The history of my past started this way; I would say "history" because it was an event I wouldn't want to remember or talk about again in my life apart from today. I was born into a broken—or, should I say, disaster-entangled—home. My father was a man, full of integrity, loving, compassionate, and caring to everybody, especially to me. He would never wish to die without seeing me become a celebrity, but it happened on the flip side of things or an event.
My father was a rich man, outrageously rich. There was no doubt about his riches because it appeared in the way he dressed up and his body physique. He worked as a car dealer in one of the biggest organisations, to be precise, the "auto fill industry," as a managing director, where he had done many transactions with the Europeans and was revered as the most honest person in the company. It was because of him that the organisation became so famous. I know you have heard of it, right?
"Sure," Joe said, nodding to the question.
My father had a trait of humility that showed in his behaviour. His social life with others was marked by a sense of being humble and simple. That was why he had so many friends—I can't say trustworthy friends because I discovered that no one was trustworthy. I developed a slogan, "Trust no one," which got me scared of associating with people, but after several years of hardship, I destroyed the slogan because it was of no use to me. My father was the person I loved more than anyone in the world. A father who wished I was a princess from my childhood days. He made me look like them; my dressing was on another level. There was no day when we went out on an occasion that I didn't put on beads. I wore a lot of them on my neck and on my hands; I ate what I had longed for. In fact, my father wouldn't allow me to lack anything until he dropped dead.
"What about your mother?" Joe interrupted.
"You interrupted too quickly; you would have waited a little bit, but notwithstanding, I will answer your question now."
My mother, I don't know who she is, since the day I was born... To avoid excessive exaggeration, probably, I might have seen her, but my brain cannot recollect her image or what complexion she had. Certainly, my fair complexion never came from my father, so I probably would have inherited it from my mother. My sweet mother, I love her. Yes, I had not set my eyes on her, but wherever she is, I still love her.
"Have I answered you?" inquired Bianca.
A nod from Joe was the response, as she continued.
Back to my father: my dad was nice to me; I still remember vividly when he took me to the sitting room. He sat me down and told me that I was a gold that would ever be cherished, and even if he died, I would still be a gold to be cherished by others. I was nearly six years old; little did I know that he was predicting his death.
Tears rolled out of her eyes surreptitiously and gradually. She quickly pressed her palm into her eyes to stop the tears from coming.
"Please stop crying; I feel worried any time I see you cry," Joe pleaded.
"Okay, I will stop, but... it is painful, just seeing that my father is no more," Bianca responded, rubbing her eyes to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. She continued the story of her father.
Joe, my father and you are almost the same when it comes to dressing and being philanthropic. My father doesn't wear any clothes. He dressed up in an attractive and enviable way. He went for the latest and made sure he also bought it for me. He was a generous man to a fault. He would go out with a budget that would give about fifty people satisfaction. Because of that, he was loved and admired by all in the community.
My father and I lived in a rented apartment in "Tiana," and that place was regarded as a G.R.A. to the call.
To cut a long story short, my loving father was all-around perfect, but he condemned wayward lifestyles, warning me to stay away from such. He tried his best to motivate me to do things right.
So, a fateful day, a day of sadness, beckoned on me and him. My dad called me to the sitting room, and when I sat down, I saw tears coming out of his eyes. This got me a bit scared because I had never seen him cry before. It was strange to me; however, when he knew I wanted to ask questions, he spoke out suddenly.
"Sweetheart?"
That was the name he called me when he was about to give a motivational, inspirational, or didactic speech.
"Yes, dad," I answered.
"Do you love me?" he asked.
"I love you, Dad," I replied with a naïve voice.
"Keep my instructions," he said.
"I will," I responded, "but…."
"Do you know you have a younger sister?" He interrupted
"No, Dad," I replied with great shock.
"Oh! You were small, but now I think you can hold, or store, something in your head for a long time."
"Please, Dad, why did you say so?" I inquired anxiously.
"Because the story I want to tell you is vital, it will help you in life."
"What is it, Dad?"
"I married a woman who is your mother; you might not remember her, do you?"
"No, Dad."
"Yes, you can't, because you were a kid, a pretty little kid," he said. "Are you ready to listen?"
"Yes Dad, fully eager to know."
"Your mother and I got married several years ago. We were both so rich that we even thought that when our first child came along, which is you, she would be given proper care and be treated like a princess. Yeah, we started on a good note by taking proper care of you until you were 10-months-old, when the devil came to sow tares among the wheat. Your mother just all of a sudden started showing signs of infidelity. You might not know the meaning, but when you grow up, you definitely will. Things we joked about before suddenly looked like an insult to her. I thought she was trying to know my limit until she came up to me and told me she doesn't want me to pry on her privacy again. Because of me, she changed the pin of her bank account, and when I asked her, she told me I should mind my business and leave her alone. It was getting worse and worse every day that we didn't sleep on the same bed again, that we didn't greet each other each time we met, and even if I tried greeting her, she ignored me. When you came down sick, she cared less and told me that it was my responsibility to take you to the hospital, which I actually did. Your mother tried all she could to frustrate me emotionally and mentally, which she actually succeeded in doing after a year of celebrating your one-year birthday. I came to know that she had taken in—God knows for whom. Sweetheart, this was the straw that broke the camel's back; I could no longer take it. The next day I filed a divorce petition right away at the court. We went to court for a hearing; the judge tried to mediate on the matter, but I wasn't accepting anything. My ears got deaf to all the pleas. All I needed was a separation, and I got it. The property was being shared; I took you while she took the foetus in her womb; I gave her the other car; and then I promised her that I would not marry anyone again. But guess what? She hissed and walked away, Sweetheart. That was the end; we never met again. Not until after two years of our separation did my fellow colleague at my workplace tell me that she had a daughter. He showed me video of the girl; it was true. Sweetheart, what I am trying to point out is that.........."
This was the major thing he told me, but I didn't understand almost all of it apart from the didactic lesson he gave me after the whole story, probably because I was only 10-years-old.
After all the story and the didactic lessons, he told me he felt like strolling on the street. This was quite strange because we never went out after dark. But that day was an exception; he ordered me to wear my nightgown, which I obeyed, and then we went out to the street, and he held my hands. We talked while walking on the road. He said a lot of funny things that got both of us laughing. After strolling for five good times around the street, I felt dizzy and I needed to sleep very urgently; he noticed it almost immediately, then we walked back home, but on getting to our gate, my dad fell down like a log of wood. But before that, he screamed at the peak of his voice. Immediately, blood gushed out of his body, but I didn't know exactly where it came from; I was still naïve at that time. I stared with fear, then I beckoned to my dead father: "Daddy, stand up; there is blood on your body." Before I knew what to do next, someone grabbed me from the back, used his hand to cover my mouth, and then took me to a car that I saw approaching when we were going back to our house.
That night, they took me to an old woman's house. I was crying and weeping bitterly, and the woman consoled me and told me that my daddy would soon come to take me away. I believed her gibberish. I stopped crying. She offered me food, but I rejected it. Then she took me to a room, where I slept.
After one week of staying there I got used to the place, later on, I was being taken to a public school; it was hell there, the class room was stuffy, noisy and jam packed with students. When I came back home, I would hawk food around the street in order for me to eat.
Joe? It wasn't easy to bear all the mistreatment. I worked more than a slave, but this woman never appreciated me. She kept on complaining and complaining, and sometimes she flogged me with wire. I endured this harsh treatment while going to school, if for no other reason than for me to become an accountant in the future. That was the goal I had, not until I was fifteen; I was already in my final year when I wrote my final exam in my secondary school. That day I ran away from the wicked house, and at that time I already had 15,000 naira with me, which I had saved after hawking. There wasn't any place for me to stay, so I had to stay under the bridge, just praying for a divine helper to come my way. I think this was all I could remember.
Bianca stopped talking. She took the pizza and gave it to the beleaguered Joe, who just sprawled his hands and legs on the bed, nodding his head in sympathy with what Bianca was saying—there wasn't any doubt about the pity he had for her. It showed in his face. He got weak almost immediately, to the extent that he didn't talk except to look at the beautiful Bianca.
"Take this," Bianca said, handing over the remaining pizza to him. "I need water."
Before Joe could talk, he took a long, deep breath.
"What a history! I felt for you. You are really a strong girl," said Joe.
"It is history. It happened a long time ago." Bianca smiled, "Please get me water. I am thirsty."
"Lucky, bring in water," Joe ordered.
Lucky brought in the water almost as fast as a light and gave it to Bianca and left. Bianca gulped all the water.