So much for staring into the eye of the storm.

In the same vein of the proverbial fowl’s anus being exposed by turbulent winds, Aibangbe Ogbemudia was struck by a fresh wave of chills within him. The project at hand and the resultant journey spelt doom for him right from the start and troubled him at the very death, even after destiny seemed to have run its full course.

He yawned as the Toyota Coaster Bus cradling himself and his companions gradually pulled over beside a thick bushy expanse. He heaved a sigh as his eyelids dropped.

“For real, Jason, this is getting out of hand. If we continue at this pace, we may end up not getting to the museum until tomorrow. We’re freaking behind schedule!”

On his part, the young man named Jason was not in the least remorseful for his actions. He stood up from his seat and approached the door. “Benin City is not Lagos, Idara. There’s nothing to get worked up over. It’s not like I take long whenever I answer the ever-relieving call of nature.”

“Ogbeni, just shut up. Ease yourself and come back on time."

He knocked some beads of sweat off his forehead and threw his head backwards. “We all know this to be one of his fundamental problems. When I suggested we leave him behind in Lagos, y’all thought that was an extreme course of action. The museum is kuku not running away and as he said, he never takes long.”

Unlike the storm that I am yet to recover from.

“It still amuses me how we could have all just stayed put in Lagos to pull off this project, rather than take the literal and metaphorical high road,” Idara said, briskly gulping down the contents of her branded water bottle, which had undoubtedly turned lukewarm since they took to the road again, thanks to the sun’s ever blazing rays.

Feisty as always, Aibangbe thought. Since he began working with Idara Udoma three years prior, he had always admired her outspoken nature and unbridled grit. She was the embodiment of what he referred to as the ‘neo-millennial’ Nigerian female. Every encounter with her only served to reveal new and enthralling layers of her enigmatic being.

Idara continued, "It still baffles me how our investors are more willing to expend resources on an overdone exposé on the enduring legacy of the Ancient Bini Empire, as opposed to letting us go ahead with our proposed cost-effective documentary on the LGBT community in Lagos.”

“Your proposed documentary, more like.” This time, another silent crew member, a young woman seated on Aibangbe’s right, chimed in. “As woke as mainstream Nigeria currently appears to be, we are just not ready for a project of that nature. The powers that be would never throw their weight behind that project. We are cutting our losses as an independent media outfit, Idara. It’s so bad that we aren’t even thinking about getting nominations or awards of any sort.”

Idara sneered in visible disgust. “Powers that be, my foot. It’s not their fault that the Nigerian economy is like a predator to small and medium enterprises or the fact that the Nigerian standard of morality is so hole-ridden and hypocritical. For how long will we continue to play the devil’s advocate?”

“Hopefully, not for long,” Aibangbe proffered, rejoining the conversation, “because we all have to come clean at some point. For now, let us wrap up the project at hand and return to Lagos in one piece. I’m so glad we don’t have to cover the Igue Festival. I can’t wait that long or stand such fanfare.”

Seconds later, Jason was reunited with the band, beaming with more composure. The driver restarted the engine just as Jason returned to his seat behind Idara. “The next time someone tries to argue the superiority of Lagos’ solar intensity with me, they will hear it from me because this journey has been one hell of an eye-opener.”

Aibangbe’s seat partner rolled her eyes. “The mere fact that you prefer to say ‘solar intensity’ as opposed to ‘sun’, which every normal Nigerian can relate to, is enough for your poor opponents to concede defeat. We’ve heard enough from you today.”

“Okay o, Madam Ekundayo.”

Following what served as a death blow to the ongoing banter, the vehicle was once again in free flow on the highway, en route to the museum. Aibangbe slid the glass panes on his left slightly open, such that he had enough room to rest his head. He plugged in his AirPods and scrambled through his music library in search of distractions loud enough to hold him over for the time being. Having vigorously swiped past tracks he would have selected in a heartbeat on a good day, Aibangbe locked his phone and removed his AirPods. He heaved a sigh as his eyes drifted to the exterior, unable to subdue his nagging thoughts.

“Sometimes, even music doesn’t help.”

Aibangbe could not downplay his shock at being caught off guard by Ekundayo, even if it was short-lived. He mustered a warm grin before turning to face Ekundayo. “I agree. Especially when you’re a long way from home, standing in a BRT filled to the brim and stuck in traffic. There’s nothing you can do at that point but resign to fate. On the surface, this situation is different. I mean, we’re far from home, moving smoothly on a sparse road with nothing much to worry about. But it’s just the same for me.”

After a brief period of silence, Ekundayo adjusted her sitting position and placed her free left hand on Aibangbe’s shoulder. “Ibang, in the words of our people which I strongly hope you understand, ai we ekhoe eko gia we. You haven’t been the same since we left the Oba’s Palace and I’m beginning to get a little worried.”

“Wait, let me guess,” Aibangbe began, his eyes shimmering with excitement, “the mind is not open for another to see?”

Ekundayo nodded. “That’s right. This is my only way in. I don’t want to believe it was something our palace tour guide said that got to you, or the phone call you had this morning before any of us woke up.”

Aibangbe chuckled. “You’ve been acting like my wife since we got here. I must confess, it’s been heart-warming.”

Humorously feigning displeasure, Ekundayo pulled away from Aibangbe, eliciting mild laughter on his part and then hers.

"I don't blame you. It’s not like we’re up to romantic antics or anything of the sort. We have a huge job on our hands, one that can fundamentally alter the course of our careers as rising filmmakers. As a consequence, we have to be in top physical and mental shape throughout the shooting. To that end, we may or may not have to look out for each other.”

Instantly, Aibangbe’s visage took on a hint of remorse. “It sucks that I haven’t been the most caring or invested colleague. Not just for this project, but ever since we started working together. My self-proclaimed anti-social status has nothing on basic courtesy.”

“It’s fine, Ibang. It’s not too late to make amends. Just tell me what’s wrong, if it isn’t overly sensitive.”

Aibangbe’s eyes drifted from Ekundayo to his iPhone, which he had randomly begun to fiddle with before he raised them again. “It’s kind of sensitive, but since we’re the only ones not on headphones or headsets right now, I might as well shoot.”

Ekundayo did not budge. “Take your time.”

In what appeared to be a concession to her advice, Aibangbe took a deep breath. “It’s more or less one of those tiring daddy issues you occasionally stumble upon in classic Nollywood movies. You see, my father decided to marry from a village detested by his kinsmen and they staunchly opposed it. They also threatened to disown him and strip him of whatever ancestral inheritance he had. Four years and one son later, he cracked and took a new wife. The frustration from the said kinsmen forced my mother and me out of her matrimonial home. Flash-forward to the present and my father is terminally ill, which he deserves, as far as I’m concerned. My mother has not relented in pleading with me to go back and see him, in case ‘the worst’ happens.”

Aigbangbe momentarily paused, reinforcing his gaze on the driver's section of the bus. “My mother and I are on good terms, but I did not inform her of our work engagement here in Benin City because I knew what she would ask of me. Somehow, she found out from God-knows-who, returned to the family home, and called me this morning, mandating my presence in the house after we wrap our shoot. What nonsense is that?”

By the end of his catharsis, Ekundayo was left with a man scarcely different from the one with whom she worked, who she began a conversation with a few minutes prior. She swore she could almost feel the heat of his breath, but she opted to dismiss it.

“If the palace guide knew your backstory, maybe he would have had a starkly different choice of words. The whole set-up of most Obas having multiple wives, the joke of each wife being a step up from the former, and how the Obas wield unquestionable authority over their progeny, is mind-bugging. I didn’t think it would strike deep, personal chords in any of us.”

“And to spice up the situation,” Aibangbe delved in, still reeling, “he dropped that Bini proverb about how a child does not play outside so much as to forget home. Ironically, 'playing outside' by furthering my education abroad on a scholarship and fully immersing myself in work after graduation was what helped me cope with my desolate moments.”

“Orbokhan ku miamiam owa,” Ekundayo translated.

Aibangbe arched his eyebrows in awe. “That’s it. I’m getting an intensive tutorial on the Bini language from you once we get back. Your proficiency, coupled with your crisp English that is inches away from a full-blown British accent, may just make me fall for you.”

Ekundayo half-grinned, correctly sensing Aibangbe’s effort to downplay his pain. She adjusted in her seat as the bus ground to a halt in a mini-congestion. “Two can play the game of teasing, you know. I would leave you reeling from defeat, so don’t even push your luck. Let’s get past this situation first.”

“There’s nothing to get past,” Aibangbe countered, “and it’s ironic when one realises that my name loosely translates to ‘one should not avoid the family’. It’s like all of this was predestined.”

“In that case, your job is all the easier. Fulfil your destiny and—”

“And do what, exactly?” Aibangbe cut in, taking each word slowly. “Endure the hateful stares of my father’s kinsmen? Sit beside his frail figure and listen to him half-apologise for making life a living hell for me and my mother and half-justify himself because he reached his breaking point. Talk me into taking my place as the ‘first son’? I am sure as hell that I would cause a scene. For what he did to me and my mother, I respect him enough to not see him at all. He’ll be fine. He’s been fine without me all these years.”

It was easy for Ekundayo to miss, but she could not help but marvel at how Aibangbe kept the sound of his voice at a level that only she could hear clearly. She dreaded the high likelihood of any of their crew members eavesdropping and she instantly hated herself for making her colleague bare his demons in the least ideal of locations. At the same time, she knew she had come too far to leave him abruptly in a state much worse than when she first met him.

Ekundayo picked her next words carefully. “You mean to tell me that throughout childhood and adolescence, your father never dropped by to check up on you? At least once?”

Aibangbe averted his gaze to the gradually decongesting traffic. He swallowed hard and brought his eyes back to the interior to cursorily observe the surroundings. Jason was fast asleep. Idara had her headset plugged in, staring at her laptop screen. Others seated in the front seats had their focus firmly fixed ahead, with the radio blaring. He did not care if another soul overheard him.

“He came around a couple of times. My mother, knowing nothing would go back to normal, vehemently sent him away each time until he stopped coming. For a while, a mutual friend of theirs visited us more often than my father ever did. My mum eventually got the drift and she told him off as well. Look, the whole point is that nothing would have changed then. Nothing can change now. I have all the closure I need.”

The bus was back in full swing, but Ekundayo did not relent in her crusade. “You know you can do better. You can rise above the resentment. You’re already in the city, so—”

“We’re almost there, guys!”

    The abrupt roar of one of the crew members had a chilling effect on Ekundayo. Idara also took off her headset in response to the near thunderous voice of the announcer. She rubbed her eyes and glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s 2:42 p.m. The museum closes by four. I wonder how we’re going to pull off anything reasonable in such a short period. If only we didn’t have any cause to go back to our hotel.”

Jason had woken up and managed to hear Idara’s statement. He sat upright as the bus ground to a halt in the parking lot. “At least, you did not blame me this time.”

Idara shot Jason a straight face as she made her way out of the bus. “The museum should have a toilet, so answer all of nature’s calls while you can. If we hit the road and you make us stop again, I’ll make sure we leave you behind.”

The recent intermission in the conversation between Aibangbe and Ekundayo fizzled out, with the last crew member other than them alighting the bus. Ekundayo could not shake off the feeling that her last shot at influencing Aibangbe’s change of heart did not stick to the landing.

Aibangbe retrieved a notepad and a baseball cap from his backpack. “For someone who I’m not close to, you made quite the effort. Whenever you’re ready.”

Taking his last words in their stride, Ekundayo stood up and alighted the vehicle with Aibangbe maintaining a meagre distance between them. Aibangbe donned the baseball cap and held his hands akimbo after joining the rest of the crew. Like everyone else, he carefully absorbed all the details of the hallowed expanse before them. They were soon welcomed by a soft breeze that ran its silky hands through the surrounding trees.

“It’s a slight step up from the pictures,” Idara began again, adjusting her braids, “all things considered. But then, that’s how it always is.”

Ekundayo chuckled. “It’s a little too quick to judge in this case. The aesthetics of what lies within is just as important as what we see on the surface.”

For a split second, Idara appeared as though she were about to raise her voice, but she caught herself in time. “This is incredibly pointless. If what I saw on the internet is true, we may not even be allowed to roll our cameras inside. Still, it was insisted that we hit the museum. We have essentially been set up for a glorious failure.”

Aibangbe clenched his fists in irritation as he swirled in Idara’s direction. “Look, Idara, we have come too far with this project. Even if we’ve been set up for failure...”

“...we can always change our destiny.”

Right after her interception, Ekundayo darted her eyes at Aibangbe. He did not need to replay the sentence to get a perfect grasp of his companion’s subtle message. Aibangbe willed himself to avoid Ekundayo’s possibly searing look. He had made up his mind and could not afford to let his resolve be undone by backdoor comebacks. Away from the mental debacle, Idara could not hide her surprise at the cohesive reply.

“From the look of things, you too have been bonding well, over the trip. Keep this up and the executives may just greenlight a romantic short film starring you two.”

Aibangbe exhaled and shrugged his shoulders. He took two slow steps forward and returned his gaze to a waiting Ekundayo. “Nice try, but I’m not obligated to be the bigger or better person.”

He waited earnestly for anything Ekundayo had to say for a reasonable deal of time, to the extent that their colleagues ahead had to beckon to them to pick up the pace. They both complied and soon, they rejoined their colleagues and an individual who appeared to be an important museum official. The official greeted them with a grin and immediately stepped forward to shake hands with Aibangbe and Ekundayo—the duo barely bearing any hint of the tension they had just emerged from.

The official was a thin, frail-looking man of average height with salt-and-pepper hair. “I am Mr Uanhoro. It’s good to have you all here. I was afraid you all had changed your minds."

“Not at all, Mr Uanhoro,” Aibangbe quipped, “anything but that. We do apologise for arriving behind schedule. We were on our way from the Oba’s Palace when we discovered that we forgot our clearance documents at our hotel, so we had to return. We’re all set now.”

Mr Uanhoro narrowed his eyes in comprehension and folded his arms. “I can see that. The most important thing is that you got here just in time. Please, follow me.”

Without hesitation, the crew fell fully behind Mr Uanhoro, who led them past a fairly towering monolith and several eye-catching artefacts into the ground floor of the museum. Aibangbe felt the air thicken around him and resorted to the default coping mechanism of a deep breath. The lighting was also a sharp contrast with what he envisaged beforehand, but he was able to make out shotguns and a host of other centuries-old instruments of warfare. He also stumbled upon an artefact that he mentally swore many Nigerians would recognise in a heartbeat. Mr Uanhoro, sensing an imminent question from either Aibangbe or Ekundayo, stopped in his tracks. Ekundayo took the initiative.

“Curator sir, regarding this mask,” she gestured towards the same artefact that caught Aibangbe’s attention, “it’s not exactly foreign to Nigerians, Gen Zs inclusive. However, for the sake of those who may not know, can you shed some light on it?”

The curator adjusted his thick-framed glasses and edged closer to the artefact. “Anybody who has ever stumbled upon a television feature on FESTAC ‘77 or Bini history would have come across the ivory mask of Queen Idia. She is a revered figure among Bini monarchs. She was the first Queen Mother—the Iyoba—of Benin. Unfortunately, foreign museums have more authentic representations of Queen Idia, notably the British Museum which famously contains multiple spoils from the 1897 Invasion. The quest to recover these artefacts has been marred by stifling bureaucracies.”

Listening with rapt attention, Aibangbe found the curator’s choice of words appealing. Stifling bureaucracies.

“To make matters worse,” the curator continued, “there was a time when people would come here to take pictures of the artefacts, only to make replicas after. We sought to fix that problem by banning flash photography in the halls. If we hadn’t addressed a problem much closer to home, our quest to recover our artefacts from foreign museums would have been laughable. As a people, we must value our history and origins as sacrosanct.”

Aibangbe soon reached a point where he could not correctly assess the exact effect of the curator’s words on him. While he ran a mental diagnosis, Ekundayo struck with another question.

"If I may ask, why should our history be valued in the first place?”

As though he were expecting that question, the curator could not resist the manifestation of a large grin. He lowered his gaze as the video camera panned on him. “Our history is very important. In the words of Marcus Garvey, a people without the knowledge of their history, origin, and culture is like a tree without roots. We owe it to ourselves to draw clarity from our past and learn from its mistakes if we want to truly evolve. The past has an alarmingly large number of answers to many of the questions we have today.”

Once again, Aibangbe found himself mentally dangling from the curator’s words. Making peace with your past. A tree without roots. Faster than he could imagine, he sprung back into the conversation.

"The efficacy of your postulations makes the brief removal of History from the curriculum of secondary schools all the more baffling.”

For seemingly the first time since the shoot began, the curator enjoyed a brief pause before his next delivery. “We do not know for certain why such a decision was made. We can only be thankful for the reinstatement of the subject. As important as it is for school-age students to be exposed to their rich national history, the search for historical clarity need not be limited to the four walls of a classroom. There is only so much that one can learn in school. We should probably move outside now.”

***

Loud music towered and slithered above everything in its wake to take over the close of the day. For all its attempts to split the ears of the agog guests who had assembled in its midst or, at least, the exhausted guests chose to play along, it was generally given a rather warm welcome. Aibangbe felt his insides growl and yearn for anything close to an escape from the slaughterhouse that he found himself in, but he found himself too heavy to carry. He could only observe in horror as his animated colleagues gave in to their childish tendencies.

Like Aibangbe, Ekundayo was thoroughly exhausted from the activities of the past week, as well as the outdoor meal and the drinks the crew members had helped themselves to in the preceding minutes. She briefly pondered on the dreaded possibility of running into armed robbers on their return journey, before shifting her attention to Aibangbe. She was able to sense the ashen and sullen look on his face, which he fought hard to mask since their return from the museum. She strongly yearned for another heart-to-heart conversation with Aibangbe, but at the same time, she did not want to fuel the speculations of a brewing romance that Idara had earlier brought to the fore. Pursing her lips, she brought herself back to the madhouse before her, just as Aibangbe pulled out his smartphone. She silently prayed that he had finally arrived on the same page as her.

Moments later, Aibangbe was back on his feet. He made his way out of the wide balcony and back into the corridor, which seemed to close in on him with each step he took. His heart churned with reckless abandon as he came within the room he shared with two other male colleagues of his and silently hoped that they would not barge in on him, against the run of play. Retrieving the keys from his pocket, he inserted them into the keyhole and opened the door as it unlocked. He hated himself for what he was going to do, but he could not avoid the truth any longer. He still needed answers beyond what he already knew. As much as he hated to admit it.

The phone conversation he had with his mother earlier resurfaced in his subconscious with greater intensity. He still could not decide which was more alarming, between his mother’s discovery of his work engagement in Benin City or the fact that she was willing to return to the people that detested her. Ultimately, he settled for the explanation that both scenarios did not matter at the present juncture.

He sat on the clothes-littered bed and opened his call log, letting his left thumb hover over his mother’s contact card for as long as he needed. Suppressing every hateful feeling coursing through his veins, he hit the call button and waited for his mother’s voice to streak through his ears. The sound of ringing stretched for much longer than his impatient self would have preferred. Soon, the ringing was replaced by muffled movements. Aibangbe straightened himself as he fought to string his words together.

“Hello. Hello, Mummy.”

More muffled movements followed before Aibangbe and his croaky voice were met with a sense of calm. He wanted to believe his mother could feel his pulse from where she was.

“Aibangbe. How did today’s episode go for you?”

Aibangbe was swept away by his mother’s voice, which he deemed calmer in comparison to their previous call. “As far as the last days have been, it went smoothly. We had done most of the substantive work before today, so our work was all the easier. We will be leaving for Lagos tomorrow.”

“That’s all right, my son. I am very proud of you and the man you are becoming. You may not have enjoyed the ideal family model for most of your childhood, but that—”

“I will not be returning to Lagos tomorrow.”

Aigbangbe hesitated after his sharp interruption, to emphasise his proposed course of action. As he expected, no response came.

“I would be taking the first bus to the family house tomorrow morning. I have waited too long for this opportunity to pass me by. I am sorry for the way I lashed out at you in the morning. That was one step too—”

“Aibangbe, your father is dead.”

Aibangbe felt his insides implode as blood ran through his ears. He felt his vision blur and his legs weaken.

“Your father is dead. He gave up the ghost not long after noon. I wish you were here in time, to at least say goodbye. If things were any different, your absence would be perfectly justified. Some outcomes are unavoidable, but we wish this did not have to come so soon.”

Nausea followed in the chain of Aibangbe’s emotional plagues. The tears were threatening, but he willed himself to tie the loose ends of the phone call. He cleared his throat. He had more to say, but his throat was more compressed than he would have ever imagined. “I’d get back to you, Mum. I have to go now. I do have to go now.”

“That’s okay, my son. Take care of yourself.”

Aibangbe kept his phone tightly pressed against his ears until he was sure the call had been terminated. He sunk to the ground and reflected on the pent-up emotions of hatred and resentment he felt for his deceased father. He fought the herculean temptation to bang his head and fists against whatever he could find, knowing full well that it would attract the unwanted attention of either his colleagues or the caretakers of the hotel. Slowly regaining composure, Aibangbe got back to his feet with all the strength he could muster and made his way towards the balcony after locking the room. He had barely walked a good distance before a very familiar figure wound up across the corridor.

With a critical look in her eyes, Ekundayo edged closer to Aibangbe in the brightly lit corridor. She was wordless, as though she were intuitively closing in on the current state of affairs. Aibangbe smiled and closed the gap between them.

“I won’t be returning to Lagos tomorrow. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Ekundayo buffered for a moment before she returned his smile and caught Aibangbe for a warm embrace. The moment he felt the full warmth of her body in his, he succumbed to the most natural reaction possible to his mother’s news, oblivious to whoever could run into them and what they would think.