Chapter One - Do You Believe in the Spiritual?

Olanrewaju

TW: Suicide

“Do you believe in the spiritual?”

I paused to listen, uncertain if I had heard correctly. I didn’t dare look back because if I did, I would lose my nerve and then I would be right back where I had started.

I must have been hallucinating because except for the sound of the sky weeping, I could not see or hear anyone else. Besides, no one uses this bridge anymore due to its dangerous condition.

It had been closed off and “under repairs” for years now by the government. It was a death trap for any motorist or pedestrian as the bridge had been shaking for years. The Anderson Bridge was one of the many projects hastily commissioned by the ruling party during election season to win over voters' sympathy.

I stared at the water flowing under the bridge and I couldn’t help but scoff at the thought that I would soon literally become “water under the bridge”—gone and forgotten. I didn’t know how deep the river was, but it didn’t matter because I never learnt how to swim. No one would find me here, not that there was anyone to look for me.

“Do you believe in magic?” I heard the voice again. And this time I laughed—to fall into madness just at the moment when your life was about to end. In the end, I would die a madman. I laughed so hard I almost fell into the river, but I held myself back. I was going in eventually, but I wanted to hold on to my last moments for a while longer.

I know it sounds pathetic. If I wanted to die, I should just jump in and die, right? Still, I wanted to feel something, despair maybe or even sadness that it had come to this. But what I feel is numbness—in my body and in my soul.

It had been raining heavily for the past three days. It was one of those blasted seven-day rains when it would rain nonstop for at least seven days or even more. Sometimes the rain would be a continuous light drizzle and other times, like now, it would pour with reckless abandon.

And right now, as I teetered at the edge of the bridge, the bottles of beer I had just emptied lay close by. The gloomy sky let loose on me without mercy. My shirt was plastered against my skin and water streamed from my locs to my face. Anyone else in my situation would be shivering, their teeth chattering, but I didn’t feel a thing.

I took a tentative step toward the edge of the bridge. I guess this was it. I took another step and then I heard the voice again, this time, the voice carried a sense of urgency.

“Do you believe in only what you can see?” This time when I turned, I saw her standing there, dressed in all black—pants, shirt and a boyfriend jacket, even her sneakers—all black.

Her dreadlocks were thicker than mine and way longer. They fell to her waist, and she had cowries in them. And just like me, she was drenched to the bone. But she didn’t seem to mind it. She walked casually towards me, with a smile on her round bronze-brown skin, like someone taking a leisurely walk, unaffected by the rain and gloom around us.

“Hi, I'm Morenike. Though I cannot say I’m pleased to meet you, I am certainly glad that you can see me,” she said when she reached me. And just as casually as she walked over to me, she swung one leg over, followed by the next, and sat at the edge of the bridge. Her legs dangled just above the water.

“Are you crazy?” I asked, gazing down at her.

“Not as crazy as you trying to kill yourself in this weather,” she answered with a shrug and continued to swing her legs.

“Would it make a difference if I was trying to die on a bright day?” I couldn’t tell what prompted me to continue the insane conversation.

“Mhmm, I guess it wouldn’t.”

“Mtchew,” I hissed, and immediately my mother came to mind. She hated it when I hissed; she considered it bad manners and in a typical African mother fashion, she would add, “Only unfortunate people hiss.”

How right she had been. I was the epitome of misfortune. My mother was long dead now, and maybe if I was a man with deep introspection, I would have known that my misfortune began the day she died.

“Look, lady,” I looked away from the woman sitting by me. “If you are also here to die, find another spot and don’t bother me. I was here first.”

She laughed then, a deep laughter that I could feel came from the depths of her stomach, and I wondered what was funny. I heaved a sigh. I couldn’t even die in peace and on my own terms; I just had to be plagued by a madwoman.

“I’ll die someday, but not today,” she said, her laughter replaced with a stern tone.

“Then go away and leave me alone.”

“I am not here, not really. So, you can carry on,” she waved her hand towards the river. “Go ahead.”

“What do you mean by you are not really here? What sort of madness is this? Can’t you please just go somewhere else?” The words came out of my mouth with exasperated breaths.

She shrugged again and continued to swing her legs like it was a regular Sunday-funday. “What is it to you whether I am here or not? You want to die, go ahead. I am not going to stop you because I am not here. What you see or what you think you see is a shadow.”

“A shadow?” My face twisted with irritation and my voice was laden with annoyance.

Iru ki leleyi bayi nitori Olorun? What is this for God’s sake, I thought to myself, and she scoffed.

“Why are you asking God? It’s not like He would be pleased with what you are about to do,” she said.

Her reply to my thought was so startling that I moved and missed a step. I found myself falling off the bridge. In a desperate attempt to save the life I hated so much, I grabbed onto one of the curved rebars at the edge of the bridge.

“Why do you struggle so much?” Morenike asked. She was crouched in front of me, looking at me with curious black eyes.

My breaths were laboured, and the rain made it harder for me to hold on to the rebar. My hands were cold and stiff, and I had no idea how long I could hold on.

“This is what you wanted, is it not? To become water under the bridge,” she continued, making no effort to help me.

“Help me,” I said, my voice strained from the effort it was taking to hold on. The bridge was in a precarious state; even if I didn’t let go of the rebar, the way I was hanging, my weight could pull down part of the bridge and it would take her down with me too. Surely, she could see that, couldn’t she?

“Help you do what exactly?” she asked. “I could pry your hands off the iron and help you on your way down. Is that what you want?”

As I hung on for dear life, I saw my life flash through my eyes, literally. It was like I was watching a movie, but the flashbacks I was seeing were from my own life. All the decisions that I had made that had brought me to this point.

I saw her face clearly as the first day I met her—the beginning of my problems. Adenike, Aponbepore (fair-skinned like palm oil). God certainly took His time creating her; her face was perfect and flawlessly symmetrical, with a slender nose and a bright dimpled smile. If her face was perfection, then her body was sculpted by the master sculptor. Every curve, every crevice was thoroughly made to be worshipped and adored. And her skin was soft and smooth like silk. Her voice was a soothing balm to my bruised soul.

And the day I met her, I said to myself, “You are from God, Adenike. You are the answer to my prayers, the light of my life and the reason my heart beats.”

If only I had known that Adenike was not from God. She was not from the devil either, because she was the Devil.

The peace I had found in her was false—a fragile illusion that crumbled with the slightest touch. The life I thought I had built with her was a sandcastle on the beach, vulnerable to the rising tide of reality.

I looked up at Morenike, this strange woman who I wasn’t sure if she was a figment of my imagination or not. And while I was sure that the veins on my temples and forehead must be bulging like the ones on my arms from the strain and effort I was exerting to not fall in the river, the sky was still pouring down mercilessly, not caring about the drama happening underneath it.

In that minute, in that second, I knew I truly didn’t want to die. What I wanted was the pain to go away—for my problems to become a thing of the past. I wanted to live. I wanted to be saved.

“I want to live,” I cried. “I don’t want to die. I want to be saved.”

As I said those words, a smile spread across Morenike’s passive face.

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Hi everyone, this is a story I wanted to submit for the Kiss The Rain Anthology. But the story started getting too dark and long for the anthology. I’m not done writing it yet. I have about three chapters written. But if you all love this one and would like me to continue, I’ll keep sharing it here as I write, till it’s finished. So let me know what you think.

PS: I don’t even have a title yet, lol. And I am also self-editing, so pardon any errors or typos you see.

Tomorrow, I have a guest coming on the podcast. She’s everyone’s favourite Nigerian Indie Author. Guess who? Let me know in the comments.