by John Ukah
Did I say standards? That word has taken on a new meaning for me. After the accident, I realised even to a greater degree, that a lot of human standards are parochial, unfair and unreasonable. People are generally intolerant of others who do not measure up to their personal standards. This is the same whether those standards are of education, religion, beauty, wealth, physical size, social status and heaven knows what else. But most of these things are ephemeral or only skin deep. We fail to look at the core of the human being. We don't stop to look at things like integrity, dignity, discipline, honesty and love.
The most painful part of the experience was Ruth Obayi! I had thought that she genuinely loved me. If it came to it, I would willingly have died for her to live. But alas, I could not find her when I needed her most.
I remember the first time she came to the hospital after the accident. My head and hand were still wrapped in bandage and she had seemed concerned and caring enough. She had even placed a ‘Get well soon card’ at the head of my bed. Then, the day came when the bandage on my hand had to be removed. It was like a nightmare to me. I never knew she would take it like that. As soon as she took in the missing fingers on my right hand, her behaviour changed. Her beautiful face took on an irritated and shocked look. She became a total stranger. But I thought it would pass.
We talked for some time … or rather I talked and she just sat by the bed staring with that irritated look at my hand. I do not even know why, but I reached out my hand to touch her and she backed away very quickly.
“Don’t touch me with that hand!” she shouted. “Never ever!” She gathered her things frantically and ran like a mad woman out of the hospital ward, with everyone staring at her, then at me.
My world ended. I do not think that I can ever love any other woman the way I loved Ruth. My entire world had revolved around her. I know I would have stood by her, even if she had lost both of her hands in an accident. The bitter lesson, I seemed to draw from this, was that it is an expensive mistake to build your life around the love of an individual. If it fails, you tend to crash with it. And believe me, human beings will fail you.
But after I was discharged from the hospital, I summoned the courage to contact her. My attempts were rebuffed. I tried to console myself with the knowledge that there were too many women out there, for me to continue forcing myself on one who continued to make it clear that she was not interested in me. Or to draw hasty conclusions on the generality of the womenfolk based on the actions of just one of them.
Of course, not everyone reacted in the same way as Ruth. A lot of people did, though. But a few of my friends stood by me. They were pained that I had lost my fingers, but it did not have the slightest effect on our friendship. It was James Bata who suggested that I come down to Obudu for a short holiday. He felt that the atmosphere of the place would cheer me up. And I needed a lot of cheering up. He wanted me to see that there was still joy in being alive. Live while you are alive just as you would study if you were a student, he says.
I became downcast whenever I remembered Ruth, which was almost all the time. James is an artist like myself. We had planned an art exhibition together for this December, but I backed out, since I could no longer paint and my woman was gone. All I really wanted to do was hide myself somewhere, live like a recluse and die quietly. But James encouraged me to be outgoing and cheerful. He has a strong and forceful personality; that's how he finally convinced me to come to Obudu.
I did not feel like staying anywhere flashy. That's how I settled for the Kinging Guest Lodge. When I arrived, there were no other guests.
I saw that Ayuba and his wife ran the place efficiently. His wife particularly was drawn to me when I told her about the accident … she had asked me what happened to my hand. But I had become very suspicious of people and had made up my mind to keep to myself. I started carrying a white, silk handkerchief in my right hand to avoid either the pity or revulsion, which I often evoked.
Tonye Briggs came after I did. His facial appearance reminded me of the Japanese. He asked too many questions. He did not make any effort to be friendly towards me and that suited me fine, because I was not in the mood.
Willie and John Brad were next. They came on the same day, though they arrived separately. It seemed to me that they had met before at a church programme. Willie always carried a Bible around the Lodge and hung a crucifix around his neck. He tried to preach to me. But I guess I was the wrong congregation, because once was all it took to rub me the wrong way. The way he tried to force his religion on me, was a turn-off. The crucifix hanging around his neck, the large Bible he always carried around, the smug attitude, like he was better than everyone else, the religious verbosity. It was just too much for me.
I remember I was sitting in the lounge and reading a book when he came to meet me. According to him, the Lord had laid it in his heart and on his mind, as he woke up with his body that morning, to minister to my spirit concerning the salvation of my soul.
“Willie,” I had said to him. “I actually came here, hundreds of miles away from home, to have some rest and a little bit of privacy. Is it possible for you to respect that somehow, even if it is just a small, tiny, little bit of respect, and give me some space?”
He had been in the process of opening his Bible, before my words stopped him.
Then came Mrs. Marshall and her daughter. I felt a kinship with Mrs. Marshall, when I saw her with her crutches. Her car accident had even been more tragic than mine. She had lost her husband. She had a way of looking at one, as if she wanted to see into your soul and her big ears quivered at the slightest sound. I could tell that she heard and saw an awful lot. Though her words stung, I could also see that she had a listening ear that made people open up to her with their problems and secrets.
Maria Marshall was a bird of a different feather. While her mother maintained a calm dignity, she was a social butterfly. She was the only one at the Lodge who sought my company, even when I made it obvious that I liked staying on my own. It started on the first day she met me in the lounge. She had been pleasantly surprised. It seemed she had a keen interest in the arts and had seen my pictures in some magazines.
“I can’t believe my eyes!” she said, rubbing her hand over her eyes, theatrically. “It is a lie! I’m actually staying in the same house with Nagoth Ali!” And she giggled excitedly. “My friends are totally going to die, when I tell them! We have to take a selfie together, before I leave.”
I remember she was wearing a dark blue, micro-mini skirt and a pink top that showed a lot of cleavage. She kept grinning from ear to ear and chattering non-stop.
“How did you feel when you won the Artists' Pride Award, last year?” she asked.
I shrugged my shoulders, indifferently. None of that meant anything to me now, I thought to myself. I could not even hold a brush, any longer.
“It must have been amazing, receiving the award. And having your name and face splashed on the front pages of all those magazines and newspapers. I heard that you got $100,00 as the cash prize? Where is my share now, Mr. Ali? Don’t be stingy!”
I smiled at her as I remembered it. It had truly been one of the greatest moments of my life.
“You don’t seem to talk much?” she observed, pouting. “But I guess most artists tend to express themselves best in their form of art.”
I slowly removed my handkerchief and showed her my right hand, hoping that it would scare her off and I could get some peace.
“Right now, Miss Marshall, I can’t even express myself in the art form that I know best.”
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, seizing my hand. “What have you done to your fingers, Mr. Ali?”
“Actually, they got chopped off in a car accident, two months ago.” I was surprised that there was no revulsion on her face.
“My!” she said still holding my hand. “We can’t let that talent in you go to waste. Mr. Ali, you have to paint somehow.”
“They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, Miss Ma
rshall. I don’t see how I can learn to use my left hand effectively at this age.”
“Why don’t you call me Maria and I’ll call you Nagoth?” she said.
“OK,” I said.
“Nagoth, I know you are going to come out on top, even after this,” she said cheerfully.
“I wish I could share your optimism,” I replied. “But if I can’t paint with my hand, what else is there?”
“Why don’t we take a walk to town, Nagoth? I know a lot of sights that will cheer you up.”
“Maria!” I started to protest. But she would hear none of it and pulled me along.
In order not to create a scene, I followed her. Philip was still in the lounge.
“Wouldn’t mind my ass being dragged to town,” I heard him say.
I had a good time for the first time in a long time that day.
I remember that Philip arrived at the Lodge after Mrs. Marshall and Maria did. He was friendly with everyone, and we talked now and then. He told me that he had been a professional wrestler, but that hard drugs had been the bane of his career.
Then, you came along. Mr. Big Shot, ex- policeman. You made me dislike you on the first day. I had gone to buy some shaving powder from one of the nearby shops. I was putting on a pair of bathroom slippers, a white shirt and white shorts. As I entered the lounge, I noticed you entering your name in the guest register. You looked like you had been ill. Your clothes hung on your shoulders. Your face was gaunt and your eyes were deep in their sockets. I was walking by when you called out to me.
“Hey you, come and help me with these bags.” That was what you said.
I was dumbfounded. It might have been okay if you were joking. I mean, I can take a joke just as well as the next man. But I could see that you were not. My small stature had betrayed and robbed me yet again of my dignity and self-respect. Your words were like a stinging slap on my face. I felt highly insulted. Though you looked bigger and older, I had no doubt that you were about my age. Anger welled up in me. If I had a gun, I might have shot you and damned the consequences.
You judged me on physical appearance. Physical size is not everything. It should not be the parameter for judging people, for ‘eligibility’ or for ‘admission’ into friendship circles. One could argue that just as short or ‘small’ men tend to be overly aggressive, ‘big’ men, like yourself, tend to be too laid-back, too dull, too relaxed, as respect comes naturally.
Then, there are those like Willie … if you are not a member of their religious denomination or sect, you cannot be allowed ‘in’. In their eyes, you are not good enough; you will never be. Highly prejudiced and insanely fanatical, they are rigid and uncompromising in the choice of those they accept based on their standards.
That has always been my experience. For as long as I can remember, people have seen my height and concluded, before even giving me a chance. There was even this incident when I was in secondary school … the school organised an art contest to celebrate its Golden Jubilee. Students were asked to submit their artwork to one of the teachers in the school, one Mr. Udo Edam. He was a thin, haggard and scruffy-looking man with permanently red eyes. He was always quarrelling with everyone, including the Principal. But he was the most senior Art teacher. He would never negotiate; he preferred forcing people to accept his opinions, which were often senseless. Apart from being cantankerous, Mr. Edam suffered two additional ailments. First, he was ethnocentric. He waxed strong in tribalism. If you were not from his tribe, it meant you were a lesser mortal. That was one of the reasons he was always at loggerheads with the Principal, who was from a different tribe. Secondly, Mr. Edam believed in using size as a yardstick for determining capabilities.
By the time I got to the office of Mr. Edam with my own work, which I had spent many hours working on, I saw that a small queue had formed by the door. I quickly joined the queue.
“You will definitely win this competition, Nagoth,” said the boy, who had come up behind me, as soon as he glanced at my work. “I’m ashamed to submit mine now.” He was the biggest boy in my class. His name was Okocha. In sports, he ruled the field, but he became a spectator when it came to academics. Yet, he was one of Mr. Edam's favourite students, as they were from the same tribe.
“Let me see your own,” I said to him.
He showed it to me, rather reluctantly.
“It is good,” I said to him, looking at his work, which was done with papier mache. And I was not lying, it was a good attempt.
“But yours is better,” said Okocha, looking at my painting of a house, beside which was a woman with a baby on her back, taking water out of a well. “We have a football match in the afternoon. Are you coming?” he asked. That was his territory. It was where he really became artistic and creative.
“Of course, I will come,” I assured him.
As soon as I stepped into Mr. Edam’s office, his face changed.
“What? Go back, I say! You think that this is a competition for children? You can’t waste my time with your silly childish drawings. Give way for the big boy behind you!” And he had not even seen my work! I gave way for Okocha as Mr. Edam picked up a cane by his side and threatened me with it, mumbling something in his dialect that made Okocha laugh. The other students in the queue were shocked.
“Go back to him, Nagoth, and tell him that your mother is from his tribe. He will take it,” suggested one of the boys.
I had read somewhere that one of the hardest things to believe is the abysmal depth of human stupidity. I now believed it.
I was going back with my artwork under my right arm, my head hanging down, my shoulders drooping and my footsteps dragging, when Mrs. Okom stopped me. She was the Art teacher for my class.
“What’s wrong, Nagoth?” she asked me. “You didn’t submit anything for the competition?”
I opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out. I could not help myself. I just burst into tears and my entire small frame shook, as I cried. Mrs. Okom pulled me close to herself.
“What’s wrong, my child?” she asked soothingly.
I told her how I was turned back with my artwork, because I was small.
“Let me see what you have done,” said Mrs. Okom and I gave her the work.
“This is beautiful, Nagoth!” she exclaimed. “Don’t worry; I’ll submit it for you.” And she did. I later won that Art competition. But it did not end there. Hasty generalisations based on my stature have dogged my career.
I was determined not to encourage any friendship with you, even after you offered me the stapler. One just has to draw the line somewhere, else one is bound to lose all their pride and self-respect. As far as I was concerned, you could take your arrogance, your size and your stapler … and go to hell!
The days passed quickly at the Lodge. Maria made them pleasant for me. With each day, I grew fonder of her. I even became convinced that I was in love with her. We exchanged cards and gifts. We took walks together in the evenings.
“I love you, Maria,” I said to her one beautiful evening, as we sat together alone on the beach after some vigorous swimming. She was wearing a one-piece, blue bathing suit, while I was wearing a pair of blue trunks that she had bought for me. We held hands under the silver moonlight, lying in the wet sand and enjoying the sea cool breeze.
“I love you, too,” she replied, looking as sweet as candy. Her face looked so irresistible.
“Do you mean that?” I asked her, my hand slipping around her waist.
“Of course, Nagoth. I love everybody!” Then, she laughed in that carefree way that I found deeply arousing.
“That’s fine,” I said. “But what I want to know is if you are in love with me?”
“No, I’m not in love with you, Nagoth. I like you and I enjoy your company, but I am not in love with you.”
“But can’t you try to be?” I asked pulling her closer.
She laughed. “Nagoth, love is something that I think comes naturally. You don’t force it,” she replied.
“Are you in love with someone else?” I felt her hesitate, before she answered.
“No,” she replied and stood up. “Let’s go home.”
“I don’t feel like going back just yet,” I said lazily, still holding her hand.
“But I do, Nagoth, and that overrules any objection from you.” And she pulled me up.
Yet, her mother was the one who had the greatest impact on me. Her words of encouragement so lifted me, that I found myself painting with three fingers and throwing aside my handkerchief. It was embarrassing at first, especially when people were watching, but I began to get the knack of it and my old style began coming across! My work became almost as good as before and I knew that with time, I would perfect it.
My best work, I think, was the painting I did of Maria. It was not just my old style that was flowing through my fingers when I did that painting; there was love, as well. I often told her that I loved her, but she would laugh it off saying that of course we should all love one another. She often said that she was not in love with me. Despite this, she did not resist my kissing or holding her.