My Maxine (Fiction)

My Maxine 

​​“Grandpa, what do you regret the most about the war?” 

​​It is always the same question for Maxine. She makes her way across the room. Her old rag doll drags on the grey vinyl tile that I have grown accustomed to at the hospital. I stop rocking my chair, fold my newspaper and tuck it beside me. Maxine climbs into my lap. The sun is setting and its lazy rays warm up her face. At the age of eight, she looks nothing like me or her mother or father. Her eyes are bright and alive, inquisitive. Hungry. The brown in them seems to lighten every time I see her. 

​​She visits a few times a year, sometimes for weeks, other times a few days. Usually whenever I am plagued with old man problems, she visits.

​​“I regret many things, little girl.”

​​“What is the biggest one?”The doll sits on my other lap, staring into space out of its mismatched button eyes. 

​​​I clear my throat.

​​“How about I read you a cartoon from the newspaper,” I cheer, reaching once again for the paper, “I saw a funny clip…”

​​“Oh I love cartoons!”She squealed.

​​“I know you do. Do you still make those lovely paintings?”

​​She is quiet.

​​“I don't paint, Grandpa.”

​​“Yes, you do. I have some of them on my wall.”

​​She leans into me and wraps her arms around my neck. 

​​I look at the wall. There are newspaper clippings, many from the war and post-war efforts, some relevant documentation of gurella operations, some were stamped classified. There are also photographs of people.

​​Ah, Colonel Akpan, old boy. He commanded the raid of Dauji forest, trapping the insurgents in the largest wild fire. Smoked them out like skittering mice. General Luke-Marcus, a bonafide cheat at Ludo and an excellent marksman. 

​​​​Ms. Laide Lucy was a nurse at our base, excellent comrade, an unparalleled distraction. Fola Olaolu. Mide Collin. Those were the days. Then the paintings. Two dozen sheets of paper were tacked haphazardly all over the wall. Abstract paintings of gentle green brush strokes tinged with a subtle crimson. They are the same painting; careless and free as though  a child purposed to fill the page then reverted to the whimsical. 

​​“Grandpa, what was the most memorable part of the war?”

​​I sigh again.

​​I am exhausted. Sleep has escaped me for weeks now. More now that I started flushing the pills down the toilet.

​​The doctors would not leave me the hell alone. They poke and prod. Of course you'd find things in an old man's body if you keep snooping. 

​​Yet again, they have scheduled another surgery.

​​“Grandpa?” She places her head on my chest. She smells of detergent.

​​​​I am tired and so I answer her.

​​”The Lawrije river massacre.”

​​She looks up at me, her expression blank. Her eyes drop to the buttons on my tunic. She picks at them and running her finger along their curved edges. Her doll now is looking up at me with its button eyes.

​​“A river?” She says, “That must have been beautiful.”

​​“Please.” I appeal to her.

​​“The river is one of the cleanest in the area I hear! There is a love song written about it.” She begins to sing.

​​“Please, Maxine. Not now.”

​​Her voice rings out.

​​​​“Where do we find food?

​​At the river, at the river,

​​Where is our hope?

​​At the river, at the river,

​​Lovers hands entwined, 

​​At the bottom of the river,

​​When will this suffering end 

​​At the river, at the river…”

​​​​I scream and throw her off me. Her head hits the wall with a thud and she crumples to the floor like her rag doll. 

​​Someone is screaming. I am screaming. More voices scream. I squeeze my eyes shut.

​​“No,” I whisper, “Please.”

​​The Lawrije river is a gentle green.

​​Screams are coming from the river. It is people from the nearby settlement. It is no wonder rebels would hide in their midst. They were an unassuming group. The sound of ammunition rains, hitting flesh and water in a crisp tut-tut-ting harmony. The people of the settlement with the traitors in their midst fall into the river. 

​​Maxine is back beside me. She is singing. 

​​I dig in my pocket and find it. My switch blade flicks open at release.

​​“Where will we find the people?”She is singing,”At the bottom of the river.”

​​The nurses are here now.

​​“General? Sir? It's ok.” Someone is saying.

​​“Sir, please put down the knife.”

​​​​The singing is grating on my ears.

​​I charge and jab, but hands restrain me.

​​Security men burst into the room. 

​​More hands.

​​I am shivering.

​​“It is my Maxine. Please call her parents.” I tell the nurse.”My grand daughter. She is over there. Please. She will be alone. She is afraid.”

​​Maxine does not seem afraid. She is singing.

​​“He is seeing the girl again,” a voice says.

​​“Sir, there is no one here.”

​​“Maxine!” I scream. 

​​Maxine is singing about the lovers at the bottom of the river. She won't stop. 

​​“I need 500 milligrams of ketamine. Quick.” A voice snaps. 

​​There is a pinch in my thigh.

​​I feel the push of the drug into my body. The knife falls out of my hand.

​​I remember Maxine. 

​​Though that is not her name. She is the little girl from the Lawrije river. 

​​​​She stands tucked between a man and a woman, holding a large rag doll with huge button eyes. They are at the edge of the water. The little girl is left standing when the bullets hit her parents. She looks at me. It is as though we take a deep breath together. The bullet throws her back into the water. The green water runs red.

​​The screams are distant. I am distant. Far away.

​​Voices are speaking. I see her unclearly now. She is next to me.

​​“See you soon, Grandpa.”

​​The room seems to breathe easy.

​​“Get him some sheets of paper and watercolor. He likes to paint when he comes around. Green and red paint…or crimson as he calls it. Yeah, green and crimson,” The nurse is speaking to someone.

​​“See you soon.” Maxine whispers.

​​My world is quiet.

​​Written by Ike Adegboye 

​​For Maxine.