By Chimezie Anajama and Okwuanya Vincent.
birthday party. The weather
was dull, the evening quiet and moisty,
sending all the stars to
sleep. Myriads of rainbow party light, hung
on the aging ceiling of the
open T-shaped venue, danced and swirled
like there was a separate
music playing to it. The crowd thinned. It
was not a popular party. An
evening get-together of close friends. He
sat faraway from the light.
Preferring the semi-dark corner to the
glitz of colourful dancing
light. Despite this, I still noticed that
his eyes roved on me, even
when I sat down, trying to catch a breath
from the herculean job my
birthday friend, Jane, gave me. Mc of the
occasion. That job earned
eyes to me. But his was different, wanting,
No matter how I tried to press
the ignore button, I still find myself
looking over, glancing
towards him. In those few seconds, I noticed
his cheeks flared up and
down, a light smile played on them, his eyes
tried winking but his brow
won't just bow to the act. This stole my
smiles for a second before I
finally looked away. But in that second,
I felt warmth lurching in my
belly despite the moisty and breezy
evening cold i was exposed
to. I knew that I was in for a long
evening.
As the event progressed, I
relaxed into my job, garnering compliments
here and there from
semi-admirers, one-night flirts, and pure-hearted
compliment donors.
I did a sweep. The momentum
of his stares has lessened. A nearby lady
was the culprit. From the way
his head upped and downed occasionally
before tilting to an arching
bend, his glass slowly finding his lips,
his lips quaking in laughter, his eyes glittering as
he talked after the bout of
the laughter, he was really engrossed in
their conversation. Or maybe
the lady.
My attention was snapped back
when another female friend tapped me,
pointing to Jane's waving
hands.
By now late evening has
transformed to early night, replacing the
moisture to a cooler and
colder night. The party was getting fuller.
Alcohol and fruit juice
glittered in different glasses and plastic
cups, some mixed, others
preferred the plain version of their choice.
I managed to take a sip from
the plastic red cup handed to me. As it
hit my mouth, i realized it
was the mixed version of Chi Exotic. The
after-taste was awakening.
With my cup raised in the party toast, i
invited the duo of Jane and
her boyfriend, Michael, to the centre,
beside the love-shaped cream
and pink birthday cake with HBD JANE
sugar-coated on it, to claim
the first dance. I couldn't help getting
a little twitchy the way
Jane's man held her as they came. Like an egg
instructed not to allow to
break or he will be jailed. Jane glowed in
it. Taking care to explore
this attention to the maximum. Her red
strapless long gown
accentuated her curve in near-perfection. Nipping
in at her belly and her hip
claiming the rest to a proportionate
maximum expansion. Her
silvery neck piece, matching silvery heely shoe
and bun-packed hair dazzled
the more, like a queen without a tiara.
And her fair skin was in the
same level of radiance with her face.
Indeed, Michael has made a
fine lady from Jane.
As i wiggled myself, inside
the bodyfitted blue short gown and a brown
ballerina flat that i wore,
at a nearby corner, away from the dancing
lights, i felt a hand circled
my wrist. A 180 degree turn pushed me
into his waiting arms.
"Don't say no to this
dance with me." He breathed into my ears,
i
perceived the whiff of alcohol
in him.
My feet and eyes
stilled. Surprise replaced the earlier
seeping anger
from the act. Both tongue and
thought tied, I allowed him to drift us
into dancing.
As I peep through the lone
transparent window in my pinky room, into
the rising sun, into the
street, watching people set their wares in
the open square which was
littered with yesterday dirts that has
shrunken and dampened due to
last night's rainfall, probably the last
rain of the year, workers in
a hurry to get to their offices, children
walking past to get to their
schools for the last time before holiday
kicks, sanitation going on in
little groups, I counted and realized
that it was now going to year
that we did that dance at Jane's
birthday. This early December
will make it ten months that Kaycee drew
me into his waiting hands and
bosom in that party and a relationship
that will lead into marriage
began.
The more I reflect on our
journey of love, the less I understand the
mechanics of the love. I
never believed in the concept of soulmate
until Kaycee sauntered in my
life. Even Jane, my friend of six years,
a coursemate of four years,
concurred to that concept.
"Kosy, i've never seen
you so happy. I am still amazed how Kaycee did
it. Even him too, i've not
seen him this happy since his last break up
years ago. Michael is also
amazed at his friend. Both of us agreed
that you and Kaycee are
another couple to watch out for this
Christmas. Like altar I DO. Just
like we will this coming Christmas." Jane remarked and winked as she officially
made me her bridesmaid, waving her hand-crafted weddinginvite in the air like a
child waving an outstanding report card to the face of the eager parents. We
hugged in sisterly passion, laughed heartily in friendly ambience, and chatted the
nitty-gritties of her wedding which I accepted to be part of, another eye-gathering
role, in the voice of wedding planners. Jane can be herculean in tasking. That was
in August.
Like Jane predicted, Kaycee
popped up the M-question in September, a
month after, at my 24th
birthday. It was a quiet evening. Quieter than
Jane's own. No get-together.
No loud music to jazz the atmosphere. No
evening breeze tickling the
skin to cold. No rainbow dancing lights.
No admirers, colleagues,
friends, not even Jane. It was in this room
that i am now. My personal
room in the three bedroom flat that I share
with two other girls. I lit a
candle and placed on the table adjacent to the standing wall mirror in the
room. Earlier, NEPA had struck. I didn't mind. I didn't intend to celebrate it.
I just wanted to be alone after my hectic hours at work as a desk writer in a
PR firm. Alone on my bed. A slow marathon of thought running in my head,
revolving around my life. Kaycee knocked.
I had expected him late,
later, not earlier as he stood at the door,
wearing a crispy ironed white
shirt and ash trouser, with that smile
that melted something in me
the first time. He was without gift. I
didn't frown. With Kaycee I
hardly do that even when the situation
deserved that. We hugged and
kissed. Our greeting tradition.
I waved him to sit and turned
to close the door. I was puzzled with
how he gained entrance. I
didn't hear the doorbell. A peep out,
towards the flat living room
solved that. One of the flatmates was
home.
A walk to the bed saw Kaycee
kneeling, flipped open a little black
suede box that i guessed came
from his pocket.
"Will you marry me,
Kosisochukwu Ude?" I heard him say, with his eyes
searching, just like the
first time.
I thought I was in a movie.
Another movie where the girl gets to
scream, say yes, and they hug
and probably make love for heaven's
blessing. Am I really
dreaming or acting?
I heard him the second time.
He was really afraid by now. He was
scared of No, and i was
uncertain of Yes. But i knew i really want to
marry him. I knew that even
before now, but something held my tongue.
Fear did. I was afraid of
myself, at the scene at my front. At my
brother's marriage where the
wife cries and sniff in tears somedays. I
was afraid of the word
marriage.
I didn't reply. I asked him
to get up, then opened up my fears in its
horrible glory. He listened
without a grumble then later cooed me to
his heart. His was beating
faster than mine. We stayed so for minutes,
draining my fears without
words, allowing me to enjoy the freshness of
his faith and hope. He has
faith in us, in us together. He later
confessed. We talked again.
With his words finally patching up my
fearing heart. I asked him to
do it again. The proposal. I knelt down
too and accepted. The bed
couldn't contain our happiness just like our
bodies failed. It was a night
of bliss and lovemaking.
The sun was no longer mild.
It has begun to sear in harshness and
perspiration. Today was the
day i was supposed to make the final
shopping with my mother's
youngest sister in lieu of my traditional
wedding coming up in late
days of December. I did the first one with
Jane. We did hers and mine
together. Her traditional and white wedding
will be done together at her
hometown in Delta, earlier than mine.
We've really grown to be
inseparable sisters over the years.
Phone rang. My aunt and
market companion was the caller, reminding me
to bring along the few
remaining wedding invites, she has
family
friends asking for it in the
market. My aunt can really carry a case
on her head. Since mother's
death years back, she has become a mother
I look up to. She has not
failed in the role. Caring without
expectation.
Ogbete market. Chaos and
madness reigned. It was some weeks before
christmas. It was expected.
With the hot sun, people were bathed in
perspiration. Pools of it can
be seen formed on strategic parts of the
body. The temple, back,
armpit, and sometimes chest and arms. Ogbete
can be raw in cacophony like
the uncooked, unchopped slices of meat on
the butcher's table.
"Aunty, you no go buy?"
"Buy your latest shirt
and trouser here."
"Aunty we get gown o.
Original and authentic."
"Bonanza Bonanza
Bonanza. Buy your original Nokia battery here."
"You dey go? Abakpa,
Nike, Obiagu, New Haven."
All these mouth adverts were
laced in thick unrepentant Igbo accent. I
got random bumps and shoves.
Aunty Ifeoma was gradually slipping
behind as we walked in the
sea of the early christmas shoppers and
buyers.
I heard Aunty Ifeoma nearly
shouting.
"Nne, jide akpa gi
ofuma."
"You never can tell
where the pickpockets may come from. They now go
around with razor opening the
under of female bags." She said, pointing
to my brown leather bag. I
pulled the bag closer, a reaction to
Aunty's words.
For two hours we shopped.
Prices were hiked by minutes. Exorbitant
traders working their magic
on gullible buyers, like me. We didn't
mind. Afterall, it was
Christmas. For me, it was more than Christmas,
i'll finally get to be
prefixed a Mrs to the man of my love. I
wouldn't mind paying anything
for it.
All through Aunty Ifeoma kept
on Heyy-ing and Ahh-ing.
"You want us to keep our
pants here?" She will finally say when she
can't bear it anymore. We
left with baggage that asked for the extra
service of a hired cab. Even
the driver asked, jokingly, "Are you doing
wedding?"
December 26th. A day before
the traditional wedding. My siblings, two
girls and two boys, and Dad
were all back for christmas. Most
importantly, they were back
for me, for my traditional wedding. We all
drove to the church yesterday
in style, in two vehicles, a prado jeep
and highlander. It was grand.
Dad's smiles were ingrained in
deep-seated happiness, one
that appears rarely.
Jane became Mrs Michael four
days back, on 22nd. I almost stole her
day with my attire. A purple flowing
tube gown with a flowing
brazillian hair. Aunty Ifeoma
attended. She said that i looked like
the daughter of a mermaid but
i'll look the mermaid herself on my own
day. She sniffed her nose
when she mentioned how proud my mum would've
been if she was alive. Aunty
and Jane were here too. The two great
women in my life apart from
my sisters.
Our compound wore a newer
look too. The grand bungalow that has housed
three generations of the Udes
was repainted in brown and white. The
paints were yet to be defiled
by the avenging harmattan dust.
Coincidentally, the two
colours were part of the colours of my
wedding.
The thickening weeds of the
compound were sealed with interlocks, and
a bigger culvert was
constructed for bigger vehicle expected tomorrow.
Even the flowers reduced in
height. People hung all over the compound.
Relatives, kinsmen, distant
family, inlaws. Some stayed overnight. The
night saw rooms congested.
Others arrived today.
I was pampered to a pin.
Everything was at beck and call.
But I was still unhappy. I
wasn't feeling the vibe. Kaycee have not
called or pinged the whole
morning and afternoon. I haven't heard any
detail from his own side.
When they'll arrive, how they will come, and
how many they'll be. I was in
the sea. The last time he called was the day before yesterday. He sounded
expectant like me. Nothing to worry about.
I
made the decision to rest my
oars on yesterday's hope instead of
today's distress.
A beep at my phone. A message
came in. Kaycee, the sender.
Kosy, am sorry. I can't go
through with this. It is all a charade.
Call the wedding off.
A scream escaped my mouth.
Jane hurried in. I pointed to the phone on
the bed. My eyes grew woozy, I
heard Jane's faint what's wrong in a
distance. I was still in the
room but I grew less and less conscious
of it. Jane's double face and
faint cry were the last things i saw and
heard before my world
collapsed temporarily.
B
There is a method to this
madness.
The commercial epicentre of
the whole south eastern Nigeria does not throb for nothing. People are
everywhere, some carrying their wares, others carrying other people's wares
while yet there are a few others who are not carrying anything but still walked
or rather rushed with the same fervour.
It is the 24th December make
or break rush.
To my sides, traders and
customers argued and agreed, sometimes with understanding smiles and other
times with vociferous vituperations.
"I chere na m tutura ya
atuta?" A short fiftyish year old woman with a scattering of gray hair
shushed away a haggling young fair female customer as she was wont to shush
away an irritating fowl which stumbled into her shop.
A calmer, ebony woman in her
early thirties who wore a religious crusade banner-jacket over her black cotton
blouse disagreed with her customer but with smiles "Anyi anaghi ere ya otu
ahu. Agaghi m asiri gi asi. Ndi uka anyi anaghi asi asi." The customer,
smiled and upped his bid. I turned away. They will do business. The banner
wearing woman could sell the man anything with that including the green
banner-jacket she wore with that tone of voice. A message is often not as
important as the tone employed in communicating the message. However, there is
no good way of communicating a breakup days before the wedding.
There is a method to the
madness.
Above in the sky, the sun
burns. It does not shine, not today. It burns with an insolence threatening to
consume itself or at least consume the sanity of that unfortunate part of the
world. Right in front of me, a tall dark man cleared the sweat in his face with
his forefinger and poured it towards my general direction. I jumped away from
the organic torrent.
I probably deserved it.
The man did not look back. He
kept on towards his task with an equanimity that infuriated me. I hastened my
steps to meet him.
"Na heat period we dey.
Mercy for am" A feminine voice said from behind me. I looked back. A forty-something
year old woman with a baby strapped to her back was the intercessor. She too
was clearing her face but poured her own sweat on the hot ground. "Why don't
they ever buy handkerchiefs?" I thought to myself.
"Na heat period."
She said for emphasis as if she had read my thoughts.
"Heat Period?" The
words made me think of her.
Her. The Ballerina girl.
I called her that because of
her love for soft, flat-soled shoes. The "Heat period" was a joke
between us which started at the onset of our relationship. The first time she
came to my house in Benin City, I was too keen to impress her with an array of
skills. I was in love. Madly.
I cleared my house of all
dirts, cleaned the tiled floor of my two-bedroom flat to a shine and entered the
kitchen. I wanted to impress my love. The Ballerina girl.
My mother had told me that
the best way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I guessed it would be the
same with a woman. What is good for the goose is good for the gander;Isn't it?
I was cooking or at least
doing something that looked like cooking when she pinged me.
"Am in front of ur door,
Baby. Open up!" She added the hug and kiss smileys.
I looked around my kitchen.
Her scheduled visit had taken me unaweres. The onions I was trying to fry has
burnt to black. I had forgotten to open my tin tomatoes. I cannot even find the crayfish. My Romantic
evening was becoming a tragedy.
Kosy could not have chosen a
worse time to enter my apartment. I wished that I could pause her with a remote
and get my life in order.
She coughed as if to remind
me that she had noticed my misfortune.
"Couldn't she just
pretend?" I thought myself.
Kosy entered the kitchen,
gave me a peck and started fanning herself with her hands. My Air conditioner
was broken. I was in a fix.
"Na heat period for your
house so." When we first met at the birthday party, we spoke in English; "Queen's
English" but as we started becoming more comfortable with ourselves, we
started speaking whatever we wished. We can both speak Ibo, English and pidgin
but only Kosy could speak Hausa and she furtively tried to teach me. I could
not learn much because I was always distracted and enthralled by her sensuous
small pink lips, her sweet-smelling hair, the smoky eyes that speaks passion
with every blink. Wallahi Tallahi, Ballerina
girl was effortlessly beautiful.
"Heat period?" I
asked putting off my gas cooker, turned the gas off from the cylinder and
suspended the burning concotion. We will eat out.
"Are you sure you are in
your heat period? Mhmm." I grunted coming closer to her, fixing my gaze
intensely into her eyes.
"Wow Kaycee. That wasn't
the kind of "heat period" I meant." She said with that smile
that lights up her smoky eyes.
"Whichever, one you
meant, you sure will not be needing your clothes"
I was surprised when she
started unbuttoning the chequered shirts she wore to my apartment, Kaycee had
never allowed me to undress her and I did not complain. We kissed, fondled but
never went beyond that. Her hands were always there to guide and stop me
whenever my roving fingers moves towards the buttons or belt. I was madly in
love but did not mind waiting. I was certain that our relationship was heading
to the altar. But here she was, unbuttoning, inviting me to behold her in her
full feminine glory. I caught my hands stopping her as she made to undo the
last button. It was an unwitting reaction. I was uncertain about sex and
particularly scared of finding out that we are sexually incompatible. For Kosi,
I was ready to give up sex in exchange for her smile. Yet, it was all moving
too fast, faster than I had anticipated and the relationship was just two
months old.
"Ballerina, are you sure
about this?" My hand held her fingers.
"I have no doubt about
you, Baby." She threw away my hands and tugged at the final button and the
shirt came off. I stood transfixed as she stood before me nude, looking like a
work of art, an erotic masterpiece, like
Da Vinci's Leda and the Swan. My
Ballerina girl was the definition of sex and sin.
My recollection of the
details were hazy but I do recall that it all happened in that kitchen and that
it was mind-blowing. We never did find the time to eat inside or outside. Kosi
woke me up at 2am in the morning and served me fried yam in bed. After the
meal, we spent further time in ourselves.
She stayed the weekend and
left on Sunday to attend to her job.
I wanted to cry.
I nearly cried.
I did cry.
We had so many "heat
periods" after that. Not the kind of "heat period" the woman in
the market meant.
That was when I made the
decision I am about to nullify now.
That was when I decided to
marry the Ballerina girl.
It is madness. I love
Kosisochukwu Ude, my love for her grows with each passing day. However, like
the hulabaloo in the Onitsha Main Market, there is a method to my madness.
"Oga na market you
dey" A sweaty young man brushed past me with a load of articles of
clothings balanced gingerly on his head and a pungent smell emitting from his
body. I turned up my nose at the odour. He looked sweat-soaked. The pushes and
shoves prompted me to hasten my steps. I wanted to leave the hot sun and the
frenetic market environment. I needed to gather my sun-scattered thoughts and
think through my decisions. The marriage was just three days away. I have to
make a decision.
I entered a restaurant
located just off the market, adorned with an array of coloured ribbons and
lights. To the left of the counter a "hoho-hoing" Santa Claus whose
dark skin was only partly covered by the red costume, the white beards, white
socks and gloves, was carrying a couple of female children who mostly cried as
Santa dispensed good cheers and gifts.
I went to the counter and
ordered a Standard Whisky with a can of Pepsi cola. I sat on a seat in the
corner, facing the christmas charade wondering how it could have gone so wrong.
Ballerina Girl had felt so
right with her thousand watt smile, dimples, smoky eyes, outrageous sexiness and impeccable manners;
she is the manifestation of my deepest fantasies. She is both ethereal and
surreal. Yet pictures do not lie.
I flipped through my Samsung
phablet for the evidence that has turned my world upside down.
It was unmistakably her. The
eyes, the high cheekbones, the small pink lips. Yet, it could not have been her.
The situation was too compromising. She was sitting on an aged man with a
thinning gray hair. The man had his hands inside her clothes, a chiffon shirt I
had bought her when she ran out of clothes at my place. Her passion-clouded
eyes was looking into the camera. The setting was in a seedy. I have been
watching and analyzing the pictures for two days now. It was sent to my email
by "concernedfriend@gmail.com.". The emailer ended with a postscript
advising me to save myself from "that mirage." I have sent the sender several messages to
identify himself but to no avail; he is yet to reply.
From a distance, I could hear
Kosi's voice.
"I will never cheat on
you, Baby"
"I will never hurt you,
Sweery"
"I can't live without
you, Love."
"I long only for your
touch and yours ALONE."
Words. They are empty now.
She had texted this when she
had to go on a work-related travel. The text is still on my Blackberry. The
promises she had made are no longer pleasing, they are now haunting. How could
I have dated Kosi for so long yet do not know her.
My blackberry rang. I checked
to see the caller. It was my best friend, Michael. He was supposed to be my
Best man for the white wedding and is a husband to Kosy's friend Jane.
"Yes, Mike..." I had
picked the call.
"This one wey you dey
answer me like this I hope say things normal." My tone was not
enthusiastic and I had not called him by his nickname "Italian." He
noticed.
"My guy, I dey o."
"We need to meet. Na
next tomorrow o."
"Italian, I dey reason
that next tomorrow thing. I no sure say e go work."
He was alarmed.
"What!" He shouted
into the phone. I disconnected the call and put my phone in silent mode. I was
anticipating his barrage of calls; calls that I was not ready to pick.
Predictably, he called and
called. After half a dozen of missed calls, he gave up. The phablet became too
heavy for me to carry probably because it was carrying the weight of my world
which it has scattered to pieces. I found myself wishing that I had not opened
the email.
I dropped the phone on the
table and mixed my whisky and pepsi. I took a swig and as if on cue, a girl
broke out in tears in the queue as she scampered away from the beckoning Santa
Claus. Her mother held her tightly carrying her back to the admittedly scary
"Father Christmas." The Santa Claus could scare me too.
The drink was doing its job
when I decided to call Kosy.
"Hello Baby!" Her
voice was cheerful. Too cheerful. She did not sound like Judas. The tell-tale
signs were not there.
"My Ballerina girl."
I tried to match her mood.
"You will not call me
that again when we get married"
"So what will I call you
then"
"Find something motherly
or womanly. Ballerina girl sounds too girly and by 27th December, I will no
longer be a girl. By the night of 27th, I may be carrying your child." I
could not cry. I laughed out my tears.
"Ehen now. The heat
period on that 27th will be serious"
"Heat period indeed."
I laughed but inside, her betrayal gnawed at my heart eating away at my being.
"I will meet you on the
27th, Love." I said. I could not gather the heart to deal with her
betrayal in a restaurant.
"Love you. Mwuah!"
She made a kissing sound and disconnected the call.
"Will you betray the Son
of Man with a kiss." Luke 22:48. The quotation came to me. It is one of
the biblical verses that I recall. Not that it was the easiest; "Jesus
Wept" took that but it is the scariest and the most dramatic, signalling
the fragility of human relationship. My relationship with Kosisochukwu has
broken. Dante Alighieri considered betrayal the worst of all evils in the
classical poem, Inferno, I can feel
why.
My phones started ringing and
beeping; the two of them; intermittently yet consistent. I didn't pick. I
started getting Whatsapp messages and pings on my Blackberry Messenger.
Obviously, Ifeanyi had called my family.
My elder sister Chidimma who
came back from Abuja for my wedding pinged me. She would want to see me,
"ASAP".
Michael sent me a message on
Whatsapp "My guy we need to see. Don't do anything stupid."
"Your father wants to
see you." Came in as an SMS from My Aunt Rose. She would be the most hurt.
She is an extreme extrovert and a talkative who shared more of my invitation
cards than myself. Her husband conversely is a shy introvert who calls me
"Nwanna" and oddly finds in me a kindred spirit. Or maybe it was
merely because we are fans of the same team, Manchester United. We talked more
about Manchester United than we talked about family issues. He had once joked
that if my wedding had clashed with Manchester United's boxing day fixtures, he
will not come.
"Your aunt will make
sure that I was not missed." He had joked.
I felt sorry for him. There
will be no wedding. Not anymore.
"Nwanna, pick ur
call." Was his terse text. When the introvert starts calling and texting,
then things had really fallen apart.
The kindred had been notified
and they had chartered some buses.
Chidimma my sister and Kosi
are already getting along.
My mother had already started
calling Kosi "our wife"
My father and her's both
retired civil servants have started calling themselves in-laws and are clearly
basking in the euphoria of our impeding marriage.
Everything that could go
wrong, had gone wrong.
Yet I was determined to make
the call. I cannot text Kosi, not for a case as serious as this.
I did not finish my mixed
drink. I started back into the madness of the sun brandishing my own insanity.
It was 6:15pm when I left the
Restaurant. I had stayed there for three hoyrs. Father Christmas, now tired was
eating a gala sausage roll, the crowd of kids and their parents had thinned. As
soon as I emerged from the restaurant into the cacophony and into the multitude
of people who were rushing to get home after the 24th December rush, a storm
whisked away my phones, the phablet and the blackberry. The boy in jean
trousers and slacks disappeared into the crowd quicker than a storm. I shouted
after him but nobody took notice of my woes. Onitsha is notorious for that.
People do not respond to distress calls. Their behaviour is not without wisdom,
such kind of wisdom that is often informed by experience. Good Samaritans are usually
the easiest marks for robbers and conmen.
They are quite costly phones
but I can get another one. However, I cannot retrieve my phone number till
after the christmas celebration.
The damning picture is still
accessible through my email. I will decide on the 26th of December and nobody will
change my mind.
I do not know about photo
editing then.
I do not know what a
conspiracy looks like.
What happened on the 26th of
December 2013 was more like a story out of a Robert Ludlum's Novel.
Our separate history had come
back to haunt us.
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