Before

Before the communion I and Akunna had, diminished like a fire that was gradually put out and surprisingly left no smoke or sign of there previously being a fire, she used to like to dance. She would play the music so loud and danced from one sitter to the other while I tried to force myself to read. She would shake her body this way and that and sometimes she would look like she was supposed to be registered in a ballet class from the way her body seemed to bend so easily like plastic. Her sweat would look like oil rubbed on the plastic. She danced to every song: Pop, soul, afro, jazz and so on. When we had been younger she was always the one teachers pointed to the other pupil to watch as she master mindedly dance the choreography which they had just been recently taught. The others would watch with different expressions; some with jealousy, others with admiration and then the other ones who had this hurried look on their face like they couldn't wait to go back to dancing instead of watching a fellow student flaunt her perfection of the dance. She was never left out of any dance back then in school. She even went on dancing competitions and would be among the top winners.

Those days I watched her succeed, I usually envy her. Not the kind of envy which would lead me to having sleepless nights trying to cook up evil plans to make her fail or envy which would drive me into jealousy. But envy which made me want to be like her and envy which made me proud that she is my sister and I would like to flaunt it on others. My friends then had told me I had no special talent except books but I should look at my sister and how she was a perfect girl. Comparative words like that could and would have driven some other person into jealousy but I was not moved because I liked the fact we both shone in different aspects of our life. I was also happy because we didn't have to compete to be stars. She was great at what she did and I was no different in the field I have found myself. Then everyone had believe she would be one great dancer and not the make up artist she had gone on to learn.

"Dance with me." She said and even though she knew what I said every time she asked, she still asked.

"You know I can't dance." I said.

"You will learn." She was already pulling my hand and collecting whatever book I was reading: be it a physics text book or Chinua Achebe's Anthill of the Savannah or my Essential Mathematics and closing it gently because she knew I didn't joke with my books.

"It's strenuous, Aku." I said and truth be told I certainly don't understand what dancers enjoyed while dancing. To me, dancing was a task which always left my stomach with this hollow feeling and my head dizzy. And this was what Akunna would do for hours.

"It's not strenuous, you are just being lazy." She would say then, already turning my hand this way and that.

"I don't want to sweat." I don't like sweating because it irritated me and I would always rush to the bathroom to bath once I started feeling that way. Mother complained that I was the one who always exhausted the water in our house but then I can't help myself, cleanliness is next to godliness.

"Sweating is good, Ama. It helps your body remove waste." She was shaking her waist and smiling. Many times during rehearsal, the teachers always complained that the dancers found it difficult smiling, they complained that they frowned their faces like sponge which was just recently used and how did they expect the audience to be moved by such dance. But not for Akunna. She was always smiling when she danced like it came naturally and she needed the audience to admire her dentition just as they were mesmerized by her beauty then exhilarated by her dance. She danced with such precision and vigour that you didn't know when you were on your feet and spraying the money you had earlier budgeted on her flexible waist. Father would smile with pride and nod his head as if he was always confirming that she was truly his daughter. He would always be the first person to be on his feet, spraying the naira notes on her and calling her his "omalicha", his crown, his gold and so on, while Mother clapped more than the prayer warriors who held vigil every Friday night in the church by our house did. Now you would be asking if I'm not jealous by all these affection my parents showered on my sister and I can proudly and boldly tell you that I am not.

This same affection was showered on me when I stood before the audience and debated, when I got quiz questions and when I spelt correctly during a spelling Bee competition, only they don't spray money but their cheers never failed to overshadow those of the other audience who, like my parents, either had sons and daughters in the competition or those who had come for a friend.

when she finally did succeed in convincing me to join her in dancing, the next minute, I was jumping like a frog that was being chased and shaking my body like one who was epileptic and moving to beats I do not understand. That was the cycle I had been used to. That was the cycle that had existed: she asking me to dance, me refusing to dance, Akunna pulling me up from the chair and closing my book gently, me refusing and giving reasons why I wouldn't, she slowly decapitating all the reasons as I brought them up and then finally me dancing like I was drunk while we both laughed and laughed until either our parents come back from work or we stopped and then I rushed into the bathroom to have a bath with her laughter ringing in my head. Not this new cycle which I still can't decipher or fathom where it had emitted from. Maybe this was the smoke from our burnt relationship that was rising right into our sky and turning it into dark clouds.