“What the hell, Korede? Don’t wake me up unless there’s a fire.”
“This is a hospital, not a bed and breakfast.”
She mutters “Bitch” as I walk away, but I ignore her. Something else has caught my attention. I let the air out through my teeth and go to find Mohammed. I sent him to the third floor an hour ago, and sure enough, he is still there, leaning on his mop and flirting with Assibi, she of the long, permed hair and startlingly thick eyelashes, another cleaner. She makes a run for it as soon as she sees me coming down the corridor. Mohammed turns to face me.
“Ma, I was just—”
“I don’t care. Did you wipe the windows in reception with hot water and one-quarter distilled vinegar, like I asked you to?”
“Yes, ma.”
“Okay…show me the vinegar.” He shifts from foot to foot, staring at the floor and trying to figure out how to weave his way out of the lie he has just told. It comes as no surprise to me that he can’t clean windows—I can smell him from ten feet away, and it is a rank, stale odor. Unfortunately, the way a person smells is not grounds for dismissal.
“I no see where I go buy am from.”
I give him directions to the local store, and he slouches off to the staircase, leaving his bucket in the middle of the hallway. I summon him back to clean up after himself.
When I return to the ground floor, Yinka is asleep again—her eyes staring into nothing, much the way Femi’s did. I blink the image from my mind and turn to Bunmi.
“Is Mrs. Rotinu done?”
“No,” Bunmi replies. I sigh. There are other people in the waiting room. And all the doctors seem to be occupied with talkative people. If I had my way, each patient would have a fixed consultation time.
THE PATIENT
The patient in room 313 is Muhtar Yautai.
He is lying on the bed, his feet dangling over the end. He has daddy longlegs limbs, and the torso to which they are attached is quite long too. He was thin when he got here, but has gotten thinner still. If he does not wake soon, he will waste away.
I lift the chair from beside the table in the corner of the room and set it down a few inches from his bed. I sit on it, resting my head in my hands. I can feel a headache coming on. I came to talk to him about Ayoola, but it is Tade whom I cannot seem to get out of my mind.
“I…I wish…”
There is a comforting beep every few seconds from the machine monitoring his heart. Muhtar doesn’t stir. He has been in this comatose state for five months—he was in a car accident with his brother, who was behind the wheel. All the brother got for his efforts was whiplash.
I met Muhtar’s wife once; she reminded me of Ayoola. It wasn’t that her looks were memorable, but she seemed completely oblivious to all but her own needs.
“Isn’t it expensive to keep him in a coma like this?” she had asked me.
“Do you want to pull the plug?” I returned.
She raised her chin, offended by my question. “It is only proper that I know what I am getting myself into.”
“I understood that the money was coming from his estate…”
“Well, yes…but…I…I’m just…”
“Hopefully, he will come out of the coma soon.”
“Yes…hopefully.”
But a lot of time has passed since that conversation and the day is drawing near when even his children will think shutting off his life support is best for everyone.
Until then, he plays the role of a great listener and a concerned friend.
“I wish Tade would see me, Muhtar. Really see me.”
HEAT
The heat is oppressive, and so we find ourselves conserving our energy by restricting our movements. Ayoola is draped across my bed in her pink lace bra and black lace thong. She is incapable of practical underwear. Her leg is dangling off one end, her arm dangling off the other. Hers is the body of a music video vixen, a scarlet woman, a succubus. It belies her angelic face. She sighs occasionally to let me know she is alive.
I called the air conditioner repairman, who insisted he was ten minutes away. That was two hours ago.
“I’m dying here,” Ayoola moans.
Our house girl ambles in carrying a fan and places it facing Ayoola, as though she is blind to the sweat rolling down my face. The loud whirring sound of the blades is followed by a gust of air, and the room cools very slightly. I lower my legs from the sofa and drag myself to the bathroom. I fill the basin with cold water and rinse my face, staring at the water as it ripples. I imagine a body floating away. What would Femi think of his fate, putrefying under the third mainland bridge?
At any rate, the bridge is no stranger to death.
Not long ago, a BRT bus, filled to the brim with passengers, drove off the bridge and into the lagoon. No one survived. Afterward, the bus drivers took to shouting, “Osa straight! Osa straight!” to their potential customers. Lagoon straight! Straight to the lagoon!
Ayoola lumbers in, pulling down her knickers: “I need to pee.” She plops herself on the toilet seat and sighs happily as her urine pitter-patters into the ceramic bowl.
I pull the plug in the basin and walk out. It’s too hot to protest the use of my facilities, or to point out that she has her own. It’s too hot to speak.
I lie on my bed, taking advantage of Ayoola’s absence, and close my eyes. And there he is. Femi. His face forever etched into my mind. I can’t help but wonder what he was like. I met the others before they lost their lives, but Femi was a stranger to me.
I knew she was seeing someone, the signs were all there—her coy smiles, the late-night conversations. I should have paid closer attention. If I had met him, perhaps I would have seen this temper she claims he had. Perhaps I could have steered her away from him, and we would have been able to avoid this outcome.
I hear the toilet flush just as Ayoola’s phone vibrates beside me, giving me an idea. Her phone is password protected, if you can call “1234” protection. I go through her many selfies until I find a picture of him. His mouth is set in a firm line, but his eyes are laughing. Ayoola is in the shot, looking lovely as usual, but his energy fills the screen. I smile back at him.
“What are you doing?”
“You got a message,” I inform her, swiping quickly to return to the home page.
#FemiDurandIsMissing has gone viral. One post in particular is drawing a lot of attention—Ayoola’s. She has posted a picture of them together, announcing herself as the last person to have seen him alive, with a message begging anyone, anyone, to come forward if they know anything that can be of help.