LABYRINTHS SIX

Sunday morning Abbey wakes up first, and comes to my room to inquire if I wasn’t going to church. I looked at her face and saw regret written all over it. Days ago, the face wore the rigidity of business, today, it was wearing the softness, the tenderness of fondness – maybe love.

                “How was your night?” I asked her.

                “Good,” she murmured. “Do I wait for you?”

                “You’ve had your bath...”

                “Yeah.”

                “And you think you can wait?”

                “If I couldn’t I wouldn’t be asking.”

I got out of bed without replying her. I had to hasten up in order not to keep her long. She kept standing in the doorway, and I didn’t want to make her leave. She ought to take the initiative. I started heading towards the bathroom, and her voice stopped me.

                “Won’t you apologise to me?”

I turned.

“... for all the things you said to me last night?” she finished.

                “Apologise to you?”

                “Yeah.”

                “I’m sorry.” My eyes said something else, though.

She accepted the haphazard apology and turned to leave.

                “What’s the point of the apology?” I asked with a condescending gaze.

                “The point’s that you’re sorry! I didn’t deserve all those harsh words.”

I had a lot to say but I didn’t want to start any lecture this morning, we were running late. I proceeded into the bathroom to wash up, not seeing her leave.

Soon I was out. Ready. Abbey was looking radiant; God would be proud today of this particular piece of His creation.

                We got to the car and I said to her.

                “It’s broad daylight, Abbey, let’s drive something else!”

She went back inside in search of the keys to the Rodeo, returned with it, and then we got in. But the car wouldn’t start. Battery was down. I did a little mechanic work: removed the battery of the S-Class and used it to start the Rodeo, and replaced the batteries afterwards. Then we were on our way. Our way to where? She looked at me and asked,

                “Are you coming with me, or am I coming with you?”

                “New car, new church... if something’s wrong we shall soon find out . . . and why, and where.”

                “Meaning?”

                “Meaning you’re coming with me,” I said.

She was from a catholic family, but was now ‘anyone goes’.

                In church it was a real struggle being bodily and mentally present. My mind was busy analysing the degree to which my therapy with Abbey had veered off course, and what dangers it posed. Me, the lecturer, the therapist; how emotionally serene was my own life?

I heard a bit of the Gospel reading. I was sure I’d heard the full story before... the rich fool who told his soul to relax and have fun, that there was plenty to eat and drink... so how come the preacher delved into the story of the log and speck? Remove the log from your own eye so you can see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s – nay – your sister’s eye . . . blah blah blah. Perhaps at every Mass this was how the priests picked out somebody with their words. In this case he clearly picked me. They’re instruments and mouthpieces of God really. I couldn’t help going where the man was leading: back home – my own troubled existence . . .

I’d never been in a love relationship for longer that three months... and I’d only been in a relationship once. Or maybe twice. I couldn’t tell which of my female friends I was ever in a relationship with. Nothing began officially. The once or twice it did, I wondered what was to come next. Sex? Kiss her? What? What was the difference between being in a relationship and being friends with a girl? Inactivity suffocated my affiliations. Neglect. I hadn’t the time, nor the resources to keep a girl enthralled for long. And I didn’t believe in pre-marital sex... with whomever. Or maybe it wasn’t a question of belief... maybe it was that I was bad in bed and so didn’t fancy the whole funny, awkward rigmarole of trying to penetrate a woman and deliver six minutes of pleasure – which isn’t necessarily impotence. At every conscious moment I checked, I was alone. Lonely. I soliloquised and fantasized a lot. Talking to imaginary friends. Masturbating and moaning. Calling the names of girls I lusted for. Afterwards I got on my knees and prayed... for deliverance. I knew I was hurting myself, but I couldn’t help it. And I had mulish pride. I didn’t concede to the fact that I lacked love because I wasn’t good enough. I held the view that every girl I met was queer – not good enough for me. And, truly, most of them had shallow brains. But I should know that in love brains aren’t needed. I should have known. Nobody was ever waiting for me, missing me. I was anticipating no one’s call. Every time my phone rang, it was a surprise. Nobody wishing I was alright. No one, except my folks. And sibs. I was lonely in a world of six billion people. Sex for me was as rare as the solar eclipse – once in six blue moons. The first time, when I was seventeen; the second time was with a whore... eight years later I was still to have the third. I was only a lick of paint away from being still a virgin. That second time was with a harlot who hiked the contract price. I was too young to make any impact on a sagged access – a sagged pouch. And for the entire five or so minutes, the whore rained abuses on me... how the world had gone bad that little boys of nowadays came to lay their mamas. I thought that to succeed as a prostitute one needed to be beautiful and irresistible – to lure any man to sin. This woman wasn’t. Now I saw how she got paid. The prettier girls were out, for it wasn’t night at the time. Since I couldn’t afford to stay out late, I made do with what was available. I forgot all about that experience, and the friend that took me there.

In the university I wrote articles on a weekly bulletin, admonishing people. My first signs of being a shrink. A priest friend of mine often read the articles, and one day he asked me if I was having any emotional crises. I answered in the negative, but have weighed that question all these years. WasI having an emotional crisis? He asked me about my girlfriend, and I felt ridiculous that a priest would be implying that I had a girlfriend. As a good Christian – a good, practicing Catholic, was I supposed to? I told him I had none. He inquired if the girls I approached wouldn’t have me, or if the reverse was the case. I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.

It was the same me, a product of several empty years, that was teaching a young damsel how to love. I felt stupid. Looked at from any angle, my exercise was ridiculous. But it just might make a little sense after all, for this comely maid. It might make all the difference. Horizons are nothing more than the limits of our sight. And, yes, our eyes are very limited. The human eyes are said to be amongst the most poorly developed of all animals. If only we could see like the hawk, the dog, the cat....

                There are many paths to redemption; I thought this might just be the path to mine... and Abbey’s – two lonely souls trudging through the icy alleys of a harsh world. We might be thirsty for people; for a society... but might discover when we found one that, our company was the best we could ever have. In that case, switching from shrink to lover wouldn’t be difficult. As in... here I was, trying to prepare and lead Abbey to the right man, as it were, obscuring myself, ruling myself out... not knowing I could be that right man. We might find nothing, not because there wasn’t anything to find, but because we ruled that something out from the start.

There in church I decided I’d begin to slacken my hold on events. I’d planned that success could only be guaranteed if I had closest to a hundred percent grip on the unfurling of events. But now, to give myself a chance at healing too, I decided no more than a fifty percent grip was necessary. Every other thing would be left to chance, just in case there be something I hadn’t anticipated. I had to submerge myself in the therapy too. Somehow.

Presently, I put my scheme in prayer. Beyond the possibility of this being a path to somebody’s redemption – Abbey’s or mine – it was also honest employment, and I needed the money to get back home, and to weather the financial storms that beset me there. My dreams hung in the balance, and so I thought a tax-free four thousand Rands might suffice to set me off on my pursuits again.

                After the Mass, outside, Abbey walked towards me, squinting, for the rising sun was in her eyes. Like it wanted to outshine her; but, to me, it wasn’t trying hard enough. She was looking pale, though. She said she didn’t know how she felt, but that being here touched a deep part of her... the sermon... the songs... the ambience. She acknowledged that no matter where she’d chosen to wander, she ought to have come ‘home’ from time to time. She gazed at me with the elevation she required to do so – me being taller, expecting me to say something.

                “If you say so!” I said.

Then she dropped her face.

The sun was emerging more prominently in the 10am sky just behind and above my head. Abbey looking up into my face meant she had to shield her face with her hand. She was by no means short, just that I was impossibly tall sometimes. Especially on mornings like this when purpose and resolve dotted the contoured lines of my brow. It was a heavenly morning, animated by the filial hustle and bustle of catholic premises immediately after Sunday Mass. The Church was truly universal, for exactly the same scene replayed across the world: friends seeking out friends to say hello, to hug, to kiss, to bless... People soothing one another’s pains, sharing joy and laughter, inviting each other for luncheons... inquiring about the week gone by, and wishing good tidings for the one setting in. Patting the heads of young ones, who ran and played spiritedly all over the place, asking their parents about their academic welfare. Young men stalking the sisters they fancied... making moves, or no. Then too, some people ran to besiege the priest to relay their latest religious achievements and ask his advice and prayers on issues. It went beyond whether a man was a repository of God’s blessings or not; the trust alone sufficed to see pilgrims through. It idolized the priest and made him effective. The trust that if and when they took cases to a priest of God, God received same at his altar in heaven. And for a one like me who had been with priests, having witnessed firsthand the manner of fragrance that oozed from their lives, I couldn’t trust more. I walked up to the priest to say hello. The thick-set man shook my hand vigorously and made the sign of the cross on my forehead with his fore-finger. I came away. Abbey had to see this, that no matter how in control of one’s life one thought himself to be, he still needed to nestle close to the source of his being, the fountain of his life... whatever he took that to be. If I were a cultist I’d strive to be as devoted. Man is the meeting point of several conflicting forces; he can’t just be idling around in the midst of a raging battle for his soul. He has to decide to take sides. I decided long ago to take the Lord’s side. My Lord and my God!

                I now walked towards Abbey with the strides and gaze of someone who’d just seen a ghost. I stretched out my left arm and she claimed it, clinging to it as if it was her man’s. We walked through the thinning crowd to the car. I took her over to the driver’s side, opened the door, and helped her sit.

                “Couldn’t you drive?” she nagged.

                “No ma’am, I couldn’t,” I said, “after all I’m working for you... you ought to even assign me an official car and a driver.”

We laughed. I went over to the passenger’s side and got in.

On our way home she said,

                “I feel really happy having come to this church today.”

                “Sure ‘bout that?” I said.

                “Yeah... I am.”

                “I’m glad to hear that,” I said, and savoured the ensuing silence.

                Zuma opened the gate when we arrived. I opened the car door for Abbey and helped her get out, then we walked into the house like newly-weds. I sensed Zuma’s scornful gaze on us, and learned of the injustice the rich and famous all over the world suffer. If Zuma had three girlfriends who could tell? But Abbey’s only genuine shot at something true in a long, long time passes for looseness to him. Or maybe an immoral fling. It was the same thing for stars and celebrities; that was how we monitored their lives, and yelled when they used foul language in bed. Demanding that they gave us what we wanted in public as well as in private. Like... if you want to have sex, we must know if you be under or on top; we must know the origin of your partner; we must know his or her medical, educational, spiritual, etc, background, otherwise we’ll tear you apart with gossip... accusing you of using your fame to play on people. Meanwhile, we, the masses, carry on without any restricting rules and regulations. I knew the number of times I’d driven under the influence of alcohol and got away with it, but Mel Gibson does it in far away America, and I hear of it in my living room... and I could say with hypocritical impunity ‘so Mel’s such a fool!’ That was how Colin Farrel’s career plummeted. Heath Ledger was driven to his death...  Now, here was Zuma, trying to deny Abbey this imminent magic of a day.

I’d always cared a lot about morals, public image, and religious injunctions, but I wasn’t going to let anyone or anything shake my poise to add whatever meaning I could to the life of this innocent woman. Zuma better kept his grimaces to himself, for if he ever confronted me with it, I’d punch him in the face – even though he was as big as Zuma Rock in Nigeria. And, really, he should have been a bouncer and not a security guard. Perhaps he nursed the illusion that, Abbey, being a spinster, might one day invite him to her fortress... he being big and all. But the more I knew Abbey, the more I knew that Zuma didn’t stand a chance in this lifetime. Abbey had had her sexual adventures, I was sure, but now she was at that crossroads where girls arrive at sooner or later in their flight out of girlhood. It was commitment time. Concrete time... even if leading nowhere, it was sure to keep one’s emotional, social, and mental equilibrium stable for corporate success. An uncommitted girl is a nuisance in the workplace... distracting the boss, and confusing colleagues – if she’s good-looking. And she’s bound to generate gossips and hatred. But being in relationships levelled colleagues, and made the goals of the organisation the issue at hand, always. It’s like driving on a level road, you know that there might be bumps ahead but, in the meantime, you’re grateful for this plain sailing. But it’s often the folly of women to place the cart before the horse... like, tell me you’re here for the long road and I’ll decide to love you. I thought that love was what led people into the future, and not the other way around! Some girls, it seems, point at a destination in the distance and make the getting there the matter at hand – the matter of the relationship. Again, I thought that, when people fall in love, they walk into the future hand-in-hand, and pitch a tent somewhere until they’re able to build a castle! Even... some girls there be who, seeing your castle from far off, call – as on a phone, and indicate their interest to come and meet you there, for which they ask you for directions on how to proceed. I have seen, amongst Nigerians, that the direction often was, ‘how fertile is your farm land?’ Perhaps I should plant a seed and see how long it will take to germinate; and if, indeed, it will germinate at all. If it does, then come on ye to my castle! But if it doesn’t, then... my mother said I mustn’t bring a dark-tanned girl to this castle, that it is a family taboo! I’m sorry.’

Enough said about Zuma and his reaction, Abbey and I proceeded into the house. She went upstairs to change, I went into my room to consult with my computer.

                Really all I could do now was play songs. Need I disappear again like the Sunday before! Maybe... create some more antecedents! I thought not. I lay on my bed gazing at the ceiling. It seemed to hold more questions than answers for me at the moment. I pondered... over nothing in particular, just hoping that something might crystallize. Nothing did. I took off my special shirt and wore a t-shirt. Two things I could do now: go sit in the parlour and watch TV, anticipating lunch, or go help in the kitchen – and maybe chat her up! I left the room not deciding on either, but kept both slates open. I saw her dashing boisterously about the house in bum shorts: from the kitchen to the refrigerator, to the balcony, dinning, then to the kitchen again. On one of her trips to the kitchen she caught me staring. I actually let her catch me. But she couldn’t decipher the expression on my face – mischief or disgust.

                “I thought you were supposed to keep all the items you needed to cook with close,” I called out. She didn’t hear me.

When she came passing again, she looked at me and said,

                “Oh... I’m sorry if this assaults you... It’s just my attire for moods like this.”

                “Oh no! I’m fine,” I lied. “What mood you talking about by the way?”

                “Well...,” she began, and came walking towards me. She spun around and said, “Happy mood! I’m just so so happy today... maybe it’s the church... or the weather... or the outing last night...” She sat by the arm of my chair, and said now, “or maybe it’s you!”

                “Me?” I said.

                “Yes, you. You know... you feel kinda familiar... like I know you from somewhere.”

                “Really?”

                “Really.”

                “Tell me about it.”

                “Not now... or we’ll eat ashes for lunch.” She chuckled as she dashed to the kitchen.

I felt I knew what she was going to say. Imagine a girl that’s in love with two people... how uncomfortable she’ll be... trying always to hide one from the other. Imagine a man knowing what the girl’s up to without betraying the knowledge... Imagine him actually enjoying the ride, for he knows that he’s both men. But what would you do if you knew your girlfriend was having an affair? She’s not aware that you are the both men she be dating, but you are? It’s still betrayal, innit? Unfaithful! Imagine you have multi-personality disorder, and the same girl loves each of you, without knowing it’s the same person. I’d thought that in a situation like this the guy were totally secure, because should the girl ever leave one, she gives herself to the other completely – who’s still the same guy. But I’d learned that, in dealing with women, assumptions were risky. To keep a girl, even in this circumstance, may require still, eternal vigilance. Who says a girl couldn’t dump the two people she loves for a total neutral stranger! I may never have seen this happen, but I keep an open mind... until I’m ninety-seven. Women’s moods change like the weather: sometimes it’s cloudy; sometimes it’s hazy, sometimes it’s rainy, or sunny, or moist, and so on. I guess what in them keeps us men is the fact that the sky is almost always blue. Hence through the ever changing facades we hang on, enjoying, if nothing else for the moment, the blue sky... knowing that as long as the sky is blue, good times will come round again... it ain’t the end of the world.

                I raised the volume of the TV to get what they were saying. Above its sound I could hear Abbey whistling in the kitchen. Common sense told me that, at a time like this, when your presence enlivens a woman so, and she be fixing lunch in the kitchen, watching TV was the wrong thing for you to be doing.

I turned the damn thing off and went in the direction of the sound I still heard.

                I spotted the pretty thing by the washer, carrying out a rinsing operation connected with the cooking. I went and hugged her from behind... like we were man and wife and this was our home. She submitted to my embrace and cast her head back across my face, and I saw her eyes close, lips waiting for the taking. Take them I did. Everything blurred the instant we locked lips. I was half aware, but Abbey was not herself anymore. She literally melted like wax, and I knew the girl hadn’t been kissed in a while. Her knees gave way and, though our feet were on the floor, only mine upheld our bodies. It took the smell of burning onions to jolt me back to sanity. I shook her tenderly to wake up, and she remembered her cuisine. She was shy. She looked at me so and asked,

                “Should I be sorry?”

I held her by the chins and kissed her lips again and said,

                “Should you? If you like!”

Then I walked over to the side asking what I could do to help. She quickly handed me a grater and seven sticks of carrots.

                “You know what to do I suppose!” she said, laughing.

                “Yes,” I said. “I do.” I bit one of the carrots in half and started chewing away. She burst out laughing and I joined, trying to make the most of one mouth that had carrots in it and had to laugh at the same time.

“Stop joking,” she teased.

“Aight... I know exactly what to do,” I said, then I reached out and kissed her. “These days that’s all I know how to do.”

                “Then I think you should learn just one more thing...” She took the grater from me and demonstrated with a carrot as she spoke. “Scratch these carrots against the surface of this utensil, and get shreds as a result.”

                “Oh... I thought they were appetizers...” I joked.

She laughed. And I went to work.

After a while she said...

                “And then there’s one more thing I’d like you to learn...”

Perhaps she’d been weighing this...

                “What?” I asked.

She gave me a look, and I knew.