THE DISCOTHEQUE BY BOB EJIKE

THE DISCOTHEQUE

BY BOB EJIKE

 After months of chasing Kasha and meeting only rejection on account of a boyfriend she had in the USA, II was depressed, so I decided to go out and cheer myself up. Volts Nightclub was spectacular at night. I parked my vehicle at the adjacent petrol station, in the unspoken custody of a shadowy guard who was armed with a pomp action rifle, because the parking lot outside the dancehall that was lighted with artificial flames was jammed with vehicles and couples. I filled my tank and went to relieve myself in the acridly smelly station urinary, then ambled into the packed discotheque, stopping briefly by the entrance to greet a few friends playing billiard beside the bar. I went straight to the dance section to bop for exercise. A lady was dancing towards me. It was Janet, (Plain Jane in my mind) who had been one of the costumiers in my last video shoot. She was in jeans up and down and displaying a spectacular dance pattern that had taken root here. Everyone knew the intricate steps and danced them except foreigners like me, and no foreigner seemed capable of adapting to it. So it was easy to identify a foreigner on the dancing floor from his alien movement. I was not much of a dancer myself but I had perfected a few unique moves that could keep the entire eyes in the hall on me.

‘Hi, enjoying yourself?’ She asked me, smiling.

‘Sure’ I answered as she swayed to the heightened tempo of the rhythmic beats.  We started dancing together and she kept talking to me but not loud enough for me to hear her within the high volume of the music. Suddenly I noticed another familiar female figure, a much slimmer, markedly prettier and pointedly fresher one, who was dancing more beautifully towards us, kitted in brightly colored open backed, show-much blouse, black leather shorts with shiny brass buttons and high black leather boots. It was Jami, the prettiest one among the dancers that had formed the choreographic backdrop for the same music video. ‘Hi’ she greeted me, smiling excitedly. Janet whispered something to Jami in their local dialect,  they started discussing a little heatedly, then Jami turned and danced away. I followed her, to Janet’s visible displeasure.

‘Jami, how are you?’ I asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

‘Fine’ she answered, perspiration streaming down her half-naked chest.

‘It’s very hot. Can I buy you a cold drink?’ I offered.

‘Thanks’ she obliged.

I paced towards the bar, pulling her along gently. ‘Careful, your girlfriend will be angry’ she advised me.

‘Which girlfriend?’ I probed, stunned.

‘The one you were dancing with’

‘Ah, that one. She’s just an acquaintance’

‘But she told me that both of you are engaged and about to marry’

‘Really?’ mirth floated through my being, ‘and you believed her?’

‘Why not? You were dancing together.’ She was laughing too.

‘You never wondered why she spoke to you in a language I do not understand, rather than English which all three of us understand’ I prompted teasingly.

She sat on the tall round-topped stool at the bar and I balanced myself beside her. ‘Jami, what will you drink?’ I asked.

‘Get me a Waraji’ she requested.

‘The spirit that binds us’ I mimicked its popular advert slogan and ordered a Nile beer and a squat bottle of the hard, transparent spirit. It always amazed me that such strong alcohol could come from a soft, sweet, seemingly innocuous fruit like banana. Another girl slightly fairer and taller than Jami, decorated like a trendy fashion advert on a billboard joined us.

‘My friend Tonia’ Jami presented her.

‘Hello Tonia’ I saluted, extending my hand. We shook hands and she said ‘hi’

She spoke with Jami in their language for a while and disappeared into the mass of fun seekers. Our drinks were soon tabled.

‘It’s too hot in here. Can we sit outside in my vehicle’ I suggested.

‘Okay’ she agreed and we strolled out, stopping to get our palms stamped at the packed gate for return access. We wandered into the refreshingly cold air of the city’s night, into the car park which was still littered with smooching couples and small groups in discussion.  I led the way out of the car park into the petrol station and to my vehicle. I opened the doors and we got in, sat down and started sipping our drinks. The security man hovered around at a respectable distance in the gloom, gripping his weapon powerfully to make his presence and power felt.

‘How is your life? What do you really do?’

‘I am a dancer’

‘Professional?’

‘Yes’

I still could not make out how a person could make a living out of dancing in a country as poor as this. ‘Is that all you do?’

‘Yes’ she replied.

‘You make enough on that?’

‘I try; sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad’

‘Most times?’

‘It’s okay’ 

I looked her over. The deep black skin of her face, her straight nose, wide glossy, red coated lips and her shining magic eyes held an astonishing amount of beauty.

‘Jami, I liked you from the day we worked together’ I confessed.

‘Why didn’t you tell me so?’

‘On principle I don’t combine business with pleasure’

‘I see’

‘But what will be will be’

‘What will be?’

‘You and I are going to be lovers’ my tone was deliberately decisive, then I added a very soft interrogative, ‘okay?’

‘Okay’ she conceded, and we were at once in each other’s arms, hugging each other tightly and spilling our drinks on our bodies in the emergent emotional emergency. I withdrew from her and we kept our drinks on the dashboard, then we went for each other again embracing ourselves firmly. I felt her round firm breasts and ran my hands up her long legs to the extent that was allowed by her tight leather shorts, the auto trembling slightly  with our frenzied movement.

‘Kiss me’ she whispered.

‘No’ I replied.

‘Why not?’

‘I never kiss a girl whom I haven’t tested for HIV’

‘You think I have AIDS?’

‘It isn’t written in the face’

She pulled away from me, obviously hurt and annoyed, and adjusting her clothes defensively.

‘I have to go now, gotta work tomorrow. When do I get to see you again?’ I said.

‘I’ll be here tomorrow night. Anyway give me your phone number just in case’ she intoned. We exchanged phone numbers. She stepped out of the auto and walked sprightly towards the discotheque. Suddenly there was a loud shout from the entrance of the disco followed by other angry voices. The bouncers unceremoniously pushed two men with hunched shoulders and bulging necks out of the gate and the two evictees unleashed a hailstorm of blistering rebuke at each other. Pandemonium broke out and Jami ran into the door. The taller evictee with crude immediacy leveled a savage right jab at the other’s face and the shorter one with a cylindrical neck, vastly muscled arms and calloused hands responded instantaneously with a devastating uppercut that immediately drew blood from the tall man’s open teeth. The tall man feinted a response blow on his aggressor’s nose and the two men launched deathly punches at each other, ducked, shuffled, parried, blocking blows, then with frightful choking shouts of hate they plastered each other with savage punches, releasing an avalanche of vicious hooks and deadly crosses on themselves, attracting a swarm of spectators which gathered excitedly around them, their shouting carrying noisily through the air. Two of the viewers struggled to stop the savage onslaught, receiving their own share of the rage as the combatants launched a torrent of ferocious broadsides and counter-punches, intent on the permanent physical destruction of each other. The shorter man who had received a shattering punch on the side of his jaw shot his left fist in the stomach of his opponent, followed by a barrage of blows that pounded the breath out of the taller man with deadly impact.  The edges of the taller man’s teeth glowed painfully. One moment he was standing, the next moment he swung round, staggering dementedly. I hesitated to move until we had observed the full efficiency of the short man’s ferocity, for the taller fighter keeled over, collapsing on the ground with a resounding ominous thud like a felled tree, floored, crushed, pulverized, completely annihilated. His mouth flopped open, blood gouted, drooling from his teeth.

The watchman came to my car window and explained the confusion. ‘They are fighting over a woman. One says she is his fiancée, the other says she is his girlfriend’

‘And where is the lady?’ I demanded.

‘Inside, drinking and dancing with another man, enjoying herself’ he replied funnily. We both laughed at the comic aspect of the tragedy.

‘Why fight over a woman? If she is yours she will be with you. If she isn’t with you then she is not yours and violence cannot make her yours for long.’ I reasoned.  ‘A man only needs to work hard and treat his lady right,  but always bearing in mind that women never finish and more women are being born every day and they grow fast and get prettier every year, and men are almost always eligible no matter their age.’

I gave a tip to the watchman whose concentration had returned to the raging physical combat and drove out of the petrol station.

On Saturday night I drove to Volts Night Club because I wanted to be with Jami. Predictably Jami was waiting for me at the club entrance, garbed up in her usual outlandish manner. She cat-walked to the filling station as I parked the auto, the grateful guard greeted me with obsequious kowtows. Jami opened the door, climbed into the auto and sat down smiling broadly.

‘Jami, how are you today?’ I inquired.

‘Fine, very fine’ she answered in high volume. There was a new unnatural exhilaration about her person. Her eyes were bright and red and her hands trembled mildly, her body shivering feverishly. There was something strange about her comportment that I could not immediately place.

‘Are you alright?’ I inquired with concern.

‘Sure I am. Why are you asking?’ She emitted a long bout of hollow laughter.

‘Because you look stoned’

‘I am’

‘Jami, are you on drugs?’

‘Yes’

I was dumbfounded. ‘What kind?’

‘Various kinds, I can’t start naming them.’ Her head floated round in a small circle, perspiration rolling down her rigid face. Her beauty had vanished, leaving behind a hardened, wacky visage. She closed her eyes, dozed off and was snoring in minutes. I allowed her to sleep. Half an hour later when she awoke, I prompted her inquisitively. ‘But why?’ My voice betrayed my deep disappointment.

‘My brother, it was my brother that spoilt me. He introduced me to it. Sorry I can’t help myself’ she was almost in tears. At that point her cell phone rang. She pulled the tiny talk apparatus out of her pocket and opened the line. ‘Hi Tonia….no I can’t come, am with my baby’ and she rang off.

My mood soured. When I had prepared to return here I had drawn a beautiful picture of how the night would flow and how a rich and eventful love affair would subsequently flower, instead here I was sitting side by side with a stoned junkie. I was thinking of a way out of the mess when Jami’s phone rang again. She responded. ‘Tonia, I told you I can’t come tonight. I am with my sweet heart’ and she cut it.

‘What is it, what does she want?’ I asked, resenting the now unwanted intimacy she was propounding with the new amorous titles she was generously bequeathing upon me.

‘She wants me to come. She says that it is very important but I can’t leave you and start going home now. You see, I’ve fallen in love with you’ she lamented.

‘You can go and see her. I will wait for you’ I advised.

‘Are you sure you will wait?’ She quested uncertainly.

‘I will be inside the club dancing until you return’ I told her.

‘And you won’t do what I won’t do?’ She smiled jealously.

‘No I won’t, Jami. I’ll just wait for you’ I assured her.

‘But I have no money for transport’ she complained helplessly.

‘I’ll give you.’ I offered, searching through my pocket. I came up with some crumpled notes that were enough to take her anywhere within the town and bring her back there, and handed them to her.

‘Can I use your phone to call her? There is no airtime in mine’ she pleaded.

I gave her my cell phone. She dialed a number and waited, then dialed again. Eventually there was a response and she spoke in her dialect, after that she returned my phone, blew a kiss on the side of my face and stepped out of the vehicle. I watched her walk clink clank to the road, mount on a waiting motorcycle taxi and disappear into the cold night. Shortly after she left, my phone buzzed and I opened the message. It was MTN Service reminding me that fifty thousand shillings of airtime had been transferred to Jami’s phone as I had requested. Of course I had not made any such request. Then I remembered Jami’s repeated dialing. She had been manipulating my phone, not just calling her friend. She had taken advantage of my benevolence to steal from me. She had pinched so little but caused much irritation. Why had she needed to do that? If she had requested, I would not have hesitated to give it to her.  I could not understand this generalized counterproductive trend of robbing someone who gives. I drove out of the filling station leaving the guard in obeisance and fled home to the comfort of my bed, swearing not to have anything more to do with this thieving drug addict no matter how physically endowed and cheaply available she was. I eventually drifted to sleep. My cell phone woke me up early the next morning. It was Jami. I took no notice, but it kept wailing crazily every half hour or so, so I arose and went to the parlour for breakfast. There was a big confusion because my sitting room had been invaded by three frantic bats during the night and they were swooping all over the parlour with my cat  running wild chasing them up and down. I had no hint of how these blind animals had entered the house since all the windows were locked and there was no hole anywhere in sight. I turned the key and knob and opened the door for the poor sightless creatures to escape, wondering what would stop snakes which could see from penetrating my home one day if bats that were unsighted could enter.

 My determination to discontinue seeing Jami was concrete, for I did not want to get involved with a thief and a junkie. I eventually switched off my phone, took a bath, had breakfast and went for church service. After service I switched on my cell phone as I strolled home. There were thirty-three missed calls from Jami’s number. My phone soon yelled again, so this time I was compelled by an irresistible urge to answer. A mature female voice that was not Jami’s said ‘Hello this is the Central Police Station’

‘You’ve got a wrong number’ I interrupted.

‘No Jami gave us your number. This is the police. We have arrested Jami for theft and we are charging her to court. Can you come and bail her please?’ requested the disembodied officious female voice.

‘I bail a suspect? Why should I do a thing like that? I just met Jami, I don’t really know her and I cannot vouch for her character’ I declined with alacrity.

‘Jami says you are the only person she is close to. The only one who can bail her’ the policewoman insisted.

‘Look officer, I am afraid I won’t come. I am a foreigner minding my business and I don’t want to get involved with law enforcement issues here. I just met this girl at the disco once, and a second time very briefly. I don’t even know her surname or her address or anything about her, I don’t know her from Adam. How can I come to sign a bail bond for a total stranger, what if she jumps bail? Surely she must have parents, brothers, sisters, relations, kinsmen, colleagues, townspeople, friends that she grew up with ’

‘She is an orphan’ the officer informed me acidly.

‘I see, sorry about that but I am not getting roped into a police, court and prison matter just because I danced with a girl in a disco. Please do not call my number again.’ I cut the communication and walked on.

 When I got home my phone rang and I was sure it was the police, but astonishingly it was Kasha.  An well-endowed upcoming singer whose affiliation I had repeatedly sought but who never really took notice of me. ‘I got a job to sing at the Grand Imperial’ she announced excitedly after preliminary salutation.

‘Congratulations!’ I shouted, genuinely happy for her, ‘how much are they paying you?’

‘One hundred and fifty thousand shillings a month’ she announced happily.

I mentally converted the sum. About thirty quid. Peanuts. But it was a lifeline for her so I felt an urge to encourage her.

‘Won’t you come and celebrate with me?’ She pleaded desperately.

I looked through my programme. There was nothing of real significance as Sunday was the only day off for most nightclubs in Kampala.  I stepped out, locked up, got into my car and drove to her house. It was an unpainted Bungalow among the greenery off the major road. She was in a very happy mood as we drove to the restaurant for celebratory lunch. All through lunch Kasha talked continuously about her boyfriend in America, ‘the handsome son of an Arab merchant that had settled in Kampala generations ago and a local woman,’ who was sending her money to spread to his relations, but hardly a dime for her own maintenance.

I eventually had the half-Arab smart ass coming out of my nose, so I interrupted her. ‘Kasha, I’ve listened to your Romeo and Juliet tales for long with the patience of Job. I understand that a mixed breed from an Arab and a local would look exotic enough to attract a naïve young woman from here, but quite frankly it takes more than good looks and foreign ancestry to make a good lover. This man isn’t in love with you’

‘How do you know that for sure?’ She prodded, looking profoundly perturbed.

‘Isn’t it very easy to tell? If he were truly in love with you, you wouldn’t be picking the crumbs doing backups for recording studios and you won’t be rejoicing for a chance to be out all night entertaining drunkards and prostitutes for pittance. He would probably be sending enough money for your upkeep rather than for you to disburse to his beloved relatives, the ones he really cares for. Is this simple logic so hard for you to understand?’

Tears suddenly coated her eyes. ‘But you, what alternative did you offer me?’

‘You were always busy talking about this fellow. How can I…...’ I went silent, took her in my arms and cuddled her gently, maximizing my warmth in her balmy, massive bosom. 

‘Will you provide for me?’ She inquired, shuddering.

‘Yes I will’ I promised.

We ate in silence and things were looking promising and relaxed. After the meal I drove her to the lab for the obligatory preemptive HIV test. Result Negative. We got back into the auto and I sped towards my house, a typical male with one single scope in mind. When I drove inside the compound things became sticky for there were two policemen waiting for me at my doorstep. ‘Good afternoon sir’ they greeted me in unison.

‘Good afternoon officers.’ I responded, looking baffled.

‘We are police officers from the Central Police Division. We are investigating a case of theft involving a certain Jamilat Opolot and have come to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind’ announced the tall, dark policeman with three tribal markings on his cheeks.

I quickly opened the door and let them in, wishing they would leave soon and hoping my neighbours had not seen them. They sat in the couch.

‘Thank you’ said the shorter and fatter officer. ‘We just need to ask you a few routine questions to ascertain the level of your involvement in this case’

‘My involvement?’ I was puzzled.

‘Yes sir, your involvement’ insisted the officers.

Kasha looked flabbergasted and thoroughly embarrassed.   The shorter man had a notebook.

‘We just want to clarify some points in the statement written by Jamilat’ he announced grimly.

‘What has that got to do with me?’ I demanded, confusion twisting my mind.

‘That is precisely what we are here to find out’ the taller cop volunteered. Kasha and I sat opposite the officers with me feeling not a little mortified.  The taller one’s eyebrows furrowed as he continued his inquisition. ‘Please correct me if I am wrong. According to Jami’s statement you and Jami were involved in the shooting of a certain film some months ago at your studio. That was where you met and it was during this period that both of you became romantically involved and intimate. You took her to Volts Nightclub in Zanna on Entebbe Road, and two of you were dancing, getting drunk and generally having fun, and you both ended up in your car where you stayed for a long time romancing and doing things, am I correct?

‘Not really officer’ I protested loudly.

‘That was on Friday night and on Saturday night you were again with her in the same nightclub. That was last night. You are her boyfriend…’ he paused. I was at a loss about whether the statement was a question or a conclusion.

‘I am not her boyfriend. I do not know this girl.’ I stated flatly.  ‘She was brought to my studio for the shooting of a musical video by an agency and I did not interact with her during the shooting. I ran into her by pure accident three nights ago at Volts Nightclub. We talked, danced, drank and agreed to meet again at the same place the following night. When I came yesterday night I found her in an intoxicated stupor and decided that I did not want any part of her. She went to answer a friend who had called her on the phone and I drove away. I started receiving embarrassing calls from the police station, asking me to come and bail her from the cell. You police are very strange. How can a man bail a complete stranger whose character he cannot vouch for, what if she jumps bail, what do I do?’ 

The taller officer reached in his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper and opened it. It was a photocopy of a statement written in virtually illegible handwriting. His eyebrows rose slightly. ‘I have a confession here from the watchman of the filling station near the nightclub where you parked your car on the two nights in question. It says that you and Jami were touching, hugging, kissing, caressing and romancing each other in your car, generally committing public nuisance.’

Kasha’s eyes shot at me disdainfully, looking like two hot fired bullets. I was stung to silence.

‘Isn’t it interesting Sir that you gave Jami access to your phone with which she called a man and you gave her transport money and from your car she went to burgle the man’s house, to steal his electronics equipments while you waited for her to come back and you had nothing whatsoever to do with it and know absolutely nothing about it?’ The taller law enforcement officer queried and laughed mildly under his breath, a sarcastic laugh. ‘I have been in court several times and I will assure you that it will be extremely hard to convince a court of law that you and that very young and naïve almost underage girl were just talking about the weather in that car on that dangerous road at that ungodly hour of the night when all honest men are sleeping, just before the crime was committed and you had absolutely nothing to do with the burglary.’

My temper was welling gradually, turning feverish. ‘Listen officers. I didn’t know that girl from Adam. She was brought to my studio by an agency and I worked on a video with her which is perfectly legitimate. After that we met by sheer accident in a discothèque. I didn’t take her there. It is perfectly normal for a man and a woman to sit in the car and talk. I repeat, I do not know this girl and I don’t even know her surname or her address or where on earth she comes from. I therefore cannot give any guarantee regarding her character. For all I know she stole airtime from my phone last night and I decided that I didn’t want to have anything more to do with her. I will not bail her and I will not be involved with her in anyway.’

‘Sir, as you can see you are already involved and if this case goes to court there is no way you will not appear in court as a co-accused’ the shorter policeman reminded me with a look of melancholy.

‘So what do you want from me? You came to my studio to blackmail me into bailing a stranger from police custody?’ I cried, exasperated.

 ‘Do not talk like that my friend, we are only here to help you’ advised the shorter law and order man, ‘if you don’t want to bail her directly, there is a way it can be arranged. You provide the money and we find someone to sign the bail bond for her, that way you are not officially involved. We forget that this meeting was ever held and we cover up your involvement and end the case. It will cost you just one hundred and fifty thousand shillings’

‘I will not get involved with that girl in any way okay. Take the case to court’ I snapped, jumping to my feet.

‘Jami has nothing to lose. She is already down. If you don’t lift a finger to help her and the case goes to court I assure you that she will rope you in. I hope you have considered that possibility and its terrible consequences’ the taller officer warned, also rising to his feet.

Kasha focused a compassionate gaze at me and spoke for the first time since we arrived at the studio. ‘It’s very little money, a meager amount to you. Why not give it to them instead of getting further involved in this messy case?’

‘But I have nothing to do with that girl!’ I insisted.

‘I know, but you are a foreigner here and you don’t know how our legal system works. Walk away from trouble as soon as you can,’ she advised me.

I hesitated for a long while and thought through the whole strange episode before finally giving in to their pressure, then I put my hands in my pocket, pulled out my wallet and counted the money and handed to the taller officer.

‘Thank you. You are a gentleman with an intelligent woman. This is the kind of woman you should be with, not rogues and drug addicts like Jami’ he declared with a smile as the shorter cop got up and they clattered off my studio, out of my gate, and hopefully my life.

The moment they left, Kasha turned sour. ‘I want to go home’ she said. There was an unambiguous trace of vexation in her voice.

‘Let me drop you’ I offered.

‘No don’t bother.’   She declared flatly and stormed out of the studio, banging the door loudly behind her.

Jami was released that same day and she came straight to my studio. ‘What do you want?’ I interrogated her in an irritable voice as she walked into the open door and sat in the couch where the policemen had sat earlier in the day.

She smiled a sexy smile. ‘I came to thank you’

‘Thank me for what?’

‘For getting me out. I know it was an act of love….’

‘It was not an act of love. It was a robust act of self-defence from a stoning and thieving blackmailer and I do not wish to continue seeing you’ I lashed.

‘But why are you calling me all these terrible names?’ Her tone sounded deeply troubled.

‘Because you are a junkie, a thief and a blackmailer’ I lambasted her.

‘I didn’t steal the electronic gadgets. I swear. Please let me tell you what happened’ she pleaded, desperation perforating her soul.

‘What happened is you stole airtime from my phone that’s what I am talking about. Your electronics theft is no concern of mine!’ My lips peeled up in a sneer.

‘Oh, that one, just because I took little airtime from my new boyfriend’s phone, is that why the world should come to an end?’ She raised her hands in exasperation, a tricky smile growing on the sides of her face.

‘You could have asked for permission. I guess the owner of the electronics was your boyfriend too’ I said sarcastically, unable to resist a rising urge to get to the bottom of the episode.

‘My ex-boyfriend actually’ she corrected me.

‘And you also took them without his permission’ I added.

‘On the contrary, he had given them to me as presents. It was because of you that he had me locked up!’ She charged accusingly.

‘Because of me, how could that be? I barely knew you’ I snapped distrustfully.

‘Yes, because of you. Some of his friends saw us together on Friday night and told him. He called me and demanded to know what was going on. Prior to this, he had been messing with a friend of mine, not Tonia, another friend, and I had condoned it for a long time while he kept promising that he would change, but never did. Now that I found you it was my turn to cheat, so I told him that it was over between me and him, that I had found a new boyfriend, a big, rich and famous international man coming from Europe. I wanted him to die of jealousy and he almost did. He ordered me to call off my association with you, but I refused. When you and I were together yesterday night his friends called him again and told him. So he went and lied to the police that his property was missing and that he suspected me, without telling them our relationship. The police went and searched the room I share with my roommate Tonia and found the items in our room. They arrested Tonia and forced her to call me. I didn’t want to go to answer her but it was you that convinced me to go to her. So it was you that got me into the police cell and when I appealed to you to come and bail me you were less concerned. You helped me only because the police threatened you.’

Even though I was aware that these young women here hardly told the truth, I had a strong feeling that Jami was not lying. Her story was straightforward. Most lies were crooked and inconsistent. I wondered what she had given these normally vicious policemen to turn them into benevolent Good Samaritans, since she was completely broke.

‘So what do you want now?’ I inquired eventually.

‘I want us to pick up where we left off’ she begged, sniveling.

I laughed crookedly. ‘A relationship started at the police station, where will it end? In the court and in jail.’

 ‘It means I’ve lost the only two men I ever loved’ she grieved sorrowfully. 

‘I am sorry’ I consoled her.

She sat in silence for a long while, then she whispered. ‘Let me show you something to help you make up your mind’ and added, ‘I hope you can handle it.’

I could not imagine what on earth she was talking about but I became suddenly curious in spite of what had transpired. She stood up and tore off her blouse. A pair of firm round breasts with pointed, coal-black nipples spilled out.  I was momentarily dazed. I could never have imagined that her little frail body possessed such magnificent beauty artifacts. She took off her leather shorts and pink panties with swift movements. My eyes drank in the faultless feminine figure before me in downright shock and stunned disbelief, but I felt no attraction, just puzzlement.

‘You still want to get rid of me? Can you do it?’ She demanded toughly.

I felt fragile in the knees, a sudden wave of mild somnolence invading my brain as I resisted an incipient desire for her, but not wishing to be so cheaply seduced, I snapped. ‘Look Jami, get dressed and get out.’

‘I need money to rent a new place. My landlord has thrown me out, doesn’t want police coming to his house. He’s scared they might discover his Dagga trade’ she said.

Dagga was the strong marijuana responsible for the fate of most of the dreadlocked lunatics in the streets of Kampala and other major Ugandan cities. ‘How much?’ I asked, eager to get her going.

‘Three hundred thousand shillings.’ She said.  I pulled out my wallet, counted the requested sum and handed to her. She expressed her gratitude, put on her clothes deliberately and left with dramatic buttocks swinging steps, but that image of her standing stark naked in the centre of my studio never left my mind.

After Jami exited I called Kasha and tried to explain away the situation but Kasha told me the same thing I had said to Jami, that an affair commenced with the police would surely meander into the court and finish in jail.

BOB EJIKE

 Want to read the whole book? Request via email to me. profbobejike@yahoo

THE FLIGHT

BY BOB EJIKE

Penelope called from her school some days before my travel and announced that she was on her way to Kampala to see me, requesting that I pick her up at our usual spot in the city, in front of Radio One. I estimated the time of her arrival, drove into town and parked in the traffic-congested street opposite the radio station that played only old music. As I was waiting, squinting against the scalding sun, under the big commercial buildings amidst the concerted noise and hurry of the city, a roadside preacher without a megaphone, shouted himself hoarse in his effort to take everyone to heaven.  I watched a new advert billboard that had been mounted by the adjoining Kampala Road junction, which had the picture of a dark, hard-faced, middle-aged man, and an inscription that admonished; WOULD YOU LIKE THIS MAN TO BE WITH YOUR DAUGHTER? THEN WHY ARE YOU WITH HIS?

 As I was still reading the captivating billboard, a fat policewoman bulked at my window. ‘You are parking in No Parking,’ she pronounced with suggestive eyes, ‘I am booking you and giving you a ticket.’

She made the money sign using her thumb and forefinger. I thought nothing of giving a bribe to a police officer, for it was our way of life in my native Nigeria, normal as the air we breathed. However, I was in the know that both of us were risking jail here in Uganda, but not wanting anything to stand between me and Penelope,  I quickly passed a sizeable currency note into her hand and she tucked the inducement happily into her pocket and sauntered away.

In the three more hours that I waited there wondering what was keeping Penelope, I greased two more law enforcement officers then my phone rang again and it was Penelope. She told me. ‘Sorry honey my older sister had called me and instructed me to go straight to her office. I am sorry I won’t be able to see you. Not immediately.’

I was instantly incensed. ‘Just like that? You drag me out of my office, away from my work, make me drive through the congested traffic and keep me in the street under the sun for hours, only to tell me that your older sister called? Is your sister omnipotent?’

‘Darling, I am sorry. You don’t know what big sisters are like’ she claimed, as if I did not have one, as if I was oblivious of their expectation that every aspect of your life must meet with their approval, as if I did not know that when something was important enough one had to ignore the bullish big sister. ‘Well I know how it is to bribe police officers repeatedly to close an eye while parking in a No Parking road and waiting for a girl who is having fun with her big sister, and this is the last time I will do that.’ I snapped bitingly.

‘Honey, please don’t do this’ she pleaded lovingly.

 ‘You are taking me for granted. It is clear that you are playing me for a fool. I have an appointment with you and you know that I am out here in town waiting for you, and you abandon me for hours because of an ordinary phone call from your sister? What do I really mean to you? Nothing!’ I lashed furiously.

‘It is not like that honey. You misunderstand everything. Please wait there. I am coming by motorcycle taxi.’ She begged.

‘You come to the studio.’ I lashed irritably and drove off.

She got there before me, having traveled by swift motorcycle taxi that slashed off much of the traffic jams. She was looking deeply perturbed as she stood in my room, her white dress slightly browned with dust. She was sweaty, with a musty smell and I was amazed at how much she had grown within such a short period.  She was taller and her waist had expanded amazingly, colonizing much of the space around her, but surprisingly she retained a startlingly enticing figure. I had never noticed that her hands and feet had the potentials for growing big. They were now surprisingly as large as mine. In fact she had matured into a full woman and I had never seen a woman with such large size of hands and feet. Her chocolate complexion glowed in the dim light, making her look magical, for her beauty blossomed from within, revealing itself gently in dazzling externals, and there was a new sex appeal that hung around her like a beautiful, irresistible cloak, turning everything around us into fable. She was ripe, hardly the same girl I had met in rugged Kisugu Road, and this elevated my spirit to an unprecedented level of self-importance, a flush of accomplishment that I had never felt before rushed into my being. Despite cynical opinion to the contrary, it was clear that I had not wasted my time and money all these years, I reasoned. I had taken a simple local girl and turned her into an educated world-class beauty. That was a great achievement. I envisaged our future conjugal bliss, certain without any iota of doubt that I was the luckiest man in this whole world, because Dalvine belonged to me and would soon finish school and join me. She was my woman, my pearl of inestimable value. She proved it when she disrobed and said to me in a hushed voice full of desire, ‘Honey, make love to me. Do whatever will please you and make you happy, whatever will make you know that I love you, that I love only you and you are all I care for in this entire planet, and that I will give anything to please you, even my virginity, now.’  She lay in the bed and opened her gate. In ancient Rome the female regenerative organ was called Porta, meaning gate.

‘Go and take a shower angel, you are sweating.’ I instructed firmly. She obeyed me instantly and when she came out of the bathroom toweled and refreshed, I was as always smashed by her sultry looks and wondrous poise, but I composed myself as I pulled out a bag of clothing I had bought for her and told her,’ Change clothes and let us go for lunch.’

‘Make love to me first honey. I am a woman, an adult woman beyond the age of consent. I am giving you the permission. Make love to me now! ’ she cried in a mesmeric voice.

I took her in my arms and made her sit on my legs, then I whispered into her ears. ‘I can’t do that darling. We both agreed that we will do it after you leave school. We have waited patiently this long and there is just another month to go. Let’s stick to the original plan and do it after you leave school, when I come back from Lagos.’

‘Lagos?’ She prompted inquisitively with an unsettled look. Then I told her about my proposed trip to Nigeria and tears left her eyes as she wept and cried out in loud wheezes as if she had lost a beloved, prompting me to hold her tenderly in my arms and say, ‘darling, please stop crying. I am not going for good. I will be away for only two months and by the time I return you would be out of school and we can do everything we’ve waited so long for, isn’t it?’

‘Yes it is’ she conceded, nodding soberly.

‘Now you have nothing to worry about, sweet heart. All your bills will be paid up to your graduation before I leave. So you have absolutely no preoccupations. As for me, I shall be good, safe and reserved, exclusively for you.’ I assured her. She gradually tranquilized herself and became calm. We hugged each other, held tight, kissed hotly and affectionately and did all the things we could without crossing the established boundary. Before she left, I gave her double the amount she had requested to complete her last one month of high school. She thanked me and asked with a smile, ‘what will you buy me from Lagos?’  There was a curious glitter in her eyes.

‘What do you want?’ I inquired teasingly.

‘A cellular phone’ she answered with a look of refined demureness.

‘But you already have a cell phone’ I reminded her.

‘Not that ordinary type of phone used by market women. I mean a good phone. One with a camera, Internet, games, music, video, downloads, in short, many sophisticated applications.’ Her bold eyes shone with greed for vogue and for the first time I wondered if they were really pretty or I was just too blinded by infatuation to see her flaws.

‘Okay’ I agreed reluctantly, feeling that her academics ought to have been her priority at that crucial period of her study, but not telling her so.

 Fang Fang is the name of the expensive Chinese Restaurant in the exclusive Kololo reserve where we dined that night. It was an old colonial storey building. The main house was used as the bar and administrative office, while the garden behind the structure had been converted into a restaurant, with white chairs and tables. There were more waiters and waitresses than guests, and the waitresses were all Chinese. A waitress came to us. ‘Where would you like to sit with your daughter sir?’ She eyed me.

I did not feel insulted by her imprudent comment, but Penelope felt superbly put down. ‘How do you know she’s my daughter?’ I queried the waitress genially.

‘Everyone can tell. You have the same complexion, the same facial structures, same nose, same lips, but your daughter has your wife’s eyes’ the waitress proclaimed, smiling. I returned the smile, but Penelope, mortified, emitted a wry grin. Dating a much younger person was for me something of a conquest, which to some degree implied that she the younger party was the vanquished, as she was automatically seen in some quarters as a material acquisition, a cash item, a concubine, a mistress, or a sugar daughter, a demeaning tag that Penelope was demonstratively unwilling to put up with. If I was reading right, her body language suggested that our cross-generational love affair was beginning to become an embarrassment to her.

As we sat down and the waitress shoved picturesque menus into our hands, I vaguely wondered why Penelope  cared about the opinion of a third party regarding about our affair. We had both chosen each other, in full knowledge of the ages of each other, knowing full well that there was a wide age gap between us; therefore  I felt that it was a given that we were duty-bound to look society in the eye and proclaim our right to make that legitimate choice and be happy together irrespective of its indignation. I was aware that a romantic liaison of our kind could only work for long if the younger partner did not mind the social apathy that came in form of dissenting, supercilious stares, secretive mumbles, insensitive comments from strangers and wounding remarks from friends. It usually worked well where the younger participant’s quest for social recognition has been completely obviated by her abject poverty, rendering her eligible for social subjugation. Incidentally, this was not the case with Penelope. She was from a relatively comfy, poor home from which most of the members, especially the females, had excelled in their chosen professions, climbed the social ladder and married into good homes.

Watching her apathetic countenance, I started suspecting that Penelope was depending on my financial support either because of her family’s stinginess or her own personal greed. A peek into the future suddenly revealed a bleak and turbulent landscape, making me shudder slightly within.  Determined to make the outing a success, I made our orders, for she had never eaten in an international  restaurant before, and when the sizzling exotic  gastronomic spread was delivered, her eyes enlarged with a new unprecedented excitement, the type derived from watching a magical or acrobatic feat. We attacked the food with gusto, pleasantly and daintily gorging ourselves, every morsel an experience of utter pleasure, comparable to the sexual delight that we abstained from.

My flight to Lagos with Ethiopian Airways was smooth. We made a brief stopover at Addis Ababa. I was received at the Murtalla Mohammed Airport Lagos by my three younger brothers and a flurry of enthusiastic relations. After our initial celebration of my safe homecoming, feasting and dealing with family matters, I settled into my home, jet-lagged, and once normalized, plunged into the business that had brought me.

In the weeks that followed, the print media published various stories about my artistry, and Fame magazine did a cover story on my pioneering advent into the East African music and film industry, in which they referred to me as Nigeria’s Artistic Ambassador, with a full color picture of me on the front page. I made a point of keeping a copy of the publication for Penelope. I finished with that promotional assignment as swiftly as I could and got to work on expanding my house with my architect, building engineers and a group of builders. 

I had bought this piece of land years back when complete anarchy reigned in Lagos Mainland and the kleptomaniacs in power were too busy stealing public funds to notice that there was a total breakdown of law and order around them. Bands of ferocious armed robbers had taken over all parts of the city, except some areas of the island where the rich live under serious police cordon, maiming, killing, raping and dispossessing the populace by day and night. I had not had one full night’s sleep that was not interrupted by loud, terrifying gunfire for three months, and life had become a Russian roulette as robbers laid siege perpetually in the Mainland. I tried to remain in my middle-class Surulere neighborhood in the face of a mass exodus of frightened residents, but discovered eventually that the choice was precarious and unattainable as the attacks increased weekly, so I escaped, like virtually all the inhabitants of my neighborhood, and ended up in Lagos Island where I rented a modest home and eventually acquired this piece of land and started developing it. But I did not have enough money to complete the architect’s design, so I took it bit by bit. Throughout the three years that I had been in Uganda, the property was abandoned, its development stalled. Now the constructors were adding an extra flat from the frontage that would give it the look of a modern home. This would be Penelope’s flat. I would keep it as a surprise for her until the day she would transfer to this city after she had become my wife.

It was a grueling exercise watching and scrutinizing the construction process under the scorching sun.  Although my communication with Penelope had dwindled because of the stress and fatigue of my assignments, her image was anchored solidly in my brain and I frequently daydreamed about her. In my mind I pictured her after her graduation from high school. The freedom she would have to be with me, the folkloric ease that would accompany the period of relaxation, the blissful enjoyment we would have spending our days together. We could take a vacation to Italy, to somewhere really romantic like Rome, Florence or Venice, just to get into the depth of our love and grow our intimacy. We could spend some time in Milan. I had two homes there. We would come back to Kampala and she would study in the prestigious Makerere University. She had told me that she wanted to study Business Administration, so she would go to the famous Makerere University Business School in Nakawa and I would spend the next three years developing my artistry, that would give me the needed excuse to wait for her graduation, then we would get married in a spectacular Western Ugandan Introduction ceremony, with men dressed in fez caps and black coats over their gracefully capacious, elongated white robes, and women wearing half-veils and extensive, bright, wraparound dresses that swelled around their beautiful bodies like colorful feathers, with Penelope’s mother making the traditional marital call with her mouth, and everyone would be very happy about the international marriage, especially the bride. It would be followed by the church wedding at her 7th Day Adventist Church, a big one; all my Nigerian compatriots and my friends of Italian extraction residing in Uganda would be there. Then we would immigrate to Canada, Switzerland, Norway or Australia, to the farthest confines of the earth, as long as it is quiet and peaceful, where she could find a job in a bank or read for an MBA, or both, and I can return to teaching and write my memoirs, while still developing my music and art. We would have children, two or three, it didn’t matter their gender, though I would like to have one boy at least. Then we would grow old together. I would of course age faster than her, that was only natural because I was much older than her, but the visual epochal gap between us would be bridged with time to the extent that the variation would disappear altogether, of that I was certain because some of the  girls I had dated two decades back were now grandmothers, and those I befriended ten years ago, even those said to have been too young for me then, were now mothers who had aged into typical fat  housewives, busy consuming anything they deemed delicious and becoming even fatter and looking much older than me. If I ran into them now I would say ‘good morning madam,’ and no one would guess that I dated them at some point in time and that they used to be said to be too young for me.

I knew with certainty that the vivid generational incongruity between Penelope and I would vanish with time. In fact, I believed that it would not be too long before she would begin to look older than me, because Western Ugandan women whose lineage depended mainly on cows for their nutrition and fed massively on  milk and other dairy products, were known to possess heightened temporary beauty that faded fast with their rapid aging process. Most of them looked very beautiful in their youth but often fattened uncontrollably with adulthood, frequently ending up with small heads and oversized, age-ravaged bodies.

 I was lost in this somnambulant contemplation one night on my third week in Lagos when my phone rang. It was Penelope. She sounded particularly cheerful. ‘What’s up love?’   I quipped.

‘I am going to a party. End of study party. I need a new dress; honey can you send me some money?’

I distinctly remembered the numerous dresses I had bought her in recent times. No one was adequate? Had she taken leave of her senses? ‘I can’t believe that the reason you placed an international call from is to ask me to send you money to buy a dress to attend a party without me.’ I told her firmly.

‘But the party is important. It is part of my education.’ I heard her claim. I did not miss the glaze of mendacity in her statement and the falsehood in her attitude. In fact it sounded like a complete gobbledygook. 

‘Penelope, you’ve got less than two weeks to graduate from high school, so you should use one of the other dresses I bought you for the party or just ignore it,’ I instructed and I rang off, mildly irritated.

She did not telephone me for three days, but on the fourth day she called, crying on the phone.

‘What is wrong honey?’ I probed, disturbed.

‘I’ve lost my money; all my money has been stolen from my corner. What can I do? I can’t go back to my mother,’ she wept.  She was crying so much I could barely hear her.

‘I am sorry angel. But stop crying, it is not the end of the world’ I implored her consolingly.

‘It is the end of my education! They won’t let me finish my final exams if I don’t pay some dues immediately’ she lamented, bawling over the phone.

‘It will be alright. I will send you some money immediately’ I assured her, and her crying abated.

After the disturbing telephone conversation, I drove to the bank and went straight to the Western Union counter. ‘I wish to send money to Uganda’ I told the clerk. He gaped at me as if I was barmy. Unmoved by his astonished stare, I repeated my request.

‘Western Union is not at liberty to send value out of this country. It is illegal. It is considered economic sabotage’ he explained with a voice tainted with formality, to my utter annoyance.

A tragic sound involuntarily left my mouth. ‘So what do you do?’ I demanded, wedging my rising vehemence as my breath caught in the air and my stomach clenched into a knot.

‘We receive money. In Nigeria we are only allowed to receive, not send.’ He clarified with a professional tone.

I was stupefied by the unexpected procedure. My teeth gritted and I almost collapsed with shock. I glared at the stunned arch of the eyebrows of the insensate clerk for a long while before I ambled away, wondering what to do. What would become of Penelope? She had spent her entire life studying, only to come to this terrible fate? This bottleneck. This was surely unfair. What could I do to help her? For two years I had resolutely invested in her instruction and upkeep. How would I let it all go like this because of some wretched juvenile delinquent? How could I allow her entire future to vanish with the wind? I returned to the site but could no longer keep account of what was going on around me. I could barely see the cement being mixed and the blocks being laid. My mind was in Katikamu, Luweru, in far away Uganda. My heart was with Penelope, so I lacked concentration in my supervision and the workers knew it immediately and started playing pranks. It became clear to me that I was now wasting my time.

At night I could not close my eyes. I tried watching television and reading, to no avail. The next day I put a call through to Ethiopian Airways. ‘When is the next flight to Entebbe?’ I inquired.

‘Tomorrow at 1.30pm’ the clerk told me.

‘Book me on the flight.’ I called out my names in full. After that I rang my architect and building engineer and told them that they were practically on their own, that they should continue the building and give me telephonic reports. They were happy with the arrangement; it would give them more freedom and space for financial manipulation. I telephonic-ally notified my chauffeur, Peter of my impending return and left the country without informing my family members. I did not want to see their distressed expressions and hear their agonized protestations, and there was no way I could explain to them convincingly under the circumstance that I had not gone mad. The force of infatuation carried me, air bound at high cost from Nigeria to Uganda, as I abandoned the security of my future and damned the mortal risk of air travel with no other objective other than to replenish funds for a whimsical teenage girl, and at no time during the flight did I question my sanity or commonsense, for I thought it a privilege to die for Penelope , for she was God’s prettiest creature, the sweetest thing I had ever known, and I would spare nothing to please her and keep her by my side.

 Like a result of hubris, the flight from Lagos to Entebbe was a horrible. The big Boeing shook and trembled throughout the journey and sometimes it was clear that the pilot was losing control, and when he spoke to us through the intercom to tell us to fasten our seat belts in anticipation of further bad weather, he sounded jittery. The Nigerian Christians around me were consumed in frenzied prayers. I momentarily wondered how I would explain my presence there if we landed in the hereafter rather than in the airport of Addis Ababa, where we eventually landed safely.   The flight from Addis Ababa to Entebbe in a smaller aircraft was smooth and I felt immensely relieved when I saw the thickening green equatorial forest and the glittering lake before the runway lights at Entebbe Airport.

My driver Peter was dutifully at the airport to pick me. He was in a cheerful and talkative mood, recounting to me the recent political wrangles between President Yuweri Museveni and opposition leader Colonel Doctor Kizza Besigye, but the stress of travel got the better of me and I felt lightheaded, for my brain was dulled by jet lag and I was gripped by the irresistible hand of sleep. I woke up inside my compound in Muyenga. The Askaris helped carry my bags into the parlour. I was greeted by my cat, Orestina, but I locked the door and went to my room and in my jet-lagged state, snoozed off before I touched my bed.

I stirred at 5am the following day which was a Saturday, took a shower and dressed in jeans, t-shirt and sneakers, a combination that I had recently noticed made Penelope happier. I counted a substantial amount of money from my drawer and took the Fame magazine with my picture in the cover. I stepped out of the parlour to the car park entered the RAV4, started the engine and shifted the automatic gear lever, the Askaris opened the gate and the journey to Wobulenze began. I had one major hope in my mind, that Penelope had not already been barred from  taking her examination. So I sped all the way and hardly noticed my surroundings, until I got to the gate of her school after about two hours. As luck had it, the corrupt gate man was there, so we repeated our sordid ritual of inducement and he gave me access. I sent a girl who was dawdling around with other students to call Penelope. After a few minutes Penelope came out of her dormitory. Her eyes blazed with astonishment and her lips opened with contentment when she saw me. She half ran and half walked to me, her face felicitous, her cheerfulness infectious. ‘I love you, honey. You are just so great. You are one in a million’ she crooned and cooed.

‘You know I love you Penelope, without a shadow of doubt.’ I declared with a victorious smile, the beam of one who had triumphed over overwhelming perils.

‘Certainly’ she admitted, her emotions welling up as she opened the door of the automobile, climbed in and sat down beside me.

‘Were you prevented from taking your exams?’ I prodded with concern.

‘You came in the niche of time’ she retorted with great warmth.

I gave her the Fame magazine and brought out a wad of currency notes from my wallet and handed to her. She counted the cash with particular attention and thereafter stuffed them into her pocket, then she glanced at the cover of the tabloid and dropped it on the dashboard with neither a word nor a facial expression of interest.

‘Is the money enough?’ I asked.

‘More than enough, thank you honey’ she responded.

‘Are you alright?’ I inquired, examining her carefully with my eyes. She looked older and the visible age gap between us had receded considerably. She could more easily pass for my younger sister now than my daughter.  Spasms of joy surged through my heart on this account.

‘I was down with typhoid fever, but it’s been treated. I am okay now’ she divulged, smiling mildly.

‘When are you finishing your exams?’ I probed intently.

‘Next week Friday’ she disclosed quietly.

‘Okay call me and tell me when I can come and pick you’ I requested.

‘Alright honey’ she answered and stepped out of the vehicle. My eyes fixed on her retreating figure with a new curiosity as she returned slowly to the entrance of her hostel, her cadence measured and methodical, somewhat zomboid, her wide hips and heavy rounded bottom tumbling behind her as the obnoxious dormitory snatched her from me and swallowed her up.  I turned the keys of the auto. The engine responded noisily and the gate man opened the gate. I felt a void growing inside me as I drove out into the small road outside the school gate and soon got to the major road and turned right to the Gulu/Kampala motorway. I stopped to watch the traffic before entering the highway and my eyes darted to the issue of Fame magazine on the dashboard. I swung the steering leftwards towards Kampala. I had meant for Penelope to take the magazine, that was why I had brought it all the way from Nigeria, but she had just given it one disinterested glance and dumped it back in the vehicle without as much as commenting on it, as though it meant absolutely nothing to her that I was on the cover of a national magazine. It could have been anybody on that cover for all she cared, it would appear. But then not everybody could be on the cover of a magazine. It took exceptional achievement, a heroic feat, an unusual situation or great talent to deserve such public recognition. But the man she would marry was on the cover of a magazine and it meant nothing to her. The realization suddenly hit me that Penelope had been manifesting a strange mind-set lately, an alien indifference to my feelings that had given her the impetus to telephone me and demand that I send her money from Nigeria to Uganda to buy a new dress in order for her to party and enjoy herself with other guys in my absence.

Definitely if she had been the one on the cover of that magazine, I would not have dismissed it with that unconcerned glimpse.  It was only then that it occurred to me with not a little shock that her second monetary request could have been an afterthought, a remodeling of her first demand which I had turned down, and that the story of her stolen money was a lie.

BOB EJIKE

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