LABYRINTHS - THREE

I sat on my computer, drafting and re-drafting moves. Appraising my progress and setbacks. There had been no setbacks as yet, save for one looming one: I now felt out of place and insecure in her opulent residence.

                Most of the battles we fight in this life are with ourselves – they’re internal battles. My problem now was how to conceal the fact that a battle was going on inside me. It may be called inferiority complex. This situation is commonplace everywhere on earth. It’s hard to feign indifference in the presence of wealth you’d never imagined. There were electronic gadgets that you couldn’t even operate; some you might never have seen. And it’s not only in the presence of wealth that this unease is experienced. Sometimes you appear too meagre in your eyes and question your audacity for courting a fair maid. Then you conclude she’s only toying with you; that every time you’re apart she probably goes to see and be with more deserving men. You start to build walls as a result, and consequently make your horrible nightmare come true. Your arms become unwelcoming and repel your girl. And comforting embraces pop out of the blues to give her solace while she waits for you to come back around. That rarely happens, for jealously destroys, with the help of its twin brother, pride. Hence, should you learn of your error, pride wouldn’t allow you own up to it and repent. There goes your romance... down the drain.

                I’d come a long way in this battle with myself... how to comport myself in the presence of the high and mighty; the elegant and beautiful; the strong and powerful... I lived by Robert Greene’s philosophy – ‘Disdain the things you can’t have’. What’s beauty by the way? Isn’t it but only skin deep? Is beauty even earned? Isn’t it always an accident of nature? Why should I be fazed in its presence?

                Long ago while I was still in the university, a girl friend once asked me, condescendingly, if I had a mobile phone. I asked her why she was perturbed by the possibility that I didn’t own a mobile phone. ‘A lot of these dudes who own mobile phones, can they make you smile as I do?’ Her answer was no. I hadn’t answered her question, and she didn’t think my owning or not owning a phone mattered any more. It was of no consequence that she was pretty and rich and I wasn’t. But from that day I started saving up for a phone... it was becoming embarrassing not having one.

Navigating through Abbey’s life now would pose a similar ulcer, but I could handle it.

I went through the entire proposal – Articles A to E – a second time, and then I started wasting away around the house.

                In the early evening I decided to go out for a walk. Zuma at the gate insisted he must search me before I went out. I expected that. I didn’t argue. Nothing incriminating on me, he let me pass.

I regarded the South African climate from this point of view. I’d been here for roughly six weeks. I’d seen two sides of the country: their jubilant mood, and their austerity. The World Cup was fun. It wasn’t going to last long, so no one played the hard-to-get girl. And I came away with one impression: that Western girls weren’t hard to woo. They even wooed you if you were slacking. It’s probably only in Africa that asking a girl out is a big deal. Probably only in Nigeria. I was a staunch supporter of Spain at the Games. Perhaps because I’d always been a Liverpool fan, and wanted to see Fernando Torres score goals for his country too. I met a Spanish girl and we clicked. We went everywhere together. We were hardly in the stadia when it wasn’t Spain playing. Absent even when Nigeria played Korea. We visited every tourist site, hung out in cheap hotels, and tried out local cuisines. All through, South Africans were nice and hospitable.

When Spain won the Cup jubilant Spanish fans filed out on the streets, chanting their anthem. Valeria excused herself to go join the jamboree, saying she’d be right back. I sat back and waited for her. There seemed to have been a security threat that hastened contingents’ departures from South Africa. Valeria never came back. And she’d promised to help me with some money; since I’d spent all of mine gallivanting through the country with her. Valeria failed me. Maybe duped me. And landed me in this mess. And Torres didn’t score a goal at the World Cup... the whole bliss faded briskly.

                Now that was one point of view of South Africa. The other was the life at Parakou. Me and some Nigerian friends had met a South African dude who promised to help us with an accommodation until we could get back to Nigeria. Aaron. No more motel money. We contributed some money and gave to him, and got a shack in return. We couldn’t complain, because he got us some food too. And was our ‘tour guide’ in short. He visited sometimes to see how we were faring... but it was really to rendezvous with his sinister-looking Zulu boys. They did drugs. And it seemed the apartment he gave us was his warehouse – his hideout. We’d told him that if we didn’t get help soon enough to return home, he should cause the authorities to know about us and repatriate us. Repatriation wasn’t a first option, because he had told us that the government might not be interested in spending money sending us home, that we might be put in jail instead. That was scary. In the build-up to the Games, the locals had unleashed mayhem on Nigerian immigrants and killed a handful of them. The alarm got home. And the governments of both our countries swept the matter under the carpet. But those who lost family members knew nightfall in broad daylight. When a Nigerian got entangled with the Law in South Africa the outcome was easily bizarre. We banked on home support for our return. Now, I banked on the scheme with Abbey for mine.

Survival in Parakou was uncertain and unguaranteed, I had to venture into the streets now... no questions. The Abbey blueprint had to become a reality – a mission. I had to be either the Mike she’d known, or the shrink I’d playfully come up with.

 From the Parakou point of view, South Africa wasn’t pretty. Neighbours... folks who were indigenes, didn’t fare any better than us. Poverty and disease levels were high. And we heard that an unfathomable sum of money was spent on the Games. The money used to purchase condoms alone... the monies spent on addressing the problems posed by AIDS... could be used in tackling root causers like illiteracy. Education, positive social orientation, empowerment of the citizens... these would achieve better results that anti-retroviral drugs – better results than the condom propaganda. Ostentation was Africa’s problem. Africa as a whole.... wanting to keep pace with the West whereas basic foundations haven’t been laid. But our fathers tell us at home to cut our coat according to our cloth. To be contented with what we have. Germany hosted the World Cup in ’06. It was a modest outing... bye and large, a good show. Korea and Japan co-hosted the one before that:an opportunity for them to showcase their latest technological breakthroughs. South Africa now, a generally more backward country that these three, put up a grander show, in which local content was as good as absent. The only local content was even controversial – the vuvuzelas – flutes. Can you imagine! Businesses with foreign inclinations had set up camp long before the Games, to usurp all the monies that trickled down into the economy from the event. Hotels and all. A month after the Games and we were still waiting for any form of impact the colossal event would have on the economy. We were waiting to hear the lies the authorities would tell. The staggering statistics. But I thought it might have been over-ambitious to expect too much from a deeply scarred country.

                It’s hard to make progress when, all the time, peace always has to be ensured first. Countries with rainbow-colour populations always had retarded growth. A facility is erected, and destroyed when a party picks offence that it should have been painted red instead of green. The government steps in, rebuilds it, and paints it yellow; now both parties go away dissatisfied, to perform the drama elsewhere. Countries with angry populaces. Bitter races! Citizens with more intense internal beefs than America and Iraq. Marriages of convenience for colonial masters.

                Now this was another part of South Africa I needed to see:the high society... and Abbey’s house was that alright. The jubilant South African, the poor South African... this was the best South African to be – the rich South African. Tarred roads; paved, ordered streets adorned with pretty malls; streetlights... and the quiet, calm atmosphere... Was like being locked away from the world and all its worries. I knew Nigeria and all its pains and unfulfilled promises. Here was a hideout. I done come out here to breathe. I should go home refreshed really. And my exercise with Abbey was like a blank cheque... a lot was possible. A lot could happen. My plans could change.

                Looking up I noticed the winds had polished the clouds out of the sky. The sun was setting, making way for the moon to appear in front of the klieg lights. The way things should be: live and let live. Rule, step aside, allow another to take the reins. I didn’t know the intricacies but I thought South Africa’s neighbours needed to borrow a leaf from the sun and the moon – how they cooperated. Zimbabwe.

                I was walking back to the house now. Abbey was home already I discovered. There stood her S-Class in the driveway. It was her favourite car. She was later to tell me she loved it because it was exquisite and feminine. That it was built with a woman in mind – it even had a make-up kit. Mercedes Benz’ deceit! The foldable sunshield in front of the driver’s seat had a little hideaway for lipsticks, mascaras and stuff. I’d seen a lady before in this kind of car in Abuja. She was waiting for the traffic light to give green, and she opened the shield, fished out a lipstick and painted her lips blood. You’d ask why she didn’t do that at home... she was running late it seemed, plus, she just had her breakfast right in the car too. If you were to paint your lips that red you had to make sure you’ve eaten, cuz you couldn’t safely pass food through afterwards. Somehow, I felt really fortunate that I’d seen someone use one of the car’s features before... so that when I could buy into the ‘tour’ of the car she gave me, it seemed as though I was a privileged son myself.

I went to the door of the house and tried to open it but discovered it was bolted from inside. So I hit the doorbell. She answered, looking bright. Before she could say a word, I hugged and pecked her on both cheeks, and then walked in... sweat on my T-shirt to show I was out for a walk... sign that I had a healthy lifestyle.

“How was your day?” I asked as I animatedly proceeded into the living room.

She was still standing at the door, lost, it seemed.

                “It was so so,” she eventually replied.

                “Sounds like ‘good’ to me!” I said, going to the fridge in the dining for a bottle of water.

                “I’d say... not bad.”

                “Not bad means good...” I turned to face her, “or is there a middle word?”

                “Just there,” she said tiredly.

                “S’that an adjective ma’am?” I quipped.

                “Sorry... are we taking an English course here?”

I changed the subject.

                “I wanted to make you dinner but couldn’t manage it. So... assuming I did, what would your reaction be?”

                “Make dinner?” Must have sounded mundane to her

                “Yeah. You eat dinner don’t you?”

“Well... you didn’t!”

                “That’s why I said ‘assuming’ I did! What would you do?”

                “Ah dunno!”

                “You dunno what your reaction would be if I made and served you dinner in your house?”

                “Ah guess... it’d be nice,” she said with rolling eyes.“Romantic.” She seemed to find that one from the ceiling or so.

There! I made her say it. Means her mind wasn’t far from romance. Things were going well.

                “Romantic... yeah?” I repeated. “Well, since I didn’t make dinner you gotta go in now and fix us something... I’m starving, thank you!”

                She dragged herself into the kitchen to do the bidding of her doctor.

                I thought about the men that had been in this position before me. If at all. Why was no one here now? The lady in question was sweet and warm. Where were South African men? In Nigeria ladies like this didn’t exist – ladies rich and alone, that was. There was usually someone... nothing ever concrete, but someone was always in the picture somewhere. Here, I guessed I was the someone now!

                After the sumptuous dinner, we sat watching M-Net for a while. Tomorrow was Saturday, so no hurry to go to bed. We weren’t talking much. And I knew I was never to bore her, so I pulled a sarcastic stunt...               

                “I think we should have sex.”

                “What?!”she shot out, staring at me with round eyes.

I started to laugh hysterically. She was at a loss for what, in her surprised reaction, prompted the mirth. My succinct argument carefully percolated in my head, and I knew my therapy was going really well. To start with, a different girl in this same circumstance would react differently – one with self-confidence. She’s likely to laugh even, for the request was ludicrous. Abbey’s frowning only meant she imagined it was possible and had to feign firmness to refute it. But was sex a hard bridge to cross now that she’d already opened up the gates of her life to me? Wasn’t it just a matter of time? And little time for that matter?

I poised myself to give her my first lesson.

                “Do you like football?” I asked her.

                “Yes. Why?” Her eyes were still round with rage or something like that.

                “Are you a fan?”

                “Yes. Arsenal. Why you asking?”

                “Can you analyse their play for me?”

                “What...?”

                “As in, their style of play... Do they play defensive or attacking football?”

                “I dunno about that,” she murmured, “and, honestly, I don’t care.”

                “Well, you shouldn’t care actually. Anyway... I’m not asking you this for football’s sake but for something I want to illustrate for you.”

                “What’s tha...”

I didn’t let her finish...

                “In football there’s attack, and there’s defence. Often, the highest paid players in the world are attackers, because the emphasis is on scoring goals. A defensive team, of course, has viable claims as to why their pattern’s better because conceding goals counts against you. But they know that when they defend too deeply, a strong, persistent attacking force would, sooner or later, overwhelm them and they’ll cave in. So, then, there’s a line of men a little up field who try to hold back these attackers when they come. These are the midfielders. In football, the longer any team has the ball, the less likely it is that their opponents would score them. And these mid-fielders really come in handy here…”

                “So... what’s your point, coach?”

                “Just hold on... I’m coming to the point... If you want to win in the game of life, you must attack as a form of defence... or, at least, defend a little up-field, giving yourself room to recover in time to avert certain doom when you make inevitable mistakes. To protect your room, you must protect your gates, ‘cuz it’s through them that one gets into your house and into your room. To protect your treasure island, you must protect your heart... and your head. A man who has no business having sex with you has no business living with you... if he were not your brother. You let me through your head, by accepting the words in my proposal. You let me through your heart, by trusting to leave me in your house; by smiling and laughing at my jokes... Only now you could say no to sex with me... but that be defending too deep and putting yourself in a precarious position. You might cave in with time... it’s likely. It’s possible that this has pretty much been the story of your life so far...” I paused, allowing it all to sink in.

“Do think about it! Goodnight.” I left for my room.

                I wondered what effect the speech was having on her. In any case, I didn’t want to stay and find out, for she may be unmoved by them and come to mock me. So I ended the speech with the goodnight, meaning there was no room for questions or rebuttals. I left her in the sitting room and went to bed. She was silent. Probably surprised to find that the night was ending so soon. But I was working here, work for which I was being paid. No need for frivolities. I knew that by dawn, I’d see the result of my loquaciousness. If any.