Amnesia is not such a bad thing sometimes. Once in a while I have found it convenient to forget one faux pas or the other logged in my memory. As a matter of fact one personal indiscretion which I would gladly expunge from my mind (but which alas has stuck stubbornly like meat strands in my teeth) was when my mother caught me using my offering to buy suya thirteen odd years ago. Another was in May when I taught a two-hour class (blissfully?) unaware that the zip of my trousers had been open the whole time. I very much doubt that those erudite damsels at AGGS Onitsha would ever forget the bizzare spectacle of a pair of yellow and pink-patterned boxers peeping through the kakhi trousers of their English teacher/corps member as he fervently explained the differences between the active and passive voices.

Forgetfulness on the other hand can also be painful, particularly when one is on the receiving end. Like when Amanda, whom last weekend I took out to Ozone cinemas with the remnants of my NYSC allowance (three thousand naira), all in the vain hope of making a favourable impression, conveniently forgot my existence in the presence of her current boyfriend, a bank manager (happily married, two kids). Yes, I've seen it all.


You can probably imagine my extreme discomfiture when Christie on whom once I had hung my universe, whose smiles had once been the fabric from which my dreams were woven had the gall to announce -not in the safe confines of a confidential tete a tete, but on twitter and facebook - that I, Jaja lacked the boldness to woo a girl; that I croaked like a frog and screeched like crow; that I had tried with her and failed. I, Jaja!

It is not her that I blame as I remember that cold, dreary September afternoon six years ago I first met her. No. Neither is it the fault of my friend Jawbone who introduced us: he was just a cog in the wheel of fate. It is that black dress Christie wore, the one with blue and white patterns, contrasting nicely with her fanta-yellow skin, those bright eyes that shone with the intensity of the headlamps of a spanking-new Honda Civic, those impossibly perfect teeth fit for a Close-up advert, the superbly sculpted nose; her hair black as a moonless night- it is them that I blame. Them and Akon.

Needless to say, I fell in love on the spot, promptly forgetting my name and my manners. Even after Jaw had introduced us I kept repeating her name to myself for no reason at all, twisting it this way and that as if it held the secrets of the universe.

I should have spoken my mind there and then? Siezed the moment? Told her that I loved her? Declared intentions, or amnesty or something? Carp diem my foot! What did I, a hillibilly, 17-year old 100 level English student of Delta State University, Abraka know about love? We never even uttered the word at home. Yes, we dutifully told our mum that the soup was finger-licking delicious; we thanked our dad each time he paid our fees; we got worried each time one of our siblings stayed out late. But tell them we loved them? Never. To us "love" was a exotic animal, an endangered species found only in Daniel Steele novels, Harlequin novellas and steamy Mexican soap operas.

Besides what if I had told her - then what? Then she would have noticed my worn sandals, which had seen more mileage than BRT buses. Or seen how my Jeans - the only pair I owned - didn't quite reach down to my ankles; my oversized T-shirt (a promo gift from Emzor Paracetamol); the skinny arms that hung limply from my shoulders like broken branches; my hair so thick and unkempt you could have hunted antelopes in the undergrowth; my yellow teeth; bloodshot eyes - she would have seen all these, laughed, scolded saying, "love is not for people like you".

So I kept quiet and swallowed my words, choked on them.

To my immense joy, I and Christie were coursemates and soon developed a friendship of sorts, after Jaw got out of the way like the good friend he is. Yes, Christie has quite forgotten how I faithfully followed her everywhere like a puppy after its mistress. She no longer remembers the numerous times she caught me staring at her during lectures and she smiled that mischievious smile of hers. Wasn't that chemistry? Wasn't that proof?

She surely can't remember one night in the female ward of a government hospital when a nosy, overfed matron asked me - I swear on grave of my dead cat - this matron asked me whether Christie was my "babe". Then I glanced wistfully at the beauty shivering violently on the bed in the throes of a malevolent fever. And I said, "Yes, she is". Just like that. But Christie wasn't conscious at the time so it probably didn't count.

So you see, I do not blame her. She is so easy to forgive. I spent a semester daydreaming of kissing her instead. Surely it would taste just like Fanta, wouldn't it? After all she was as yellow as orange juice. So on and on I fantasized (forgive the pun). So each time I joined Jaw and the Room 19 gang at Coke-spot I stuck to Fanta while the others demolished coke, sprite and schwepps.

And then disaster. I looked on as the entire male population of DELSU Abraka wood her, watched helplessly as beau after beau courted her. I saw her slipping from my hands like sand in an hourglass. I simmered like a pot of stew.

You've got to hand it to those DELSU guys though. I mean those guys were pros. They knew how to woo girls. Academic endeavours aside, those belated undergraduates majored in taking babes out to fancy restaurants like Bravo and Genesis where they fed their charges fat with chicken and rice and coke and fanta, slipping little morsels of flattery and lies in between. Those smooth operators - mostly SUG stalwarts sporting starched shirts, designer wristwatches and car keys - they found the strings to the girls' hearts and played with the dexterity of concert guitarists; they pirouted the girls like ballerinas, spinning the damsels senseless like carousels. Then like sharp shooters they went for the kill.

Not one to be outdone by the competition, I quickly struck back. I plagiariazed Shakespeare. I devoured several self-help books, notably THE ART OF PUBLIC SPEAKING, DATING FOR DUMMIES, WOOING 101 and HOW TO GET YOUR DREAM GIRL IN TEN EASY STEPS, studying them with the seriousness of a final-year medical student. I understudied the most accomplished Don Juans on campus. I drank Fanta. To coax more money from my dad I invented non-existent fees and phantom textbooks. With the proceeds of this treachery I bought a few passable second-hand clothes. I prepared frantically for the sessional exams, determined to make an all-round impression on Christie. Of course after taking any paper I would fortify myself with more Fanta. I cut my hair.

First semester, year two. I was finally ready. I took Christie to Coke-spot where we devoured wrap after wrap of Gala and drank bottles of Fanta (she loved it too; little wonder her complexion). I took her on walks to the bank of river Ethiope behind the Girls' hostels - since the more fancy beaches like Mudi and Arthur's were too expensive, being the exclusive preserve of those lecherous SUG chieftains and their bikini-clad acolytes. Certainly, that was enough proof of my love and devotion, wasn't it? What do you mean? I should have popped the question? Don't be silly. That would have been merely superflous.

Yet, how I tried! I really did, but to no avail. Yes I chose words carefully, the way a seamstress selects her cloth material. I sewed the words together into phrases, the phrases into clauses, the clauses into sentences. I washed them. Ironed them. Checked for tense, concord and punctuation. Removed dangling modifiers. Then I tried them on for size. But they did not fit.
Ah! Imagine my pain! I could not tell Christie. So I consoled myself with even more Fanta.

As expected, despair that portentous landlord of my mind came, demanding the rent. In my frustration I let loose my inhibitions, freed myself of all restraints and set off on a dating spree. I dated girls of all kinds and shapes -tall, short, robust, thin, Igbo, Urhobo, Igala, Ghanaian. Even Somalian, I swear. Akpevwe and Stacy are my witnesses. I slowly garnered a reputation as an inveterate serial kisser. My haunt was that open space infront of Council Hall, popularly dubbed "Small Market" by its other faithful patrons. But all these girls were nothing like Christie. They tasted of sawdust, locust beans, engine oil, garlic; but not like fanta.

Then, Final year, second semester. Time was fast slipping by. Christie and I had remained friends through thick and thin, SUG stalwarts, Ghanaian beauties and nosy matrons notwithstanding. But Christie said nothing. And I kept mum, hiding my feelings like stolen funds squirreled away in Swiss banks.

However, one night a week before our final exams, Courage - that prodigal son of mine - sneaked up to me like Nicodemus. In between the old AfriBank ATM and the staff quarters in Campus 2 I brought out my words from their hiding place and said them, wrinkled though they were. I bared my heart before Christie. I told all. A million stars winked that night in admiration of my candour. A thousand crickets chirped offering moral support. And I smiled, just like they do in those Dettol tv ads: "If I don't take care of her...."

You want to know what happened? You really want to know? Well, inclining her head, first to the right and then to the left, Christie took a long look down at me (I had knelt in supplication), smirking. Then she took my plea, tested it as if it were a wedding dress, rent it like sack-cloth, then turned and sauntered in the direction of her hostel.

My friend, what could I do? I just knelt there because I was too dumbstruck to move. My heart had sunk like the ill-fated Titanic. All my hopes, my fantasies were shipwrecked. I just stayed there, like Jonah on the shores of Nineveh; like castaway fish rotting at the riverbank. What did I do? I forgave.

I forgave her as I got up, dusted my trousers and walked home, blinking back the tears that stung at my eyes (I did not cry, mind you). I forgave her for not picking my calls the next morning, for never speaking to me again. I exonerated her when, on hearing the tale those clowns in Room 19 turned me into a laughing stock until my graduation. I gave excuses on Christie's behalf even though she refused to invite me to her wedding (she is happily married, one kid, heavily pregnant with a second). Yes, I forgave.

But unlike her I never forgot; neither did the stars (the crickets are long dead). I know she did not lie. She simply cannot remember. So I'll let it pass. After all time heals all wounds, they say, except Ibadan tribal marks.

I no longer drink Fanta.

P.S
1. DISCLAIMER: The above story is a work of fiction. While purely co-incidental, any similarities to real persons (living or dead), places and events are however NOT regretted.

2. For more information on the lecherous antics of SUG members please contact the Students' Affairs Division of your nearest higher institution.

3. The writer of this piece (names withheld) is an Achebe wannabe (currently unemployed), who, under the pitiable delusion of someday winning the Booker Prize, divides his time between writing bland, colourless prose and composing nonsensical verse. In his bountiful spare moments he gossips (over bottles of Chelsea Dry Gin) with his friend and fellow writer, Steven Osiegbu, wooes his neighbour's househelp (Onome) and supports Manchester United. He has never drunk Fanta.

All rights reserved© 2013

U̶̲̥̅̊ 're certainly a graduate of English language. Impressed with ur use of Simile. Way †̥ go! Comment †̥ first anyway

Tanx. Of course I am. Expect more stories soon..

nice 1 guy

Lovely story. Looked like a poem as i started and i got drunk hopin it was. Now i feel alright knowin i shld xpect more stories frm ur creative mind. Kudoz

Wow! Lovely story! Expectin more from u

The very best.

Am so impressed.........ur descriptions are so accurate,u must b a poet.nice work.