April 3rd, 2025
CHAPTER TWO: OF GOODBYES, RAIN AND FAMILIAR FACES.
Diane stood in the parlour by her favourite window, the one just beside the gate view, watching for the rain. The clouds were darkening, and the rustling of the trees signalled that the scourge of the Lokoja wind was fast approaching. She could hear the shrill timbre of Iye Iko’s voice battling, fruitlessly, for dominance over the rising storm.
“Favour! Close all the windows in the parlour and bring out the basins!”
“Don’t forget to pack the clothes from the line. If you like, wait until the rain starts falling, you’ll walk under it, nonsense girl! Iko!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
A shadow of a smile cracked Diane’s glacial countenance. She knew what would follow: a grunt from Iko and then Iye Iko’s colourful expletives. Aunty Omanyo always said it was unacceptable for a mother to insult her child like that, but by now, everyone expected it.
After Grandfather’s burial, the house had emptied with little regard for how she felt. Everything was gone, except for the parlour and the room she shared with Aunty Omanyo. The parlour stood hollow, void of life and memory. The couches, the artificial plants once flanking the television shelf, the shelf itself, the TV, the vases, the centre table, even the framed photos, all vanished. Even the cartons and Ghana-must-go bags filled with belongings had been carted away two days ago.
For days, her heart had yearned for normalcy and found none. Perhaps this was God’s way of compensating for upending her life so suddenly. He knew just how much she loved the rain.
She called it the dance of the rain, all that unfolded once the skies turned grey: the daunting and hovering gloom of the atmosphere; the nonchalance of ashen clouds amidst the showdown between thunder and lightning, and the maddening rage of the wind. The wind inspired her, it expressed emotions in a manner she dared not; with ferocious freedom. It toppled objects with feral force, bullied biennial crops from their roots and perennial trees it recklessly pruned. But in its wild wake, it ushered in the chilly breeze and the rain, growing steadily, exponentially.
The rain pelted the roof in a hypnotic sequence. Droplets slithered down the windowpane, misting the glass and blurring her vision. It settled into a steady cadence until lightning slashed through the clouds and thunder desecrated the harmony. The philharmonic cacophony of nature, it balanced itself: darkness and light, chaos and calm. But her life had never known balance. So, she envied nature.
A gentle nudge at her elbow pulled her back. It was Aunty Omanyo.
“Didi, I hope you’ve packed. Desmond is coming to take you to Abuja tomorrow. Everything’s been finalised. You’ll meet your dad once you get there. I’m sorry, Didi… I couldn’t convince them otherwise. And who am I kidding, I barely have enough to take care of you. I think it’s best you know your father.” Her voice cracked.
“I’ve dismantled the bed. Once the rain stops, we’ll move it to the porch, okay? And we’ll need to turn on the gen later too. Maybe call your friend Iko to help? Nago,” she added, patting Diane’s shoulder lightly before heading back upstairs.
The downpour slowed to a harsh drizzle before Diane called for Iko.
“What?” he hissed in response, after the third call.
“I need your help… Please,” she added as an afterthought.
“I’m doing something first,” he replied dismissively. She understood him well enough to know that he would eventually come around. However, she would be long for the waiting, since he generally lacked a sense of urgency.
But she was too emotionally drained to wait. She’d learned to handle the generator anyway. She ran out into the rain, which was picking up pace, and entered the gen house. She checked the fuel, enough to last until NEPA restored power. The oil looked clean. She turned the fuel valve on, flipped the engine switch, and moved the choke into place.
Wrapping her fingers around the rope handle, she tugged, not too hard, not too soft. The cord hissed back with a dry snap. The generator coughed. She tried again. And again.
On the fourth pull, it roared to life, briefly, then died. She tried again. It sputtered to life on the second try but quickly shut off.
Her arms and waist ached, but she was determined to win this one. This, at least, she could control.
Just as she bent to pull again, a loud bang on the gate stopped her. She ran to open it and found a fairly wet Iko, scowl etched into his otherwise handsome face. He brushed past her into the gen house.
“I’ve been trying, but it won’t stay on. Something’s wrong,” she said softly.
He grunted and checked the generator.
“Everything seems fine,” he muttered.
“I’m telling you something Iko. I’ve been at it. Watch.” She went over the process. Same result. “See I told you. Something’s wrong” she frowned.
Their eyes met briefly. He held her gaze. A sheepish, beautiful smile broke across his boyish features. She couldn’t help but return it.
“You’re supposed to return the choke to ‘run,’ genius,” he laughed.
“Oh.” She laughed.
“Oh,” he mimicked. She swatted his shoulder, giving him a playful scowl.
“So… are you going to leave me to battle this gen alone, Iko?” she asked after a short, companionable silence.
“Ehen now. I’ve taught you how to fish, and you still want me to feed you? Ehn, Uwodi?” he teased with exaggerated exasperation.
“Chivalry is really dead,” she mused.
“Get out of the way, Uwodi. Let a boy do what a girl should know how to do better,” he smirked.
She slapped his hand away. Her chin rose in defiance, her eyes glinting with challenge.
“In that case, Iko, I’ll show you. And for the record, I knew about the choke. It’s not my first rodeo.”
“Whatever ferments your cassava, Uwodi,” he grinned.
“What kind of sentence is ‘whatever ferments your cassava’? You say the most ridiculous things.” She laughed.
He watched her manoeuvre the generator. When it finally roared to life and stayed on, he clapped in melodramatic admiration.
They moved to the front porch, sitting just centimetres apart, looking everywhere but at each other. The distant, steady hum of the generator filled the space between them.
Iko had never been shy or vulnerable. Instead, he carried himself with a boldness and directness that belied his years. From a tender age, he stepped into shoes far too large for him, shouldering burdens that no child should bear. He was never afforded the luxury that kids his age had. That was what drew him and Diane close.
It had started with teasing, so much of it that everyone thought Iko hated her. The teasing ended the day she whacked him on the head on the school bus after an excursion. From then, cold acknowledgement blossomed into a deeper, unspoken bond, especially after he witnessed her grandfather’s cruelty.
“I’m sorry again. About your grandfather,” Iko said softly.
Iko broke the silence. Diane didn’t believe it. If anybody could hate the man more than she could, it was Iko. She sighed.
“I leave for Abuja tomorrow,” she whispered. “My uncle’s taking me straight to the house of… the man who bore me.” Her voice broke, tears glistening in her eyes.. She had yet to accept that she had a father.
He reached for her hand, warm and steady, just as his eyes met hers.
“I’m sorry, Jumy. It’s all so unfair. I wish I could help… It hurts that I can’t.” His voice was raspy, thick with emotions he rarely showed. But with her, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. She was the only one who had seen him cry, for his father’s death, for the pain of being constantly berated by his mother. She didn’t pity him or judge him; she gave him space, where words weren’t always needed, but support was freely offered.
They weren’t just friends. They were bound by the ugly hands life had dealt them, again and again.
“Your grandfather was cruel, in life and in death. Your soul is too pure for that. I’d like to say I hope things get easier from here, but who are we kidding? We’re made of sterner stuff, built for the tough things. Whatever awaits you in your father’s house, you can handle it. I know you can. And I’ll always be a text or phone call away.”
She didn’t speak, words failed her, but she nodded. His touch filled her with warmth. The thought of losing that solace, that closeness, stung. No more Iko to rant to, study with, or sit beside in silence.
“Hey… You’ll be alright, Jumy. You’ve always managed to survive.”
She tried to hold it in, but her body betrayed her. The tears came in torrents, her voice cracked into sobs, her frame shuddered from the weight of emotion.
Iko pulled her into his arms, letting her soak his shirt for the second time that evening, this time with tears.
She didn’t know how long she stayed in his embrace. But she remembered wishing she could freeze the moment in time, so she could return to it the next time her heart broke.
Hi love,
Thank you for sitting with Diane today, for standing beside her as she packed more than just clothes- memories, silences, and one last shared moment with someone who truly saw her. This chapter was a goodbye etched into nature’s backdrop- the wind, the storm, the quiet ache of change. And the next will carry her (and us) into unfamiliar rooms and uncertain love..
Her story is unfolding gently, storm by storm, word by word, and I’m so grateful to share it with you. If any part of it echoed in your heart, I’m listening. This space is here for your stories, too. You can reach out here – https://www.justhummingbird.com/contact-me
Or share quietly through this form – https://stats.sender.net/forms/e7ly1a/view
With tenderness,
✨
Hummingbird