When the rain never comes

By Izu Osuigwe

Casmir knew he could no longer bear the pain.

He had reached the end of his endurance—what more was expected of him?

At 47, learning new skills wasn’t an option. Even if it was, where would he find the money to pay for training?

As an ex-banker laid off due to a fraud issue that occurred in the unit he was heading, but he never knew of, he had no hope of securing another job in any financial institution.

His only chance had been account reconciliation gigs with former clients he had met during his banking days, but none had materialized. Every day, he left the house clinging to hope, and every evening, he returned with yet another rejection.

Chidera, his wife of 15 years, had begun to threaten.

In desperation, he sought work at a construction site and was hired as a bricklayer’s assistant, carrying bricks and other materials up the wooden stairs to the three masons working on the second floor of a mall.

Three hours later, he fainted—either from the hunger he had left the house with or the sheer strain of the labor-intensive job.

Dera was called to retrieve him and take him to a clinic.

That incident worsened her contempt for him.

While he lay on the hospital bed, still weak from exhaustion, she made her decision. She removed the wedding and engagement rings he had bought her, flung them at him, and insisted he sign the divorce papers.

“It’s over, Casmir,” she said coldly, turning toward the door.

His heart pounded wildly, but he could barely raise his voice. Instead, he managed to squeak out,

“Dera, please don’t do this. Tomorrow might be better. Please don’t go. Please remember—”

“Remember what?” She scoffed. “I already know your speech by heart. You trained me in school, paid for my master’s degree, and got me a job with a stock brokerage firm. Anything new?”

Casmir swallowed hard. She was right. He had used those same words to hold her back for three years. At first, they worked. But when she started throwing them back at him, he knew the spell was broken.

Still, he couldn’t let her leave. The alternative was unthinkable.

He stumbled out of bed, fell to his knees, and clutched her legs—those smooth knees he had once loved to part wide. But this was no longer about desire.

“My Dera,” he whispered, voice trembling, “please, just a little longer. My luck will shine again. Drought never lasts forever.”

She exhaled sharply. “Cas, in your case, it hasn’t rained for three years—and I refuse to wait for the fourth drought season. It’s over.”

“What about the money from the sale of the house? Is it all gone?”

She shot him a disgusted look. “Are you senile? Your hospital stay alone was costing us a million naira per day. The house sold for two hundred and fifty million, yet you’ve been here for over six months. Your medication alone costs three million a quarter. Do the math!”

His lips trembled. “But… our children. What about our children?”

“You flail from the house to the kids. What right do you have to fatherhood when you can’t even provide sustenance for them?”

“I flail because I’m desperate, Dera. I flail because I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose Nkechi, Ekene, and Onyi. Remember how I used to carry with both hands every day? You know I did.”

“Imagine what you’re saying,” she snapped. “You used to carry with both hands.

But for the past three years, they’ve survived on what you provided years ago.

“I don’t even know why I’m having this discussion with you.”

Casmir knew he couldn’t let her go.

“Dera, my baby, my smartest and finest. We were a team, just the two of us. I gave you everything you wanted. You made me cut off all my friends. While my colleagues built houses, I built you up instead. I sent you to the best schools in the world—not as an investment, but so that on a day like today, you’d hold the rope while we cross the stream together.”

“You paid my fees, but I studied and passed my exams,” she shot back. “My hands are sore from holding the ropes. Did you think I was some money-making venture? If that was your plan, then congratulations—you succeeded.”

But the native doctor who made the charm that bound me to you is dead. His medicine no longer works. I’ve decided that my efforts and my money are for me and my children—moving forward.”

Casmir’s breath hitched. “Dera, please, stop saying such frightening things. Where will I go? What about my blood pressure medication? My diabetes drugs?”

She chuckled bitterly. “Thank you for reminding me of the millions I’ve spent on you these last three years. Your high BP is so special we have to import drugs just for you. I spend three million naira every quarter! My colleagues take their families on vacation to the U.S., but we settle for Dubai—because I have to buy medication for you. And yet, you dare to ask me to stay?”

Tears burned Casmir’s eyes. “Dera, my love, I appreciate everything. I even stopped joining you and the kids on those vacations to cut down costs. I can switch to local medicine and drink agbo if I have to. Please, don’t do this.”

She smirked. “The last time you tried agbo, you puked your guts out. It cost me even more money to fix you. I’ve returned your rings. You’ve signed the documents. I’m moving out with the kids. Where we’re going, you’re neither welcome nor allowed to know.”

She turned to leave.

“Don’t come to the estate to grovel,” she warned. “Let the kids at least remember you with a shred of dignity. Goodbye, Casmir.”

He watched her walk away, numb.

Slowly, he shuffled to the window, clinging to the wall for support. Just in time to see her embrace a man—Tunde, her stockbroking colleague.

His heart clenched.

A knock sounded on the door.

Nurse Mirabel entered.

“Mr. Casmir, how are you feeling?”

Tears welled in his eyes as he turned to her. “I don’t know. How does one prepare for a day like this?”

“You don’t have any friends or family to turn to?”

“I had,” he muttered. “I tried to empower them. When they kept losing money, my wife made me cut them off. I focused on my family and ignored everyone else. Now, even if I had friends, I can’t become a burden to them in this condition.”

Mirabel sighed. “It’s a pity, sir. Your wife has stopped paying for your treatment. Unless you make a deposit today, we’ll be forced to discharge you. You’re already behind on payments.”

Casmir swallowed. “How much do I owe?”

“Six million naira. Plus, your medications have increased in price. It’s now five million for a three-month supply. Since your wife has stopped paying, how will you settle the hospital bill and restock your medicine?”

“Nine million naira in total?”

“We?” She arched a brow.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I forgot. I’m alone now.”

“And you should get it right—the outstanding is nine million. If you stay here beyond today, it’ll keep adding up. I advise you to do something fast.”

He gave a hollow laugh. “What can I do? I can’t even eat the hospital food.”

“She didn’t bring you food? Not even as The Last Supper?”

“No,” he muttered, missing the joke.

Mirabel hesitated, she knew the risk she was about to expose herself to. She saw the rings on the bedside table; as a woman, she knew they were costly but would not cover the hospital bills, let alone sorting him.

She took a deep breath. “By 8 p.m. today, Manchester and Arsenal will be playing. The two security guys are football addicts.”

Casmir looked up at her, confused.

She opened her purse and emptied her cash onto the table beside the rings.

“You need it,” she whispered.

He raised his phone, offering it as payment. She shook her head.

“The CMD has ordered your arrest tomorrow morning. You’ll be held in police custody until the debt is paid.”

“Thank you, nurse.”

She didn’t reply.

There was no need to.

She was looking into the eyes of a dying man.

She simply turned and left.

* (To be continued in part two)