Married But Available

by B. Nyamnjoh

  ‘Ah! Mountain Valley seems to be your starting point. Remember we also started from there? Let me refresh your memory: Venez vous inscrire. We are invited to register. First the lady suggests that you write a false name. You try and just can’t bring yourself to lie. Then you confess to the guy that you can’t lie but at the same time you wouldn’t write your name in a place like that. You show him your national identity card and he understands, with a tip. You haven’t forgotten all that have you? And where have you suddenly got money and freedom from?

  ‘Hope you had a wonderful time! I’ll always wish you the best you know. After all it’s a free world, very, very democratic in nature. Where has all the holiness in you gone to? What of your daughter? With Mrs Lovemore away doing what you both do best, shouldn’t you at least care for Pinklie? You frighten me!

  ‘I thought I could stake my neck and all for you, Wiseman. I really lack words. I would have cursed anybody who predicted such a treatment for me. Who says ‘variety’ does not make the world go round? You say I accuse you? So the drinks you had opened your buttons and dishevelled your hair? Since when did you become a ruffian? And your goggles, where did you keep them to be groping like a bat? I hope you didn’t sacrifice them to the excitement and passion of elongated breasts? No one would have believed that you ever found yourself between my legs. Marionette surely did not guess. Congratulations!!! It was nightmarish to me.

  ‘And now that you have been so sweet to Marionette through soft words, attention, care and all the like, you suddenly found it necessary to carry my poor child and come to lay a complaint.

  ‘I weep because Winston in all his madness will do all to keep me pleased. A similar thing had happened but I was given all the attention that I did not even deserve. I cannot even face my sisters and neighbours, not after all the Wiseman, Wissy, Wise – that has become my household word. Last night I needed you more than ever and I expressed this openly, just to get rejected. Do I call it embarrassing?

  ‘You have made love to me in and out, mouth and cunt, wet and dry. I have had to serve you, your daughter and even your house help. Silly me! You have always been protective over your interest, be it in any light. Do I talk about the pregnancy and its aftermath?

  ‘Wiseman, I really fear my heart. I have not had a wink of sleep. How can I? There are many questions I cannot answer. As you gradually throw off your veil or mask, I find it difficult to reconcile who I chose to date and who I am keeping – though the two have the same physical appearance. I try to put on this semblance of cheerfulness, but deep down it’s all pain and doubts. I will still accuse you of being mendacious, perfidious, crooked, and knavish towards your child and me.

  ‘For you and Marionette, I accept that the defeat of last night had been ignominious, but God knows your daughter Pinklie is too young for me to sit her down to explain the reason for her neglect. But somebody would have to read on her behalf. I have made photocopies.

  ‘My beloved Wissy, not after these problems with Winston, my reckless fiancé! You were my only consolation. Now you scoop filth from the gutters and smear me with it. I am so grateful for your attention and concern, especially as displayed yesterday. You seemed to damn all consequences.

  ‘After all you can come now and explain to my sisters. I’ll always forget and come back. You can hurt me in front of a new friend but not vice versa. Now you come here to see who? Maybe sisters suddenly regained their sight from the blindness that shielded your activities of last night right in front of them? Wiseman, I loved you and will remain forever grateful for the short time we had. Thank God for little mercies. It would have ended with a tragedy. Who knows? I’ll try my luck elsewhere. Puttkamerstown has nothing for me. Stay blessed and learn to take care of those who care about you and those who look up to you for their little existence. Bye. From she who got little back from Love.

  ‘NB: I’ll forward the copies to those who I think should know.’

  Unlike previous letters which broke her heart, this particular letter pleased Mrs Lovemore, not only because she knew the colleague involved to be a serious woman, but because the letter at least meant that Dr Wiseman Lovemore was moving on, at long last.

  Mrs Lovemore remembered well the trip she had taken when this incident happened. It was a conference outside the country.

  “There I met a technician,” she told Lilly Loveless.

  “Another technician? Unfinished business eh?” Lilly Loveless cast her mind back to the guy who used to fix Mrs Lovemore’s TV when the latter was at the university. The one who disappeared without trace.

  Mrs Lovemore smiled. She was pleased with Lilly Loveless. There was nothing like knowing that a listener was interested in your story.

  “He was tall and slender and walked with grace, like a palm tree moving with the wind.”

  Lilly Loveless thought of Bobinga Iroko, whom the description would fit.

  “He didn’t try to draw attention to himself. But that drew my attention. When the meeting room was abuzz with talk, I would follow his discreet movements as he went about to adjust the microphones and whatever else. His elegance was irresistible somehow.”

  Lilly Loveless again pictured Bobinga Iroko.

  “One evening we found ourselves walking at length on the beach, talking, talking, talking. At one point when it got chilly, I realized his arm was around my shoulder. At some point I think we even held hands. We walked back and he left me at my hotel and went his way. In the morning, I watched him windsurf. When he brought his board back in, before my presentation, he mentioned how I was wearing nothing under my kaba. How did he know?”

  “Telepathy!” Lilly Loveless shouted with conviction.

  “Really?”

  “You didn’t ask him?”

  “No, not exactly. Anyway, one evening after dinner, he dropped me off. When I got to my room, I realized I didn’t have my glasses. So I went back downstairs to the reception to see if perhaps they had fallen from my bag when I set it on the counter to search for my key. And who did I see walking through the door of the hotel? Him! We stood gawking, doing double takes of each other. I explained the problem about the glasses and we went to his car to search. That’s where he explained that he had left the hotel after dropping me but had to come back.”

  “You see? Telepathy!”

  “He wanted to come up to my room. I was hesitant. We agreed, for talking. And the rule was that I would not take off my clothes. And I didn’t, except for my shoes. He touched the only skin he could get to – my feet – and we drank wine. Of course one thing led to another. One proposes but the body disposes. He was all over me. Making love to me through my clothes and pleading, ‘Talk to me, ta-a-alk to me.’ He tried to take my shirt off, my trousers off, I refused. He could only get the belt off. Until we were exhausted and it was time to sleep. Then I put on a kaba. It was in the morning that his touches, slow and delicate, worked their way up my leg and woke me. He started to move in gently… only to be interrupted by a knock on the door – room service delivering breakfast.

  “Thereafter, when he was working on the equipment and connections, he would often say sternly, if I were to tease him, ‘I need my blood to go to my head right now.’ You could see him yearning, for composure.”

  “Fortunately it was just a conference,” said Lilly Loveless.

  “No, unfortunately it was just a conference,” Mrs Lovemore corrected.

  She was rich in experience, Mrs Lovemore, as she explored outside her sterile marriage.

  In her next story, she recounted yet another conference experience. It was an irony that she went to so many conferences when her husband hardly attended any.

  “It’s not easy for me to get up in the morning,” Mrs Lovemore continued her story. “At the same time I’m not one to want to miss breakfast.”

  “Me too,” said Lilly Loveless, “if I can help it.”

  “So I rolled out of bed a few minutes before the dining hall was due to close. By the time I made it downstairs, the d
oors to the hall were closed and I had to sneak in a side door to join those few who were finishing their breakfast. I saw one large round table near the divider that separated the tables from the buffet. One glass of orange juice stood there. I put my purse down to claim the seat directly opposite the juice. At least I’d have company for breakfast. Would it be an elderly person with lots of stories to tell? No, elderly people would generally get up earlier, I thought. Would it be a tourist? Or a musician who had played into the night and was just getting up? Or…?”

  “You have a fascinating way of telling stories,” Lilly Loveless complimented.

  “Thank you. And I must say it takes a good listener to bring a good story out.”

  “I listen because the stories are good. The stories are not good because I listen.”

  Mrs Lovemore smiled and continued.

  “I went to the buffet and served myself some dark bread and berry jelly as well as a glass of orange juice. I came back to the table, moved my purse one chair over, set my juice down directly opposite the other glass and looked up to see… an Indian man, about my age, smiling widely. I can’t remember what we discussed, but we did strike up a conversation about this and that. Probably I explained I was in town for a conference, and he explained that he was an ICT consultant working for an Indian firm, travelling around the country a lot, and living at that particular hotel when in the city. He was like my introduction to this new country where I had just arrived for the first time the night before. Seeing South Africa through Indian eyes was a whole new nuanced window to the same reality brought home until then by accounts in black and white. Strangely, we agreed to meet in the last afternoon, after my conference. He suggested he could show me some of the popular tourist sites in Durban and its environs at that time of year.

  “I explained that I needed to check my email before the meeting, so he came to my room and tried to configure my computer to access Internet, to no avail. I sent him scrambling so I could dress for the conference and run.

  “After a day of conferencing and a quick walk, we had a tasty meal, I think. We took the bus back to the city and walked slowly through different neighbourhoods, back to the hotel. I was hearing about South African mindsets and habits, rugby, cricket, football and other popular sports. He talked much about wines and entrepreneurship amongst whites, blacks and Indians. Politics was prominent, and so too was complaining about too much crime and too little action by the government. Too many unwanted strangers in town, he said. As we continued our route, he picked up some wine. And, as you may be guessing by now, if you didn’t guess it when you heard about the orange juice on the table, he invited me to his room – to watch TV and for some red wine. By that time, I’d expected something like this and did not resist the invitation. But I didn’t suspect he would suggest we watch pornographic films on pay TV. But we did. The grunting and groaning and moaning and faking were like background music as we continued to talk. Images and words combined first. Then there was movement. He was slow to move in. But he did finally. It’s like he wanted to make sure there was enough red wine in me first? Eventually, we moved from our half lying positions on the floor in front of the TV to the bed.

  “He liked to be fondled, and didn’t seem interested in penetration. So we fondled each other all over everywhere. He was sweating and seemed ecstatic. I enjoyed it. He was gentle and attentive. Later I left him to sleep and went to my room to sleep.

  “I was surprised that he insisted on meeting me at a cybercafé the next day where I went for Internet after my conference. He walked me back to the hotel, before we had to catch a bus to the airport, me to return home, and he to travel to a company in a nearby city, Cape Town, I think.

  “We had maybe only two hours, but he wanted more and made it clear. I was a bit exasperated, but cooperated. I took off my red jacket. He folded it carefully and put it over the back of the couch. We took to the bed and started fondling again, passionately. The excitement grew. He didn’t seem to be concerned that his manhood was fleshy and neither did I. We touched each other all over, and over again, going in and out of ever more places, bringing parts out for loving scrutiny. At one point I found myself on my back, his fingers between my legs. He was looking into my eyes, and bringing me pleasure, hungry pleasure. I was breathing deeply, and squeezing his fingers, as I urged for more. I could feel my eyeballs roll inward and my lids close. I was drawing him into me, with gentle forcefulness… He was a master craftsman… He did everything right… He brought the woman out of me, so many times, easily.

  “When finally I relaxed and opened my eyes, he was smiling at least three times as big as when I discovered him as my breakfast companion the morning before. We could say he was glowing. I lifted myself onto my elbow and moved to the side. He took my place on the bed. And I started to fondle him all over, between his legs and everywhere. I massaged him. And he urged me on, without words. I couldn’t stop. I kept on and on. I felt him going to a far away place, like an inflated balloon … as a grin came over his closed eyes. And I couldn’t resist sharing in his grin as he relaxed totally. I did the same for a moment by his side. Until he jumped from bed to give me my jacket and explained that we had to get quickly to the bus. Our quickie had taken longer than anticipated.”

  Lilly Loveless giggled.

  “As we stood there together, each with one hand on the red jacket, we looked at the bed, to discover a big red circle of blood on the sheets – two or three times larger than both of my buttocks put together. We were awed. Neither of us had noticed that I had started my period. His red wine and ins and outs had certainly helped bring the colour out.”

  “The bus, don’t forget to catch the bus,” Lilly Loveless reminded her as if the action was still unfolding before her very eyes.

  “Before dressing he quickly took the sheets off the bed and put them into the hamper. He said he wondered what the maid would think when she saw the sheets.”

  “And the bus, were you in time for the bus?”

  Mrs Lovemore nodded. “On the bus I slept on his shoulder. At the airport we each got our separate boarding passes then went outside because he wanted to smoke a cigarette. When I asked him what he liked most about our being together, he said when I put my head on his shoulder to sleep on the way to the airport. His parting gift to me was a book on Kama Sutra, on the title page of which he had inscribed: ‘unlock the secrets of passion and desire’.”

  Lilly Loveless could see this particular encounter, brief though it was, had meant a lot to Mrs Lovemore, whose eyes and entire body exuded sweet memories of what happened in Durban, South Africa during those two days.

  Just then, Mrs Lovemore’s cell phone rang, she took a quick look at the details of the caller, smiled, and said, “Sorry, I can’t ignore this one, and I can’t answer it in your presence either.”

  Lilly Loveless got the message, excused herself, and went out to the garden, “to stretch my legs,” she said. A strange thought crossed her mind. Could it be Bobinga Iroko calling? That would be more than a stab in the back, she dismissed the thought.

  17

  From the garden where Lilly loveless paced up and down, half admiring the flowers, half thinking of the richness of the interview, she could see Mrs Lovemore moving excitedly as she spoke into her cute little cell phone. Even from that distance, Lilly Loveless could tell her cotton print fabric outfit was impeccably tailored – not one extra millimetre on either side of her hips. Everything fitted so well. Lilly Loveless could see the touches of gold on the outfit flicker as Mrs Lovemore moved around to the tune of the excitement generated by the phone call. The gold in the fabric combined with the call and her inner joie de vivre made her face glow in a subtle yet remarkable way. There was something about Mrs Lovemore’s gold hoops earrings that took negative attention away from the robust roundness of her face. Mrs Lovemore knew how to bring out the best in her, and Lilly Loveless was convinced she had what it took to bring out the best in others as well. Here she was – Lilly Loveless for ex
ample – who felt at her best as a researcher, getting Mrs Lovemore to confide so readily and openly. But why wasn’t she able to make Mr Wiseman Lovemore shine just aswell? Was it the death of their son that had cast an irremovable shadow on the place he must have inhabited in her heart?

  The phone call took nearly an hour, but it left Mrs Lovemore feeling freshly massaged – she shimmered with oiliness of someone in love. Lilly Loveless did not even try to ask with her eyes; she instinctively knew that this was a call the details of which Mrs Lovemore was not in a hurry to share. She dared to think though, could it be Dr Simba Spineless the Reg who called, the man whom it was rumoured had fathered her daughter and who, because he knew he knew, was making life so difficult for Dr Wiseman Lovemore, social father to his biological daughter? Whoever it was, Lilly Loveless was not going to risk things by pushing things.

  Instead, she returned to Mrs Lovemore’s pre-prepared basket which was not yet empty. She was ready to sacrifice every other appointment to listen on. They took a short break, fetched more drinks, chatted a bit about the capricious weather, and on how much Puttkamerstown reminded them of Muzunguland weather-wise at this time of year.

  Then Mrs Lovemore resumed her story.

  “I don’t plan to get intimate with perfect strangers at meetings. It just happens. In a neighbouring country, after my meetings, I went to the market to buy wrappers for a friend who has a boutique here in Puttkamerstown. I bought a few here and there, but didn’t really get into buying in bulk until arriving at a round building near the centre of the market. There was an open space in the middle of the covered structure, with stalls all around it. Each stall was triangular and small. Merchandise was packed in and sometimes buried deep. It was up to the seller to discern what each passer-by was seeking and propose accordingly. I happened upon one young man who seemed to be in the mood to sell. I bought one, two, three wrappers. He was willing to negotiate. And this I appreciated. So we continued. As time went on, he further demonstrated his knack for selling. He was good at knowing what I was after, and how to talk me into more. We were both smiling and enjoying the process. He was making money. I was spending someone else’s. As he unburied more and more choices, the space between us became smaller and smaller. The air was heavy and you had to breathe deeply to get some. As he turned to and fro, his elbow would rub up against me. He would bend to search for something special and I would have to back up to make room. I thought I would lose my balance and tumble with an avalanche of wrappers. It was becoming overwhelming. I was getting light headed. I had to release myself. He bagged my purchases, slowly. In handing me the bulging blue Ghana-Must-Go bag reluctantly, he invited me to stop by the next day… for tea.”