‘Could this be love or what do we call this?’ Desire looked up at Remilekun, who said nothing, but kneaded her shoulders like an experienced masseuse, until she felt the emotions in her dissipate.
Desire woke up sprawled on the floor. Her arm was wet where it met the linoleum carpet which now stuck to her skin like a sticker losing its gum. Her left leg leaned against the door weakly, and the other leg was apart, seeking company on a pile of dirty clothes. She blinked to acquaint her eyes to the lights. Remilekun had not turned the lights off. She could not remember falling asleep or falling in front of a door to the floor. A left turn and she remembered her roommate had slept beside her, but was no longer there—she was nestled back in the bed. She stood up and walked towards the switch to turn it off, and the thought slipped into her mind, Why do most people put off the lights to sleep, although many fear the dark?
For a better sleep, of course!
How can you hope for a better sleep in your fear? People don’t like the dark. She slept in the dark, because, well, that was what you did—eyes shut to welcome the dark should be enveloped in the dark. She had not found a reason to question her answers until now. Leaving the lights on, she returned to her bed and tried to sleep. She again considered getting up to go looking for Prof.
‘Why didn’t you turn off the lights?’ Remilekun’s brash voice broke into her thoughts.
‘I thought you were asleep. You left me on the floor. So nice of you.’
‘These days I’m scared roomie is going crazy.’ Desire pretended not to hear.
Remilekun sighed, ‘Put off the light. It is still sleeping hours. And babe, don’t do anything crazy, like sleepwalking out of this room in search of crazy Prof, okay? I can’t round up a search party.’ Then she added, ‘I will call my mummy-o, this is getting scary.’
Before Desire could respond, Remilekun turned her back to her, and either feigned sleep or indeed fell asleep.
‘There are so many things you don’t understand,’ Desire said, still, mindless that her roommate was no longer listening. She lifted the bedspread so that it could cover her body properly.
Papa’s prayer session was over at this time. The building had resumed its mournful silence, until the call to prayer from a mosque close by splattered the quiet of the early morning, and slowly, the distant drone of traffic on the road rose to significance. The thought of Prof, thinking of her as she was of him, floated across her mind. She could not get her mind off his acute quietness whenever she moved towards the door to leave for home. It was as if something needed to be said, and a stillness reigned asking that they both hold a one-minute silence for the death of important discussions. Desire sat up on the bed and watched Remilekun. She watched as her body danced to the rhythm of the hum of her breathing.
When you cannot forget, is that what it means to be madc crazy—over the top? As she tried to understand herself, she lay on the bed writhing, like one with sores all over her body. She missed going to see him. She wanted to not go and see him. She thought of Ireti too, and how she had imagined walking with him to Prof’s doorstep, saying something like, ‘Here’s Ireti.’ Or just, ‘Your son,’ and then sizing each other up, learning the other in silence.
31
Prof was on the sofa when he heard a rap on the door. He stood up from the chair and walked out, looking down for a moment from the top of the staircase. There was no one there but him. He folded his hands into a crisscross over his shoulders and leaned on the banister. He wanted Desire to be there. He wanted her to be on the last railing where she could stand and look up at the landing with his face telling how much he yearned for her. She would let out a sigh, with her head lopsided and her countenance turning into something like ice about to melt, when she saw how dejected he looked. At a time, he felt she would never come, but she did. On remembering the pain she put him through in the last few days, he turned and watched her walk up the stairs with shaky legs, gripping the banister for support until she stood in front of him.
Prof went straight ahead and said, ‘You.’
‘You,’ she replied. And they both started laughing. He turned and moved towards the door.
When he got to the door, he walked into the room ahead of her.
‘There is light in the room. Please. Come in.’ This was his first real invitation to her. ‘There will always be light. Light, no more darkness…’
She put the tip of her index finger on his lips. ‘Shhh…’
For a while, he stood patiently, as she took in the room. He watched as her eyes moved from the bookshelf with so many thick, hardback books, which faced the door directly, to the TV stand which had no television on it. A small Phillips transistor radio was plugged into a socket close to the stand. It stood on a small table a few metres from the shelf. The colour of his Persian rug was a mix of black and red. The grandfather clock stood some metres away. Their eyes met the object at the same time, and they both smiled at the memory it bore.
Prof watched her walk into the room, dazed. When she caught him staring, she looked away and he turned away briefly, but returned to steal glances at her skin and try to figure out the colour, because it glimmered in the electric light. He held her hand and they walked around the lit room, wordless.
He stretched his right hand forward and clasped his hands into a lock like he was wrapping his arms around her, but he held nothing. He opened his eyes. He was alone. She was not there with him. The door was ajar. ‘Even in my dreams, she torments me,’ he snivelled.
Prof walked to the door and looked out into the surroundings which were covered by the darkness of a moonlit night without electric power, hopeful that she might still be around, somewhere. Then, just for a moment, he thought he saw a shadow on the last step. He didn’t have the courage to follow it, as he feared it was his imagination again. He closed the door after him as he walked into the house.
Although the power was off, he went to switch off the lights, and trembled, craving the small space between life and death. He whimpered, ‘Desire.’
There was something he noticed about himself, which could have always been there, but which he only became aware of since she had stopped coming. He realised that his palms became wet quickly and he was now always wiping them against the sofa or against his trousers before standing up again to face his set challenge.
Standing before the switch, his hands shook. He looked at the knob of the switch extending out like a stub. Prof placed his hands at the back of his head and locked his fingers. His skin rose. He felt his strength return and he again placed a hand on the switch, letting his mind concentrate on the will to push the button. But each time the thought of the cane on his skin came to his mind, he trembled and even as he thought of how much he wanted the lights on, his mind continued to wander to his days in Maiduguri Prison.
‘It’s your heart beating not soldiers coming. Press down the switch,’ a voice in his head said. As the moment of indecision followed, he felt as if Desire was standing close to him, as he repeated her words in his head; ‘I don’t like staying in this darkness,’ and he remembered how the noticeable lack of lustre that accompanied those words highlighted a disappointment he never noted before then, in her voice. He looked towards the window blind which he had tied in a bunch, and then at the grey which made it difficult to stretch his vision beyond the dim light of the stars outside. At that moment, he foresaw the long nights he would spend alone. He walked outside and knocked on the door, trying out a deliberate bang, like he felt Desire would make in her desperation to get back into the room. With each bang, his hands grew weaker and he rested his head against the wall, sobbing loudly.
His shoulders landed in a droop and his knock-knee bent slightly to carry the bulge of his stomach.
He winced and closed his eyes tight, determined to light up the room. He placed his two hands on the switch, and with all the emotional strength he had, he pushed it down but the lights did not come on. Prof stared up at the switch and at the place where he supposed t
he bulb should be. His heart raced and he became so unsure of what could have happened that he sank slowly down, sliding with his back against the wall again to weep. Something was happening, he moved stealthily towards the door.
Kpa!
An amber brightness settled upon the room. Prof sprang up from his squatted posture as flushes of light penetrated his eyes and he blinked several times. He began to twitch uncontrollably as he adjusted his eyes to the light. He opened and closed his eyes to create a balance and make out a difference between light and dark. He became still, expecting something to happen to him. He waited.
Prof stared at the walls. After several minutes, of standing and waiting, a cry that had stood in his throat crawled to his lips and he wailed aloud. His hand returned to the switch and he flicked it on and off with his index finger, and then off, and on again. He stood with his back against the wall and slid down again, until he crouched on the floor with his eyes fixed on the bulb. He moved away from the wall and walked towards the light. He moved closer to the bulb and stared at it lengthily.
‘Desire,’ he whispered.
Her seat was empty and a depression on the sofa announced even more boldly her last visit. He wondered what Desire would do now that the lights were on. He could feel a slow pain rising in the lower region of his neck, he felt drained and when he looked around as the light cascaded into the once dark room, he felt like someone who suddenly realised his superpowers; perhaps now, he could stop remembering.
He also felt that now that the lights were on, she would be there, but after a long wait and not hearing her breathing, he walked to the switch and turned the lights off, and then on again and then, finally, off.
‘Desire,’ he whispered again and found himself sobbing.
He stared at the colour of the wall which he had once used as his defence, picked up his T-shirt, swung it over his shoulder and rushed out of the room, opening the door with such force that it banged against the wall.
As he stood on the stairhead looking around him, he realised that he didn’t know where Desire’s house was or anything more than the things they had discussed in his room. All he knew was that she was a neighbour from one of the buildings in the neighbourhood. He racked his brain to remember her last name, or something she might have said that could help him locate her. He turned towards the door and decided to go back into the house and wait till the next day.
A stream of sunlight fell on his face and the amber light from the bulb was buried in its brightness. He watched the electric bulb again and thought of what to tell Desire when he saw her. The more he thought of what to say, the more he felt sweat all over, and this made it difficult to think, so that all he could murmur was the name, ‘Desire.’
For the first time since he was released from prison, he longed to go out and rise with the sun, but he continued to lie down, thinking of the way she said goodbye. Finally, he stood up from the sofa and walked into the bathroom, murmuring, ‘See you tomorrow.’
In the bathroom, he stood by the sink, ran the tap and splashed cold water on his face and then hurried out, because a sudden urge gripped him from within and he became desperate to get out of the house before it was too late. He ran into the bedroom to dress. He settled for a tie and a shirt that smelt of mildew, placing his hand flat on the cloth to smoothen it. The wrinkles remained, and the lines stuck out like disentangled, fine fibres attached to cloth, but he felt pleased with his attempt.
It was when he stepped out of the bedroom that he realised that he didn’t even know where he should start looking for her. They never talked about her family, her house or who she really was. The only thing he knew was that she was a student of the Lagos State University. All the same, he walked absentmindedly towards the door, where he remained for a while with his eyes closed, savouring, since his return from prison, the true sense of being free. He walked down the stairs, humming a sound that made no sense. With each step, as the grey covering of early morn slipped away, he feared someone might recognise him as Professor Eniolorunda, the activist.
The main road had many potholes. It was the same road he had walked shrouded in cloth, but in the light of day, it was different. The puddle of brown water which sat in the hole stank like a bowl of rotten beans. He stood in the middle of the road and looked around the same row of the Lego-like blocks of flats, many of which wore faded paint.
Prof turned in shock to watch a man who walked hurriedly past him after they nearly bumped into each other. The man had a faded, black police beret on but was dressed in a long sleeved blue shirt, folded at the elbows. He didn’t look back. He didn’t really care what time it could be. He just felt safe, knowing that she was somewhere close and he would find her. He walked until the dawn slipped between the cracks of silver lining the skies.
He walked towards the bus stop carrying his legs like he was following orders in a military drill. He walked in slow steps and with his mind wandering in and out, he did not realise when he reached the bus stop where everyone seemed in a hurry. It was not the hurry of trying to make it to an appointment. It was a rush that seemed injected into the lives of the people. Prof looked around him at the women, men, teenagers, even children—some being dragged along, smiling, but in an irritable sort of way, and they turned aggressive each time he tried to be friendly or introduce himself to them. They all struggled against the sun, which seemed intent on draining them of their strength.
He looked around with the hope that Desire would shout from among the people on the street and call his name. Twice, he looked around abruptly when someone shouted, but it was just a woman shouting down an okada rider, who sped off on his motorcycle. There was also a girl calling on her sister to wait for her. Prof moved past the people rushing to and from the bus stop, unaware of how he slithered through them so that he could escape their strained necks, as their struggle to get onto the buses made him feel different.
The people on the road, running off to their different commitments, reminded him of his days as a university professor. He remembered how he left for campus at 5am or 5.30am to meet other comrades with whom he put up revolutionary posters on the campus before it was peopled. The security men never told on him.
‘Prof! Our correct padi-man,’ they singled him out and saluted him among other lecturers, with much verve and animated familiarity. Two of the security men visited him in prison in the early days. None of his “comrade” lecturers did. From the letters he got, they explained that they were equally hunted and it was important that they stayed away. Since his release, still, none had visited.
‘Most of your comrades ask after you. But, you know this darkness,’ Kayo had said, during one of his early attempts to renew their friendship upon his return from prison. ‘All of them are now minister of this or that. The president offered them a chance to rebuild the country with him.’
Prof smacked his lips as his thoughts turned to his youthful days. Those days spent chanting revolutionary songs in front of government houses. He could see all of his comrades again, standing behind him as he rendered his speech with a stuttering anger.
He shook his head and whistled, then tucked his hand into his trousers as he regained awareness that he was on the street, walking among people he wanted to be away from. His fear of being recognised returned, but though the number of people at the bus stop increased, they stood apart from him and he felt that they eyed him nonetheless. It felt like no one recognised him, or if they did, they were being rather polite about it.
Prof watched as new faces came to the bus stop and the way their spaces were then replaced made him think of himself. If, with those sufferings, he had died in prison, would society just have filled his space?
The dry harmattan air blew gently against his ears and he drew his shirt closer. Desire, again, crossed his mind; a small stirring tingled slightly between his loins. After a while, he decided that it was simply how Desire concerned herself with him and his well-being that kept him confounded. He couldn’t be in love with he
r. Love was too expensive a gift of the heart. It was the love for their country that bonded them.
A car honked behind him, he moved away from the bus stop sign and crossed over to the other side of the road where traffic was building. The two police officers directing the traffic did not appear too pleased with it. They remained at their post chatting idly. Soon, vehicles were locked bumper to bumper, and many okada riders had to turn off the engines of their motorcycles. Even pedestrians struggled to walk in the jam, as they tried to negotiate the potholes in the road.
Somewhere in this gridlock, a man in a rickety Peugeot 504, with a moustache set like Charlie Chaplin’s, shook his index finger in warning at an okada man trying to ride his motorcycle through a small space between his car and a brand new Toyota Avensis, whose driver looked straight ahead like he wore a neck brace.
‘Fool! Don’t you see there’s no space there?’ Chaplin spat at the okada man.
‘Sharrap! Person with correct car no complain. Na you with old tuke-tuke car dey talk, talk!’ The okada man attacked; intent on passing between the cars.
Chaplin yelled, ‘Man! If you scratch my car, I will bless you with slaps this afternoon.’
‘Sharrap you…’ the okada man barely completed his sentence, before losing hold of his motorcycle, which hit the bumper of Chaplin’s car. He hurriedly rose from the ground, balanced his motorcycle, and inspected Chaplin’s car for any damage.
He sighed, and turned to Chaplin, ‘No dent, only small scratch.’ If Chaplin heard him, he said nothing. He simply climbed out of his car, walked to the bumper and ran his two hands over it. He noticed a negligible scratch, yet he felt the need to punish the okada man for his rudeness.
He removed his chequered shirt, laying it on the driver’s seat of his car, leaving a sweat-drenched, once-white vest covering his chest, then he charged at the okada man, grabbed him by the collar and screamed at him, ‘Do you want to die? Yes or no?’
A Small Silence Page 21