LABYRINTHS - SIXTEEN

                Walking across the reception to Abbey’s ward I saw Biola and Fina talking.

                “Hi, good morning doctors,” I said.

                “Hey... good morning Iroko,” Biola said, beaming.

Fina’s response was not as electric.

                “How were your nights?”

Their answers were obvious... the positive one from Biola, the lacklustre one from Fina.

                “Fina, I hope you don’t always get to be on night shifts?”

                “Oh no, it’s rotated monthly... sometimes weekly... and sometimes on request.”

                “You think that’s fair enough?”

                “I think it is. Lives have to be saved.”

                “Exactly. Your job’s very relevant... God must always bless you doctors superfluously.”

                “Guess so,” she said with a dry, tired smile.

                “How’s she?” I now asked with some seriousness.

                “Oh she’s fine. Like I told you she’s out of coma... but may be sleeping now. But you can go see her though.”

“Just try to minimize the noise,” Biola chipped in.

“Oh, I will. Thanks a lot Fina... and do have a nice day.”

“You’re welcome. And I will.”

“Great. See you later B,” I said as I walked off with brisk steps.

I opened the door gently, and found that the pretty angel was indeed asleep. She didn’t really look any different from last night when she wasn’t alive... per se. She’d come out of coma, though, because the oxygen mask was gone. I hoped the doctors were sure before removing the breathing aid... did they even need to remove it at all? Being there did it cause any harm? But now that it had been removed what if Abbey slid back into coma without their knowledge? Disaster! I walked slowly, almost tiptoeing, picked up the chair and placed it well by the side of the bed. As I was easing my weight on it, the woman stirred. I felt the sound of my silence was too loud that it disturbed her. I sat down now and suppressed even the sound of my breathing. But it was good she heaved, I now saw her face clearly. I saw tear tracks running from the side of her eye to her ear. Had she been awake enough to cry? Or was it just water dripping of its own volition? She slowly opened her eyes... and I got my answer. Fresh tears now... Abbey was crying.

“Hey baby, what is the matter... it’s such a great joy that you’re awake, how could you celebrate it with tears?”

The muscles of her face started to contract... and the tears flowed in torrents.

I held her. “Please Abbey... please don’t do this. Please, stop it. Please.” I was almost drawn to tears myself.

She fought for control and temporarily got it.

                “I didn’t see you... so I thought you had gone away.”

                “Oh no. I’ve been here all along. Doctor Fina didn’t tell you? C’mon... I couldn’t leave you alone that way. I couldn’t.”

                “What did they tell you?”

                “Who?”

                “The doctors, what did they tell you is wrong wimme?” Tears.

                “Nothing. And I didn’t push... I just wanted you to be fine... first.”

                “Will I ever be fine, Iroko?” Tears took over now; the temporary control lost.

I held her tighter, wiping her tears... and saying things. I was really scared by the scenario.

                “Abbey,” I said firmly now and she stopped, “I don’t know what it is... but I know that crying wouldn’t help. If you ever valued my presence in your life... if you ever... dry your tears now and cheer up, I promise to walk through this with you... if you want me to.”

                “You promise?”

I didn’t really know there was something to promise... I just said it to stop her crying. Was I sure I could keep the promise....

                “I promise.”

She took my hand with the two of hers and held it against her chin and sobbed away the last tears... for now. It was an intense moment. Everything I was unconsciously building for Isabelle started to burn up on account of the fire of this moment with Abbey... this sincere moment of pain. I began to feel a little comfortable making the promise... if it cheered her up so. Whatever it was, I was ready to accompany her through it. After all, what could it possibly be? Isabelle had ruled out HIV... so all my mind could fathom now was cancer... in any of its many disguises. I began to think that I felt a lump in her breast when I pressed them. Maybe that was a tumour... And, maybe, as they say, it was malignant... meaning mitosis might have taken place... Perhaps it was far gone and the case was hopeless... Or perhaps if they surgically took out the breast they could save her... How would I like a one-breasted Abbey? No problem... as long as it kept her alive.

I rocked her gently... until she fell asleep.

                I looked up when the door gently opened. I couldn’t tell what look I saw in Biola’s eyes when she saw my hand entangled somewhere in Abbey’s.

                “She’s sleeping,” she seemed to say rather than ask.

                “Yeah,” I said softly.

Silence.

Then she says “You don baff?”

                “No.”

But why the pidgin I wondered. I wondered too if I smelt.

                “You may go and wash up... only a few things we need to do, then we’ll prepare her for discharge.”

                “Alright, I’ll soon be on my way then.”

She withdrew her head that had only been poked in all the while and closed the door as gently as she’d opened it.

I sat there, thinking about how to extricate my arm without waking Abbey.

                I stood virtually motionless in the shower. I was like a miserable man in the rain. The falling water hit my body hard but I didn’t feel it. Thoughts benumbed me. The hairs on my chest slept... down to my crotch. Some portion below my chest there was nothing. Would these two vegetations ever meet? When? They would... with age. Latest... in two years; by twenty-eight they should. A lot had happened in my life. I hated to think that things happened to me and not the other way round.

                ...Eight or nine years ago... Emma probably knew; that coldness was the indifference of absolute anger... of betrayal. But if he knew and could bottle it up, then he must be a very dangerous fellow. Again, I don’t think he knew. Though it’s all public knowledge now but, as at the time he travelled he didn’t know. I don’t think he and Chisom ever saw again. He’d been too... immature for her liking. Chisom confided in me that she felt caged and wanted to exhale... She found an opportunity at our graduation party... If she’d just been a little patient, Mike would have come along... and would have rewritten our stories. Chisom had always wanted to be with the ‘big boys’, so I never stood a chance. Being with Emma she learned that there was really nothing to the big boys. Emma was more or less a big baby; Ajebota, as we’d say. Apart from money, what use was he... to Chisom, that is? Now she thought she might look in my direction – me, a poor boy. She told me she’d always had an eye for me... that lie girls use when they’re up to something cynical. She said she wished I were Emma.

Through the pandemonium of the party she fixed her gaze on me. I glided from one end of the hall to another, picking on people. I hadn’t a girl, so I danced with the ones I could temporarily snatch from their men. Emma, insecure as he was, stuck to Chisom like glue, and I was sure the girl wanted a little breathing space. We danced, we drank, and we got high. I went and overthrew Emma to dance with Chisom for a while. He laughed, and then went to meet the other guys at the bar, leaving me with his girl. Now that was trust... he trusted me. Who knew I was going to shatter that trust... certainly not me; and not him. At the bar he drank... and probably didn’t notice when Chisom and I disappeared from the dance floor. Chisom said she wanted to tell me something away from the blaring noise of the music. We went to the rear of the hotel building... where some couples necked under the cover of darkness. When Chisom began to talk at length, I thought the worst we could do was... maybe... kiss. If it happened, it would be my first. I wore long Nike jogger pants with a plastic waist, a T-shirt, and Nike sports slippers. Chisom said she was hot from all the boogieing inside, and took off her jacket. All she wore now wasn’t much... There were her ripening breasts standing like green mangoes, a long way above the elastic skin of youth. I looked away.

                “Do you think my breasts are nice?” she asked mischievously.

                “I think they’re great,” I said without looking.

                “But how do you know... when you haven’t even seen them?”

                “I don’t need to see them to know.”

                “So how do you know? Emma told you?”

                “No he didn’t, c’mon!”

                “’Fcourse! How can he tell you when he hasn’t even seen them himself?!”

I was silent... and still looking away.

She dragged the neck of her singlet down and said, “Look at them.”

I turned to look. “They’re great,” I said.

                “Don’t be deceived,” she cried, “they may not feel as good...”

                “Chisom... what are you playing at?”

                “What do you think I’m playing at,” she said seductively, coming closer and unleashing her yellow breasts on me. “Touch them!” she invited.

I hesitated only for a while... for I had never touched breasts before... except when I was an infant.

I touched them... and tickled her nipples, and found it was where pleasure lay – for her.

                “Suck them,” she moaned.

I obeyed sheepishly, taking a nipple with my teeth.

We trudged to a darker corner. We didn’t know what else to do, asides sucking nipples and kissing amateurishly. So we thought the next thing was to get down to the brass tacks of male and female relations. And it was easy, for she wore a mini-skirt, and my trouser came down with a pull. I let her guide me because I didn’t know where the destination was... but I knew when I got in. I knew it was here. Then the feeble forays... and thrusting... a weak erection... We were done in no time. She didn’t bleed, and I thought this girl was a... criminal! It wasn’t her first, for shizzle! She quickly put her clothes in order and ran away. There, I thought, that was what she wanted to tell me.

                I sat out there, trying to lure guilt into a fight. I wanted my conscience to prick me; I wanted to feel like I just betrayed a friend... like I just did something wrong, but nothing. I wasn’t a feeler, as they say.

Later when I got inside, I spotted her operating gaily like nothing just happened. Maybe she wasn’t a feeler too. I went over to the bar to meet Emma and the rest, and found that Emma had had too much to drink. He was now a nuisance to himself and us all. I stuck with him, trying to manage him. Chisom found herself another dude to dance and frolic with. Mike. Mike became her new friend from thence.

I helped Emma to a corner where he puked and messed us both up. We sat there, and he rested his head on my thighs and fell asleep. From there I observed the jiving as if without the noise. Everything slowed... or rather my eyes froze their motion and scrutinized them. I watched an ecstatic Chisom, to see if she’d disappear with Mike too. So I would know if she was a serial fucker. They remained there, and all around... in the horizon of my view. My head against the wall, my consciousness flickered like a fluorescent tube. People were to make jest of the sleeping duo in the corner... and take pictures of us.

Dawn...

                I turned the shower off.

After I got dressed I went to the kitchen and found I could have tea. There was bread. I took my time eating, weighing my promise to Abbey. I wondered if I could keep it. Not like I was free and had time to spare. I hadn’t really been just... World-Cupping in South Africa. I was running away... from my life... from home... from the lack of choices and advantages after graduation.... From my having to contribute to the family economy – seriously battered by the El-Rufai reign. And no one knew what responsibilities I’d borne since the last five years. I sat for a long time at the table, remembering how my sojourn hither came about....

               

                Months before this day. I sat in my little one room apartment on a Sunday evening... nothing to do. The league football season at an end, otherwise I would have been somewhere watching EPL or LA LIGA games – fifty Naira per match. Liverpool didn’t make top four; and the Europa Cup I’d been banking on didn’t come to us. When we beat the Portuguese outfit, Benfica, I thought the title was ours for the taking. But I heard in the news that Torres had gone in to operate on a nagging knee problem... in time for the World Cup. Now, I didn’t completely lose hope... but I should have. Everything that dwelt on my hands was bleak, God... even far away Liverpool FC that didn’t. How bad could things be, I thought. My Nokia phone on the table . . .

I wondered what kind of engine system Nokia people put in this torchlight... that has a phone. Torchlight that has a phone... it’s similar to the argument about a Zebra’s colour. Some people say it’s a dark coloured animal with light stripes, others say the reverse is the case. Now this was a Nokia phone... that had a torch, but my friend would say it’s a torch that has a phone. Anyway, it vibrated like a mini generator. For a man like me who was always consumed in thoughts, the phone was acting like it would give me a heart attack someday. During my service year working in a bank, my boss often went berserk all up on me about the nuisance my phone caused. Because once a call or a text message came in, the heavy sound of the vibration on the desk pierced through the banking hall... and probably upset customers. And my boss’ desk was just behind mine. He warned me to always put the phone on silent or switch it off. But if I put it on silent and was busy I wouldn’t know when it rang. And if Jenny called twice and I didn’t pick, then we weren’t going to have a cozy evening as we otherwise would. She’d said she hated it whenever she needed to talk to me and I wasn’t there; and, she needed to talk to me very often. Sometimes she called and said... “You don’t look busy today,” and I looked towards the entrance of the bank and saw her smiling. I’d stand, and she’d wave and disappear. That was to make me anticipate the evening together further. Jenny was my patient... I was her shrink... and I was starting to fall in love with her.

Here’s my diary entry of the therapy with her....

THE SHRINK

      I often find myself doing the job of a shrink. So I take it more seriously; and even call myself that. Being a shrink is almost an excuse to care about several girls at a time – to love more than one – as many as are available. And girls always have issues. But sometimes they just pretend to have issues so they can get some attention. When they do get your attention then other things can follow. They like to listen to you talk about them. Not boys. I’m no shrink for boys. It’s risky. Imagine talking to a guy and he says, “If you ever talk to me like that again I’m gonna slap you”! I look at the hand with which he’d slap me and break it. Now when the time comes with which hand will he slap. Rubbish!

          Girls’ issues always circulate around one thing: the way they let themselves be used. After they start to feel empty, and they’re looking for someone to lift their spirits. If you don’t have self control, or if you don’t have principles guiding the way you relate with guys, then you’d always feel this dejection. And guys are everywhere. Everywhere you look. And if you’re their friend . . . then check this out: You go to see them in the office for one thing or the other, and they take you on the table. You’re studying together in the classroom at night, and they take you on the desk. You attend a party and they take you in the toilet. You go visiting and they take you on the couch. They give you a lift, and just before you alight they take you on the back seat. They give you a little money and they take you. They offer you a little help and they take you. At the end of the day you’re wondering if there’s anything left to preserve. Whenever you muster the courage to say no to a guy for some reason, you wonder: to what end? Is there still something left to deny a guy? After all, you know you say yes to far more guys than you say no to. Ogbajuo doro (when your cup overflows), you start looking for someone to help you restore your pride. There I come, then. A shrink is like an interior decorator, he tries to redecorate a house that’s been altered, desecrated, violated, abused, and make it a beautiful home again.

          It could also be heartbreak, failures, the loss of a loved one, disappointments, rape, disease, ill health, inferiority complex, etc. These are all in the curriculum of a shrink. We handle all these.

          So I meet a potential patient: pretty, tall, elegant, and sophisticated. I bet that whenever a medical doctor spots a woman he’s interested in, he’d pray for her to fall ill, or to suddenly faint. Then they’d say “Please is there any medical doctor around?” That was kinda my prayer now. I don’t go out of my way to woo ladies, naah. I find a circumstance to take advantage of. If there’s none I create one. Like this one that’s been overused in movies – a guy knowingly bumps into a girl and spills her books, and then gets down like a gentleman to pick ‘em up, while lurking his gaze with hers. Yeah, something like that but, like I said, it has been overused. Often I’ve sat with really attractive girls in church but have had nothing to say to them, so at the end of the day we just walk away. For starters, I’m a Catholic, so there’s nothing like “Mehn! This pastor’s filled with the word!” and all that; or that “I like his tie” – priests don’t wear ties. Their dressing has nothing to comment about. So there’s really nothing to say. And all that tell your neighbor this and that bloc ain’t for moi! So church is not the place to meet a girl, for me. Maybe after church a drama can ensue, though, but that’s not church anymore.

          When I’m in a place and there’s a girl I like, I just pray something dramatic happens. Like, let someone just rush in with an unloaded nine millimeter and point it at her, then I’d step in and kill the villain, and be her knight in shining amour. At first, though, I’ll be like “really, it’s nothing. I just couldn’t watch a pretty girl like you die if there was something I could do.” I’d act as if I weren’t even interested, but I’d always show up in places where she’d see me. Then she’d be like, “Hey, thanks once again for the other day!” And I’ll be like “what are you talking about? Have we met?” . . . I won’t overdo it sha.

          But now how did I meet this one sef! Yeah, I saw her date of birth somewhere and took note of it. Fortunately, on that day I see her, and I wish her a happy birthday, and ask where the party’s at. She tells me there’s no party. And I see a hollow . . . aha! There’s more to this no-party thingi than meets the eye. I was right. Her life took a bad turn on one of her very recent birthdays, I understand. Later that night I text her: “Birthdays needn’t remind you of a terrible past and an empty present; what about the possibility of a great future, starting from today!” We get talking from then on.

          I step into the life that needs a shrink as one. What does a shrink do? Talk. So I talk. Often I talk too much and she’s not even listening anymore. A shrink is a professional friend, so I’m always there for her – whenever she needs me – even when she doesn’t. Sometimes she cried, and I showed up. Trying to mend a heart I didn’t break; a heart I wasn’t even sure was broken.

          A shrink has to develop a curriculum, a program, a module for his patients. Something they can relate to – someplace they can go to and be at peace. A spot. So I pick a spot in a serene park, and we’re always there. After work till late, on weekends, on holidays, whenever we could. Sometimes we just walked around, me blabbing all the while, teaching her life’s lessons I learnt from where! At other times we just sat at out spot, at the foot of a tree. Silent. On the grass she’d stretch out, resting her head on my thighs. She was allowed to that – I was her shrink – your shrink is your everything. At times like this she faced the sky . . . and where would I cast my face! Does this happen to doctors and their patients? Teachers and their students? Lawyers and their clients? She faces the sky and closes her eyes, squinting partially cuz the sun was up. I hum a tune. This had crossed the borders of my shrinkhood. I didn’t cover this part in training. Was she doing this innocently, or did she know? “Doing what?” you may ask. I’m asking the same question too. Was she expecting anything? Wishing for it? Was she healing? Yeah, she was.

          Sometimes the tears just started to flow again, and I feel so touched. The whole scenario’s like slow motion. I wipe them gently, with the greatest care in this world. The eyes remain closed, but I could sense warm gratitude in them. The lips . . . like lollipop, or bubble gum they were. Pink. Two of us, under the bow of the sky, hardly on the same page hitherto, but we were here now. Chemistry.

I give a lot of time and room – running into days – for chemistry to form. To even overflow. I make the feeling linger.

This fair face. These shut eyes. The slender neck. The swellings on her chest . . . .

The pink lips . . . this had been a long time coming . . . her eyes still closed, I lower my face over hers, take her lips in mine, and kiss her deeply. She lets me. She kisses me back. We stay kissing for a while….

When finally we rise to leave, she hugs me tightly and, her mouth in my ear says a warm “thank you” straight from the heart. This was my pay. A little on and I’ll begin to demand for cheques. I’ll begin to charge.

           No matter how many times you’ve been trounced, you can rise again. That chemistry between a man and a woman never dies – even prostitutes can still feel chemistry. What did we achieve at the foot of that tree? Rediscover her chemistry? Perhaps. Means there’s still something to protect – to deny a man. Me kissing her didn’t mean it all came down to the same thang. It was part of the curriculum, the most vital part, maybe . . . A kissed mouth doesn’t lose its freshness, like the moon, it rises again. No matter how a girl lived her life yesterday, today she’s still a girl very much worth loving, and very much worth caring for. Like the moon, she rises again. Always.

And this job makes me so very vulnerable, cuz now she’s etched somewhere in my heart, even though she’s healed and gone. Plus a few others too, and still counting.

That was a year and a half ago.

Today this phone just kept bugging me... vibrating on my plastic table and threatening to give me that heart attack. And I was so close to breaking down already. Kate didn’t call everyday anymore because, lately, she’d been the one bearing the brunt of my miserable days. Today mom had just called and, amongst other things, she said she hoped I was saving money... that I was a man now and needed to start acting like one. I knew where she was going. My younger siblings didn’t call... they rarely texted; what they did was flash, and when they did, I got the message: school was tough and they needed financial aid. I’d been there, and I knew that times got hard. I rushed to the bank and put in whatever I could afford. Then I really had to save to have any hopes of furthering my education. Plus, harpy girls came into the picture every now and then and bit chunks off my meagre estate. If this was it, then it was nothing unusual, for most Nigerian young men faced the same or similar challenges. For the poor and striving, things were pretty tough. But this wasn’t it, for me. As in, this wasn’t just it. My phone vibrating violently on my table was Sister Teresa calling. Reverend Sister Teresa Nwankwo. I was involved with her... in some sort of... deal, and her calls meant I had to cough up some money. She’d called me regularly in the last five years, but none had ever been to say hello. It was always for money – directly or indirectly. Today, I ignored her call, though I knew there was no running away from it. But I started to contemplate... if I could do just that... if I could run away. I needed a break. The question now was, where to? Already we were at diagonal ends of the map of Nigeria, but phones made it impossible to run and hide within the same country. I couldn’t change my line, my conscience wouldn’t allow that. Sister Teresa called four times and then stopped. I just watched on as the phone danced on the table. Then I picked it up and wiped the four missed calls. The last time we spoke we ended up arguing. I thought she ought to understand my plight, after all, didn’t the Church support them in some way!

                Over the following months, whether to run and where to, were the major things on my mind. I was watching the news in my office one morning, and I heard this interesting report about the approaching World Cup. The reporter had lamented over the lack of interest amongst Nigerians to attend the first ever World Cup to be hosted by an African nation. But he envisaged that there was likely to be a last minute scramble for visas. Eureka! I employed all my life’s savings in the pursuit of a South African visa... to go see the World Cup... but really, it was to run away.

                Here I was, having runaway successfully... from the frying pan... and I was heading into the fire. Abbey. Abbey. Abbey... Abbey, I might fail you... I’m so sorry. Of two evils I choose the lesser... or rather, I’d roll with the devil I know than with the angel I don’t. Nothing I can offer you now but my tears.

At times I liked to indulge myself and cry. It made me feel light. The last time was when I got my job and was shown the accommodation that came with it; a dirty, empty room with poor ventilation... in a lonely neighbourhood. I asked for the bathroom and was taken to a shack some miles away from the room and shown the narrow room where I would shit and bathe until further notice. After showing me around, they left and I was on my own now – I was home. I dropped my bag in a corner of the room and sat on it, and then I took some time to cry: How was it that my life was starting from the scratch... like I didn’t have folks who’d laid a foundation for me. All I had in the world fit into this red Marlboro bag... that wasn’t even mine. It was my kid sister’s and if she’d been around when I left home, she wouldn’t have allowed me to travel with it. I didn’t have a bag. All I had fit into it, and when I migrated it was simply a backpack I carried around with me. In it were my clothes – old; and my certificate – a worthless sheet of paper that didn’t impress even I. School had been one helluva commotion, and in the end they’d given me this paper to say it was... my worth... couldn’t even get me started on a Masters without a PGD. Yet I could be a genius. If I came out of school no better than I went in, whose fault but the teachers’ who were paid to teach me? After crying in my empty room, I spread some clothes on the bare, dirty floor and, with my bag as pillow, I called it a day. Tomorrow I’d make a case for salary advance.

                Since then, months ago, today was the next day I cried. Today. Never in between. Not even Sister Teresa’s incessant calls and demands for money brought tears to my brown eyes. But now a conglomeration of all my life’s problems hit me like a surge and I bawled. I howled my tears on Abbey’s mahogany dining table. Wasn’t I good enough that God seemed to be so far away... so distant? I prayed to Him every morning for a change in my estate; He just didn’t listen... just didn’t care. I thought that misfortune had an end, but mine didn’t seem to. I cried away all my tears and just slouched on the table like one afflicted by a severe case of malaria fever.

                Abbey’s phone rang... for the umpteenth time since it temporarily became mine... Mr. Bradley... I let it knock itself out.