by John Ukah
I was certainly not having a good time. With someone like Tonye by your side, a good time was completely out of the question. John was still sitting at the head of the table and was, as usual, taciturn as ever.
“You annoyed Nagoth yesterday when you came,” said Tonye, with food in his mouth and his cutlery working in his plate. His open mouth, as he spoke, was an ugly sight.
“Yes,” I said. “And it seems he has not gotten over it.”
“Is it because of his size that you called him like that?” asked Willie.
“Yes, I assumed he was a young boy, doing odd jobs around the Lodge.”
Willie laughed and almost choked on his food. He quickly drank some water. I was reminded again of the fat pig in the cartoon.
“But,” he said, when he had gained control of himself again, “Nagoth is about your age, Mr. Simpson. Even though he looks small in stature, he is a rich and successful artist.”
“One cannot always tell age just by the stature,” chipped in Mrs. Marshall.
“Some people are young in stature but old in iniquity,” said Tonye.
I did not know why he said that. He sounded as if he knew something unpleasant about Nagoth. But the others seemed to find it funny, except John of course, and they all laughed.
“I must put that down in my diary,” said Willie, still cackling. “It sounds profound.”
“I am stoked that I look my age,” said Philip, who clearly had no idea how ridiculous he looked, wearing dark glasses indoors. “You wouldn’t ask a happening guy like me with street credibility to carry your bags, would you Mr. Simpson?” he asked laughing
“No, most certainly not,” I replied. If I dared try such a thing, it was very likely the bag would never be seen again.
“Amina,” began Willie, as he set down his cutlery. “Tomorrow is Saturday. You know what that means?”
“Yes, Willie,” replied Amina. There was a smile on her cherubic face. “I must avoid any wastage of food by not including your share.”
“That is it,” said Willie looking pleased. “The good Lord himself showed that we must avoid wastage after he fed the five thousand, when he asked them to gather the left-over of the bread and fishes that then filled twelve baskets.”
“But the same good Lord said we should not make public the fact that we are fasting like the Pharisees do, in order to receive the praises of men,” said Mrs. Marshall. “You always make a show of yours. I wonder why you don’t just go to all the media houses in Nigeria and do a Public Service Announcement.”
There was a sudden silence. I found myself poised with my fork in the air and some fried egg dangling on it.
“How well do you know the Bible, Mrs. Marshall?” asked Willie calmly, as they both stared coldly at each other.
“I may not have gone to Theology School, but I believe what I have just said is there in the Bible,” replied Mrs. Marshall.
“I can’t go into any argument with you, Mrs. Marshall. It will be unnecessary. You see, the spiritual depth of the things I may say will be beyond the realm of your spiritual understanding. I don't think there is anything new that you can tell me or can have a better understanding of,” he said patronisingly.
“You are hiding behind shadows, Willie. I have said that you make a public show of your fasting on Saturdays. Am I right or wrong?” retorted Mrs. Marshall.
“If you don’t mind, I will retire to my room,” Willie smiled and got to his feet.
“You were formerly with the Faith Revival Ministries,” said Mrs. Marshall. “Why did you leave them?”
“Purely for personal reasons,” replied Willie.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Marshall. “Actually, I heard that you were ex-communicated, after you were caught in an ungodly act with one of the teenage choir girls!”
Willie laughed. “I’ll not condescend to give an answer to that. Let idle minds keep peddling their rumours! It is now time for my Bible study,” he said, glancing at his watch. Then, he left.
“I believe this weather suits my complexion,” said Tonye, probably in an attempt to defuse the tension.
As he was wearing short sleeves, he turned his hands this way and that, admiring himself. When he was satisfied, he continued eating. But I could see that Mrs. Marshall had her eyes on him.
“I’m really interested in this complexion of yours,” she said, pouring herself a glass of water.
“Mother, please,” said Maria in a low tone, as if she sensed trouble.
“My dear girl, what’s the matter with you? Mr. Briggs seems happy enough to talk about his complexion. I don’t know about you, but it is the only thing that I hear him talk about,” said Mrs. Marshall, as she raised the glass to her lips.
“I’m not bragging about my complexion or anything of the sort,” said Tonye, suddenly sounding uncomfortable and unable to meet Mrs. Marshall's gaze. She reminded me of a snake whose stare was capable of paralysing its prey.
“I never said you were … not that there is anything to brag about,” she replied, surprised. “I hear your father is Japanese?”
“Well, em … yes,” replied Tonye who now looked like he was sitting on hot coals. His small eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other; he reminded me of a trapped rat looking for an escape route.
“Is it true that your mother met him at a hotel in Tokyo where she ‘worked’ briefly, before she was deported for entering the country with false papers? And that you are a product of their love affair, hence your skin colour?”
I shuddered, as I imagined getting on Mrs. Marshall's wrong side; the woman did not pull punches. With the way she said ‘worked’, it was obvious to anyone what profession Tonye’s mother had been engaged in. The deafening silence seemed to drag on forever, as we waited for Tonye to respond. He actually opened his mouth, but quickly thought better of it and closed it.
“It has been an interesting meal,” said Mrs. Marshall, picking up her crutches and getting to her feet. “I think I’ll go to my room, now.”
“Please pass me the jug of water,” said John, as soon as Mrs. Marshall left. He seemed oblivious to what had just transpired. There were times I even forgot that he could speak.
After that, Tonye spoke a lot less about his complexion. He became gloomier and from time to time, I saw him shoot vengeful looks at Mrs. Marshall.
Nagoth didn't speak to me after that first day. He was not particularly hostile, but was indifferent to my presence. I tried to make it up to him some days after I arrived, by offering him my stapler; I had heard him asking for one. He was reading a book in the lounge when I approached him. He often sat alone by himself. He cut the miserable picture of a lonely, little man.
“Here you are,” I said offering the stapler to him. “I heard you asking around for one.” I could see the hesitation in his eyes, before he stretched out his left hand to accept it. Now, in the part of the country where I come from, it is considered very rude to take or give something with your left hand. I immediately glanced at his right hand, in which he held the white handkerchief he always carried around. He followed the movement of my eyes, but made no attempt to switch hands.
“Thank you,” he said, rather brusquely, placing the stapler on the table. I gave him a stiff smile. I walked away, concluding that he was without manners. Later that day, he gave the stapler to Ayuba to return to me. That was when I concluded that reaching out to him was pointless.
That evening, I met Mrs. Marshall in the garden at the back of the Lodge. She was sitting on one of the wooden chairs, underneath some trees that were just below my window. She was knitting a blue cap.
“I hope you don’t mind if I join you?” I asked.
“No, not at all,” she said. “Feel free.”
“You have a very sharp tongue, Mrs. Marshall,” I said with a laugh.
“Have I stung you with my tongue, Mr. Simpson? I like to think that I always tell the truth.”
“The truth can be very bitter,” I replied.
�
�But people often need the bitter pill of truth to free themselves from the delusions and shackles of self-deceit that they have woven around themselves.” She did not pause her knitting. Yes, she told the truth, but my concern was that she delivered it like a sledgehammer.
“But you have to be careful. You may not realise how deeply you hurt people.” I cautioned.
“I can take care of myself, Mr. Simpson. But I know at least one person in this Lodge, who would not think twice about leaving a knife in your back, if they ever got the opportunity.” I laughed, knowing it was true. There was something else I was curious about. “How do you get your information about people, Mrs. Marshall?” I asked.
“I keep my eyes open and my ears to the ground,” she replied. I looked into her round eyes, which were certainly always open. Her protruding ears were also definitely alert and seemed to quiver at the slightest sound.
Her dire warning about someone wanting to kill me, proved prophetic. It almost came to pass, later that night.
It was about 11:00pm when I got up from bed. I had been turning and tossing for hours, unable to sleep. I decided to go down to the lounge, to see if there was anything good on television. I poured myself a glass of milk from the fridge, which I decided to take along. On opening my door, I was surprised to find the entire hallway in darkness. The light bulb must have burnt out.
I heard what sounded like the crash of thunder, followed by the sound of something falling to pieces, in Nagoth’s room. Almost immediately, he began to swear and cuss. His expletives would have made a nun blush, but I was no nun. I continued unabashedly, groping my way along the corridor towards the staircase. As I passed by Willie’s room, I heard him praying energetically. I felt a surge of envy, when I heard snores coming from John’s room.
I'm not sure why, but as I got to the top of the long staircase, I hesitated. It was like standing at the edge of a gaping, pitch-black abyss. Ayuba had to do something about the lights.
Then, I heard quick footsteps behind me. I was surprised because I had not heard any doors opening. I tried to turn around, but I felt two hands just before wind was knocked out of me and I fell headlong down the stairs. Milk splashed on me, as the glass clattered to pieces on the stairs.
I landed with a thud at the bottom of the stairs. My left hand was twisted painfully behind my back. I heard doors open in quick succession, and a torchlight appeared pointing down at me.
“Father Lord! Who is there?” called out Willie. “Did you fall?”
“It’s me,” I groaned in pain. “Someone just pushed me down the stairs.”
“Father, Lord!” exclaimed Willie. “Who would do such a thing?”
Others had joined him and they climbed down the stairs to where I was.
“Are you OK?” asked Tonye.
“I think I may have sprained my hand. Otherwise I think I am fine,” I said.
“Can you stand?” asked Willie, as he pulled me up with his hands under my arms. Between him and John, they carried me to the lounge and I was laid on a settee.
“You say someone pushed your ass?” asked Philip.
“Yes,” I replied.
They were all there. Nagoth, John, Tonye, Philip and Willie; one of them obviously had pushed me. I stared at each of them in turn, but they all looked shocked. Naturally, I suspected Nagoth. He was antagonistic enough towards me, to want to do me harm. But he did not shift his gaze when our eyes met. However, if the push had been meant as a joke, it could have been Tonye or Philip.
“But where were you going?” asked Tonye, with his face set in that foolish expression of his.
“I was coming down here with a glass of milk, to see if I could watch anything on television, since I could not sleep,” I explained.
“Oh, so you had the glass of milk in your hand?” asked Tonye.
“No, I had it on my head,” I replied, sarcastically. He looked offended but I did not really care.
“But who would have done such a thing?” asked Willie looking at the other men. I knew it was not John, who had been fast asleep and snoring.
“But why were you not able to sleep?” continued Tonye. I looked at him for some seconds, wondering to myself what kind of human being he was.
“In your life, has there never been an occasion, when you could not sleep at night, Tonye?’ I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“Good for you,” I said.
“So, you actually didn’t know that someone was coming behind you?” continued Tonye.
“No, I did not. It was all so sudden and as I do not have eyes in the back of my head, I cannot see in the dark. Unlike some people here,” I replied.
“Are you sure the broken glass did not cut you?” asked John, speaking for the first time. I looked up at him surprised that he had the gift of speech. The milk spots made my shirt stick to my skin.
“No, it did not. And if you guys don’t mind, I would like to go to my room now, change these clothes and get some sleep.” I stood up unsteadily.
“Oh, so you can sleep now?” asked Tonye grinning at the others foolishly. He was insufferable. I went back up the stairs with the aid of Willie’s torch, while the rest followed me. They stayed behind me till I got to the door of my room. I thanked them and closed my door quickly after me, as Tonye seemed inclined to follow me in. I took off my clothes and threw them in a corner of the wardrobe. Then, I took a quick shower.
My left hand was still painful at the elbow joint. I applied some ointment on it. Then, I poured myself another glass of milk, drank it and hit the sack. I had a nightmare in which Tonye kept interrogating and cross-examining me.
CHAPTER THREE
A NEW ATTITUDE
I was sitting in my room some days later, when I heard Mrs. Marshall call out to Nagoth from just below my window. She was knitting a cap, as usual under the shade of the trees.
“Mr. Ali!” I heard her call out. I heard footsteps coming in her direction. I got up from my table and peered through the window.
“You always keep to yourself, why is that?” she asked, as Nagoth stood before her.
“I enjoy my own company,” replied Nagoth. “And I like my privacy.”
“That may very well be so,” said Mrs. Marshall. “But my guess is that you are afraid of associating with others. You have probably been hurt deeply by someone in the past and you do not want to be hurt again.” Before he could respond, she asked, “And what is it that you keep hiding with that fanciful, white handkerchief?”
Nagoth appeared rattled. Then, he looked amused and laughed.
“Are you psychic?” he asked. “You see an awful lot, don’t you?”
“I make use of my eyes, young man,” replied Mrs. Marshall, who hadn't stopped knitting. “Now, show me what you are hiding.”
I noticed that Nagoth looked quite relaxed with her.
“I lost two of my fingers in a car accident,” he replied, with a touch of sadness.
“I thought as much,” replied Mrs. Marshall. “Let me see.”
Nagoth changed his handkerchief to his left hand and showed her his right hand. Two of the fingers, the index and the middle finger, were missing. Mrs. Marshall paused in her knitting and held his hand for some time, with a kind of motherly concern.
“And you feel it necessary to hide it?” she asked.
“You won’t believe how people react to it,” replied Nagoth, looking pained.
“I can guess,” replied Mrs. Marshall, resuming her knitting. “People can be cruel and tactless.”
“They make me feel like a freak who is inadequate, an embarrassment to have around.” The words seemed to come out of the depths of his soul.
“Pull yourself together, Nagoth. You don’t allow people to decide the direction of your life for you, by their silly remarks or even their reactions to you. Life cannot come to a halt because you have lost two of your fingers, or even one of your hands. Nothing is decided. There has never been a Nagoth Ali before you came, and there will never be after
you have gone.”
Nagoth paused to digest this.
“My fiancée broke off our engagement because of it. She couldn’t take it,” said Nagoth looking at his hand. “She felt repulsed.”
“Then, she was not the one for you and does not deserve you,” replied Mrs. Marshall.
“I’m an artist, Mrs. Marshall,” said Nagoth. “I used to paint for a living. Now, I can’t even hold a brush.” He looked sad.
“Have you tried to paint with the remaining fingers?” asked Mrs. Marshall.
“It won’t work,” said Nagoth laughing at the very idea.
“Have you tried?” asked Mrs. Marshall.
“No.”
“Then, try it. Today,” said Mrs. Marshall. “Paint something today. If it doesn’t work out today, try it again tomorrow and the day after.”
I saw a fire beginning to dance in Nagoth's eyes.
When he left, Mrs. Marshall continued with her knitting.
A new understanding of the man called Nagoth Ali now dawned on me. Our initial encounter had made it easy for me to misjudge him; I had jumped to conclusions. But I now knew why he had taken the stapler with his left hand.
This reminded me of an incident, from some months ago. I had concluded arrangements with a man, who had promised to provide me with office space for my new business. Unfortunately, this arrangement had developed some bottlenecks, so he had failed to keep his promise. When I eventually called him, I was told by the person who answered, to call back in an hour's time. Apparently, the man had made that request after seeing my name on the caller ID. I had wondered why the man had felt too important to take my call immediately. Was it merely because I had come to him to request office space? It was later I learnt he had been informed, merely moments before my call, of the demise of his wife. Apparently, she had been ill for a long time. Of course, this bit of information had changed my whole perception of events.