Akara
Chinaza James-Ibe
Chinaza James-Ibe
You have just watched from the balcony, the moon melting into the morning sky as though it were never present. Listening to the quietness of the wee morning and sky-gazing is an exercise you try your best to not miss. You’re sitting on the milk-tile balcony floor when Akachukwu calls you. Her squirrel-like voice mirrors her excitement; it is so contagious that even when she has not said anything funny, you laugh. The laughter gets into your eyes and stretches them into rough, thin lines. The background on her end is serene, like a closed marketplace. Her voice fills the speaker and the minute space for noise on your balcony.
"Chinaza! Guess whaaat?!"
"What?"
"Sharrap this girl, I said guess!"
"Me I'm tired o."
"Are you a farmer in your dreams? You're always tired. Oya guess only once."
"You love me?"
"Mechie ọnụ gị, atụrụ."
"Oya tell me nauu."
"Okayyy, so I just found an akara spot in hilltop ọ, can you imagine?!"
"Wow, that's crazzzyyy."
"Omo, be coming downstairs before it finishes. I'm at your gate now."
"You go see me now!"
The call ends, and you canter down the staircase. Your morning is over, there is noise now—a number of your lodge mates are downstairs with their bugas, fetching water from the reservoir while talking of anything that can be talked about. A mother is walking around the compound with her pink child close to her chest; it is wailing with the only voice apportioned it. You skirt around them to avoid the glances that always confuse you: to greet or not to greet? They complain about it, your lodge mates—about how you run from people as though they were Ori Ọkpa. This time around, you don't even glance, you plan to at least smile at them when you return with your balls of brown gold.
Outside your gate, you find a boy and a girl instead of Akachukwu. They are kissing as though their respiratory tracts were dependent on each other. The boy's plump hands are around her waist, while her hands are around his neck. The size of the boy makes you think of the girl as a vulcanizer—the more she gives up her breath, the fatter he becomes. You wonder if they have had enough time to at least brush their teeth. As you storm off, you release a loud hiss without looking back to catch their reactions. The streets are muddy, and the air smells of rain upon roofs. Akachukwu is fond of telling people she is there when she is not, so you decide to look for the akara spot yourself. You plan to buy some akara for her and yourself, and to only give them to her when you have thundered cheerful invectives upon her and her distant uncles.
You walk down towards the transformer. On both sides of the street, there are Ọkpa women staring softly at you as they glove their hands with black nylons and slice ọkpa for their customers. The face of one plummets when you cross the street to ask her about akara. Without acknowledging your greetings and sorries, she cleans sweat off her nose with her wrapper and points with her chin towards the road after the transformer. You cross to the other side and turn right. You imagine sandwiching your akara under the sweet thighs of your Campus Loaf. Your pace quickens. You rub your palms together and smile.
The Akara woman glows in the sunlight, your messiah in a blue and pink jumping horse wrapper and blouse. The sweat on her chin looks like droplets of fire as she flips the akara to the other side. You soft-walk towards her with a huge smile of gratitude across your face.
"Good morning, Ma."
"Good morning, my friend."
"I want to buy akara, how much you dey sell?"
"Na hundred naira sha, but today own don finish."
"Give me seven hundred naira own, abeg. Abi you dey collect transfer?"
"I say akara e don finish."
"All these ones for fire na stone?"
"You no come early, person don pay for am."
Beside her table is an empty mortar, flies are frolicking with the streaks of akara mixture around it. You check the time, and it is still 7:30 a.m. Nawa ọ! Your eyes are growing hot with tears, you had channeled all your longings towards this. You sit on the floor and let the sun slap your scalp. When you pick up your phone and cannot find Akachukwu's name on your call log, memories of last night invade your beclouded brain, the WhatsApp messages and the statuses that knocked you into forced slumber in the first place:
[20/10, 9:36 PM] Class of Masscom '021: Class rep: Masscom '021! something terrible has just befallen us ọ! We've lost one of our own. Her name is Akachukwu Uzoma, and she lost her life yesterday in an accident…
[20/10, 9:36 PM] Umami: Blood of Jesus! please tell me this is a lie.
[20/10, 9:37 PM] Asa Odogwu: Oh my God! Please send a photo of her.
[20/10, 9:37 PM] Class rep: JPEG. 468kb.
[20/10, 9:38 PM] Theresa: This is terrible oo, ah! may her soul rest in peace.
[20/10, 9:38 PM] Oracle of the seven seas: wait! So this beautiful girl bin dey our class? Oh Jesus, why????!
A chain of RIPs looks back at you when you view the queued statuses. Your world is in your throat. The tears that were once knocking now break loose; the Akara woman is shocked and disgusted when you begin to ugly-cry into your palms.
"Wetin be this nonsense na? Person don pay for the Akara, abeg carry your pikinity comot for my shop ọ, before I vex. I no be your mama."
Chinaza James-Ibe is undefined, but most of the time she is just a girl who loves food, books, music, and viewing the sunset from different angles.