The afternoon was cold and windy. The rains poured heavily outside, the streets were deserted from the fierceness of it. It was as though the world was aware that the heavens were falling. The weather told the story of what was happening in Mr. Adeniji’s house. Though midday, it was drearily dark and desolate, as though the masquerades of the spirits of the dead have indeed come to haunt the so-called notable families. The clouds were dark; the ground was pulsating from the thundering rain with fearful thunder claps, and lightning crowning the air with tension.
It was one of those family affairs Mr. Martins had wished to stay out of. The tension was more than he bargained for. But for the sake of Nifemi, who until this ugly incident had been more to him than an object of family ridicule. Pa Jide, Mama Savage, Nifemi’s parents, Mr. Martins and Nifemi were all silent in the long and wide living room. Nifemi’s siblings were made to go and play with the neighbour’s children. They all stayed upstairs at the corridor of the one-storey building, amusing themselves at the horrifying weather as it held sway. Very much like the structure of Nifemi’s mother’s family house at Ìdumọta, Nifemi with her family lives at Èbute Mẹta in a storey building which comprise two parallel rooms facing each other on each floor. The likes of face-me-I-face-you rooms.
On her knees, right in the middle of them all, Nifemi lowered her head to the grey rug. But for the dark brown center table which she readily found companion, Nifemi felt totally alone on this one. Mr. Martins was disappointed, but it was not half the disappointment and emotional rush that her mother felt at that moment. She struggled to keep her cool, if it weren’t for the elders who were also in the sitting. Nifemi’s mother faced the sky-blue wall next to the bedroom door as she refrained from pouncing on her daughter. She shook her head as though convincing herself that this wasn’t happening. Her fifteen year old daughter was pregnant for a mere student.
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