Part 2: This Thing We Call Love
I wake up to the sound of someone pounding on the door and pressing the bell constantly.
What the…? Which animal knocks on someone’s door by 2 am without respect?
“Iffy!” I hear the person call out in a drunken slur and I hesitate when it occurs to me that it’s Emeka. I haven’t seen or spoken to Emeka since that miserable night two weeks ago. I did my best to avoid speaking to him, so I don’t even know how his romantic proposal turned out.
Of course, it turned out well. They’re the exact definition of two-love bird, my mind whispers and I roll my eyes.
“Iffy open the door.” The voice calls out again, snapping me out of my thoughts. I unlock there door, not thinking about the fact that there could be robbers out there or maybe a serial killer that could kill me and then east my head. I snort at my own dark joke.
Finally unlocking the numerous padlocks and bolts, courtesy of my mom that insisted that I use that many since I’m living alone, I turn the key only for the door to fall open and next thing I know, I’m falling and hitting the ground with a 96kg male reeking of alcohol on me.
“Bia Ewu a. Why were you leaning on the door?”I snap when I finally breathe in. Then it occurs to me that all is not well. Emeka doesn’t drink, and even if he does, he doesn’t go as far as getting drunk since he can’t handle his alcohol. So seeing a disheveled drunk Emeka is a surprise.
Pushing him off me with a huff, I sit up and lock up immediately before trying to pull him up. I may live in a safe neighborhood but better safe than sorry.
“What is it?” I ask as we stumble into the parlor. I lead him to the bathroom for him to wash up even if just a little because I’m definitely not going to let him use my bedsheets while reeking of alcohol. I do not joke with my bedsheets.
I hear him hiccup and next thing, I’m covered in vomit. Tears pool in my eyes as disgust course through my veins.
“Jesus. Oh God o. Tufiakwa. What’s this kwan? Who told you to go and drink? Now you’re vomiting up and down.” I say in annoyance as we finally make it to the bathroom. Pushing him in, I rush out and first of all change out of the vomit-covered nightwear before cleaning the vomit on the floor.
Not hearing the sound of water running, I open the door to take a peek only to see him sitting on the floor with his head on the edge of the tub as he sheds silent tears. Different thoughts and questions go through my mind. Did he lose his job? His license? Did anyone die?
I’m dying to know what is wrong but figuring that that isn’t what he needs at the moment, I keep quiet and kneel beside him to help him pull off the already loosened tie and unbutton his shirt.
“Can you take it from here?” I ask quietly and he nods. I take out a new toothbrush and place it on the edge profile of the sink for him to use when he is done bathing.
I dress the bed in the guest room and sit there and check my WhatsApp messages as I wait for him to come out of the bathroom, which he does about 15 minutes later.
I watch him lie down and use his hand to shield his eyes from the bulb light above him.
“Thanks” he mutters and I nod before asking the question that has been on my mind for so long. “You’re welcome. What happened? Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Tomorrow… Or later. But not now. I can’t.” He replies, rolling over and backing me. “Good night Iffy.”
“Good night,” I reply before turning off the light and then I go to the bathroom to wash off the feel of vomit. “I hope it’s not work-related, and I hope his parents are fine.” I think as I go about my business before going back to bed
to be continued next week.