TRAPPED...Part 3.

I stared at his corpse. Ashen, pale and rigid, his lifeless body laid stretched out on the bed. Rigor mortis. Jide had passed on exactly five minutes to midnight. The nurses came to screen the body. They then proceeded to remove the urinary catheter and the cannula in his right hand. I went outside the ward, a neatly-folded sheet of paper in my hand. Before he gave up the ghost, he had motioned to his shirt's breast pocket. I put in my hand and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. 'It explains everything,'he said, amidst gasps. His breathing became more laboured. I ran to call the nurse. When we returned, he was no longer breathing.

It had been one month since we came down from Lagos. Jide had begun recovering in the hospital. After the second week, he had began to eat. His still had diarrhea but the frequency had reduced. By the third week, he had regained sufficient strength as to walk around. I remember him even asking me for a pen and paper once. I had laughed and asked him if he wanted to become a writer. But I had obliged him. I never knew what became of that paper I gave him. Until now. 

Last week, his health took a dramatic turn. Downhill. He refused both food and medication. The pleas of the doctor and nurses fell on deaf ears. He was placed on IV fluids. But he keep pulling out the cannula through which the fluids were administered. Exasperated, he doctor had explained to me that morning that he is left with no choice but to refer him to another hospital. I pleaded with him to give me some time to make some arrangements with the family. The hospital agreed we could leave the next day. But Jide left first. Long before dawn. 

I sat on the pavement. The tears kept coming. I allowed them to flow freely. I called Emeka and informed him of what happened. Wiping off tears, I unfolded the sheet of paper I was holding. It was a letter. Date of writing was the previous week. And the hand-writing was unmistakeable.

"Stella m,

I am a broken man. I was broken eight years ago when I stood in front of your shop, bag in hand asking to spend the night. You tried to do the impossible: mend a broken man. And you almost succeeded. Sweetheart, you loved too much. I never thought I deserved all that love. I have never known love all my life apart from early childhood before I ran away from home. Afterwards, it had been a cycle of abuse, hatred, fear and evil. I have seen shit. I have done shit too. Oga Aboy,my master at Aba, abused me sexually. Repeatedly. My fellow man! It was constant pain. I could not tell anyone. When I could not bear it any longer, I ran away. And showed up in front of your shop.

You showed me love, no doubt. But it was more than my heart could carry. My past haunted me. I sought refuge in the bosom of women. Various women. I thought their moans will drown the cries of pain piercing my consciousness. But, no. Pain proved to be more powerful than pleasure. I was expecting you to push me away. Out of your house. Out of your life. Because I didn't deserve you. But you hung on. I remember the day you told me you had a miscarriage. I was drunk and I had beaten you over something petty. The guilt of putting you through that never left me.

I hardly mentioned marriage with you. The real reason was because I know I would make a bad father. I cannot give what I do not have. I am still trying to figure out my life. And to become responsible for another person's life? Quite a long jump. I never considered myself marriage material. So I was baffled when I saw you having hopes. In order not to crash your hopes, I kept mum.

When I tested HIV positive, I knew the chicken had come home to roost. I have been reckless and careless. And I got what I deserved. You can then imagine my surprise when I became well after starting my drugs. I was very healthy. And nobody knew my status. 'This is not fair!' I told myself.

'I deserve to be sick and unwell. I deserve to suffer. I deserve to die.' So, I stopped taking my drugs.

My claimed healing was a ruse. I wanted to become so sick that you will get tired of me and leave me. I wanted you to abandon me. But you didn't. You hung on. Believing what? I dare to ask. That I will get well? Hmmm...You really are one stubborn lover!

I watched you clean my shit. I watched you clean my vomitus. I watched you take care of the only evidence that I was here: our baby, Victory. I know she will turn out a strong and loving woman, just like you. Take good care of her. I doubt if she can remember what I look like when she is grown. Also, tell her to stay away from men like me. Broken men. Because we can self-destruct. I will give you an example. After writing this letter, I will stop taking food and medications. You may think I am trying to kill myself. But I see it as setting you free. For eight years, you have fluttered, like an a bird in a cage. After I am gone, you will be free to fly. I will also be setting myself free from this shell of a body. I will be transiting into the afterlife. I know I still have a shot at life. But I am too broken to try. I am no saint. Thus, I am not expecting choirs and angels. I really don't know what to expect.

I have rarely told you this in all of eight years. I love you. Very much. But it matters very little now because by the time you will be reading this letter, I will be dead.'