Fragile (1) the past returns uneasy ghoul, like Hamlet’s father’s seeking solace… Ijeoma went about on campus with the aura of a model. You would assume she was destined for stardom. But I knew she had no brains; she was just a bewitching bimbo who was too haughty for my liking. When she went overseas, I did not think she would return, at least for a long time. But she did. I thought I would not see her again. But I saw her –– or rather, we met at the Medical Centre in Owerri. I actually listened to her for the first time, even though I had all the opportunity in my undergraduate years. Really, the few hours I spent with her could pass for the most touching moments of my life. * * * Late Nineties Ijeoma and I were course-mates. We did not get along as friends, and I never tried. I was the bookish, skirt-and-blouse type, black like the bark of ebony. She was the carefree, miniskirt-or-jeans girl, with peanut butter skin. I wore thick glasses that gave me the unexciting looks of a bore. I disliked putting them on; but without those glasses, I would only grope around because of myopia. Ijeoma had limpid brown eyes. They twinkled when she smiled her lovely smile. She must have been using Colgate from childhood. Stark white teeth, glistening like snow-peaked mountains one sees in postcards. She also had the brown hue of varnished wood. She stood 5’9", elegant satin legs, and ethereal. She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies I was petite. I was ordinary-looking like a village girl. Sometimes I had to put on shorts to pad out my buttocks, for a well-rounded effect. Ijeoma had the right curves for skin-tight wear. Shapely hips, plump backside, slim waist. She was stunning in jeans or tights, and men used to stare at her while in the presence of their girlfriends. Remember one of those commercials you see on TV: a fragrant lady breezes into a room of people, and heads spin! That was the kind of sensation Ijeoma created; she electrified the air the instant she strolled into the classroom or auditorium. Every male student strove to know her, and hang out with her. Every female student also struggled to be her friend. Expectedly, she was always in the midst of both sexes, radiant like a lighted bulb in a dark gathering of students. She was as quintessential as any girl dreamt to be. As for me, I tried hard not to wish to be like her. Ijeoma was also endowed with enough grace to outshine Genevieve, Stephanie, Omotola, or any of our regular Nollywood actresses. She was really popular. More popular than Professor Chimdi, the fiery vice chancellor, who vowed to flush out unqualified students from the university only to back out and sell ‘admission’ to ignorant children of government officials. He was later ridiculed on the campus bulletin board as a fat cat lapping up creamy milk. Girls spent months practising and preparing for the annual Campus Queen pageant. Ijeoma won the crown, without straining a muscle. She often behaved meekly. But how could she, was it possible? Doesn’t beauty and pride move hand in hand? Didn’t I have four eyes? The other students were too besotted with her charms to notice her arrogance! One afternoon Ugomma and I were eating at the refectory. She was my reading partner, a bibliophile. I asked her if she had noticed anything about Miss Peacock. I personally referred to Ijeoma as Miss Peacock. “Like what?” Ugomma asked. I sipped some water from my stainless steel cup, then looked at her. “I feel something is not quite right with her,” I said. “You’re funny, Nky. Nothing is wrong with Ijeoma.” “You don’t feel it?” She dropped her spoon. “Christ! I feel you don’t really fancy her style,” she spoke a bit too loud. The other students looked across at us. “There’s something fishy around Miss Peacock, I tell you,” I said after a while. “She’d better not hear you call her that.” “Girl, I’m serious.” “I hope you’re serious enough to keep your mouth shut,” she said. “There is something strange…I think she’s…” I couldn’t say exactly. I was sure Ijeoma was not what she seemed to be. She was hiding something, a foible, perhaps. I could almost see it, that spurious thing in her twinkling eyes and graceful gait. Like a watch-dog, I began suspecting her every gesture. At a point, she suddenly struck me as a mermaid. Ijeoma sat next to me during lectures. Occasionally, though. We barely spoke; we ignored each other like two girls bearing malice. For months, it was as though we waged bets on who would speak first to the other. I would not speak to her, for all I cared. She, too, might have taken a similar stand. Like a spy shadowing a target, I still had to keep my distance as my suspicions grew. I took caution as befitted a rival. I reminded myself: Do not play With the Daughter of the Sea Ijeoma began grinning at me whenever we met in class. I scarcely grinned back, because I perceived she was making fun of me in a secret way. Before then, she and Anne, a close friend of hers, would look at me and whisper to each other when they saw me sitting outside the Humanities Hall waiting for a lecture. She would ask: Did you buy that hand-out? Were you in the lecture? Did they sign attendance register? I heard we are taking a test. When? Trivialities. Anyway, I answered her enquiries with the crisp tact a politician adopts in replying to a journalist. I didn’t consider it wise to get on with her. Have you heard of a fabled snake that befriends its prey before it spits its venom? Still, students warmed to Ijeoma easily as if she gave out the most-sought-after bursary allowance. She was a magnet. Indeed, she mesmerized every heart. Think of that sorceress in the Odyssey. I fumed inwardly as they fought to gain her attention, squirmed when the lousy male-folk lavished her with more compliments than was normal. She made me feel inadequate like a misfit, neglected like an unloved child, and inferior as if I were the ugliest girl on campus! And so, waiting for lectures became unbearable. Hell. I started avoiding lectures. Why steam away in a class of fulsome fools when I could read in the library? Later, with inch-thick specs, Evil was just my lark: Lying on my bed at nights, I would wonder how a student could be so fortunate. I was familiar with tales of how girls from the “Spirit World” lived among humans. They drank life to the lees and seldom lacked anything. Ijeoma did not even get the dreaded carry-over. She wasn’t intelligent as such. How come she didn’t flunk a course? The male lecturers could be “sucking her juice” to enhance her exam scores. Everything was rosy for her. Really. Quite often, before I slept, I did wish I would wake up and hear something bad had befallen her. Wouldn’t it be interesting if she were raped by some cult members? She would also be caricatured on the campus bulletin board as a cringing bitch, fleeing from foamy bull-dogs. What would be left of her dignity? One early morning I woke to the sound of merry “Girls ayes!” I jumped down from my bunk bed. I didn’t even think it might have been a student strike, a burglar, or a fire that had burst out from a student’s cooker in the hostel. Some girls were crying out, stamping their feet. With the speed of light, I darted out of the room. I thought what I had wished for Ijeoma had come true! the toxin of Jealousy burns the heart with fervour I shuddered. My stomach tightened. My heart, like a banshee, let out a deafening shriek that only shook within the fragile walls of my head. What greeted my ears was definitely not true! No, it could not be. No, no! It must be some blatant lie, some outrageous rumour. Miss Peacock was travelling abroad? Weeks later, her friends hosted a party for her in the lounge of the female hostel. She’d accepted a part-time modelling contract in Johannesburg. In two months’ time, she would relocate to South Africa. She would start her third year in a beauty & fashion institute over there. She would wallow in good fortune all because of her beauty? It couldn’t get worse! It was as if she had pushed me into a stinking gutter and all the other students were mocking me. She was a mermaid, I was now convinced. Her kind knew how to hurt those whom they felt never liked them. That night I slept off campus, in town, with a friend. I almost smashed my glasses against the wall of her room as I lay in bed, fever heating up my head, cursing the cruel whore that Fate was. Soon after, Ijeoma went abroad. Good riddance, I said. Thankfully enough, my results did not drop. I’d begun making very high grades. I became one of the best three students in my class. On few occasions, my name was announced: the only student with the highest score for a particular course. And my name blew Like a horn Among the Payira You remember the tale of The Ugly Duckling? I grew to a personality among my course-mates. In the entire languages & literature department I was talked about as soon as my shadow was spotted. In class and during exams, boys and girls struggled to sit beside me. My jotter and jottings became sought after like valued gems. Nky, you are brilliant! That’s Nky, the girl… Who? Oh, she’s the one? Yes, she is the brightest in her class. My name rang like a popular jingle. Miss Peacock was no more. I was not shaped for beauty but I was singled out for brilliance. Like her, I basked in popularity; but, I was naturally unassuming. I did not want to be seen as an arrogant person. I could never forget my humble background. And unlike her, I was esteemed, an academic award winner. I had seized her spot-light. I would have trodden barefoot over shards of bottles to make her see the excited number of students that gathered around me for photographs on Convocation day. * * * Five years later. It was by sheer happenstance that we met again. One sunny noon, I had boarded an inaga (motorbike) to the market, when another cyclist swished off a narrow road onto Zander Street. Constantly risking absurdity and death whenever he performs The cyclist was singing like a sot. Bystanders looked at him; some fellow cyclists cheered him on; others sneered at him. He shot out a hand, waved it vigorously, like a politician, and sang the more. It was a stupid act, but he seemed thrilled. The man was one of those exuberant cyclists who installed a cassette player on their motorcycles so they could play music while in motion (you often see them at the university gate waiting to pick up passengers). A noisy song wafted from his motorcycle. This cyclist sang along, approaching us. A wide pothole that yawned like the jaws of a shark lay on the road. We were some metres from it. I knew that cyclist wouldn’t see the pothole in time. He dodged it, deftly though. A child tentatively ran across the road. Onlookers cried out. But the cyclist, trying to avoid spilling innocent blood, veered off his lane onto ours. Brakes squealed like wounded pigs. Tires screeched as both motorcycles went into a skid. Tiny sparks flew off the roughly tarred road. I was thrown off the motorcycle before I could scream. I fell on my chest. Spots of black and white, like moths, flickered before my eyes, as if I were underwater. I squeezed my eyes shut but I was spiralling down a dark, dark hole. Afterwards, my eyes opened. I was sitting on the ground, legs spread-out, too dazed to stand, the sculpture of a sorrowing widow. Strange voices rapped on my eardrums: Is it fighting? They’re lucky. How did it happen? Poor girl… This type of inaga people! Useless, reckless, daredevil drivers! My ribs ached. I tasted the salty tang of blood in my mouth. My teeth had bitten my tongue. I examined myself. Bruises were scattered along my arms, my legs. My skin had peeled off in some parts of my elbows and palms; snips of bloodied skin still clung to my body, like weak threads. A crowd had flocked about me. My cyclist was also inspecting himself. The other cyclist, hitherto noisy, sat huddled up, his hands on his head. He was staring at the ground like a stupid clown. The two bikes lay sprawled apart on the road. A hand pulled me up as I struggled to my feet. “Are you okay?” a man asked. I steadied myself by placing a hand on his chest. “I think…” I stammered. In the common world of the uninjured, and cannot Imagine isolation. Hours later, I met the roadside physician who lived in our street. He gave me analgesic that eased the pain in my body. Blood capsules, even barbiturates. But that night was like a nightmare for me. Listless fits marked my sleep. I tossed and turned. I cried and cursed. A sudden awful pain seemed to wrench at my chest. I clutched my Bible and, thinking death had come for me, burst into prayers. Kene sat up on the bed, grumbling quietly. I didn’t bother if he was annoyed with me. It was past midnight. “We need to see a doctor,” he said after I had finished praying. I was in complete agony. He began stroking my neck, my arm. “I shall call your office in the morning. I’ll let them know you’re too ill to get up,” he said. I crept into his arms. He placed my head on his shoulder, and whispered endearments in my ear. I got a week off from office. Kene scheduled an appointment with a doctor who was once his schoolmate, after I had had breakfast. His boss called him before eight o’clock and requested they meet at the office. It was something urgent, something that needed his attention. He came back late. We couldn’t see the doctor. That night the pain was excruciating: I thought I would go insane! I whimpered and whimpered like a newborn. Kene must have hated me for all those wretched sounds I made; he too could not sleep. He was kind enough to cuddle me, though. The next morning I woke and felt a strange relief. I imagined I was in a painless world, a nirvana. I ran my hands all over my body, rubbed my chest, squeezed my breasts, and poked my stomach. No pain; I was whole again. I called Kene but he was in the bathroom. When he came out, a towel draped around his waist, looking refreshed, I jumped out of the bed, and threw my arms around his neck. “It’s a miracle. It is gone,” I said, with tears in my eyes. He gazed at me, amazed for a while, then affectionately. “Honeycomb, you are well?” he asked. I nodded. He asked again if I was sure. I nodded again. “We still have to see the doctor,” he said, and rubbed my shoulders. “I don’t feel like leaving this room,” I said, feeling heat hardening my nipples. “I need you…” I stuck a hand under his towel and fingered his manhood. He let out a husky sound, and swept me off my feet. That morning we made love without restraint, like two lovers long starved of sex. * * * I resumed work three days later. I got bored with staying at home, even though Kene and I pampered each other with pure affections. On the fourth day, I began going through an unusual sensation, feeling easily tired like a pregnant woman, and growing dizzy from walking a few yards to the bus stop where I normally boarded the staff bus. I had a premonition that I would pass out soon. And I did. Just on the fifth day, I was waiting for a taxi because the staff bus was grounded. I became unaccountably hot. It was like the sun was right behind me. I looked upwards. But the sun was distant in the sapphire sky. Something was wrong. Was it the weather? Was it the ozone layer? Or was it my mind? I wasn’t sure if it were pedestrians closing in on me like a hoary swarm of locusts. Like a mass of blackness. And I swayed. Then I heard voices, taut. I blinked, squinted at the unfamiliar faces. I was in a stadium as the sounds of man and machine floated all around me, perhaps. What happened? Is she ogbanje (spirit child)? Is this a demonic attack? She has opened her eyes. Look, she’s breathing! Hey, thank God. Bah, girls of today. Who knows if she hasn’t committed abortion? Hands, like cockroaches, were running across my body. I realized I was being lifted off the asphalted surface of a busy road. the body aches for its mirth strapped to the infirm bed * * * A rib bone had shifted and pierced through a vessel. It caused a rupture in the pleural cavity. That was what happened the moment I spun off the motorbike and landed on my chest. Intra-pleural haemorrhage, the doctor said, was the reason I had finally blacked out. I was placed under observation like a guinea-pig, then infused with some blood, and passed on for surgery. How did I get to the hospital? I still could not recollect. A passer-by must have borne the burden to bring me to the Medical Centre. I remembered how a young man had lain on Works Road shaking in spasms. People ignored him as if he was acting out a script. Someone must have also mentioned that he was “under demonic influence”. I had undergone cardio-thoracic surgery. Even though I had lost a large amount of blood, I was recuperating, rapidly. I had been on intravenous fluid. I was getting better; yet, my body seemed empty of bones, light as air. I was placed under observation again. This time to “ascertain your stability,” the doctor told me. I was soon moved out of intensive care unit to a ward occupied by six patients with different health conditions. Waft me about, O zephyr, As a butterfly on merry wings * * * Two days before my discharge. Nurse Jane beamed as she entered my ward. It was late noon. The air was moist. It had drizzled earlier. From my window, the sun was a smoky ball in the aluminium sky. I could see a bird, a hawk, a kite, perhaps, gliding against the white and grey clouds. The bird and the clouds were like patterns in a quilt. Nurse Jane sat down on the edge of my bed. She was young, not up to twenty, but she acted like a big sister. She exuded affection. I had thought nurses were as hard-hearted as old spinsters. She was from Kogi State, that expansive land of biting sunshine, craggy hills, and fascinating myths. We usually chatted. And she was quite humorous, unlike the other nurses who acted like every patient was an irritant. Now, she urged me to go for a walk around the hospital premises. I hadn’t stepped out of the ward since I was admitted as a patient. I grumbled to myself as I got off the bed. Nurse Jane went into another ward. I picked up my handkerchief and some money. I dressed up. Outside, the accident scene popped up in my head. That singing inaga should have slowed down after the pothole. He would have lain dead had it been a car. In an attempt to dodge him, my cyclist had skidded.
Copyright © 2006 Uche Peter Umez |