billowed around them, stinging and choking, but no one was willing to leave their space. When he noticed her, the old man smiled broadly, baring vacant spaces were his incisors used to be.

“Ah! Madam Welcome, na Shaki abi na Tozo I go put for you.” Do you want the tripe or meat from the hump, he asked.

“Give me from those ones close to the fire,” she said stonily, pointing to the stack of partly burnt tenderloins being lapped up by the hungry flames.

He flashed his toothless smile again in understanding.

“Okay! Like Oga dey like bah? I go do am well for you.”

Chinwe was about to say thank you when she caught a murmur of disapproval from her left where a skinny young girl, with hair dyed the colors of maple leaves in autumn, stood glaring at her through a thick bush of artificial eyelashes. The young thing sucked her teeth viciously, muttering about high end prostitutes who thought themselves above the first-come-first-serve courtesy just because they drove nice little cars. Chinwe studied her, wondering if Tamuno had used his mouth on this one too, and if he had bothered to wash it right after. For a brief moment, she pictured him, cruising around the city on the prowl for impressionable teens who would gratify his cravings in return for small stipends. Her gaze scanned the girl, moving down from her jutting collar bones to the two pointy knobs that pushed defiantly against a half top, and lower still, past a belly button…

Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she turned directly into a hug that smelt of wood smoke and bad grapes. It was the fruit vendor whom she habitually bought fruits from, most times in the company of Prince. A very robust woman whose large breasts hung at her waistline next to her money pouch. Her arms were heavy and suffocating and Chinwe found herself unwittingly fighting to exit the hug. When they separated, the woman was sizing her up sympathetically.

“My sister, I saw you over here and came to say sorry, eh. I heard what happened.”

The bustle of the small group of customers around them instantly quietened, everyone trying their best to appear impassive as they attentively listened in on the conversation. They were eager to find out what happened and the fat woman was the willing story teller.

“It’s a wicked world we live in, my dear. God will surely punish whoever is responsible for the death of your man…”

With this new information, the crowd around the grill all turned to inspect her; this specimen of an aggrieved lover, freshly cheated by death, left behind and alone. The weight of their stares bore into her and she winced under their scrutiny, feeling strangely violated. It was as if they had forcefully opened her up and looked into the inner chambers of her insecurities. Their pitying glances and murmurs of ‘take heart o’ churned her stomach and unsettled her insides. Even the young girl, suddenly assuming a gracious air, stepped back dramatically to demonstrate a change of heart. Chinwe wrung her hands nervously and prayed that the old man would hasten her order.

The fat woman was still talking.

“…and such a fine young man! Tufiakwa! I heard it was a charm they used, is this true?”

There was a sudden rush of pressure to her face. She tried to speak but there seemed to be a constriction in her throat so she coughed and stuttered.

“No…no I—”

“You need to stay strong my dear, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, okay? Don’t you worry, God will send you an even better man in Jesus’ name!”

The crowd around them shouted a resounding Amen!

She gazed at the woman, her eyes burning. The Lord taketh away. She wanted to say something. To ask her what she meant by ‘anevenbetterman’. To understand what authorized her to reduce Prince to the notion of a replaceable lover. To inform her that her avocadoes tasted bad and were, as far as anyone knew, probably carcinogenic. But the lump in her throat, bitter as bile, clutched at her vocal cords and kept her quiet.

The fat woman was still monologuing.

“He came by only a couple of weeks ago to buy some mangoes and wouldn’t take his change. Such a fine man! This is why we need to pray against the powers of witches and wizards! They are killing off all our young men of marriageable age…” She said this looking at the young girl with the colored hair.

Thankfully, the old man finished packaging her order. Chinwe snatched the plastic bag of meat and without waiting for her change, made a beeline for her car. Something within her was about to burst open and she decided it would be best if she were alone when it did.

When she made to open the car door, the plastic bag got snagged and its contents spilled onto the asphalted street. She stood, staring at the scattered mess through a blurry screen of tears. The emotional undulations of the past few days had now come to a head with this little incident, and for a moment she remained frozen to a spot in a fight to maintain her composure.  All she had wanted to do was buy some burnt suya in honor of Prince and now this. Was it not enough that fate had snatched away her best friend in his prime, must it now also soil the things he loved as well?

Then came the surge of pressure to her face again, this time so strong that it threatened to pump out a steady stream of fluid from her eyes. She tilted her head upwards and blinked rapidly. From the suya stand, the whispers and mumbles of the small crowd sailed across to her; she could feel their stares boring holes through her back. She bent down and began to pick up the meat pieces. And then the heavy steps of the fat woman sounded right behind her.

“My sister, just leave them on the ground, eh. Do you know how much germs are around these days! Come, I will buy again for you, eh. It’s not good for a fine girl like you to be picking things from the floor like this. People might think you are a bush girl.”

Chinwe whirled around, her face a mask of thunder.

“Leave me the fuck alone, you stupid stupid bitch!” she screamed.

The fat woman stared blankly at her in stunned silence as she got into her car and sped off, her screeching tyres leaving skid marks on the asphalt that resembled a botched tattoo job.

She drove manically, her mind in another time. A time when the world still had some ambience of hope and colors didn’t appear faded. It was the same day they danced under the stars. The preceding night had been movie night so she had spent the night with Prince at his place. It was to be a day that would become branded into her memory as the day she discovered that happiness could be exterminated. But she didn’t know this then, and as she shimmied into a sheer lace evening gown in preparation for her office end of year party, her mind formulated a plan to lay all her cards on the table and tell him what they both already knew. To create a chance for them to acknowledge the growing, breathing thing between them that wouldn’t go away. She was tired of waiting for him to make the move, perhaps he needed a little push. And while she pored over her make up in the mirror lost in these thoughts, she failed to notice him standing in the doorway.

“I would say you look ravishing, but your head might get too big and fall off,” he said with that amused look she found incredibly exciting.

“We both know who’s got the big head so shut up. Plus, I already know I look good.”

“How about me? How do I look?” He asked striking a pose.

 She turned to look at him and something tingled in her chest. My God! What a beautiful man.

“You need a tie.”

“And that’s why I’m here. So, work your magic,” he said, throwing an unraveled tie at her that she completely ignored.

“You didn’t say please,” she said.

“Okay, please will you help me knot this tie, your majesty Chinwe Odigwe, The first of her name, Head Turner, Balls Buster and the Khaleesi of the Windsor knot?” He said, mimicking with comical exaggeration, a nobleman’s bow.

She giggled and threw her mascara at him.

“Asshole.”

As she picked up the tie and turned around to face him, something crackled, flickered and sparked. The space between them seemed to pulsate, drawing them to each other as though there was an electromagnetic force in the air. For right there in that moment, the room became weighted with the accumulation of all the things they both had locked away in the grey, uncharted areas of their hearts; Those intimate secrets they exiled to the shadows to die, but had endured and blossomed like a fungus. And now that they had found the light, she knew they shouldn’t be allowed to fester any longer. The time was ripe for them to finally confront the nagging feelings that plagued them both. She knew it for her, and she knew it for him too. But when she closed the space between them and raised her lips to meet his, he turned away, muttering something about them being late for the red carpet event. And later that night, as they danced underneath the night sky her eyes went to his shirt, bereft of a tie, and she wondered what he was so afraid of.

A mild precipitation had begun by the time she finally arrived home. She thought of Prince, lying still in utter darkness six feet below the ground, as droplets seeped through his wooden confinement to splatter on his face. She did not bother to open the blinds or turn on the lights. There was a certain comfort to the gloom. She went straight to the open laptop on her study desk still logged in from the day before, and tapped a key. The screen lit up to a research page about the four stages of cancer. She remembered how the article had described the various stages.

Stage one: Local growth.

Stage two: Local spread.

Stage three: Larger growth and possible spread to the lymph nodes.

Stage four: Confirmed spread to the lymph nodes and other organs of the body.

They neglected to add Stage five: Death.

She clicked on the next tab and there he was. It was a picture of him smiling radiantly as he overlooked a cliff, his white shirt unbuttoned and swaying in the wind. She took that picture of him the day they had visited Obudu Mountain Resort on a mere whim, the same month he told her that he would henceforth start living each day as though it was his last. That was before he told her about his ailment. She remembered the twinkle in his eyes that filled her with childlike excitement. She remembered his serene face being caressed by the breeze; his eyes closed as if in rapturous worship as he took in the moment. She remembered how the wind tousled his short dreadlocks, giving him the appearance of a rascally child. And when he flung his arms at the sky and shouted to the mountaintops, she remembered how she had joined him, their voices reverberating off the mountains.  “It’s all in the mountains Cee… Freedom.  You can really breathe up here!” He had said as he stared off into the valley of green.  

Suddenly seized by a frenzy of emotions, she clicked on the tab for his tribute site and began to edit her previous entry. The words came to her with an astonishing flow.

Dear Prince,

Thank you.

Thank you for being there, for staying with me so far through life’s journey.

Thank you for choosing me to love with your beautiful heart.

Thank you for sanitary pads on inconsolable nights.

For your silence that bears no gloating.

For burnt suya in all its crispy glory.

For giddy steps and careless whispers underneath the stars.

For movie nights, complete with their sensual secrets.

For a friendship that became my lifeline.

For pretending not to notice the times that I constantly failed you.

For loving me regardless.

Thank you and enjoy the freedom of the mountains.

Your friend, Cee.

Then, a violent tremor took over her body and the laptop clattered to the floor. Painful, guttural sobs welled up from deep down within her bowels, leaving bruises in her throat as they tore their way out. She curled into a fetal position on her plush gray rug, and holding nothing back, painted the walls with the sounds of her anguish. For days she would remain like this in isolation—a tortured soul submerged in a tempestuous sea of agony—subsisting on a sustenance of stale suya and sullied memories. And deprived as she was of the one who tempered the worst of her impulses, she subsequently yielded to the seducing numbness of hard liquor.

Thus, drowning in her pain, she descended deeper and deeper, bottle after bottle, down the rungs of despair. And she knew that if he were there with her, he would enfold her in his arms and radiate his warmth and love directly into her broken spirit. And she would once again get that secure feeling she had as a child, when her father would carry her on his broad shoulders and she would wrap her little arms tightly around his neck. And together they would binge-watch the last season of Peaky Blinders, their limbs entwined beneath warm blankets, sipping hot lattes that swirled around in porcelain mugs. Then he would kiss her lips softly and remark that they had become salty from all the tears, and laughing, she would kiss him back and say that they weren’t tears, but symptoms of an acute allergic reaction to a world without him.

——–

Image: MS Co-Pilot AI