New Cameroon Views Blog: THE GIRL ON THE TRAIL (Sample Chapters)

This book is dedicated to the females of my maternal lineage―from my great-grandmother Nyam-Ngang to my grandmother Susan Njiki Njouteu, my mother Theresa Njomo Tchouteu, my sisters and my nieces.

Acknowledgment

My deepest, warmest, and everlasting thanks to my entire family. Special attributes to my mother’s―Theresa Njomo and Elizabeth Masidiso; and to my extended nephews and nieces to whom I am Uncle Janvier.

“You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”

― Dr. Seuss

Chapter One

I first thought of becoming a nun on a warm summer afternoon, the day my Auntie Teresa turned thirty-eight. That was June the fourteenth. I was twelve years old, and I was visiting a hospital for the first time I could remember.

My aunt was on duty that night, so my mother thought it would be a brilliant idea to play the role of a thoughtful older sibling by surprising her with a birthday cake, flowers, a card and a song for her birthday ears. Her husband welcomed the idea and I went for it the moment she mentioned me as a member of the crew. In fact, she chose me over my younger sister and brother who were made to stay behind with the house help.

I wonder why they called the place my aunt worked in a hospital. A clinic should have been a better word to describe the facility because it was so small and didn’t look like any of the quintessential hospitals in the movies. I mean the types with wide and long corridors like a labyrinth; the type of well-furnished hospital rooms where nurses, doctors and other hospital staff scamper around all the time like bees in a hive.

The whole experience was exciting until we arrived at the main corridor that branched off here and there into smaller ones that led to the various wards. The sight of sickly patients and the occasional agonizing moans uttered by some of them left me so flustered that my joyful strides turned into timid and frightened steps. In fact, I was so terrified that my bladder loosened a bit, to the point where I even peed a little. My father must have sensed my discomfort because he held my right shoulder, brought me closer to his side and led me away with hurried steps into my aunt’s office.

Teresa Montio is my auntie’s name. She was the senior nurse in this Catholic hospital and shared office space with the doctors, something she considered a major accomplishment. She welcomed us into the office in a flurry, but then pointed out moments after that she could not stay with us for long because of the frantic nature of things at the hospital that day. All the same, she lavished our crew with words of platitude for thinking about her on her special day and for making her birthday worthwhile. That was why I had a smile on my face as she cut the cake and shared a song with us. She bid us a hasty goodbye shortly after that in a manner that I thought was comic. In fact, I was about to say something about it when she grabbed a tray of sliced pieces of cake, and then hurried down the corridor. My father must have sensed the puzzled state of my mind because he told me with a shrug and a proud smile that my aunt was needed for a medical emergency. That was why I smiled even broader, mirroring my skyrocketed esteem of my mother’s younger sister.

I never asked my mother what her sister did with that cake or whom she shared the pieces with because on our way back to the car, I spotted a young African woman who could have been a teenager battered by life to look older than her true age. She was walking like an old woman—supporting most of her weight on another woman I took for her mother. But it wasn’t just her labored strides that caught my attention. Urine was running down her legs as if she could not hold it. I pointed it out to my father who instead of saying something helpful, looked at my mother as if she had the answer to my question.

“She is sick, Tania!” my mother told me with a forlorn expression on her face.

“Is Auntie Teresa going to make her well again?” I asked her.

“Yes, Tania! The purpose of this hospital is to help people like her get well again,” she replied in a tone that suggested she did not want me to ask any further questions.

But I persisted. “What is the name of her illness?”

“I don’t know Tania,” she snapped in an undertone.

I did not probe any more. But the image of the young woman with urine running down her legs stayed in my subconscious mind until the next evening, when I overheard Auntie Teresa providing an answer to my puzzle while drinking tea with my parents on the balcony. The patient was from Nigeria, having arrived the previous week under the sponsorship of a charity organization for women with fistula. I did not know the meaning of fistula at the time, but I never forgot her story.

Agatha, as the sick young woman was called, was forced into an early marriage by her parents at the tender age of thirteen. She became pregnant a couple of months after she moved in with her new husband, naively looked forward to becoming a mother, but then suffered from a prolonged labor that lasted almost twenty hours. When her husband took her to the hospital, it was almost too late. The caesarean section surgery she underwent failed to save her child. However, the procedure prevented her from losing her life, even though she ended up with a fistula. And as if to add insult to injury, her husband sent her back to her parents after she failed to recover. Now, he did not want anything to do with her anymore until her parents found a solution to her problem. The good news at the end of the story is that she had a successful surgery at the hospital, to the point where she no longer wets herself without meaning to.

I felt so proud of my Auntie Teresa, the nun, for what they did to that modest soul treated so badly by society. In fact, I viewed my aunt’s mission in life thereafter in such an honorable light that I wanted to be like her—dedicating my life to God and living my purpose for humanity. I had an unshakable conviction that her vocation was a satisfying one because the alternative life of being a married person lost its appeal to me after I saw the suffering Agatha. I don’t know why. But it convinced me that good women like Agatha never find good men because all the good men like my father got caged by women like my mother. The reasons I harbored such a thought at that tender age when teenage girls start weaving dreams of a glamorous future where a knight in a shinning armor would save them from a life of boredom, are to be found in this story.

Chapter Two

I am the firstborn of my parents, a simple-hearted pair who like most ambitious fathers and mothers of their generation dreamed of molding their children into overachievers in life. I am the first child of Helen Manga-Walters and Marcus Kale, the man she married and domesticated. Their desire to see me succeed was oppressive in a curious way, a sentiment not shared by my younger brother and my younger sister who were rarely on their radar. Now, don’t think I am trying to fault my younger siblings because I am not. They are the sweetest creatures I have known most of my life.

After observing quite a few families and making some inquiries of my own, I arrived at the conclusion that first-born children are less apt to see the contradictions in their parents’ dreams until they arrive at a crossroad in their lives.

In fact, I was ten years old when I first understood what it meant to be the first born of parents who got married with the fanciful idea that they were in love, only to realize shortly afterwards that their views of what tomorrow should look like were dissimilar in so many ways.

If psychologists were given the opportunity to study my family, I am sure they would have concluded that my mother and father served as the quintessential case of diverging values that exists between the different age groups in Generation X. My mother was more in the 1970s, a decade that experienced the feminist movement when it was at its peak, while her husband hedged towards the 1960s, a decade that horrified preceding generations with its socio-political activism. Comparatively speaking, the children of the 1960s ended up looking saintly. And nowhere did I find the conflict in the values held by the two age groups so glaring as in our family.

My mother was half a decade younger than my father and seemed to live her life solely for the pleasure of it. My father, on the contrary, believed that man's ultimate purpose in life should be to live for something meaningful. I think he found that meaning of life in his family.

Irrespective of their fundamental differences, my parents had one thing in common—they were dreamers. In fact, I am descended from a line of romantics. My mother bought me a dissecting kit on my fifth birthday, fancying that I would become the surgeon she never became. On my sixth birthday, her husband took it a notch up by gifting me a mathematical calculator, and then declaring to everybody at the party that my quickness with numbers would make me the guru of my times in economics. His insightful older brother contradicted him right after that with a present of his own—a collection of fairy tales and stories by the famous Hans Christian Andersen of Denmark. As if Uncle Paul’s present of books was not enough, he went a step further by adding that my unusual way with people would make me a future stabilizing factor in life either as an artist or as a healer of humanity’s body, soul and spirit.

Since those three adults rested high hopes on me, my first decade under the sun was a very demanding one because I thought I could the dreams of those who loved me. And strange as it may sound, I lived those years dreading to fail them. Whatever I did had to be part of their dreams because I was convinced nobody expected me to have dreams of my own or thought I could weave plans for my future. In fact, living their expectations sometimes made me feel like a vibrant soul trapped in a suffocating body. Yes; I felt like I was being forced to live my early years on the turbulent path charted by other people whose dreams were in a way linked to the generations before them.

I said generations before them because our family is haunted by history. The subject of its past is as bright and colorful as the rainbow—illuminating and depressing in turns, but radiant enough to cast vivid shadows on successive generations. That past haunted me too, even though I did not weave it. To understand that past, we need to visit the highly controversial feminine side of my maternal lineage and its disreputable side that I dreaded.

As the first child with the spotlight on her, I knew my family and society expected me to be honorable and be happy at the same time. It is difficult treading such a fine line because honor, morality, love, joy, happiness, trust, instincts, impulses and the vitality of life are some of the forces that my family has been battling with for over a century, or as far as the living members can remember.

The controversial aspect of our pedigree began with my maternal great-great-grandfather. He was a handsome man of pious, considerate and chaste nature who lost his virginity at the age of forty to my seventeen-year-old dyslectic great-great-grandmother, considered by many at the time to be the ugliest teenager in her village. She managed to capture the heart and the mind of her husband whom she had unsettled feelings for, thanks to the art of seduction she learned from her lovely maternal aunt, who herself was a pretty woman in the village. She started teaching my maternal great-great-grandmother the art of cooking when she was only eleven, so that by the time she turned fifteen, she was already an expert in satisfying the taste buds of men with a craving for food.

Her aunt, at the time, was considered the best cook in their village, a reputation she lived up to during the six decades that she cooked for private and public occasions. In fact, her dishes were often among the first to be eaten up during those occasions. It was even known that children, who by nature have no manners when it comes to expressing their desire for something good, frequented her home more than the homes of other mothers in the village. Some of them even made it a point of striking close friendships with her children and of devising peculiar ways of visiting her home mostly during meal times. She found their tricks amusing and went about her business of pampering their appetite as if she were the fairy godmother in real life. Some of the children even took to calling her Mama, and were at ease opening up their hearts to her than to their biological parents. For that and other reasons, her home became the most frequented in the picturesque village of slightly more than a thousand souls.

Before my great-great-grandmother first told her aunt know about the man she met at the market, she had no idea how she would react. So, she was surprised when her aunt happily asked her to invite him over for lunch at her place. That first lunch was followed by another, and then by others until my great-great-grandfather became hooked to my great-great-grandmother’s family to the point where he offered to marry her as if his future would be bleak without her.

Winning a man by exploiting the weakness of his stomach wasn’t the only art my great-great-grandmother learned from her aunt. In fact, she kept his ego inflated by constantly reassuring him of his virility to the point where her husband became convinced that he was more than the average man in the street. He had every reason to feel that way because she delivered more children than the average woman in the village during their four-decade marriage. As a matter of fact, he even expressed his satisfaction as a family man by calling my great-great-grandmother “Mother of a dozen”.

It is not as if my great-great-grandmother gave birth to twelve children during her life time. No, that was not the case. Her husband simply appreciated the fact that his wife did not discriminate against the other three children of relatives that they raised in their household, all of whom she treated as if they were her own children. In fact, she exaggerated her sense of impartially to the point of being more lenient to the other children than to her offspring, an abnormality that one of her daughters pointed out to her one day in a distress tone. That daughter mirrored her in so many ways.

Even though my great-great-grandmother adored her gentle husband, she could not stop herself from taking lovers into her arms on two occasions. Those incidents occurred just before she reached her menopause. That notwithstanding, it was the twin daughters she bore in the prime of her life that began this peculiar saga of “The Sisters”, a tale that produced three successive generations of pair of sisters with diametrically opposed moral values as if they were cut from different cloths or as if they were baked in different ovens.

Sarah, as my great-great-grandmother’s first twin daughter was called, was born from a difficult delivery. As if to make up for the pain she and her twin sister caused her parents, Sarah grew up to become an exceptionally gentle soul to her mother, to the point where her twin took to calling her “Mama’s Puzzle Head”. This dazzling soul effortlessly captured the hearts of children and adults around her , and even became the envy of her playmates whose ill-feelings were often short-lived. Even as a teenager, at that age when girls exhibit signs of adolescent rebellion either because of peer pressure, fear of the unknown, the lack of self-identity or the underperformance of a parent; Sarah retained her sweet soul and developed a quick-wittedness that saw her become her father’s pride, her mother’s favorite child and the teenage role model girl in the village.

Now, since Sarah stood out among her peers, she was expected to marry a worthy gentleman, the type young women dream of but hardly expect to have in real life. In fact, most of her relatives expected her suitor to come from afar because they were convinced that none of the local men were worthy of her hand in marriage. But then, she surprised everyone, including distant aspiring suitors, by accepting to become the wife of a village notable’s son.

Marriage did not stop Sarah from being a humble, subtle, considerate and gentle soul to her husband who turned out to be a self-conceited buffoon. That was why she grieved deeply when he fell off a tree from a drunken stunt and died shortly after. That was hardly a year into their marriage.

Sarah was still mourning her deceased husband when members of his family started pressurizing, enticing and even threatening her to marry his cousin or face the consequences. Now, what did this amazing soul do? Well, my great-grandaunt defied the traditionalists, left her native village without telling anyone of her intentions, joined the Catholic missionaries and hide behind her vows.

Sarah loved her only sister dearly. The only sister I am talking about happened to be my maternal great-grandmother who was strikingly different from her sister in so many ways. They said she was a firebrand, who at sixteen took her quest for mental freedom and rejection of parental despotism a step further by eloping with my great-grandfather to the South. She too, like her mother, bore two daughters.

The younger of the two daughters was my grandaunt Susan. She was a taciturn, virtuous and loving woman who looked up to her virtuous aunt as her role model in life. That in a way explains why she too dedicated her life to serve The Lord under the banner of Catholicism. It was whispered around that she was barren. In fact, some people even went as far as saying that she was just like her mother’s sister in that aspect of her womanhood.

Unlike her only sister of slightly fewer years, my vigorous and intelligent maternal grandmother dishonored her virginity when she was barely eleven years old. She found the experience so enthralling that she never learned to say no after, even though she claimed she always gasped the word a fraction of a second too late in a manner that was beyond the comprehension of her own ears. To the relief of her family and relatives, she married at thirty, at that age when parents are beginning to despair of their daughters’ single status and when women are becoming desperate to the point of underselling their worth. Well, it is not as if her marriage was based on her inherent worth because she claimed her father’s extensive wealth lured my grandfather to marry her and stake his future with her family.

It is true my charismatic grandfather was a poor new immigrant at the coastal town when they met for the first time at the fish market. Even though she was still living with her parents, she invited him over for lunch the next day without blinking an eye. Her mother made sure other invitations followed that visit, which explains how the conniving women of my lineage won my grandfather over. He always refuted the story that food and wealth baited him into marrying his wife, to the point where he even compromised his claim to sobriety one night by pounding the wall just to make his point. That fit of rage made him lose the function of his right hand for weeks, but it had the desired effect because people started taking his position seriously. However, just hours before my charismatic grandfather gave up the ghost, he declared to the piteously looking faces around his dying bed that he married my grandmother because of her strange allure.

I wonder why my maternal grandmother failed to cherish the fact that her husband made an honorable woman out of her. He saved her family the shame of having an aging single daughter who enjoyed the arms of the local loafers, and who never stopped equating men’s strength with their prowess in bed. In fact, marriage did little to reduce her interest in other men. True, her family never expected her to become a model wife, but people could not understand why she failed to sanctify her conjugal home while being married to a handsome, charming and vigorous man who could practically have any woman he wanted. In fact, she was like a man magnet and seemed to have a penchant for attracting the undesirable elements in society until she was well into her sixties. All the same, their numbers kept declining with her marriage and with the successive births of the eight beautiful children she mothered.

The fact that my grandmother failed to be a faithful wife didn’t mean that all was fine with my grandfather. He was a dedicated father who benevolently accepted all the children born in their conjugal home. Still, there were moments when he would peer at his children, squint or dim his eyes, and then walk away sighing and mumbling his doubts as to whether all the children his wife delivered were the products of his loins. The good thing is that he mumbled those doubts only after having a fair share of alcohol, and usually in an undertone that reflected his deep concern not to be overheard by the children who looked up to him for guidance, children who felt more attached to him than to their mother.

Even if his wife overheard him during those down moments in his life, she never confronted him about it. In fact, my grandmother even admitted that my grandfather had a deep heart and a noble soul. I agree with her because his role as a unifier in the family he created is still deeply felt today. Stories abound even in our generation of how my grandfather also asserted repeatedly before he died that all the children born to his wife were his, comparing their resemblances to his late parents and siblings.

My whirlwind of a grandfather was survived by two daughters and four sons who were as different as the seasons of the year.

My maternal grandmother venerated her husband after his death, living with the regret of having been indifferent to the virtues and wisdom of such an outstanding man. In fact, she frequently echoed his famous quote that “...life is simple and funny, yet people are the ones complicating it...” She accepted the validity of those words even further by telling my mother that “...life is a funny drama that could be comic or tragic because no matter how a person interprets it, the intriguing nature of the challenges it throws at us always reveal a puzzling purpose…”

As an elderly person, my maternal grandmother took to advising young women to hold strongly onto their men as if there are no other men in the world.

My mother was the older of the two daughters of my maternal grandparents. She was fifteen years old when her father died. And since she was very fond of him, she probably never fuller recovered from the loss. Just like her mother, she too became a family concern very early in life. Yes, my mother was a very hot lassie. Her mother thought she was a very impressionable person with a wild imagination that hinged on fantasy most of the time. But the one thing my maternal grandmother was particularly worried about was the fact that her infamous daughter enjoyed being the pacesetter among her peers. Her inclination to be a leader explains her unusual zest for life. She was very intelligent too, even though her degenerating moral values cloaked her academic excellence.

As is often the case with variously-gifted individuals who develop light heads for the world, my mother’s school performance dropped continuously until she eventually found herself among the ranks of average students in her class and school. All the same, she glided through her studies at the Queen of the Rosary Secondary School with a reputation for being smart.

They said she was particularly fond of biology, and that she read most of the advanced books on the subject in the school library and started talking about human reproduction when most of her classmates had no clue of what it was all about. Her curiosity made her lose her virginity at the tender age of fourteen, an experience she found so pleasurable that she became addicted to sex.

Teresa is the name of her younger sister who was born a month into my mother’s second birthday. Auntie Teresa’s stunning beauty and sweet nature were some of her special attributes that distinguished her from her teenage peers. She paid dearly for her outstanding qualities because her only sister never hesitated to remind her of her younger status. In fact, she made it a point of imposing her will on her all the time, especially in having the first choice of whatever thing, person or idea they shared a keen interest in.

To say that Auntie Teresa was the weak and obliging sister would be untrue. She simply loved her older sister very much and did her best to avoid any conflict with her. Also, to say that there never were moments when the younger sister fought back against the older sister’s whims would equally be false. As a matter of fact, she stood up for herself a couple of times, especially during those moments when an unexpected rage erupted from her bosom and propelled her into a spasmodic fit of fury that never failed to frighten her sister.

It would be fair to say that Auntie Teresa accepted the differences in their outlooks on life just before she turned fourteen. That was after my mother pushed her into a fight one warm afternoon. Her older sister came out of the altercation badly bruised and tearful; while her younger sister was remorseful right after it was all over, pleading for forgiveness as if it was all her fault.

That notwithstanding, Auntie Teresa is the type who rarely fails to leave behind a positive memory wherever she goes. This beautiful and endearing soul stunned her family and friends the day she revealed her intention to become a nun, a decision that made news around and prompted prospective young men to wonder where they all went wrong in their desire to win her heart. For how could a young woman who was almost any young man’s dream woman and who had such a wonderful rapport with children ply a path that did not consider marriage as an option?

My aunt’s decision to become a nun did not dishearten the eligible bachelors only. In fact, even the many mothers who had already started campaigning for her hand in marriage to their sons were not happy about it. Still, her move to become a “Woman of God” did not make her older sister to reconsider her values in life. Instead, my mother degenerated.

I was eleven years old when my mother’s exploits as a woman with a free will reached my ears in a conversation I overheard between the wives of my two maternal uncles who were convinced that my mother became less overt in her sexuality during her last years of studies in Europe. It was in Liverpool, the capital of Beatlemania, that she was subjected to frequent jibes and other adjectives from university students who objected to her concept of freedom. They sneered at her for her loose morals and for her twisted notion of commitment, among other things. The fact that some of the adjectives had racist undertones in them plunged her into moments of dejection and remorse that made her appreciate the concern and love of a caring man. Yes, it was thanks to the introduction of my father into my mother’s life that she graduated from the university, and then returned home as a perceptibly choosy nurse.

About two years after that grapevine of my mother’s university exploits, I overheard another conversation between my paternal aunt and her cousin who were not from agreeing that my mother cornered my father into marriage through a pregnancy that ended in a miscarriage.

I was born on January 01, in Victoria. It is not a good time of the year to be born because it is the day that most people pledge to beat the odds in their lives for something better.

It is hard to imagine that we can start implementing major changes in our lives on this day of bliss, when virtually everything and everybody around us impede our ability to strategize. I say so because it is difficult to attain great results that are life changing without strategizing. It is equally impossible to make life-changing plans when our worlds are overcrowded, when our sobriety is compromised, when our digestive tracks are being overworked and when our leg muscles are taut from dancing and other activities.

My reason for making dancing a part of the distraction is because practically all societies that celebrate the modern day New Year include it in their list of festive activities. Something else that must not be overlooked is the expression of intense feeling of deep affection that abounds on the first day of January. This elusive notion of love that has haunted mankind from the day man started walking this earth, proliferates on this day more than on any other day of the year—be it phallic love, natural love, or whatever love you can think of.

My birth into this world was untimely because my mother, who was known for her extraordinary fondness for January 01, spent the entire day in excruciating pains pushing out my head into the world, when she should have been eating, carousing and experiencing the pleasures of being a woman in the sense that she best understood. To make matters even worse, my father happened to be some two hundred miles away from home that day, on a mission to resolve a discord between his darling younger sister and her husband who a week before kicked her and their two children out of her marital home. Had my father sensed in any way that January 01 would be my due date, he certainly would have chosen another time to be out of town. I say so because my mother never hesitated to hold it against him whenever the opportunity arose, even though she had told him that I would be born late that month.

Whatever the case, my father returned the next day and was instantly drawn to the breath-taking baby daughter that became a new member of his household. So, even though my mother bitched and bashed him afterwards for failing to be around to support her in the birth of their first child, the attempts at emotional blackmail never really affected him and failed to alter his genuine feelings for her and for me. I think he found in me the first person in his life to love without being insecure about it.

Now, the only person I have fond memories of who happened to be around on the day of my birth was my uncle Paul. He is an amazing soul two years my father’s senior. He was just back from Russia as a civil engineer, laden with a burden in his soul that he was having a hard time coming to terms with, an emotional affliction that he often tried to dissipate through acts that could be considered debaucherous. He was haunted by the memory of a lover he jilted and returned home without marrying. This young woman was of mild temperament, but she got flipped over so badly that she committed suicide, an emotional weapon that pushed Uncle Paul to live a jaded life of women and alcohol. It was only last year that I learned about that dark chapter of his life. Even so, I still consider myself one of the lucky few in the family to penetrate the guarded aspect of his soul.

Now, Uncle Paul turned up at the hospital that night swaggering with a bottle of brandy in one hand, a woman’s hand in the other and his alcohol pal by his side. He promptly told her to go home after he learned of my birth, and then in a rare and memorable manifestation of joy, he and his friend sang and danced in celebration of my entry into the world, bringing much noise and a festive mood to the hospital premises that day. Stories abound of how he emptied his wallet to the nurses and some of the visitors that were around my mother’s ward, and how he even offered celebratory money to the few patients and hospital staff who ventured to our corner. Buoyed by his exaltation and the unusual feeling of self-respect, Uncle Paul took his felicitous spirit a step further by christening me, Tatiana. It was a strange, yet beautiful first name that rang lovingly into the ears of most of those hearing it for the first time, especially after he told them that an outstanding Russian princess had that same name. But not until decades later did I find out the truth about it. Tatyana was the name of the young woman who made the worst decision a jilted woman could make because Uncle Paul failed to marry her.

My birthdays never failed to remind me of the price I was paying for having been born on New Year’s Day. Yes; I became conscious of my anniversary very early in life for all the wrong reasons, above which were my mother’s remarks and reproaches over my untimely entry in to the world as if I had a say in it. Her comments were many:

“Tatiana; I was unceremoniously rushed into the delivery room at the Victoria hospital six years ago, sweating it out to push your little head into the world while Jarvis Talla’s home was bustling with the echoes of that famous party. You can’t even imagine what it was like and what it meant to me at the time. I felt hurt, Tania. I felt hurt when nincompoops and nonentities told me afterwards that it was an exceptional party, and that it was of a class never experienced in Bota before. I missed it because of you; I of all people,” My mother once said to me in a reproachful manner that sent shivers down my spine.

On another occasion, it was. “Jarvis Talla is getting floppy and can’t dance the way he used to. You know; it is exactly ten years today that he organized that New Year’s party at his home. His graceful and energetic dancing virtually put most of the women there under his spell to the point where two married women defied their husbands’ presence and slipped into his bed. It was real fun that night, or so I was told. Back in the day, the stud could move his legs and body in a way that captured the hearts of women. Hmm! He was an amazing dancer! You could have mistaken him for a light-skinned James Brown, or Fred Astaire or even Elvis Presley in another form. There is even something in Michael Jackson’s dancing style that reminds me of Jarvis Talla. Ah, Tania! He could waltz; he could make you melt when he danced salsa; he could take you to the sky in a tango dance, and he could do a lot more on the floor that you can’t even imagine. Believe me, Tania! Even trepak wasn’t something beyond Jarvis Talla’s grasp.”

Why she brought Jarvis Talla’s name up on such occasions, I could not tell at the time. He was a person I looked up to with fondness—the sort of feeling I instinctively reserved for people like my biological uncles and male cousins. I appreciated his many good qualities too, one of which was his benevolent disposition. After all, didn’t I see and hear him offer my mother a meal at the famous Italian restaurant that her one of her friends once called “The place where angels dine with mortals”?

I remember that bright sunny evening when my mother took me to the supermarket, and then told me to wait for her in the car while she picked up a few breakfast items inside. But sitting there and doing nothing for ten minutes while so much was going on around me was too much for my impatient nerves. So, I left the car, walked to the entrance and went about admiring some comic magazines displayed on a stand by the corner. I must have been hanging around the place for a couple of minutes when I heard my mother’s distinctive voice as she talked heartily with a man who was trailing her. She actually looked and sounded like she was in a hurry.

“I must hasten to the car now. Tania must be wondering why it took me so long. I told her I would be back in less than ten minutes,” she had told the man in a concerned voice that had a twinge of excitement in it.

“Okay, then! Goodbye!” he had replied, turned around and was about to walk away when he stopped suddenly.

That was the moment I recognized him as Uncle Jarvis Talla. I was about to run up to him when he turned around again and looked at my mother with that pondering, yet mysterious look of his that could mean different things to different people, a melting look that easily dissipates a person’s apprehension.

“Permit me to say something that came to my mind as an afterthought. I have seen you laugh, smile and even cry. As a matter of fact, I enjoyed the way you once gulped down half a liter of juice like a thirsty elephant. Now, you may find this strange, but I don’t recall seeing you eat, not especially since you became a mother,” he had told my mother in that gentle voice of his that I liked so much.

“What do you mean?” my mother had stuttered, leaving me wondering whether she really understood what he was talking about.

“Isn’t eating included in your hectic schedule? I know of this French-Italian restaurant down the road at Walnut. I was particularly struck by the classy joint's view. They have a table overlooking the lake, an ideal setting for two, I must say. Or should I add that it is a perfect spot for me to commit to memory forever the image of you eating with a sweet expression on your face? I would love to make it a special memory, the type to retrieve and laugh over in times of …well you know! What about us grabbing a bite there at six o’clock on Saturday?” Jarvis Talla had offered and licked his lips.

“Make it seven o’clock. I will be there,” I remember my mother telling him with quivering lips, with eyes that were wide in their sockets, and in a breathless manner that I thought was strange.

“Perfect, Helen! That is especially perfect for me,” he had drawled, flicked his fingers, and then flashed one of his disarming smiles. “So! See you Saturday evening at Mezzari. Seven o’clock at the dot,” he had added.

It was as he turned around and started walking away that he spotted me. I must have been thinking of something to say when he gleefully called my name, caught me midway, and then lifted me up, my feet dangling in the air.

I was nine years old at the time and I remember loving it. He went on to buy me ice cream, and then watched us walk away with a smile on his face. Strangely enough, my mother did not chide me for leaving the car and wandering around without her permission. Her mind seemed to have been preoccupied with something else.

It is not as if my mother’s failure to scold me that day spelt the end of her disheartening words concerning my untimely entry into the world.

On another occasion, it was: “Oh my God! This is unbelievable! You don’t appreciate the sacrifices I have been making for you since the day you were born. Hmm! You used to kick and claw in my womb as if you were training to become an athlete. I thought we developed a special bond during those nine months. So, why do you treat your father better than me? Answer me, for heaven’s sake! Why do you ignore me all the time and seek the trusting counsel of others, especially your father? I feel dejected whenever you do that. And stop feigning surprise when we both know that you don’t like me. Tania, think of the special bond we had when you were little. I had you in her womb for nine months, for God’s sake. I experienced excruciating pains to bring you into this world, while your dad was out there enjoying himself, certainly with Hilda the slut who allows men to play with her thighs and tits?”

That whining was on the night of my eleventh birthday. Remarks like the above made convinced me my mother’s insecurity bordered on self-delusion. But who am I to judge when I never penetrated her soul to find the nucleus of goodness that certainly rested there. Yes, she was a complex soul back then; or better put, she was a self-centered person. I say so because she rarely bothered about the well-being of her immediate family members, but who would not hesitate to squeeze us dry whenever she needed our services or favors.

Looking at things now, I am convinced her actions were not out of malice. I think she was the victim of her desires or impulses; I think the randomness of her biological makeup had something to do with it. Now, I hope I am not sounding like the devil’s advocate here.

I still can’t tell whether my mother ever cherished the idea of bearing and raising children or not. All I know is that the kitchen was the one place she did her best to avoid. I was sad when I first realized that and shed tears a couple of times about it. It is hard for a young girl not to feel like something is missing in her home after she listens to her friends and classmates talk proudly about their mothers’ exploits in the kitchen and their devotion to their children.

The matriarchs of those homes accomplished their motherly responsibilities by ensuring that their children ate healthily, that they were warmly and nicely clothed, and that they got educated on the wisdom of life. On the contrary, I remember the limited and often repetitive menu that the cook came up with, the hole in my stockings and a lot more that made me feel like my mother was not good enough. Yes, I had nothing to say whenever my friends talked proudly about those aspects of their homes that were lacking in ours. That is why I had a lot to tell my friends and classmates about my father after he got more involved in our daily welfare and after he started directing things at our home.

Still, my father’s intervention or extraordinary involvement in the domestic affairs of our household did not completely dispel my feelings about the shortcomings of our home. It was during that time that I started daydreaming of having another brother. My brother and sister another sibling too. But that was not to be because my mother was against the idea of having another child. I am sure my loving father wanted more children too, considering the fact that a family of four children was the norm among most middle and high income homes. I say so because I don’t think he was comfortable having just a single son to secure his name.

My maternal cousin once told my paternal cousin that my mother had the materialistic habits of Maria Antoinette and the carefree qualities of a Ukrainian spinster. Where she got the Ukrainian spinster line, I don’t know and never bothered to find out. But if she meant that my mother’s happiest moments were the times she spent out of her domestic web, I totally agree with her. I used the word domestic web because my mother once told me that if she were asked to live a life lower than that of humans, she would choose to become a bird in the sky, the type that can never be caged.

My father, on the contrary, was a good-natured, taciturn, pious, caring and illustrious person not only to his family, but also to the satisfaction of those who made themselves a part of his world. By the word world, I mean his relatives, friends, acquaintances and those he encountered every now and then in life. The fact that he made it a point of creating the time and space to be with his children despite his tight work schedule says a lot about his dedication to his family.

However, my mother chose those moments he bonded with us to slip out of the house for her friends and neighbors or for church activities, appointments and other engagement with female meeting groups of the locality. Those activities sometimes involved out-of-station visits, which she hardly ever declined to be a part of as a representative. My father did not mind her incessant excuses to be away and never complained about her sorties to anyone.

Chapter Three

I was eleven-and–half years old when our family moved from the old house in the Cassava-Farm neighborhood to our newly constructed dwelling in the plush neighborhood of Bota, an expansive settlement bordering the Government Residential Area, commonly known by the initials GRA.

Moving into a bigger house was the logical thing to do because our old home became an inconvenience in keeping up with our rising standards. My sister, brother, three cousins, maternal uncle, parents and I could not live comfortably in a four-bedroom house and expect to develop our potentials to the fullest.

I remember the day my father pointed out that people need enough space to retreat into and formulate thoughts that can make them better thinkers, stronger characters and worthwhile contributors in life. He was convinced that only by developing the great capacity to be humane would people arrive at the level of psychosocial maturity that would enable them to appreciate love, to come to terms with what the world expects of them, and to understand the rewards that abound in this world for those who contribute to humanity’s progress.

Now, the move into our new residence turned out to be more than a transfer into another house. Since my father wanted it to become the place where we would nurture the values and personalities that would steer us through society for the rest of our lives, he decided to celebrate the transfer. A housewarming party bringing together family, relatives, friends and our new neighbors marked our third weekend there. The word neighbors here connotes not only our direct neighbors, but also our neighbors’ neighbors in the neighborhood and even from afar.

The party was like any other elsewhere in the world involving plentiful alcohol and food. A good host, a wide variety of music, and the mix of parents with their kids contributed to give it a special feel. Yes, it was a memorable party that increased our popularity to the point where our family name became instantly recognizable by the so-called important people in Bota and the surrounding neighborhoods. Yes; that was how we became an integral part of the club of “Important Families” in Bota and Victoria, all thanks to my father’s vision.

We, the kids, enjoyed exploring and familiarizing ourselves with our new haven, which encompassed our home and its vicinity. The actual space I am talking about did not extend much beyond the fenced compound. With an orchard in the backyard, a nicely cultivated flower garden in front and a well-groomed grass lawn around, our new home was up to modern standards.

I still have fun memories of those early days when my maternal uncle and two male cousins would amusingly bully us the girls into quitting the lawn so that they could play soccer. They were often joined by my father shortly after. It is funny I thought back then that my maternal uncle was a taunter and a chauvinist. And since I prided myself as a soul that could not be cowed, I sometimes made it a point of letting him know how I felt about his bullying. The truth is that my protests were usually in inaudible tones that reflected my fear if not respect for him. He was an uncle who insisted on discipline, honor and respect; and he was also an uncle who enforced his will to the point of inflicting pains on those he cared about. I say so because he loved his family dearly and I equally loved and trusted him. He was reliable. Reminiscing about those moments today make me realize that he was not a mean person at all and that he just liked doing things in a dramatic fashion, a good enough reason or being a front for the other males in the family.

My ever-thoughtful father sometimes intervened without contradicting my uncle. He often did so by looking for other ways to keep us outside, like commissioning us to ‘free the flowers’, an enticing expression with a funny ring to it. My humorous father called the flowers surrounded by weeds hostages, and likened the weeds to hostage takers. So, in a way, he made the process of tending to the flowers to look like a mission of salvation, with us the kids rescuing the flowers that were fated to die under the malicious encirclement of weeds. Since we were just like most other ordinary kids anywhere in the world who fancied themselves as important contributors to humanity’s existence on this planet, we showed our sense of importance by attacking the weeds with a purpose and dedication that is almost laughable.

Working on the lilies, Balsams, Ferns, Roses, Irises, Marigolds and Ivies was fun after all. The other kids certainly delighted in tending to the garden and the orchard too because we often found something enlivening to engage in that made gardening feel like a picnic ride of some sort. Chattering and singing often went hand in hand with our time with the flowers, adding more spice to our mission for nature.

My father often joined us and made the process a lot more enriching by telling us fascinating stories about the medicinal values of some of the plants, their attributes in ancient mythologies, the general importance of plants in the cycle of life on earth and a lot more about their contribution that I can vaguely remember today. He was so wise and knowledgeable that I thought he was the greatest sage on earth. Something else I liked doing was squeezing my body to his while he worked on the flowers and talked to me and my other relatives about them.

We always finished our days in the garden feeling like we just accomplished a divine mission of saving God’s beloved plants from Satan’s weeds. In fact, I still have fresh and sweet memories of some of the times that he held my hand and walked me into our home.

My father would sometimes offer us one form of reward or another, ranging from assorted soft drinks to candies. He would even accommodate our extra demands by driving to the city centre to get roasted food or pastries of our choosing. That included delicacies such as the specially roasted meat that was a sensation at the time, cherished especially for its unique way of working on the taste buds of beer drinkers. I equally enjoyed roasted maize, roasted potatoes, roasted ripe plantains, roasted fish, African plumes and the other delicacies he often brought home for us to eat. I remember salivating in anticipation of those treats.

“I wish Helen could develop some interest in her garden and cultivate it like the other women in this neighborhood do,” my father muttered under his breath one day as he held my hand and led me back to our home after spending a couple of hours with us tending to the flowers in our garden.

My father's spurted frustration registered on my mind, even though he did not mean to express it that way. He was instinctively a farmer who found joy making nature blossom, while the woman he loved cared less about that aspect of life. I could imagine his feelings each time his eyes fell on the neatly kept homes and beautiful gardens of our neighbors and friends, knowing that they were being taken care of by the mistresses of those households, while his own wife paid no attention to theirs.

It is not as if my mother was an untidy person. No; that was not the case at all. She just happened to be one of those souls who took so much pride in looking good and feeling great. But then, it was about herself. As a matter of fact, she was not malicious or intentionally neglectful by nature. And neither was she indifferent to the concerns of those close to her. My mother just happened to be the type who forgot or failed to think about others in the deep manner that is expected of a mother, a wife, a sister, an aunt or a friend. It took me quite a while to come to that conclusion. And in many ways, coming to that opinion helped me be at peace with myself.

One does not need to be a psychologist to understand why my mother thought that those around her were better in the business of taking care of things and other affairs at our home. In short, she didn’t really think of herself as a wife with outstanding domestic qualities, and she hardly ever considered herself a soul that could find real comfort in life under a single roof.

Now, some of the hurdles that came with settling down in our new home had to be overcomed during our first months there, even as we lived our unique experiences. We were just kids, and as kids, we failed to understand that our feelings of excitement could not be different from the joyful feelings of millions of others who were facing similar or the same situations in other parts of the world. That was why as the excitement of our transfer waned, we started looking for other distractions.

Our curiosity began to wander beyond our compound by the end of the seventh or eighth week. My uncle and cousins were the first to make new friends and could not understand my resolute disinterest in the matter. I remember the looks on their faces during the few times that they tried to stir me out of my niche for whatever they thought was fanciful outside. In fact, I aroused their apprehension but not their disapproval. I guess it reached a point where they decided to leave me alone. They must have thought I had anti-social tendencies. But that was not the case. All I wanted was more time to get used to my niche or new home before venturing into the near unknown, which was how I referred to our neighborhood at the time.

My uncle and two cousins certainly did not share that view. They were always full of anticipation each time they left the house to visit their friends. I don’t remember a time when they didn’t return in high spirits or when they didn’t have fascinating stories of adventure to tell upon their return. My curious ears had a way of picking up some of those stories as if staying behind helped me to become a better listener. Yes; I was a homely girl who delighted in the adventures of her older relatives.

My lack of curiosity about the outside world and the fact that I was unpretentious if not homely must have stirred some concern with my father because he closed in on me one evening with a grim expression on his face and a thoughtful look in his eyes that made me think I was about to become the recipient of dreadful news.

“You know,” he said, paused for a moment, and then continued, “You intrigue me, Tania! A couple of people have said wonderful things about you. No! It wasn’t just a couple, but many people, actually. Hmm, hmm! I heard them say things like this,” he said, coughed and then grimaced.

“Like what?”

“Okay, okay, okay!” he chuckled and shook his head, “I am trying to paraphrase the things I heard them say, that’s all.”

“Things like what?” I asked again.

“The words might not be exact, mark you! Some people think you are more of an enigma, but I know that you are a fascinating girl. Didn’t I hang around you and your friends a couple of times? Actually, I think my view of you as a cheerful character is something most of your friends also share.”

I remember looking at him in the manner that is so peculiar of young teens that are on the defensive even before knowing what the issue is all about. “Dad…” I said, locked the fingers of my hands together and stretched my arms over my lap.

“The point I am trying to make with utmost sincerity is that I am having a hard time figuring out why you keep to yourself and refuse to join the others on a bright day like this. No, don’t look at me like that as if I said it to hurt your feelings.”

“Dad!”

“Hmm! Don’t even try to be defensive about it. I wish I had a mirror with me.”

“What for?”

“For you to take a hard look at it and see for yourself the way you look at this very moment. Uh-huh! It might do you some good. The expression on your face is almost laughable.”

“Stop laughing at me!”

“I am not laughing! Hmm, Tania! There it goes again. You look like the scary lady in that movie we watched the other day. And there you go again doing your deep breath thing. You always do that just before you start saying things to make your point.”

“I am heaving, that’s all.”

“I thought you were about to throw a tantrum!”

“Stop teasing me, Dad!” I said with a laugh, “Phelim is the princess of tantrums. You said that yourself.”

“So, what was yours, Mademoiselle? Tirades?” he said in a playful manner.

“Dad, you know I am never bitter.”

“Really!”

“I usually word my serious disapproval in a formal but civilized manner.”

“Come on! I walked into one of your tirades before, remember?” my father said and stifled a laugh.

“Dad, I do not throw tantrums, and I do not throw tirades” I protested in an incongruous voice.

“Come on Tania, I am kidding, that’s all! Do I have to spell it out to you that I enjoyed the look you just had on your face! It makes you look like a babushka.”

“Dad, what is the meaning of babushka?” I asked with dimmed eyes.

“You will find out. The word is babushka. I repeat ba-bush-ka! You know; you look more relaxed with your mouth wide open and with your eyes almost popping out of your head,” he said, laughed lightly, and then tapped me on the back of my head lovingly. “Come on; I am still kidding! The point I am trying to make is that I think you are an open, cordial, lively. I think you are a good girl to have around. You are a fine daughter.”

My vocabulary was good, so I understood him well enough, except for the word babushka, which sounded so foreign. It was obvious that he wanted me to look up the meaning of the word on my own. Also, pointing out my instinctively defensive side paralyzed whatever line I had in mind in defense of my homely girl approach to life in our new neighborhood. So, for the moment that I looked at my father wondering what to say or do, the expression on my face was like that of someone benumbed by indecision. But my astonishment did not last for long because a thought suddenly crossed my mind and I relaxed in an instant. Thereafter, I decided to be more diplomatic than defensive. I think that was the right thing to do.

“Daddy, you do not mean what you just said? You know I don’t throw tantrums or tirades around.” I said with a playful look in my eyes.

My father smiled and smoothed my hair. “You are frequently alone, Tania. You have not made new friends like the others have done.”

“I will!” I whined.

“When, Tania? You had an excellent way with people before we moved here. What happened to that?”

“I am still enjoying my time in our new home, that’s all.”

“Okay, okay! Think about this the next time the older ones present you with an opportunity to accompany them out for whatever the neighborhood or the city is offering. Not that I expect you to go to God-knows-where or to be out at odd hours of the day! No, my dear Tania! That is not what I am talking about.”

“What do you want me to do, dad?”

“The point I am trying to make is that it is not wise to turn down every single offer from your dear, loving and concerned cousins to go out with them and visit their friends. I am certain you will get to like your neighbors out there,” he said, smiled, ruffled my hair in an encouraging manner, and then walked out of the sitting room, leaving me with a bewildered look on my face and a slightly agape mouth.

Now, that is not how I had expected things to unfold. A debate was what I was looking forward to. We were supposed to grapple with the pros and cons of me being a homely girl or a natural girl of the neighborhood. At what point is normal natural in a world with rapidly changing values and no clear standards for people to emulate? Even so, I concluded that my father wanted me to act responsibly and be at peace with myself at the same time, just like any of the social insects with invaluable roles to play in their communities.

The heeded my father’s advice because I left our home the next afternoon with my female cousins on a visit to their friends who lived a couple of blocks down the road. Delia and Laurel, as my maternal cousins are called, are amusing souls to hang around with. They are full of wise cracks and are loyal to their blood ties, especially those they hold dearly at heart. And since I was like their baby sister, I felt secure in their company.

However, I started having regrets the moment we left home. Their dawdling, endless and monotonous conversation and the excited state of their minds quickly wore my patient nerves down. Well, my nerves were already taut that day in anticipation of having an exciting time. However, they became even tauter after an hour with the young women, some of whom were looking forward to their twentieth birthdays with great anticipation, hoping that freedom, happiness and certainty was would come with it.

It reached a point where I thought their company was driving me crazy, so, I decided to step outside and look around for a distraction. A peculiar sound told me that Mother Nature was having something in store for me in our neighbor’s backyard the moment I opened the back door of the house. So, without wasting time on preambles, I gingerly left the chattering company to find out about the creatures making the noise outside.

The young women certainly did not miss me, and I too forgot about them during the time that I spent with our neighbor’s half a dozen puppies. This amusing lot of Flat-Coated-Retrievers with shining furs humored me by rolling on the grass, squeaking pleasurably, whimpering amusingly, and grappling and barking in puppy delight. Playing with the puppies must have consumed the better part of an hour, and certainly left me depleted of energy because I was slightly out of breath when I decided to get back to my cousins and their friends.

The setting sun was high on the horizon when I rejoined the bustling young women inside, expressing extreme fatigue in my effort to avoid being drawn into whatever daring plans they were hatching. But I shouldn’t have feigned anything at all because, on my way back from a trip to the bathroom to relieve my bladder, I found out that they were into games of their own.

A lot certainly transpired during the quarter of an hour that I was away because I heard their hushed voices right after I stepped out of the bathroom. Something made me stop and eavesdrop, only to discover that the young women were finalizing their plans to hang out with their boyfriends. So, when they told the other pre-teenagers and me that they would be away for a couple of hours to borrow books and see a group of female friends who would teach them a recipe that recently became a sensation in their school, I was really flabbergasted. I don’t see anything abhorring in visiting boys or men, but their lies and patronizing nature were what I found irksome. After all, nobody likes being treated like a clueless little child by excited lassies who lie without batting an eye. The glamour girls even flipped me around to stay with childish young kids whose worlds did not extend beyond school, church and home.

Boredom started creeping in right after they stepped outside, and time seemed to move slowly right after that as if an external power was out to tease my senses. An hour with the noisy kids and their childish games stretched my nerves to the limit, so that I decided to take a walk around and see more of Bota. I convinced myself the move was in line with my father’s wish to see me become a worthy person in society.

After walking for a couple of minutes, I concluded that Bota had far more to offer than I had ever bothered to think about or discover. In fact, I was in a heightened state of excitement and listlessness for about half an hour, which is why the sight of him jolted me so much.

The sound of laughter was all about them as he played soccer with his friends. I don’t think I made the conscious decision to stop, but there I was, standing on the other side of the road as if transfixed by nature, gripped by a strange sensation like someone experiencing the transfiguration. Why I just stood there awestricken with an open mouth and wide eyes staring at him as he dribbled past two opponents and scored a goal, I don’t know.

Candidly speaking, I cut an impressive, if not, placid image of a moron as I watched Sancho pick up the ball, turn around and look in my direction. Our gaze locked in a strange moment of uncertainty. Then his face lit up, probably in recognition of me, before his gaze dropped and a faint smile creased his face. He went on to spin the ball around his right index finger as he talked to his friends. I watched him with pursed my lips, hoping that he was not gossiping about me. Why I thought the boys would burst into a mocking or teasing laughter, I don’t know. But nobody laughed or looked at me with provocative eyes.

So, when Sancho dropped the ball and walked off the soccer field, heading straight in my direction, I did not see it coming. My heart must have skipped a beat or two because a strange feeling of anxiety suddenly gripped me to the point where I could hardly move my limbs. My muscles and nerves had become too taut all of a sudden.

“Tatiana!” he called softly and held out his hand to me.

“Sancho!” I mumbled dryly and giggled foolishly.

“Wow, you remembered my name and pronounced it, you know, the right way,” Sancho intoned, his hand still held out.

“What did you say? What do you mean?” I mumbled in confusion, stretching and withdrawing my hand in the manner of someone having a hard time making up her mind whether to greet or tease with a handshake.

Sancho took my timidly extended hand and shook it gently. “Nice to see you again, Tania! It’s been a decade, I guess,” he said light-heartedly.

“It is slightly more than ten years since you last saw me. I was still in diapers, remember?” I said and giggled again, though less outrageously. But then, after noticing the confused look on his face, I added, “No, Sancho. It has been three years, just three years.”

“Phew!” Sancho gasped. “For a second, I thought I was having my eyes on your older sister or your young aunt, or somebody else altogether. You got me there, very well.”

“No, no, no…no, Sancho! I am the oldest walking hazard my parents brought into this world,” I intoned, shrugged timidly, and then giggled in an embarrassing manner that made him dim his eyes, “Oops!” I added and put a hand over my mouth.

“Ha-ha, ha-ha…ha-ha!” Sancho laughed finally and shook his head in a bemused manner. “You certainly are funny. What do I do now?”

“You tell me,” I said with a giggle.

“Wow! Should I continue with this game or abandon it and go for what may turn out to be my best laugh in years? Okay, give me a moment and I will be back with a decision on that puzzle,” he said, walked backwards for a moment, never taking his eyes off me, while making amusing gestures as he edged away. Then he turned around and hurried in a half-running manner back to his friends.

Surprisingly enough, Sancho announced his intention not to continue the game, promising his friends to catch up with them later. He blushed a little from their teasing responses, but that did not stop him from joining me for a walk around so that we could catch up on each other’s lives.

It is not as if Sancho and I were very close before. No! We hardly ever spent more than ten minutes talking to each other. Which is why an air of discomfort hung around us during the first five minutes of our walk before Sancho suggested that we settle on a large stone under a huge tree with a broad canopy. He got my nod of approval even before he finished his sentence.

I was relaxed after we sat down and enjoyed the way our small talk evolved into a warm conversation. In fact, I felt proud of myself for rising to the occasion. Our conversation became animated to the point where I even wondered about the unease that had characterized the early stages of our encounter. At one point, we were almost laughing into tears. This was hardly an hour after I left our neighbor’s home in an agitated spirit. Sancho’s remarkable ability to make people feel comfortable brought down my defensive shield in no time, allowing my engaging inner self to blossom again. He brought out the other side of my personality that my insightful father appreciated.

How I bubbled out in high spirits as he virtually implanted me into the world of his stories is something that is too long to tell. All I can say for now is that Sancho’s amazing recounts ranged from fictional characters in such stories as “Good Soldier Schweik", to funny adventures of boys at their boarding school, and even to such mutually cognitive recounts like Baron Munchausen's humorous reality defying exploits. Candidly speaking, my openness, cordiality and cheerfulness even surprised me, all thanks to the peculiar allure of the charismatic Sancho. I found it amazing that he was not bawdy.

Basically, he was everything of a prized companion. He was good-humored, intelligent, respectful and good-looking. We separated that evening with Sancho in possession of our phone number and the direction to our Bota residence.

I will go ahead and soothe your curiosity about Sancho by dwelling a little on how we came to know each other or better put, on how destiny brought us together. Sancho Eko Samson’s mother Elaine is French, a sophisticated import as the locals called her behind her back and the backs of her family. She often spoke fondly of her Spanish grandmother who traced her lineage to the Castilian royal family. Sancho’s father Jonathan Eko Samson happened to be local.

The first time I saw Sancho was during my fifth year in elementary school. He was the senior school prefect at the time and perhaps the youngest in the school’s history. But our paths didn’t cross until the day his assistant unfairly abused me physically. Sancho was a short distance away and saw everything because he appeared on the scene seconds after, fuming in rage. Even though he understood that I was crying more from anger than from the mild pains from his assistant’s shoves and pokes, he nonetheless rebuked the boy for being rough on me over an unacceptable excuse that I insulted his sister who in the first place took my candies without my permission. After cowing him to the point where the fellow started stuttering, Sancho then took my arm and led me away to the entrance of the school restroom, whence I walked inside alone, washed and wiped my face, and then came out to find him still standing there waiting for me. He told me to follow him to the nearby school canteen where he bought me a packet of chocolate.

That was my only encounter with Sancho that lasted more than ten minutes until I bumped into him playing soccer with his friends that day. The most I ever got out of him each time our paths crossed in school or in town was a warm smile, brief inquiries about my studies and welfare, and an occasional pat on the back.

Sancho passed his entrance examination into high school when I was still wrapping up on my elementary school studies. In fact, I vividly recall the day I heard the news. I even took an interest in their graduation ceremony. To further his High School education, he chose St. Joseph School, which at the time was the most renowned English-speaking boarding school around.

On the last Sunday of July, a couple of days after my encounter with Sancho, I sat in the sitting room watching a movie on the TV with my entire family when the doorbell rang suddenly. My reason for using the word suddenly is because we rarely locked the entrance door during the long holidays until close to bedtime, making it irrelevant to buzz. So, the sound of the doorbell ringing that evening startled quite a few nerves. I pretended not to notice the many heads that turned around in my direction, quietly suggesting that I get up and see who was at the door. But not until my father, with his mouth full of guava, indicated with a slight gesture of his head, did I get up from my seat with pouty lips, unhappy about the fact that he often chose me over the others to do things around.

I opened the door to find Sancho standing right there in front of me. I was dumbfounded, with my heart pounding heavily in my chest from the sweet embarrassment and bliss that swept over me. Sancho must have understood the state of my mind at the time because he took my hand and shook it gently. I felt the perspiration in his palms.

“Can I get in?” he asked, looking at me with growing bewilderment.

I nodded in a dazed manner, my mind too numb to think of what to say or do. I must have wanted to say something polite, something welcoming or something that mirrored my conflicting feelings at the time, but my voice failed me. It virtually betrayed my feelings, making me gasp instead. For a moment, Sancho just stood there as if trying to figure out his next move. Then he winced, smiled warmly, and then politely asked me to show him in, before subtlety pushing for a conversation that was nothing more than an exchange of a few words. Even though he was the better-disposed party at the time, the awkwardness of our actions completely exposed our embarrassment. I still blush whenever I recall that uncomfortable encounter at the door.

I was slightly recovered from the shock of Sancho’s unexpected visit when I walked him inside and introduced him to my parents. To my utter delight and relief, they proved to be very receptive. My father offered Sancho a seat, cracked a few jokes to make him feel at ease, and then went on to engage him in some sort of small talk. I think he breathed a sigh of relief the moment he realized that my parents knew his parents well.

Sancho’s engaging nature, genuineness and countenance that evening was so likeable that my father, a taciturn man by nature, complimented him for his good manners. My entire family liked him.

Chapter Four

Our integration into the Bota community was smooth because everyone in our household talked about their deep love for the locality, the friendliness of the people whose communal spirit was unrivalled around, and about the low level of security concerns because of the upscale nature of the neighborhood. There were several other reasons given to justify Bota’s attractiveness, reasons that I do not find worth mentioning because it would sound like I am falling heads over shoulders in stating my case. Sancho did much to help us in the integration process, which is why I cherish my first five years in Bota so much. He played a wonderful role in my development, especially in helping me become a girl worthy of her salt. Yes, my friendship with Sancho and his closeness to my family blossomed during those years.

During those years, I thought Sancho saw in me the younger sister he never had and I saw in him the close big brother I wished I had been blessed with. That was the period I acquired societal manners and a surface of polished politeness that is peculiar of the French, all attributes from Sancho’s mother who took a liking to me as if I were her own daughter.

Mrs. Elaine Samson was the epitome of the perfect mother; the type any child would love to have. She was cultivated, intelligent, engaging and domestic. I used the word domestic because none of the married women of her class or social status made as much effort as she did in mastering their way around the kitchen. Strange as it may sound, some of them even delighted in making their incompetence in the kitchen known to their friends as if the fact that they ate out most of the time or hired cooks, counted as good enough reasons to raise their profiles in society. The trend of hiring cooks, baby sitters, and other house-helps was fast catching up in many households in Bota in a way that was similar to other rich neighborhoods in the bigger cities in the country.

If domesticity was rapidly becoming old-fashioned in Bota, Sancho’s mother never looked at the developments in that light. She loved treating her children to tasty meals, deserts, and other temptations to the taste buds—treats that I came to enjoy more than the true members of her household. There were moments when I was gripped by shame for having a “long tongue” as my father often called those with high appetite and little control over it. But Sancho’s mother wouldn’t listen to any of my entreaties not to have anything or anymore of the things that she was offering for my taste buds and those of her children and husband. I think she paid a lot more attention to the cravings in my eyes than to the words that came out of my mouth, words that meant I was declining her treats even though I did not really mean to. After all, I rarely had leftovers whenever I carried my plate, bowl or cup over to their sink.

Those early years were equally educative as I learned a lot about life beyond my circle of blood ties. Even my blossoming relationship with Sancho’s younger brothers who were two and five years younger than me were also enriching in so many ways.

As a matter of fact, when we first met, they were strange kids with a tendency to behave badly in the neighborhood because they thought their peers would accept them if they acted that way, peers who initially thought they were snobs. The two boys were rough if not daring, and they often prided themselves in their acts of devilry which though innocent, hurt those they targeted. But it didn’t take long to discern that they had good hearts and behaved badly to prove that they were not the soft kids of wealthy folks. I talked them out of their tough-kid line of thinking, to the point where they ended up accepting me as a trusted friend in their lives. Our fulfilling friendship enabled me to become their repertoire of useful information on dealing with the opposite sex. For, how else could boys from a home where the only feminine touch was that of an obliging if not condescending mother who happened to be a transplant into our culture, know any better.

Sancho’s mother unconsciously acted as a transplant even though she hardly intended to look and sound differently from her husband’s people and the way of life that she wanted to embrace fully. She certainly loved her boys dearly and showed it in a way that was not the norm around. Even so, I am sure her unconditional love for her sons helped to make them a positive contribution to society as they grew up into responsible and generous adults. Elaborating on how they became a blessing to the society that influenced them would be a lengthy thing to do, an exercise that would make a full material for another story. I do not intend to repeat myself, so I shall talk about the later developments in their lives as another story altogether.

Sancho had something interesting to say when I brought up the subject of his intriguing brothers.

“I can be philosophical about Gavin. He is the leader of the pair. You see, Gavin was born by caesarean section because he started coming out with his feet first. I collected information about some of the famous figures who were born with their feet sticking out first. And guess what? I came out of my research with an unusual if not a bizarre conclusion. I think children born with the head coming out first tend to see the world the way it really is. Only as they get up on their feet do they start seeing the world the way most people see it, which I enjoy calling “the make-believe of the majority”. On the contrary, our feet-first babies must overcome the true reality of the world first before sinking into the make-believe world that we call reality. They are the babies with the questioning minds. It is as if these feet-first babies live their early lives being indifferent to the real or unreal things around them. That is why I think Gavin would inevitably hurt people first and would be hurt in return before he settles into the true nature of his soul and become the good person he truly is.”

“What do you mean?” I remember asking Sancho.

“The feet first baby is the true biological child with all his animal instincts intact, with impulses that are hard to check and with an energy level that is very high. His life is one of survival, which is what our make-belief world is all about. But he confronts the world as if there are no rules, and he wouldn’t stop until he understands this world, until he accepts that you don’t have to condemn, fight or kill everything that is wrong or unjust. He arrives at that stage of psycho-social consciousness by being analytical, moral, critical and self critical, and by accepting repercussions as a part of life.”

I understood Sancho’s line of thinking and posed very few questions on the subject after that. It was somehow along those lines that I made Bota my home and found a second family that loved me without reservations.

During the first six years of my stay in the neighborhood, our family name and the connection to Sancho’s family meant that a good number of homes in the neighborhood, and to an extent Victoria, treated me well. Yes, I commanded some respect for being a friend of the mayor’s family that was admired for being wealthy, hospitable and cultivated.

That notwithstanding, Sancho’s father also gained a reputation for being the best mayor in Victoria’s history. He was so down to earth that his approachable nature became a much-applauded quality, with people attributing his common touch to the many years he spent studying in the Soviet Union. But I don’t think that was the only place that rubbed on him the great ability to relate to different people at different levels, a quality that amazed even his staunchest critics. The variously-gifted Jonathan Eko, though steeped in ordinariness, was also a quick learner and an open-minded person. In fact, he had the great ability to handle different situations at the same to the satisfaction of most of those involved.

Some folks, especially those without the natural soul, found it difficult to understand how this outstanding gentleman who was married to a charming, witty and classic lady from an upper class French family could maintain such a common touch with his people even after he told them about the experiences of his professor in the Patrice Lumumba Friendship University in Moscow, a fine gentlemen who took rides in a communal bus, bought and shared sun flower seeds with his junior staff and students, enjoyed natural encounters on sidewalks with babushkas, toasted champagne and vodka with his patients and the common townsfolk, yet held his ground with communist apparatchiks during meetings, social events, and on public occasions.

I don’t blame them at all. I too was initially taken aback by the fact that a man with a genuine taste for the classics could be so down to earth in an austere way. Yes, he was a true connoisseur and lover of the works of artists like Beethoven, Rossini, Bach, Tchaikovsky, Verdi, Mozart, Wagner and others. He was also a voracious reader and counted the works of classic writers like Charles Dickens, Ivan Turgenev, Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Leo Tolstoy, Dante Alighieri, Alexander Dumas, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Lao Tzu, Jane Austen, Alexander Pushkin, Shakespeare, Sergey Esenin and so forth on the bookshelves of his study. I think I fully appreciated the mind of Sancho’s father only in my mid-twenties. Like his mentor the Russian professor whom he came close to revering, Mr. Jonathan Eko Samson understood that a leader’s greatest asset is the people.

I mastered the art of hosting parties from Sancho’s parents, especially from the father who derived so much satisfaction from hosting guests at his home. The banquets he organized were always full of happy and smiling faces. But that was not all about it. He made it a point of having guests from both the high and low ends of society, and hardly paid more attention to one group over the other, a feat he accomplished by moving between his guests every now and then. He even went to great length to bring them together through introductions and by pairing them up to grace the dance floor. So, in a way, his parties satisfied the bellies of his guests and became unique occasions for different people to meet and discuss issues and ideas, irrespective of their financial, social or academic status. And in a little way, those parties helped to reconcile society and made the people who attended them to forget about their everyday worries, even if that meant for a short period.

It is difficult to put into words all the wonderful lessons I learned during my interaction with the Samson family. However, being associated with Sancho and his family was certainly not enough to earn me all the warm regards in Bota in particular and Victoria in general.

The fact that I was the daughter of the manager of the largest bank in the area placed me among the well-to-do kids in the city, and it certainly made life rosy for me in so many ways. We must not downplay my lively disposition and guarded values that also earned me warm regards in the eyes of the fair-minded. In many ways, I was the perfect example of a good girl in the neighborhood and in the suburb, a sentiment shared by my teachers, friends, and family. I was their good student, exemplary teenager, and gifted athlete. Adding the afore-mentioned to my unusual privilege of having a nun for an aunt and of being a student of a very respectable Catholic boarding school, you can understand why I never thought my appearance or gestures could set the hearts of young men aflame.

Chapter Five

My seventh summer in Bota GRA happened to be one of those school holidays that mark a new phase in a young woman’s life. I was certain my parents were not afraid that I could get into trouble like some of the other teenage girls in our neighborhood who were struggling with split or hazy personalities. Yes, I was confident that I had earned their trust. Still, I made it a point of being at home before eight o’clock every evening. Even when I couldn’t make it home on time, they always knew exactly where I was and how to reach me by telephone. So, when Sancho offered to take me out one lovely evening, my parents saw no reason to say no and consented without even blinking an eye.

Sancho’s choice was a restaurant adjoining the beachside hotel built in that gothic style made famous by Swiss lakeside resorts. The food was good, the conversation was great and we observed scenes around us and made comments about them. Every minute spent with Sancho was very revealing, allowing me to delve deeper and deeper into the wealth that is his soul. It made me oblivious to time and the amount of juice going down my bladder because dusk was on the horizon when I thought my urge to pee was becoming unbearable. Even though Sancho was telling me an interesting story about an experience he had in school that early summer, I kept twitching my toes in my shoes until I could take it no more.

So, I rose to my feet, told him in an apologetic voice that I needed to pay my dues in the restroom, and then left him on the terrace outside even before he could say something in reply. But I didn’t just walk straight away from the place. In fact, I turned around and looked back at him a couple of times, thinking that I would catch him pinning his eyes on the scantily dressed blondes heading to the swimming pool at the corner. But I was mistaken in my suspicions of my friend who paid no attention to the girls. I noticed instead that his eyes were fixed on a dreary-looking man moving from one table to another, getting looks that spoke for themselves that he was not wanted around. Now convinced that Sancho could take care of himself in my absence, I walked around the hedge of flowers and headed for the lavatory.

I breathed a sigh of relief after I got rid of the contents of my bladder, and then checked myself out in the mirror to make sure that my appearance was right. I even adjusted some of my body parts out of an impulse, as if I would look different by doing that. What effect that had on me, I could not tell. For a moment, I mused about the amusing time I was having, all thanks to Sancho’s good heart. The reflection made my cheeks glow with delight. That is why I was in high spirits when I left the hotel restroom and headed back to the terrace to rejoin Sancho. But it wasn’t until I was about two dozen yards away that I spotted a strange man hanging around our table. He must have jumped in there the moment I disappeared into the building to ease myself.

I stopped for a moment before edging forward with hesitant steps. Then it dawned on me that Sancho and the stranger still hadn’t seen me approaching them. Just then, something told me to find out what the intruder’s business was all about. So, I turned around and made my way behind the hedge where I could keep an eye on them and get a whiff of their conversation at the same time. It was an impulsive decision I still find strange right up to this moment. All the same, my action that day helped me to gain a unique insight into Sancho’s nature.

I found out that the stranger decided to have a chat with Sancho after he saw him giving money to a beggar who showed up at the hotel terrace while I was doing my business in the lavatory. The beggar happened to be the dreary-looking guy I spotted while walking away to get rid of the contents of my bladder.

“A beautiful act of charity I must say. Do not be offended, my young friend,” the stranger said to Sancho in an engaging manner.

“I am not offended. On the contrary, I am curious,” Sancho replied.

“Son, you did nothing wrong giving money to that beggar. You even did so with a genuine feeling of empathy that really touched my heart. You didn’t find his ethnicity or religion repulsive at all. In fact, you acted from the impulse of your heart.”

“He looked to me like someone who needed some help,” Sancho offered, sounding and looking like he wished the conversation would end right away.

“Do you think he would have done the same to you, had your positions been reversed?”

“I don’t know!” Sancho gasped in a manner that almost made me laugh. “I haven’t even thought about it. That would have been his judgment, not mine,” he stuttered.

“Kindness is the simplest thing to do,” the stranger said with a nod, “I think kindness is a source of relief to the soul of the giver, creating a sense of fortitude that is incomprehensible to those who do not know what kindness is all about. I wonder how many people will agree with me on that.”

“Phew! What you called kindness was an act of free will, on my part, that is,” Sancho intoned, moved his head to the left, then to the right, and then repeated the motion a couple of times. He made that strange gesture only when he felt embarrassed or cornered.

“Did you just say kindness and free will?”

“Uh-huh!” Sancho replied.

“Hmm! Now, don’t you think the two make a beautiful combination?”

“What?”

“Kindness and free will put together.”

“Well!” Sancho offered.

“Would you mind if I go ahead and encroach on your time by telling you something about the short experience of an aging heart?”

Sancho shook his head and emitted a short encouraging laugh. “Let’s see if you can get to the end of it before my friend returns.”

“That’s fine with me. Now; I will tell you.”

“Okay!” Sancho said in a guarded manner.

“First, before I get to the point, I have this to say. The selfish and self-centered have a hard time being kind, even though you and I know that kindness is a source of relief to the soul. Why they think we humans cannot find peace from the simple act of depriving ourselves of things we can do without, I don’t know.”

“It requires some degree of strength to be kind,” Sancho said in a measured tone.

“You are right,” the stranger upheld with a nod. “Those who have a hard time appreciating the achievements of others are usually those who are not inclined to improve things around them.”

“That is an intriguing perspective!”

“I know, Son! We also have some unusual appraisers; I mean people who are not blinded by the immensity of their own efforts and are humble enough to appreciate those who have done something worthwhile for others.”

Sancho nodded, “What is your point?” he asked slowly.

“All I am trying to say is that most of the truly kind people of this world show some measure of discomfort when offered kindness. Their gratitude stems not only from their understanding of the depth of the force of kindness but also from their conviction that kindness should not be taken for granted.”

“I know what you mean,” Sancho said, taking a deep breath, “I came across this exceptionally kind woman who was so effusive with platitudes for the kindness shown to her, kindness that paled in comparison to her generosity.”

“I am glad you got my point,” the stranger chortled.

“It appears you have a particular point in mind that you want to make.”

“You are right, Son! This is my point. I have told my kids a couple of times to be watchful when dealing with people. Now; they know that life is a rat race, the sort of race people participate in as if they have forgotten the great value of our love for humanity. Yes, Son! Humanitarianism is what distinguishes us from other animals. The human intellect is responsible for our insight into the workings of God, perhaps as his protégés, or even perhaps as his servants.”

“That’s an interesting outlook to have on life,” Sancho offered.

“I agree with you, Son! We are compelled to live our lives with people who are striving to have an edge over their fellow human beings all the time. I advise my children never to put themselves in a position where other people would take liberty at running them down or rubbing them off. I am talking about those people who think they are better off or that people like my children are not well to do, or that they are desperate in one way or the other.”

“I believe in both moral and intellectual equality.”

“That is what I want to hear, Son. Life should be an equal playing field, like a soccer game. People should differ only in their level of preparation and in their commitment to the game.”

“Interesting!”

“You see, Son; my paternal grandfather suffered a great deal in life. He had to work very hard to succeed in this world and to give his children the platform to escape the grueling poverty that he grew up in. My grandfather was abused, you know! He was looked down upon and even spat at on one occasion. But the jolly good fellow held on. He felt accomplished only after all his children became adults with settled lives of their own and with secured positions as members of the middle and upper classes. As you can imagine, my siblings and I grew up feeling secured, knowing that the sky was the limit.”

“Okay!” Sancho said, looking puzzled.

“I know you are wondering what my point is. Here it is from my rumblings, my young friend. I was different from my other siblings, you know. Now, do you know why?”

Sancho shook his head no but did not utter a word.

“As a kid growing up in a city where inequality in wealth was so stark, where tension over issues of race and social status was around all the time, and where rich and poor neighborhoods stood side by side, I hated our fenced home, I loved doing my laundry, and I enjoyed hanging out with underprivileged kids whom I even envied for their personal freedom. I could barely bring myself to tolerate the privileged kids in our neighborhood who had no clue of the underside of life and who looked down on the less privileged in society as if these underprivileged people were vermin that could cause a plague. I even deplored financial success. Yes, Son, I often gave away whatever I had to those who were less privileged in life.”

“You were like an altruist!” Sancho interjected.

“You could say that. Son, do not take my confession as the dramatics of an aging idealist. The truth of the matter is, I was a bump; and I continuously, persistently and shamelessly sponged off the generosity of my sibling who shared some of my idealism right up to the age of twenty-three or twenty-four. But that was not all about it. Some of the underprivileged kids I had known as a boy made it in life. I was happy for them. But then, some of them turned around and treated me in a spiteful manner, with that sickening look that some successful people often cast on the wretched of the earth. They joined the class of those who are contemptuous of the plight of the underprivileged. The depressing thing is that I knew they were looking down on me as someone who had everything going for him, but who failed to put his acts together.”

“I understand,” Sancho offered and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Son, you won’t believe this. One of the success stories was a guy who had muddled his way through life and found a place among the middle class. He was even upfront about his success and said it to my face that I was a loser who took his childhood privileges and position for granted. You see, that folk finally made me realize that the situation I was going through was similar to my grandfather’s when he started fighting his way out of the poverty and the insignificance that society pushed him into. I even wept about my situation, you know. I woke up one morning stinking from my puke and vowed to return to my father’s path to financial security. I even promised myself that I would never become poor again. I learned a lot during those soul-searching years. But what finally capped everything was my encounter with a young woman I first knew as a teenager. She was in love with me while we were in high school, but I knew I could only ruin her, life being the idealist I was. I liked her, but I was never in love with her. I can say with utmost sincerity that I never found her attractive. She did make it into the middle class you know; she did make it to a position that gave her a sense of achievement but which meant that she would have to work for the rest of her life to make other people rich, in order to maintain her social status as someone in the middle class.”

“You mean she had a good job?”

“Yes, Son! She had a good job! She called hers a career. This intriguing lady said to me that life is so unpredictable, that I was one of those she had thought would make it right to the very top in life. It is not as if I ever wanted to be at the top in society, or that I even thought I deserved to be there. The truth is that I never liked being a privileged person in life.”

“But she first saw you as a kid who had a favorable life,” Sancho opined.

“Hmm! Maybe you are right. Anyway, she misconstrued my open arms, when I only viewed her as someone I cherished in the past. She actually thought I took a fancy for her because of her achievements. That was not the case. Perhaps it was a stupid trivial affair, but it did leave an indelible mark, you know. Why did she think that her achievement was a victory for her and defeat for someone like me who always wished her good, who always wished good for people, and who always prayed for others to succeed in life?”

“You said it yourself already. Life is a rat race where people are always trying to have an edge over their fellow human beings.”

“You are right, Sancho! Some people who escaped poverty don't want to be associated in any way with the poor and will use every opportunity to run down those they perceive to have lost their wealth. The strange thing is that these buffoons would kiss the butts of the wealthy and the famous. It is as if associating with the renowned will legitimize their new-found wealth and alleviate them to the status of the influential, the type of status that has been passed down from one generation to another. I call these folks the noveaux riches. They coldly choose to do away with whatever empathy they had in the past for the struggling class, the very struggling class they came from. Such people are devoid of a high intellect and an open heart, and they sicken me more than any other group in society, for the simple reason that I can easily forgive the other groups for being ignorant. Please do not take my recount as the blabbering of a negative mind. That is not the case, my young friend.”

“I am not,” Sancho said and took a deep breath.

“I recognize the existence of another group of people who were never really in a position of poverty, but experienced poverty either by association or by choice, and then learned from that experience to empathize with the poor. These people have gained a common touch with the poor that enables them to move smoothly between the rich and the poor in society. They are the most reliable champions when it comes to causes to alleviate poverty and bring harmony to mankind. You have a touch of that sense of humanity, my young friend. You empathize with a class that is not even your own; you have an insightful understanding of the underprivileged that amazes me. Those qualities are rare to find now our days; those qualities are uncommon around here.”

“You just called me a friend,” Sancho mumbled, his eyes quizzical on the stranger.

“I consider you a friend. Believe me, if I must reiterate this. You have what it takes to champion a noble cause for the underprivileged. But do not do that by sitting in dung with people who are comfortable being in it. For God’s sake, the right way to champion humanity’s cause is by stepping into the dung and pulling out the people who are stuck in it, into the better world you already know.”

“That is like…No, I don’t get it. What exactly are you trying to say? What do you mean?” Sancho mumbled.

“You have got a wide soul, my new friend. But I observed something alongside the wideness of your soul. You also have a very deep heart and a brain that has accumulated knowledge beyond its age. I know your sense of modesty won’t allow you to listen to a concerned man even as he tries to tell you that your large intelligence, strong conscience, and attachment to ideas may lead you to embrace a cause that holds only sadness and a sense of betrayal at the end of the day.”

“What’s your point?” Sancho interjected with a note of wariness in his voice.

“Do not fall into the temptation of saying what you feel rather than what you think is logical. Logic does not entail limiting your judgment on your thoughts or feelings only. It involves factoring other people’s opinions and motives, it involves taking into account different events and the consideration of others in whatever judgment you are making that involves people and affairs of the world.”

“Don’t you think you are trying to, like you know, play God?” Sancho asked, looking around for a sign of me.

“Young man, it appears you misunderstood me. In no way am I trying to play such a role—the role of god—as you just mentioned. That is not the case; that is absolutely not what you should think of me. You might be… the stranger slurred and looked at me in a wondering manner as I approached the table.

“My friend Tania,” Sancho offered with a smile.

The stranger stood up and extended his right hand to me. I could see his epicanthic fold becoming more pronounced as he dimmed his eyes. “You resemble someone I knew a long time ago. Oh, forget the mumblings of an aging soul. I will leave you, kids, now,” he said, shook my hand, then shook Sancho’s hand too, and then turned around to leave.

“It was nice discoursing with you,” Sancho offered.

“Oh! By the way; you can have my card. Here is one for you, and here is one for Tania,” he said and offered us his business cards.

“Thanks, Sir!” Sancho and I said one after the other.

“Call me Steve.”

“Thanks, Steve!” I echoed Sancho.

“Okay kids, get in touch whenever you feel like talking or doing something that will stimulate your minds.”

“We will!” Sancho promised.

“By the way, I like your beautiful mind,” Steve told Sancho, smiled generously, bade us good bye, and then walked away from our table.

“He sure is a strange man,” I said to Sancho the moment I thought he was out of hearing distance.

“He sure is,” Sancho replied with a look on his face that told me the stranger’s words touched him deeply.

It was close to eight o’clock that evening when the car pulled to a stop at our gate. I got out in a hurried manner, hoping to be home in time for an evening movie. So, I was somehow flustered when I heard a voice call out my name just as I was about to step into our compound. Startled, I turned around to find that it was Jevenie, the eighteen-year-old daughter of one of our neighbors. She was not far behind me now, probably about sixty paces away. But since I knew her as one of those talkative types to avoid, especially when in a hurry, I thought of something convincing to say to her to make our encounter short.

Jevenie looked that night like she was in one of her adventurous moods, based on the dress she was wearing and the look on her face. She called that style of dressing her baiting dress code. When a year ago, I asked her what she meant by that, her response was:

“The baiting dress code is the type women wear to look like whores but not like prostitutes. The skirt, shorts or dress should be half way between your knee and your waist. You should also wear the type of top that shows parts of your boobs but not everything. That means showing some cleavage but keeping the tits out of the range of the eyes and hands of men. You got my drift, don’t you? Every piece of material on the body should be there to accentuate the curves or create curves of their own.”

I did not find Jevenie’s outlook on the way women should express themselves funny at all that day. So, when she burst into a fit of laughter, I was surprised about it. When I asked what her reason for making me look like a fool was, she said she could not help it when she saw the stunned look on my face.

However, the Jevenie who approached me that evening had an excited yet doubtful expression on her face. “Hi Tania,” she greeted and touched cheeks with me in that flashy manner of hers that almost made me grit my teeth in mild displeasure.

I returned her hi, and then with a note of earnest in my voice, I added: “It better be quick. I have got to go.”

“Where?”

“They are waiting for me at home this very moment,”

“Your parents expect you back home this early? You are a big girl.”

“I am not complaining. It is just that; you know…” I said and moved my shoulders and head in a suggestive manner, not knowing what to add to convey my desire to go home immediately.

“Okay, okay!” she said, closed her eyes, and then opened them again, “I will make this quick,” she added and took a deep breath.

“Go ahead, Jevenie!” I urged.

“Please, Tania, tell me all you know about him. I really need to know. Who is that dude I saw you talking to in the taxi today?”

My heart skipped a bit. Jevenie’s reputation for fishing out the guys she wanted, and then dumping them at a whim when she sets her eyes on a better catch was known by most of the teenagers in the neighborhood who were already into dating.

“Whom are you talking about?” I asked, feigning ignorance

“The Sancho dude, the dandy guy,” Jevenie said quickly, with an impatient note in her voice.

“Spill it out. What is it exactly you want to know about him?” I asked her with a constricted throat.

“I sort of like him, that’s all,” she retorted with a blush.

“What has that got to do with me?”

“How about something like this?”

“Like what?”

“I want you to introduce me to him.”

“Come on, Jevenie! You don’t need the help of a novice like me in matters concerning the heart.”

“Look, Tania! He sort of avoids talking to me and my gang,” she said in a nervous voice.

Now, I knew perfectly well the gang she was talking about. She and her two friends Petra and Elsidia were known by the boys in the neighborhood as the hot gang for the obvious reasons. They were hot. A guy like Sancho would have to transform himself into a monster just to survive in the hands of the trio for a week.

“You sort of know him already, so why don’t you just go ahead and introduce yourself to him,” I said, my breath held in my chest like someone anticipating bad news.

“You won’t be offended?” she said with a quizzical expression on her face that really surprised me.

“Why?” I asked, shooting her a quizzical look of my own.

“Somebody said she thought something could be going on between the two of you. Like, you know, the two of you being more than just mere friends,” she said rapidly, staring at me with wide eyes as if afraid of what my response would be.

“So?” I said with my hands at akimbo.

“I didn’t believe her. Please, Tania! Tell me the truth. Is there something going on between you guys?”

“Like what?” I asked with a shudder.

“Like the two of you sleeping together,” she blurted out, and then held a hand over her mouth.

“No,” I retorted, feeling embarrassed and indignant at the same time.

“Oh, Tania! I knew it. I was right. You managed to keep your purity, like a true virgin soul. Whoa! You can go now. I will take care of the rest,” Jevenie said, held my shoulders briefly, told me goodnight, and then hurried away.

I was so dumbfounded I just stood there staring at her retreating figure until she disappeared into the night. In fact, my head was swirling when I entered our home to find my favorite uncle chatting with the rest of the family in the sitting room. I ran forward and fell into Uncle Paul’s arms before I turned around to my parents and greeted them in a less spirited manner.

“Heard you were out on a date with that cute Samson boy,” Uncle Paul said with a slight wink, and then looked at my father and shrugged.

“He is a friend, a normal friend,” I said, casting him a foreboding look.

“No offence intended, my dear Tania. So, how was your time out in the city with him?”

“Wonderful! Sancho took me to a restaurant and talked me into one of the best days of my life,” I said excitedly, and then went on to recount our time together.

“Let's get back to this part about the strange man you met talking to the Samson boy. What is his name again?” Uncle Paul asked.

“I don’t remember. He gave me a card. It should be somewhere in my bag. Ah, here it is,” I said and handed it to him.

“Ha, ha…ha!” Uncle Paul laughed. “Talking about the old bugger, and here he is! I last saw Steven Bille several years ago. You might not believe this, Tania! Steven was a close friend of mine. In fact, we were classmates back in the university. He often gave your father the creeps with his strange stories. Marc, you remember him, don’t you?”

My father nodded. “A smart fellow,” he said.

“Good you remembered him. I miss the good times I spent in Steve’s company. He was a great animator, a cheerful person and a born leader. He taught me how to play chess. He was a good player, back in the day. Oh yes! I loved playing the game with him. But I never understood why he enjoyed employing funny tricks every now and then just to win a game, and then turning around and telling his opponents about his underhand moves. Believe me, he was funny.”

“I guess for the fun of it,” my father said with a laugh.

“Perhaps, perhaps! I never thought of him as a cheater in real life, not even once. So, you understand why I found his actions puzzling.”

“Yep, I do! Some honest people think it is better to know the ways of the devil without being evil.”

“You may be right. Steven once said to me that ‘the scrupulous survivors in life are the best counterweight to unscrupulous survivors.’ I guess cheating in a game and letting his opponents know about it afterwards is his own way of pruning his survivor skills for future battles against the unscrupulous survivors of this world.”

“I guess you are right, Paul.”

“I had no idea the fellow was in town. Tania; is it okay if I go ahead and write down the information on this card. Oh boy! Steven is in for a big surprise tomorrow. I will rattle him out of bed with a phone call the first thing in the morning—tomorrow morning that is.”

I was in no position to refuse my uncle’s request. His reason for thinking highly of this man who found Sancho fascinating had to be good. So, I consented. Even as I walked away to the media room to join Phelim and Nigel for the movie I had been looking forward to watching all day, I could not help but wonder what Mr. Steven’s story could be all about.

I greeted the others in the media room and sat down with thoughts racing through my mind. However, the movie was so good that I ended up loving every moment of it. I even whined whenever it came to the commercial breaks. When the story ended, I wiped a tear for Yevgeny Onegin, even though my younger sister blamed him for making his life a jaded one.

We decided to watch another movie after that. Phelim and Nigel outvoted me to watch an episode of Shaka, the Zulu king, instead of Spartacus, the gladiator. I accepted my defeat with a sigh, and then made my way into the kitchen for something to drink. I got a can of tropical fruit juice out of the fridge all right, opened it and gulped down about a quarter of its content before heaving a breath of satisfaction.

The encounter with Jevenie was on my mind when my fox-like ears caught wind of voices in the balcony. It was difficult to determine from that distance what my uncle and my parents were chatting heartily about, but something told me I could be the focus of their discussion. So, I edged closer to within hearing distance, but hidden away from their view, and then listened to their conversation. Uncle Paul was recounting one of his many experiences in a foreign land. He liked telling those foreign stories as if he wanted us to know that the world involved a lot more than the things or issues around us that we worry about every day.

“There are colorful characters out there in the world,” Uncle Paul said with a crackle, “I met this Afghan fellow in the Soviet Union, in Russia precisely, while I was out there dimming my narrow impressions of life. Babrak was his name. He was of the Hazara ethnic group, with eyelids like those of a Mongol. The guy was studying medicine at the time. He was a peculiar if not fascinating character, the type with the knack for making people mad and cheerful in turns. Anyway, I liked him. I was taking my girlfriend home one frosty night when I bumped into him in the corridor. He was in a festive mood at the time, and must have been returning home from a party; if not, then from a cheerful occasion of some sort.

‘Paul, I am your friend, please take pity on the plight of your lonely friend and share her with me,’ Babrak shouted out to me in a pleading voice.

“The interesting thing is that the bugger made the request in English, in a voice that was somewhat comical. I did not take his proposition seriously and laughed it off with a smile. When my girlfriend questioned me about the true nature of the words Babrak used that night, I told her a lie instead. Anyway, I bumped into the Babrak at the cafeteria the next day and decided to bring up the subject of his demand the night before.

‘You are funny Babrak,’ I said to him, ‘How could you ask your friend to share his woman with you?’

‘She is beautiful. Paul, I want to tell you something. The only time a man should consider another man he trusts to be his true friend is when the other man is prepared to share with him the things that he prices highly in life,’ Babrak told me with a strangely mischievous smile corrupting the sides of his mouth.

“I was initially aghast. No, I was horrified and infuriated at the same time. The expression on his face must have ticked me off because I actually felt like punching him. Something about the way I looked must have told the guy his words were not funny at all because he started apologizing and almost tripped over as he backed away. I have thrown a punch, two, or even more over petty words that most people would find inoffensive or even trivial. So, I am still surprised that I failed to throw one at him over something that most people generally view as derogatory. Instead, I asked him this question out of an altogether different impulse, in a voice that was even strange to my ears:

‘So, you would have gone ahead and slept with her had I accepted and had she consented?’

‘That is against my principles, against my culture, and against my religion. Doing something like that would be an act of betrayal, my friend,’ Babrak told me in a shaken but sincere voice. ‘We are not like the Chukchi people. We do not share our women,’ he added light-heartedly, and then laughed.

‘The Chukchi people?’ I asked him. I must have looked like a monk entering the house of the infamous for the first time, when I said that.

‘The Chukchi people take friendship to strange levels, my friend. They sometimes go as far as sharing their wives with their friends. I do not know the exact group of Chukchi people who do that, but the practice exists out there in Chukotka. This is how the Chukchi people who live in the far end of Siberia, in that frozen part of the Russian Far East that stares at Alaska from across the Bering Seas, go about exchanging wives. A visitor graces your home and you decide to make him feel very comfortable by offering him your wife for the night. You visit his home and he does his best to meet the minimum standards of treatment, first by offering you the full services of his wife. Don’t you think that is a perverted form of friendship?’ Babrak told me mirthfully.”

“Does that really exist,” I heard my father ask his older brother in a bewildered voice.

“Yes, it does. I made some inquiries and found out that the exchange of wives is a part of the Chukchi culture, albeit one that is dying out.”

“Oh man! I wish I were a Chukchi. I would have made more friends than the stars in the sky,” my father said with a chuckle.

“And where would that have put me?” my mother asked, and then started laughing too.

I stifled a laugh and gingerly left my spot, happy that my uncle and parents did not find me eavesdropping. Even as I rested my head on the pillow and tried to fall asleep that night, I could not help but ponder the nature of life and the interpretation of different cultures, customs and traditions over the true meaning of morality, loyalty. I even thought about Jevenie and made up my mind to ask Sancho about her the next morning. But I failed to do so the next day, the next week, the next month and even years after. It wouldn’t be until a decade after that day that I brought up the subject of her interest in Sancho and got his response that made me smile.

“Jevenie is one of those beautiful creatures a true man would love to look at and perhaps touch in a non-enticing way, but she is not the type I would advise a true man who is seeking happiness to embrace and hold tightly onto his bosom. Your enticing neighbor was never the type of light a man needs to illuminate his life,” Sancho told me that day.

Chapter Six

The results of the public exams were released in the middle of that summer. Final year High school students all over the world look forward to their end of year examination results with trepidation. The British and Common Wealth nations of the world have their General Certificate of Education Advanced Level, popularly known by the abbreviation GCE-A-Levels; the French have their Baccalaureate; the American and Canadian High School students grapple with the General Educational Development, otherwise known as GED; the Chinese students seeking admission into college or university get squeezed by the Gaokao. Students who sat down for those final year exams share one thing in common with Sancho that summer—they too were anxious. And they were not alone because their families, friends, and schools shared their trepidation while hoping for the best. All the same, there was no reason for anybody to be nervous for Sancho’s sake because he lived up to expectations by passing in all the subjects he sat down for. I was one of the first people at their home to congratulate him.

Even though Sancho’s performance was good, he was unfortunate not to win a scholarship to study in one of the Ivy League universities he had been looking forward to enrolling into. That notwithstanding, his parents were very viable and got him admitted into the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. It was at this renowned American university in the south of the country that Sancho chose to study electrical engineering. I knew it was a good idea for him to leave, but the thought of life without him left me with a sinking feeling I could not dispel.

Truth be told, our friendship that summer holidays certainly boosted my self-esteem and facilitated my social development. However, my failure to cultivate the friendship of other nice boys in our neighborhood looked like it was going to hurt me in the long run.

It is easy to understand why I fell into that trap of dependability, considering the factors underlying the strength of our friendship. By showing me the outside world that was so alien to me just a few years ago, Sancho put himself in an elevated position in my life. And he did so by acting more like a reliable brother than anything else. In fact, he became the closest “big brother” figure I could ever have dreamed of, to the point where I woke up most mornings looking forward to seeing him. That alone explains why I studied very little that summer holidays.

Not until after the results of the GCE A-Level were released did Sancho start acting as if he just realized he had very little time left in his hands before leaving for North Carolina, and so must make the best use of it. In fact, he visited us more frequently, that is, about two times more than he did during the first half of that summer holidays. I don’t think his increased presence at our home rattled anyone. He gave nobody any reason to worry. After all, we trusted him, and he was about to leave us for a distant land and a new life in the tobacco- growing state of North Carolina.

The first time Sancho’s mother insinuated that North Carolina without tobacco would be like France without its vineyards, or the Netherlands without its windmills, or even Detroit without its car plants, I thought she was funny. However, when she took her joke a notch up by claiming with a straight face that they just bought a patch of land for Sancho to start cultivating tobacco on, with the intention of putting aside the proceeds from the sale of the crop to pay for his tuition through college, I was initially taken aback. Nevertheless, I finally got the point she was trying to make. Tobacco contributed a lot to the social life of North Carolina, even becoming the state’s number one source of revenue for more than a century. So, if Sancho fancied himself as a natural contributor in life, he could very well live up to that image as a farmer. The thought made me laugh because Sancho reeled in ideas and I knew dirtying his hands in earth or manure was not one of the things he cherished doing in life. Besides, he abhorred smoking, which made it difficult for me to imagine him chewing tobacco one day, a habit associated with tobacco farmers in North Carolina.

Sancho’s impending departure unsettled me. I was naive when it came to the realities of our times. In fact, I was in the dark in so many aspects of life, which is why I blush whenever I try to elaborate on the subject. In fact, I was barely beginning to know the way of life of adults, especially those with strong impulses and the basic instincts that drive them to secure the survival and continuity of their genes as natural animals of this world. Even so, I never thought of Sancho in any other light, other than that of a friend or a brotherly figure in my life, which explains why I always cherished my plutonic relationship with him.

That, I think, explains why I often looked forward to his angelic face and warm smiles with the innocence of a virginal mind. The feeling reflected the strong bond that developed between us, a bond that even transcended into our respective families. To me, the likelihood that our wonderfully close ties would outlast our lifetimes and perhaps continue into the next generation was very high. In fact, I thought our families were intelligent, respectful and good-mannered; and I thought our families adhered to high standards that were uncommon around. After all, wasn’t the public looking up to us as lofty characters in a new era of inclusiveness? And in a way, Sancho was outstanding in doing what everybody else was doing but in a different and better way. He was a local hero for his brains, for his skills as a soccer player with very quick legs, and for his engaging nature as a man of the people.

When Sancho visited our home one bright afternoon, about two weeks before his departure for college studies in North Carolina, I was exhilarated as usual. He was in cheerful spirits that day and looked exceedingly gorgeous in his New-Man jeans, Van Heussen shirt, a beautifully crafted black leather jacket, a beautiful pair of dark-brown Italian shoes and gold-rimmed eyeglasses. I am sure he stirred the desires of the young females he passed on his way to our home. In fact, I too was momentarily short of words when I welcomed him in. Even Phelim timidly told him that he was very cool looking, blushing several times as she repeated herself. Nigel asked him afterwards where he got the outfit from, and then told him that he would persuade our father to get him something similar.

My parents were out of town that day, attending the wedding of my father’s high school classmate’s daughter that was taking place some five or six hours away. The driving time could even be shorter depending on the nature of the weather that season. In a way, my parents’ absence meant that Phelim, Nigel and I were the only ones left at home since my older cousins and uncles no longer lived with us, having matured into adults with independent lives of their own.

What started off as an awesome experience with us running the show at home became rosier when Sancho accepted to join us at the table to eat the first good dish I ever cooked. It was pasta and tomato sauce, done with large chunks of meat and vegetable. He served himself twice and enjoyed every bit of it. In fact, he even pointed out in a sincere manner that I had the chef in me. When he told me that he enjoyed the meal just as much as he enjoyed his mother’s cooking, I was particularly overjoyed. I should have told him that I learned a lot from his mother, but I didn’t. I guess I just got carried away by the glory of the moment.

Jokes, laughter, and other light-hearted discourses followed our amazing time together at the table before Sancho invited me out for a drink. I accepted it without the slightest hesitation. But then, it was a different matter altogether when I told Phelim and Nigel to hold the fort in my absence. They pleaded to join us instead. Since that was not something Sancho had in mind, he engaged them in a moment of gentle persuasion. But not until I promised to be back with something nice for them did they agree to stay at home. The fact that they did not sulk or protest afterwards made going out with Sancho that day a fun thing to do.

Sancho acted like an Epicurean that evening by treating me to a light dinner with snacks and drinks at the exotic Atlantic Beach Hotel. His extravagance gave me some discomfort, but I nonetheless accepted everything he suggested we have or share without offering much of a protest. That was how an interesting three hours got swept away like a whiff before he suggested that we take a walk on the beach and savor the rippling waves, white sand, and blue skies. I told him I liked the idea even before he finished talking about it. So, we settled the bills, and then left the restaurant with smiles on our faces.

The atmosphere around the beach was so refreshing that I felt like I was on cloud nine. That was why when I first sensed Sancho’s uneasiness, I failed to dwell on it. Being the trusting girl I was, I just hoped he would get over whatever was troubling his mind. After all, the prospect of leaving his loved ones behind in Victoria for life in an alien environment could be weighing down heavily on him too, I thought. I even told myself that his quiet side was what made him the taciturn character I trusted, a character that successfully endeared himself to those who got an insight into his soul.

Wise men talk because they have something to say, I thought, and then carried on, putting my momentary discomfort on the back burner.

In hindsight, I think I was trying to rationalize Sancho’s sudden unease. In fact, I failed dismally thereafter in making a worthy contribution to our conversation, as he did much of the little talking that went on between us during the walk along the sandy beach of Victoria’s sea shore. It was as if I did not want to say just about anything that could whisk him out of his quiet thoughts.

I was enjoying the intoxicating effect of my blissfulness when it dawned on me that twilight was on the horizon. I could have sworn Sancho senses my thoughts because he suggested seconds after that we go back home. I nodded my acceptance and walked with him up to the side of the road.

Sancho hailed an approaching cab, and then chuckled when the driver pulled it to a screeching halt a couple of feet away from us. He held my hand, opened the right rear door for me to get in, before sitting down by my side in the back seat. I closed my eyes for a moment as the driver began the drive to Bota.

I don’t know if it was during the drive or before it that alien thoughts started sprouting in Sancho’s mind. Whatever the case, he became too reserved for my liking and avoided looking me in the eye as if the car made him develop a sudden interest in the rolling scenery, scenes and structures outside.

The drive back home should have taken us about ten minutes. However, it appeared shorter, probably because we were so much into our thoughts. Mine was on the good time we just had and on how I was going to tell Phelim and Nigel about it.

We were a hundred yards or less from our home when Sancho jolted me by ordering the cab driver to take us to Federal Quarters instead.

Now, Federal Quarters is another neighborhood altogether, albeit a neighboring one to ours. It virtually merges with Bota’s southeastern half. I wouldn’t say I am being snobbish or disingenuous here, but I was among the majority in Victoria at the time who thought that Federal Quarters wasn’t as plush as Bota and that the neighborhood’s reputation wasn’t as good either. I knew a good number of rugged characters with money and fame living there, but who led unsettled lives.

“But I am almost at your destination,” the driver protested as he brought the car to a crawl, and then turned his head around and looked back at us with questioning eyes like someone who just found out that he is carrying criminals.

“Take us there. I shall increase the payment. How about doubling the amount we agreed upon as the cab fare?” Sancho proposed in a shaky voice.

“Don’t worry, Sir! I can take you to the North Pole even if you pay me right,” the cab driver said, and then emitted a short laugh.

“I am fine with the warmth down here. The North Pole isn’t for me, buddy," Sancho offered and laughed too.

“You have a point,” the driver responded in a good-humored voice.

“I can see for myself that you have fur for body hair.”

“You mean the patch on the back of my neck? That’s all there is to it. I wouldn’t survive any serious cold.”

“Me too! I got sheared yesterday,” Sancho joked and guffawed.

The cab driver laughed back and shook his head in an amused manner, but stopped short of offering another word as if by a conscious effort.

“Who do you plan to see in Federal quarters?” I asked, fixing my eyes on Sancho’s face, wondering whether the bottle of beer he drank a while ago was starting to have an unusual effect on him.

“A popular friend in Bota,” he replied, licking his lips, “I was supposed to meet him an hour ago,” he added with that reassuring smile of his that instantly dissipated my worries.

I giggled and sat back in a relaxed manner. “Did you say your friend?”

Sancho nodded and caressed his chin. “We have been friends for almost a decade now. No, more than that. It has been close to twelve years, actually,” he said, and then nodded in an assertive manner that immediately caught my attention.

I wonder why I failed to dwell on that. I just stared at him with trusting eyes as he talked about the day, the holiday generally and how he would miss Victoria. I thought his impending departure was beginning to stir rueful feelings in his bosom when he told me his friend’s name in a non-committal manner.

“Sidi Talla! That must be Uncle Jarvis Talla’s nephew,” I giggled with trusting energy that made him look at me with puzzled eyes.

“You’re right,” he said with a nod, and then looked away as if something outside suddenly caught his attention.

“He is my cousin’s boyfriend. I mean my cousin Delia. Isn’t he supposed to be out of town? Delia told me so in our telephone conversation this morning.”

Sancho smiled his reassuring smile, and then licked his lips with a swift movement of his tongue. For some reason, his tongue movement brought to mind a chameleon in a National Geographic documentary I watched a few days ago. I could not forget the image of the intriguing creature flicking its tongue and catching an unsuspecting prey that must have thought it was a safe distance away. The predator achieved the feat by a swift motion of its harpoon-like tongue, an act that seemed both gentle and cunning for an animal so slow and unimposing.

“I talked lengthily with him yesterday,” Sancho intoned with closed eyes, “I mean Sidi, Sidi Talla,” he added and smiled at me.

“Okay!” I mumbled foolishly.

“Phew, girl! I even had him on the phone this morning. We spoke for over an hour. Guess what? He promised to be in town before it clocks nine this evening.”

“Oh!” I muttered in a listless manner.

“It doesn’t matter if they don’t have anybody at their home. What’s the big deal? We can make ourselves comfortable there while waiting for him. This might come as a surprise to you that Sidi and I are very close friends. We go a long way.”

“How long have you been friends?” I asked with dimmed eyes.

“We go way back. In fact, I attended kindergarten with his younger brother. He even gave me the keys to their house. He trusts me like a brother,"

I did not suspect Sancho of dubious intentions, so I said light-heartedly. “It’s been a while since I last saw his uncle. He is very fond of us the kids and acts more like a true uncle in so many ways.”

“He too is a good man,” Sancho said with a nod.

“Hmm! He is like Uncle Paul in so many ways, except that he doesn’t seem to have regrets over, over, over…”

“―Over what?” Sancho posed the question in a halting manner.

“You know! There must be something unstable about his life to make him the bachelor that he is.”

Sancho nodded before adding in a slightly stuttering voice. “He is a good man. His beautiful heart is one of the many qualities that endear him to a lot of people. Folks like Mr. Talla have a hard time finding the woman to complete them. I mean a soul mate. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

I nodded and closed my eyes for a moment before opening them again. I did not feel like thinking deeply at all, especially after spending such a wonderful time with Sancho. But unavoidable thoughts kept imposing themselves on my mind, flashbacks to moments when Jarvis Talla featured in my life. Whatever he did before I was born, his role in the welfare of my parents certainly was not a healthy one. People consider the sudden enlightening of the mind as a sort of premonition, but I didn’t dwell on anything at all.

Sancho, like me, was having his mind on something else because it wasn’t until we were almost driving past the Talla residence that he told the driver in an anxious voice to stop and let us out. He got an immediate response because the car pulled to a screeching halt, almost propelling us to the front seat and leaving me breathless in the process. Then the driver turned around and regarded us searchingly.

“Yalta?” he asked with wide eyes that were almost popping out of his head.

Sancho did not give him an answer. All he did was smile and nod in a nervous manner, before fumbling with his wallet for the cab fare. In the mean time, I got out and started walking away, savoring the unfamiliar joy and listlessness that now characterized the state of my mind, as if the abruptness with which the driver pulled the car to a stop had no effect on me at all. I was even smiling and swinging my arms as I galloped towards the Talla residence ahead of Sancho. Not until I was about thirty steps away did I spin around to find Sancho pocketing what had to be the balance to the note he gave the cab driver. But I did not dwell on that. Instead, I turned around again and proceeded in my advance towards the Talla residence.

About ten yards away, I stopped and regarded Sancho with lit-up eyes and a sweet innocent smile on my face. So, when he shuddered slightly as he confined his wallet to the back pocket of his pants, and then approached me with hurried steps, I should have been apprehensive. But I was not. The fact that I also failed to grapple with the cab driver’s questioning remark that flushed through my mind just then, and the fact that I did not give the name Yalta a second thought, still surprises me right up to this very day.

“Wait for me, Grand Duchess,” Sancho called behind me in a half-imploring voice.

Not only did he sound uncomfortable, he looked lost as well as he covered the distance separating us with hurried steps. “Catch up, lazy bones,” I giggled and edged away.

I usually smiled whenever someone humored me with the title Grand Duchess. As a matter of fact, I noticed that Sancho’s endearing side went a notch up the past couple of weeks, especially after he started calling me Grand Duchess, often with a majestic gesture as if trying to charm me or something. I think the whole Grand Duchess thing began after he read a book about the Russian Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolayevna, who was rumored to have survived the massacre of the Russian imperial family in Yekaterinburg in 1918. He was so enthralled by the tragedy that he got a video tape on the story a couple of days ago, a film featuring Yul Brynner, the famous Hollywood actor that Sancho considered to be his favorite. Intriguing as it may sound, Sancho was more fascinated by the Grand Duchess Tatiana, the older sister to Anastasia. The subject of many rumors, Tatiana Nikolayevna was a somewhat controversial figure, especially in her relationship with colorful figures in the imperial court during the last years of the Romanov dynasty.

“You are nuts, Tatiana,” Sancho said breathlessly, shook his head, and then increased his pace.

Now, I was about twenty-five yards ahead of him. For no apparent reason, I edged away even further. Thinking about it now, I must have acted out of a sudden impulse to get to the entrance door of the Talla residence ahead of Sancho, a feat I accomplished giggling excitedly.

The compound was too quiet for my liking, yet I failed to dwell on that discomfort. Just as I was about to ask Sancho what the time was, I perceived a faint sound emanating from the sitting room. The strangeness of the noise piqued my curiosity even further, putting the foreboding feeling in my stomach on the backburner. To satisfy my curiosity, I mounted the stairs to the veranda, all the way to the two windows of the sitting room. The draperies across one of them were slightly parted, allowing me to peep through the gap.

Oh God! Oh, my good God! I should have been born blind. My mother, my very own mother, was lying naked on the sofa with Jarvis Talla. And she was moaning.

“No, no...no, no, no!” I shouted in shock and disbelief, dashed out of the veranda and the compound, and then ran away like someone being chased by the devil.

Sancho could not even stop me. Nobody could stop me. I hailed a cab that was around the corner, not heeding Sancho’s attempts to halt me. Tears were streaming down my cheeks when I hopped in, told the driver my destination, and then fell back in the backseat sobbing.

I was still shivering and whimpering when we arrived in front of our home. But I managed to hold my emotions in check before I walked inside. Nigel suspected something wasn’t right even though I told him that Sancho and I had a great time. He was surprised by my indifference after he told me that our father telephoned while I was away, to say that he would not be spending the night with us because of inescapable obligations to the family of the bride, and that our mother would be home to see us off to bed. So, when Phelim asked me why Sancho failed to see me home that night and why I looked so distraught when I left home that afternoon bustling in high spirits, I was short of words. But I didn’t deign it necessary to tell them anything. Instead, I said goodnight, headed straight to my room, slipped underneath my bedcovers and grappled with the thought and sight of my mother in the arms of another man.

I woke up late the next morning feeling so down that even Jaco, my pet parrot, could not uplift my spirit with its singing. No matter how hard I tried not to think of what I saw at Federal Quarters the day before, the nightmarish image of my mother and Jarvis lying naked on the sofa superimposed itself on my mind. As usual, Jaco stopped singing just after nine o’clock, leaving me with nothing to distract my mind.

An hour got swept away before I scrambled out of bed and made my way into the bathroom, spending a quarter of an hour there relieving myself and doing my morning cleanup. But I did not emerge feeling fresh, reinvigorated and ready to take on the challenges of the new day. That was why I had a grumpy look on my face as I headed for the kitchen in search of something to eat. Nigel and Phelim were engrossed in their scrabble game and presumably didn’t hear me greet them as I sauntered through the living room. They only looked up at me after I stopped to check on a letter lying on the table in the dining room.

“Good morning, Tania,” Phelim greeted in a spirited voice.

“Good morning, Big Sis,” Nigel mirrored her enthusiasm with a smile.

My reply reflected my solemn face that spurred questioning looks from my two siblings. Then they shrugged and continued their game. I walked into the kitchen and ferreted around for a moment, only to realize that it too could not provide some respite for my troubled mind. No matter what I looked at or tasted, nothing seemed appetizing enough for my corrupted appetite. I must have spent about five minutes there when it dawned on me that I did not feel like letting anything down my throat. Just then, Martha, the house-help, offered to fix me my favorite breakfast of omelet made with chopped tomatoes, sweet pepper, parsley, basil, leek and chives. I was not enticed. I noticed that she was not happy at all about the way I declined her kind gesture. So, I apologized right away, and then stood by the kitchen door, watching her chop vegetables for the afternoon meal. The activity turned out to be a source of distraction that elevated my spirits to the point where I even engaged her in a conversation.

I found out from her that my father left for work early that morning. In fact, I felt good about myself when I thanked her, and then walked away to the veranda, wringing my hands.

I spent the next half an hour leaning on the rails and gazing sightlessly at the scenery outside. However, even that could not provide enough comfort for my unsettled mind and restive soul, a feeling compounded by my grumbling stomach, which kept reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything all morning. So, following Pavlov’s theory of classical conditioning, I headed back to the kitchen, determined to address my loss of appetite.

My mother was the last person I expected to find nearby. But there she was, staring sightlessly at the kitchen window, presumably at the greenery outside. Gingerly held in her left hand was a glass that was three-quarter full of whisky. She disgusted me so much that I didn’t even bother to greet her. Could she be so contemptuous of everything meaningful around her as not to feel any remorse for her action the night before? Or was she the type who found pleasure only in scornful fornication, adultery, gluttony and other pleasures that made her an amoral person? I don’t know why, but I was gripped by sudden flashbacks of some of the times that her cruel remarks made me cry, remarks indicating that she wouldn’t have missed me had I not been born.

If I was taken aback by my mother’s sheer guts, her next action surprised me even more. She walked up to me, ruffled my hair and asked almost motherly. “How did you sleep last night, my sweet little pearl?’

For a moment, I just stood there, completely caught off guard, not knowing what to say or do. My momentary paralysis was only broken by a sudden motion that might have been violent because I shoved her hand off me, causing her drink to spill in the process.

“Don’t bother to touch me, you…” I stuttered funnily, gripped by a sudden and inexplicable self-restrain that intrigued me. I simply could not unleash my vehemence. Instead, I sighed, walked away and leaned on the kitchen table.

“Tatiana!” my mother called, looking nervous, shameful and rueful.

I raised my head and regarded her. “What?” I asked, looking at her straight in the eye.

“Please, do not make it too hard for me with such words and that look on your face as if I am the vilest creature that has ever walked this earth. I am human, Tania; I am human with feelings and vulnerabilities. I make mistakes, Tania, but I am not bad,” she pleaded and looked at me with such dread in her eyes that I had to stop myself from weeping and falling into her arms.

Just then, the thought of her the night before flashed in my mind, cutting through my heart like rapid strokes from a lasher’s whip. I closed my eyes, making the conscious effort not to think deeply about it, separating emotions from rationale in my search for a logical reason for her action the night before. But I found absolutely nothing to comfort my soul. So, I opened my eyes again and glared at her for what seemed like ages, forcing her to look down with trembling lips and blinking eyelids. At length, she rested her left hand on her waist and took a deep breath

“It just happened,” she stuttered, looked around her at nothing in particular, and then gazed back at me, before looking away again, repeating the motion a couple of times in rapid succession.

“It just happened?” I repeated after her.

“There are certain things I just cannot explain to you. Mother of God; do I have to tell you that I had a whole lot going against me that had a profound influence on my actions? I know you are hurt. It is not your fault at all. You are entitled to your anger. That is something I am not disputing. However, the only thing I want from you is your forgiveness,” She said with a note of desperation in her voice, turned her back to me, and then refilled her glass from the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen island.

That was the moment I felt a deep disdain for my mother, an uncontrollable surge of negative emotions that would have made me lose my head had the feeling persisted long enough. She was the antithesis of the mother any proud and well-bred child would want to have. She paled in comparison with Sancho’s mother as a true or ideal female parent figure in the life of any child.

“Aren’t you ashamed that uncle and nephew are sleeping around with aunt and niece?” I lashed out at her with a look on my face that could have melted her wax effigy.

“Please, Tatiana; don’t be hard on me,” she pleaded and finished her drink with a massive gulp, “Your mother is human. That is a side of me you should come to terms with. We are women, Tania! I have a past, which I am still trying to come to terms with.”

“You are worst than a whore, Mum,” I said icily, “Now I understand why you complained all the time about the day of my birth. You missed him a great deal, Mum. What should I think? I may even be his child.”

“You are wrong, Tatiana,” she said, moved away and closed the door to the dining room. Then she turned around again and regarded me with alarmed eyes.

“I am wrong? That’s amazing!” I said with quivering lips, reflecting my dread and anger. I certainly did not want Jarvis Talla to be my biological father.

“Don’t say anything anymore,” my mother pleaded, looking horrified beyond the comprehension of my simple mind. “He was in Germany when I conceived you.”

“And what have you got to say about my brother and my sister?” I asked in a monotone.

“Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed with an expression of dread on her face that almost made me pity and soothe her. “You are all your father’s children. Tania, I swear to God you are all his children.”

It is funny that I smiled at that comment. I couldn’t tell if it was out of malice, exhilaration or relief. The smile certainly brought some comfort to my troubled mind. However, it was so icy, delicious and malicious that it failed to precipitate the warmness of my eyes and did not ease the pain in my soul. It was only two months ago that my father called that smile the devil’s grin.

“Mum, to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind seeing you out of this house this very moment. But there is Phelim and Nigel whose interest should be discounted. They are still young and need a mother-figure in their lives. Now, you better act like a real mother or else…”

“―Or else what?” she asked in a constricted voice.

“Figure that out,” I said dryly.

“So, you wouldn’t tell your dad?” she asked with an expression of mixed hope and dread on her face, and then gasped in an embarrassing manner.

I regarded her fixedly for a moment. “Mum, I hope you understand what I mean,” I said barely above a whisper.

“Thank you, Tatiana!” She gasped with a look of relief on her face, and then surged forward and engulfed me in her arms, almost suffocating me in her embrace.

I hated her for this. “Don’t you put your filthy hands on me,” I hissed with disdain and pulled away from her.

“What did you say?” my mother asked, looking bewildered, hurt and on the verge of tears.

“I don’t want you to induce me into your values, Mum. Your family has a long history of pairs of sisters whose values diametrically oppose one another. Every generation has produced a whore and a nun. What saddens me is the fact that you chose to be the whore. That is something I won’t go in for.”

I was about to say something more when I noticed the growing anger on her face that was fast turning into a blinding rage. I even thought she looked possessed just before she flung her right arm and slapped me hard on my right cheek.

“I can’t stand you anymore, Tatiana,” she said, held her right arm with her left hand, and then looking appalled for a moment, she burst into tears.

“Why? Is it for the simple reason that I am not like you?”

“And what were you doing in Yalta?” she shot back in a defiant manner, a triumphant smile lighting up the corners of her eyes and mouth.

I failed to grasp the intricacy of the question that I knew was a counter charge, and so for a moment, I just stood there staring at her ponderously. Then my mind started racing. It was only about four months ago that I learned of Yalta in our history class as a town in the Crimea, the historic peninsular that became a popular resort in Soviet Russia after the war, the Crimea that Ukrainian born Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev transferred to Soviet Ukraine. Some popular romance novels and even movies like Casablanca which I watched that summer holidays were explicit enough about resorts. I knew resorts were also the arenas for lovers. My schoolmates from Victoria occasionally mentioned Yalta when chatting about some of the thrilling love adventures they had during the holidays. Then it dawned on me. Jarvis Talla was a lady’s man in town. His expansive compound that also included a chalet and boy’s quarter had adopted the name of a very popular resort.

I smiled triumphantly at my mother before muttering a sigh. “Not to do what you were doing,” I said, shook my head sadly, and then walked out of the kitchen.

I never told anybody about the scene I bumped into at Jarvis Talla’s home the day before, and I never mentioned my confrontation with my mother the following morning. I thought I did not have to. When I found out later that Phelim and Nigel were at our next-door neighbor’s house at the time that my mother and I were having our little episode in the kitchen, and that the house help had gone to get some stuff in the nearby shop, I was more relieved than happy.

It has been more than a decade since that encounter with my mother, but it is only recently that I started understanding her tears that day. Even though she did not intend to, she revealed that she still had some humanity left in her, a soft side of her soul I failed to understand at the time because of my immaturity and insensitivity. Some people are just like that. She was weak, and the fact that she did not try to justify her weakness said something about the naturalness of her soul. Even in the midst of her deception and treachery, my mother retained her great capacity to think good about those who could be hurt by her actions.

I think our encounter in the kitchen marked the day my mother woke up to the horrors of her ways and decided to do something about it. It had to be the day my high-spirited mother decided to become a mother to her children by placing the interest of her offspring above her feelings and cravings. But if our confrontation that morning in the kitchen was a wake-up call for her, it certainly was the turning point in our relationship. That was the day I lost faith in my mother. It was the day I started caring less about her role in my life...

Janvier Chouteu-Chando is the author of THE UNION MOUJIK

New Cameroon Views Blog

Monday, October 7, 2013

THE GIRL ON THE TRAIL (Sample Chapters)

The Girl on the Trail

No comments:

Post a Comment

Total Pageviews