Week 23
Monday
Last
night was a thrill, and I don’t regret it. Nnenna knows it was a
one-off, she enjoyed it and so did I. We’re both engaged, will soon be
married and will move on; Zainab never needs to know. Ishaya started
work in Kaduna today, but he knows I’m watching him. Finally secured the
Kenyan Construction company, and the five Tom Ford suits and range of
silk, hand-embroidered kaftans I ordered arrived today, along with other
stock for my men’s designer boutique.
Tuesday
I don’t
know how, but my therapist Dr Ferral, who I talk to once a week, could
tell that some extra-curricular sexual activity occurred with me over
the weekend, but I denied it. Thankfully Zainab did not suspect a thing,
and that’s all that mattered. We were planning a trip to Canada this
weekend, and she was nervous about meeting my mother. I flew to Nairobi
to smooth over the takeover deal, and tonight at my hotel, I dreamt of
Nnenna.
Wednesday
Had
meetings all day at my new company’s offices and visited some of the
sites; a lot of operational changes, firings and hirings will need to be
made. The new Nairobi MD was adequate, but I’ll be watching him
closely. The private investigator I hired to watch Ishaya’s mother
reported that she was checked into the hospice I booked for her and by
all indications, really did have cancer. My mum was wrong. But
the Investigator also confirmed that Ishaya had been to rehab for
cocaine addiction, so she was right about that.
Thursday
After
another morning of talks and meetings, I flew back to Abuja and
straight to a candle-lit dinner arranged by Zainab and my chef Daniel,
under the gazebo in my garden, with champagne, an Italian three-course
meal, soft music playing in the background and my peacocks walking
around. “I know you will always have secrets Jamal, but it’s OK, I have
secrets too,” Zainab said. I looked at her, her long hair cascaded unto
her bare shoulders, her blue strapless, Alaia summer dress billowing
down to her Miu Miu wedges. Anger flared my nostrils but I calmed down.
“That’s OK” I said.
Friday
Zainab
and I flew to Canada this afternoon, after collecting some gifts for my
mother from Zainab’s family and procuring a heap of the dawada
my mother specifically asked for. We checked in at the Four Seasons in
Toronto, then a chauffeur-driven executive car took us to my mother’s
bungalow. I hadn’t seen my mother in nearly 10 years and I was shocked
by how shrivelled she looked. Her thick hair was thin and grey and her
eyes were teary. But she had lost none of her hot temper or sharp
tongue, and barely hid her distaste for Zainab, who remained respectful.
We took her to dinner and I pretended not to see her hand shaking every
time she lifted her fork to her mouth.
Saturday
I
was in meetings all day with businessmen, prospective colleagues and
ambassadorial staff so Zainab spent the day with my mother and
accompanied her to the hospital as she refused to stay in hospice. That
evening, I told her that Ishaya’s mother was really sick, just as she
was, and she kissed her teeth in disdain. Whilst Zainab was in the
kitchen, I asked her what she thought of my fiancée. She grunted her
reply and looked away. “I feel so sorry for your mother Jamal,” Zainab
told me in our suite that night. “She needs family looking after her.
All her toughness is an act.”
Sunday
Zainab
and I took a helicopter ride over Niagra Falls, but my mother refused
to come. The truth was her body was very weak, and her loneliness was
sad to see, but she refused to have anyone come and stay with her except
a nurse and cleaner who visited regularly. Throughout my stay we never
mentioned my father or Uncle Gumbo. “I can arrange a jet to fly you to
Rome for our wedding,” I told her. "I don't want to come to your
wedding," she said. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out of the house. I
knew I would never see my mother alive again.
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