Sunrise At
Dusk Favor Sunano A love story that ended well. Bola Atta, Editor, True Love West Africa
Chapter 1
C
larkson sat down heavily on the well-upholstered bed, in his Hilton hotel suite in London, feeling tired after a seven-hour lecture. He turned his gaze to the large artwork on the wall on top of the head side of the deluxe bed. It was a French painting of a francophone girl looking into the rising sun. At the top right corner of the painting was the minute’s and second’s hand of a clock. The time read 3pm. The lecture was hectic as well as boring for Clarkson; it was only a repetition of an already acquired knowledge. He was expecting an entirely new and exciting approach from the organizers and hence had paid a huge sum including his round trip ticket from Nigeria. Clarkson managed to keep his cool during the whole exercise and regretted that he did not opt for the Canadian seminar on “Working effectively in today's global village.” He got up from the bed, threw his clothes on it, his tie dangling as it slipped unto the polished floor. He walked into the bathroom
Sunrise at Dusk
3
strain of the next agenda were visible on Clarkson's brow. He had an encounter earlier that morning with a bank representative from the Netherlands, Mr. Johansson Puller, which led to a scheduled engagement by 3:30pm that same day. Clarkson, fully dressed, braced himself for the meeting and lifting his brief case, he breezed out of the hotel suite. They had both agreed to meet at McDonald's, 3:30pm prompt. Clarkson held an unchequered record for promptness and was not immediately ready to break it. He felt fussy as he walked into the venue nine minutes after. His mobile phone beeped as he arrived the venue. “Hello,” vomited Clarkson as he glided into McDonald's. “Who is this please?” he inquired almost irritatingly. Clarkson felt grotesque as the voice rapped many apologies in poor English language. Mr. Puller could not make it; an emergency occurred and he is already on his way back to the Netherlands. This time the beads of sweat droplets in his brow had started to streak into a flow down to his chin soaking his collar notwithstanding the chill inside McDonald's. A downcast Clarkson stood to think. His briefcase had been freed from his firm grip and was sitting lonely on the bronze floor. He sat down, ordered for an apple juice with pasta salad, reached out for his mobile phone as he relished the meal out of exhaustion. “Hello, Mariah it's me, Clarkson.” “Oh! Clarkson how are you?” the female voice asked in a British singsong. “I'm fine. Please is the office still open?” “Yes and I'm still here.” replied Mariah invitingly. “Okay, I will be there in ten.” “Ten minutes time?” “Yes, bye.” Clarkson ended the call before Mariah could respond. Modela Bank operates an annex office in London and Clarkson
6
Sunano Favor
Lulu began to type in a hasty conclusion. Lulu4you: “I'm fine, got to go, see you next time.” Clarkson, in his London office, was uncomfortable with the message and quickly tapped his keyboard. Everclarkson: “Please, Lulu, wait.” Lulu4you: “Bye, Clarkson, bye.” As Lulu sent the last message, she quickly disconnected and rose to leave the café. Clarkson fell back in his large and comfy sofa, breathing heavily. “Nice girl I guess. Could be pretty too… hmm Clark-son,” he drew his name, the way his mother does when she realized he was being mischievous. “Next time, boy, next time,” a tiny voice whispered into his ears. Clarkson turned to face an adorable lady, while observing her sweet perfume. “Internet freak again, isn't it?” she asked as she dropped a cup of coffee on his table. “They are never really real. Are they?” she continued and straightened up into a seductive pose. Moments later she asked Clarkson, as though thinking from the past. “Don't you ever touch a girl?” She was a beautiful mulatto. Clarkson met her a year earlier, on his first trip to London, during an IT-management seminar. Mariah worked in the London office of Modela Bank and was barely twenty-eight years of age when she rose to become the head of foreign operations, only two years ago. During one of their few times together, she told Clarkson of her Nigerian heritage. She was a Manchurian with a Nigerian father. Her father died of hypertension when Mariah was only fifteen. She went further to divulge her love for her fatherland but that she had only been to Nigeria once, about seven years ago. Mariah was intensely attracted to Clarkson and she never hid it. Clarkson stood up to examine the damsel by his side and nodded approvingly. “What have I been doing? This damsel is really
Chapter 2
C
larkson walked out of the evening service alongside Olabode. The church was a large one with many worshippers trooping out on the Wednesday evening programme. Clarkson returned from London the day before at about 6:30pm and landed on the hangars of Murtala Mohammed airport. “I enjoyed this service.” Clarkson commented. “I can see it all over you,” Olabode replied as he placed his right arm on Clarkson's shoulder. They were half-brothers as well as good friends. Olabode was the only son of Ferdinand Jakande's first marriage to Junia. She died after giving birth to Olabode. Ferdinand got married two years later to Graca, Clarkson's mother, and they have been married ever since. Ola, as he was often called, was an engineer with the National Corporation for Petroleum, Abuja Towers, Nigeria. Clarkson, the first child and only son of his mother, was an
Sunrise at Dusk
11
service they received, soon enough they began to eat. Clarkson requested pounded yam and egusi soup1 while Ola's order was eba2 and 3 ogbono soup . They relished their meals in silence and occasionally raised their heads when the sliding door shifted to welcome customers. When they were through with their meals, they relaxed themselves with soft drinks.
Lulu got home that same evening feeling agitated but refreshed. She walked through the luxurious sitting room, straight to her bedroom, without noticing Monica where she laid, cuddled on the three-seat executive chair. She only rolled her head upwards when Lulu slid into the parlour, but she didn't make any comment at that time. As Lulu walked past her in deep reverie, Monica noticed the glimmer in her baby sister's eyes. Lulu slid into her room in her characteristic na誰ve manner. Her room was a delight to behold, simple but with warm originality. On the wall, just above her plush bed, was a large French painting. Her father bought it during one of his many trips to Paris. A portable and effective air conditioner hummed into the silence. The room's fragrance was remarkable; Lulu actually drew in a deep breath when she entered her gentle haven. She proceeded towards the computer desk, opened her small bag and brought out a neat white envelope, placing it on the top of the processor. She then slumped into a sitting position on the comfy bed and placed her handbag by her side. Lulu took in a long deep breath for the second time, apparently enthralled by the thoughts in her head. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead and she shook her dress as if to fan her body from the sudden rush of internal heat. Unsatisfied as to the source of the heat, Lulu turned to the direction of the air conditioner to ascertain it was working.