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Prologue


******






"Driver, there is a pregnant woman on this bus! Mind how you run into those potholes; you know very well that your shock-absorbers are gone."

The man, who had spoken, finally voicing the inferred complaints of the bus passengers, was wearing a funny-looking bowtie reminiscent of Pee-wee Herman, and he spoke English with the deliberate care that only the older generation seemed to bother with in present-day Nigeria. They were cramped up in the fourteen-seat Danfo which crawled along the Aba-Port Harcourt express-way. The engine sputtered as though it were suffering from a bad case of bronchitis and it jerked sporadically, seemingly battling invisible demons, as the vehicle struggled to maintain forward momentum.

"Who tell you say the shocks done go? Where them take go?" The driver was irritated by the man's criticism. Even though it was clear that his bus had seen better days, his pride would not let him accept censure from anyone.

"How you fit ask that kind question, eh? Driver? With this your kom-kom wey you chook people put inside." A large woman, who carried a basin full of limp leafy vegetables on her lap, queried loudly, "Since we leave Aba, na my nyash you dey take do shock absorber for here! The Kind beating wey i done receive, no be small matter."

"Madam, why you no see another motor enter?" The driver responded without sympathy. "You no see as Danfo full for park?"

"You are a mad fellow!"

"Look at this man!"

"Driver, you are wicked! See how you have packed human beings like sardines in this heat, and you are moving along like a snail! God will judge you!"

"Anuofia!"

The passengers were united in their indignation and they took collective exception to the driver's insensitivity. They all spoke out of turn hurling abuses at his seemingly unperturbed back. Even though they knew that the driver was probably not fazed by their castigation, it was satisfying to rid themselves of some of the pent up frustrations brought on by the unpleasantness of the journey.

"No be turn by turn una dey load am? How I wan select better motor enter? Them suppose carry this your motor throw 'way for dirty – the thing done kpeme!" The large woman with the limp leafy vegetables felt emboldened to continue her criticism by the chorus of reproach directed at the driver. “You no suppose to keep am for line dey load passengers."

The driver peered into the rear-view mirror to get a better look at the woman who had spoken. "Come carry am go throw 'way, you hear?" he muttered something incoherent but vilifying beneath his breath.

"Driver, it's enough!" said the man in the bow-tie, "Watch the road, and don't get distracted."

"Oga, no worry yourself! I wan make this woman carry my motor go keep for dirty." The driver persisted stubbornly. "Na her type dey even spoil motor finish. See as she fat! Orobo times ten! She dey balance everywhere, dey flat my tire, come dey talk nonsense on top. If to say I look am very well for that Aba, I for no even carry am. Abeg make una help me judge this matter: na she suppose enter motor, abi na motor suppose dey on top him head? See him bele wey be like container them dey off-load for wharf." He looked at her again through the mirror, but this time there was a hint of humor in his eyes as he fished for a reaction – the look of a seasoned trouble-maker.

The woman nursed a petulant pout, "You no get single respect! Na your mama you dey talk to so?"

"Which my mama, you reach? How i wan take get respect? As you dey there, you dey respect yourself so? You just dey insult my motor anyhow, meanwhile you never buy your own."

"Who tell you say I never buy motor?"

"Oya, no vex. You done buy?"

The large woman with the limp leafy vegetables was silent.

"Madam, I dey ask nah, you no wan answer me? You done buy motor?" The driver had begun to enjoy goading her.

"Eh, I done buy." She said impatiently, hoping to end the conversation with that.

"Eh-Hehn!" The driver said cheerfully, "Why you no carry am go your market? Abi danfo dey sweet you for body? You suppose enter your AC, cross-leg on top steering, dey go your journey je-je."

The woman ignored him.

“Na jeep you buy? Four by four! I no sure say even jeep fit sustain your size.”

“You think say e easy to big like me? This is evidence of good living.” It was a practiced reply. She had probably used it several times before to ward off the nasty remarks designed to bully her into shame.

“If I hear!” The driver laughed, “Evidence of wetin? People wey get money dey go gymn dey do job, people wey no get money, them dey trek, get suffer-head on top. Your own come be wetin? Na your oga dey try for your matter.”

“My oga like am like that!”

“(Yimu!) For where! Na manage him dey manage you so, nobody wey dey like any big something now wey country dey hard. If you wan sew cloth, only you fit finish material wey suppose reach pesin family.”

“You are too talkative! And you are saucy!”

“No be me get my mouth?”

"Driver, dey look road! Dey look road!!!"

As she screamed her warning, the driver swerved the bus sharply, in quick reaction to avoid running into a hatch-back just in front. He had not seen the brake-lights early enough to slow down. Again, the passengers broke into a raucous of dissatisfaction.

"Hah!"

"Blood of Jesus!"

"They will not see us o!"

"Oga, this your motor no get brake?" A young man, who had remained aloof throughout most of the journey, buried deep within a novel, broke his silence.

"E get." The driver assured him, "But e dey fail sometimes. Na him make I no dey 'gree run. I dey reason am say, e better make we reach Port Harcourt late than to get accident for road. Because na life dey us most important."

"Hmmmm?" The woman with the limp leafy vegetables could not resist saying, "Na so you reason am? You no reason to go repair your brake make your motor for run well, well like other motor dem?"

"Madam, you done bring another wahala come! You no see as other people dey gentle dey mind their business? Na only you I carry for motor?"

"Na my business be this, you hear? Na my life you dey carry play so, so na my business. If you dey do anyhow, I must talk my mind, because i get family to care for. I get small, small pikin them for house. So you no fit dabaru their mama for road sake of say you dey drive danfo. E no fit work like that."

"Oya, relax now, make i concentrate reach Port Harcourt. Make your pikin them for see their mama quick, quick. You done happy? Hope say you carry their oyoyo for that basin wey you hold for hand?"

She did not respond, and they drove in the silence that was only interrupted by the mechanical buzz chortling in the wind. The slow pace made the journey extremely gruesome. The heat from the engine under the driver's seat heated the interior of the bus, finishing the job the scorching sun had begun. The condition of the road itself was deplorable, and one could not be too surprised that vehicles rapidly lost their integrity, as they moved along this god-forsaken track. At some point near Port Harcourt, the tarred section abruptly disappeared, giving way to muddy undulations that could not be completely devised because large portions were buried under stagnant water - water that had been accumulated from the rain, as well as the scummy waste water that had been tossed out indiscriminately from nearby households. It constituted a conducive breeding ground for mosquitoes and it smelt really badly. Several cars lay broken-down and abandoned at this spot, and hawkers sold their wares in the dirt - plantain chips, sausage rolls, soda, fresh fish, ground nuts, bananas - they took advantage of the fact that vehicles were forced into a crawl in order to navigate past the uncertainties.

"Do we have a Government at all in this Country?" Someone from the back row remarked, "See how people are suffering!"

No one responded to his decidedly rhetorical question, they were all used to the government's neglect; it was the order of the day. The only thing they did about it was to complain when their stomachs were full, and acquiesce in silence when they had other things on their minds.

After several agonizing minutes, the 'Welcome to the Garden City of Port Harcourt' sign board (There's a joke for you!) could be seen up ahead. The traffic had grown dense as a result of the meticulous work being carried out at the police check point where vehicles were screened before entering the city.

The bus driver pulled up by the officer who had flagged him to a stop, and waited to be cleared to move on. The officer looked at him a little embarrassed, “Why you dey look my face? You no know wetin you suppose do?"

"Officer, I done pass here up to five times today, and now I done buy fuel, so nothing remain for my hand. When i come back, abeg, i go see you."

Before the driver had finished speaking, the officer waved him to the side of the road, "Oya, park! Carry your paper come, sharp, sharp!"

The driver pulled the bus to the side of the road as he had been instructed to do, entirely to the irritation of his passengers.

"Driver, this your motor get any paper so? You for kuku give am something o, instead of us to dey waste time for this place. Abeg, heat dey kill pesin for here."

"I get every paper complete here. Make una no worry unaself." The driver bragged as he retrieved an untidy crumple that had been wedged between the visor and the roof. He alighted and walked smugly to the police officer who, by his demeanor, was displeased with the submissions. Not because they were not in order, but precisely because they were. He scanned the documents and passed them back in under a minute, and he grudgingly gestured that the driver was free to continue on his journey.

"I no tell una? The motor dey certified – international! - I fit carry am go Sokoto, no problem." He said as he got back into the bus.

"Driver, your motor get certificate of road worthiness?" The young man with the novel asked disbelievingly.

"Eh-heh nah! Every, every."

Everyone in the bus broke into raucous laughter. Nigerians knew how to exploit the brief humorous moments even when they were being taken advantage of.

"Na which kind pesin stamp road worthiness give you? Them suppose flog that person twenty-four."

"Una done come again o! No be Nigeria we dey again? Abeg make una free me joor, na my own hustle be this."

He kicked the engine to a start but it died almost instantly. He tried again but the only sound he could coax out of the bus, with the twist of the key, was a long whine of determined reluctance.

"Una done see winch?" he boldly blamed the disappointing response of the engine on arbitrary witches. "Kai! Abeg, na who send this winch make him come worry me now?"

"Back to sender!" A woman said, forcefully.

"Amen o!"

"No be winch dey do your motor, na lack of maintenance!" The young man with the novel said.

"Abeg, make una come down help me push the motor small."

"Driver, wey we never chop, we wan push motor? You go reduce our money so?"

"Abeg, make we no come sleep for here, abeg."

“You wan push motor comot for checking point wey done already clear your motor say him dey road worthy. No allow that officer catch you again.”

“Wetin come concern am for this one? Him ask for paper, and I done give am. This one no be him business again. Which motor no dey get fault? Abeg, make una push am for me.”

All the passengers dropped from the bus, one after the other. All but the pregnant woman and the woman with the limp leafy vegetables, who sat tightly with an expression that dared anyone to ask her to move. The men took up strategic positions behind the battered bus and pushed it to life. They maintained their good humor as they did so, poking fun at their plight. It did not require much to get the bus to start, and they soon cheered in delight to the welcome roar of the engine. The driver revved the engine forcefully as the passengers climbed back in, and then they got moving.

"Madam, you like am as you sit down for motor je-je as them push you, abi?" The driver addressed the woman with the limp leafy vegetables after a while.

"Which kind talk be that?" she asked, visibly offended. "You wan make we come down, push your motor, so that you fit carry all our load escape, abi? I done see your type before."

"Wetin you, you buy for that market wey i wan carry? Na the vegetable wey dey do body like say life done tire am, abi wetin?"

The woman hissed in indignation. "Na wa for you!"

1



"Mile-one, drop! Sharp, sharp!"

Ibe Maduka pushed his stocky frame through the throng of bodies and stepped into a puddle as he alighted from the bus. Fitting! He thought in irritation, if this now, only were a pool of urine, it would be an apt representation of his day. Or even his week. Maybe, it was a metaphor for his life? That would have been right on the money too; especially, lately. His entire right foot stood drenched up to his ankle by the murky liquid – shoe, sock, and the hem of his good 'interview' trousers.

It had not rained in days, but there were puddles on the streets, nonetheless, from the overflowing drains, which had been improvised to serve as receptacles for solid household waste. People were determined to find some real use, at least, for the gutters. Nobody trusted the drains to convey storm water to any pre-determined destination as they normally should, because no such destinations had been pre-determined by the people who were in charge of these things. The drains had been designed to simply hold the water in place until it overflowed onto the streets again. Like so many things in the city, the drainage reticulation had either never been planned, or nobody cared enough to ensure that those plans were implemented. And so, people did what they liked in their ignorance and selfishness. For all the good intentions the Government might have had, or the commitment it made to build these facilities, the neighbourhood was always left a filthy mess. People were inclined to turn the water into sludge so that it could be carted, with shovels, out of the trenches on designated environmental sanitation days. It was rather curious that such a simple thing, as drainage construction, could not be gotten right.

Port Harcourt was touted as the Garden City, but the slogan was a study in false advertisement. Whoever came up with it must have been a very arrogant optimist, believing that if a destiny was first written on a billboard, it would, maybe, encourage a person, place or thing, to live it to fulfilment; but not this city. There still were no gardens. Not after several decades of these boastful postulations. Instead, the roads were lined with garbage, shanty structures and despair.

Ibe jogged across the express way, clearing the median strip in a clean athletic sweep. He walked briskly through the heavy traffic to the opposite side. A little Chadian girl intercepted him on the side of the road, and grabbed him by the hand.

"Fine, fine uncle, please dash me money! You go marry better wife! You go get fine, fine children."

But Ibe's ears were insensitive to her singsong declarations. And even if he had heard the girl, there was nothing his pocket could have turned out but a gaping hole. He had nothing to give but a prayer in return for hers. When she realized he was not paying her any attention in spite of her firm grip on his hand, she let him go and walked towards other opportunities; singing her blessings to anyone who would show her mercy – even just enough to get her through another day to fear for an uncertain tomorrow.

There was so much despair on the streets. And it came in several different guises. There were the many beggars, who arrived in the city at night, in drones, on the backs of Lorries. They were brought in from surrounding villages by certain benefactors, to garner the sympathies of the wealthy city people. They dressed themselves up in rags, despondent tempers and phony wounds in order to turn a profit, from which they paid off the benefactors who had brought them into the city, and who still provided accommodation to them on occasion. Their antics had long since been discovered, and it made Port Harcourt people less inclined to respond to beggars in the street. There were also the many hawkers, most of them children, who had been subjected to such dire conditions. They sold anything in traffic, from the common place items to the astonishingly bizarre - food, drinks, clothing materials, bedding materials, and several less recognizable items - and they risked their lives, running recklessly in fast moving traffic to move their wares. There were also the many pickpockets and petty thieves that were the typical bane of most sprawling cities. But perhaps, the biggest nuisance of them all were the touts who had made it their business to accost motorists and shop-owners to shake them down for bogus taxes, levies and trumped up fines. They dressed themselves up uniforms to appear legitimate, and they went about harassing people - beating up resistant drivers, and confiscating possessions from non-compliant businesses. These people were the real scum of the earth.

And then, there was one other menace - the Ikwere landlord. The man who scraped his coins together to build a shoddy roof over four posts on his father's plot of land, to accommodate a poor fool who had no other choice but to respond to his whims. Not everybody had one, but when was unfortunate enough to owe his shelter to an Ikwere landlord, it was rarely ever a good experience.

He was lord of the turf in every sense to the word, and the tenants were his minions. They were expected to pay homage to him in the mornings which he was allowed to respond to with a condescending grunt; they were expected to attend his festivities and stand around awkwardly with no place to sit, so that he could point them out to his other guests, ‘These are my tenants’, and his guest would know that he was a ‘big man’; they were expected to express their joys over the good things that happened in his life, by standing around and shaking their heads in appreciative awe; they were expected to answer grilling questions about their personal lives, and put his pieces of advice into swift action, so that he could appreciate his own wisdom whenever he peeked at them through his window; and they were expected to take his whimsical criticism on the chin like good boys and girls. That is if they wanted to remain in his good graces; and they usually did.

Worse still, was that he usually lived only three doors down the block – sharing a common space with them, so it was impossible to get out from under his nose.

"Eh-hehn, Ibe!"

As soon as he entered into the courtyard, which was surrounded by several bedrooms, Ibe stumbled into the short rounded figure of Pastor – his Ikwere landlord.

"Pastor, good evening."

"I have been looking for you since morning."

Of course, he had. He knew Ibe still was unemployed and so he could come knocking at any time of the day, knowing he would be home. And he now had the right to be appalled if it had taken him a full day to track Ibe down.

"I have been out."

"I see."

“I know my rent is due. I promise you will have your money by next weekend”

“Next week-end?”

“Yes. I’m expecting something to come in by then.”

Pastor did not trust Ibe’s word; the boy had broken promises in the past. He knew that Ibe was not expecting anything to come in. Where would he be expecting anything from? Was he planning to steal? Was he planning on kidnapping somebody for a ransom? He was broke, and hopelessly so. And it would serve everyone better if only he had the good sense to move out. He was bad market. But he would give him the extension. If only so that, when he failed to provide the money by the stipulated time, he would have the decency to evict himself without further ado.

“Okay, but if you don’t have the money ready by next weekend” he warned, “I will put somebody else in that room. I’m not running a shelter here. I am a business man.”

Ibe nodded his head.

“And I want it complete, not in small, small bits. I am not selling you tomatoes. You pay everything by Friday evening, or you pack out of that apartment.”

“Understood.”

“Understood.” Pastor mimicked, “Let us hope so.”

He made to walk away but stopped himself, “Ibe, I know you are still struggling to find a job. It’s been years and Port Harcourt is an expensive city. Why not move to Mbano, where your parents are staying, and think of something you can start over there. Staying in the village is not a bad thing; it would be much easier for you.”

Pastor’s voice was compassionate, but Ibe could only hear the stinging deductions, and they grated on his nerves like sandpaper on a sore wound. He concluded that the remark had been meant to write him off. ‘Much easier for you’, what was that supposed to mean? Pastor had said it like he did not believe Ibe to possess the mettle to succeed in the face of a little bit of adversity; like he was wasting his time trying to make it in this city; like he was an irresponsible cad, living above his means and well above his potential. Ibe was offended by Pastor’s spurious concern.

“You will have your money by Friday.”

He watched Pastor walk away before he unlocked the door to his room.

The thing that pastor had called an ‘apartment’ was a tiny room – eight feet by ten feet – with a small window on the wall opposite the door and a leaky roof. The exorbitant sum of fifty thousand naira, entitled one to this place for a year, including access to the shared bathroom and kitchen facilities at the end of the block. It was tiny but all of his life’s possessions fit into the space. A mattress that took up most of the floor area; a large traveling bag by the corner of the room that still held most of his clothes; a wooden rack that had survived his university days, on which he hung up his ironed ‘interview’ clothes; and a shelf on the blind wall to the left, which held dog-eared copies of four of his favourite books: The Fountainhead, Shogun, The Sorrows of Satan and Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary. Even in an era of smart phones and Google, he found it hard to let go of the dependable dictionary he had owned since secondary school.

Ibe had not accrued much in nearly thirty years of his existence. Some of the people he had graduated with from the university, five years ago, had worked for five years, bought themselves cars, built houses, and married wives. They had treaded the well-defined tracks of societal expectations. Some of them were fathers already and they shared cute pictures of their ‘mini-selves’ on Facebook. Pictures of them holidaying in France; pictures of them at Stamford Bridge, watching a live football match; pictures of them having lunch at expensive restaurants; pictures of the expensive food they were about to eat at the expensive restaurants. And selfies! Selfies in their cars; selfies up against their cars; selfies on top of their cars. Their lives consisted of glowing megapixels of achievement and adventure. And although he liked the pictures with a less than enthusiastic click from his tawdry ‘apartment’, so that people would not think him petty, his heart was not in it. Ibe felt his failure more profoundly whenever he went on social media. People flaunted their successes and he felt like a street urchin pressing his nose up against the shop window of exclusive flamboyance.

What was he doing wrong? Was he not hungry enough? His stomach was certainly growling loudly enough; day in, and day out. Ibe did not believe that life owed him anything. He believed that everyone had to work hard for what they wished to deserve, and he was willing to bleed his hands for every kobo. He had never been lazy. His father had taught him the value of hard work. As a child, he did not come to dinner if he had not completed his chores, regardless of how late it got. Even when his mother had wanted to make exceptions, his desire to please his father would not let him take short cuts. He worked his mother’s farm diligently as a boy. And as a student, he put in the hard work to merit his grades; even in a time where student’s preferred to grant lecturers ‘favours’ in exchange for grades, so that they could clear their schedules in order to catch up on their socializing. And now, as a no-longer-fresh graduate he was walking the yards with a folder of his credentials and a prayer in his heart, hoping to catch a break.

But it had been five years! Five years during which he had had to make ends meet doing odd jobs to keep a roof over his head and to keep his credentials dry enough to make yet another trip in and out of offices that would not hire him. Suddenly, every man behind the big desk who ended the meeting with, “Thank you for coming in today, we will be in touch”, seemed like the exact same person, over and over again. The predictability was nauseating. It was a vicious cycle from which he just could not escape. No matter how sharply he dressed, no matter how brightly he smiled, he was never given a chance to show what he could do. They all sent him on his way with a broad smile and a promise that was not really a promise.

One particular meeting came to mind as he sat on the low mattress and took off his shoes. His interviewer had seemed alive to what stood in front of him. He did not have the vacuous look in his eyes and he did not speak with that bored, condescending inflection, which most interviewers considered valuable communication skills.

“You graduated from ABU.” the man behind the desk said with the approval evident in his tone, “I am an ABUsite too.”

Ibe smiled, hopeful. “I was told as much. It’s always encouraging to see ABU graduates doing so well in their respective fields. I hope that I could be equally inspiring to a young ABUsite someday.”

“I am sure you will be.” He said graciously.

Ibe watched his eyes hover over the dreaded sections of his curriculum vitae.

“You have no relevant work experience?”

“Not in a formal place of employment, I do not. But I am applying for the entry level position; and it says applicants should be below twenty eight years of age. And I, just about, make that cut.”

“Yes, it says that. But you must realize that you are vying for those positions with twenty-one year olds.” He spoke with an air of disbelief, as though Ibe had just asked to be handed a Nobel Prize for completing an arithmetic test. You are so pedestrian it hurts just to think about it. “And, I have to add that these twenty-one year olds have much better grades than you do.”

The third class certificate had been his undoing in these rooms. He found himself having to make up for it every single time; and he still had not discovered the trick that would remedy that incredibly flawed piece of paper, within the five minutes he was given to shine.

“I am a fast learner, I am dedicated, I have initiative and I can work unsupervised. And most importantly, I have been out on the streets for long enough to value this position more than any of these twenty-one year olds. I will give it my all – blood, sweat and tears. I can promise you that.”

The interviewer rested his elbows on his desk, placed his chin on locked fingers, and regarded Ibe thoughtfully.

“Everyone is desperate for a job in this country. Do you think you are the only one to make that impassioned speech from that chair?”

“I assure you, nobody knows the word ‘desperate’ like I do.”

“Ibe, I have no doubt that you are a well-spoken, bright young man and you would make a good recruit. But with your average credentials, I would only hire you if I thought that you would make an exceptional one. And I’m not willing to bet on that.”

“You don’t have to bet on it. I would work for free to prove myself to you for a quarter of a year. You can make your decision afterwards. All I need is a chance to show you what I am capable of.”

“That’s really not our recruitment procedure here.” He remarked, reticent. He acted like he was trying to put the toothpaste back into the tube; like he had oozed too much approachability which he did not want taken advantage of. “In my humble opinion, I think you should look into getting a post graduate degree. It will help boost your profile.”

Ibe nodded abjectly. “I appreciate your candour. And I will take your advice to heart.” They shook hands in silence. There was no need, here, for the merciful lies designed to give him a sliver of hope.

He had gone home feeling like his world had ended. And he was, in fact, certain that it had. All that was needed to see the picture more effectively was a cocktail of rat poison. He had bought a bottle easily in traffic on his way home. With keen deliberation, he had cleaned his room that afternoon, getting rid of all embarrassing items in case his spirit hovered around in consciousness when his body was discovered. He did not want his first expression in his new spirit form to be a blush of shame. He had tried to maintain an air of normalcy as he communicated with his neighbours, but he wondered if they had recognized the buoyancy in his spirit. He wondered if they had sensed his spirit floating away like a hot-air balloon as he consciously made his peace with dying. All of his problems were about to be buried in the ground, leaving him weightless and free. He had said good night to the teacher next door, knowing that he would be the last man to have heard his voice, and then he went into his room and locked the door. He looked at the tiny bottle sitting in the corner of the room – six feet away. A short distance to walk that would take him to a destination mighty far.

And then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and discovered it was his mother. Seeing ‘mom’ on the screen built a lump in his throat. But he let it ring until it stopped. And then it rang again. He let it ring until it stopped. He sat on his mattress and watched the phone, as his mother unwittingly tried to keep him on this planet. That cord, which is never truly severed when the midwife cuts through the umbilical cord in the delivery room, it was binding him to the ground. The phone rang again, and again he let it ring out. What was he doing? He shed a bucket of tears that night, and a full hour passed before he called his mother back.

“Nna m, where have you been? Did you keep your phone to charge at your neighbour’s place again?”

“Yes mama, I did.”

“How are you? I hope you are well.”

“Yes mama, I am.”

“Have you eaten something?”

“Yes.” Liar – the rumbling in his belly seemed to say.

“You should always remember to eat well, no matter how things are. Is the garri we sent to you still left over? Because Nkeiru is coming to Port Harcourt next week, can I give her another bag?”

“Yes mama, she can bring me another bag.”

“Okay, I will give it to her, as well as some other things.”

“Thank you, mama.”

“Please, be careful of whatever you do, and know that we love you. We believe in you, and we know that your time is coming. Just keep trying like you have always done. Jisie ike, biko. I nuna?”

“Yes mama.”

She had called on a premonition, and she had given him life yet again. After the conversation with his mother ended, he had felt the shame for the thing he had been about to do. He was being extremely selfish. He was not doing this for himself, was he? He dreamed about the day he could go home to his village with a truck-load of extravagant gifts and have his parents embrace him with pride. Not that they weren’t already proud of him, they constantly insisted that they were, but what else were they to do? They were his parents and it was their natural inclination to hide their disappointment from him. It would be a good feeling, for him, to have the neighbours envy his parents someday over their very successful son. In this society, success was the possession of things – houses, cars, a family, titles and degrees. It did not necessarily have to translate to a home, love, knowledge and respect. People seemed to be satisfied with the superficial intentions, and they immediately awarded their applause. His parents deserved that applause.

No, this was not just his struggle; he had to stick to his task for the sake of his parents as well. After that call, he still felt a lightness of spirit, but it was not surrender. It was the lightness one felt when one realized he was not shouldering his problems alone. The next morning, he had dressed himself up in freshly ironed ‘interview’ clothes, and he had done it all again. And again, he had met with the predictable rejection.

There was a tentative knock on his door.

“Na who be that?” he called out in irritation.

“It’s me.”

Nsidibe. She lived in the compound and she was his only close friend from the eclectic bunch that inhabited the accommodations.

“Sidi.” He said by way of greeting as he let her into the room.

She closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it, facing him. “I heard that old fool giving you an ultimatum.” Her voice was hushed, because the walls had ears in the densely populated compound. She did not want them to hear her refer to Pastor as the ‘old fool’, which was her preferred pet-name for her landlord.

Ibe nodded. “He wants me out of this place, I know. But I will have his money ready by Friday.” He spoke with determination. “If I cannot afford this dump, then I would not be able to afford any place else in Port Harcourt. I might then as well just pack my load under the Mile-one flyover and live like a mad man.”

There was concern in Sidi’s eyes as she sat on the mattress beside Ibe. “Are you sure you will meet the deadline? Because I could lend you something if you need me to.”

Sidi always had ‘something’ stashed away in pockets. She made a very decent amount of money every night at her very indecent occupation. She was a lady of the evening, a queen of the night – a call girl. These were the terms she preferred to use in describing her vocation instead of simply calling herself a prostitute. It was unimaginative and crude. Ashawo – that’s what she was to everybody else. At twenty-two, she was still very popular with the Port Harcourt big boys, and she did not have to work the streets, literally, to find a hustle. She could sit back and wait for the calls to come in; and her phone frequently rang off the hook. She would get specific calls and meet her clients at specific places – very posh places.

Her youth was not her only asset. She was also incredibly beautiful. But even more intriguing than her beauty, was her poise and articulation. She had taught herself to speak well and carry herself with propriety; one would never guess, just by looking at her and even speaking with her, that she had only made it half –way through secondary school.

Holding on to his pride, Ibe waved off the offer. “No, don’t worry about it. I have a little something myself, in a savings account, and I can come up with the balance within the week.”

“Doing what?”

“Nothing that is illegal.”

She bit her plump bottom lip as she regarded him doubtfully.

“Okay, just promise me you will let me know if you should need my help. I would not be doing it for you; I’d be doing it for me. I don’t want to see you booted out on the street and watch this room get occupied by yet another self-righteous poser. You are my only friend in this place.”

“Duly note. I will let you know.”

“Good.” She said, seemingly satisfied. “Now, have you had anything to eat? Because you look to me like you could use some food.”

She didn’t wait for his response as she dashed out and returned, briefly, with a round pan covered with a dish cloth. She had it stashed somewhere by his door.

Ibe instantly smelt the delicious aroma. “Cake?” he raised a quizzical brow.

She nodded with a smile. “Happy Birthday!”

Twenty-first of October! It was his birthday today and he had forgotten all about it. He was twenty-eight! He scarcely celebrated his birthdays anymore. And he certainly did not look forward to them. But this was such a thoughtful gesture. He sat up straight and stared into the pan that held the somewhat hapless mess.

“I haven’t had much practice, baking cakes,” She apologised, “But I assure you, it does taste good.”

“It smells really good.”

She picked up the bread knife, stuck it into the middle like a spear, and handed the pan to him. “Cut!” she heard the angry rumbling in his belly as he took the pan from her. Her eyes widened in surprise, “Oh my, you are starving! I have Afang soup in my pot if you would prefer that.”

He was embarrassed that she had heard his stomach complain, but at least, there was some good coming out of his shame, “That sounds absolutely amazing right now. You have no idea!” he handed her back the pan.

“No, you still have to cut that.” She nudged it back.

And so, he did as he was instructed; to the click of the camera on her phone, and the soft applause of his audience of one.

He followed her to her room which was decidedly larger than his was. It also had ‘things’ – a shaggy ochre rug that felt like tufts of clouds to the bare feet; a large deep mattress, dressed up in nice purple beddings; a flat screen television and home theatre; and properly functioning air conditioning. Her room smelt like she did – a scent that definitely had a hint of jasmine. It was a comfortable little abode, which made coming home at the end of the day something worth anticipating. She had also recently acquired a plot of land on which she planned to build her dream – a proper house with a gate and a fence around it. She had pictured it since she was nine years old. Nsidibe was born in the compound. She had continued to live there with her father after her mother had passed away giving birth to her brother. He had also died in infancy; however, not immediately. It had taken him a month to starve to death. Her father had taken off one day, and abandoned her in the one-room apartment with the rent overrun by several months. She was only fourteen then, and she had no one to turn to for help.

Once the steaming bowl of eba and afang soup stood before him, he wolfed it down like an animal, without mercy. It was his first meal of the day so it would have been good regardless, but Sidi was an excellent cook and her afang soup was matchless.

“You are a lifesaver!” he said gratefully, as he placed the rinsed bowl into her crockery rack.

“I know.”

Sidi pushed him gently onto her bed and straddled his thighs, locking her arms around his neck. He was sitting up staring at her and she was relieved to discover that there was still a hunger there that had not been satisfied by her food. She nibbled on his ear seductively. “Do you want to?” It was a needless question, and she knew it. But she wanted him to feel her warm, moist breath on his skin, and she wanted him to believe she would hold back if he did not immediately admit to his own desire. In response, he lifted her unto the bed and covered her body with his. He pressed the part of him, which was incapable of lying under the circumstances, against her and he heard her moan.

Sidi and Ibe had that kind of a relationship. She let him Bleep her for free. She avidly supported his institution however she could; and sex was her most abundant resource. She gave it freely whenever she thought he needed it, and she knew that he needed it now.

After the steamy bout of sex, they shared the cake she had made and talked about nothing in particular. It was past eight o’clock when Ibe got back into his room, and he could not shake the lingering depression he felt about turning twenty-eight. Every birthday he had had since graduation had left him feeling increasingly anxious, but this one brought on a tide of particularly intense panic. Twenty-eight! It was not just that it was merely two years away from the ominously looming thirty, although that had its effects too. He was, however, more affected by the realization that he had reached the ceiling age for an entry-level applicant. Very few establishments hired applicants into entry-level positions, who were above twenty-eight years old. This birthday was, essentially, the expiration date of his bachelor’s degree certificate. At his age now, he would be expected to have either work experience or a master’s degree at least. And he had neither. He should not be celebrating; he should be holding a mourning feast.

He pulled out that yellow sheet of paper with the black cursive script and the blotchy red seal, and he scrutinized. He had it laminated. ‘This is to certify that Gideon Ibe Maduka, having completed an approved course of study and passed the prescribed examinations, has this day, under the authority of the senate, been awarded the degree of Bachelor of Engineering (Chemical), with third class honours.’ This was it? Five years of his life that had gone unappreciated. He did not regret the years he had spent at the university, during which he had acquired a tremendous amount of learning that could never be reflected by or summarized in this certificate. He, however, regretted that this limited document was threatening to limit his opportunities. Why was it so important to employers?

The certificate was not theirs; it was his – a receipt for the tuition he had invested. What should it matter to employers? What should matter more to employers was his ability to deliver on the job they wanted done and not this piece of paper. This was simply the label on the canister of goods. And while labels could offer some kind of insight for a trusting connoisseur, the proof of the pudding always was in the eating. Would it not be more astute to sample the goods instead?


He felt the hot salty tears stinging behind his eyes, but he would not let them out. This was over; he would not be defined and restrained by this document anymore. He would not haul this personal billboard of inefficacy about anymore. He was not this. He was so much more than this. In his frustration he grabbed a match, struck it on the rind, and very deliberately set the flame to lick the corner of his certificate. He watched the plastic covering collapse quickly in the heat as the flame crawled upwards towards his hand. He dropped it and it fell to the cement screed, curling up in agony. Paper, he thought to himself, it is only paper – the crazy obsession of bureaucrats. They could stuff it down their throats, and they could shove it up their asses. They could choke on it, for all that he cared, but he was done; done with paper. He would start his own business. He would start a business where he would hire people according to their abilities. He would never ask anyone if they had a paper that qualified them to do the job; he would simply ask them to show him that they could do it. He would change things. To hell with fucking paper!

But as Ibe stared into the shimmering embers of his albatross, he knew that he was not done yet. He was, in fact, only just about to begin. He would give them the damned thing; as much as they wanted of it. He was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming conviction: He would start his own business. He would start his own paper mill. The bureaucrats could pay for as many blank sheets as they needed to write the words that defined their lives. They could limit themselves on the pages of his paper. The thought filled him with renewed purpose and he did not give the ashes on the floor another thought as he fell asleep, dreaming of his idea.

That Friday night, Ibe knew nothing about making paper except that it was gotten from trees and magically turned into thin veneers. He didn’t know much about starting a business either. And so, he spent the whole of the weekend educating himself on the intricacies of a prospective paper business.

He learned about complexities he never imagined were involved in the paper production process. As he read through the research material, he followed the tree trunks in his mind’s eye, from the moment they made their entrance into the paper mill. The process began with debarking wood logs and reducing them into tiny sizes called kindling. Then the kindling was turned into a paste or pulp, which was essentially the same thing – a slurry mixture of water and kindling. The pulping process involved cooking the paste in alkali at high temperatures to remove the impurities in the wood pulp; and grinding it to separate the fibres. The fibres were subsequently washed, bleached with chlorine dioxide to give it its white colour, and then dried. Lastly, the dry pulp was analysed for anomalies to keep to the desired quality, and then rolled out in a press for adequate sizing and packaging. The processes incorporated several sophisticated machinery ranging from the debarking drums, the chipper, pulper, to the fourdrinier; and Ibe realized, with a sinking feeling, that this business would not be started with pennies. He also discovered that he could begin the paper making process by pulping old newspapers, periodicals and other kinds of discarded paper instead of kindling, in a much cheaper recycling process. He would have to de-ink the pulp to remove adhesives and ink by a process of floatation; and pass the fibre on for subsequent washing, breaching and drying.

On the business end of things, Ibe was dispirited to get further confirmation from the books that starting up a paper mill would not only be capital intensive but labour intensive as well. It was a tiny bit comforting to note that one could expect to break even within a couple of years of production, if the product was good. A research of the market showed that the there was room for indigenous players. The Nigerian government spent about fifty billion naira yearly on the importation of paper to supplement consumption needs! The three government-owned paper factories which were established in the 1960s and 1970s, spread across the country, lay in a comatose state since the 1980s, when optimum productivity had seen paper importation fade. A decision to privatise, at the turn of the century, in order to reduce bureaucracy, bad management, and corruption, provided a short-lived improvement. The factories were being run then by foreigners who relied on the importation of long-fibre pulp, pulping chemicals, and technical expertise to remain operative. In the long run, however, the unavailability of home-grown talent had proven too overwhelming. But Ibe did not lose heart; so long as there was a need for it, he was determined to supply it. Considering the challenge of sourcing long-fibre trees and the massive expense, Ibe favoured beginning with a paper recycling business. It was more flexible cost-wise because it could be scaled to suit a relatively prudent budget. He would still have to invest heavily in land, building facilities, machines and raw materials; but while he was looking to secure the capital, he could start off by collecting waste paper and delivering it to already functioning plants.

Ibe rounded off the weekend with a sketch production of his business plan, and slept on it. He would get started on it as soon as he had gotten the small matter of his rent out of the way.

The following Monday, he laid blocks at a construction site. He had worked as a mason before – a skill he had remotely acquired by watching the experts, while he was looking to make some quick cash to pay the ever lingering bills. He had started out hauling blocks, mixing concrete and providing general ‘labour’ for the masons who worked on the sites. But he was a quick study and a meticulous man; and when one of the masons had thrown a fit over his meagre wages and refused to continue his work, Ibe had seen an opportunity and taken advantage of it to impress the supervisor. And, he certainly had been impressed. His name was Mike, and he had asked Ibe to give him a call whenever he needed these kinds of jobs in the future.

Ibe had called him that Friday and Mike had told him that there was no opening at the moment. Ibe had practically grovelled, impressing upon him how dire his situation was. Eventually, Mike had been able to find him something, and at the expense of some other poor fool, he had set Ibe up on one of his sites in a fast developing area of Port Harcourt. Ibe knew about the collateral damage he had left in the wake of his hustle, but he was too consumed by his own desperation to care about anybody else. He reported for duty by a quarter to seven because work was scheduled to start at the top of the hour. There were no overalls or any other safety gear given to workers on these kinds of sites, so he changed into his dirty jeans and old Timberland boots. He did not bother with a shirt in the heat.

Luckily, he had been able to convince Mike to pay him by the mile-stone and not by the day. On the average, a mason laid ninety concrete masonry units per day, but he was determined to work extra hours to cover, at least, one and half of that; and if he found the strength and a enough power to provide lighting, maybe twice the number. At the rate of three-thousand naira, he would be able to raise a little more than the twenty-thousand which he needed by Friday evening to complete the payment of his rent.

The sun shone brilliantly, and it would be a beautiful day if one were lounging by the pool or at the beach, with no care in the world. On a construction site, however, right under the elements, this was a merciless day. But at least one could take comfort in the fact that it was not raining. Too much sun was better than rain, because it allowed progress to be made. The workers remained good natured through it all, and they shared the kind of crude banter that Ibe was not very comfortable with. But he worked hard to fit in, by laughing whenever he thought it was appropriate, even if he didn’t have stories of his own to share; at least, not any kinds that would appeal to their rudimentary sensibilities.

“Oga, them talk say you be graduate?” one of the masons addressed Ibe.

They had refused to call him by his name, preferring to use the term that afforded some distance and respect, because they saw something in him that was different.

“Yes, o.” Ibe underplayed the significance of it, “You done see as e help me so?”

The mason shook his head in sympathy. Then he spoke to everyone in general, “As Nigeria dey now, eh? Office job no dey again! If you wan help yourself, na to carry tools do all these kind dirty jobs o!”

“Who tell you say office job no dey?” another man challenged, “No be people dey work for Shell? Or Total? Or even Mobil? Na only luck person suppose get. But as for – jobs dey.”

“Sometimes too, na the course wey person read dey cause the wahala. All these people wey dey read History or Philosophy…….wetin them dey carry that wan do?”

“Na Banks dey carry those kind ones. When they reach there, them go begin do marketing.”

“That Bank marketing job, eh! No be ashawo work be that?”

“Na so, now. You no see as girls dey full that area? And them dey pick them o! Na only the fine, fine ones fit do the marketing.” The man spoke as if he were an authority on the matter, “You no see as the woman wey get this site be?”

“Na banker she be?”

“Na banker now!”

“The woman fine, sha.”

“She try! Na so them dey be.”

“That woman done marry?”

“She done marry now, her oga done even come here like three times.” He bragged like he was talking about his personal protégé, “One correct man like that. Clean! Sweet dressing.”

“Wetin the man dey do?”

“I no dey too sure, e fit be say na business man him be. But you go fit see him money for him body.”

“Okay, oookay……I done remember. Him dey drive that Range Rover – white.”

“Eh-heh, na him!.....if na me be that man, with all the money wey I get, I go tell my wife, make she stop to dey work for that bank. Make she dey house dey look my pikin, dey chop my money. Na so e suppose be, as far as the money dey.”

“She done get pikin?”

“How she wan get? You no know as bank work dey be? Na twelve midnight them dey take reach house. By that kind time Oga go done vex sleep, wetin concern am with woman again?”

“Ah! I no fit o!”

“Na e be the thing wey I dey talk. Na to bring am come house, open small shop for am. So that she go fit get something doing.”

“Na true you talk.” Said the mason, “Me self, I no go like make my wife get oga for office. I no go like make she dey call am ‘sir’, dey run up and down for am.”

“Ah! That thing dey very dangerous, because that oga must do something with am. Him must show himself.”

“Ho-ha!”

The two men laughed indiscriminately, letting the crunchy disturbance ride in the thin air. As if he only just realized that Ibe had been excluded from the conversation, the mason turned his attention to Ibe again.

“Oga, abeg, which course you read for that university?”

“Chemical Engineering.”

“Ah! So na Engineer you be? Come be chemical, kwa? And na here you dey, dey do mason work?” he hissed. “Nigeria done spoil! If na before, as you graduate with that kind sweet course, the very same day, them go give you key to your house and better motor.”

“What are you talking!” the other man said in passionate agreement.

People spoke fondly of the good old days and did not mind embellishing their stories. They spoke of good times, where the streets were lined in gold. It was safe to assume that the times they described, with such nostalgic sentiments, were not witnessed by anyone throughout the ages. But it gave people hope for a better future, to look back to a glorious past. It could one day be achieved again, if it had been done before.


*

Shortly before four o’clock, which was shortly before the official closing time, a black Toyota Corolla drove into the cordoned compound.

“E be like say the madam done come.” The mason remarked with an indicative nod of his head.

Ibe watched with keen interest as the door to the passenger’s side opened and the woman got out. She was dressed in a dark business suit, and she had the superb figure to wear it well. She started to walk towards the construction workers but then she turned around, removed her jacket and tossed it into the car. The unforgiving heat was giving the men something to ogle at, as she proceeded to walk towards them in a sleeveless camisole. Something about that gait is strikingly familiar, Ibe thought to himself as he squinted to filter the light, pulling her into focus. She was almost upon them when he saw her face, and he felt as the blood drained instantly from his.



***



“Have you ever kissed a girl?”

There was a wicked glimmer in her eyes as she stared at him, waiting for his reply.

“Of course, I have.” Ibe lied, shifting uncomfortably.

They were both sitting on a dewy log behind a laboratory block during the break period, hovering on the brink of accomplishing a dare. Two awkward fifteen year olds – rather one awkward fifteen year old; Kioba at fifteen was already a swan. She was the popular girl, the early bloomer, the one every boy wanted to be seen with and every girl wanted to be best friends with. And Ibe’s friends – Chuka and Daniel – had dared him to kiss her. It was a stupid dare, and he never expected it to go anywhere. He had walked up to her, carelessly, she was sitting on a desk talking to some of her friends, and he had brazenly tapped her on the shoulder. He would say what he had to say, she would call him an ‘idiot’ and it would be a good laugh for everybody. At least he had not chickened out of it.

“Kiki, hi”

“What’s up, Gideon?” She was the only person who called him by his middle name. It started out as a joke but then it stuck.

“So, Chuka and Daniel just dared me, they said I wouldn’t have the guts to give you a kiss –”

She had shot a fleeting look in the direction of the brains behind this quest. They were cowering in the back of the class, still finding this very amusing. She stared Ibe in the eye, “Do you?”

“What?”

“Do you have the guts to kiss me?” her friends were giggling.

“I-” she raised a quizzical brow at him, “- wouldn’t be talking to you right now if I didn’t.”

“Okay, then.” She challenged, “But it has to be a real kiss…… with tongue.”

Ibe had nodded stupidly, and wondered if he should go in for the kiss that very instant.

“Not here,” she warded him off, “Break time, behind Physics.”

And break time behind Physics, sitting beside her on the log, he found himself stalling. If he got it wrong she would laugh at him and tell all her friends that he was an awful kisser. Or that he had bad breath; or something. He hadn’t thought this all the way through.

“Whom did you kiss?” she asked.

“What?”

“Whom did you kiss? You said you had kissed a girl before.”

“You don’t know any of them.” Ibe said too quickly. “Just girls from…….church.”

“You kiss girls in your church?!”

He wondered if her slight outrage was a good sign of his growing credibility. Maybe she thought him attractively bad; or attractively dangerous, now.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” she regarded him pensively, “Okay, so show me.”

Ibe felt his clothes grow a little tighter; especially, around the seat of his trousers.

“Have you……….ever kissed a boy before?”

She had laughed at him. It was a soft laugh that took the sting out of her mirth. “Of course, I have.”

“Whom?”

“Well, the first time………Eze Arimah.”

“Isn’t he in the set that graduated two years ago?”

Kioba nodded. “Yes, he is three years older.”

“Was he your boyfriend?” Ibe felt suddenly intimidated.

“Sometimes” she said vaguely. Then she took his hand, “Are you going to do this or not?”

Ibe broke into a sweat; his heart beat wildly.

“Okay, Gideon look –” She said in exasperation when she couldn’t take his reticence any longer, she held his face between her hands, “Come here. Just – relax…… okay? Relax. Don’t feel like you have to do anything to make this interesting. Like don’t poke your tongue into my mouth –” Ibe panicked, she was making it worse with these instructions, “I’m going to kiss you and you will part your lips only…….when you feel you can’t hold back anymore. Okay?”

He nodded, anticipating a severe implosion.

She touched her lips to his – gently. Then she pushed them against his. They were very soft and pliant. And he could smell the sweet scent of her lip balm. It was lips touching lips, like that, for….ever – kneading and coaxing. And although he wanted to taste her lips with his tongue, to see if they tasted as sweet as they smelt, she had warned him to hold out until that moment when he couldn’t anymore. So he endured the torture of holding back. She grazed his lower lip with her teeth and it sent exciting sensations down his spine. It was curious; how she could touch him in one place and cause him to feel it in several places all at once. She brushed the tip of her tongue across his upper lip, and he struggled to keep his balance. Then she pulled back, and he couldn’t take it. He parted his lips and chased her mouth down with his, and even though she had warned him against it, he pushed his tongue into her mouth to explore hers. It was very tentative at first, but the reaction he got from her encouraged him to proceed and he grew bolder and more forceful. He clung to her for dear life. And then she pulled away.

It took Ibe a while to focus. He saw that she was struggling to regain her composure as well.

“Was that okay?” he asked, hopeful.

“Yeah!” it was a breathy and high-pitched gasp; a little bit too detached. “How was it for you?”

Ibe smiled. “Crazy…….fucking………. sick.” He did not ever want to stop kissing her.

Kioba saw that he had shot his trousers. Ibe followed her gaze and became suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry” he said as he dabbed his hand-kerchief at the stain.

But she did not turn away in prudish disgust.

“It’s okay, Gideon.” she smiled, “I’m actually flattered.”

“I think we should get back to class.”

She nodded. “What are you going to do about that?”

“I-” he looked at his soiled trousers contemplatively; “I’ll just rinse it and fly my shirt over it?”

“Okay then, my work here is done.” She got up to leave.

“Kiki –” he restrained her, “Thanks, thank you.”

He felt stupid as soon as the words were out of his mouth. And by the expression on her face, he could tell that she thought it was weird too. Thank you? Really?

“You owe me. Gideon.” She said and walked back to class alone while he tried to make himself decent. When he eventually got back to class, Chuka and Daniel swarmed all over him in excitement.

“Did you do it? Did you do it?” Ibe had nodded, as cool as you’d like, but with a whole lot of self-importance, “Dog!” they hailed him, with a respectful bump to his fist.

He caught Kioba glancing back at him. And when their eyes locked, across the crowded classroom, he felt something inside of him change forever.



***

Ibe watched as Kioba – the woman who had broken his heart too many times – spoke with the foreman. He took her around to inspect the newly erected walls and she pointed out certain corrections to him, which he noted in his jotter. And then, within minutes, she stood only inches away from Ibe.

“Gideon.” Her expression was inscrutable. She had always been able to hide behind her eyes, even as a child.

Ibe nodded his greeting; unsure about what to say. Was she Kioba? Or Madam? Or Mrs. Okri? He did not know anymore. Too many things had happened, to turn them into different people than they were the last time they had seen each other, but he still carried the full measure of the hurt in his heart. He felt his own shabbiness more intently, next to her sophistication. She opened her mouth as if she were about to say something. But then, she seemed to change her mind about it. She turned away and continued going over the works, making a decent job of dismissing the ghost from her past.

And then, she was gone.

As planned, Ibe worked late into the night. He had brought a powerful lantern to suspend the darkness and he had also been able to convince a ‘labour man’ to stay on with him – Boniface; he didn’t mind making a little extra money either. Together, they braved the swarm of mosquitoes that had gathered to enjoy the rare feast within these bushes.

“Oga, e be like say you and our madam una know unaself before?” Boniface asked as he dumped a fresh head-pan of grout for Ibe to use.

“How you take reason am?” Ibe asked with no interest to pursue the conversation.

“Na the way she been look you, na him make me dey talk like that.”

Ibe placed a new row of masonry units and used his plumb to ensure they were level. “We been dey the same school.”

“Eh! You see?” Ibe didn’t know what there was to see. “Na Engineer she too she be?”

“No.” Ibe said as he began chucking in the grout between the gaps, “She’s an Architect.”

“Won-der-ful! I for talk am self! The way she dey come site every day, dey look the work. I know there must be something.”

Ibe did not respond to Boniface’s astonishment over Kioba’s occupation. He was now more concerned with completing his task as quickly as possible. He did not care to be here any longer than was absolutely necessary. Was he laying blocks for a house in which Kioba would live with her husband – his former best friend – Timothy Okri? The thought of it made him sick to his stomach. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he had to pay his rent.

“But Oga, you dey lucky o!” Boniface was saying, “E be like say your matter done settle, because that madam, na big woman she be. And she fit find you job self.”

Ibe nodded, not willing to commit himself any further. And in the silence that he was desperate to preserve, his mind took him on inevitable journeys he would rather not travel.

“So, will you be my girlfriend?” Ibe had an anxious look on his face.

It was after school, the day he had kissed a girl for the first time in his life. The day he had grown ten feet in an instant. He had ditched his friends to walk Kioba to the car park area.

“What makes you think I would agree to be your girlfriend?” Kioba had challenged with a fiery look in her eyes, “You are so……. uncool.”

“But you kissed me.”

“I have kissed a lot of boys.” She pointed out with a humourless chuckle.

“I don’t care about that.”

She showed her exasperation. “It’s not for you to care or not care. I am not apologising for anything.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Ibe was getting frustrated, “Look, Kiki, all that I’m saying is that I really, really, really like you. And I would really like to be your boyfriend.”

She stared at him with a funny look in her eyes. He couldn’t read it.

“Why do you think I kissed you today, Gideon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s because I like you?”

“No, I don’t think you kissed me because you like me. But I’m hoping that you do like me, underneath all of your posturing. And if you don’t, I’m hoping that I can make you.”

She stared at him; there was that enigmatic look again. “I don’t like you.” She said eventually.

“Then, just say yes, you will be my girlfriend and I will work on fixing that.”

She laughed. “You are an idiot.”

“I know. Say yes.” He urged, nudging her playfully on the shoulder as they walked down the road, “Please? Say yes.”

“You want me to be your girlfriend because you think that I will have sex with you.” She said knowingly.

“I wasn’t even thinking that!”

“You were.” She accused him doggedly, “You think that because I make out with a lot of boys, I would have sex too.”

“No, i definitely do not think that!”

“Good!” she said forcefully, “Because that is never going to happen. Trust me, it so won’t.”

“Kiki, I am fine with that. I’m not looking to rush into sex any time soon, anyway. I only just had my first kiss!”

He realized too late. He had spilt the beans and lost way too many cool-points.

“I thought you said you kissed all those church girls.” She teased.

“Well, this – this one felt………real?”

“Relax Gideon! I knew you were lying then.”

He worried that she would see him as………well, uncool.

“But I have done other things……..with girls.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“See, you think you know me, but you really don’t.”

“Surprise me then.” She invited.

He tried to come up with something edgy and shocking. He couldn’t. And then he gave up trying.

“See? Nothing.”

“But I’m open to trying all kinds of stuff.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Gideon, you are a good boy. Don’t try to change that for a girl.”

“I’m not trying to change for a girl; I’m changing for you.”

“Ugh! That’s just some boy bullshit thing to say.”

They had gotten to the parking lot, and her driver was already parked at his usual spot, waiting.

“It’s not……. bullshit. I’m telling you what I feel in my heart.”

“Bullshit.” She insisted simply.

She turned on her heel and got into the back seat of the grey Honda Accord. And he watched her being whisked away. If that’s the way she wanted to play it, he thought in desperation, then he was up for it.

The following week he had convinced his friend Timothy to have a party at his house. Timothy Okri went to a different school from the one Ibe went to, one where his father paid a ridiculous amount on tuition. It was a trip, in its own right, to say he went to that school just so that he could watch people mentally set stacks of cash on fire, and wonder how his father did it every term. Timothy was the only person Ibe knew, who was both rich and ‘happening’. He knew that a party at Timo’s house would impress Kioba.

“There is this thing at a friend’s house on Saturday – a little get together. Do you want to come with me?”

Kioba looked at him in disbelief. “A party?”

“Yes.”

“Gideon, what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to show you a different side to me.” He shrugged casually, “So? Do you want to come?”

“Since I know that you went out of your way to set this up for me, I should have to come.”

He sputtered. “I didn’t. Go out of my way.”

“No?”

“No.” he assured her. “It’s actually Timothy Okri’s party. You know, the son of –”

“I know who Timothy Okri is.” She said.

“Okay, so I will pick you up by five?”

“Pick me up?” she asked amused.

“Yes.” He insisted.

That Saturday Ibe made several errors in judgement. First he had taken his uncle’s Mercedes out of the garage. He did not have a driver’s licence, and he had never really driven a car before. He only knew how to do it in theory. And the fact that it was an auto transmission vehicle, made his plan seem all the more plausible; but it was really only a beckoning abyss. Secondly, He called Chuka to ride shot-gun with him, and his rascal friend came with a bottle of Squadron and a pack of Benson & Hedges to take the edge off. Ibe was delighted for the ammunition to wage war on his boring persona. He thought it would be a good idea to pick his soon-to-be girlfriend up, slightly tipsy bad boy style; so he indulged himself, and little too much. He had never had alcohol or tobacco before; the horrible tastes seemed manly enough, and so, he steeled himself against the repulsiveness of the medicine he was sure he needed to become the man who would be worthy of Kioba’s affections.

They got into the car at half past four.

And that was all he could remember about that day. But he had awoken on a hospital bed staring up at his livid uncle and relieved aunt. And the bruises on the Mercedes told the rest of the story. When he got to school the following week, he suffered from a severe case of hurt pride. Everyone had heard, from his uncle’s rants, that he was a stupid boy who had never driven a car in his life, and yet had somehow been possessed to take his uncle’s car out to the road after consuming a whole bottle of Squadron. They also heard that he had received a good beating to cure him of his stupidity.

“Hey.” Kioba collapsed into the seat beside him after an English class.

“Hey.” He said despondently.

“How are you feeling?”

“Wounded.”

She tilted her head that way, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks.”

His intended smile translated itself into a grimace.

She took his hand in hers. “Gideon?”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes, I will be your girlfriend.”

He was wondering, but he did not dare ask why, because he feared she might change her mind. “Oh, this is all it took to get you to say yes?” he joked, “I would have broken my legs for you.”

“I think that might be true. You are a very crazy person, and if I don’t say yes to you now, you’ll just keep hurting yourself. So please, you win. Just stop trying to be cool.” She got up to leave, but then he pulled her back and kissed her – exactly like she had taught him to – in the middle of the classroom for everyone to see.

“Please don’t ever do that again?” she asked as they broke apart. But she wasn’t angry. And he could only smile sheepishly.

Their last year of secondary school, Ibe had been filled with three convictions: that he would never look good in yellow; that he was destined for extraordinary things; and that he would walk through fire for Kioba Lawson. In the year they had dated, he had felt his heart open like a giant vortex pulling her deeper into its whirl with every resounding beat. She filled him with such happiness and purpose, that he didn't want to even imagine ever being without her. He liked it when she rested her head on his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world to do; or when she curled up next to him while they watched a movie; or when she held his hand in public. And he enjoyed the trifecta as they sat in the food court at the shopping mall; he barely moved because he did not want to disturb the sensations coursing through his body, as he held her close. The four of them - Ibe, Kioba, Timothy, and Thelma, who was Timothy's girlfriend - had gone to see a movie together, and they were having smoothies after the fact.

"I am so happy we are all still going to be together next year." Thelma beamed, "At least, the end of secondary school won't have to be so tragic. Can you imagine leaving all your friends behind?"

"Yes, we are so lucky we all got into ABU." Timothy agreed. He had his arm around Thelma's shoulder and she held onto his roaming hand, halting it from wreaking havoc.

“Yes, even you!” Ibe remarked, referring to Timothy. “And that’s the most surprising part.”

Timothy stared at the cozy couple across from him, "Kiki and Ibe, do you guys want a room? No smooching in public!"

"Look who is talking!" Kioba said, "You have been groping Thelma's boobs all afternoon!"

Timothy flashed the devilishly handsome smile he practiced regularly when no one was watching. "You saw that?.......Did it turn you on?"

"Ugh!" She turned her face away in disgust.

"Timothy what's wrong with you?"Ibe demanded harshly.

He held his hands up in innocence, "I'm sorry! I was just teasing her."

"Well, don't!" Ibe persisted. "You were just disrespectful to every single one of us at this table."

"True" Thelma held up her hand and nodded in agreement, eager to let him know she was still there.

"You guys should stop being so serious! I said I was sorry." He stared at them again, "So, I guess that means I'm not allowed to ask if you guys have finally done it yet?"

Thelma's hysterical laughter rang out like instant bells, while Ibe and Kioba ignored him.

"I just don't understand what the big deal is? You guys are obviously into each other, why don't you just get it over with."

"Maybe they want to keep having something to look forward to." Thelma mused. “Don’t get rid of the magic all at once.”

“All at once? It’s been over a year!”

Kioba pointedly excused herself to go to the ladies'-room, and she asked if Thelma would go with her. Thelma nodded and reluctantly got to her feet. When the girls were gone, Ibe slapped Timothy over the head, which, he knew, was precisely what Kioba had hoped to orchestrate.

"Stop messing with Kiki!" He warned, "What is the matter with you?"

"Ow!" He said in exaggeration of the pain that Ibe had inflicted upon him, "I'm just looking out for you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I want to make sure your gir is loyal."

"It's not your place to do that."

"Then who else is going to? You are my person, and I need to have your back on this."

Ibe hesitated. "Look, Timo, it is not your place to intrude.......but Kiki and I, are good, so please just stay out of it."

"Then why won't she bang you?"

"Are you serious right now?" He murmured

"You must have thought about it yourself. She's way hotter than you-"

"Thank you very much for that update." He said with sarcasm.

"Anytime! Look, if she wanted to Bleep you, she would have done it already."

"What makes you think it wasn't my idea to wait?"

"I know it wasn't, because I know that you are not stupid."

"What?"

"Only a stupid person will hold off on that. And you are not stupid. So, that leaves us with option number three: she is not feeling you like that."

Ibe thought about their passionate make out sessions – the way she always held him like she wanted to shield him from all the bad things of the world, and he knew that Timothy was talking nonsense.

"Okay, noted."

"What does that mean, 'noted'?"

"It means that I have heard you, but I still need you to stay out of it. I want what happens between Kiki and me, to stay between Kiki and me."

"She is going to break your heart." Timothy warned.

"I will take my chances with the broken heart. Just leave it alone."

"Suit yourself."

"I will. And I mean it – leave it alone!"

When the girls returned, it was time to leave. It was already dark outside. They all climbed into Timothy's Rav4, Ibe and Kioba sat in the back seat while Timothy kept groping Thelma in the front seat as he drove them home. First, they went to Kioba's house. It made sense that she be dropped off first.

"Thanks, Timothy." She said as she got out

Ibe got out of the car too, "you guys should go on, and I’ll take a taxi later." He took Kiki's hand, and they walked to her gate.

"Do you want to talk a bit before I go in?"

Ibe sensed that it was she who had something to get off her chest. "Yeah, sure." They sat down on the pavement of the gate-house.

"Are you still upset about Timothy?"

"I am not upset about Timothy." She stated emphatically, "I am worried about him. Worried for you."

"Why?"

"Because I think that he is a bad influence?"

"On whom? Me? I'm not that impressionable."

"I know you're not. I meant that he is a bad influence on our relationship."

"Kiki, he's my friend." Ibe pointed out in a subtle plea.

"Yeah" she said in resignation, "I know."

"I spoke with him while you were in the bathroom." He said to give her some hope, "he is not going to be so......insensitive again."

"Okay." She didn't say that she thought Timothy had his designs on her. It would sound conceited. She decided she would personally keep her distance from him.

"Seriously, you don't have to worry about him." He linked his fingers with hers.

"Okay, just forget I said anything." She kissed him on the cheek.

They sat in silence for a while, and watched dark shadowy figures walk by.

"Are you nervous about Uni?"

"Of course, I am. Entirely new environment, so far away, new people.....yes, of course, I am nervous. But I'm also excited. And I'm grateful because I'm still going to have you there." He squeezed her hand in acknowledgement.

"Kiki?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

She searched his face. But she stayed silent and he started to panic.

"I have felt it for some time now, and I didn't say anything because I didn't want to pressure you or scare you with……… these feelings. I don't want you to think that I am expecting anything from you in return, because I am not. I just need you to know it. And I'm saying it to you now because we are going be in a different world soon and I have no idea how it is going to affect us. We obviously will be dealing with so many changes and some uncertainties, as well, when we get to ABU, and I feel like we can carry along this one sure thing with us. And I want you to know that it happened here – that I have fallen for you very quickly. So, just know it: I love you."

He couldn't see her face in the dark, but he felt her lips on his, as she zeroed in for a long passionate kiss.



***


Kioba did not come back to the site in the following days, and that suited Ibe just fine. He was able to complete the work without the awkwardness of having to see her but not speak with her. He knew exactly why she stayed away, even at the risk of having to rework several sections without the close supervision, and he was secretly grateful to her for being so considerate.

3




At about two in the morning, a dark coloured SUV pulled to a stop a few hundred metres from Sidi’s home. She alighted, staggering slightly as she misjudged the level of the alcohol coursing through her blood vessels. She mumbled her ‘Good night’ in a daze without looking back to the driver, who had been her companion for the evening. Rather, she had been his – spruced up, paid for and used to his satisfaction. She had forgotten his name already; he was not one of her regulars. But he had paid well and he exercised. So he was fit enough to do his business without dripping his sweat all over her, and he didn’t have that protruding belly which ignorant rich people seemed to cultivate as a statement of their wealth; as if it were ever in doubt. But he partied hard, with alcohol and pills. And he didn’t like to do that alone.

All considered, it had been a decent evening’s work, and Sidi couldn’t wait to fall into bed. She never allowed her clients to drop her off at the junction closest to her house, because she didn’t like it when they knew where she lived. She had made experiences that had taught her that it was safer to keep her address a mystery. There was a client she once had, he had fallen hopelessly in love with her and had subsequently proposed to marry her. She had, of course, turned his offer down, believing him to be mentally unstable. She was not far from the truth, as she came to discover in the ensuing weeks. He harassed her constantly. At first, he had tried to guilt her into accepting to marry him, claiming that he could not live without her and that he was inclined to commit suicide if she did not accept his offer. Sidi had been less than sympathetic refusing to be culpable for his impending death by foolishness. Then he tried to shame her into marrying him, telling her that a common prostitute could not be too choosy when considering a husband. He told her to give thanks to her God, for even sending her one man who nursed a desire to make her his wife. And when he saw that Sidi was unmoved by his denigration, he started to get violent. He told her that he would get away with raping her and even killing her, because a prostitute didn’t matter to anyone in this society. As much as she had tried to keep up her stoic front, his threats bothered Sidi. They bothered her because she believed him – he would have gotten away with anything. Nobody cared about prostitutes.

Stilettos in hand, swinging by the straps, she walked in her bare tired feet to her junction. A police van emerged out of nowhere and stopped, purposefully, in front of her, cutting off her stride. She was immediately filled with a sense of foreboding. Two officers got out, hauling along their ever present tedious rifles.

“Madam may we know who you are?” the first officer approached her menacingly.

“I’m –” Sidi was disconcerted by the question and the bright lights from their van. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the glare.

“Your identification card!” the second officer pressed impatiently.

Sidi let go of her shoes, sending them hurtling to the pavement, and she rummaged for her national ID card in her oversized hand-bag. The second officer snapped the laminated card out of her outstretched hand and looked at it without actually seeing it, “Wetin you dey do for road by this time?”

“I’m on my way home.” Sidi said

“From where?”

“A friend’s place.”

The police officer took in her flimsy dress with a look of utter disgust. “By this time?”

“Yes.”

“Eheh! Why you no sleep for there?”

Sidi did not respond.

“Na ashawo work you from come abi?” the officer said disdainfully, “Oya, enter motor.” He instructed her to get into the back of the van.

“Officer, am I under arrest?”

“I tell you say make you enter motor, you dey ask me question. You wan resist?” he opened his eyes wide to intimidate her.

He took a menacing step in her direction and Sidi weighed her options. There was no soul in sight except for the people clustered by the van. She stood a better chance if she co-operated with these men. Too many lives had already been wasted by trigger-happy policemen over little misunderstandings. She decided to get on the back of the van. She discovered she wasn’t alone. There was one other woman seated at the back – a scantly clothed, heavily made-up woman of the night; just like she was.

“Amos! Amos! I done tell you say I never get any hustle yet now. Na you dey even kill my time; I for done get something already, take settle una!” the woman – she was plump, aged and wore a bright red wig – shouted after the second officer who ignored her.

“My friend shut-up!” the first officer barked.

They got moving.

“I no dey like this kind thing!” the red-wig complained, “See as pesin go come waste him time!”

“No be station we dey go?” Sidi asked.

“For where!” The red-wig said, she seemed well acquainted with the squad. “Na free pussy these ones dey find. Na to drive us go enter bush now. After them do finish, them go free us.”

Sidi did not want to be ‘free pussy’. She was not as accepting of this situation as the other woman appeared to be. The woman with the red wig chewed on gum, carelessly; waiting for enough time to pass, to see the inevitable molestation safely into the past. It was only time that was her worry. It did not occur to her that she should resist or otherwise influence the situation. To her, it had already happened, at some time in the future. She had accepted that there were only two kinds of fucking – married fucking, which was the only acceptable kind, and whoring. And when one was whoring, a Bleep was a Bleep, and there was no difference between any two. Fornication, prostitution and rape; there was a LovePeddler involved in all three of those, and whores didn’t make a fuss about collecting dick.

But Sidi made clear distinctions for herself. She alone chose the people she slept with, and she did not care to give up that dignified freedom of choice. Her body was hers; to do with as she pleased. And if it was her pleasure to have sex with men for money, then that should be respected. It did not make her public property. It certainly did not make her the property of the police force.

They came to a halt somewhere, off the main road. The officers asked Sidi to come down, and they walked some distance away from the van.

“Eh-hehn, baby! What are you saying now?” Sidi had not been saying anything, but she let him continue without pointing that out, “Do you want us to carry you to the station?”

The officers had changed their approach. They had dropped the crude pidgin and were speaking to her like men toasting a female in the street – best effort street English. Sidi realized then that these officers might actually believe that she was not really a prostitute. They only wanted to take advantage of the compromising situation they had found her in.

“I would prefer it if you let me go. But what option do I have?”

She saw their eyes roam boldly over her body – unabashedly declaring their lust.

“We can’t let you go like that. You have already committed the offense.” The second officer – Amos – pointed out, “But we can discuss.”

“Officer, what is my offense?”

“You still dey argue that one?” the first officer asked with a chuckle.

“We have you on solicitation, so you better address your mind, if we don’t talk very well, here, you will sleep in the cell.”

There wasn’t much left of the night to endure, Sidi considered. But there were worse things to fear from being in police custody than the giant mosquitoes and the smell of urine. Sidi was tempted to argue the supposed charge but then, she realized that the officer had said ‘we have you on solicitation’ and not ‘you were soliciting’, and she knew that it would be fruitless to argue anything; she was a fish caught on a hook.

“I don’t have anything to give.” Sidi played up her ignorance of their intentions.

“A fine girl like you! You always have something to give.” Officer Amos smiled. “You should know what I am talking about.”

Sidi’s stomach turned in disgust. They were suddenly distracted by a figure hopping from the van to the floor, and running away into the night.

“Heh!” the first officer raised his voice above the wind in a futile attempt to get red-wig back into the van.

“Leave am! I done chop that one tire.” Officer Amos said, barely paying the fleeing woman any attention.

Sidi had not realized how much she had relied on the presence of red-wig until she was gone. She now felt even more vulnerable in this deserted place with these two men who had sworn to protect and serve the community she was doubtlessly a part of. She looked back to Officer Amos and saw a smirk on his face – one that let her know just how much he enjoyed having her as their sole captive.

“I can take you to an ATM.” Sidi offered. She had twenty-thousand in cash in her bag but she wanted to get out of this hapless area. They were less likely to try anything on the main road, which had felt the footfalls of a human being fairly recently.

“How much?” Officer Amos was determined to keep his focus on her body.

“I have five thousand naira in my account.” She knew she had to make it attractive enough for them. But Officer Amos appeared unimpressed. He wanted to Bleep her.

The first officer watched officer Amos for a reaction. When he got none, he jumped in, “Amos, na small girl be this, leave am, make we carry the money go.”

“Which small girl? You see woman like this, talk say na small girl?”

Sidi allowed them argue over it, reserving her energy for the resultant verdict.

**Reading**




Modified; Just reading the prologue alone made me burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Misswrite, you're good abeg.

Ibe reached for his mobile phone, which vibrated persistently on the floor, at the edge of the mattress. He took it to his ear immediately, refusing to look at the screen with the bright backlight, when his eyes hadn’t had the chance to adjust themselves to the disruption of blackness.

“Hello?” He mumbled groggily, “Who is this?”

“Ibe, it’s Sidi.” her anxious voice crackled through, defying the poor connection. “I’m at the –” he could not make out the rest of it.

He sat up to get some elevation. “Sidi, where are you?”

“I am at the police station. Please can you come on get me?” She sounded scared, “I have something tucked in my pillow on the bed. There’s a zipper, which you’ll find when you pull it out of the case.”

“Alright.” He jumped to his feet and reached for his trousers, “Give me ten minutes. Is it the station here?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I am on my way.”

It was past three in the morning when Ibe sprinted through the deserted streets. Taxis happened by on the rare occasion, at this time of the night; and there was no point waiting for one. He had promised Sidi to be there in ten minutes. It was risky being out late in this neighbourhood; but then again, so was living in it.

“I’m here to get my friend out on bail.” He told the officer at the front desk.

When he eventually saw Sidi, she looked like she had suffered a stringent ordeal. He saw the relief in her eyes as she walked towards him and put her arms around his neck. He stroked her on the back, “Let’s go.”

“Oga na your woman be that?” the officer asked.

“Yes.”
“How you leave am make only she waka for midnight? How pesin go take know say she no be ashawo?”

“How pesin go take know wetin? Wetin be ashawo?” Ibe let his temper fly.

“Na which kind question you dey ask me?” he demanded, visibly affronted.

“I say, wetin be ashawo? You carry pesin wey dey walk je-je for road, say na ashawo. Wetin be ashawo?”

“Woman wey dey outside by 2.00am, wetin she come be? My friend, if you no take your time, I go put your for cell.”

“Carry me put for cell.” Ibe dared him thoughtlessly.

Sidi tugged at Ibe’s arm. She felt the tension in the flexed muscles. “Please, let’s just go.”

“Abeg, make una two comot for here. See as your woman dress, you dey ask me wetin be ashawo. You go pay bride price on top that one head? No be to chop am clean mouth you dey do? Ye-ye boy!”

Ibe knew that it was pointless to speak to his ignorance. He was used to it. Putting a label on somebody and punishing them for it without checking to see how the label fit. They did it every day, and got away with it. Nobody even raised a brow over it. They killed innocent boys in the street and claimed, afterwards, that they were ‘well-known’ armed robbers. They harassed girls and claimed that they were prostitutes. And most of the time, these victims of abuse of power had simply allowed an attempt at extortion get out of hand. It was what made them so dangerous; they could kill anyone easily, and simply stick a nasty name on a lifeless body. Nobody asked any questions, or demanded some logical explanation. They did not care that it was ridiculous to arrest a woman, who had been minding her business, for solicitation. Where was the act? Who was accosted?

Ibe tightened his grip on Sidi’s hand and left the officer with a long dirty stare. They walked out of the station and into the night.

It was already four o’clock by the time they got into the compound. Ibe unlocked his door, threw it open and stepped back, suggestively. Sidi took the hint and walked past him into the room. She took off her jewellery and got into his bed. Ibe held her to his chest and they lay there in silence.

“You have to stop this.” Ibe said eventually.

“Why?” she didn’t ask what. She knew what he was referring to.

“Because it’s dangerous, that’s why. Are you seriously asking that? Is this really what you want to be doing?”

“Yes.”

“You want to be a prostitute?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m good at it.”

“But you can be good at something else as well.”

“Why do I have to be good at anything else? I’m a good prostitute, why can’t people respect that?”

“You know prostitution is illegal in this country, don’t you?”

She was silent for several minutes, and Ibe had given up on the conversation.

“It should not be illegal.”

“It’s a risky occupation.”

“It is only risky because it is prohibited.” Sidi maintained, “There is a market for prostitution. You can’t fight something that there is a huge demand for, and you really should not. The only thing you would succeed in doing is put people’s lives at risk. People should ask themselves why there is a demand for prostitutes. And what will happen in the society when there isn’t a single one available. Do you think that men would simply zip up their trousers and look for other ways to pass the time? Do you think it will drive more men into marriage? If you do, then you are naïve.”

Ibe considered what she had just said.

“When I was eleven, I was raped by a group of men – five of them, to be exact.” Six of them, she thought to herself. “My father was the only person I could tell this to. Not because we were particularly close, but because he was my only family still alive. He blamed me for it. Don’t travel close to the sun if you don’t want to get burned; but you cannot stop the sun from burning hot. He said it was an African man’s nature to want sex. They cannot ‘stay’ without it. Can you imagine my father saying that to me at eleven? After……

It’s in everyone’s nature to want sex just as it is in everyone’s nature to want food. African men don’t have a monopoly on sexual desire. They flaunt their sex drive with such a baffling audacity, and then they shame women who – as nature has designed – have an equally compelling appetite for sex. They call them nymphomaniacs, or worse, when all they are being is honest. And then they force women to retreat into a shell, and make them take the identity of that shell – a reticent creature who wants nothing else but to be submissive to a man, and cater to his needs. And some women can do it too – by applying self-discipline. Self-discipline is the only difference between the exploitation a man’s and a woman’s sexual desire.

Men invent narratives for women and expect them to fit these specifications to a tee. Look at the so-called ‘virtuous woman’ in the bible! A virtuous woman who can find?........ It should have just ended there with: no one. No one can find a virtuous woman. No one should be able to find a virtuous woman. A virtuous woman is a man’s appendage. Women should not aspire to fit the fantasies of men. They should, instead, be uninhibited versions of who they were created to be.

If African men cannot stay without sex, should it be my responsibility to provide it? Why don’t they get married? And if they don’t want to get married why don’t they just pay women who provide the service to the entire public? A culture like ours, where men blame their sexual indiscipline on their DNA, should embrace the prostitution business. They should make it legal and clean, and they should be grateful to the women who have voluntarily entered this service instead of demonizing them. Women should treat prostitutes like war heroes because they’re taking one for the team.

Men who patronize prostitutes? They are the honest ones – the ones who have understood their natures, and have accepted their weakness. So they indulge themselves with very little harm to the society. But those men who turn away from us, and think that we are disgusting? Some of them would rape their own children, and then try to justify their actions by citing the treacherous and insurmountable biological constitution of a man. There are cultures that line up a man’s sister-in-law to fill his wife’s shoes in the event that she dies before him. Why should such a ridiculous thing be thought up by anyone?

I believe that prostitutes are indispensible. People should encourage men to consult prostitutes for all of their extracurricular needs, and the world will be safer for women as well. This is my calling. I believe that I’m a crusader; somebody has got to do it.”

Ibe had tightened his hold around her. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“What are you sorry about?”

“I had no idea……… the things you past through as a child.”

Sidi shrugged. “We all have our share of misfortune.”

“But do you really think that a man who is inclined to rape someone would be satisfied by anything else?”

“Maybe there are many who wouldn’t be. But still, it is important to take away their excuses.” She ran her fingers absently across his broad chest, “I was listening to the radio the other day…….they were talking about soldiers raping women in refugee camps. What disgusted me most about some of the responses was that people seemed to accept this behaviour from the soldiers, saying that they had no other options to ease the tension. And when you are given that excuse, you would exploit it.

Legalization of the prostitution business is not a silver bullet. It’s just one of the many things that need to be addressed. It is more important to hold rapists accountable for their actions and then punish them decisively. Here, in this country, we blame women. We say they are dressed in revealing clothes. What about the children who get raped? Are they also dressed in revealing clothes? What do they even have to reveal? What about the mad women who roam the street, stark naked? Why haven’t these randy men lost their control over them? If it is something that can truly not be helped, they should attempt raping a mad woman and allow her crack their skulls wide open. But it can be helped, and they know enough to steer clear of certain situations. They should be held accountable and they should be punished! What do I want them to do about their irrepressible desires? They should patronize prostitutes.”

“Isn’t it………..degrading to have a man pay to have sex with you.”

“Why would it be degrading? That’s another thing that men have given veracity to by telling it too many times.”

“How?”

“Do you ever feel degraded when you receive a pay check for work that you did for someone? That’s them putting a price on your value, isn’t it? Your value to them at that time. Why should a prostitute feel shame? Besides, everyone bleeps for money in this country. Girls keep boyfriends to pay for their hair, clothes, make-up, gadgets, rent, and whatever. Women get married for financial security. It’s all sex for money. It is hypocritical to look at prostitutes with a crooked look. ”

“Yeah well, hypocrisy is what we do best.” Ibe mused. “I’m still worried for you. I don’t like this thing you are exposed to on a daily basis.”

She touched his cheek affectionately, “you’re really sweet to worry about me, but I have been on my own, on this path, since I was fourteen.”

“Nine days to the thief and only one to the owner.” He cited the popular saying, “It’s best to quit while you are ahead. You are a really smart girl…….i’m sure there is nothing that you would not be great at. Have you ever thought about finishing school?”

“What for? They have nothing to teach that I haven’t already learned. I have read more books than the average Nigerian student. And that’s because I realized, being out of school, I had a lot to make up for. While they sat in classrooms doing the barest minimum to move on to the next class, I explored subjects for the only sake of knowing. Why should I go back to school to re-learn the things which I already know?”

For the certification, Ibe did not say. He kissed her on the temple. They were similar souls – bound by their ideologies and convictions. And it was a marvel to see these qualities in one so young. He understood her perspective of things all too well; it was as if they were standing at the same vantage point, looking at the world. Maybe she was right: education might only ruin her. It might only make her ordinary. He wrapped both of his arms around her lithe figure to provide her with more warmth than the flimsy party-dress could provide, and they fell asleep together. There was only about an hour of the night to savour before they had to be up again.

But they allowed themselves three. When Ibe opened his eyes, the sunlight flooded in through the curtains, and caused him to squint in irritation. Sidi lay peaceful beside him; her face was angelic in oblivion. He heard the knock on the door, and realized that was the sound, which had roused him in the first place. “I’m coming!” he grunted after further persistence rattled his door. He flung it open, determined to begin with a telling off. But then he saw Kioba standing in front of him – tall, elegant, with an anxious look in her eyes – and he wondered if, perhaps, he might still be dreaming.

4


“Hi” Kioba was tentative as she measured Ibe’s reaction.

He thought that she looked astonishingly beautiful. But then she always did. She had always been a beautiful girl; and now she was a beautiful woman. He thought that the maturity suited her. But he allowed himself only a moment to be beguiled by the apparition in front of him, “What are you doing here? How did you even find me?”

“I spoke to my site supervisor – Mike? He gave me your address.”

Ibe nodded. Not so much out of an understanding, as out of a resolve to caution Mike about giving out sensitive information. He watched Kioba stare at him intently – at his eyes – and he sensed that she avoided looking at his bare chest. He enjoyed her discomfort.

“Gideon, I’m sorry about how aloof I was that time at the site……”

Ibe broke into a derisive chuckle. “It’s funny how that is the thing you are sorry about. It’s funny how that is the thing that would make you get up and leave your house, so early in the morning, to come looking for me. After………….everything…….that you and I have been through, I think it’s safe to say that I have given you a free pass to walk all over me.” He added, “And you were not the one who was aloof; I didn’t feel like getting friendly either.”

He saw the wince she tried to hide.

“I was just thinking that we could……..maybe talk?”

“What is there to talk about?”

“Can I come in?”

“I have company.” There was hurt in her eyes that filled him with pleasure

“Can I come back?”

In spite of everything, he still wanted her to. Maybe he needed explanations. Maybe he just wanted to understand what had gone wrong in that last year. Or maybe he just wanted to smell her perfume. Kioba was a disease he would never be cured of, he realized it. He sensed that the integrity of a carefully constructed wall, built over a period of five years, was threatening to give way like butter. And she hadn’t even done anything yet.

Sidi emerged through the door way, “Morning!”

Kioba did not respond as she took in everything – the dishevelled hair and clothing, the glitter, and the youth.

“I’m going home to sleep.” She said as she kissed Ibe on the cheek. “Talk later.”

Ibe smiled at the automatic way Sidi had slipped into the role, “Stay out of trouble.”

“It’s too late for that now.”

Kioba gave Sidi room to walk by her and waited until she was out of earshot. “Should I come back?” she asked again.

Ibe waved her on, as he retreated into his room. She followed him into the dinky space. He watched her avoid the air in the room – the dust, the smell, everything. She tried to be surreptitious in her snobbery, but it was plain to see. He missed the times, when she would hop onto his bed with no care in the world. But she was Mrs. Okri now.

“She’s beautiful.” Kioba remarked.

“Yes, she is.” Ibe agreed – knowing that she had been referring to Sidi.

“And young.”

“She is twenty-two.”

“Young.” She confirmed.

Ibe shrugged indifferently. “Do you want to get to the point? I would ask you to sit but we both know you wouldn’t want to soil your pants.”

She ignored his snide comment. “How can you still live like this?”

He stared at her, and it hurt him that she would still be condescending, even after he had boldly rubbed her face in his dismal conditions in a bid to pre-empt exactly this kind of reaction. It angered him that she could still hurt him.

“I didn’t marry a millionaire. So, poverty is sometimes a consequence of that.” He said, “But I should have guessed you came to make me feel inferior to you.”

“Gideon, I came to offer my help.”

“Your help?” he laughed.

“I spoke with someone regarding a job for you –”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why now?”

“I……I don’t know. What does it matter? You still need a job don’t you?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t. I’m done with that.”

She stared at him curiously. “Gid……. I know you have pride…..and I have always admired you for it, but please let me help you.”

“You know, I thought you actually might………maybe just……..want to explain to me why you abandoned me five years ago. And for none other than Timothy – my friend Timothy – the guy you never even liked. You wanted me to cut him out of my life, remember? Was this just to spite me?”

There was that inscrutable look in her eyes again.

“And instead of coming here with explanations and apologies, you try to get rid of your guilty feelings by getting me a job? No, thank you.”

“Gideon –”

“Kioba, no! It won’t be that easy.”

She let his anger subside before she spoke.

“I have guilt,” she admitted calmly, “but I didn’t come here for absolution. I don’t deserve it, so I don’t want it. I’m a big girl and I can handle my guilty feelings, don’t worry about me.” There was a hint of sarcasm in her tone, “But seeing you on the site on Monday………it made me……sad.”

Ibe laughed, “On top of everything else, you insult me with you pity.”

Kioba regarded Ibe thoughtfully. Then she tossed a set of keys over to him and he caught it out of a reflex. He looked at her questioningly.

“That is a three-bedroom flat at GRA. The lease is in your name. I set up the job interview for next week Tuesday by nine.” She scribbled on a note, folded it in half and let it fall to the mattress. Then she turned to leave.

Ibe was distraught. “Save all of your energy, woman!”

She met his eyes. His were filled rage; hers – with surprise. He had never before addressed her with such disrespectful anonymity.

“Kioba, this is………..” he couldn’t find the words to fill the blanks with. “Look at me! Is this really what I get? Is this what I deserve from you after all those years? Do you even remember who it is that you are looking at? Do you remember me? Do you remember………..us? us!”

Her unfathomable stare was unwavering. “Please don’t be late for the interview.” She let herself out of his room and closed the door after her.

Ibe let his rage fly. He hauled the keys at the shut door, and he imagined the jagged edges tearing at the cool, seemingly impenetrable skin of Kioba’s face. Did that woman still bleed?

JasonScoolari:
**Reading**




Modified; Just reading the prologue alone made me burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Miss.write, you're good abeg.

........Thank you. You're so kind.

And MissWrites has written again without missing to get the attention of an intelligent mind..kudos ma...

AvatarMode:
And MissWrites has written again without missing to get the attention of an intelligent mind..kudos ma...

Thanks, AB.

This is a very good read...

Was trying to find fault but couldnt at the moment..

I even like your prose style, the near convoluted sentences that felt like sharp exhalations....

You are good Miss

nijabazaar:
This is a very good read...

Was trying to find fault but couldnt at the moment..

I even like your prose style, the near convoluted sentences that felt like sharp exhalations....

You are good Miss

..........Thank you.

MissWrite:




..........Thank you.

Miss 'short stories'

I'm super proud of you

*Bookmarked for tonight's bedtime story*

BRB

For

Following.

Ah, Jesus! This is so awesome I can't describe it. The awe hit me so sharply I can't discern the angle it came from. Absolutely fantastic. A fictional story that's so real and true it's unbelievable. Your characters so passionately invited me into their world and even ensured to make my journey straight inside it a smooth ride.

MissWrite, please, and please, come and continue with the story. If the plan was to give just a glimpse, then I'm ready to make a purchase that will make the entirety of this beautiful work hit every corner of my eyes. I've become too immersed, and now too wanting and, even, needy, to be deprived.

I've said this before. But I just want to remind you. YOU WRITE SO EXCELLENTLY WELL ONE NEEDS TO KEEP RAPIDLY EVOLVING TO ADAPT.

Tozara:
Ah, Jesus! This is so awesome I can't describe it. The awe hit me so sharply I can't discern the angle it came from. Absolutely fantastic. A fictional story that's so real and true it's unbelievable. Your characters so passionately invited me into their world and even ensured to make my journey straight inside it a smooth ride.

MissWrite, please, and please, come and continue with the story. If the plan was to give just a glimpse, then I'm ready to make a purchase that will make the entirety of this beautiful work hit every corner of my eyes. I've become too immersed, and now too wanting and, even, needy, to be deprived.

I've said this before. But I just want to remind you. YOU WRITE SO EXCELLENTLY WELL ONE NEEDS TO KEEP RAPIDLY EVOLVING TO ADAPT.

...awwww....

I am really glad you liked it. It's still a work in progress.

Thanks for all the encouragement.....

MissWrite:



...awwww....

I am really glad you liked it. It's still a work in progress.

Thanks for all the encouragement.....

The pleasure is mine. I look forward to witnessing the progress progress. And I also look forward to reading your published works as you make your sojourn into the literary world.

Is there more? I've got to stop reading your stories... your talent is sickening, I feel angry when the words end... I always want more

I love you and I love your work but I can't let you hurt me like this! It's over! No more shall I subject myself to these feelings of abandonment every time I let you in

LivingFree:
Is there more? I've got to stop reading your stories... your talent is sickening, I feel angry when the words end... I always want more

I love you and I love your work but I can't let you hurt me like this! It's over! No more shall I subject myself to these feelings of abandonment every time I let you in

I totally feel you... I luv her writing style also...

LivingFree:
Is there more? I've got to stop reading your stories... your talent is sickening, I feel angry when the words end... I always want more

I love you and I love your work but I can't let you hurt me like this! It's over! No more shall I subject myself to these feelings of abandonment every time I let you in

.....


.....

Thanks for the compliment, sweetie. But please, stick with me...........

Ps/.....I love you more...

MissWrite. Happy Sunday.

I hope you've been good and are doing good.

Should we still be expecting updates? If yes, how soon?

I really can't wait, I swear.

Tozara:
MissWrite. Happy Sunday.

I hope you've been good and are doing good.

Should we still be expecting updates? If yes, how soon?

I really can't wait, I swear.

Happy Sunday, sweetie... .....at least what's left of it. I've been good; doing good. Thanks for asking.

Awwww....I feel so bad; I'm letting you down. I need to finish what's on my plate right now, before I resume this story (about December). This was something I abandoned in 2016. I just dug it up for feedback. And thanks to all of you who commented, I feel encouraged to finish it.

I hope you're good. I wish you an awesome week...

MissWrite:



Happy Sunday, sweetie... .....at least what's left of it. I've been good; doing good. Thanks for asking.

Awwww....I feel so bad; I'm letting you down. I need to finish what's on my plate right now, before I resume this story (about December). This was something I abandoned in 2016. I just dug it up for feedback. And thanks to all of you who commented, I feel encouraged to finish it.

I hope you're good. I wish you an awesome week...

Oh, no. Please, don't feel bad.

I can always wait. We can always wait. I just wanted to be sure if you planned to continue with it.

Take your time, dear. I wish you good luck.

Good morning. I hope you slept well. Another Monday it is. Have a wonderful day ahead.

Tozara:
Oh, no. Please, don't feel bad.

I can always wait. We can always wait. I just wanted to be sure if you planned to continue with it.

Take your time, dear. I wish you good luck.

Good morning. I hope you slept well. Another Monday it is. Have a wonderful day ahead.

Thank you....

Have a wonderful day too.

@MissWrite,

Just so you know, there's now one more person standing in line waiting for more on "Paper King". And yes, I know it's been months since the last update, but I have Stevie Wonder's Faith cueing in the background.

Interesting
READ MORE COOL AND INTERESTING STORY ON

www.emperorblog.com.ng

kay9:
@MissWrite,

Just so you know, there's now one more person standing in line waiting for more on "Paper King". And yes, I know it's been months since the last update, but I have Stevie Wonder's Faith cueing in the background.

more than one person ma.... We are plenty o
Even if it is for sale,say the price

Where's the continuation sis?