By: Humphrey Ogu
Phil, my American girlfriend, says she wants to come to Port Harcourt. That is where I live. And I should be happy about it. But from the moment she tells me of the plan, I have the feelings of putrefaction in my stomach and anxiety on my mind.
How do I communicate these feelings to her? She is the only serious girl friend I have and a good one in that matter. At least from the distance traits she has shown to me. This desire to see me, not through the web cam has been built through the time we have known each other. But now, as good as the intention is, it makes me feel sick. It is not the planned visit that worries me. The pain is in the time she has chosen for the visit. I think it is awkward and there’s nothing to make me see it differently.
My reasons are these: My finances are low at the time. The paint on the wall of my one-room apartment has faded, giving the room the looks of a tiresomely sweated face rubbed with cake-powder. And my mattress has just been seized by one of my creditors with no hope of redeeming it soon. If you enter my room, the sight is disgusting with carton papers spread on the floor. The situation has never bordered me until now. And I fear that my creditors may confront Phil if they see her in my company. I cannot explain it away that I can host a white lady and have no money to clear my indebtedness to them.
I have to persuade Phil against her plan. And I do the explanations. All I need is a change in her plan to allow me time to raise my finances. I want to demonstrate to her the rich hospitality we are noted for. And to give her the best treat a friend can give to a friend. But she surprises me. As I speak, she listens to my plea and politely declines my request. Imagine that. I am upset and I want to express myself to her. But I am just not able to do it. It is obvious that my pride is at stake as much as our relationship.
Why is she in a hurry anyway? I will still be here in any case. But she will not listen and it is difficult for me to be a good host in this condition.
In all the years I have known Phil, money has not been a source of worry or an issue. She never borders me with monetary requests. And I have been very comfortable with that, owing largely to the fact that she is located very far away from me. And she has never asked me to scratch a card or anything in that manner for her. But now, I feel tormented.
Whatever good thought Phil has about me was now a silent tormenting force. And nothing is abating it. I am also caught in the web of never wanting to disappoint her. The more I tried to implore the tactics I know that have worked in the past to dissuade her, the more she sticks to her conviction. And she never probes too hard to know why I am not divulging information to her or getting so worried that she is visiting me.
And like an oversize trousers’ hem on a wet day that scoops up sand and dirt, my mind worries the more. Other concerns are the poor electricity supply and the return of vehicular queues at the filling stations that frustrate transportation. These are situations she teases me about, having read stories about Nigeria in the papers. But always, I tell her that those stories are told out of proportion. Now she is coming at a time the situations are a common feature.
In the heat of the worry, my phone rings. I have carefully refused to keep the regular communication with her. But now Phil’s call has come through and my heart skips. It is the first time her call doesn’t excite me. Some of the money I borrowed is for her sake. It is to pay for the bills of my communications with her. Now with my left hand padding my chest my right hand holds the phone to my ears.
“Hi Phil,” I manage to say, steadying my voice, finding appropriate words to dissuade her. That is uppermost on my mind.
“Hi” she says, the hum tells me she is talking on a loud speaker.
Suddenly I feel my face rumpled and the words come out like water gushing out of a tap from my lips. “Look Phil, considering your planned trip, I suggest...in fact put it off...I mean... your coming to my place this year,” I say.
“Why?” she asks, the humming gone at a click. “Tell me, Sanim...I did the calling...listen...is it that you don’t want to see me or what?” she adds.
“Why...of course I want to see you. I’ve always longed to see you. It’s just that I’m concerned about your safety,” I say, trying to convince her in my own way. “With three plane crashes in two years, air transportation seems unsafe here. There’s also an upsurge in kidnap cases in the Niger Delta, where I live.”
“I see! It’s all about my safety. You’re so caring.”
“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.” I say
I have not been very successful with women, actually. At least, the ones I meet seem to be obsessed with money. Their love for money overrides the value they place on themselves. And their love is for sale. I don’t have the purchasing power for the transaction. It is also against my belief to indulge in the commercialisation of love.
Before my relationship with Phil, Chika remains my focus. She fills the totality of being even before I start to court her. But she berates me on the day I get her attention. The days that follow, she snubs me. It is always on the road that we meet. And it is obvious that she judges me from the perspective of how much money I can spend on her. She has more information on me than I seem to have on her.
When I mention it to my friend, Ben, he laughs. Then he calms down to say: “let me tell you, Sanim, a man that chases a fowl shouldn’t be afraid to fall to the ground. You’ll take a dive and sometimes roll in the sand to catch the fowl. So far as you get what you wanted....”
“What if I don’t catch the hen, cock or the fowl?” I say, looking at him in amazement.
“It’s simple... stand up, dust yourself and move on. Or will you prefer to lie down there, instead?
Chinwe does show the extreme of Chika’s rudeness. She tells it to my face that I am a ‘pregnant man’, with a distasteful looks, whatever that means! A look in the mirror does not depict what she says about me. One’s gender notwithstanding, kwashiorkor has a way of making one look pregnant. I must confess. Maybe in my kwashiorkor-induced look, my stomach appears swollen. But that doesn’t call for an insult.
After these experiences, I extend my frontiers in the love-hunt to other shores. The adventure berths me at the shores of Phil at the World Wide Web. It is my poetry that captivates her, she says. With it she x-rays to see the beauty that resides in my heart. Never does she contaminate the voyage experience with focus on money. She is a lovely pal. And I like the society of the World Wide Web than the one Chika or Chinwe live in.
On the World Wide Web, I meet Phil on Skype, in the chat room, exchange emails regularly. We are often on phone, talking or exchanging text messages, she tells me one thing always--she likes my poetry.
On the planned visit by Phil, it is obvious that her mind is made up. I do not wait to end the phone conversation normally. I just punched off the line. But she calls again. It is to tell me that the next time I shall hear from her will be when she is in Port Harcourt. What a threat!
If Phil is truly coming to see me, then she should respect my convenience. It is important. That is what I have been told about Americans, that they respect others people’s convenience, but not in diplomatic business at all. But this love-driven Phil will not take any of my convenience into consideration.
Night after night I imagine what to do with Phil’s threat. So it seems to me. First impression will matter. And the sight of my sordid one-room apartment will mar the friendship. So I try to keep things tidy. The side stool serves as my centre table, so I push it to the wall. The only upholstery chair has its cloth torn. It is at a corner. I try to polish it with groundnut oil and do some stitching of the cloth, even patching it. The eight battery radio never hides its age. It can blast with alluring beauty when powered. Two metal pots and a stove including a big drinking water container are carefully stationed behind the door. But the dishevel nature of the room is obvious. The curtains just now appear to me as first degree rags.
It is exactly one week after when I received her call.
“Hello, I’m at the airport!” she says, the excitement in her voice never sparks up anything than hatred for her.
“Which airport?” I ask as my heart skips a beat. Should I tell her that I am out of town? I contemplate.
“In your country’s airport...the Port Harcourt International Airport and I’m waiting for you to come to pick me up...I’m here...waiting!”
“You mean...?” I become dumbfounded and then stuttered: “Why didn’t you...?”
“Okay, tell me if you don’t want to come then I’ll take a taxi to meet you at your place.”
“Alright, wait...I should be there...where do I meet you. But how come it’s your America number that you’re using to call me?”
“I’m on roaming...are you coming for me or not?”
“I will,” I reply as I dress up.
It is a long way from where I live to the airport by commercial means of transportation. But I get there just in time. Phil shows no sign of anger that suggests she waited too long. She beams smile at them from the distance. It is like the kind exhibited by a Nigerian who has been nominated for a political appointment. It is the first time we shall meet in this clime, physically too. And already what we feel for each other is strong to pull us closer.
I walk up to her. And we locked ourselves in a warm embrace. I am surprise to have her rosy and luscious lips stuck on mine and she holds my head on. The shouts and laughter I hear from those who mill around the arrival lounge makes me shy. But believe me, a chief character in this pseudo American love movie on real ‘scene cinema’.
I feel excited to have Phil doing all that to me. Even if I am shy of such public outing I can imagine that it is with someone else. I feel pretty good to have Phil’s beauty wrapping round me. I am happy she is my queen and no one dares share her with me. I allow my hands to caress the curvaceous, proportionate and velvety skin. I swear she is irresistible!
We walk out to the taxi stand and get one on a charter. All through the journey, she lies across my body and is curious at everything she sees. I love the warmth of her body and her chuckles. I am surprise that Phil has naira notes in her bag. She changes the dollars at the airport, she tells me. And with them she pays the fare.
The sight of her attracted my neighbours. Some hail, other murmured words I can conjecture. And I become the most important person, suddenly.
I look at her face as we enter my room and find no disgust. The Almanac on the wall attracts her. And she asks lots of questions. I know I have to offer her refreshment, at least a cup of water. But she turns it down and accepted a bottle of coke instead. Then I explain to her why she needs to stay in the hotel. She accepts on the condition that I will stay with her. The Hotel Presidential is her choice and we go there.
My neighbours think I have started a 419-business. That is the quickest way to deceive a pretty, well-cultured white lady like Phil. Or what will she have seen in a hopeless, jobless and indolent bachelor to be so attracted to him. That is no more my problem. It is difficult to ignore me.
Phil’s presence gives me a new aura of importance. There is this worm of lack of money eating me up like cankerworm. Is it the kind of feeling women have that set them always after money? Can the thought of money ever fizzle when love reigns supreme? In fact, it is difficult to think of her comfort without worrying about money. I mention it to her and she laughs. The distant laughter I used to hear on phone is here with me, so enthralling!
At the hotel, she books a single suite. And from the window she looks out to gain the view, looking down to the new GRA. I stand beside her and her hands curl into mine. Momentarily, she gives me a wink.
“You’re a nice man though very shy,” she says, as she sits beside me on the sofa.
There is protest bubbling in my mind but I try to hold my peace. It dawns on me that I am obligated to be nice to her.
“You’ll need some rest...I want to go...borrow some money from...and then tomorrow I’ll take you out...show you around,’’ I say, with a rustic grimace. The thought comes to me like a bout.
She bends over me and kisses me deeply. “Don’t worry about me,” she says, caressing my head. “Relax. I came not to obligate you but to proof my love to you...now I know you are real and many other things...just stay.”
“No...Okay,” I stammer. “But I’ll not sleep here today. Let me go...take care of some things and tomorrow, I’ll come.’’ I stand up a while, and hold her hand and confess. “I love you...trust me I really do.”
“I know,” she says and kisses me again. “Stay, please stay.”
“Tomorrow...I’ll stay.”
“Promise me you won’t borrow anything because of me.”
I hesitate but manage to give my words. Then she leads me to the door. And with the elevator, I descend the stairs and returns to my room.
My landlord and his wife can be predictable like most house owners. Any good thing they see in their tenants is a reason for the increment of rent. And I pray against those thoughts from flashing on his mind. Three more days and my rent will expire. The option is obvious. Either I am asked to quit or my rent is increased. Trying to be nice, I decide to introduce Phil to them. But with her consent that is, just as a ploy to postpone the evil day.
I could hardly have a wink that night. My mind, all the time stays on Phil. I just sit up looking at the kerosene lamp as though I am watching it against theft. And before the brightness of the new day comes, I set out for the hotel. I am dressed in the best of clothes.
As if she knows I am coming. As soon as I knock, she opens the door. And standing by the door, she watches me walk in.
“Morning,” she says, and stands to lock the door as I enter.
“Good morning, I...hope you slept well?”
“Nay, watching Nigerian programmes on TV, putting up the list for today’s itinerary and other writings. Maybe you’ll watch over me as I sleep now.”
“No problems,’’ I say, and sit on the sofa to watch the television.
She sleeps in course of our conversation. But she knocks me out of sleep because I am not able to resist the comfort the air conditioner provides.
Together we bathe, have breakfast before setting out. In a chartered taxi we drive round parts of Port Harcourt. The tourist beach looks weary. The zoo looks like a bush bar for those who drink and play draft games. The CANIRIV epitaph seems like a piece of metal abandoned by a goldsmith. The Hotel Olympia looks like a disused warehouse opened for destitute tourists. The only admirable Isaac Boro Park flyover dates back to 1981 and though older than the single lane flyovers politically-crafted, its beauty is unequalled.
And at each of those places, Phil chuckles as she makes her notes. Then at the new layout market, I take her to one of the alleys where steaming generating sets are filed, competing in a discordant orchestra of noise.
“They are the regular and reliable means of electricity supply,” I say.
“What about the gases flared away...the dams and the option of solar power? You guy are a rare species, and wonderful too,” she says as she holds my hands.
I feel so unsatisfied. I am not able to show to her the popular seaport Port Harcourt is noted for--the; one used by the slave traders and other merchandisers. They have been destroyed. And the taxi driver gets me angry. He asks me in Pidgin English if Phil is my wife. I told him to mind his business. But Phil senses the change in my tone and inquires. I tell her and she addresses the matter instantly.
While still in the taxi, she whispers in my ears. “Marry me.”
“You’re joking,’’ I say.
By the time we return to the hotel, it is settled. I shall henceforth look at her as my wife. Love is stronger. And money can easily build on it without the fear of being collapse. But I feel my ego in dire contest. I should fend for her and the new family, whether we live here or in her country.
“I’ll marry you... as long as...?”
“Don’t say it...we can go to the court to seal it up or any other way that suits you...you and I are one.”
Back at the hotel, we take launch together. And she starts to do some writings. By the evening, she insists that I should take her to the Apple of God’s Eye Mission. There, she concludes the plan with the priest for the marriage blessing.
I take her to my mother and some of my kinsmen. It is for the purposes of information. They know that they cannot dissuade me. I have a white lady whose greatest concern in the relationship is love. And we respect each other. We have mutual passion, above all.
--------------------------------------------------
v Humphrey Ogu, a poet, fiction writer & journalist currently with the Information, Publications & Public Relations (IPPR) Unit of the University of Port Harcourt. A former Acting Secretary of Rivers State branch of Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA), Ogu is the Founding Secretary of Seaview Poetry Club and an Editor of Pitakwa Review. He holds a degree in English & a Certificate in Creative Writing.
