Married But Available

by B. Nyamnjoh

  ‘It is difficult to advise a leader who is always right,’ argued BP, ‘hence the need to create circumstances where other leaders can be fostered. This starts with inclusion, fairness and opportunity for all and sundry.’ BP ended his commentary with the words: ‘We often get the leaders we deserve by giving myopic individuals the power to silence the creativity and difference that should normally edify and strengthen an institution, a community or a country. The University of Mimbo and the people of Mimboland deserve a better fate than the disgrace lumped on them by the predicament of a mediocrity called leadership.’

  The state is trying to lure students back to class with cosmetic concessions. Promises have been made to the effect that the government will pay the hospital bills for students injured during the strike, grant absolute and unconditional immunity to all students for acts committed during the strike, and completely evacuate the campus of the riot police, gendarmes and soldiers in exchange for a promise by students to comport themselves henceforth with a high degree of responsibility void of violence and vandalism. There is much going and coming between the leadership of the students and the team of negotiators appointed by the government. But much of it, as far as Bobinga Iroko is concerned, is like dreaming with your eyes wide open. He is a Doubting Thomas when it comes to the state of this land of Mimbo making concessions. He expects no miracles by a Longstay and a regime whose naked determination to hang onto power without legitimacy has entrenched comprehensive mass poverty through acts of inflationary corruption, wanton embezzlement, impunity and callous disregard for democracy and the humanity of folks forgotten.

  It has been rumoured that the VC and Registrar just might be replaced for overly valorising mysticism and the dark side of the human spirit, but few amongst students and staff believe such rumours. Like Bobinga Iroko and his Talking Drum, they’ve become hardened Doubting Thomas’s as far as President Longstay and his regime are concerned. They promise mountains in strings of political platitudes and deliver barren valleys, and they use words as if words were the world’s most devalued currency. Noise, noise and ever more noise signifying absolutely nothing, has become their stock in trade. The VC and the Reg are the first to dismiss such rumours, and they are right, for, what do you expect of those appointed to service someone with a name like Longstay? They have been called all sorts of names, blamed for all the bad and the ugly, and virtually fed to dogs by public opinion, but who says public opinion matters? Who cares for such nonsense as letting the people speak? Worse still, listening to them? And acting upon what they say?

  With the active support of their diviners and magicians, political godfathers and the various fraternities to which they doubly belong, the VC and Reg are sure to have the last laugh. Again, they’ve been out and about flexing their muscles both mysteriously and in reality, even as rumours intensify about their impending demise. The other day, in broad daylight, watched by the striking students, the general public and the republican rottweilers alike, the VC and Reg visibly taught their enemies a seminal lesson in the occult. Two vultures from nowhere landed on a mango tree at Mammy Nyangaa’s makeshift restaurant, and started fighting. It was a very bloody fight that lasted an hour, at the end of which one of the vultures fell down and the other fell on it and pecked away at its throat, splashing blood until the beaten vulture passed out. Flapping its wings triumphantly, the victorious vulture flew off.

  Those in the crowd endowed with ability to see beyond appearances and the immediate, said it was a sign that the strike will come to nothing, just as will the enemies of the VC and the Reg. They associated the fallen vulture with the leaders of the strike and enemies of the VC and Reg, whom they identified with the victorious vulture. To them, it was out of the question for the VC and Reg to condescend to negotiate with students who preferred destruction and infliction of pain and death to dialogue. “No parent would take kindly to a child who asks for something and proceeds to breaking down the house while the request is still being examined,” they reasoned. For their part, the students screamed in protest. “You can kill our leaders, but you can’t kill our spirits,” they shouted in unison. “Leaders may come and go, but our dreams of academic freedom are paramount…”

  Later that evening, the president of the Student Union, Samson Freeboy Bigmop, and yet another member of staff closely linked with the strike – Chief Dr Mantrouble Anyway, were found dead in mysterious circumstances, their bodies dismembered, their genitalia and brains harvested. The students bore their grief in dignity, fortitude and active anger. They gathered at the University Junction to pay their last respects and renew their resolve. Adapepe came forward and tearfully addressed the crowd of students: “He was like an umbrella that we hid beneath,” she said of the Student Union president. “Now that he is gone, we are forced to step forward and take responsibility. His departure is a massive blow to the student family, but our best tribute to him must remain our collective resolve and bouncebackability. We must show maturity and assume the vacuum created by his sad and tragic departure. May his death enable the sunlight of unity to finally break through the cloud of difference that has paralysed the student community and made us easy prey for vultures in power. May we, henceforth, like one big hand, hold those who stand in the way of change by the balls and say: ‘Show us you’ve really got them!”

  Sources close to the VC and Reg reported how the two celebrated with a bottle of expensive champagne. Surely, they knew why they were celebrating, in spite of the strike and despite rumours that they were about to lose their positions at the helm of the university. That life is larger than logic, and reality richer than meets the senses could hardly have be better substantiated than in the war of the vultures.

  Constance, firmness and ruthlessness are the names of their game. One must never yield to blackmail of any kind, and exemplary lessons must be administered to whoever attempts to force the hand of the state and its subsidiaries in matters where discipline and order are expected of all and sundry. And for power to sleep calmly at night or to be able to go on mission now and again without fear of losing its reigns, the flower of hatred, backstabbing and animosity must be carefully cultivated and allowed to blossom with impunity. It is the triumph of such a philosophy that explains why the air in the University of Mimbo is full of blood dripping fiends and devils each seeking to outdo the other in the interest of things as they are or things to come. The state to them is game to be hunted and eaten, and hunters shall seek to outhunt hunters until nothing is left to hunt. They clamour for positions and sterile influence, and poach with impunity for sex with the female students they ambush with marks, cash and the lure and allure of powering action and power in waiting. In this way, the University of Mimbo is a place for everything but teaching, learning and researching. Little wonder that the few who attempt genuine scholarship are scorned and made to feel guilty and impertinent.

  Those who insist on these are axed or have fallen in battle like cockroaches sprayed with insecticide. Intellectual mediocrity continues as the forces of darkness claim centre stage, refusing to acknowledge the light they cannot see. They sing, dance and jubilate, warning all those who dare to tinker with things: ‘Fowl wey ye no dey hear shiiii go hear mbam’. With such destructive fury of arrogance wedded to ignorance, how can they be made to see the need to vanquish injustice with the lantern of fearlessness and the torrential down-pour of outspokenness? Do they feel the weight of the excruciating pain of intellectual corruption? Whatever happened to the rhetoric of the university as the shrine of meritocracy, intellectual freedom and social responsibility? How can they be made to see that the soil on which the University of Mimbo stands belongs to the sons and daughters of the nation of Mimbo, wherever their umbilical cords are buried? How can they be made to translate into lived reality the national credo of unity in diversity? How can they convince others that the land of Mimbo is Africa in miniature when within that land nothing embeds the other in miniature?

  The fact that the university is sick, almost i
n a coma, and on a life support machine hardly worries a soul in power, as it has never been the idea that students and staff, research, learning and teaching should stand in the way of the task of university administration. It is less a place that is than a place to be.

  How could things be any different at the University of Mimbo when Mimboland as a country is hostage to the same ambitions of dominance and impunity? Just how could things be different when things are the same everywhere else? If power without responsibility is the game of the day, why should one expect the university to play a game of its own? The arrogant insensitivity of Longstay and his powerful elite must be attacked and defeated for the suffering students and people to be freed of their predicaments. The Talking Drum challenges the critical intelligentsia to stand up and be counted in the interest of the people. Those of them who continue to opt for shortcuts to power, privilege and comfort to the detriment of ordinary Mimbolanders shall have themselves to blame the day the people say enough is enough.

  ***

  Banging on the door woke Bobinga Iroko up. It was only then that he realized he had fallen asleep on the couch in his parlour. He rubbed his eyes to clear them of unfinished sleep, and went to open the door.

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed when he saw Lilly Loveless. “What are you doing here this early in the morning? He stepped aside for her to come in. He offered her a seat and continued: “Don’t you have any respect for those who work hard and sleep late back where you come from?”

  “Sorry for waking you up,” Lilly Loveless apologised. “But I leave tomorrow, and last night I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I know you leave tomorrow, but why on earth couldn’t you sleep? Did someone steal your bed or something?”

  “You are always joking, Bobinga Iroko, but can’t you be serious for once in your life?”

  “I’m most serious when joking, and most joking when serious, believe it or not.”

  “Do you realize that I have talked to everyone, interviewed all and sundry, close and distant, with the exception of my closest male friend of all, you?”

  “What about that?”

  “I have come to interview you,” said Lilly Loveless. “For nearly six months that I have been here, not once have you suggested taking me to see where you live, not a word have you uttered about your family, not a single suggestion whether or not you are married. I have deliberately steered away from asking, hoping that you’d tell me on your own accord, open the doors of your heart to me as a friend, but I have waited in vain. Tomorrow I leave, and it appears I may well have left without any initiative from you in this connection, which is why I decided to take the bull by the horns this morning.”

  “Wow” said Bobinga Iroko, sitting down. “Forceful lady you are. So what are you going to do with your bull?”

  “I want to open it up and get to know it better. The bull can’t be as aloof and as dangerous as we make it appear when we dangle a red cloth in front of it, can it?”

  “That’s for you to say,” replied Bobinga Iroko. “You are the researcher.”

  “That’s why I have come to ask you questions about yourself, similar to the questions I have asked others,” said Lilly Loveless, enthusiastically.

  “Is that the only form of research you know? Asking questions in face to face interviews?”

  “What other forms are there, in finding out who Bobinga Iroko is, whether or not you are married, how many times you’ve played the Mboma and with what results, etc…? Have you never heard the saying that only a man knows what lives in the heart of his heart?”

  Bobinga Iroko laughed and said: “If that’s the only way you have for finding out, then there should at least be one Mimbolander whose private life is not going to accompany you tomorrow to Muzunguland.” There was a note of finality in his voice.

  “What?” Lilly Loveless couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you serious?”

  “Do I appear as if I am joking?”

  “It’s unheard of,” Lilly Loveless protested.

  “It is not unheard of with Bobinga Iroko,” he reposted.

  “What’s the difference anyway, as far as you are concerned?”

  Lilly Loveless stood to leave, disappointed.

  “Drinks and food on me today, at Mountain Valley,” said Bobinga Iroko, “6pm sharp. Bring your appetite with you. Come along with Britney, Desire and whoever else you feel like inviting. And tomorrow, I’ll feel insulted if you go to the airport by taxi. I’m taking the day off for you, Lilly Loveless.”

  Lilly Loveless turned and walked out, tears in her eyes. She stopped briefly in the yard, almost beckoned for the guard, but changed her mind: she wouldn’t descend that low to ask a guard for information that Bobinga Iroko himself should provide. She walked away in a mixture of anger, frustration and burning desire.

  30

  Bobinga Iroko and Britney were on time to take Lilly Loveless to the airport in Bobinga Iroko’s car. But Lilly Loveless just could not bring herself to leave without saying goodbye to Prince Anointed of the Archives. At the farewell drinks and food offered by Bobinga Iroko at Mountain Valley, everyone close was present except the Prince. It had completely escaped Bobinga Iroko’s mind to invite him as well. She pleaded with Bobinga Iroko to rush her to the Archives, which he did. It was the only way he could make it up to Lilly Loveless who was disappointed that he had not thought of inviting Prince Anointed.

  It was an emotional farewell meeting, between Prince Anointed and Lilly Loveless. The Prince, showing off his new front teeth in a broad smile, asked her to remember what she had promised to do to save the Archives. His warmth reached out to her, and with it an envelope.

  “I dug this up from some files,” he smiled. “I was going through old copies of The Talking Drum and came by the story in there.”

  “What is the story?” Lilly Loveless asked, curious to open the envelope.

  “Not here, don’t open it here,” Prince Anointed stopped her. “It is considered impolite for a gift to be unwrapped in front of the person who has offered it.”

  “OK then,” Lilly Loveless yielded. “I’ll open it at the airport, when I have checked in and am seated in the plane.”

  She embraced him warmly and left, promising to keep in touch and to keep active on raising funds to save the Archives.

  Once outside the Archives, Lilly Loveless jumped into Bobinga Iroko’s waiting car, where he and Britney were growing impatient, as it was getting late and they didn’t want her missing her flight. Bobinga Iroko drove like a highway robber being pursued by the police. If they failed to cross the Bonaprim Bridge before the rush hours, it was likely to take them more than two hours simply to go through the heart of the city, and Lilly Loveless would certainly miss her flight.

  Fortunately, they made it, but only just. They arrived at the Sawang International Airport. Bobinga Iroko and Britney dropped her off at Departures, kissed her goodbye, and drove off to Ndolo beach, which they agreed to do when Lilly Loveless was in the Archives wishing Prince Anointed goodbye, and only after Britney told Bobinga Iroko: “You owe me a day at the beach.” It was the start of a long weekend, and they both felt like discovering Ndolo beach, a place they’d heard so much of. Britney had just been paid by Lilly Loveless, and Bobinga Iroko had just taken his salary for the month, so they had no money problems to about.

  Britney felt empty. Parting with Lilly Loveless was not easy. They had known each other and worked together for six months. They had become more than close. Her sense of emptiness had to do with the vulnerability she felt towards Lilly Loveless. Britney had fed her story upon story. And now Lilly Loveless was taking them away. She had laboured for months to gather and retell them. Lilly Loveless had loaded them into her digital recorder, notebook, and laptop and was going to fly away with them. She felt emptied, like a mother having her baby snatched away. She appreciated the sustenance working for Lilly Loveless had provided, but she wondered how the stories would be used. Of course they could not be valued in purely monetary
terms. Images of Judas Iscariot and his thirty pieces of silver flashed through her mind, piercing her with guilt. Would those whose stories she had shared with Lilly Loveless have condoned her action had their opinion been sought beforehand? Had she told Lilly Loveless more than she needed to know? Would Lilly Loveless ever truly acknowledge her efforts? This degree she would get in Muzunguland, what would it bring her? What doors would it open, or close? Would Lilly Loveless respect the privacy and confidentiality of those who had so generously assisted her with her research? How would Lilly Loveless use the material she had gathered? Would she reach the right conclusions or would she merely reproduce practiced stereotypes of Africans? Would she be confident and careful enough to send back for comments what she would write? Would they ever meet again? When, where, how? What if Lilly Loveless never bothered to write back? Britney felt shaky as she wondered about what she had done with Lilly Loveless.

  As for Lilly Loveless, she was barely in time to check in, and rush through passport control. She disregarded the beep of the metal detector through which she had just stepped and reached for her laptop, coming out of the X-ray machine in a basket. Before she could get to it a short, well built woman in uniform asked in a deep voice, “May I body search you?” She extended her arms to show the position the search should assume.

  The buxom woman patted one arm and then the other, from wrist to armpit. Lilly Loveless followed her movements with her eyes. Then the woman, pressing her breasts into Lilly Loveless, reached around to pat down her spine, from her neck to her waist. Lilly Loveless moved nothing except her face muscles that forced her eyes open and her eyebrows up in surprise. She felt a hardening sensation on the tips of her breasts. She wondered if the intimacy she felt was imagined on her part or intended by the other woman. And she tried to imagine how close the short-armed women would have to get to search a woman more robust than herself.