Iriṣa

‘Hi’

‘I am Irisa, the undead.’ I say, pausing for dramatic effect.

The screen of my phone flickers mindlessly. I maintain pressure on the audio record button.

I am not aware of this but 980km from me, in a bourgeoisie private hospital in Lagos, my mum is presently holding my father’s hand as he gasps for air. You can almost hear the fluid filling his lungs as what is left of his kidney function dwindles further. You can almost smell the weighty stench of his sorrow as my mother gives him news of the tragic thing that has supposedly happened to me.

She stares into the hollow, hazel eyes of the cachectic man sprawled in front of her. She reminisces about the days when she could not stop staring into those same eyes in love. Just five months ago, he was diagnosed with a rare kidney disease that began to treacherously chip away at his life like corrosive acid on metamorphic rock. She would give anything to keep him alive except probably the one thing he needed the most- One of Irisa’s kidneys.

She curses under her breath at the doctors and their stupid pre-transplant tests.

She squeezes my father’s hand tighter. She cannot wait for him to die.

Currently my erstwhile captor is grunting in front of me. His hands are tied behind his back and there is a fat duct tape across his lips. He is scrawny looking with an ugly scar across his small chin. Trickles of blood run down the right side of his face from the glass wound on his right scalp- the one I put there half an hour ago.

 I wonder if today is my last day on earth as from nowhere, many incidences from the past begin to flash before my eyes. A soothing clarity spreads through my head like a warm feeling.

Thirty minutes ago I begged to be uncuffed and allowed to use the bathroom. I grabbed the half empty bottle of Guinness on the table and smashed it on his head. He fell to the ground like the statue of a former slave owner.

Two weeks ago, I got a call from my mum that someone was coming to pick me in my boarding school so I could come spend time with my ailing father. I was surprised and a bit disappointed that Dele, our driver, was not coming himself. He always had kind words for me and has been our driver for as long as I can remember.

Turns out I was getting kidnapped that day. Now it occurs to me my whole life is a big convoluted mesh of secrets.

Fifteen years ago, a handsome young man was employed to be the driver of a wealthy, childless couple. One day his Oga travelled for a business meeting and madam suggestively invited him to her bedroom. As he walked into the gigantic room, he reminded himself that after all, his name was not Joseph.

It was Dele.

Footnote

Asiri is the Yoruba word for secret.