For Days and A Night Read online

  The issue was; it is a giving – at least as far as I’m concerned, that such calls are reserved for men and women…I mean between men and women. Finish.

  So I assumed it was a woman that was calling me at that ‘godly hour’. It could not be a guy. But I did not have any woman in my life who would call me at that time. And there; lay the rub.

  I must have stared at that phone for almost five minutes, but I did not realize it until it started ringing again. It was with some trepidation I picked it up. I frowned at the screen – as though the face behind the unknown number would appear if I stared hard enough. No such luck.

  I picked the call.

  “Hello?” I muttered as dully as possible. I was hoping to discourage whoever it was. I wanted to work. I was in no mood for long conversations. But the first words stopped me cold.

  “You were not sleeping, darling. You’re never asleep at this time of the day. Never.”

  Okay. Pause here.

  Remember what I said about not having anyone in my life who would want to call me at that time of the day?

  Well – I had no one in my life who would call me darling. What had I done?

  I felt uncomfortable. I must have sat there, phone in my hand, saying nothing. Just being scared shitless…thoughtless. I tried to remember the women I had met recently and what I had said or had been saying to them – anything could inspire the pet name ‘darling’.

  I came up blank.

  And then…slowly but intensively it pierced my consciousness till I could think of nothing else. Whoever it was on the phone knew me well – well enough to know I’m hardly ever asleep at a certain time of the day.

  Which kain wahala be dis?

  I know what you’re thinking. Why not just ask her? The issue was – if you know women well, you don’t want to be asking one who knows you well enough to know your sleeping habits – one who suggests a certain level of intimacy…you don’t want to ask her ‘who are you’. No. You really don’t.

  But then, on the other hand…

  “Who is this?”

  A soft chuckle floated down the line and I suddenly got a picture of a stream bubbling softly along its way early in the morning. For all of that, I feel the hairs along the nape of my neck slowly get erections.

  “It’s me baby. Sola your agbalumo,” she said. I could hear a smile in her voice.

  Oh.

  Sola was my first girlfriend, the first girl I ever said ‘I love you’ to. We had dated back in secondary school in a world where there were no cellphones and email addresses and the only means of communication we had then was NIPOST. In a world where all you had to impress a girl with was your mind; and I used to laugh at my friends who wrote silly things like ‘I drop my golden pen in the basket of love’ to move girls. We had been so crazy about each other; she would call me her ‘Winnie Pooh’ and I would call her my agbalumo. And there she was, calling me over fifteen years later.

  There was only one thing wrong with the picture. Sola was dead. She had died four months into our relationship after a hard case of jaundice that had gone untreated for too long.

  Sola was dead. And yet there she was, calling me over fifteen years later, sounding as alive as a point-and-kill fish in the water bowl.

  I think I peed my pants.

  chapter 6: sweetness i

  She liked pineapples.

  I stood in front of a fruit seller’s display in the Ketu market, lost in thought. Thoughts of the nostalgic bitter-sweet kind. Thoughts that seemed to flow from somewhere just beyond my conscious thought process.

  I came back to myself, registering the noise of buyers and sellers and the smell. It was actually a composition of smells; from the rotten banana to the sickly-sweet smell of rotting pineapples to the sharp bitter tang of spoilt oranges. Here now I smiled, remembering how she would cover her nose delicately every time we came down to the market together.

  She liked pineapples. Especially those in between rotting and over ripening.

  I drifted again.

  I could see her as clearly as though she was standing there – right in front of me, a little to my left as she usually did. She would pick what she wanted to buy and then ask me; “what do you think? Should I buy this?”

  I would just wave – because as far as I was concerned, the question was pointless. She was the one who was shopping; she was the one who had stuff to buy. Why ask for my opinion knowing fully well it did not matter?

  But she loved doing it, and I loved to indulge her. So more often than not I would mumble what sounded like an approval and she would go ahead and purchase the stuff.

  And then we would walk home, and she would wash the pineapples (another pointless exercise far as I’m concerned), peel and dice them into tiny slices. And then she would put them in a plastic bowl and place them in the freezer. And then she would cook a heavenly dish and we would eat together. And then she would run my bath water, and bath herself, and then we would make love.

  Lying in the warm afterglow (not every guy falls asleep after sex), she would then serve the pineapples, picking the tiny slices and popping them in my mouth, smiling happily all the time.

  No, we were not married. We never made it that far.

  Someone bumped into me solidly, jerking me out of my mental traipsing and dumping me into reality hard. It was one of those wheel barrow pushers, carrying a load of yam. I ignored him and pointed to the pineapple I wanted, a large yellow-green orb. The woman smiled, putting her incomplete set of dentures on display.

  “Two hundred naira sah,” she mouthed in a singsong accent. I nodded and opened my wallet, pulling out a five hundred naira note. She collected the money, handed me the fruit in a black nylon back and handed me my change. I thanked her and walked away, deciding to do all the reminiscing I wanted to in a safer place.

  I crossed the expressway and hailed a bike. Giving the rider my house address, I jumped on when he agreed and continued to do my wool gathering.

  I thought about the last time I saw her.

  She had come over that Saturday looking like a million naira, or as my friend Gani would say; ‘looking like a meal of men’. Heh.

  She came bearing the usual things, fruits and foodstuff. I always complained about how she spent money on me – about how it made me uncomfortable. But she only smiled and told me it made her happy to take care of me, because I was doing so poor a job of it. She was right, but I still did not like it. So we had an arrangement; I would give her a monthly allowance and she would spend it however she liked. We both had good jobs; she argued. Why should she not spend on her man? Grudgingly I accepted, knowing fully well the amount we agreed was nothing compared to what she spent.

  So she came in that Saturday, packing stuff and looking like she was headed to a refugee camp with the Red Cross. I had missed her during the week – it had been a full one so we hardly had time for a movie or any of that. I had made some food; jollof rice, the only thing I knew how to cook apart from making eba and plain rice. She ate, making fun of my cooking but enjoying it all the same, and then she started making soup.

  We’d talked and talked long into the night, catching up on each other and sharing experiences. We started to watch a movie on ONTV, but barely five minutes into it she was out like a light. Gently I carried her into bed and tucked her in, and then lay beside her watching the play of moonlight on the strong yet gentle planes of her picturesque face. It was Mother Nature giving me a picture to hold on to, a picture to keep me going after.

  But of course, I did not know it at the time.

  chapter 7: true romance

  It’s a romantic night.

  You know; that kind of night. The kind of night described in a million-and-one Danielle Steel novels; a night on the streets of Paris…strolling along the banks of the river Seine. Or maybe in Florence on some cobblestone street, sipping Chianti wine, licking a gelato and listening to Bach.

  But I’ve never been to any of those places. So you’ll just have to m
ake do with home.

  Nigeria.

  To be exact; February 16 2005. Sometime after ten at night.

  Place? That would be UNAD – University of Ado-Ekiti, Ekiti State. Standing at the junction where the un-tarred road coming from the hostel met the main road that went past the campus gate and into Ado town.

  It was one of those nights on which NEPA for once did not let you down. Soft music was playing from one of the hostel rooms…maybe something from Timi Dakolo or Darey or Banky W playing in the background.

  A night with the right kind of weather – not too warm, not too cold.

  Just right. The kind of night with or without a full moon – but with just enough stars that the weather was complimented, so that meant there was enough illumination to see what you needed to see.

  Her eyes; for instance.

  Duh. How could you not have expected that? What sort of ‘romantic night’; from a guy’s perspective…at least a straight one, is complete without a girl?

  Anyways, there we were; her looking at me as though I was dumb Jack in Titanic and she was Kate posing nude on the couch; me trying not to look at her. It was the hardest thing I had ever had to do – up to that moment.

  Crazy girl. A few moments before, she had been asking me if I thought it was possible to fall in love with someone within moments. ‘Oversabi’ that I was, I started giving her empirical reasons and evidence as to why it was impossible, unrealistic and stupid. She looked at me with those liquid brown eyes, shook her head and said nothing.

  I wondered if I was trying to convince her or myself.

  chapter 8: skit ii: on women

  I think women are really powerful.

  No. Scratch that.

  I think women are singlehandedly the most powerful thing - all across the context of a 'noun'; God ever created. Seriously.

  Think about this: for a man to get anything; more often than not he has to say stuff. And in order to 'say stuff' - you have to actually know something. Hence; content.

  But a woman does not have to open her mouth to get shit. No.

  Guys, be honest now. How many times have you and a mixture of people stood at the bus stop in a heavy rain, steadily getting soaked as car after car stops, someone gets in and said car continues to move - and then after a while you look around you and realise that only males are left there?

  How many times have you stopped an okada (before the okada ban anyway) only for the annoying guy to drive past you and stop for a girl ahead?

  How about taxis?

  Now that's power. The kind of power that make human beings respect the sight of a gun. The kind of power that makes you fear what you do not understand. The kind of power that makes grownup men try to act innocent when a police car shows up in sight.

  That’s the kind of power women have. And it saddens me that most of them don’t even know they have this power. So they run around bandying around some childish shit named feminism as though labels like that give them power – give them the respect they so desperately desire.

  Driven, passionate women are interesting. Career women – women who make impacts in the corporate

  world even moreso. Forget what you know – career/successful/fulfilled women are a major turn-on for yours truly. I am sapiosexual by nature; which means intelligence turns me on. But no matter what you know; no matter how great you are; you better know how to be a woman when it matters or you ain’t shit.

  Understand something; women who know their worth don’t beg for respect. They don’t confuse ‘attention seeking’ for ‘respect demanding’. As far as I’m concerned, ‘respect is not commanded, it is earned’ still holds true.

  Beyoncé would make songs like ‘If I Were A Boy’ ‘Girls Run The World’…but have you ever heard her talk about Jay-Z being her equal? In case you start feeling offended, just take a moment off reading this and give her (Beyoncé) ‘Upgrade U’ a quick listen. As far as I know – women and men are two parts that come together to make a whole, so there shouldn’t be role confusion.

  Everyone must play their position. But then…

  That’s only my opinion. What’s yours?

  chapter 9: a game called life

  If you’re at your wedding, at the altar at your wedding, and the recurring theme in your mind is ‘this is a mistake’, you’re fucked.

  I am at my wedding – actually about to sign the marriage register and all I can think of is ‘this is a mistake’.

  Yeah I know. I’m fucked.

  My wife is gorgeous. She’s every mother-in-law’s dream. And no; she is NOT pregnant. And no; I do not love her. Not in the slightest.

  So why am I marrying her?

  My pen hovers over the space for the groom’s signature as I hesitate. I see looks of alarm jump into the faces of the people surrounding us. My wife looks like she’s about to have a cardio-vascular something-or-the-other. I’m laughing at them. How important is this marriage register something? She’s wearing my ring on her finger already is she not?

  I tire for my people!

  I sign. They cheer, and the look of relief on my wife’s face is very pathetic. I scan the smiling guests’ faces. Smiling so much and not meaning any of it leaves your cheeks aching. I wonder if theirs ache as much as mine. There’s this look in their eyes that says ‘Abeg una finish make we dey go reception jo!’

  It is just another wedding to them. But this…it is my life.

  I look over at the girls lining up to hug and kiss my wife, shake me coquettishly and offer words of advice. Phrases like ‘take care of her’ ‘stop playing around’ and so on will keep ringing in my ears for the next few months. I’m sick of them.

  Someone is holding my hand longer than is necessary. I return to the now to see who it is; one of my wife’s friends. Bola, she says her name is. She is cute in a naughty way. She’s one of the few girls here today wearing dresses that cover their chest. It’s a short dress; designed to hug her ‘barely-there’ breasts and ‘tiny-waist’ – and then abruptly flare out to accommodate humongous hips.

  “You look nice, Bola. Thank you for coming,” I say politely.

  She smiles. “Hope to see more of more…I mean of you,” she says, voice coming out of a gash of red that are her lips. Pulling her hand slowly from mine, she sashays away slowly. I act like I’m looking for Oxygen my best man but I’m really scoping her ass out. She looks over her shoulder and winks at me. I guess she’s fair game.

  I look over at the guests at my wedding and wonder; how many liars are here? How many of these giggling and dancing women have made presents of a boyfriend’s pregnancy to their husbands; and how many of said husbands have slept with their wives’ friends/cousins/sisters/mothers?

  Badt guys.

  Life is a game we all play, I guess. And thing I know about this game called life?

  It goes on.

  chapter 10: how stupid

  This is stupid.

  Her hair is the smell of damp leather shoes. She’s apologised for it at least twice. But that does not change anything. Her hair smells like damp leather shoes.

  I wonder what Ife would think if he saw me now - sitting the way I am sitting and doing what I am doing. This is really stupid.

  My fingers are oily. Oily and spotted with white stuff. Their tips hurt from the unraveling and loosening they have been doing for the past hour. Some of the tips are red, others not so much. My back hurts like crazy but I dare not complain after all. She’s my girlfriend, the model.

  She asks if I want to eat or drink or.... I murmur an intelligible reply. She conveniently takes that as a no and continues chatting. She’s been chattering since we started; only pausing at regular intervals to either thank me or empathize with me or to apologize and offer me food. I guess she assumed her chatter was entertaining. Yeah; as entertaining as listening to Arnold Schwarzenegger crack bad jokes in Korean.

  Man, I feel so stupid.

  This was what; the fourth date? And there I am already playing nursemaid a
nd hairdresser. That’s right. Sigh. I guess it’s the shit I want to eat that’s making me stupid. This will hurt my reputation considerably.

  This girl is still talking. Does she not know when to shut up?

  God! This is so stupid!

  chapter 11: pause

  It was a very strange thing. He loved her; had loved her since the first time he had met her but she was in a serious relationship – or so she said.

  But it was pretty clear that she liked him, because no matter what she was doing she would make time for him, always making it clear that whenever he wanted to see her all he had to do was say.

  And so they continued; she sitting by the phone waiting for it to light up with his name and he, feeling all hollow inside, thinking there was no point in telling her how he felt because she was in a serious relationship – or so she said.

  Then; as is usual in stories like this – she had a falling out with her boyfriend and she could not wait to tell him. When he called that evening like he usually did, she sounded quiet and gentle – more so than was usual for her. He asked her what was wrong and she answered nothing; and then she told him she had broken up with her boyfriend.

  He was struck speechless at first, and then it occurred to him that she might have done it because of him. The rising hope in his chest became an overwhelming feeling of guilt and he hung up on her, hating himself for putting her in the situation. In his bloated sense of self righteousness it did not occur to him that she might love him; and had decided to end things with some other guy whose kisses had begun to taste like sawdust. No; it did not occur to him at all – after all he was the one who knew what was best for everyone except himself.

  Back at her house, she held the phone in her hand, stupefied beyond words. Why would he treat her this way; leave her hanging without a word of explanation or anything??! She was confused and saddened. After a while, sadness became tears and she cried herself to sleep, sobbing as though her heart would break. And then, just as the night began to get dressed for the day, tears became anger and she went through her house in a rage, destroying everything that reminded her of him.

  Meanwhile, he was agonizing over what he thought was a rash decision on her part. He thought and thought about how to convince her that she had acted rashly – but could come up with nothing. It was strange – because he was an artist. Creative expressions were what he did for a living.