The home coming

A once peaceful part of France had been roughened-up by an  attack.

A TerrorAttack

He closely watched as policemen rallied people to a safecorner. Chris was devastated at the sight of so muchblood. Some people were toohurt to stand, many who were strong-willed, cleared their shops and offices of debris, while others looked at their only source of livelihood which was left in ruins. Chris could not believe his eyes; he had watched the attack in Bornu, some weeks before;  it looked too  evil to be real.

Little did he know that Francewould come under a similarattack. He walked on, dropping an empathic gesture on those he met: shopowners, and those that were hurt, but he  tried not to beconsumed by the tragedy around him. He hurried-on to his workplace, but from afar, he saw Franco, his boss with the rest, gathering their own tragedy, and on their faces read the tragedy of the morning.

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ComingtoFrance

Chris came to France as a student who was in search of greener pastures. He met Francesca, a music student, and they both got married. Chris was a good cook, and she was wild with music. Fortunately, Chris on graduation started working as a Chef for Franco, a famous restaurateur he met on one of his morning walks.  Franco was old, celibate and had no ties. He offered his restaurant to Chris in exchange for a life savings, because they had been together for fifteen years.

Chris and Fran had been putting money together, in order to own a restaurant that made the best burgers in the whole of France, with a touch of Afro-Franco jazz and disco by the corner. They knew it could be a dream come true in the future, but little did they know that France would wake to a morning of terror. Their dreams were dashed to the wall, so also, many.

Dashed Hope

Chrislooked at the Cheque from Franco, and for the lasttime, he prayed that he had not made a bigmistake. The old man had called him somedaysafter the attack, looked deepinto his eyes, and said:

“Chris, I think it’s better I don’t hold you down for toolong. Don’t you think you rather have your moneyback”

Chris neednotanswer the question. Franço’s offer was sincere. They now placed their coffeetablesby the roadside while they worked on their ruins. That day, Chriswenthomedisturbed.

Francesca had come home from a performance to meet her husband sleeping on the couch; he never does that. She moved close enough to see that he had just come back from the restaurant.

“Chikala! “

She poked his shoulder. Chris stirred.

“Ada?”

Heusuallycalled her by his sister’s name. When Christold his wifewhat had happened,  she wasweak. She thought for a little while, turned to him, and said:

“Why don’t we both takesometimeoff?”

Chris looked at her and asked:

“To where, and with which money?”

After the attack, they were kneedeep in operating a tight budget, and babies weren’t coming. She smiled her normal smile, in-between popping aloud chewing gum. Her smile was sly.

“Why don’t wetake our tour down toyourplace?”

Chris got up on one elbow, and looked closely at her, she was dead serious. How could she talk of home when they had no penny in their pocket. Does she know what home meant? Relatives, eyeing you to solve their needs that were there before you travelled,  his parents would certainly expect him to knock down their house, and erect a new one, and the list went on and on that it gave him a migraine, and he laid back, once more.

“ You mean Nigeria?”

“Yes.”

“But....”

He stopped his mouth from completing what he had in his mind. He looked at her once again, and gave a long thought to her suggestion. On a second note, it would be a great opportunity to take her home, at least, his people would certainly have a feel of her, if not for her music. He brought out his hand, and rested on her shoulders. She moved closer, and rested her head on his chest; they were in their troubles, together.

GoingHome

As Chris took a lastglance at the cheque, a voicecameover the speakers to announce their descent in the city of Abuja.

A Call in the Night

Onenight, a handslapped his shoulders, gently. His father had called him to a meeting,  but when hegot to the sittingroom, his mother was there. Obviously, they were tired of the latenights he keptwith his wife, and it was an opensecret that he wasn’t going back, too soon. His oldparents did a goodjob to hideeither the question or disappointment in their eyes. Hisfather was the first to talk:

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“The government has offered to sell the restaurant to us.”

Just like Chris, his old parents ran a small restaurant in the heart of Gwagwalada, and the property was owned by the government. Since he came back, he noticed that the government recently formed a habit: privatised its public companies or sold off property that were theirs. There was no doubt what his parents looked forward to from him. He looked at their old faces, and instead of saying a word, he imagined nothing but dancing feet, and swinging arms to Francesca’s music, and burgers, fries, and drinks that could accompany the party. He knew that they weren’t going back to France, not in the near future, they were home to open their own restaurant. His mind went back to Franco’sCheque, and he said:

“We are taking the offer. Whendowepay?”

And for the first time in his life, his parents were proud of their only son.

Written byUdemezue, OluomaUdemezue, Oluoma loves to read and write; she also enjoys movies and meeting new people. Oluoma believes that life is nothing without a little touch of romance, thriller and reality. Catch her on: udemezueoluoma@yahoo.com, Udemezue, Oluoma Judith on Facebook, Instag- oluomaudemezue, and Twit- @Udemezueoluoma.