Chapter 11: Chapter 11

A languorous and sombre month passed, and Monica was still unwell, resentful and withdrawn. The rawness of the pain and betrayal in her heart tasted like bile in her mouth. She didn’t see it coming, and never read the signs or the writing on the wall. Everything had happened so suddenly and now she was feeling like the fool again. She was also feeling like an invalid, an unlovable and luckless affluent girl with a low self-regard. Richard had come, and had easily had his way with her. He had used her to climb to the very top. She had cleaned him up, refined him and made him opulent. In return, he had slept with her, made her feel like a cheap whore, and finally, he had dumped her without any moral scruples and married her best friend. Then Melvin came – the worst of all the villains. He had not just done more than Richard did, but he had left her at the middle of nowhere, when her hopes were high and she was basking in the euphoria of love and a looming wedding. And not just that, he had also swindled her of an incredible amount of money. She had let the fool kiss her and had let his kiss fool her. It was the constant thought of the sweet things he always bought her, the passionate love they always made, the countless promises and sweet words he whispered in her ears, and the fear of anuptaphobia that always filled Monica’s head. The thoughts and fear were haunting her terribly, and bringing unending tears in her eyes. She had lost her equanimity and was flinging glasses and glasses of whiskey on the glistening wall. She had been a big fool, she repeatedly told herself. She had always sacrificed a lot for love and for other people’s happiness and sustenance. But she had always gained misery in return. Yet a better part of her felt she was at least entitled to happiness, to love and to be loved back in return.

And so, the last time Helen walked into Monica’s room and found her smashing another glass of whiskey on the wall, she cried all night and ordered the maids and guards to keep the glasses and bottles of whiskey far from her distressed daughter. She feared that if things went on in that manner, that Monica would sink deeper into depression and contemplate suicide. That fear alone, made Helen pray even harder for Monica to stay alive. Then when it seemed like her prayers were not piercing through the corrugated iron-roof of their swish mansion, Monica strangely began to respond to treatments. She also began to regain her appetite for food. Helen did not believe it at first. It was too sudden, too unreal and strange. She had seen cases like that before where Monica flattered to deceive, acting like she was about to make a volte-face, only for her to sink back into graver depression. But this time around, it was real.

The cause of that unnatural turnaround happened a few days back, after Monica made a deep introspection and decided, finally, to stop existing and start living. That sweltering afternoon it happened, she sat pensively in front of the mirror, staring intently into it, with her pallid face, as she watched her drained, thin and unlovable body. Her tousled hair that looked like the head of a matted mop, made her even scarier. It was that pitiable and scary look in the mirror that made her grow tired of the bitterness and hate that have frozen her heart, and the tears that were trickling down her eyes and that of her mother’s. It was it all that forced her to talk to the shattered and gaunt woman in the mirror. She thought of what would become of her mother if she died of gloom and what would become of the business she and her father have laboured to build in all these years. If anything happened to it and it crumbled, she was certain her father would turn in his grave. Apart from that, she still felt she had sacrificed too much for love and have gained nothing in return. She was rightfully entitled to being loved and cherished. She deserved it. She deserved to be happy, to find true love and have a happy life and family. She deserved to bear lovely children, cook her husband’s meals, and put a perpetual smile on her grieving mother’s face.

It was these calming and steadying thoughts that coalesced in her head, strengthening her, and filling her with hope and equanimity. And when she wheeled herself to the stereo player and slid in Michael Bolton’s: When I’m back on my feet again, the mellifluous and uplifting music floated in the airy bedroom, filling her with peace and hope and the grittiness to rise up and find her feet again. Now, finally, she had resolved to be free, to take what was rightfully hers, to fight and win, to go for life’s jugular and to find true love and happiness.

When Monica saw the happy and glorious smiles that began to wreathe her mother’s face, as Helen’s joy gradually began to return the more she saw her eat more food, play less violent and melancholic music, and stopped drinking alcohol, it encouraged her to make a giant leap towards a full recuperation. As the sight of her mother’s happiness strengthened her all the more, to rise above her gloom and put the plan in her heart into action.

Monica’s convalescence surprised the kind and willowy doctor. Her limp and shrivelled hand was beginning to regain life. Her response to treatment was thick and fast. Her willingness to swallow her bitter pills was too surprising and subservient. It filled the doctor with cheeriness and made the smile on his face constant, like the plastered smile on a molded statue.

‘This is incredible, Monica. You’re healing far too suddenly,’ he said one afternoon, after examining her; his face wreathed with a glowing smile as his eyes twinkled.

‘It’s all thanks to you,’ Monica said, shaking hands briskly with the doctor.

‘If you go on in this manner, then in a few weeks’ time, you shall be back on your feet again,’ he said cheerily; his eyebrows quirking, as Helen stood in the corner, smiling and clasping her hands in total gratitude to God.

Everything happened in that manner. Monica’s recovery was so swift that she could eat voraciously, bathe herself, and walk around the house all by herself. Helen was so excited that she asked the maids to confine Monica’s wheelchair into total obscurity. She even organized a Thanksgiving Service in the church on her behalf. She threw a lavish party in their expansive and plush mansion, where all the crème de la crème of the city was invited to drink and eat to their fill. It was rumoured that the remnants of the party were even enough to feed every man and his dog in the whole week.

When dust settled on the party, and the hurly-burly that accompanied Monica’s complete recovery, she sat with her mother on the lavish chair of the living room. And in the absolute stillness of the room she told her all that happened with Melvin and what she had resolved to do.

‘Forgive me for not telling you. I was drunken and blinded by my stupid love for that beast.’ It was strange to Monica; how easy it was to call Melvin all sorts of names now. What she wouldn’t imagine to do before. It showed there was only a thin line between love and hate. It was shocking to see, how their once knitted and inseparable hearts have strangely grown coldly aloof. She still didn’t want to think, believe or conclude that perhaps that love was overrated after all. ‘We lost a lot of money. I was conned by him as well. I gave him two hundred and fifty million naira. He said he needed it to finance a housing contract he won. I’ve contacted his bank but I was told he transferred the whole money to an offshore account with no trace and closed the account. So trying to catch him to recover the money is a dead end,’ Monica told her awe-stricken mother. The mentioning of that ludicrous amount of money made Helen jump from the chair. It stung her like the bee.

‘You mean to say that Melvin conned you of that kind of money?!’ she asked her again, open-mouthed. Monica stared into space and then shook her head slowly. Just as the thought of Melvin’s hypocrisy and slyness flooded her mind and filled her with utter revulsion. She remembered the countless times he had rapped and lashed out at the heartless and venal Nigerian politicians, whom he called the scum of the earth. But his deliberate pillorying of them was the gambit he used cunningly to fool and win her trust. It was that stroke of genius that left her blind and unsuspecting that Melvin, was in fact, the kettle that was blacker than the pot. That part alone pained Monica the most. It made her loss faith in the human nature. However, she resolved not to grieve over those things anymore. The future was brighter. Speaking of the past only brought back the pains; it made it real. The past to her was the past, and it was dead and buried.

‘Yes Mom. But I do not want to talk about the messy details anymore. It’s now the past and it should stay there. I’ve learned from my mistakes and I’ve become a better and wiser person. The life of a man is like a flowing river; we must keep moving on. That’s what you always tell me. I wish to only speak of the present, the future, and what it holds for me,’ Monica said. ‘You’ve been running the business in my absence, and you’ll continue to do so in the interim. I’ve a plan to execute.’

Helen shifted in the chair and stared at Monica, itching for the details of her strange plan.

‘Thank God for your father who left you so much wealth. If it were not for him what would we have become after losing that kind of money? We would have been beggars by now on the streets of Lagos,’ Helen said, sighing, as she closed her eyes briefly, and thought of England. Then she opened her eyes, turned and asked: ‘What is this plan of yours? I hope you’re not thinking of going on a revenge spree on men? Remember what they say: “He who wants to go on revenge must dig two graves.” Monica clasped her hands and quirked the corners of her mouth.

‘It has nothing to do with revenge. I’ve understood that I’ve given too much for love, but have gained nothing in return,’ Monica said. ‘I deserve to be loved and to love back in return. To find true love, have a happy family and bear grandchildren for you and my loving father. I’ve decided to face my demons. I don’t want to remain broken or hard-bitten by my harrowing experiences. I just feel I am fated to find my true love in the hard way; to stand up and take my destiny into my own hands. The problem is not my appearance, or my supposed flat backside. The problem is with who I am. I am Monica. I’m the only child of the rich Francis-George Bode and heiress to a billion-dollar empire. The one problem with success is that of many fake friends. My success and wealth makes me a prey and target in this part of the world and anywhere else. If I must find my true love, then I must be like the commoner on the street. I must be loved for who I am and not for what I am.’ Helen was impressed and astounded by her daughter’s sudden wisdom; and she wondered if Monica have seen the Biblical Solomon in her dream and have gotten some pieces of advice from him. She was delighted that Monica had chosen to fight and to open her heart and love again. It was the best thing to do. From time immemorial, she had always believed in that one unblemished truth that there was no stronger weapon against hate than love. However, she was a bit skeptical of how Monica intended to go about implementing her plan.

‘I must confess that all you said is the unvarnished truth. I am hugely impressed by your extraordinary wisdom. If you cannot tell the truth to yourself, you cannot tell it to others. Truth is the mirror we loathe to look, but which in fact is our reality. Truth is the honey that is bitter. In life, we all make mistakes and sometimes we fall flat on our face. But it is important that we do not look at where we have slipped, but where we are going. You’ve shown me that you’re not faithless and that you have not given up on love. Do not stagger on your resolve to have what you deserve. But I still do not know how you intend to go about executing this twiddly plan of yours,’ she said to her, hoping that Monica would unravel the plan to her. Monica looked from one end of the living room to the other and sighed heavily. The flat-screen television was showing a spanking new song from one of her favourite Nigerian musicians, and she watched it fleetingly but disinterestedly.

‘This wealth and luxury, I shall be leaving them all behind for now,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve decided to cut my curly hair, to wear my old clothes and worn-out shoes and change my location. I shall be travelling down to Ibadan to start a new life as a commoner. If I go down to the dirt, I shall unearth my diamond.’ Helen felt a sudden rush of goose pimples and they spread helplessly through her body.

‘I swore to your father that I would do everything for you. But I did not swear to him that I would let you out of my sight. Now for the sake of your happiness, I would have to do that. What’s a mother’s love if she cannot make sacrifices and bear risks for her own child? The only regret I have is that I did not raise you to be tough. It was my mistake. All your life, you’ve only lived a sheltered and lavish life. Now how are you going to adjust to that kind of impoverished life?’ she asked her disturbingly.

‘Listen Mom, I’ll be okay. It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog that matters. If you set your mind on anything, you can achieve it. The one who does not hope to win has already lost,’ Monica said grittily. ‘Do you not hear them say that tenacity of purpose is supreme? I must do it because I have to. I must enjoy the adventure as well. I must swim or drown.’ Helen rose from the chair, and filled with red-hot emotions, she clasped Monica tightly, as tears seeped from her eyes. She was amazed and emboldened by Monica’s guts and cast-iron grittiness. Her fearlessness and guts made her wariness and anxiety redundant. Monica was right after all. If nothing was ventured, nothing would be gained. That was a clichéd aphorism in business and real-life that have truly crystallized in her head.

‘Bless me, Mom. All I need is your prayers and support. It’s not going to be easy, but I shall strive to overcome and win for my happiness and for yours as well,’ Monica mumbled to her mother.

‘The Africans say that whenever a man wakes up from sleep, that is his morning. So I’ll not say you have realized you have to do this at a late time. It’s only those that dare to dream and fight for their dreams that shall see them come true,’ Helen said. ‘You’re right about this, my child. I shall support and pray for you till you find that happiness you wholly deserve. But what I do not understand is if you are going to change your name and face as well?’

‘No Mom. I cannot change my face and name. There’s no way I can really change everything about myself. I shall bear my name. No one knows me in Ibadan. Even if anyone does and remembers my name and face, I can deny I’m not this Monica. My appearance shall speak. Don’t worry, Mom.’ Helen stared at Monica lovingly and noticed the scars in her hand. They were not the scars of the several needles and injections she had had in order to battle for her life, they were the scars of love and war that have only made her stronger and braver. She smiled at her and shook her head slowly.

‘You know what they say in that song about the little light, and how to let it shine? I’ll say that your own light is not just little, but it’s beautiful and you must let it shine from the depths of your beautiful heart to your face for all to see how beautiful you’re,’ Helen said, clasping Monica again in her warm arms.

When she unclasped Monica and asked her to kneel before her for her infinite blessings, Helen was rest assured that Monica had not come out of her pain and bitter experiences, bruised, battered and shattered. Rather she had emerged from them stronger, valiant and poised to redress the balance and the mistreatments she had been through in the hands of cruel men, love, and life.