Many years later, as Isioma climbed the unsteady chair in her dimly lit bedroom, she thought of her first ideation. It was during a Christmas holiday. Her family interrupted her from the intrigue of her romance novels to join in the pounding of boiled cassava, food for the many guests who came to seek her father. She expected these interruptions. Her father was Chief and once the neighbors knew he had arrived, they forgot their daily responsibilities and spent their day idling in his compound. What provoked her was how she turned into the object of criticism. Her father knew she was unlike his other children, and he divulged this to anyone who cared to listen. The visitors stared at her as she walked past. They murmured their deliberations to her hearing as they attempted to decipher if what he had told them was true. This was the atmosphere of her holiday. They studied everything she did. The manner she spoke, the inflections of her voice, they asked her why she swallowed the last bits of her sentences when she was not born mute. It was also a matter of concern the way she ate sluggishly, so after everyone was gone from the dining table, she was the only one left.
She recalled the blissful morning before Christmas Day. As she set the dining table for breakfast, her father passed a judgment on how she carried herself in the kitchen. She knew no one expected her to react. Although they knew she did not handle criticism well. She would overreact and they would call her emotional and too sensitive. So after breakfast, Isioma ran upstairs and locked herself inside the room. A room she had no right to close its doors, not to talk of locking with a key.
When knocks came from behind the door, she disregarded them. They would grow tired and leave, she thought. It surprised her when they forced the door open. Her father pulled the door from its hinges and it fell with a loud thud on the floor. The sound of which would haunt her for years to come even as she stood in her dimly lit bedroom.
He found her sitting, an open novel on her lap.
“Didn’t you hear us knocking?” he asked, moving closer.
Something told her then that even though he was her father, he was also afraid of her. The neighbors concluded her father was right after the incident. They advised the children to keep their distance and quickly summoned a pastor. When the pastor arrived, he revealed she was overcome with a suicidal spirit. Her father, on hearing this, walked out on the man of God. He called Isioma and her mother to his room, and behind closed doors, he asked.
“Is it true you want to kill yourself?”
He stared at her in hatred. “So you want to disgrace me in my hometown? What do you think people would say?”
Then she had been too young to understand what he cared about was not the act that would lead to her permanent disappearance, but what others would say about it. She watched him, bewildered.
He shook his head. “That pastor doesn’t know what he is saying, suicidal spirit my foot! There is nothing wrong with you. Tell us what happened?”
Isioma was tongue tied, and her father ordered her to leave his presence.
Her mother followed her out. Unlike her father, she never got upset. She was always gentle. This constant care only made Isioma feel bad for causing her so much problems.
*
It was a Friday when the manila ropes arrived at her front door. They were meant to come three days before, and their delay resulted in a postponement to her plans. In her dimly lit bedroom, she fingered the material of the rope before fastening it around her neck. She stood in a chair and was about to suspend her legs when she heard a sudden voice.
“I will disappear. Hope will arrive.”
Isioma paused. She could not tell where the voice was from. Some time passed before she unfastened the rope. It was the voice that saved her, but it also gave room to her actual madness. It was not that Isioma believed in voices of unknown origins. Besides, it was not the first time they had made such a vague promise to her, but she was curious about hope. She had known sadness for a long time. Every morning when she stared into the mirror at the long and deep gashes across her face, misery reminded her it was there. Each night, it wrapped its arms tightly around her petite body and kissed the back of her neck.
When hope arrived, if it did, would it mean she would no longer clench her teeth as tears stained her pillow? Isioma wondered if hope could grant her heart's desires. She desired grand things, nothing like the flimsy things her friends wanted, a husband, or the latest car model. She wanted a father: a man who didn’t desire to see a replica of himself when he looked at her, or shudder at their difference. She wanted one who would be happy to lift her on his shoulders and read her fantasy stories at bedtime.
It was true in the last couple of years she lived in her past. She recalled every incident with her father and replayed it. The present was boring. It was as though everything which was to happen in her life already did. For that reason, she was grateful for Peter’s existence. It was not his presence she found exciting, but his originality.
Isioma often thought about those who had succeeded in their attempts. She thought there was a pull, a line of people on the other side waiting for her to join, or maybe there was no waiting room, but there was a pull, regardless.
She wondered what strings held ordinary people to the world. What enormous responsibilities or trivialities? Was it drugs, love, or religion? She had failed at two already and was not brave enough to attempt the third. Isioma had what her mother called a soft heart. If it were not so, she wouldn’t care, at least not enough to let it bother her the way it did. She would have carried on with life-destroying people and never thinking back. But all she did was recall events in her past to understand causes and effects. To understand the woman she was, but after she did so, she wanted to forget because the only thing which became apparent was the past could not be changed.
The paths in her head were distorted, but they led to different rooms, and each room promised a memory.
There was one man she saw in college. She wondered about the way he used to watch her. How proud he had been of her beauty, as though she had worked hard to earn it. Or maybe it was because she did nothing to earn it that intrigued him. When she put on weight around her waist, he found pleasure in mocking her. It was as if all along he had been waiting for a chance to do so. She knew her beauty was the only thing that interested him. Like her father, he saw her; not as a person, but as an extension of himself. Both he and her father would have succeeded had she been a human who could be tamed. Isioma was not the type to argue and lash out. She was reticent and mostly did as she pleased. The man left after the accident, which was the only time she truly needed him. He could argue the accident was her fault. She was the one behind the wheel when he complained about her appearance. Steadily, she increased the speed, not to frighten him, but to block out his words so they would not hurt her.
Her father had called her unfit for driving. She did not possess the fear the skill demanded. When she saw the man who always belittled her was scared, she desired for him to be even more frightened. She recalled the crazy look in his eyes as she pressed on the accelerator with a great force. He begged and cursed for his life, and she erupted in laughter. By the time he let go of his ego and screamed for help, it was too late. They lost control of the car and went down a hill. He did not leave her because of what she had done. The result of it was what mattered to him. The scars the accident left on her face displeased him, more so her refusal to get some cosmetic surgery done.
*
Who wanted to be friends with a lunatic? Who wanted to give and get nothing? She wondered how her friends felt when she withdrew from them. Even though they had known each other for a long time. They were uncomfortable around her; they said it was because of her unflinching honesty, but she never believed that. Her absence must have come as a relief, one smeared with guilt. And how powerful was guilt? She thought. They could not leave her alone, so they called from time to time to check-in. They filled the minutes of the phone conversation with recycled questions: How was she? What was keeping her busy? Then a hurried note of goodbye as if they had just remembered they had a pot on the stove. She was happy to hear from them. It reminded her of what she believed about herself, how unforgettable she was.
*
It was a chilly morning when Isioma felt grateful that her attempt had been unsuccessful. She hummed the tune of a childhood rhyme as she prepared for work. Later that evening, after she returned, she tidied her apartment.
It was past 7 pm,when the idea of the world being her footstool, and all things and all people belonging to her, struck. She phoned a friend she hadn’t spoken to in a long time to join her for a drink at a bar they used to frequent. Isioma did not note the surprise in her friend’s voice as she politely declined. Her friend could not come because she had to stay home and take care of her son. Isioma was about to suggest she brought the boy along; after all, in a couple of years, he would sneak out to visit the same places but her friend hung up.
This rejection did not deter her. It strengthened her resolve to be out of her apartment. She hadn’t dressed up in months, not because there had been nowhere to go but because of her sadness. Now she felt like going out, and no one would stop her. She wore a velvety gown with double slits and paired it with a two-inch black heel. When she arrived at the bar, she felt new excitement at the smell of liquor and the distinct sound of clinking glasses.
She ordered a drink, and as she waited, a man with a polite smile approached her. It wasn’t too long before he divulged his life to her, and as she listened, she wondered if she ought to care that he was a road construction engineer who made a lot of money for the company he worked for; and that he had just completed building a bridge worth millions of dollars. When he stopped talking, she told him about her friend, a single mother, and how she had refused to come out because she was taking care of her son. Isioma mocked her friend for making her come to the bar alone.
Her drink arrived, and she drank the tall glass in one gulp. The man was pleased by this performance and he ordered her a second drink. When the second came, she drank it as the first. He ordered a third. Her speech became slurred. He laughed, unable to understand her.
Soon she was dizzy and wanted to go home. The man from the bar wouldn’t let her go alone and insisted on taking her home. She sighed because even in her drunken state; Isioma knew men, the atrocities they committed in the name of protecting women from men like themselves, yet she allowed him to follow her home. She believed no harm could come to her, at least not from someone else.
That night, she fell asleep as soon as she lay on her bed. The following day, when a ray of sun shone on her face, she panicked. Isioma recalled she brought someone home. She did not expect to see anyone when she looked beside her, but the man was still there. He had long curly lashes, and he took up most of the space. She could count the number of pores he had on his back. It was strange, Isioma thought, waking up beside a person. It was a lie, telling you, you were not alone, or you didn’t have to be. She tapped him, and when he did not stir, she struck him.
“Leave,” she said.
With a sleepy frown, the figure rose and took his shirt from the black chair.
He smiled at her. “I don’t think we introduced ourselves last night. My name is Peter.”
“Isioma,” she said, pointing to the door.
“Nothing happened just in case you were wondering,” he said.
“I know. I wasn’t drunk,” she said.
“Not entirely true, but_.”
“I am going to be late to work,” she said.
Peter nodded. “The truth is, I don’t really have a place to go. Can I at least stay here until you get back?” Isioma rolled her eyes. “This is not a homeless shelter.”
He stood to wear his shirt, and she saw the entire length of his body. His chest was broad and hairy, his arms large and muscular, and she recalled it was so because he was into some construction. His morning erection was confident in its announcement, and she stared.
“You can stay,” she said flatly.
He looked at her. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am going to be late,” she said as she went into her bathroom.
On her way home that evening, Isioma found herself deep in thought. She thought about the unknown voice weeks ago, which promised her hope, and in a naïve way, she thought Peter had something to do with it. When she came home and found him in her living room, shirtless, and painting, it bothered her how comfortable he was in her apartment. Was he ever going to leave, and how had he found the bucket of paints she hid beneath her kitchen sink? When she went into the kitchen to look, the smell of onions and thyme informed her there was food. She never cooked, not after the fire incident. Disregarding her reason for going into the kitchen, she dished out a plate of rice and plantains. She had been craving plantains at work. How did he know?
She went over to where he stood, absorbed in his painting. “Thank you for the meal.” “You are welcome,” he said and smiled at her.
She went to look at his painting. It was a self-portrait of her, a replica of the photograph she hung in her bedroom. It was her first birthday photograph and the only one she could stand to look at. Her mother dressed her in a colorful headpiece and lovely white gown. She had a giant cake in front of her, and anyone could count her milk teeth from the photograph. Peter’s portrait was more alive. He added drinks to the cake, and although she had no scars when she was one, his portrait showed the scars on her face.
“It’s beautiful. Where did you learn to paint?” she asked. “Nowhere, it’s a hobby. My younger brother is a real painter.”
“I guess it runs in the family then,” she said, watching the skillful movement of his hand. “I love it,” she said. “You should hang it next to the photograph.”
The second night, before Peter's snores ricocheted off the walls of her bedroom. She remembered having the feeling of being understood. He wrapped his arms around her, and as she drifted into sleep, he planted wet kisses at the back of her neck. He told her how kind she was for letting him into her home.
When she returned from work the next day, he sat in her living room shirtless, playing a video game. Again, she wondered how he found the controllers; she remembered donating them last Christmas. When she asked, he told her he found them in a pile underneath her bed along with vinyl CDS and videotapes. Isioma dropped her odd suspicion, and they dined together that night. She learned of Peter’s marriage, how it ended because his wife was unfaithful. His only daughter was in preschool and lived with her mother.
“Do you love her?” Isioma asked him.
Peter looked contemplative. “Not anymore.”
“I mean your daughter,” Isioma said, watching him.
“Of course I do,” he said.
She nodded. “You miss her?”
“Every day, you can’t imagine. I miss carrying her on my shoulders after work. I miss reading her bedtime stories. Her favorites are the princess and the frog. She is the most amazing girl in the world. You ought to meet her,” he said.
“That’s beautiful,” Isioma said. She was doing her best to hide her emotions.
She never brought up the housing situation, but Peter promised her he was actively searching for a place. He was short on time because he had to find a home before his new contract would begin. Isioma did not reveal that she did not mind him staying longer, and quite the opposite of what she believed at first; she found his presence useful. She could not tell him for fear he would perceive an attachment issue and withdraw. It was obvious the arrangement would not last long. Peter was not the stay-at-home type.
One Saturday morning, Isioma felt overwhelming grief in her heart. Peter was asleep when it began. She roamed the places in her head looking for a better place, but she knew without a doubt misery had returned. She questioned how hope and misery could live together. When Peter found her bawling her eyes out for no obvious reason, he tried to cheer her up. He engaged her in conversations that he thought would interest her, and if he were speaking to her, she was fine, but as soon as either of them took a break. The thought of killing herself would overcome her. She scratched herself frantically, the whites of her elbows becoming visible as she did. Peter scolded her.
“What is wrong with you? Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked.
She could see a similar misunderstanding in his eyes, the same look which she received from her father. She lunged at him. How dare he look at her like that, like she was insane, not after she had shown him nothing but kindness?
Peter caught her in his arms. “Control yourself.”
When Isioma was calmer, she avoided him because shame would not let her face him. Besides, she knew what he would say. As she sat in the living room, Peter came and sat by her on the couch. They did not look at each other, but stared right into the blank television ahead.
“You need to see a doctor,” he said.
She scoffed. “I knew you would say that.”
“At least call your mother back. She is worried about you,” he said.
Isioma shook her head. “You know nothing.”
“You know I’m right,” he said.
She sniffed, and then, when she could no longer control herself, began to cry. “Are you going to leave me?”
“You knew this was temporary,” he said, using his finger to point at them.
“Are you going back to your wife?” she asked.
Peter placed Isioma’s mobile phone in her hand. “Call your mother. Tell her you are sick in the head. She needs to come and get you before it’s too late.”
Isioma dialed her mother’s number and her mother answered at once. She told her what Peter wanted her to say, but she did not know what to expect from her estranged mother.
“I will be there,” her mother said.
Isioma hung up. She rested her head against Peter’s chest. He caressed her head and kissed it.
“You did a good job. I am proud of you,” he said.
She smiled. “I would like you to meet my mother.”
“That’s not possible,” he said flatly.
Isioma raised her head to ask him why, but he was gone. She looked around the sofa, screamed his name, and searched her apartment like one would search for a cherished item, but Peter was gone. He left no trail behind, not the painting of her or a single curly lash as evidence that he had been there.
Days later, when Isioma’s mother arrived at her daughter’s doorstep, she found her daughter in a disillusioned state. “Why do you look so thin? Are you not eating?” her mother asked.
Isioma looked at her and grabbed her face. “Are you real, ma? Are you?”
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