The Mask —Mahmoodah Oyeleye

The Mask —Oyeleye Mahmoodah

Lagos is the land of everything that breathes. There is this unsaid law here that poison and food sell alike. It is the place for voodooist, workaholics, drunkards, captors, robbers and every other kind of human being you can name. It’s not a nation, housing people of different nationalities and ethnicity. Nor is it Vatican City, with traditionalists, Muslims, Christians, Buddhist, Jews, Hindus, atheist, monotheists scattered all over.  Do not get surprised if you see a Mongolian or Caucasian on your street, for this is one of what jazzes in our space.

I was born and bred in Lagos, but the fact therein is that I am of mixed nationality. I am not just Dora Sean, that sixteen years old British-Nigerian girl next door. I am an elder sister to a fraternal set of twins and my school’s social prefect. I am not in the least bit brilliant, but from my nails start the advertisement of the fashion-in-vogue. This sometimes attracts comeuppances, as some of my chic trimmings were against the school rules. My mum is a professional stylist at one of the most popularmodeling agencies. She stocks my closet with the latest fashion brands, but denies my heart that parental attention and love it seeks. I do not know why or when they divorced, but I was seven when I stopped seeing dad’s blue eyes. His eyes were so beautiful, that the lenses of his reading glass could not hide their shine. Before the twins crawled out of mum’s womb, I used to sit on his laps, painting those beautiful sceneries from my dreams. He always knew what to do, how to do it and in the end we would produce that image, with the yellow sun smiling at us. As his magical white hands danced, the oil brushes produced something which seemed alive. 

It was on the twins’ one year birthday celebration, whilst we were basking in fete excitement, that I heard them screaming at each other. It was not loud enough a ruckus, for the invitees to catch a glimpse. I was in the restroom next to where they were however, so I heard them. Mum was pleading, while dad repeatedly questioned in that musical tone of his, about a mask. Everything else remained gibberish, for I could not understand their adult tongue. The mask is the only remainder of that night he left. Since then, mum abandoned the sheerness of lazing around as a full housewife, leaving me the responsibility of caring for my siblings. I had no other choice, for I was trying to be there for them at times loneliness had shaken me. 

It was the second night that week and the moon was nowhere to be found. The stars stayed however, glittering majestically before my black eyes, which I always wished were blue, like Dad’s. I sat at the balcony, dangerously dangling my feet from a height so far from the ground. I stared at the busy Lagos Street, which was as vibrant as it was before dusk arrived. There were too many light hubs fleeting across every angle, making it difficult to distinguish between streetlights and vehicular headlights. As was usual, the shilly-shally would continue till daybreak. There is usually no guarantee that peace would remain till the crack of dawn. A car horn, an ambulance’s siren, false alarms, business promotions and varying displays of civilized lunacy would often kill the amity. 

When I returned to the safety of the kip, what roused me from slumber was not the recurring hullabaloo on the streets. This time around, it was the intense ringing tone from my cell-phone. I stood up lazily, sleep still imminent in my eyeballs. However all of that disappeared, when Onome’s overbearing voice screamed into my keen ears the good news that she and the rest of our clique planned an all-nighter at the lounge, off my house’s boulevard. Keeping in mind the fact that the twins were already asleep, I trotted carefully out of the door in a five-inch platform sandal. Gracing my palm was that red clutch-bag, which was the same colour with the paint I had used for manicure. The couture I sported was a body-hugging floral dress, reaching just a little above my knees. The red lipstick daubed across my lips and black eye shadow I had applied complimented my look, making my face seem paler than it was. 

I was soon at the lounge and together, we wiggled our way in. We were all underage and we were not licensed to go into a bar, but we got lucky. Rantimi and Timileyin, the only boys amidst our squad, worked their way into earning us free entry and exit, because their father owns the hotel. The staffers thus, perform their biddings, even if it is unknown to their father who flies like a bird in and overseas. Kumbi and Mazino are distant cousins, but they live together with Kumbi’s ambitious parents. Just like mine, they are never at home. Onome and I are the closest. I have known her since kindergarten and we have been neighbors since forever. Her father has been intoxicated with the affairs of the state. All his attention goes towards climbing the political ladders. From a councilor, he became chairman till he attained the position of a senator in the national house of assembly. All of us have issues and since we were unable to find succor, we created our own policy, the first of which is breaking the formerlaw.

I supported my head with my palms, trying to sooth its ache. The music blaring into my ears was deafening, but it seemed to drown my sorrow as it did my speech. Kumbi poured me an extra shot, her glazed eyes stared at me, urging me to gulp it all. But I was getting dizzy, with this queasiness forming a knot in my chest. I shook my head, as I saw Onome slip another slice of lemon into her mouth, accompanying the sour taste of spirit to her throat. I stood up in a stupor, staggering my way to the toilet. My state of mind had been altered by the devil, or is it alcohol? I must have been touched inappropriately, but I knew I eventually got to the toilet, for a young woman rendered her aid. Whilst I lowered my head into the basin, puking supper, lunch and thank God, not my guts, she stayed to pat my back. Even when the gaggling sound arrived, and there was nothing to throw up except some salt, she stayed. She helped me rinse my mouth and face and without asking questions. She did not ask those unnecessary questions that mum had asked to keep face when she was invited to school by my principal. I had been caught with a cigarette in the washroom; sucking in a lungful of smoke. As if it was not from her closet I had grabbed it, or as if I had not used it just how I had witnessed her using it, she kept asking me where I had found the cigar. The fact that the miss could be of help without wearing any pretentious airs made me love her.

She helped me back into the lounge. I ought to say thank you and then go back to my friends, but something drew me to her. It was magnetism or maybe her blue eyes, but they were not as beautiful as dad’s. There was none like his. I sat opposite this strange woman in her private room, staring at her, until she broke the silence.

“Harriet Munroe. I am a British-Nigerian.” She offered her hands for a shake and that wide smile, beautiful, but not as alluring as dad’s. I ignored her extended palm, eccentrically staring at her. I did not trust her enough, as I had difficulty ininvesting faith in anyone. Everyone contributed to that,somehow. Yet, she was still broadly smiling at me, not at all offended by my discourtesy.

“I am a social worker. I work as a human rights activist. I do notwant to know your secrets or name. I just want to know why a lady so pretty is not smiling.” I continued gawking at her, but somewhat dazedly, surprised that she addressed me as a lady. Everyone called me a child, but they did not treat me as one. Master Owoniran, that member of the Nigerian youth service corp. in our school had called me a mere child, after unbecomingly touching by buttocks. I slapped him across theface and for this the judgment was twisted in his favor to save the face of a staffer. I barely escaped with a one-week suspension, which stays hidden to my mum’s costly knowledge. I do not recall if that was all, but after that night, I continually frequented the lounge with or without my friends. She became my confider. I told her my issues, but not exactly taking the direct course and she proved useful. She gradually made me reduce the intake of cigarettes and alcohol, until I would no longer crave the taste of those contrabands.

Everything disappeared however, with the frosty wind of December and that night lit not only with stars, but the moon herself. She was cloaked in beauty and yellow that day, wearing that grin, different from a normal day’s. I knew what the night meant, that smile and the candles illuminating the table. Her private room scented of flowers seeming so familiar, eventhough I was not a fan of flowers. There were bouquets of chrysanthemums, for they were his favourite. She had told me.

Soon, her fiancée came in, his leather shoe making crunching noises, as they slapped the surface of the ligneous flooring. He seemed even more familiar than the flowers, as he neared the table. The sound his feet made, his gait and his natural cologneall merged into one word –familiar. Then he leaned closer to say hello and as if to clear all doubts, he removed his eyeglasses and it all added up. Staring at me was the beautiful, sapphire-like eyes, I had always longed for. Shock had however drained the excitement, which should have rained.

“Dr. Noah Sean, my fiancé.” She introduced, but I remained motionless. 

“Dora Sean, my friend. Fancy that you both have the same surname?” She giggled, as if she had said something funny and he smiled –the same smile he offered when I drew that smiley sun for a first time.

“Nice meeting you.” I shook my head then, letting the tears cascade down my jaws. He did not remember. I was grown, but my name should ring a bell, should it not? Could he not at least say my name was like his daughter’s? Throwing caution into the bin, I staggered on high heels to the restroom, locking myself in one of its cubicles. I cried for minutes, smudging my make-up, before I heard the knock. I knew it was her, for her soft voice blew in. She did not do anything wrong, but I could not help labeling her as a traitor. 

“Come out dearie, we can sort things out, we can.” She muttered tenderly, like I would always pray my mum should. This time however, it triggered more tears than succor. Just then, I heard his voice. He asked what happened, addressing her as baby –like he used to call me before– and I drowned in more anguish. When I could not contain my disposition anymore, I unbolted the door. Swiftly running past them, I made for the exit. Then I caught sight of something, which my bewildered state could also register. 

Mum was at the reception, her tiny figure lying in the muscular arms of a man. She did not see me, but I had seen her and I was so sure that it was not an illusion. He was covered up from head to toe in apparels from mum’s clothing line. The B&H logo was unmistakable. His cowboy hat concealed his face, but it did notstop me from hearing his personal assistant’s message to the secretary.

“The key to The Mask’s room.” He gruffly muttered and she handed a cardkey over, curtsying. As they reached for the lift, he removed his fedora, revealing his eyes for all to see. They were the same blue colour of father’s eyes, but they lacked something. The face was indistinguishable, exactly his, but even as astonishment tumbled against disbelieve, I knew he was not my dad. Dad was there, inside with Harriet, drowning in the buzzing noise filling that Lagos night, but this person remains a mystery. He is ‘The Mask’, so strange, yet familiar.

Bio: 

Mahmoodah Oyeleye (she/her) is a Nigerian. She is a member of hilltop creative arts foundation. She is currently a student studying Economics at Lagos states university, Ojo, Lagos state, Nigeria. She has been shortlisted for literary prizes including the writefluenza horror/suspense/thriller contest, Abubakar Gimba prize for short story, February, 2021 and Wakaso Poetry prize, May 2021. Her works have been published or are forthcoming on Kalahari review, Atherton review, honeyfire literary magazine, upwrite magazine, Microfiction Monday magazine, Susa Africa, applied worldwide blog, GHLL magazine and others. She emerged winner of the HIASFEST Nigeria prize for teen authors(prose), 2021. She is the author of a novel, Faded blues.