LOVE AT THE FIRST SIGHT BY BOB EJIKE

LOVE AT THE FIRST SIGHT

BY BOB EJIKE

 ’
'Are you afraid of dying?’ She probed.

‘Yes’ I answered, adamant.

‘Then you are a damn fool.  You followed a complete stranger into her lair and allowed her to lock the door. Do you know that I could kill you here, pack your meat in my freezer and eat you slowly?’ She said coldly. Even the tone of her voice had turned grisly.

 Her name was Natukundah, she was a full-bodied, stunningly beautiful, dark-skinned Rwandan lady in her early thirties. I had met at the annual E.U party. The classy event packed with the top layer of the diplomatic hierarchy, local institutionalized VIPs and noveau riche bourgeoisie, where everyone wore a suit and tie, the ladies dressed in long or knee length dinner gowns, strolling in a haze of perfume-drenched self-importance, drinking champagne and exhibiting inflated savoir faire, conversing in affected accents, with fortunate rich men and women pretending to enjoy classical music and claiming to be connoisseurs of jazz and medieval art, as immaculately uniformed, zombie-like waiters and waitresses delivered festive snacks to their nostrils while they the guests played cool, clapping courteously as  ambassadors, stalwarts and people of timbre and caliber made long boring speeches in atrocious English grammar, with everyone generally acting as if they never shitted.

More interesting was the private, impassioned speech of the Rwandese ambassador to me. He was a very dark, handsome giant of a man, towering above everyone else, including the German and the American envoys. He had that incomparable allure and charisma that elicited the mortal envy of the Hutus and made them attempt to exterminate the entire Tutsi tribe.  I had met him in the office of my bank manager some time ago and he had extended his warm cordiality, probably knowing that a bank manager never wasted his precious time on a customer unless that client had a substantial amount in the bank, or perhaps His Excellency was just being a typical diplomat, calm, sociable and polite under all circumstances. Anyway, I was talking to the diplomat in the crammed, open air arena when this gorgeous feminine stranger tapped my shoulder from behind and whispered ‘I am from Rwanda; please introduce me to the ambassador.’

I pulled her over gently and announced courteously. ‘Your Excellency, sir, please meet my friend…….’

‘Natukundah, from Rwanda’ she aptly added, diminishing my ascendant discomfiture.

The ambassador gave her a formal hug and introduced her to his wife, a diminutive woman for his height with a massive behind. The trio started speaking in their native language, so I glanced cursorily at them, momentarily sidelined. Afterwards Natukundah thanked me and we struck up a conversation. She was quite pleasant and very knowledgeable about the East African sub region. Later we danced, drinking and laughing and generally becoming close much of the night. Naturally we exchanged phone numbers and eventually bid each other goodnight. I always viewed the exchange of phone numbers as a courteous formality since I hardly called anyone whose number I took under those socially compelling circumstances. For this reason I forgot about Natukundah and was slightly mesmerized that day that my cell phone came alive with an unknown female voice; it took a while for me to divine the person on the line. I guess her name was my eventual salvation. Not a common one I would say. ‘Can you meet me at Nandos in an hour?’ She requested.

‘Sure’ I acquiesced, subdued, looking forward to at an amorous appointment that would change my luckless romantic situation. I rang off, stepped out of my studio and raced all the way to Nandos, virtually oblivious of the multi-hued bungalows, storey houses, school compounds, churches, mosques, restaurants, bars, discos, fields, shops, kiosks and supermarkets that apparently rushed past my car, the markets, the fruit sellers, the faithful, mainly Pentecostal, returning from service and a group of itinerant preachers at the head of a musical band that blasted the air with fanfares of drums, trumpets and saxophones as marching tunes spilled out while they shared religious tracks to pedestrians and anticipated Armageddon, paradise for the pious and infernal damnation for sinners. I had expected some traffic on the notoriously jammed route to Nandos because I had forgotten that it was Sunday, the only quiet day in the city and that the evening traffic would be light.

 I parked outside the huge, popular and colorful fast food joint, happy that I unusually found a parking space without hassles. I looked at my wrist watch. I had gotten there twenty minutes early. I went into the ample, teeming but noiseless restaurant and sat down in a vintage position for a view of the busy road. Natukundah soon arrived by taxi which the locals dubbed ‘Special Drop’, right on time, in a formal black dress, long enough to show off her natural endowment without any hint of obscenity or desperation. She had on a pair of black shoes and was hugging a black handbag; she wore her long hair in orderly perms and beamed with smiles, her beauty pulsating within my being. I gathered myself up from my seat and hugged her lightly. ‘I am so glad to see you again Natukundah. How are you?’

‘Very fine’ she replied, looking it, her striking figure loudly emphasized by her close fitting dress.

‘Please sit down; what can I get you? Something to eat or a drink?’

‘I don’t eat out. Let’s go to my house and I will cook for you’ was her surprise reply.

 I was not deceived by the excuse and singular itinerary in the invitation, I wasn’t born yesterday. The last time I received such direct and urgent summon to intimacy by a woman was over twenty years back when I was a dashingly irresistible hunk and most young women that encountered me went jelly in their knees. The years had moderated my physical splendor as middle-age masculine hormones left their subtle signs in little extra kilos around the tummy and face. I had become disquietingly aware that more women came to me now more for security than physical flamboyance, even though I could still hold my own from an esthetic perspective, I was not the hunk I used to be. It was comforting however to know that the younger girls whose needs were still basic were madly attracted by my fame and trendy television image, which was unreal but certainly better than being someone’s meal ticket. Anyhow it might seem weird now that I jumped at the idea of going straight to Natukundah’s home on our first date but it only confirms that I was a normal male. But then how many men would have refused that promising offer from such a beautiful lady? So since I was no angel, I leisurely walked out with Natukundah without further deliberation and we entered my auto. But as soon as I started driving in the direction she was pointing, the natural reflection, the mental process that had been dulled or stalled by the sheer magnetic force of her attractiveness, enchanting personality and the warm anticipation of an amorous encounter, commenced and questions came to my mind. Who was this girl? What did she want from me? Why was such a beautiful woman coming so cheap? How secure would I be in her home? Was this a trap being set by one of my numerous showbiz competitors?

‘Tell me about yourself?’ I began.

Natukundah told her story. She had been brought to Uganda as a baby by her fleeing parents during the unfortunate Rwandan genocide and had grown up in Kampala in dire straits, like other Rwandan nationals resident in this country, she had been granted Ugandan citizenship by a sympathy vote of parliament. Her parents had educated her up to high school and given up due to financial constraint, so Natukundah found a sugar daddy, a much older man than her who cared and catered for her, enrolled her in Makerere University and trained her up to an MBA degree before they broke up. She did not say why they split and I did not press for the reason because I knew that it was usual here for girls educated by older men to assert their freedom, pick up petty quarrels with their benefactors after completing their trainings, get rid of their aged benefactors and hook up with younger men.  I did not want to go into those depressing details. The relevant info was that she now worked for one of the many foreign NGOs in Kampala and had a good salary and a dignified life. She also helped HIV/AIDS patients in Mulago Hospital at weekends on a voluntary basis. As we passed the prosperous Acacia Road and entered the more popular Bukoto with its smaller red brick dwellings clustered closer together with less gardens, I asked her only one question that was of absolute necessity, though one could say personal on a first date, ‘What nature of sex were you having with this benefactor of yours, protected or unprotected sex?’

She laughed. ‘Come on, you don’t tell a man who pays your bills to wear a condom.’

I found it strangely amusing. The bold bitch dictates the terms even though the man pays the bill. She made me stop at a supermarket and we bought culinary ingredients. She wanted to pay but I refused and picked the bill and we returned to the car and continued the drive. We eventually reached her house, a fantastic romantic hideaway lost in the creeping greenery in a quiet and cosy Ntinda neighbourhood, a snug semidetached, one bedroom affair with a well-furnished sitting room, a small, nice, well-equipped kitchen, and a clean toilet and bathroom decorated with scent-emitting flowers. She locked the door and turned the key after showing me around and I felt the impact of our sudden togetherness and seclusion with certain unease.   I sat in the cushion in the parlor. There were large photographs of her in various splendid traditional Rwandan attires on all four sides of the wall. She inserted a compact disc of Rwandan songs into the CD player on a large glass stool by the wall opposite us. The parlor filled up with gentle sonorous music that had more voices than instruments, with an exotic Arab feel. She brought a large packet of orange juice from the fridge and fetched two glasses from the dining table. She poured the juice and I made her sit beside me and drink from my glass before I started sipping. She brought three large photo albums from the center table and began flipping the pages for me, introducing people from her past. Family members, work colleagues, various other girls, mostly fair and pretty in the typical Rwandan manner. As she riffled through the pages, she inched closer to me until she was in my arms, rubbing her sumptuous breasts on the side of my chest. I pushed away the album and pulled her nearer into the embrace she desired and started running my hands gently all over her body. Her skin was amazingly soft and appealing, and her clothing seemed to be coming off on its own, mysteriously. In a few minutes she was totally naked and I do not remember removing her clothes. Maybe she shook them off but I had been too busy and too excited to notice. She levered herself out of the sofa and pulled me up. I followed her, her large, round, splendid bottom rolling ahead. I could not keep my eyes off them for a second as we entered her room. She climbed onto the large bed. I mounted after her. The mattress was big and soft under pink cotton sheets, the pink-cased pillows, large and inviting. That was when the alarm started ringing in my head, rapidly rising to a frightening crescendo, filling up my head and warning me that I could be standing at the entrance of death.

‘Aren’t we forgetting something?’ I inquired.

‘What?’ She asked.

‘The mandatory HIV test’ I quipped, pulling away from her.

‘Come on honey. We’ll do that later. I want to cook for you’ she pleaded.

‘No’ I declined, ‘I never go to bed with a woman whose status I do not know’

‘But you are in bed with me’ she affirmed, her attitude turning suddenly hostile. I picked up my shirt, stepped out of the bed, stood on my feet and started dressing up.

 ’Are you afraid of dying?’ She probed.

‘Yes’ I answered, adamant.

‘Then you are a damn fool.  You followed a complete stranger into her lair and allowed her to lock the door. Do you know that I could kill you here, pack your meat in my freezer and eat you slowly?’ She said coldly. Even the tone of her voice had turned grisly.

‘I know you can’t do that’ I retorted.

‘How do you know that for certain?’ She queried defiantly.

My stare fixed in her inflamed eyes as I told her. ‘Because I’ve been with you for over two hours and your phone hasn’t rung even once. I saw your photo album. Not one single boyfriend. What it confirms is the fact that you are a very lonely and unloved woman. You wouldn’t be vicious enough to kill the only man in your life, would you? You have a master’s degree so you are not a fool. You need me alive to warm this cold…..cold bed of yours and put some warmth into your isolated, dreary, abandoned and lonely life’

She started shedding tears spontaneously. I came close to her and put my arms around her, taking care not to touch her tears. When the shuddering of her body stopped I took control of the situation. ‘Natukundah get dressed, we are going to the lab.’

She walked to the sitting room and I followed her, not looking at her fat behind which had lost its initial thrill and now seemed full of shit. She wore her clothes and we strode out and got into the vehicle.  We journeyed to Doctor’s Plaza in silence. Nkrumah, the lab technician, took her sample and she went to sit in the bench in the corridor. I gave him my phone number and requested that he do me the additional favour of calling me when the result was ready. I knew he would not refuse, because I had become one of his treasured customers. I stepped out and took Natukundah to the nearby Sakura Japanese Restaurant, just beyond the adjacent Total Petrol Station, which was Japanese only in name and ownership because they never served Japanese cuisine, however their Ugandan food and snacks were excellent. They were among the few restaurants in this town that knew the distinction between sauce and water, and they had the good sense of always adding some avocado pear and salad, even if they were not ordered. I reasoned hilariously that they wanted to keep the customers healthy so that the clients would keep coming back and spending more money to enrich them.  Natukundah requested for chips and chicken and I ordered Matoke, Posho (corn meal), fish sauce and sodas.

The restaurant was virtually empty, even its converted wooden upper floor from which diners could see half the lower floor and the ground floor where we sat near the counter, was deserted. The meal was soon served. It looked delicious and it was.  As we relished in it Natukundah prided in the beauty, discipline and cleanliness of her native Rwanda under the genocide liberator and president Paul Kagame, delivering a long lecture on the reason why Rwanda is as clean and orderly as any European country. Suddenly my phone rang and I responded. ‘This is Nkrumah, Doctor’s Plaza’ came the deep baritone,   ‘can you move away from the person that you are with?’

I pushed my chair backwards, got up and strolled some tables away. ‘Have you had anything to do with that girl, I mean intimately?’ he asked.

‘Nkrumah, you know I wouldn’t ever get physically involved without checking with you’ I assured him.

‘Good. She is HIV positive….infective. Do you understand?’

‘Yes’

‘Please don’t tell her’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s not your duty to tell her and I am not authorized to give you this result. It is her privacy.’

‘Okay, thank you, my dear friend for saving my life’

‘You are welcome, but I must tell you, you are coming here too often with too many different girls. I know it’s none of my business and it’s not that I don’t appreciate the money you are paying for our services, but you can’t be our client if you die of AIDS. I am worried about you.  Are you taking all the necessary precautions? Do you protect yourself?’

‘Nkrumah, you are not going to believe this but I haven’t slept with any of those girls you tested. Not one’

‘Strange, very strange. Anyway take care of yourself. Remember, this country is in the middle of an epidemic. Life has no duplicate’

‘Thank you’

 He wound off.

When I returned to our table Natukundah was glaring curiously at me. I put on my best acting, looking dejected and gored by misfortune.

‘What is it?’ She demanded.

‘It’s my son’s school, my son is sick in hospital’ I mumbled.

She would not have given me a role in a film for she charged. ‘You are lying! It is the lab and they’ve told you the result of the test and I am HIV positive and you want to run away from me’

‘No’ I lied even further, ‘it’s my son; he’s laid up with malaria in the school dispensary’

She still wouldn’t have given me any movie role. ‘I believe you are lying. I don’t even believe you have a son’ she retorted acidly.

‘Well I can’t stay here arguing with you while my son is lying sick.’ My tone became final. ‘Here, take a taxi home. I will call you when am through with the hospital.’ I dropped the appropriate sum for her transport on the table and dashed out, got into my vehicle and drove off amidst her protestation.
BOB EJIKE
email profbobejike@yahoo.com for the complete book