Beyond the Distant Clouds

© 2013 by Ngozi Omolaiye. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/18/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9818-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9819-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-9817-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Cover design—Cindy Walker

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Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Discussion Thoughts on Beyond the Distant Clouds

This book is dedicated to the hundreds of precious lives that perished in plane crashes in Nigeria in the past ten years, between 2002 and 2012—especially to three dear ones:

To Agnes, my dear schoolmate and one of the very first friends I made in secondary school. She died in the Ogun State Bellview air crash in 2006.

To Esi, who was very dear to my husband and I. He was in the EAS plane that crashed in Kano in 2002.

To Adobi Chizoba’s sister—I never met you but I felt Chizoba’s pain. She died in the most recent Dana plane crash in Lagos, June 2012.

At some time or the other, we may have lost someone, maybe not in a plane crash, but we wish they could come back. Don’t lose heart, one day you will get to see your loved one again. There is hope beyond the distant clouds.

Acknowledgements

I thank God my maker, the one who gave me the gift of writing as he knit me in my mother’s womb. I wouldn’t be here today without you!

To my brother and sponsor, Dr Jones Omoshoro-Jones, thanks for making it happen. For many years, all I ever dreamt of was to publish my book, and you made my dream come true by sacrificing so you could pay for me to get self-published. God bless you.

Thanks to my hubby, Gordy, who read the very first draft of Beyond the Distant Clouds and loved the dialogue and then prodded me to get it finished. Thanks for staying at home with our daughter for the times I went to the library while on maternity leave. I made a lot of progress. And thanks to our daughter Nkechi, for being a good girl, especially in the deadline weeks leading up to my submitting my manuscript.

To my parents, Professor & Mrs Kalu and brother Emeka, thanks for keeping the dream alive. Dear mum, thanks for always calling to find out how far I’d gone with the book, with your question, hope you are writing?

Thanks to Emeka and Chidi, my cousins, my fellow writers; it’s obvious it’s in the blood. Thanks Emeka for the tips when I hit the writer’s block and to Chidi for encouraging me to finish the book. To my sister-in-law, Tity Jackson, thanks for the encouraging words.

To dear Julia and Steve Derbyshire, my pastors, thanks for the visit, the prayers, and encouragement.

Thanks to Seye Arikawe, for also reading the manuscript at its infancy and encouraging me to finish the story.

Thanks to Sarah Hurlock, for believing in me after reading an excerpt from the original draft. These were some of your words: "You certainly left me wanting to find out what happens to the four characters in Beyond the Distant Clouds. You also gave all the characters depth and made them come alive."

Thanks to Sunmola Adeyemo; you did well by always sending me texts to get on with the novel and asking me how far I had gone. I appreciate it.

Thanks to Sue Bloss, for keeping tabs on me during the deadline weeks, ensuring I had written my allotted word count for the day, even if it was past midnight. I appreciate your inputs as well.

To Chino Ogunbusola, thanks for helping out during another bout of writer’s block. Your visit was timely.

Thanks to Cindy Walker, for agreeing to design the cover and taking time out from your busy schedule to do so. Thanks for the many options and the ability for us to choose.

To Gbenga Odusote, many thanks for your insight into the oil industry.

Thanks to all my friends that read the excerpts and responded to my email: Sanda Aliu, Anita Griffiths, Atim Abrams, Charles Adebambo, Arit Amana, Nse Ette, Ene Ette Savia De-Souza, Sola Aiyepeku, Chinyere Obilo, Sheri Olatunde and Uzo Udeogu. Eme and Obeahon Giwa-Amu, thanks for your support.

I cannot forget Marcus Montegrande of Author House for being patient and not losing faith in me before I finished my manuscript. Without you, I would never have set the deadline and hence would never have finished my book. Thank you!

Psalm 139: 2… You know my thoughts even when I am far away

Chapter 1

Port Harcourt Thursday morning at about 05h00: one Mr Allwell Princeton was kidnapped this morning at Buguma in Asari-Toru LGA, Rivers State, by unknown gunmen. Security agencies are following up.

Tife Bankole put down her cell phone after reading the text; she could not believe Goodluck had found a new tactic to get her attention. He had sent her seventeen text messages in a space of four days. What did she care about someone kidnapped in the Niger Delta? She lived in Lagos and had no connections whatsoever there. The only friend she had there recently got a job in the nation’s capital city Abuja.

Goodluck should try a different approach. Text messages weren’t enough to make her leave Dapo, her fiancé. The next text was even more hilarious: he wrote that banks in Aba had resorted to using helicopters instead of vans to transport cash, because too many cars were hijacked on the Aba-Port Harcourt Expressway. It was hilarious because it had no bearing on his intentions. What did she care about banks, bullion vans, and helicopters?

She had met Goodluck at her friend’s end-of-year office party. Dapo could not make it, as he was in Abuja on business. Goodluck happened to be at the party because he had come to the Lagos branch of his office. He was a good conversationalist but was certainly not her type physically. Tife loved her men light-skinned, and Goodluck was way too dark. More so, he had a slight accent peculiar to people from his region. She liked her men accent-free. Dapo spoke impeccable Queen’s English, having been trained in the United Kingdom at both secondary school and university. Sometimes she wondered if she wasn’t too vain, but she couldn’t help it.

She wasn’t Miss Perfect. She couldn’t say she was accent-free, and her own life had not been so cosy.

She certainly had to share the text messages with Donald. He would tell her what Goodluck’s approach meant. She picked up her mobile phone and pressed speed dial number two to get Donald. Her mum was number three and Dapo four; that was it—she didn’t really have close friends. Tife could classify herself as a semi-hermit.

Big bro, can you talk now?

Sure my dear, I still have a few minutes before my meeting starts.

Guess what?

My dear, you know I’m not big on guessing games.

All right, you know that toaster of mine I told you about?My admirer Tife had formed the habit of using the word toaster (which was a slang for admirer) over the years, she’d picked up the word while studying for her undergraduate course at university.

Yeah, the guy who works with the ports?

No, she said, the one who works at the bank.

Oh, you know, you are a much sought after babe.

Come on, big bro, quit teasing. Well, he has tried everything to get my attention. So he has now started sending me text messages about things that are happening in the Niger Delta! How is that supposed to make me leave Dapo?

Hmmm… interesting.

Interesting?

Yeah, you know, my company is trying to buy some oil blocks around there. Those texts might be of use to me; you know, just to see what’s happening there.

Okay, but tell me what it has to do with winning my heart?

Well, he hopes that you will reply and say thanks, then he can reply and say you’re welcome, how are you, and you can say I’m fine; you know, the usual, my dear.

But that’s not gonna help. Maybe he should charter a helicopter, rob a bullion helicopter midair, and give me the money, then just maybe I can be his babe.

Bullion helicopter? What’s that?

Don’t worry, big bro, I’ll forward you the text message.

Okay my dear, he said. I’ve got to go now. I’ll talk to you later.

Bye, bro, have a nice meeting.

Thanks.

After hanging up, she thought about Donald; she often wondered what she would have done without Donald. He had been there all her life; he had been best friends with Tunde, her eldest brother, and she had grown to love him like a brother.

Tife’s father had abandoned their family a few weeks after she was born. Donald had been there for her and her mum when death took Tunde five years ago. Tunde was her precious brother and her mother’s pride and joy. He had been a father, brother, and confidant to her. They were born fifteen years apart, but still they were inseparable. Naturally, Tife got close to everyone Tunde was close to, especially Donald. For Tife, Donald was Tunde and Tunde was Donald.

She called Donald what she had called Tunde, ‘big bro’. She preferred to call him that instead of the usual ‘uncle’ you had to call anyone a few years older than you in the Yoruba culture and most cultures in the country even if they’re not your blood relative. Then you had to call the female gender ‘aunty’ and much older ones ‘mummy’ and the male gender, ‘daddy’. Her fiancé, Dapo couldn’t really stand prefixes but Tife did her best to keep to the ‘title’ rules, even though she slipped sometimes and called Donald ‘uncle’.

Tife was studying for her master’s degree at the University of Lagos, and Donald was helping to pay for her studies. He had wanted her to travel abroad to the United States or the United Kingdom to pursue the degree, but Tife couldn’t bear to be away from her family—especially her mum—at this time in her life. Ever since her brother passed away, it had just been her and her mum at home; leaving her to go abroad to study would grossly claw at her heart.

Tife decided to ignore this new admirer; responding to these texts would trigger off a chain of reactions which she was not ready for.

Fifteen minutes later, Tife’s phone rang; it was Donald. She wondered why he was calling back so soon.

My dear, can you meet me up for lunch at Oasis? My meeting got cancelled.

Luckily, I’ve finished my lectures for the day, she said. I can have lunch with you, sure.

Yeah, we can have our usual catch-up lunch and then maybe talk about your Niger Delta boyfriend, he said in between chuckles.

Ohbig bro! Are you sending your driver to pick me up?

No, I’m sending the bullion helicopter, he said, chuckling again.

What are you on about?

Have you forgotten so quickly? You forwarded that text to me just a few minutes ago.

I didn’t know you would read it so fast.

I had a little time before finding out the meeting was cancelled.

So are you sending your driver?

Sure, my dear, he said. See you soon.

Okay, see you soon.

The car arrived and brought Tife to their favourite restaurant; she found Donald at a waterfront table. He loved the scenery and often brought Tife there to catch up on what was going on in her life. He had never gotten over Tunde’s death. Tunde was the kindest man he had ever met.

They had met at the National Youth Service Corps camp in Paiko, Niger State. Donald had returned from America with Shirley, his new wife from Trinidad and Tobago, and was shocked to learn that he needed to take part in the mandatory one-year service to his nation. His uncle offered to intervene and provide an easier posting, but he wanted to experience Nigeria no matter where. The camp did not pose a problem, but when he was posted to a school in the northern part of the country, he knew he could not survive it. He was hoping to get into the Government House in the capital Minna but that was far-fetched. Tunde had been posted to Bida, some thirty kilometres away, and they both visited each other every other weekend.

Donald stuck it out for two months but finally could not take the dreadful trips to Minna to make telephone calls to Shirley, who was living in Lagos with his mother. The long queues were frustrating enough, and Shirley’s cries broke his heart. She loved being with his mother but missed him dearly. She prevailed on him to change his posting, and he had to go like a wounded lion to his uncle to change his posting on health grounds. Needless to say, he took his best friend along—both Tunde and Donald changed their posting to Lagos.

You seem so lost in thought, Tife said to Donald when she sat down.

Each time I see you, he explained, I see Tunde. I was just remembering how I met him.

I’m sorry…

No, it’s okay.

I know how much you loved Tunde, and he loved you. I miss him too.

How is the search for black gold going? she asked, changing the topic. She knew if she dwelt on it, both of them would probably add a few more drops to the lagoon in front of them.

The meeting was a status update; I’m not quite sure if we have made more progress.

I hope you strike oil soon.

I hope so too, he said with a frown on his face. Tife sensed he was a tad worried but chose not to probe.

While eating, they talked about Tife’s school, Dapo, Goodluck, and his text messages. Just before they left the restaurant, he asked her something