LABYRINTHS - TWO

I was confident she’d play along. Perhaps the difficulty in dealing with Nigerians was the perpetual vigilance required... not knowing if and when a strike was coming. With her, I erased that difficulty. I was here for the money. She already knew. Not love. Nor friendship. No pretexts. She wouldn’t need to tread any more cautiously with me than necessary. My proposal expressly declaring to her that money was involved, her preoccupation would then be from whence I got the audacity to barge in on her and offer to sell therapy. Not that she requested for it. And not that it was cheap. But, more than anything else... more than my courtliness... more than my planning and timing, that exorbitance lent credence to the entire plot. If she possessed the least spirit of adventure she’d come for the ride. Things were on course. But... I still had my doubts.

                I’d added footnotes to the proposal instructing her on how to get in touch if she was interested. She was to meet me at the third pier in the parking lot of her office complex at 5:30pm CAT – the pier closest to her ‘RESERVED’ space. It had to be this way. I didn’t have a phone here... I had my phone, but I’d been nauseated by some roaming technicalities that I gave up trying. She was to look out for me there three days from the day of the lift. I done gave her time... to fend off her fears... to evaluate the necessity of an emotional therapy... to decline or accept. I done gave her time to make up her mind.

She might still be brimming with rage at my intrusion into her privacy the next day; and, left too long, she might just burrow deeper into her cocoon and avoid me like a plague. So, three days was my best bet.

                On Thursday – three days later – in the evening, I was leaning against the said pier, casually robed; duffle bag swung across my shoulder like the nomad I was. I left no expression on my face; so fear, or doubt, or impish courage could not be discerned. If someone looked hard enough though, they’d see purpose written all over me.

Our client, nay, patient still had a little reserve of energy for some sort of resistance. It was already past 5:30pm, and there was no car at her spot. Maybe she meant me to think she wasn’t around. I was going to hang around until six anyway, and would go after that, giving up on this shrink thingi and playing the real me. Maybe. Ten or so minutes after dateline, an unsuspecting Toyota came round through the back. I was absent-minded at the time. Surely, a girl of her social status had no business in this ‘ugly’ Toyota. I maintained my composure as the beautiful thing walked up to me. I didn’t want to speak first, but she just stood in front of me, arms akimbo, starring into my face. So I had to speak now.

“Hi”.

She didn’t reply... only continued to stare.

Moments later she said,

                “Was it because you saw me in my fiancé’s car that you thought you’d found a rich girl to extort money from?”

I looked away shruggingly.

“You don’t have a fiancé, miss Abbey... and, with all due respect, you should keep from insulting me. If you aren’t interested then you shouldn’t have come.” She was silent. I went on, “And that’s not your car ma’am, but if faking austerity will make you feel more comfortable, no problem!”

A half smile danced around her lips. She tried in vain to hide it. She must have thought she succeeded. “Your coming also means you’re accepting the contract price... Mind you, it’s not negotiable.”

                “What makes you think I can afford four thousand Rands? The car you saw? I took a car loan to...”

                “Believe me ma’am,” I interrupted her, “the therapy is worth every single dime.” I allowed that to sink in, then said, “Are you in or out?” She was silent. I felt I got my answer so I said, “Let’s go!” leading the way to her Toyota.

                We were now driving down town as previously, and she said,

                “We’re taking you to Bukrum, I suppose?”

                “Is that where you live?” I asked her.

“No!”

                “Then that’s not where.”

                “Where then?”

                “We’re going to your house... to your world... the place you call home...”

                “Oh no!” she protested, saying her house was in disarray. That I couldn’t barge in on a lady without prior notification so she could prepare. She offered instead to invite me over the next day.

                “No ma’am!” I said. “Don’t gerrit twisted... I’m not your intending lover, so I really don’t care... like that... what state o mess your crib’s in. But if you need time to go and hire a cheapo apartment for your disguising shows, then you can tell me!”

She was staring at me now, defeated.

 “But there’s really no need for that,” I continued, “I need to meet you in your original habitat – your biome. That’s where we start... Because you, Abbey, are a product of your social, emotional, religious, and economic circumstances. The proposal explained all these, dinnit!”

                “Gawd!” she says, “... you know, at this rate, I can’t be surprised anymore that you know my name.”

She threw no more tantrums as she drove to Gaborone, a high-brow area of Johannesburg. Soon, we set foot on the expansive beauty that was her home. The structure, not far from a monumental piece of architectural excellence, was under the watchful eyes of a huge being at the gate. Not the best or finest duplex I’d seen, but something to behold nonetheless. And for a mere lady... I thought it was something. I bemoaned the lack of many flowers to adorn and optimally aerate the property. But, I commended her remarkable achievement. It could have been a little, perfect world. The building was immense. Why would men not feel uneasy in this place, I thought. This place would definitely consume a man of modest estates. Only a world-class footballer’s affluence could dissipate this. Or a leading Hollywood actor. Or a multi-platinum selling artiste. Or a Prince of Arabia... And women don’t come by these sorts of men every day.

                There was her S Class – the one she got on mortgage abi! Two other cars I couldn’t really make out, but they must be expensive automobiles I thought.

                “Old money?” I said, distracted.

                “Did you say something...? What do I even call you?”

                “How ‘bout your folks?” I said.

                “You mean you don’t know about that?” she teased.“Thought you knew everything...”

That was her answer? Ridiculous!

She was a rich girl, and had to put up with striving Jo’burg dudes who, more often than not, fled when they found their masculine identity diminished in her company. All there was now was me – a quack doctor – believing that things needn’t be so, and determined to turn the tide around.

                Being overtly rich and successful needn’t be an affliction for women. A rich girl still has to have sexual intercourse with a man in order to get pregnant. This law can’t be circumvented. Not even by all the wealth in the world. And men do not loathe wealthy women... ‘tis something in the latter’s attitudes often triggers the seeming disdain and incompatibility. Especially in Africa – as I know it. It was my mission here: to find out what that something was, and root it out. So that, even though she was a rich girl, she’d still stand the chance to fall in real love and enjoy the mutual and sacrificial sharing that stem from a healthy relationship. And, for me, it was a way of basking in the luxury of not loving someone who loves you dearly. You feel... indispensable. This girl loved me. If only she knew....

I couldn’t ignore an important question though: Did she deserve it? Well... I thought yes. She did. She was kind-hearted and nice... so she deserved one of the few, good, single men still in existence. I didn’t think she’d been wasteful of men, as are many girls of similar opulence. Just like abortion may haunt a girl into her eventual marriage by barrenness, wasting men, sooner or later, haunts a woman.

                When we got into her house I didn’t dwell too much on the compliments I offered about the beauty and coordination of things lest I appeared too queer and unpardonably disadvantaged.

                “Make yourself comfortable, please,” she said, and asked what I’d drink.

She’d better catch up fast that I wasn’t here on a visit or a courtesy call. I was working... and calling the shots now.

She gave me a tour of the house and I picked a room. Wait! Was that bewilderment I saw on her face or what! ‘Twas all in the proposal, I was going to be a live-in doctor. And I hoped she was ready with the advance payment! I asked her and she chuckled, saying she was going to make a cheque available. Obviously, this lady wasn’t taking me seriously on that aspect. But I understood... how could she help feeling that she was being conned! I’d begun to see my points of entrance... like where I’d make my incisions... as in surgery. If she’d accepted my proposal... meant she meant business, so why the hell was she treating me, a stranger, with such early cordiality? It was too early for her to smile at me; to laugh at my jokes; to buy into my witticisms; to click with me like she was doing. Perhaps that was how she’d always given the green-light too early on and unnerved her acquaintances. Like she was desperate for male company. Like she didn’t deserve it and so must reach out and grab it once she sighted it. Like she wasn’t pretty or intelligent enough. Like she was diseased or something and had to be managed by a kindly man. Like she was apologetic about her opulence.

There was the first sign and, yeah, this girl had a problem. She was lucky she’d hired me. I’d take care of it. I could. And I would.

                The large house was without a help. I would learn that her ex had preferred the bosom of her help to hers, and when she found out and raised her voice, the guy threatened to dump her. The tables were quickly turned and the offended became the offender. She pleaded with him not to leave. But he had sucked up enough of her dough and, one day, disappeared. The house help vanished too. That had pretty much been the story of her life, until these days that she was trying to shut herself in and, maybe, practice web love. Now when a man said ‘hello’ to her, her first impulse was to act as if there were no gold so the dude wouldn’t desire to come adigging. Reason why she pulled the razz Toyota stunt – my guess.

                Presently, she said she’d go upstairs and freshen up, then fix dinner afterwards. I said I couldn’t wait. As soon as she disappeared, I went into my room to get acquainted with it, and I collapsed on the bed.

A knock on the door woke me. Oh my gosh! It was 7:30am already. Friday morning. I answered the door and, there she stood, all dressed up and ready for work.

                “Dinner’s ready?” I asked, knowing...

She betrayed a grin, giving me an opportunity to rant.

“Oh! So I didn’t partake of that dinner you talked about... dinner I was so looking forward to? You couldn’t even call on me?” She was looking penitent but I forcefully continued before she could speak... “I hope you’re worth the trouble. I hope you’re worth... saving. I hope you’re a nice enough person. For all you know I hadn’t eaten anything all through yesterday. And yet you left me to pass the night without dinner... dinner that was available...”

                Then her apologies came flowing, mixed with her excuse. I knew what I was doing. I’d gone to sleep on purpose, to see whether she’d wake me. By not waking me she’d done the right thing, but the texture of her apologies now only revealed she wasn’t sure of herself. Or you check it: How would she have come to wake me? With her nightie? And what if I wasn’t dressed? And, would she say ‘bros, dinner’s served’? She hadn’t heard what I was called yet.

                I accepted her apologies.

                Now she didn’t know how to proceed on the day: leave a stranger in her house and go off to work? She still seemed undecided when I interrupted her mood and urged her to run on off to work. She looked at me in disbelief, then I told her curtly,

                “Or you could call the whole damn thing off and pay me for my time!”

                “Um... ‘fcourse not,” she managed to say, and made to leave.

                “You may want to re-read Article C of the proposal... seems to me there are certain things you haven’t quite got.”

                “I will.”

                “Have a nice day at work then.”

                “I will. Thanks,” she said coldly.

                “And do leave me a spare of your entrance key on the dining table.”

She extricated one from the bunch right there and gave me.

“Your breakfast’s sitting on the dining table,” she saidand then left.

I heard the car leave... but not the gate close.

                I walked to the dining room to see what was there. Wow! She’d made it up to me. Breakfast was huge. Universal food – sandwiches – tea – cocoa... things I loved to eat.

                I heard the door open...

                “Excuse me please, what do I call you?” she asked.

“Why!” I said. “Doctor. That’s what we’re called in the field. Call me Doctor. Or, if you like, Doc for short.”

                She rolled her eyes and left, leaving a total stranger in her house. I heard the gate close. Perhaps she took solace in the fact that her security man was way bigger than me. He should have been a bouncer.

 Although I hadn’t washed my mouth I devoured the breakfast, and then went through my copy of Article C; wishing here and there that I hadn’t put in this or that, or that I should have put this or that.

                Then I went to bathe. No soap. Just water. And I didn’t have a toothbrush; I just washed my mouth with water and my finger. No change of clothes too.

I wondered what I’d do with myself the whole of the day.