Rostrum
Ada just caught sight of Bunmi from afar in the departure room of the Murtala Mohammed International Airport, Lagos State, Nigeria, walked hastily towards the latter, holding a brief luggage, nudged her and kept quiet.
It was on a Friday in 2017.
Bunmi, who equally held a luggage, involuntarily turned to her left in response to the nudge. “Oh my God, whom am I seeing?” she shouted. “Ada, it’s a lie…!”
Both were
course mates during their university days. Six years had passed, they couldn’t see, nor hear from, each other. They had probably lost contact since after graduation in 2011.
Ada smiled. “Bunmi, so it’s you?” she said. “I can’t believe it.”
They hugged each other passionately. “So, where are you coming from?” Bunmi enquired as they freed themselves.
“My dear, it’s a long story.” Ada replied, looked exhausted.
“Long story?”
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Ada nodded. “And you, where have you been?”
“I am just returning from Italy.” answered Bunmi. “I have been there for five years now.”
“Are you serious?’
“Yea.”
“That means you left this country immediately after youth service?”
“Yea.”
“Interesting.”
“Let’s not prolong our stay here.” Bunmi suggested. “Please, how do we see?”
“When are you going back?” quoth Ada.
“I will be around for about three to four weeks.”
“Hope your family is still in Lagos?” Ada added.
“Yea.” responded Bunmi. “What about you?”
“Mine is still here.”
“That makes it perfect.” Bunmi enthused.
“You can say that again.”
“I don’t have any Nigerian number to give you.” Bunmi informed. “Do you have any?”
“Hmm…” said Ada. “No, but let me give you my mum’s number.”
“So, you base abroad too?” Bunmi stylishly inquired.
“Please, let’s talk about that later, okay?”
“Nah wah ooh!” exclaimed the Italian babe.
Ada managed to smile. “Let me give you the number,” she reminded, collected Bunmi’s phone, typed the number, and returned it.
“So, this is your mum’s number, right?”
“Yes,” replied Ada. “It’s always available.”
They departed for their respective destinations a few seconds after.
* * * * * *
“So Ada,” said the 36-year-old Bunmi as they were seated at a public lounge in a popular locality in Lagos State at about 4:05pm on a Sunday. “Tell me the long story,” she landed, staring at Ada.
It was barely forty-eight hours after their previous encounter at the airport. They sat opposite each other at a white plastic roundtable sited at one of the corners in the lounge. Since their last meeting, Bunmi couldn’t wait to hear the ‘long story’ Ada cited when asked where she was coming from; in fact, the suspense really told on her. They were already emptying a bottle of red wine ordered by the former.
“I know you can’t wait to get the gist?" quoth the equally 36-year-old Ada.
“Wait keh?” said Bunmi, placing her arms on the table. “Since that day you told me your trip was a long story, I haven’t rested.”
“Sure?”
“Of course.”
“My dear,” said Ada. “It’s really a long story.”
“I am listening.”
“That very day you saw me,” she began hesitantly. “I was actually deported from the U.S,” she eventually disclosed.
“You don’t mean it?”
“Honestly,” she continued. “They just threw me back to Naija.”
“This is not funny.”
“My dear, it was really a tough experience.”
“What actually happened?”
“They said my papers were not complete,” Ada clarified. “This Trump regime no be small thing ooh.”
“Hmmm…” Bunmi sighed. “When did you travel?”
“About four months ago,” Ada answered. “After all the years of joblessness, I decided to try my luck over there.”
“Nah wah ooh…!”
There was a moment of silence. “My dear, let’s forget about it,” Ada broke the silence.” So tell me, how is Italy?”
“Italy is hot.”
“Hot..?”
“Yea,” said Bunmi, sipped the wine from her glass. “I mean, very sweet.”
“You said you have been there for five years now?”
Bunmi nodded.
“My dear, you need to help me ooh.”
“What’s it?”
“I need your connection nah.”
“You mean, to Italy?”
“Yes, of course,” Ada said. “I can’t continue like this.”
“Is that what you are saying with low voice?” quoth Bunmi. “That one na small thing.”
“Are you serious?”
“Am I serious?” uttered Bunmi. “Just tell me when you are ready, and you will see yourself in Italy immediately.”
“Oh, I no fit shout oooh!” Ada exclaimed elatedly in vernacular, sipped from her glass again and again with a sigh of relief.
The two spinsters spent almost two hours in the joint before they left for their respective homes. Bunmi firstly drove Ada to her residence in the former's black Toyota Rav-4 Jeep, before leaving for hers.
Two months later, Ada found herself in Italy as planned via Bunmi’s assistance. Days on, she understood prostitution was what her friend did for a living. She was left with no choice than to join the chorus having been persuaded. As weeks unfolded, she comprehended the intricacy of the occupation, thus needn’t be
told she could indulge herself in any other dirty game in addition to the
commercial sex-work. “So, this is how Bunmi made all her money?” she thought.
“I must shine my eyes ooh.”
At the moment, Bunmi had already built duplex both in Lagos and her ancestral home, and could boast of any car of her choice. Even there, in Italy, she harboured many Nigerian ladies including Ada who just
came in.
Afterwards, the game was all fun till one certain night Ada stole from
an Italian business mogul who lodged in a hotel with her. About five hundred
thousand dollars ($500,000) was involved in the scandal. The victim reported the case to the police who quickly went in search of Ada in every nook and cranny of the country with the aid of her portrait received from the accuser.
Few days on, Ada was clamped down at an Italian airport as she was about leaving the country for Nigeria in disguise. The money was recovered from her at the airport. Thereafter, she was charged to court, and four months on, was convicted and consequently sentenced to fifteen years in prison with hard labour.
Bunmi, who was at the court when the verdict was served, couldn’t believe her ears. Prior to this time, she made every possible effort to see that Ada was released unconditionally, or at worst, serve a less-severe sentence, all to no avail.
On their part, Ada’s parents almost ran mad the moment the news filtered in. They were totally taken unawares; no one informed them regarding her apprehension let alone court trial, not until after the sentence was pronounced.
The rest is history.
Fred Nwaozor, Novelist, Playwright & Poet, writes via frednwaozor@gmail.com
N.B: This literary work is subject to copyright.
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