Weekends Are for Loving

Copyright © 2013 Pamela Agboga.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-1965-5 (e)

WestBow Press rev. date: 1/30/2014

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

EPILOGUE

AFTERWORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEDICATION

To the memory of Ofure, and all those we lost in 2012.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

This book would never have been written without the help and harassment of so many people. My father who kept asking me when I was going to bring my first book. My mother who keeps saying I can do anything, if I would just stop playing so much. My siblings, who love and encourage a sister they can never fully understand. My friends, who have taken me as I am. My reviewers; Tessa Doghor (who linked me up with Westbow Press), and Donald Tombia. My editors; Timendu Aghahowa and Joy Ehonwa. My critic (me, of course), and my cheerleader; May Ikpatt.

I must thank my husband Ehis for taking over so many things just so I could finish the first draft of the manuscript and my darling Rhema for trying to understand why mommy had to gaze at that computer screen when there’s your cute face to look at!

A big thank you to the Office of Letters and Lights; the invisible guys who run the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) challenge. Your program has made a huge difference in this little life of mine.

And thank you Lord, my strength and redeemer.

‘In matters of love and marriage, I have

never known the Holy Spirit to fail.’

-Elizabeth Doghor

CHAPTER 1

Sunday April 8, 2012

Unlike good news, when trouble comes calling it does not send a forerunner.

So on April 8, 2012, dawn had arrived bright and early, following the eternal schedule drawn up for the last few days of dryness before the rainy season established its rule. Now at noon, the sun had climbed to a noticeable height, casting its generous rays upon the earth.

Tobor Odi had given up on working indoors because of the heat within the house. She had fled the sauna-like atmosphere and now leaned against the prison she had just escaped, arms folded as she observed the plants in her parents’ front yard. The power company PHCN, which almost everyone still called by its former name NEPA, was out of service again, so there was no electrically generated sound. No televisions blaring out loud, no pumping machines pulling water from deep within the bowels of the earth. Silence. In the rural stillness she could hear the chirping bird on the power cable that passed electricity to her neighbour’s bungalow. She sighed and relaxed as she breathed in the peace of the environment.

The houses in the area were all private and built mostly according to the homeowner’s desire, since the only town planning limitation was that no house could go beyond one storey high. This was her parents’ house, a simple five bedroom house with parking spaces for up to five vehicles. There were a few fruit trees and a tiny vegetable garden ran along the back wall. The house was fenced up on all sides and had just one main gate slightly off to the side of the house.

She heard the sound of a car coming along the road at a really fast pace. The car slowed, screeched to a halt and after a second she heard the hoot of a now familiar horn. She smiled and went to throw open the gates for her sister to drive in. Tyres crunched gravel as the bright red Toyota Camry rolled to a halt. Her small family came out of the car; dad, mum and one sister.

They all looked good; gaily dressed in their Sunday best. Her mother had gone the way of southern Nigerian women and was wearing her gele very fashionably; the stiff fabric wrapped around her head like a halo framing her matronly face. Tobor had always tried without success to learn how to tie that headgear. Whenever she couldn’t get out of wearing one, she would ask her friends to help her and they always got it at the first try, which irritated Tobor no end. Her mother’s silver headgear matched the intricately beaded silver lace blouse she wore over the purple wrappers she had on. The matching purple designer shoes and bag completed her ensemble. When a woman dressed like that her confidence always reflected in her steps, as her mother’s did at that moment.

Her father had shunned the trappings of traditional dress for church and had on a simple shirt and trousers, but all well put together and obviously very classy.

Ena, her sister was as tall as Tobor was short and the best way Tobor could describe her was big. Big boned and amazon-like in stature, her parents usually joked that she was their warrior, while short Tobor was the sisi. Ena’s simple A- lined dress with its empire neckline and knee length hemline was borderline decent for church worship, but these days the ushers had become more lenient toward the youth that hardly came to church anymore,. She took off her stylish hat and patted down her hair as she addressed Tobor. ‘Madam, you still dey house? I thought you said you had somewhere to go.’ For the time being, Ena was a youth corper posted to Kaduna State. She had come home for Easter without permission from the authorities, but that was what practically all corpers did. The National Youth Service Corps officers hardly ever granted leave except for extenuating circumstances like illness or burials, and when in a very good mood, weddings.

Tobor shrugged casually and smiled, ‘Change of plans.’

‘Was that enough reason to stay dirty?’ That came from her mother. ‘You are still in your sleep wear at 12 o’clock.’

Tobor looked down at her lime green housecoat worn casually over matching pyjamas top and trousers. ‘Hmm, I got caught up in work.’

Ena huffed. ‘Work, work, work. It’s Sunday, try to relax.’ They filed in past her.

‘Too hot to relax.’

‘NEPA has done their worst again? We’ll have to turn on the generator, the heat is too much these days. Aren’t you coming in?’ Her mum turned to her, her hand on the door.

Tobor looked back, ‘Oh, no. don’t worry. You can close it. I’m just clearing my head a bit before going back in.’

‘Oh, before I forget,’ Ena poked her head around the door and rushed to speak before her mum could shut it, ‘I saw Kingsley in church today. He said I should greet you and that he’ll try to see you soon.’

‘What?’ Tobor turned to face an already shut door. She took a step towards the door, then changed her mind and turned back to face the fence. There was still time to ask Ena how her name got into the conversation with Kingsley. Right now she really wanted to relax.

She had just got a job with Kingsbury Designs and Interiors and so far she was being worked to the bone. She had been in Lagos for the last couple of years and had moved back to Delta State only a month ago. Getting this job was one sign she had done the right thing.

That didn’t mean she was unhappy with the two years of her life spent in Lagos. Oh no. If she hadn’t, she would not have learned all the things she knew now. Things that were standing her in good stead at her present place of employment. She had attended training programmes and workshops, and she could still remember with fondness her stint at Dove Decorations with the meticulous Madam Garrick. The lady had been a stickler for professionalism in all things, but boy, had she known her stuff! She had given her the opportunity to practice things she had only read about and seen in pictures. She had been torn when Tobor had to leave, but very understanding about her situation, one could even say even more than she could have expected.

The low grating hum of the generator broke the silence. Tobor sighed and went back to her musings. She thought about the days before Dove, when she had been a young graduate, searching for a job. As with all young graduates, she had attended as many training programmes and job interviews as she could get the transport money for. She had attended a particular training programme during her National Youth Service and the speaker, a fresh- faced young man in his late twenties, had given them an enthusiastic orientation on how their certificate would not mean very much when they entered the work force.

She could still see him now, cutting a dashing figure in a casual tee shirt with blue jeans and sneakers, telling them how he had dropped out of school to become a writer and public speaker. His eyes had shone with the conviction of his passion.

‘I always knew there was something I was meant to do, but my father was convinced that I just had to read medicine. There was no medical doctor in our family, and as I was the last one getting into school, on my head hung all the law and the prophets.’ A faint laugh had rippled through the audience as the studious Christians in the room recognised the Bible verse from which he had adapted the phrase.

‘I was good at the courses, don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed studying the human body, but my core interest was the human mind. My thoughts dwelt more on WHY people did things, not WHY things happened to our bodies. I would have read psychology and been glad, but as I wasn’t paying the fees, I didn’t have a say.

‘Then one day I was told by my friend that there was a writing competition going on online. I had been writing, so I entered one of my best manuscripts, and the rest as they say, became history. My childhood friend who was at the time studying Law at the same University I attended warned me about the legal disadvantages of submitting, like plagiarism or the outright theft of my work, but at that moment I didn’t care. I had been reading some motivational books and was convinced that if I could create a thing once, then I could do it over and over again. Once the formula of success is known, you can make the potion again and again.’

Tobor remembered writing that phrase down, it came back to her regularly. The downside to that phrase was when the formula was not known, or out of one’s reach. Or just plain impossible to apply. She shook her head and sat on the porch chair in front of the house. The heavy blanket of bitterness she always felt came over her again. Anytime she remembered she wanted to lash out. Hit something. Destroy.

She heard the front door handle turn and looked to see her sister peeking out again with her phone to her ear, in conversation with someone, ‘Yes, Nicholas,’ a pause as she raised her eyebrow at her sister in a silent question. Tobor’s face went dark and she turned pointedly away. ‘No, Tobor isn’t around…. Yes I’ll tell her. Okay, bye.’

She ended the call and walked out to stand in her sister’s line of vision. ‘You’ll have to talk to him sometime soon you know.’

Tobor looked at her, and deliberately pursed her lips. Ena sighed, ‘Fine. But I know that no one has the patience to wait and beg forever. Don’t let this thing get out of hand, please.’ She headed back into the house, throwing the final words over her shoulder, ‘Mummy said you should come in for lunch.’

Tobor hung her head for a minute, sighed and got up. She came into the house and sat down at the dining where her parents were already seated having their Sunday lunch. As with many Nigerian families, Sunday lunch was always rice. Any kind of rice; boiled, fried, jollof, coconut, you name it. As long as it was rice. There was the occasional pasta meal. But it could never be fufu, eba or any other native ‘swallow’ meals that didn’t need to be chewed. Just dip in soup and swallow. Easy meals!

Tobor wrinkled her nose. ‘Rice? Today is Easter. Why can’t we eat starch and banga soup today?’

‘Banga on Easter day, no way!’ Mrs. Odi aka Mama Tobor, was brought up in the era where rice was the food for special occasions like Christmas and Easter, and as she had been raised, so did she raise her children.

‘When you have your own family, maybe you can give them banga on Easter. In this house, it’s rice.’

Everyone laughed but the laughter quickly fizzled out as their eyes found Tobor’s face. She stood up quietly. ‘Yes, maybe when I have a family of my own.’

‘Tobore, I didn’t mean -’

‘Ehn!’ She exclaimed, and the room fell silent again. Her family was shocked that she had raised her voice at her mother. Apparently she was too, for her next words came in a much calmer tone. ‘I had some rice before you came home, I’ll eat a little later. I still have some work left to do.’ She excused herself as she left the table.

She headed to her room and willed herself not to give in to tears or a fit of rage. She had recently found release in throwing things. Before now she thought people who threw things when angry were immature and maybe a bit possessed. Now she understood them much better.

Her family was distraught at this new side of her; this savage beast that had been unleashed. She wasn’t. She remembered it well. It had been a faint part of her before, but had left for a season, a long season of health. Now things had gone all wrong, and the beast was back.

She remembered how she would shout at the slightest provocation, how she had always had a caustic tongue. It was all back now, and far worse than before, or so it seemed. It was amazing how the same life that picked you up could just hurl you down into a vortex of pain and abandonment. Life, reality, not the scripted rubbish they paraded on DSTV, but real life, pain and sorrow.

She walked down the corridor to