VOICES -By Chinwe Judith Okafo

There is this friend he has. She comes when he is all alone. Walking in that gentle way that reminds him of Jennifer, sweet Jennifer- the young girl that had shared the same room with him at the hospital. He shared the same story with her. Story of attempting suicide. Hers had been drugs, his wrist splitting.

 But their stories hadn’t ended the same way. Two days before being released from the hospital, she had split her wrist with a small pocket knife and that was the end of her. Just like that.

This friend was different. She was five years older than him and had this motherly aura around her. 

She looked more like a savior, not someone who would take life for granted. She came to him the very day he walked out of that stuffy hospital. Dark, average and all smiles.

 ''I can’t be your friend,” he told her.

''Why?”

'' I don’t need media people. I’m fine and okay. Yes, I admit I nearly took my life. But I am over that. I don’t need an 'it-happened-to-me' confession.'' She laughed. Just like that.

''You are not over it yet and I am not media people.'' 

As the days went by, they discussed a lot of things. Actually, he did the talking. She listened and comforted him. He told her his worst fears- of ending up like his elder brother who jumps whenever his father said jump. He told her about Mother's death. How it had triggered his attempt to commit suicide. Then he told her of his failures, his lack of passion to pursue his father's choice of course, which the old man had secured through greasing this palm and that. '' I do not want to be a doctor. I want to be a photographer. Am I asking for much?'' he asked, in a voice gone weak.

''You can be whatever you want to be. No one owns you. You are your own boss,'' came her reply.

 Even days after that, he still hadn't forgotten her response. It was her image that danced in his eyes when he confronted his father.

''You are sick. Since you came back from the hospital you have been talking to yourself whenever you think we are not around. Akpan, the houseboy always has field days listening to your trash.''
The old man retorted, slamming his palm on the mahogany table.

 ''I am not sick. It is you who is sick. You think I don’t know you killed Mother? You made her do things she didn’t want and then she starved herself to death. You can’t control me ..''     ''I can. We are through with this discussion. Listen, you are just a step away from the psychiatric home,'' the old man replied scathingly.

 With that, he left. Left the house entirely. Left the sick man he called his father. Left the choking luxuries that reminded him of his mother's blood.

But his friend was no where to be found. He traced her to her work place. No such person. Dialed the number on the complimentary card- it didn’t exist. As he stood staring at the card, it dawned on him.

The name 'dorldog' inscribed on the card was actually Lord God when spelt backward. Right now, he is smiling and looking at the sky. He knows it is going to get better. He isn’t sick in the head. He  had a friendship with the Master come down on earth. He felt light as paper. He was healed from his scars. He was new and ready to go. It is well. .

©blackgirlspeaks 2016