13 They were not friends, not anymore.

She ran toward the hospital doors like they were her salvation she was pleading sanctuary. That night as soon as her shift ended Jamal called her. His baritone voice drifted over the telephone to her ears as she lay in bed trying the push the matter out of her mind, telling herself it probably was not as dramatic as she made it out to be; she prayed they would ignore the moment, even hoped he would tease her about bolting but instead he spoke the words. Jamal destroyed that refuge with his profession "I married the wrong sister. How could I not have seen you? Rabi it's you. I just know it." Rabi hung up but the illusion had been shattered. They were not friends, not anymore.

Rabi was home now although she had no memory of driving out of the hotel or through the black gates of her home. So she followed her routine: locked herself in Baba's study skimming through his old medical journals, gorged on Oda's fried rice, listened to Mama complain about the shade of green she had to wear to a campaign party. "Na shiga uku- I want three. When Baba was appointed Minister of Health I did not punish my friends with this rag." She held the material; with two fingers like it was stained. "Mai ke damun Hajia - am I wrong?" she asked Rabi waiting for an answer. Mama looked so horrified it was comical. "Ban sani ba Mama."- (no mom) Rabi replied smiling. Her father took alot from her, but then again few could live with a man who said less than 200 words a day. Dr. Danjuma Bello was brilliant but he was boring. Kai! Her parents were a classic case of opposites attracting and Rabi truly believed her parents loved one another. Farida Balarabe walked away from the insurmountable wealth and dynasty of her maiden name when she was 19. Refusing the old Hausa family money and all the trappings it accorded to make her own way with a struggling medic newly returned to the country from Cambridge and fresh off a break up from his white girlfriend, Natasha Matthews. Her family said she was stupid, assured her he would return to "bature" "those with red ears" but she persevered and now she had earned herself every nag and complaint her heart desired. Mama was good because she pushed her husband to be more than a regular doctor. Got him into politics and kept him there for a good 12years and now although officially retired; he consulted with WHO and UN on behalf of the Federal Government. Baba was essential because he put a break on Mama's wild ideas and kept her grounded. It was hard for Rabi to believe that even with all the money they had, the Bello family grossed one-fifth of her maternal grandparents' Balarabe estate. Knowing her mother, leaving that sort of comfort at such a young age must have required a great deal of conviction and faith in a man...

Mama was lucky she had good taste in men. The one she chose to sacrifice everything for repaid her with a long and happy marriage. Rabi Bello re-read Jamal's text and came to the conclusion that she would always be that sort of person. The one who always wanted what she shouldn't have. The problem with Lust is hormones remember every encounter and should the opportunity with the faintest of desires materialise; you are drawn to it. Hormones silence your conscience and muddle your reasoning. Rabi had gone against her family over a man once before.

Two years ago while she was studying medicine in Warwick; his name was Marc. He was tall and handsome, half-British and half-Italian. Baba found it amusing that his child had a white boyfriend around the same age he met Natasha. Mama failing to see the humour nearly had a cardiac arrest. Marc stood outside the library smoking and would undress Rabi with his eyes every time she walked by. He wore a distressed leather jacket even on the harshest winter days and always kept his dark hair a little too long. His slate green eyed stare was so intense that even after they began dating he could reduce her to stuttering, his touch set her skin on fire and his kiss gave her shortness of breath. He opened Rabi's eyes to a whole new world of vice. He lit her first cigarette, and her first spliff, bought her edible underwear, watched for speed cameras while she drove his car like a maniac. He taught her to roll the perfect joint, to exhale through her nose, to suck, to grind, to down a shot or three in one sitting. All the drinking songs she knew were in Italian. They both understood it was not going anywhere; but their carnal need was so out of control that the night he took her virginity; Rabi did not leave his dorm room afterwards for three days. It was a life of no repercussions they lived. Rabi has no idea how either of them graduated. He was in Paris now; probably giving some other girl rapid heart murmurs. Rabi smiled as she remembered him making pasta in his boxers, and then later eating grapes off her belly button. How they would snuggle up naked in his duvet on cold misty mornings and lean out the window to share a cigarette. That's why Rabi accepted the marriage to Alhaji Tukur; she's had her fun and enough sex to last her a life time.