| For Men Only: It’s True. Sometimes You Can’t Go Back |
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| Written by Michael Egbejumi-David | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Monday, 20 October 2008 | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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FOR MEN ONLY: IT’S TRUE. SOMETIMES YOU CAN’T GO BACK By Michael Egbejumi-David I still had the keys to the apartment. My apartment. I let myself in. It had just gone past 7:30pm. There was no one in the Living Room. The place looked different than I remembered. It was airier. Brighter. I put down the bottle of vintage Penfolds Grange Cabernet Sauvignon I had brought with me. I also set down on the coffee table the box of Buttered Crumbles I had bought at Harrods in London. Went into the bedroom. What a sight for truly sore eyes! Lara was doing things to a Caucasian man who was on his knees by the foot of the bed. They both turned their heads and saw me at the same time. Lara jumped up and dashed into the bathroom suite. The Whiteman tried to do the same but couldn’t. He was handcuffed to the bedpost. I couldn’t move either. Shock had me rooted to the spot. A Whiteman? Caucasian? A Whiteman! Lara, now covered in a short red satin robe came back into the bedroom jolting me back to reality. She had on her face an expression I know I could never adequately describe. A short silence. So quiet I could hear my adrenaline catching fire, smoking a joint, and asking for an escape route. Smoke was beginning to rise from my skin. My palms as wet as rain. The Whiteman still on all fours coughed. A rattling watery cough. A sure candidate for pneumonia. Awkwardness marched into the room wearing Gestapo boots. I turned on my heels and stalked back into the living room bumping into the door frame. Still had enough awareness about me to retrieve my bottle of red wine and Buttered Crumble. Took another look at Lara, shook my head and walked out of the apartment slamming the front door hard enough to give the roaches in the entire building short-term memory loss. I took the elevator to the ground floor, got in my rental car and drove towards my hotel in Lower Manhattan, New York. How did I get into this unsavoury state of affairs? The Nigerian Village Square (NVS). I started writing for that enterprising online medium just over a year ago. A reader had tried to get in touch with me through NVS Admin I think after my second article. That was before I began including my email contact in my write-ups. NVS Admin asked if I wanted the message and I said yes. A few days later I replied the enquirer’s email. I got a response almost immediately. It was my ex wife, Lara. I met Lara in Lagos in the late 1980s. I was home on holidays. Went to my local Bukateria and there she was. She was sweating up a storm as she worked her way through a molehill of Amala. I was very impressed. When Lara got up to ask for more soup I noted that she was about 5 foot 9. She was wearing a white linen trouser and a sleeveless yellow t-shirt. Tiny finger braids hung just below her shoulders framing a very pretty face. She wore very little makeup. Black skin glowing. More significantly, she possessed my one Kryptonite – a big round behind like most Yoruba women are wont to own. She saw me staring at her and smiled. She even had the nerves to have dimples. I immediately sat at her table. I had on Bermuda shorts, pastel t-shirt and sandals. I ordered Amala and Ewedu as well. Lara had bottled water with her. I asked for Palm Wine. Struck up a conversation and had a wonderful meal. Lara was Yoruba from Lagos. She however had a fantastic London Cockney accent. Turned out she grew up in the UK but moved to the US just two years before. Like me, she was home on a summer break. She had gone to the US for a Post graduate programme in Physiology. Finished that but decided to permanently reside in the US. She was living in Minnesota. I was surprised; I didn’t think any Black folks lived in Minnesota except for the musician Prince. We became fast friends and practically inseparable during the remainder of our holiday. One of the best times I can recall having in Nigeria. Three weeks later, she returned to Minnesota, and I to New York. I thought that was the end of it. A nice summer romance. But Lara kept her word and kept in contact. We would talk for hours on the phone. She would laugh at my corny jokes. I wrote her poems and long letters. She loved those. We also exchanged gifts on important dates: birthdays, valentine, Christmas, when George Bush Snr lost to Clinton, etc. But I continued with my own life in New York. I dated and socialised with other ladies. Nevertheless things were getting serious between Lara and I, and we had started talking seriously about visiting each other. One Monday morning, I wasn’t on duty. On call in my apartment was a good American friend of mine, Michelle. Michelle was something else. No hips; all ass. Very feminine. Beautiful with an ugly attitude. Loved attention the way fish love water. She always fancied herself as my future wife. I knew that would never happen, but I wasn’t going to tell her that just yet. Anyway, she was doing her best to keep a brother warm on a January winter’s morning. My apartment doorbell rang from downstairs. I ignored it. Err….I just wasn’t in any position to be answering doorbells. But the doorbell kept on ringing so I peeped through the window. Lara! Put on my clothes and told Michelle to do the same. She refused. I got down on my knees but did not propose. Instead, I pleaded with Michelle to get dressed and leave through the back door. It took some doing, but Michelle finally left – through the front door. That was the last time I saw her. I straightened out the apartment as quickly as I could and let Lara in. Eight months later, Lara moved-in with me. We never stood before a Judge or a Reverend but had a common law marriage after two years. We lived in that state as husband and wife for another four years. Our relationship became as wobbly as a supermarket trolley. Six years, no kids. Lara wanted to complete a Doctorate first. Her friends have suddenly become extra important in her life – especially Ngozi. Ngozi was a very assertive overbearing woman. A lawyer with a statuesque figure but as ugly as a goat. She always looked like she could take me in a physical duel. To my never ending annoyance, she had Lara wrapped around her little finger. Moreover, Lara had become too comfortable. She had spotted a KFC and red wine induced gut. She moved around the home most times in this torn and faded Nigerian wrapper. Would come to bed at night with a popcorn jiffy bag-like cap on her head. We quarrelled all the time it seemed. Dug up Michelle’s number and gave her a call. She cursed me out before she hung up on me. But before long, I was creeping. I filed for divorce. With Ngozi in Lara’s corner, the whole thing was messy. Bloody lawyers. I lost half – or so Lara thought. I had been astute enough to make and keep some investments secret. After the divorce, I put plenty water between me and Lara. Migrated to the UK. Broke as a joke. My pocket as barren as the Sahara. That was six year ago. Before NVS Admin gave me that damned message. Incredulity and a thousand thoughts in my head made me drive slowly as I manoeuvred away from my former apartment. After reading Lara’s initial email response, we began to chat online and exchange phone calls. Funny how the mind only remembers the good times. Lara informed me that she had completed her Doctorate, missed me terribly and urged me to visit her in New York. After a few months of reminiscing, I agreed to visit. Foolishly, I decided on a surprise visit. I was overtaken at the light by a charcoal gray BMW with personalised registration plates. Behind its wheel was Lara and on the passenger side was the now unshackled Whiteman. Lara flagged me down and asked that I pulled over. I did. Pulled into the parking lot of a Pizza Hut just off Fifth Avenue. I got out of the car. So did Lara and her Caucasian companion. Lara now had on a long peach skirt and a black and white stripped shirt. Bedroom slippers on her feet. Her companion, the Whiteman wasn’t young at all. He was now clothed in old Syracuse sweats. I swear he couldn’t have been more than a year or two younger than Moses the law-giver. He had the earnest and gleeful look of a fraudulent Preacher. He was bald, but not fashionably. Skin weather-beaten and loose like an old seaman’s. He spotted an incongruous moustache that was as slender as the edge of a credit card. I smiled at him. Came out a smirk. That made him uncomfortable. He grabbed Lara’s hand. He held her hand like a slave holding on to freedom. I stared at the odd couple. I was having major difficulty bringing myself to believe that Lara actually got with this ancient looking Caucasian man. My eyes asked her why? She told me to come back to the apartment so we could talk. I declined. She tried to explain. Complained that I didn’t tell her when I was coming to town…….I was the one who left her……Old geezer was just a friend……etc……etc. Her explanation was strictly second attempt WASC. Her cellphone rang. She answered and sounded like she was giving directions. I had begun to silently calculate how much this trip had cost me and was already kicking myself. I just wanted out of there. Dear Lord! Ngozi appeared on the scene. She was clad in a stunning black dress. Looked as if she just stepped out of a chic clothes catalogue. Lara quickly explained that she had called Ngozi from the apartment as they were coming out to look for me. The years have been kind to Ngozi but not by much. By the way she glared at me; I knew she still didn’t like me. I think she never forgave me since that time she asked that I set her up with one of my friends or colleagues. I think I might have responded that finding a man at her level will be tougher than finding an alibi. Ngozi put her hands on her hips as she regarded me. I put on a smile sincere enough to charm the feather off a bird and asked Ngozi if those were Blahniks she’s got on her feet. She folded her arms under her breasts and continued to glare at me. Her gaze unwavering like a US Congressman’s toupee. In the place of eyes, she’s got scalpels. She cut me up and down like a cheap weave. But I understood what that was all about. Jealousy and anger are siblings. Ngozi made several passes at me while I was still with Lara and, every time, I turned her down like a duvet. Lara attempted some more explanation but everybody had become bored. Ngozi had not uttered another word since she asked Lara if she was alright. Neither had White Methuselah. I told Lara that I really did not feel it appropriate to have a conversation right then. Told her I was staying at the Marriot Courtyard on East 40th Street and that she can ring me up there and we would make arrangements to meet up later and talk. Of course I had no intention of doing any such thing. I was feeling as claustrophobic as a militant in Abuja. I just wanted to get away from them all. I made to get into the car and old boy extended his hand in my direction and said “nice to meet you.” His voice was as dusty as old dandruff. His breath let me know that he’d recently chewed on some peppermints. But there was still the stubborn lingering whiff of wine. Cheap wine. Cheap stale wine. I looked at him in disbelief. Scowled at him and got into my rental car. This time I sped fast all the way to the hotel. I got in my hotel room and went straight to the mini-bar. Downed two mini whiskies in a relay and ran me a bath. As the water ran, I called room service and ordered a club sandwich, Mediterranean salad with extra olives and asked that the mini-bar be restocked. My food came but I couldn’t eat. So I had another mini bottle from the mini-bar. Called American Airlines and confirmed my return flight to London for the next morning. Then I had a long bath. Soaked myself for close to an hour. Tried to erase everything from my mind but I couldn’t. Lara and an antique Whiteman doing the do?! She could have told a brother something before I expended money and time on this doggone trip. Got out of the tub and removed the stopper to let the water out of the bath. I put on the hotel’s bath robe. Went back to the mini bar for something with a kick to drink. The bar hasn’t been restocked so I called room service again and asked that they do so. Noticed my bottle of Penfolds Grange and cracked that open. Poured myself a generous glass, took an equally generous swallow and switched on the TV. I was beginning to feel slightly buzzed. There was a knock at the door. Ah, more drinks have arrived. I shuffled to the door, opened it and stood back. In stepped Ngozi! The man above was certainly cranking up the surprises for me today. I had no fight left in me; I could still see Lara on the floor with that prehistoric Whiteman. I smiled at Ngozi and she smiled back. I asked her if she wanted a drink. She said yes please. She closed the door and sat down in one of the two chairs in the room. I poured her a glass of Penfolds Grange. Asked her if she wanted something to eat as well. She said yes, got up and came to me with a smile. Reached for my drink and took the glass from my hand, placed it on the mini-bar. She reached for me. I didn’t stop her. Caution left the room; walked out in a slow trot holding hands with commonsense.
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Posted by Robot| 20.10.2008 04:01