TRAPPED...Part 1.

'Oh No! Not again!' I muttered under my breath. But the offensive smell cannot lie. As I cringed my nose way from the pungent smell, I hesitantly rose up to do what had inadvertently become a routine in the past two weeks: cleaning watery shit. For the fifth time that morning, Jide had soiled himself. As I slowly undid the rope girding his trousers, I looked at the figure lying helplessly on the bed in the solitary ward. Bag of bones. Skeleton. No word can succintly describe him. The man I loved had become less than a shadow of himself. His cheek bones jutted out, a complete caricature of the man I fell in love with eight years ago.

I was closing my shop one evening when he approached me, young, handsome, fresh-faced. He was carrying a traveling bag. 'Madam, please, I just arrived Lagos and I am kinda stranded,' he said in a rich baritone. 'I really need a place to spend the night and sort myself out,'he pleaded persuasively. I was then a burgeoning tailor, doing well by all 'Lagos' standards: had many rich customers, lived in a flat, had two shops and three student tailors. I looked him head to toe, his chubby face cutting a pathetic picture. "I don't really oblige strangers but I am making an exception for you. Just one night."'Plenty thanks,' he said, effusing with gratitude. "I'm Jide,"he said. 'Stella,' I replied, curtly.

He followed me to my apartment. It was three blocks away from the shop. I learnt that night he was the first son in a family of five, and he had travelled to Lagos from the East in search of greener pasture. He had undergone apprenticeship with a tailor in Aba but absconded just a year before the agreed seven years' training, citing maltreatment as an excuse. He went on to show me some of his clothes which he claimed to have sown himself. 'Hmmm... Impressive. You must be a very good tailor then,' I told him. 'Maybe,' he said, blushing. The rest of the night was calm.

One night turned to one week. And one week turned to one month. Jide was charming at his best, manipulative at his worst. But I allowed him to stay. Maybe because he had nowhere else to go. I fed him and took care of his financial needs. My boyfriend was mad when he learnt that Jide was staying with me. I tried to make him understand and when he couldn't, we split. Gradually, things between us got physical...we became intimate. I gave him a space in my second shop and help him start off his tailoring. He turned out to be better than he claimed. Soon, he was doing very well. But he had one big  flaw: women.

At first, I was flattered. That my man was the toast of ladies. Then it became irritating. And outrightly embarrasing. He would disappear after close of work, only to return at midnight. Reeking of alcohol and looking ruffled. I tried to stomach it, partly because people have come to know us as a couple. And partly because I was two months pregnant for him.The day I threatened to throw him out, he beat me into a pulp. I miscarried the next day. After my miscarriage, he begged me fervently to forgive him and promised to turn a new leaf. Two months later, he told me he want to meet my people. He has never said that before. 'Why?' I queried. 'Because, I'll like to marry you,'he said, holding my hands. I was dumbstruck.

'Hmmm...Stella,' my younger sister, Nkechi, quipped. 'Who is that dude?' 'He is my boyfriend o!' I replied giggling. We had visited my relatives in Apapa and my sister had called me aside.'What?' I asked, noticing the frown on her face. "I don't like him,' she said emphatically.'He looks too flashy.' I laughed her off. 'Young girls,' I wondered. 'What do they know?' We later travelled to my village at Jide's request. He met my parents and promised to come with his people soon. We also went to his village and met his people. When he told them all I did for him, they were overflowing with gratitude. His mother even took him aside and made him promise her that he would marry no other but me. We went back to Lagos. Four years passed. No other mention of the marriage matter. To make issues worse, everybody around thought that we were married. And I couldn't help but answer his 'madam'. His womanizing took another turn. He started bringing different women to our house. My house. I was six months pregnant for him and didn't want to make a fuss to avoid another miscarriage. Almost every night, I cry myself to sleep and struggle to block out their sensual moans.

'The doctor will like to see you,' the elderly nurse told me. I had gone for my antenatal clinic and was told to carry out some tests. 'Madam,' the doctor began, looking me squarely in the face. 'Your test results just came out. Ultrasound scan showed your baby is doing well.' 'Thank God,' I gasped. 'You also tested positive for HIV I and II.' 'What?' I screamed. 'How come?' I pressed, confused. "I don't sleep around. I have been faithful to one man and last year when I did this test, it was negative!" 'Has your man been faithful to you?' the doctor asked,quizzically. 'Hell no!' I muttered, inaudibly. 'Jide has killed me!' I sobbed, uncontrollably. I was started on Anti-Retroviral drugs to prevent the virus from infecting my baby. I was broken when I got home. I told him everything and pleaded with him to get tested. After two weeks, he agreed. And he was positive too. His CD4 count was done. It was 300. He was started on anti-retrovirals too. Problem is, he never took his drugs. I gave birth to a bouncing baby girl, whom I named Victory. And I never stopped taking my drugs.

Two years passed. I noticed rashes all over Jide's body. When I asked him, he told me it was the scars  of chicken pox he had as a child. But  the rashes kept coming. He also began to lose weight. And he started coughing. The cough defied all cough medications. Then, he started stooling frequently. Everyone knew my man was sick. Very sick. I took him to the hospital. And the doctor dropped the bombshell. Jide's HIV has progressed to AIDS. If he is started on medications, he will recover. We spent a month in the hospital, he recovered and was discharged on medications. He started taking his drugs, and regained some of his weight. 

One evening,I entered the room with Victory and met him jumping and screaming. 'What happened?' I asked, astonished. 'I have been healed of my HIV,'he shouted with glee, emptying the cup containing the antiretroviral drugs into the toilet. 'Stop!' I shouted, but it was too late. 'I am free!' he continued. 'Why not do a test before you conclude?' I asked. 'God healed me and you are talking of test?'he retorted, with a smirk on his face. I shook my head in disbelief and entered the adjacent room. I paused at the mirror. I barely recognized who I saw. A tired, famished, weary girl in her late-twenties trapped with a stubborn, dubious and unfaithful mad man.