Chapter 2: Internet Café Wahala

When I found Zikora, she dey gist and laugh with one boy.

The place dey dark, the smell of old indomie and cheap perfume just dey choke everywhere. Generator dey hum for back, and the plastic chairs sticky for leg as I shift small to look. The blue light from the computer dey shine for her face, and I fit see am dey plait her hair with her finger. As I look well, my heart just sink—so na here my pikin dey waste time? For small time now, dem fit use jazz lure am. My blood dey hot.

Normally, my daughter dey cold like ice to everybody, but now she dey giggle and dey sway for one stranger front.

I never see Zikora smile like that for me or even Morayo. The kain joy wey dey her voice—na like say breeze from village dey touch her heart. I dey look this boy, dey measure am from head to toe. No be person wey go fit help her for future o! But na so she dey use body do like say na king land for earth.

"For real? Na the first time person dey tell me say I fine. My papa dey always talk say I still be student, say make I no wear skirt, make I no dey waka anyhow, make I no do anything. That house dey choke me die."

My hand grip for door, I dey hear her voice like mosquito for ear. How my own daughter go dey talk me down like this to stranger? I just dey swallow my spit, dey wonder how I go take handle this matter without disgrace.

I just freeze there.

I no fit move. My leg just heavy, like say dem tie yam for my ankle. Person fit dey vex sotay im shadow go begin shake.

When teacher call say Zikora skip class, I no even mind the important international conference wey I get—I risk say the big project go scatter, I rush go find her.

Omo, as dem call me, I just carry file, tell my assistant make she hold meeting. Wetin be contract compared to my pikin future? I run go police station, enter bus wey smell like diesel, waka sotay my leg begin cramp.

But to my daughter, na so she dey see me?

All my sacrifice—na so she dey interpret am? I dey do all this wahala, but for her mind, na say I dey choke am? My chest tight, as if say my heart dey squeeze inside leather bag.

Anger just dey boil for my chest. As I wan go scold her, another set of bullet comments show for my eyes:

[Abeg, this na their love scene—wahala papa, shift go one corner!]

[See as bad belle papa dey show—who send am? Make e no spoil our heroine happiness.]

[If to say na real life, this papa for don rest. E just dey stress everybody for nothing.]

My hand just hang for air.

E be like say all the energy wey dey my bone just vanish. How person go dey talk for im own family, but outsiders dey write another story for am? E pain me reach my marrows.

Wahala papa? Big heroine and heroine mama?

So na so dem see me for their own narrative. Man wey dey hustle like donkey, but for their mind, na villain be my title.

From all these bullet comments, I don already understand the whole story.

Everything clear for my eye. Na like say I dey watch those African Magic films wey you know who go die before the movie end. I see the role wey dem cast me—na to dey suffer, dey struggle, still dem go call me the problem.

This world na group-pampering novel, and Zikora na the big heroine wey go finally end up with this boy and everybody go love her.

Abeg, see script o! Dem don write happy ending for everybody except me. I dey run marathon, but na another person go collect medal.

And me? Na overwork go kill me.

Na my sweat dem go take mop floor. As I dey carry family matter for head, e no go take, na so my body go fail me one day. Na so dem go write am for their own 'novel.'

All these readers no dey see how I dey try to hold this family. Dem no go ever understand my struggle.

Na so. If dem see how I dey borrow money, cut my own food money, dey beg landlord to give us extra week, dem for know say na me dey manage ship. But for their eye, na to dey shout 'villain' like say na slogan.

Zikora still be student, never mature. My wife, Morayo, no even send her daughter’s education—she just dey. If no be me, Zikora for don turn real street girl since.

Sometimes, I dey look Morayo, dey wonder if na me and her plan this family together. She fit forget PTA meeting, but if her brother cough, na she go run up and down. Na only God know who dey reason with me for this house.

But nobody dey try understand me.

Every day, na so so demand, no appreciation. My phone never ring once for anybody to ask if I chop or if I dey okay. Omo, e weak me.

"You no even know. With papa like that, e better say I no even born at all."

Those words cut me deep, pain catch me reach bone.

Na thunder strike for my chest. I dey look my own pikin dey talk like say I be one spirit wey dey haunt her. I bite my tongue, hold my tears—man no dey cry for public.

Bullet comments come scatter again:

[Na real big heroine! See as she sharp! With that kind wahala papa, just because say na her papa, e dey do as if he own her. Selfish man.]

[True. Which kind screenwriter go give our heroine that type of papa? She too suffer.]

[No be only the heroine—even her mama dey always hate the villain papa. Man like that, e better make e just kpai.]

That last one just make my head dey ring.

Even my own wife dey join mouth for back? This one don pass betrayal, na village people work.

So even Morayo dey hate me since?

All this while, na my hand I take dey patch marriage, but for her mind, na so so hate dey reign. I just weak.

I just swallow my disappointment.

As man, na pride dey make you keep quiet sometimes. I just dey hope say one day dem go see my effort, but e be like say dem don lock my destiny for another page.

If my effort no mean anything for them, if na only obstacle I be, then make I just leave dem alone.

This life na one, abeg. I go use my own chop suya, drink cold malt, rest my head. If dem like, make dem form champion.