FROM THE CREVICES OF CORPS HEARTS: AN EXCERPT
RUBBERS AND ROBBERS ON THE FIELDS
“Europe is cold and lonely baby, Nigeria is hot and bustling. You can’t compare the two. I bought this for you” said Tarfa, as he stretched out a bottle of Parisian perfume which Kike later found out smelled of Queen of the Night flower, her favourite flower. Kike spent three months of her ASUU strike holiday in Tarfa’s house, cooking for his parents and taking care of his mullatto baby girl, who she came to love and wished was hers, especially the way she coiled up beside her at night and the way she screamed at night, a scream that only Kike heard and responded to. Tarfa took a tour of Enugu, visited choice places with his yellow sisi: white woman. He taught her his native dialect, something he never did for Kike. They would come into the house, exhausted from their romantic tour and speaking French. The baby is the only thing that made her spend more days in that house. She loved babies, reason why she had chosen to specialize as a paediatrics doctor when the time came for her to specialize.
Tarfa’s parents had fallen in love with French woman.
All through this period, Abimbola her coursemate had been there for her; a willing and well-muscled shoulder to cry on. When she kissed him and responded “I love you too,” whenever he said “I love you,” she didn’t know. She was vulnerable and had not planned their love projectile. She just urged him on with her oral and bodily responses. She allowed all the lonely years she waited for Tarfa to return from Europe, to be drowned in the passionate touches of Abimbola, her Yoruba brother and reading partner, now lover and boyfriend. She would spray her Queen of the Night scented perfume and waited for Abimbola in her off-campus room. She soaked herself in her bath therapy; a liquid fruit bath, robbed her honey body lotion, wore her cut-offs or short dress, all sprayed, and waited for her honey. She would feel so horny that she could hardly read. Abimbola would return from the library, sweaty, smelly, starved and saturated in the brain. He would ignore the food, the warm bath water set for him in the bathroom, the bed: all made and straightened without a rumple, and descend on her, right on the floor. He rumpled and ruffled her up. He would kiss her all over. The smacking and crinkling kissing sounds of pyooot mmuah....pyooot mmuah.....pyooot mmuah, diffused the tiny self-contained room. He released his kisses like a rush of clean water from Ogbunike cave, the very cave in which he asked her out after he admitted that he smacked her buttocks while they crawled out of the darkness of the cave. They smacked their lips to the cheering of fellow students. It had been during their medical students’ excursion. Abimbola became her hero. He had squeezed out all memories of Tarfa. And gradually, what she thought was a rebound relationship, stretched into years of sweet love and passion.
All through this period, Abimbola her coursemate had been there for her; a willing and well-muscled shoulder to cry on. When she kissed him and responded “I love you too,” whenever he said “I love you,” she didn’t know. She was vulnerable and had not planned their love projectile. She just urged him on with her oral and bodily responses. She allowed all the lonely years she waited for Tarfa to return from Europe, to be drowned in the passionate touches of Abimbola, her Yoruba brother and reading partner, now lover and boyfriend. She would spray her Queen of the Night scented perfume and waited for Abimbola in her off-campus room. She soaked herself in her bath therapy; a liquid fruit bath, robbed her honey body lotion, wore her cut-offs or short dress, all sprayed, and waited for her honey. She would feel so horny that she could hardly read. Abimbola would return from the library, sweaty, smelly, starved and saturated in the brain. He would ignore the food, the warm bath water set for him in the bathroom, the bed: all made and straightened without a rumple, and descend on her, right on the floor. He rumpled and ruffled her up. He would kiss her all over. The smacking and crinkling kissing sounds of pyooot mmuah....pyooot mmuah.....pyooot mmuah, diffused the tiny self-contained room. He released his kisses like a rush of clean water from Ogbunike cave, the very cave in which he asked her out after he admitted that he smacked her buttocks while they crawled out of the darkness of the cave. They smacked their lips to the cheering of fellow students. It had been during their medical students’ excursion. Abimbola became her hero. He had squeezed out all memories of Tarfa. And gradually, what she thought was a rebound relationship, stretched into years of sweet love and passion.
Final year, Abimbola graduated with a distinction and headed to Medical school, while Kikelomo had an extra year and remained behind in UNEC. She cried, more out of ho the new distance between her and Abimbola might affect their relationship, than because she had an extra year. She thought of Tarfa, her Benue sweetheart and how their love got frozen by two winters in Paris. Abimbola scolded her for poor results and encouraged her to work harder, as he would no longer be there to distract her. She worked hard, but found her lovey-dovey legs at the gates of the interns’ quarters, where Abimbola resided with other medical students. She managed all: school and weekend visits, until Abimbola got his call up letter and traveled to Zamfara state for National Youth Service while she got an intern placement in a Millitary Hospital in Bonny camp, Lagos.
For months, Kike never heard from Abimbola. He never picked her calls nor responded to her frantically composed text messages. He never left an address; else she would have beaten the distance to it as usual. He however sent her a text on a very cold Thanksgiving morning, after months of silence. Her set of interns gathered at the back of the church, arranging themselves, while distributing their thanksgiving items: rolls of tissue paper, crates of eggs, tubers of yam, leg-tied crowing chickens, dozens of Eva water, and other food items, when a text message came into her phone, bearing her Abimbola’s name. She had left the phone on silent mode. She quietly checked her phone screen and saw the text bearer identity. She would not fiddle with her phone, in order not to violate the solemn atmosphere of the Roman Catholic mass. She happily carried one leg-tied thanksgiving cock and a well-rounded, robust and heavy tuber of yam. She lost her phobia for feathery creatures, she ignored the crowing noise of the creature in her hand, she lost all shyness and self-consciousness and danced to the altar in Yoruba style, her attire of gele, iro and buba, shinning along the aisle to the altar. She whispered to her knowing friends;
“Abimbola
sent a text, God bless this day!”
“What
did he say?” asked a friend.
“After
mass I will tell you girls. I don’t want to spoil my preparation for Holy Communion
with noise making in church”, said Kike.
They
whispered on as though singing to the lyrics of ‘koso babire kosi kosi,’ while dancing uninhibitedly to the altar.
Time for communion, they all filed out and folded their hands in solemnity and
marched like soldiers to the altar. This is the day that the lord has made, and
it was marvelous in their sight!
After mass, Kike gathered all her friends and read the text message aloud;
After mass, Kike gathered all her friends and read the text message aloud;
“I
have found Jesus. I have joined a missionary group of medical students, saving
lives in the north. I am the only boy in the midst of thirteen God-fearing
ladies. We all have one goal; to save lives, while saving souls. What I had
with you was ungodly. I feel like I took advantage of you. You must move on.
You are a good woman, generous, passionate and with a good heart. You will find
your own better half to love you more than I ever did and even much more...”
she couldn’t finish the text. She threw her Nokia 3310 phone at a flower
vase beneath the statue of The Blessed Virgin Mary, in the prayer garden, the object shattered into tiny pieces as pairs of piously praying eyes stared
back at her questioningly. She got up, eyed them all and got back to her room. Kike
cursed the same day she blessed in church during thanksgiving. No man would
ever get the best of her ever again; she swore.
Now in camp, she tried to find out why men leave their home girl friends for the girls in camp. She found out much more.
Kike stepped out of her hall and into the cold dim lit fields. She moved to a car parked in the mini parking space
behind the parade grounds. She sat on the bonnet, and stared at the vast bush land of
the Zamfara camp. She stared on and on, lost in thoughts. She thought of Tarfa at
one time and Abimbola at another. Kike evaluated their actions and wondered which
of them was better and which was worse. Soon she heard the noise; first it came
like a gentle moan, from somewhere within, behind or even far away. She ignored
it and caught up with her earlier thoughts of Tarfa and Abimbola. And then the
moan returned. It made her dance to its rhythm, her waist vibrated unwillingly
to a very familiar dance, only that she was not a responding party in this one,
and the moaning sound was not from her, nor from Tarfa and Abimbola, the men of
her vanishing thoughts and worst still, she felt no thrusts, no poundings.
How dare she dance again and so soon to that familiar dance, now from
an invisible duo? Then she saw the vibrating bonnets, the jerking car and jumped
down from the car. She peered closer into the dark interiors of the car. There she found the answer, a
man and a very young girl, in the car, lost in the pleasure of their heated
passions.
Kike traced his hands with her eyes and found them pulling hard at her hair, a lovely shimmering gold ring on his ring finger; he was a married copa. The girl’s two ringless hands held unto his bare buttocks, urging him on. The two climaxed and collapsed. They stared up at the window and found two teary pairs of eyes staring back at their four. Kike hit the car windows and unsuccessfully tried to open the car. She yelled;
Kike traced his hands with her eyes and found them pulling hard at her hair, a lovely shimmering gold ring on his ring finger; he was a married copa. The girl’s two ringless hands held unto his bare buttocks, urging him on. The two climaxed and collapsed. They stared up at the window and found two teary pairs of eyes staring back at their four. Kike hit the car windows and unsuccessfully tried to open the car. She yelled;
“Tarfa!
You are in there, open this door you cheat. Abimbola! Son of a bitch! Let me in
you liar, this is the Jesus you found in camp right?” The duo gently opened the
door and eased out. Kike descended on the girl. She yanked off her white uniform. The boy came to her rescue, but Kike held him by the waist, leaving nail
scratches on the hairy area just before his manhood.
“Tarfa,
why? Is it because she is a French woman? You will teach me French today” she said,
holding him tight.
“Hey,
I’m not your Tarfa...”
“Abimbola
you must be, shameless man, this is your missionary work abi? This orobo; fat,
girl, is the soul you are saving abi?
Answer me!” shouted Kikelomo. Her hair had come loose from the band she tied
them in, due to vigorous and violent head shakes.
“I
am Rufai, and that is Rachael, my camp girl friend. I am neither your Tarfa nor
your Abimbola”
She stared at the tall lanky fellow for a long while and the blurry and inter-changing faces of Abimbola and Tarfa disappeared to reveal very dark and tribal marked face, whose facial features she could hardly make out, due to the dimness of the night, and the charcoal complexion of his skin. He was nothing like light-skinned Tarfa nor the chocolate-brown complexioned Abimbola. She had a ghostly look on her face and allowed herself to be propelled by Rufai and angry Rachael, to her hostel. She was sick and she knew it. She is a product of some unresolved conflicts.
She was the tenth person on the queue for platoon ten, during the early morning corps assembly and drills. All night, she heard the mocking voices of both Tarfa and Abimbola, laughing at her and telling her sorry all at once. A pool of water formed a mirage of sorts in her mind and later, on getting closer, she saw that it was truly a mirage, and it bore the diminishing faces of Tarfa and Abimbola. Both men faded and finally disappeared with the mirage. The platoon ten co-rodinator, read out the topic for their morning orientation, titled; CD for Condoms and Community Development. He tutored them on the relevance of Community Development, which is more like corps members’ type of corporate social responsibility. He equally advised corps members to zip up and stick to abstinence or carry their condoms wherever they go to. He ended by saying,
“AIDS
no dey show for face oo. HIV is real ooo.”
He went on repeating his statement in a
sing-song manner. The corps members grumbled on and on. They prompted him to stop
being repetitive and end his dry lecture. The camp supervisor announced for all
to keep quiet, as she rounded off thus;
"Gentle men corps members, it has been brought to my notice that some of you dispose their rubbers on the fields, while some turn themselves to night robbers, stealing other people’s uniforms and kits, spread outside at night. I do not want robbers and rubbers on my parade grounds. And I don’t even want to see lost-but-found wedding and engagement rings on my grounds...”
“We are not thieves!” shouted a corps member from behind
“Whoever made that sound should come forward and address the assembly,” commanded the camp supervisor. Before the military men could hassle and fish out the fellow, he ran straight to the stage, fearlessly asking for the microphone.
“Madam, we are graduates, not robbers. We and even some of the camp officials here are guilty of the rubbers, but not the robberies. A friend of mine lost her shorts days ago, all to discover that the same short was resold to her in the Mami market, with her initials on the inside flap of the pockets. We lose our items and find them hanging for sale on stalls in Mami market. We lose shorts, tops, slippers, socks, buckets, torch lights and much more. Please help us talk to the real robbers to stay clear and off our property!”
While the whole debate on rubbers and robbers on the fields dragged on and on, with corps members coming out one after the other to support the speaker, Kike disagreed with her fellow corps members. She thought to herself, that all; both corpers, camp officials and mami market traders are all robbers. We all rob with rubbers, rubbing people of their relationships at home. The government robs us of one year of getting permanent jobs with this unnecessary compulsion. The camp officials indirectly rob us of our dignity as graduates. Even the companies that form our places of primary assignment rob us of all our mental energy and man power, paying us so little, some paid nothing at all. And after one year, they dump us, while the system recruits another set to fill the vacuum that our mandatory dismissal had created in the companies. We toil, sweat and hardly get retained or at least contracted. All the companies are cutting cost; better to keep applying for corpers from every batch of national service than to conduct graduate trainee programs and recruit permanent members of staff. We are all robbers in this system, robbing within our utmost social and corporate capacity to rob. The dawn is now bright. Kike looked on the parade grounds and sighted two or three used rubbers; condoms.
"Hmmm,
the ways we serve this nation of ours really vary," she thought aloud. And just then, she felt
liberated.
