CHAPTER NINETY
That Rush! That Feeling! That Thrill!
“Hey!
BEWAJI!”
Marcus shook
me hard, and I looked into his eyes, which still held the same expression from
yesterday, equal parts worried and terrified.
I hate this.
“I did it
again, didn’t I?” I asked, already knowing the answer. He gave me a soft smile
that didn’t reach his eyes.
I adjusted myself on the couch I was seated on and looked around. The waiting room looked more like the lobby of a luxury hotel than a therapy clinic. Soft instrumental music drifted quietly through hidden speakers. Cream-colored walls reflected the afternoon sunlight pouring through tall windows.
Behind a
curved reception desk sat a young woman dressed in navy scrubs, typing quietly
on a computer. There were no crying children, no ringing phones, no loud
conversations. Everything felt carefully designed to be calm. And yet, despite
the peaceful atmosphere, my foot tapped anxiously against the floor.
“Hey!” Marcus
called out again, placing his hand on my knee to stop the constant tapping.
“What is it?” he asked.
I looked down
at the clipboard in my lap, which felt heavier than it should have. Then I
looked up, and he met my gaze. Suddenly, he understood. His eyes softened as he
lowered his gaze to the clipboard on my thighs.
“Do you need help with that?” he asked softly and I nodded.
“Please.” He smiled and took the clipboard from my thighs.
“So, we have
personal information,” he murmured as he filled the form I was struggling with.
“What brought you to therapy today?” he continued under his breath, ticking boxes as he spoke. “Difficulty concentrating, feeling sad, sleeping too much…” He ticked most of the mental health symptoms.
“Have you
ever had thoughts of harming yourself?” he read aloud for me. “I guess we know
the answer to that,” he answered himself and ticked no. “Have you ever
attempted suicide?”
He looked at
me for an answer. I shook my head. He nodded, looking slightly relieved, and
ticked no.
“Have you recently wished you were dead?” I froze. “Bewaji....” he called in a low voice. I looked at him. Judging by his expression, I could tell he already knew the answer, but he wished it was different.
“Have you?”
he asked again, urgently.
“Yes,” I
admitted in a low voice.
His jaw
tightened, but he only nodded and returned to the clipboard. Just like that,
whatever ground I had gained with him vanished.
“We have
medical history next,” he said quietly.
It was
supposed to be warm and inviting I could tell but it was cold. Not even the two
floor lamps casting a soft golden glow throughout the room could defrost it.
The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner.
“Do you like
plants?” a soft voice asked me.
I lifted my
eyes from the large plant occupying the corner beside the window. Its broad
green leaves reached toward the sunlight. My gaze then shifted to the woman
seated in front of me, who had been watching me like a hawk since I entered her
office.
I sat stiffly
on the edge of the couch, my hands clasped together so tightly my knuckles had
turned grey.
“No,” I
replied.
“You hate
them?” she asked.
“Of course
not,” I shrugged. “I just never paid attention to them.”
“I
understand,” she nodded, flipping open the notebook resting on her lap. “I am
Dr. Berot, and you are Mrs. Bewaji Bendal.”
“Don’t call
me that,” I muttered with a frown.
“But that is
your name.”
“The Mrs.”
“Okay. Bewaji
Bendal, nice to meet you. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
“Bewa is
fine,” I retorted.
“Alright
then.” She leaned back in her seat. “Why are you here, Bewa?”
“You know
why.”
“Yes, I do, but I want to hear you say it.” I looked down at my hand and gently caressed where my wedding ring used to be.
“I think I’m
losing my mind.” The words hung heavily between us.
“What makes
you think that?”
“Because I am losing time.” Her expression remained calm.
“Tell me
more.”
“There is
nothing more to tell,” I shrugged as if it didn’t matter, though it did. “I
think I just stand, or maybe sit in one place for hours without even knowing
that time has passed.”
“When was the
first time you experienced that?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I swallowed hard. “I think it has been happening for a very long time, and I didn’t know until yesterday.” She nodded thoughtfully as she scribbled in her notes.
“How did that
make you feel?”
“Terrified,”
I answered immediately.
“To make a proper diagnosis, I need to determine when this started, so I will need to ask you some questions. Will that be okay with you?” I sighed heavily and nodded.
“Were you
losing time last year?”
“No.”
“The beginning of the year?” I shook my head.
“Five months ago?” Again, no.
“Three months
ago?”
I looked away
and shifted in my chair. The question itself wasn’t difficult, yet something
about answering it made me want to be anywhere else.
“What
happened three months ago?” she asked.
I froze. My
fingers tightened around each other. For several seconds, I stared at the
carpet, as though the answer might be hidden somewhere in its pattern.
“Bewaji.”
“I think you
know,” I answered quietly.
“Maybe, but I need to hear you say it.” A knot tightened in my stomach. Every instinct in me was telling me to leave. To stand up, walk out, and never come back but instead, I remained seated, my body rigid with tension.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Silence stretched. I swallowed hard and finally whispered:
“I lost a
baby.”
“You lost a
baby?” she asked gently, carefully.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I spat bitterly. “It is in the file.” She wrote something in her pad.
“Tell me
about your baby.”
“I don’t want
to talk about it,” I deadpanned.
“Okay then. Let’s talk about you. Tell me about yourself.” She moved on, to my surprise.
“Seriously?”
I said, thinking she would press me more about my baby.
“Tell me your dreams, your goals, your aspirations… tell me about yourself.”
I hesitated, then finally responded. “I love writing.”
“Really?”
Suddenly, memories from my days in Nigeria came flooding back. I remembered sitting in my office every Friday, well into the night, trying to write another chapter before I went home for the weekend.
“Actually, no,” I retracted. One of her eyebrows lifted. “I didn’t like writing. I had difficulty putting words together. It was the storytelling I loved,” I clarified, leaning back. For the first time since entering her office, something loosened inside me.
“Do you know
what it’s like to have a story idea, just an idea, like a concept?” I continued, using my hands
to explain. “And you stay fixated on it in your head until you construct the
first, second, and third act? The characters, the dialogue, everything coming
together in your mind. Do you know what that feels like?”
“No, I don’t,” she said. I closed my eyes as memories rushed in.
“It is like seeinng a movie from start to finish in a cinema, only I am watching it in my head. That feeling, that rush, that thrill when everything finally clicks... I lived for it. Being in my head was my safe space” For a moment, something warm bubbled in my chest.
“For a very
long time, I wanted to be a world-known screenwriter,” I confessed.
I opened my eyes, only then did I see her looking at me with a bright smile.
“What?” I
asked.
“You’re smiling.” At that moment, I felt the smile I didn’t know I had fade away.
“You have a lovely smile,” she commented gently. The room suddenly felt warmer.
“You said for
a very long time you wanted to be a screenwriter.”
“Yes.”
“What
happened?”
“I got
married.”
“Your husband
didn’t want you writing?”
“No, not
that. He was my biggest supporter,” I shook my head immediately. “He even read
my stories.”
“So, what was
the problem?”
“I started a
small business. I wanted it to remain small, but my husband wanted me to dream
big. So I did, and it became so big that I didn’t have time to write anything.”
“Oh. Was that
a problem for you?” she asked.
“No, I loved
it. Becoming a screenwriter was my dream, but I also wanted to have a business
of my own.”
“No harm in having more than one dream,” she smiled. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“So, you’re
telling me that back then, you could write but you just didn’t have the time.”
“Yes.”
“And now, can
you?”
“What?”
“Write!” Every muscle in my body stilled. “If I give you a laptop right now, can you write?” Something inside me coiled as I dreaded where she was going.
“Bewaji,” she
called me.
“No.” The air seemed to leave the room.
“Why not?”
“Because…” I
hesitated. “I need to go into my head to write.”
“Then all you
have to do is go into your head. Being in your head is your safe space, you said it yourself, you love it. It’s always easy. So, go into your
head.”
Judging from the way she was speaking, she knew I couldn’t and why I couldn’t. Why is she torturing me like this? I thought she had let it go. She hadn’t. She just came at me from another angle. My gaze dropped to the carpet.
“Bewaji, I want you to go into your head and write for me.” My head snapped up.
“I CAN’T!” I yelled. The words exploded out of me before I could think. The sound echoed around the office.
“Why not?”
she remained calm despite my outburst.
“Because I
would be trapped. If I go there, I get stuck. That’s when I lose time, being in my head is no longer safe”
“And why do you think that is happening?” Her calmness felt unbearable.
“You know
why.”
“I want to hear you say it.” Heat flooded my body.
“I had a
baby!” I shouted.
“I had a baby
and lost her! Is that what you want to hear?” I shot to my feet. The couch
scraped loudly against the floor. Tears blurred my vision.
“Do you want
me to say I failed my baby and she died because of me? Is that what you want to
hear?” I pointed to myself as I moved closer to her, the small table between
us.
“Fine, I’ll say it,” I laughed bitterly. “I was selfish, and it is my fault my baby is dead. I am a murderer, and I deserve to be punished. There, you have it. I said it. Are you happy now?”
Unfazed, she replied quietly “I am not happy you lost your baby, but I am glad we are getting somewhere.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped me “We are getting nowhere!” I shouted. “Because I am done!” I turned and headed for the door.
“Bewa—”
“Fuck you.” I yanked the door open and stormed out of her office. Marcus looked up from his phone, concern flashing across his face as he stood up immediately.
“Bewa, is everything okay?” I ignored him and walked past him.
TO BE CONTINUED ON NEXT SATURDAY, 9.00PM WAT.
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