them?’
‘They’re all older than me. Busy schedules.’
‘Oh.’
The next time we touched: ‘Why are you friends with Oritse?’ He sounded jealous.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know. The two of you don’t seem very alike.’
‘We’re not. I just enjoy his company.’
‘Does his voice have anything to do with it?’ He sounded upset.
‘I guess so. We both love music but that’s all we are: friends.’
‘Mm.’
His fingers brushed my thigh but he withdrew.
‘I should go.’
I watched the water run down his chest as he climbed out of the pool. Last weekend he had asked if we would be alone. It had made me certain he would say something today. Let him take his time. It can’t be far. Why else would he be jealous of Oritse?
‘I’ll see myself out since you’re too lazy to move.’
‘Don’t forget I still have one more week of Easter holiday. I won’t see you on the road this week.’
‘See you next weekend then. Here or the road?’
It was easier to have privacy in my house.
‘Here. See you Saturday. Twelve o’clock.’
The water lapped over his handprints and I closed my eyes.
She remained floating in the pool, long after she thought I’d left. Her hair trailed like a wet mop. Her eyes were closed, leaving her face a mask. As I towelled myself dry I wondered about that half -brother. What was to stop me from wandering to the other side of the house and bumping into him or another one of her half-siblings?
Getting to the other side of the house proved difficult. Corridors ran into staircases that led to unused living rooms. Eventually, I began to feel like I was moving through the place. The furniture changed. The tasteful opulence faded into bright orange chairs that didn’t smell new. In Abikẹ’s quarters you only heard the purring of air conditioners. Now I could hear speech, fragments of sentences that came from nowhere. I saw my first human being halfway down a corridor: a maid.
‘Excuse me, are you looking for something?’
I turned to face her: a short woman whose discoloured skin spoke of many years of bleaching.
‘Yes. I’m here to visit one of Oga’schildren.’
‘Which one?’
‘Junior.’ Every family had a Junior.
‘Junior? Are you talking about Wale?’
‘Yes, some people call him that.’
‘Go straight. Take the second door for your right and the third door for your left. You want me to show you?’
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
Second right, third left, knock.
‘Come in.’
It was him. The towel was still draped around his shoulder, the swimming shorts still on.
‘Who are you?’ The voice was low and masculine. It was odd coming from a face that mirrored Abikẹ’s so closely.
‘Are you Wale?’
‘Yes.’
His short answer flustered me into an unplanned lie.
‘Abikẹ asked me to tell you that the pool is free.’
I noticed the angular pistol that lay quietly in his lap.
‘You’re lying,’ he said, tracing the muzzle. ‘Because Abikẹ doesn’t even know my name and even if she did, such a message is not her style.’
In one movement the gun left his lap and was staring into the space between my eyes.
‘So tell me your name and tell me the real reason why you are here.’
It seemed preposterous that this boy would shoot me in the afternoon in a house full of people. I could have turned and walked away but as I watched his index finger flex round the trigger, I felt my spine itch where the bullet would shatter it.
I told him my middle name.
‘Sit down. You’re making me uncomfortable.’
Behind me the door was still open. I could rush out and not slow down until I had passed the maid, passed the cheap orange chairs, passed the third empty corridor and I was in Abikẹ’s side of the house again.
‘Please sit down,’ he said waving the gun as I leant back into the empty doorway.
‘Why won’t he sit down?’ he muttered to himself. He gave a short laugh and threw the gun under the
‘They’re all older than me. Busy schedules.’
‘Oh.’
The next time we touched: ‘Why are you friends with Oritse?’ He sounded jealous.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know. The two of you don’t seem very alike.’
‘We’re not. I just enjoy his company.’
‘Does his voice have anything to do with it?’ He sounded upset.
‘I guess so. We both love music but that’s all we are: friends.’
‘Mm.’
His fingers brushed my thigh but he withdrew.
‘I should go.’
I watched the water run down his chest as he climbed out of the pool. Last weekend he had asked if we would be alone. It had made me certain he would say something today. Let him take his time. It can’t be far. Why else would he be jealous of Oritse?
‘I’ll see myself out since you’re too lazy to move.’
‘Don’t forget I still have one more week of Easter holiday. I won’t see you on the road this week.’
‘See you next weekend then. Here or the road?’
It was easier to have privacy in my house.
‘Here. See you Saturday. Twelve o’clock.’
The water lapped over his handprints and I closed my eyes.
She remained floating in the pool, long after she thought I’d left. Her hair trailed like a wet mop. Her eyes were closed, leaving her face a mask. As I towelled myself dry I wondered about that half -brother. What was to stop me from wandering to the other side of the house and bumping into him or another one of her half-siblings?
Getting to the other side of the house proved difficult. Corridors ran into staircases that led to unused living rooms. Eventually, I began to feel like I was moving through the place. The furniture changed. The tasteful opulence faded into bright orange chairs that didn’t smell new. In Abikẹ’s quarters you only heard the purring of air conditioners. Now I could hear speech, fragments of sentences that came from nowhere. I saw my first human being halfway down a corridor: a maid.
‘Excuse me, are you looking for something?’
I turned to face her: a short woman whose discoloured skin spoke of many years of bleaching.
‘Yes. I’m here to visit one of Oga’schildren.’
‘Which one?’
‘Junior.’ Every family had a Junior.
‘Junior? Are you talking about Wale?’
‘Yes, some people call him that.’
‘Go straight. Take the second door for your right and the third door for your left. You want me to show you?’
‘No. I’ll be fine.’
Second right, third left, knock.
‘Come in.’
It was him. The towel was still draped around his shoulder, the swimming shorts still on.
‘Who are you?’ The voice was low and masculine. It was odd coming from a face that mirrored Abikẹ’s so closely.
‘Are you Wale?’
‘Yes.’
His short answer flustered me into an unplanned lie.
‘Abikẹ asked me to tell you that the pool is free.’
I noticed the angular pistol that lay quietly in his lap.
‘You’re lying,’ he said, tracing the muzzle. ‘Because Abikẹ doesn’t even know my name and even if she did, such a message is not her style.’
In one movement the gun left his lap and was staring into the space between my eyes.
‘So tell me your name and tell me the real reason why you are here.’
It seemed preposterous that this boy would shoot me in the afternoon in a house full of people. I could have turned and walked away but as I watched his index finger flex round the trigger, I felt my spine itch where the bullet would shatter it.
I told him my middle name.
‘Sit down. You’re making me uncomfortable.’
Behind me the door was still open. I could rush out and not slow down until I had passed the maid, passed the cheap orange chairs, passed the third empty corridor and I was in Abikẹ’s side of the house again.
‘Please sit down,’ he said waving the gun as I leant back into the empty doorway.
‘Why won’t he sit down?’ he muttered to himself. He gave a short laugh and threw the gun under the
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