Married But Available

by B. Nyamnjoh

  “My goodness,” exclaimed Lilly Loveless as a wave came up to her toes, “calculated light heartedness one moment and suffering the next.”

  “You’ve collected a small host of diverse stories that shows the rampancy of certain behaviours we try to keep under wraps. But we’ve more work to do. Shall we head back to Puttkamerstown? I know you’re going about your other commitments.”

  More than a few eyes followed Lilly Loveless and Britney with her flowing braids as the two, both dressed in blue, stepped their way through the colourful towels and tourists that polka-dotted the warm black sands.

  10

  The next morning Bobinga Iroko came by to give Lilly Loveless a ride to Mount Rebecca Hospital to see the doctor. She didn’t have a quiet night with her tummy, which kept her rushing to the toilet throughout. Could it be the Watafufu and Eru she got initiated to at lunchtime? Or could it be the fact that the water she used to wash her hands was the same that had done several rounds of dirty hands in a plastic bowl? Washing hands in Mimboland is less about keeping hands clean than about redistributing dirt, and she fell prey to the practice, she thought. It could be the food, the water or even the glass from which she took her beer, which she couldn’t vouch was cleaned of whatever germs the previous user might have left behind. She saw the way used glasses and plates were dipped in soapy water, turned briefly, and taken out for washed. Eating out in public places here is always a risk, and until yesterday Lilly Loveless prided herself with having a fairly democratic tummy in this regard. The “miracle cure” of Bitter Kola and Guinness that Britney advised her to take did not achieve more than making her swear never again to eat and drink such an awful combination.

  Once in the car, Bobinga Iroko handed her the latest copy of The Talking Drum.

  “There’s much in this issue of interest, but the open letter on Page 2 is more up your road,” he said.

  “Love War at Love FM?”

  “Yep. It’s bleeding research data for you all over Mimboland. The whole place is a giant incubator for affairs. Few can afford to make much ado about it, because everyone knows that fidelity is only skin deep. While Mimbo men love having mistresses, Mimbo women don’t mind being deuxième bureaux but they don’t want to be known as such, because society has made it impossible for a woman to be truly happy as a mistress. It is the same social order that provides for men to be unfaithful with nonchalance, while giving the very same men the license to crucify their women for any false step. On this matter Mimboland is not like Muzunguland, who behave like fowls, eating and wiping their beaks in the sand, and pretending that monogamy is the ultimate form of marriage. You now understand what I meant the day we met for the first time.”

  “What about?”

  “About your research, the fact that it’s so commonplace the phenomenon you study, that only a Muzungu would do such a thing, and only Muzunguland would find money for a study like yours.”

  “Long live Muzunguland, long live Muzungus.” Lilly Loveless said, jokingly, turning her attention to the article.

  “My dearest Romeo,” the letter began.

  “I am writing to express my deep gratitude for the trillion Mim dollar revelations you made last night during our telephone conversation regarding the calamity that befell our marriage; your seven-year-love affair with Miss Fifi-Snatcher, and most especially the plot to eliminate me.

  “For the purpose of this letter, I will dwell only on the plot by you and Miss Fifi-Snatcher to eliminate me, which you referred to last night as ‘Fifi-Snatcher’s struggle to get me out of the picture’ in order to marry you.

  “The murder conspiracy disclosure finally puts the numerous attempts on my life within the proper context which include the mental and psychological torture caused by Miss Fifi-Snatcher’s countless telephone calls at our home even as late as midnight and beyond, and the fact that you would receive and respond to these intrusive calls as if I did not exist.

  “As if such torture was not enough, you inquired, in outrage, what I must have done to my person that nothing you say or do seems to be able to bruise me.

  “You did everything to publicise your affair by riding together in Miss Fifi-Snatcher’s car, or in our family car, attending parties together in the presence of our colleagues; taking her on missions for which she was not officially scheduled, in Sawang, for example, in the presence of our colleagues; and saying outrageous things about me in public mainly to prove how much your heart belongs elsewhere. How could a man who claims himself a respectable husband and father descend so low as to criticize in public ‘the clumsy manner in which my wife kisses – she sticks out her tongue like a chameleon hunting for flies’?

  “You went as far as driving our children to school in Miss Fifi-Snatcher’s car and letting her drive our children in her car from a birthday party, while I was available, healthy and strong, and holder of a driver’s licence and co-owner of our white silvery Mitsubishi Gallant.

  “Romeo, you and Fifi-Snatcher could not wait for me to die in order for her to take her place beside you as the rightful mother of my own flesh and blood. And all of these public disgraces were done to humiliate and torture me.

  “What morals do you Love FM stars think you have been teaching our own children, all those youths who thought our marriage was the model for them? Your affair became the talk of elementary, secondary and university campuses, family living rooms, streets, offices, and chicken parlours throughout our land of Mimbo. Students flocked into Love FM during vacation from all over the country and even from lands beyond to see what this phenomenal obscenity was all about and to find out how its direct victim, your lawfully wedded wife, was coping with it doing a job that put her in the limelight of shame all the time and still being able to keep her smile alive. Not to mention the agony I went through every Monday morning sitting in the Love FM editorial meeting round the same table with you and Fifi-Snatcher while our Manager, heads of services and all colleagues winced from what has been registered as the infidelity of the century. Our colleagues and others held their breaths wondering what move I would take in the face of what Fifi-Snatcher’s father, a God-fearing man, described one Christmas Eve, as ‘excessive provocation of the wife of another by my own daughter’.

  “Romeo, as you disclosed yesterday, Fifi-Snatcher went ahead to pollute my number 113 office on the first floor of Love FM with witchcraft, voodoo, gri-gri, magic potions in the form of rats, cockroaches and a mysterious snake haunting my office and partying on my table and even in locked drawers. All of these happening in an office with locked doors intact. It was a daily occurrence that pestered my life to which you, my lawfully wedded husband, were indifferent, turning down my incessant pleas to come see for yourself. These went on continuously for over a year and only stopped because I left Mimboland and that haunted office.

  “My dear Romeo, while you and Fifi-Snatcher were busy celebrating your licentiousness in the most public places, Fifi-Snatcher spent a whole day and night in her Sakersbeach residence, as you told me, lamenting my pregnancy with hot tears. On hearing this, I was shocked into a state of deepest anxiety from then, when I was four months pregnant, till we lost that baby at seven months and almost my own life in the sudden miscarriage that November before the Christmas Eve when Fifi-Snatcher’s father said his daughter had gone too far.

  “Romeo, this sorrowful occurrence, or a happy one for you and Fifi-Snatcher, never moved you to sever your intimate links with her in spite of countless pleas from all over including Fifi-Snatcher’s father, her uncle, your brother, your colleagues and friends, some of whom received the coldest rebuff for having made a life-saving plea. To the avalanche of pleas calling on her to leave my husband alone, she replied with callous nonchalance: ‘Romeo is not chained to my leg, as you can see, and in any case, is an adult and well above the age of consent.’

  “After all these attempts, the master plot was not yielding effective and quick results to tie in with your marriage plans, so Fifi-Snatcher as you said was saving
up financially and you decided to help her out. A perfect excuse for abandoning your financial responsibilities to your wife and children, wasn’t it?

  “Romeo, how can I forget you squeezing my neck after taking complete control of my body one August night the year following the miscarriage, while I lay in bed, novel in hand, upon your arrival home between 12 midnight and 1am? The voiceless struggle to regain my breath under your deathly grip and just how I escaped death is a miracle to me today. The reason for this torture, if you need reminding, was that you were infuriated over the fact that I dared to call Fifi-Snatcher’s house to pass on an urgent message from your brother in Zintgraffstown. I can still hear your voice even now, threatening ‘who gave you the right to call her house?’ And do you remember it was this very night you told me before leaving for the 8pm News that you were to discontinue your intimate relations with Miss Fifi-Snatcher? I should have known better that this was easier said than done. You certainly have not forgotten the February 14 I sent you a Valentine card, only for you to call Fifi-Snatcher with excited thankfulness. Instead of swallowing your pride when she told you the Valentine was not from her, you rushed home to attack me for making you make a fool of yourself in front of the woman you love.

  “Another memorable thrashing left me with bruises all over with blood on my arms and legs, a swollen face and a red eye, all contained in the medical report I presented in court a few weeks later.

  “Romeo, in order to bring your plot to fruition, you shamelessly battled me in front of my own sisters and our own children, dragging me to their room with a machete and cutting through the door. ‘I go kill-am pay’ is the response you gave to my sister when she tried to dissuade you from the insane brutality that was leading to murder.

  “My dearest Romeo, the above facts selected from the dozen of calamities I faced with you left me with no doubt as to the intensity of the affair with your concubine, and your common determination to pursue it. In the face of the danger it constituted to my life, I decided to humble myself, to step down, by making several free offers to you to divorce me and marry Miss Fifi-Snatcher. Your immediate reaction was the same all the time that you did not intend to marry her and that you love your wife and did not even want to be separated from her – the same story you told the judge in court. I must say this blood dribbling way of showing love is stranger than Count Dracula’s.

  “I asked for divorce not only for myself as a life-saving measure, but also to make the choice easier for you so that you tell the world it was not you but I, Juliet, who asked for the divorce. This, in my opinion would have relieved you from guilt or any kind of reprimand from whoever would have thought it was unfair for you to divorce me.

  “Romeo, you turned down that offer, the free offer of a choice. And yet you continue your affair with Miss Fifi-Snatcher, and you both pursue the plot to eliminate me. You stalked me in Sakersbeach for the 15 days I escaped from home for dear life. You continue to threaten me even while I am in Muzunguland, my absence being another free opportunity for you having selfishly chosen to extend your licentious practices far beyond the traditional bounds of the system of deuxième bureau, Satan’s fiesta of carnal wedding in Pandemonium, très à la mode in our dear land of Mimbo. Observing your audacious fiendish, vain, glorious celebration of adultery in holy and public places, even the most helpless loathsome nymphomaniacs or polygamists concluded that you both completely reverse the rules of the game – that is as foolhardy as trying to play God by meddling with human life. The story of Job in the Bible would have reminded you that even Lucifer was warned against such deadly choices.

  “By staking your long overdue marriage plans on my blood in dealing with witchcraft-voodoo-gri-gri modern-day technicians, opting for an irreversible magical potion, you simply landed yourself in big time trouble. That is why my heart goes out to you and Fifi-Snatcher. What you simply did not know is that the blood in my veins belongs to the man, Jesus Christ. And the good news is that he shed his own blood for us all, God’s children. There is comfort in the thought that a loving God knows best. With love from Juliet, Muzunguland.”

  “Is this letter real?” Lilly Loveless asked when she finished reading.

  “Does it not look real to you?”

  “It is courageous of her to want the whole world to read such intimate details.”

  “Perhaps she wants the world to learn from them, and to embrace Jesus Christ, the only man she can trust.”

  Lilly Loveless couldn’t tell whether or not Bobinga Iroko was being tongue in cheek, or why.

  “It is common for people who have experienced extreme shock, trauma or disappointment to seek solace in religion, so I perfectly understand Juliet. Is that her real name?”

  “No.”

  “So the letter is fake?”

  “That doesn’t follow. She sent it under her real name, with many other real names in the text, but we took an editorial decision to edit the names out.”

  “I now understand,” said Lilly Loveless, and “wise decision too, else The Talking Drum could be sued for libel.”

  Just then they came to Mount Rebecca Hospital, situated on top of a hill that seemed to inhale inspiration from the gigantic Mount Mimbo that towered intercedingly into the skies. It comprised solid three-storey buildings plus a rectangular block where consultation took place.

  There was already a long queue waiting for the doctor. Lilly Loveless bought a consultation card, paid the consultation fee, was asked to get samples of her stool, urine and blood for the laboratory, and to join the queue for those waiting to see the doctor.

  It was eventually Lilly Loveless’ turn to see the doctor, an elderly man who was extra generous with his hands, touching her beyond her comfort zones, but with a very straight professional face. He scrutinised her lab results and declared: “nothing serious… just a stomach bug… perhaps something you ate… you must be careful what you eat… mind that delicate stomach of yours.” His twisted face glowed into one big smile: “A little malaria in your bloodstream… not too serious… Arsumax should take care of it.” He wrote as he spoke. “Any allergies?”

  Lilly Loveless shook her head to say none, as far as she could tell.

  “But you are in a new setting with new foods, so watch what you eat and drink. Avoid those places that dare you with the words: ‘chop shit, a million flies cannot be wrong’.”

  The prescription written, the doctor handed it to her together with his complimentary card. “Don’t hesitate to call me in case of any problems, or if you want a drink or something to eat in a place safe,” he told her, a playboy smile on his face.

  She smiled back plastically, unsettled by his lack of professionalism and said, “Bobinga Iroko must be tired of waiting out there in the car,” stood up and walked out even before they could shake hands, followed by his eyes.

  Once in the car, Lilly Loveless told Bobinga Iroko about the doctor and his unique way of examining a patient.

  “Female patients, to be more precise,” Bobinga Iroko corrected. “He’s new. Barely two weeks in the job. His predecessor left for further studies and greener pastures about a month ago…”

  They were about to drive off when the following exchange between the Dr and the Reverend Sister filtered through to them from the open window to the Reverend Sister’s office, by which Bobinga Iroko’s car was parked.

  “Sister Immaculate,” the doctor called loudly, oblivious of the open window and the possibility of being overheard.

  “Yes, doctor?” replied the Reverend Sister in a deep, commanding voice.

  The eavesdroppers leaned forward, Bobinga Iroko switching off the car radio.

  “Do you know you are very beautiful?” said the doctor.

  “Yes, God made it so. And you, what are you doing here?”

  “God made it so.”

  “What God?”

  “Such beauty I’ve never seen.”

  “I’m using my beauty in the service of the Lord.”

  “I came to work at
Mount Rebecca so I could use my eyes in the service of your beauty. I’m glad I can see you every day.”

  “The Devil works in mysterious ways.”

  “And so does the Lord.”

  “Why couldn’t you come directly without using the job as an excuse?”

  “To avoid suspicion.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “I love you.”

  “I consider you as my father and feel insulted that with all the respect I have for you, you want to tempt me this way. You are wicked to have come here with the intention of derailing a Reverend Sister.”

  “Please, please, don’t say that. I mean well.”

  “You say you want to make me happy. Just imagine that you become the source of my sadness. Would you like that?”

  “I wouldn’t for the world. My mission is not a sad one.”

  “So why do you come here to tell me nonsense?”

  “Are you ever tempted?”

  “In what way is it your business?”

  “Just curious how you handle your emotions…”

  “To Harkin to the call of the flesh is to obscure the call of the spirit.”

  “Man may not live by bread alone, but man cannot live without bread...”

  “Leave my office!”

  Lilly Loveless and Bobinga Iroko heard the door slam angrily.

  “Next time, it shan’t only be my office you leave. I shall see to it you leave Mount Rebecca Hospital.” The Reverend Sister warned in a boiling voice.

  ***

  The exchange between the doctor and the Reverend Sister nurse reminded Bobinga Iroko of a story, the source of which he couldn’t remember. It was the story of a husband who arrives home earlier than normal. His wife panics upon the sound of his keys in the door, rushes the man in her bed into a closet.

  In the closet, the man is startled by the voice of a little boy: “Isn’t it dark in here?”

  “Who are you?” the man asks.

  “Never mind,” says the boy. “I overheard all what you were doing with mom, and I’m going to tell my dad.”