LABYRINTHS - SEVEN

I didn’t want to toy with her mood, but I had to speak... lay things in perspective. There was really nothing wrong with her principle: if you’re gonna fuck you better plan to stay! So, if she was going to let me in now, I thought, was she compromising, or was she thinking Doctor Iroko Cedan was hers now? On my own part I didn’t see anything wrong in sticking with this lady. The road we’d travel to matrimony wouldn’t be so arduous I supposed. She was like an orphan... orphaned rich girl... my folks would rejoice to have a daughter-in-law on a platter of gold. I knew what my mother’s issues were when it came to inter-ethnic marriages: there’d be too many distant trips. It would be unfair if the girl were kept away from her maiden family for too long... so, one Christmas we’re in my village in Enugu State, Nigeria, and the other, we’re in hers, far across the continent. Or in December we would have to split up, to reunite in January. And who said I wasn’t bound to visit her folks from time to time too!

                Amongst the Ibos in Nigeria it’s hard enough to contract inter-ethnic marriages. People fell in love and married in big cities, but their marriages weren’t rooted in the traditions and cultures of their people, and so, didn’t survive trying times. Like if the man lost his job and went bankrupt, his next destination would be his village, the woman who married him under the bow of a vanilla sky might find the climate of his village inclement to the smooth sheen of her tender skin.

The South-easterners learnt this lesson bitterly not too long ago . . .

Young men from Enugu State who were plying their trade in the North-western State of Kaduna were succeeding in business. They saw no problems in marrying pretty wives from their sister-states of origin... Anambra, Imo, and Abia States. The couples lived exemplarily and were producing bright offsprings. All was well. But marriage has never been a stroll in the park; your parents must cast their gaze far into the future by regurgitating past events. It’s not new in Ibo land. Some people were not allowed to inter-marry with others because they were outcasts. Some families were avoided because the life expectancies of their men were low; some because their daughters always absconded from their matrimonial homes. And, generally, thorough investigations were always done before marriages were contracted. In any case, the unfolding of events in life gives rise to more customs and restrictions. Parents were humans, they didn’t know it all. And life is a field school... once bitten, twice shy... But you have to be bitten first.

A religious riot, which was common in Nigeria at the time, soon set Kaduna State ablaze. Lives and property were lost. People that survived fled to their villages. That was when the Enugu men came home with their wives. The women found the new circumstances unbearable, always getting in their mothers-in-law’s hairs... and arguments erupting from every home stead. Their husbands’ presence seemed to douse the tensions, though. But the time came when, after the mayhem, the men had to venture out, back to Kaduna and her desolate streets again, to see if they could pick the pieces of their lives back together. It is said that only a fool tests the depth of water with both feet for, if the water be deep and dangerous, then the fool is doomed; whereas only one foot would suffice to learn of a shallow river. The men went back to Kaduna alone. Stepping cautiously into territories that had been fraught with terror... but leaving behind them in the village, a fresh colony of flames. Some found glowing embers of war, and concluded that the end of their sojourn in Kaduna was come. Others found stumps that were still alive and knew that their lives could grow back – with the requisite patience, that was.

They went back home to Enugu to strategize, but found not their wives whom they left in their mothers’ care. Mothers told them things like ‘she said she wanted to go to Nnewi; that she’d only be two days...’ That was a month ago! In some cases they’d taken the children dearest to them and vanished... flouting the duty given them by pastors... to love and to hold their men forever, in good times and in bad.

Most young men based in Kaduna were devastated all round by the war. This is just one scenario. The worst case scenario was... that some men died in the violence, and their parents back home couldn’t tell if there were survivors from their sons’ families. The women disappeared with everything, children and all. Perhaps an Alhaji took a liking to the woman and orchestrated the chain of events that left her gasping for breath like a choking fish on a dry lake. He scoops the nymph and adds to his invincible harem a cikin daki! Such was the cataclysmic reach of the Kaduna riot in Nigeria. It, amongst others, had taught the Ibos a bitter lesson. So if and when one got involved with a lass and these circumstances were feared, he knew his parents’ consent would be a huge impossibility.

                From what I knew of Abbey I needn’t fear a thing. The man who marries Abbey possesses her completely. Dad was late; mom was in another marriage; uncles and aunts, I figured, since they had no roles to play (Abbey was a rich girl) were distant; and her only sibling was in the US pursuing his own dreams. Perhaps the only resistance one could face would come from Sasha, Tanya, and Isabelle. They were the closest people to her in the world. Or maybe I’m wrong. Well, it may have been them or Jude, a guy Abbey had never set eyes on, technically speaking... but loved.

                “Abbey I’m happy with the progress of our scheme. I’m pretty sure we’ll arrive at our destination way ahead of schedule.”

I sensed her struggle to control herself. I saw her failure to achieve same.

                “Excuse me,” she said, and left the kitchen.

                Time for the next event to be introduced in the cooking pot and Abbey still wasn’t back. I now assumed she was expecting one of two things: that I came upstairs and assuaged her worrying concerns or simply talk them away, or that I finished what was left of the cooking. I chose the latter. Fortunately for us, she’d already made the sauce. And the golden rice on the fire was almost ready. I dipped a spoon into it until it touched the bottom of the pot, like my mother would do, and brought it out to know if all the water had dried up. Not long now. I introduced the shredded carrots into the pot, spread it across the rice, and covered the pot. That probably wasn’t Abbey’s plan for the carrots, but I cooked with tact... ain’t nothing wrong with steaming the shreds up! If she demanded that I picked them clean off the rice I could. And I would. Everything was ready now. I set the table with little hints of romance... a tad more than the situation demanded. And then I went upstairs to fetch her majesty, the queen.

                My knock on the door was a gentle tapping. No answer came. A second time. No answer still. I gently opened the door and there she was, coiled up on her bed, facing the opposite direction. I approached somewhat apologetically, sat by the edge of the bed and lifted her head to look at her sullen face.

                “Did I say something wrong?”

She didn’t speak for a while. When she did she looked like my babe for real now.

                “Why d’you always have to rub it in... that you’re just passing by... through my life... that you’ll soon be gone? Like I’m so easy to leave... like I possess no womanly charms whatsoever that could make a man change his mind and stay with me... Do I have an unbearable flaw? Please tell me.”

I thought of what to say... unsure I found the right thing.

                “Abbey... make no mistakes, you’re such great fun to be with. In fact, I’ve never met a one like you... so...”

                “Please don’t flatter me,” she interrupted. “If what you say is true why do you find leaving me such an easy matter? To be honest with you, I like your company... so when you say you’ll soon be leaving it’s not easy for me to handle. And that doesn’t mean I’m trying to stop you, anyway.” She said this now and looked away.

Her head still in my hands... what do I do with it? Slam it against the wall? Or kiss the lips on it... the eyes... the perfectly sculptured nose... the cheeks? Yeah! I bent to do just that and she turned away; sprang up in fact.

                “With you,” she said as she made to leave the room, “I’m not a particularly strong girl, but I never imagined that you’d one day get your timing so wrong!”

Oh no! That was so cold. She started making her way downstairs to see if her lunch had burnt up, or if I took the initiative. At the dining I was unable to read the expression on her face; but I knew I did a great job. If I thought so, then she must do as well... for I could be very hard to impress.

                I pulled out a chair for her and she bent her head slyly, acknowledging the courtliness of the gesture, and she graciously sat. I opened her plate and served her the rice, and she was staring atthe orange shreds of something all over the place.

                “Don’t tell me this is the carrot!”

                “Ok, I won’t,” I joked.

She laughed aloud and said,

                “Is this what you thought I had in mind when I asked you to shred them?”

                “Did anybody tell you I could read your mind? If you’d stayed to finish the cooking you would have done exactly what you had in mind. But since I literally prepared the food, what you see is a product of my own mind.”

It seemed it wasn’t funny to her.

                “So what happens to the cabbage I sliced? The green beans, and the baked beans and all?”

                “Ah! I didn’t see those. But aren’t they meant to go down our palates finally... bring them so they do just that.”

                “How are they ‘gonna do just that’ now that the carrot’s already in the rice?”

                “Are you worried that they wouldn’t be going hand in hand as you’d wanted? Well, they can go separately and meet up in the stomach.”

I’d expected my nuances to lighten her mood, but no. I guessed this unfriendly countenance was not just because I poured shredded carrots into rice; there was more to it. I wanted peace, so I pacified her.

                “Really, girl, ‘twas coconut rice idea that I used. I didn’t sight the cabbage or the lettuce or anything, so I ruled out salad. Plus, I thought this might purely be a South African cuisine ‘cuz, frankly, I ate rice and carrot like this during the World Cup. Try it, I’m sure it will taste better than it looks (not that it looked bad o!)”

I passed her the ladle and she helped herself with the sauce. When she’d had a spoonful, and then two, the set sun in her face began to rise. Yeah, traces of brightness and animation were on their way back. In real life terms, I’d never been in such cozy, proximal relations with such a pleasant female. It only happened in disguise, and this was the best of them all, yet. I’d had a little less than seven patients in my career so far. All, save this one, had been Nigerians of course. Two from my past were really special. The first needed a boy to idle about with but got a shrink instead. That was how it all began. The second needed a shrink from the get go. She was battling with self esteem issues. Girls from my past! They healed, bid me farewell, and left... not looking back. Time and again, when they left, they took a portion of my heart. It was like leaping over a fence and having your garment get entangled somewhere to make a mess of your stunt. I enjoyed the complexity of Nigerian girls. It was really challenging. Now, having travelled this road many times, Abbey’s sweet attachment didn’t really sway me. The whiter a girl was, the easier she was to beguile. I didn’t expect Abbey to pose any greater challenge than Ibo girls back home. And she didn’t. But I always kept an eye out for something new. Every doctor does. I wondered, however, if it was the same for every doctor or, say... every man whose job brought him in contact with women: did they envisage more thrills in the strangers they worked with than they actually got from their domestic life? I knew how doctors felt for lumps in women’s breasts during routine cancer checks... How would a doctor react the day he feels breasts that flaw his wife’s? And more, if the lady be exuding green light, would the doctor succumb to take a deep in a different pool? Or would he evade the temptation by telling himself that it’s all one and the same thing? Breast na breast! If I was asked I’d say, well, let the days keep coming, we’ll see! How could I ever say never! From this piece of wonder where God tucked away a world of pleasure... in this image... this form called woman, a magical wand could issue forth and command a warrior to prostrate. Knowledge and religion do not suffice to elude the charms of woman... to say they’re ineffective... to say they’re alcohol that do not intoxicate. It is similar to feeding; eat a full cow today and you’re still not exempt from feeling hunger tomorrow. Men are slaves to the erotic charms of women. Even women themselves, in many ways. The man who is not is considered abnormal. A friend of mine was fond of bragging about how he eluded girls... how they schemed to seduce him and how he continually outwitted them and escaped. And this was a man over thirty years old. He had his reasons for running, but while his effective elusiveness was a victory for his reason, it were a loss for his manhood for, not to be swayed by the curves and sensuousness of ripe young girls, for a man, is not a feat to be celebrated. A man might be oriented to lead a life that precludes sex, but he must acknowledge that abstinence is a struggle. What people could do in place of sex is another matter altogether, by the way.

Bottom line, a hundred years in this line of work, the women could still sway me, even if ever so minimally. Abbey swayed me. I admit. It wasn’t entirely true that because I’d been down this road before I had an accurate premonition on how things were going to climax with her. Of course I could run away, but that was out of the question.

                Abbey was enjoying the meal. Her healthy appetite a hint to pleasant hours to come. A sign that everything was cool again. As always, again.

                I dished out my own food and finally settled down to eat. It was going to be a long lunch because there was a conversation I wanted us to have.

How was I to start it....

                “Um... um... what are your hobbies, Abbey?” I asked her, swallowing a mouthful.

                “Hmm! Do I even have hobbies...?I liked a couple of sporting activities back at school but not anymore. Now I like to watch movies... listen to music... what else... read, I guess.”

                “Okay... you don’t like to browse?” I pursued.

                “Everybody likes to browse, but I don’t like it beyond how much is necessary. And whenever I get online it’s usually just... facebook... but that’s aside when I have to work with the internet, anyway.”

                “You’re on facebook?” I asked.

                “Yeah,” she answered casually. “Aren’t you?”

                “I’m a busy fellow. But I guess I’ll join soon. A couple of my friends have been asking me to.”

                “Wait, wait, wait... are you serious you’re not on facebook?” she was surprised.  “This definitely gives me a weird impression of Nigeria.”

                “What, that I’m too busy to be on facebook’s an impression? I bet a damn good one then!” I was about to turn the tables and Abbey halted her derision. But I knew it was a tad strange if a guy like me wasn’t on facebook or twitter or hi5 and so on.

                “It’s just that it’s unusual to see a guy like you who’s not on facebook.”

                “I might not even join after all, since you make it such a big deal.”

She looked at me with round eyes.

                “Sorry... if that sounded harsh,” I said.

                “It’s okay,” she cooed.

                “Well, tell me about your facebook experience, ‘cuz people who invite me to join literally preach about it... telling me how cool it is and how they met their best friends through it. Did you meet Sasha and co on facebook?”

                “Naah!” she said, “Me and them, we go way back!”

                “So who have you met on facebook... what’s your story?”

She hesitated for a while, then said,

                “Never really met anyone; as in... met the person...” She emphasized the ‘met’. And I was listening. I wanted to hear more.

                “So?”

She hesitated, not sure if she wanted to tell this tale.

                “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk...” I patronized her, putting her on the spot so she’d feel guilty of hiding something if she didn’t talk.

                “Up until some days ago I was doing this blind thing with a guy,” she said.

                “Blind thing? With a guy?”

                “As in...well... lemme not say ‘dating’... or in love... but I had a guy on facebook.” She laughed in spite of herself.

                “Had? And is that possible... as in, date someone through facebook?”

                “Did I say date?”

                “Okay. Okay. You didn’t say date. But you said had... past tense...”

                “Yeah, ‘cuz I’m not sure I still do.”

                “But why? Isn’t it fun anymore? Or was it never fun?”

                “It was fun. After all, what’s love? Knowing that someone is there for you, innit!”

                “Oh, so you were in love with someone on facebook?”

                “I didn’t say that!” she protested.

                “I’m so sorry! You didn’t... at all!” She looked at me with defeated eyes, and there was the answer I sought.

“But if you were happy why are you pulling out? Or is it him”

                “Guess it’s us. We’re growing apart. The communication gap is widening.”

                “Were there signs of you guys concretizing it... you know... like... meeting?”

                “We surely would have come to that. I’d tried to bring that up severally... but he’d always been elusive somehow.”

                “Perhaps he should be the one living with you now and not me.” I messed up; as was usual with me with real things – real emotions. I seemed to compound the problem further while trying to solve it... “...But then he’s not a doctor... or is he?”

The irritation on her face grew.

I didn’t want any more troubles so I thought of what to do... or say. There was a way out. I moved swiftly. I put on an attitude that made my words seem like the utterances of a jealous heart... and Abbey was the one on the spot now. And it was hard for her to navigate her way out. Though she must have loved the development that I was jealous, she wasn’t to allow room for a stranger to feel any justifiable jealousy over the custodianship of her heart.

I pursued the facebook line no further.

                She started to clear the table, and I started mouthing the grace after meal. She paused what she was doing and joined passively. That’s how you know when a culture’s alien to someone.

                She was lying on the couch now, head on my thighs, and changing stations on DSTV. What was the time now? I didn’t know. I was sitting with my back against the clock, and I felt too lazy to turn and look at it. My wristwatch was in the room. And my phone was inactive. I was patting her hair... as if I wanted to braid them. She was enjoying it because she stayed calm. I smoothed her eyebrows, played with her eyelashes... and she was blinking them in fright.  I slowly traced the contours of her face with my finger: her brows, the ridge of her nose, her lips... I played with her rubbery jaw, and she was chuckling. Chemistry was building up. It was my style: hold off, don’t rush, allow chemistry to form... when it does form, allow it to overflow, so that when you move in for the kill resistance will be little or entirely absent. The longer the delay, the more intense the eventual magnetism. It takes a lot to hold a woman through whom you have access, to play with her hair, her eyelashes, to touch her lips, her neck, without gradually losing your mind and disintegrating into the break-dance of the gods. It’s not only during sex that a man unleashes his masculine energy on a woman, no. The more energy isn’t even called forth thither. A man is called to employ all his strength when he takes a woman on a journey of respect and regard. Like in ballet. Ballet dancing.

                “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

Damn! What was I to say? I didn’t want to give away stories that could haunt me. I had to remain mysteriously anonymous.

                “My profession you mean?”

                “You I mean. Your private life.”

                “Okay. What do you wanna know?”

                “Everything...”

                “Everything?”

                “... or at least the important things... things I should know.”

                “Like?”

                “Look, if you’re gonna talk just talk, and stop asking me questions!” She sounded frustrated.

                “Sorry for frustrating you,” I said.

                “You seem to like to do that a lot!” she complained.

                “I can understand why you think so... but I wouldn’t say that. I’d just say that... when I sense two evils I choose the lesser.”

                “Meaning?”

                “... Meaning I don’t wanna say things that might distort our... tranquillity.”

                “Don’t understand.”

                “Well, it’s something like... if the unknown is bliss, don’t explore it... ‘where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise’, you heard that before, right?”

                “Nope! Where am I supposed to hear it from?”

                “From this guy... um... what’s his name again...?”

                “A philosopher?”

                “You could say that. A poet.”

                “White or Black?”

                “Gray!”

                “What?!”

                “Thomas Gray. British Poet... Ode to a Distant Prospect of Elton College.”

                “Hmm!” she snorted, “seems like you read a lot!”

                “I wouldn’t say a lot... I just... just... chance upon things. Each new thing I learn besets me with gloom... that something I didn’t know existed... so there’s probably a colossal world I haven’t discovered yet... and might never discover. Ever.”

                “You seem to have a general idea on a lot of things. It’s good. I don’t know that many things outside my own... purview of life.”

                “You must have all the knowledge you need too.”

                “No. I’m sure there’s a lot I don’t know. The world I don’t know is bigger than yours.”

                “Don’t say that. I haven’t seen the things that you have, have I! I’m not from your country... Like they say one can’t be tall and short at the same time.”

                “Our countries aren’t very different. They have similar histories: bloody paths to nationhood...”

                “But the antecedents as well as the outcomes of the wars are different.”

                “How?”

                “Firstly, you fought to be free of racism... of suppression... of White minority rule... Simply put, you fought for freedom. In our case, brothers fought to subdue one another. No Whites in sight, just a domestic violence that ended up to be one of the most devastating civil wars in the history of Africa.”

                “Yeah,” she said, sounding distant. But she was listening.

                “And then, secondly, the outcomes of the wars... you got the freedom you sought, we got a lopsided polity... meaning that we’ve probably not heard the last of war songs... Haven’t you heard it said that no people are really governed who are perpetually to be conquered?”

                “You mean your country could still go to war again? God forbid!”

                “I’m not saying that... but all them religious crises may turn to something full scale someday. Bottom line is: there’s a destination we need to get to, and it depends on the leaders if war is not to be the only path that leads us thither.”

                “It’s a shame,” she said softly. “Let’s not talk about politics... or... politricks... you, you really know how to dodge questions. See how you diverted the matter!”

We were laughing now, and I diverted the matter further still by tilting her face to look into her eyes.

                “I have the best job in the world...” I said, “To be in paradise and to be paid for it is, in my opinion, the best job in all the world.”

                “You’re serious you’re in paradise?”

                “Dead serious!”

                “I’m in heaven,” she said.

                “It’s not the same thing,” I said.

                “How?”

                “You’re paying for your trip... but me, I’m paid to ride.”

She was rolling her eyes trying to code. I tried to seize every little opportunity to remind her that I was being paid for this... that I was working. She seemed to me to always forget, and acted like this was a relationship. For the sake of my money, I’d been trying to avoid these last frontiers of intimacy, at which point I couldn’t really talk about money anymore; aye, and going home. I really needed the dough.

We sat in silence, looking into each other’s eyes, searching for hints to what our minds held. It was for moments like this that musicians sang, I guessed. It was why MJ was ever born. He could capture the essence of this electricity and turn it into song.

                “I’d sing for you if I could,” I said.

                “Really? What would you sing?”

                “Ah dunno... any song for the... moment.”

                “Sing me one of Usher’s songs then.”

                “Usher?!” I made a face.

She wasn’t aware there was but one song in my head, and it was one she wouldn’t love to hear – under the circumstance. Time to Grow – Emma Obinka...

               

Emma and I sat on the short flight of stairs leading up to our house... years ago... in Abuja, Nigeria. Done with secondary school, the socio-emotional affiliations built in school were breaking up. It wasn’t his wish to break up with Chisom, he really loved her; but girls grow faster than boys. It was like ‘wake up and smell the coffee!’ for Emma. His heart was broken and, thereon our front porch, mine was the shoulder on which he cried. I offered soothing words telling him to let go, that it was time to grow. The words hurt him so bad that he turned away and walked home. He’d come to beg me to go solicit on his behalf. But I couldn’t help him... I lacked the... tact, and even the temerity... to take on such an assignment, given the complications... that he himself was not aware of.

We’d written our Universities’ Matriculation Examinations, hoping to get into the same university. We passed the exams, but Emma wouldn’t rejoice. Since the loss of the girl he’d gone so cold. I did my registrations spiritedly. Emma hardly ever came along... and I didn’t see Chisom either. They were a strange duo. The day I confronted him to inquire why he was throwing his future away because one Ibo lass dumped him, he went into his room and brought out some documents and held them up to me. He was too heartbroken to remain in the same neighbourhood with Chisom, much less be in the same school... offering the same course. I felt he knew something I didn’t ... I thought he’d secured admission into another school. He had. I was a bit sad he hadn’t told me about the move and I let him know. He told me he’d grown up, and didn’t feel like sucking up to me anymore. ‘Fine!’ I’d said. The young man was clearly mad at me. Till this day, I’m afraid... after what happened became public knowledge.

                “So when do you leave?”

                “Thursday midnight.”

Emma was travelling to the UK.

                 “How ‘bout Chis? She know?”

                “What’s my business wi de bitch!”

It was such short notice for me. On Tuesday Emma left for Lagos where he was to fly from. I only heard from his parents that he had left. Perhaps he thought I had a hand in Chisom’s decision to dump him simply because I was friends with her new guy. About four years later, with everything heretofore hidden revealed, I began to hear and watch Emma’s songs on TV. Then it wasn’t long and I heard Time To Grow, and knew it was the break-up song. Emma had battled that dejection for God knows how long!

                Presently, I thought Abbey would need the song some day. Not today. But pretty soon.

                We cuddled up in silence; me caressing her face and weighing how I was going to approach the imminent bouts of kisses... whether my timing would be wrong again.

No sooner had I resolved to devour her pink lips than the doorbell chimed slicing through the silence. The sound was annoying because it seemed unusually loud now – in juxtaposition to the prior silence, that was. And it seemed that whoever was at the door was really mad because the person kept depressing the damn thing for mischief sakes now! Abbey got up, a knowing smile danced briskly on her face as she made for the large, polished mahogany door. She opened it for Isabelle. They hugged and then came to sit. Abbey wouldn’t come and lie back down as she was lying before. She didn’t even sit on the same chair with me now. Her problem really... because Isabelle was harpy, and would capitalize on her lack of positive pretensions.

                “Hi Isabelle,” I said, and she reacted like I was a genius or something for remembering her name. Wasn’t it just last night!

                “Ahhh, you remember my name!” she was elated.

                “’Fcourse I do. Hard to forget pretty names.”

                “Thanks,” she said with flirtations oozing from her every pore.

                A woman has to have charm. As they say, if she does, it doesn’t matter what she doesn’t have; but if she doesn’t have charm, then whatever else she has doesn’t count for anything. How does a woman charm a man? How does she show her charm? By being rather slow: stalls a little before she gives her name; holds-off awhile before she gives her number; sizes the intentions of the male before her with a sly look-over. If she acts too hastily she distracts the man from observing for himself and according her the full-dose respect he would imagine she’d command. Speaking too hastily, she either earns it or doesn’t and, more often than not, she doesn’t.

If I’d had the allowance to take in Isabelle’s presence, I might have found her a charming woman, for she was strikingly beautiful and well-endowed. But she suppressed her charm, if at all she had any, with her attitude and mannerisms. I imagined if I’d spotted this girl on the streets, or in traffic, or some place like that, I would have regarded her with all the respect and courtesy I could muster. But now, by just hearing and observing her last night, and then these few seconds, I felt I could do without this disturbance on this peaceful, pink, vanilla Sunday afternoon. She was an uninvited guest, but she was quick to demand that Abbey fixed her lunch. Abbey waved her kitchenwards but she protested, saying she was too hungry to walk such distance. Abbey left the room, and it was Isabelle and I.

                She drew closer.

                “I actually came to see you.”

                “Me?”

                “Yeah. I feel we didn’t arrive at any conclusion last night.”

                “Conclusion?”

                “Mhmm!”

                “About what?”

                “About your status... the status of what you’re doing with Abbey.”

                “If only you were clearer I’m sure I’ll understand what you’re trying to say.”

                “Why don’t you pay me a visit... we could... chat over a drink or something. What do you think?”

                “Well, Isabelle, in case you want to be a client, I don’t work with two people at a time!”

                “Who said I want to be a client! Do I look like I have emotional issues?”

                “Oh! Abbey does?”

                “Do I know for her!” The expression on her face wasn’t friendly towards Abbey at all. She already wore the stance of a woman who was fighting over a man with another woman.

Where was Abbey... there was one more difference between our countries: our social civilisations. Back home, men wooed women. There wasn’t exactly a law prohibiting the reverse, but it just didn’t happen. It didn’t happen that a woman would go and ask a man what his answer to her proposal be; whether he was going to go out with her or not. A woman could only choose the best from the men who approached her... and make do. She couldn’t choose from outside this box, or manhood would lose its prestige. Back home, the design was, every household had a man... be he a weakling or a pauper; if he bore the burden of a sack tied to his crotch, he was man enough to hold a family together. A man wasn’t to be too ambitious, he stayed at home and depended on what his farm or business could yield. No Western prospects sufficed to lure him away from home, especially if he were the first son. In some cases, subsequent sons were allowed to wander off, and even get lost, but first sons had to stay home. They had to be present at their hearths; present at their matrimonial beds; present at the births of their children; present at their christening; and present at their marriages... if they were missing from any of these, then they were as good as dead.

Men who ventured too far in search of greener pastures... who left their wives’ bosoms deserted, their hearths unattended to, the quarrels arising from their homesteads between wives or children unsettled, often came home to find it different from the way it was before their trip. Upon their unannounced arrival they could chance on relatives cultivating or building on their farmlands; they could catch neighbours molesting their children; worst of all, they could chance upon their wives pants down in betrayal with riffraffs of no comparable pelf. The superior moans of betrayal often drive the point home: matrimony had been a cage for the woman! To prevent these, men remained home.

Our civilisation was at variance with that of the West... where a man travels the world in search of gold, finds it, and returns to the arms of a waiting woman... the only trouble being if he came back empty handed. We were not Odysseus, nor like soldiers who went away to fight in distant lands and returned home to faithful wives. A footballer playing in England but loved erotically in Spain; a musician playing in America but loved in England; an actor working in Hollywood but loved in France... celebrity marriage the ideal! It’s always been the reason and the origin of the word ‘celebrity’. Celebrities are celebrated and everyone wants to love them... though the paradigm is shifting... betrayal and unfaithfulness is the order of the day these days. Africa was different.

Abbey and all but one of her friends were mixed breeds, so perhaps they went for their men... explaining why Abbey would allow a stranger into her house without thorough scrutiny... explaining why Isabelle had come all the way to ask me to be her boyfriend. Not that I was a saint, but I thought it was best to suspend Isabelle in the air: not say no because I might need her later, and not say yes because I didn’t need her now. If I went to visit her we’d have sex sooner than later. She was surely going to bring it on. And I was surely not going to refuse... But it’d be suicide mission to sleep with Isabelle before I slept with Abbey... or perhaps to sleep with her at all. I had to clear the air first on what to do with Abbey before deciding on what to do with Isabelle. They were too close for me to hatch any hanky-panky and navigate successfully. One wrong move might ruin my entire sojourn to the south of Africa. Another fantastic quality of my Nigerian birth: we hardly ruin a good plan. As we put it, ‘we no dey carry last’!

                “If you want me to come to your house you talk to Abbey.”

                “Why? Are you a baby? Don’t you know what you want?”

                “What I want?! What has this got to do with what I want?”

We were talking about coming and not coming – the visit, when Abbey showed up with a tray for Isabelle.

                “What are you guys arguing about?” she asked casually.

I wanted to mute the matter but Isabelle spoke up hastily.

                “I’m inviting him to my house and he says I have to get clearance from you first... what’s that? I thought he was your doctor and not your husband?”

Isabelle was putting me on the spot and I didn’t like it. I wanted to put a subtle end to the matter but Abbey snapped at her:

                “And what if he’s my husband... do you have a problem with that?”

                “My problem is you better come clean and tell us if he’s screwing you, instead of all this your doctor-patient... bloc! Because we all know that you shouldn’t be...!” She didn’t finish; something stopped her.

Damn! I thought. That was harsh. A killer punch! I was stunned at the fire Isabelle spat out. But she didn’t seem to mean any harm. She was only trying to get at the truth... to find out for herself the answers I wasn’t coming forth with.

                “You’re nothing but a loser, bitch! You’re at it again with this your... nosy attitude!” This was Abbey lashing back at Isabelle.

They were raising their voices and yelling over my head that I had to shout to restore calm.

Silence ensued. Then,

                “Know what, screw your food!” Isabelle said, shoving the tray half way across the table. “And screw you!” She made for the door.

I called and called after her in vain. At the door before she opened it she turned and said to me with somewhat resignation,

                “Look... I gotta go men! I’m sorry.”

I was apologising too, on Abbey’s behalf, but she went through the door.

I turned to Abbey.

                “You know you should applaud yourself! That wasn’t civil of you one bit!”

                “You’re blaming me? That’s what she always does. You can ask around. She’s wont to stick her finger in everyone’s pie!”

                “I don’t need to ask around, ma’am, I could very well judge by what I’ve just seen... and I saw two women lose their minds up in here a few moments ago... and of the two, ‘twas you, dear, that used the worst words...”

She was calm. I chided her on.

“For my sake you could have saved us this embarrassment by being a little more civil in addressing her... insult... That wasn’t even really an insult but a question. You should have proven to me who the wiser woman is.”

She was outraged by the side I took and tried to storm out of my presence.

                “Wait a second young lady!” I called out to her.

She paused. I looked her over like I was her dad, and stormed out of the sitting room, quickly turning the tables.

               

But what was I to be doing alone in my room! I played music on my itunes... and then continued to play spider solitaire... losing every game. I wondered what she would be doing upstairs... or wherever she was.