It was 4 pm. Adaka’s BB Z10 buzzed. It was Rudy. “Hey dear, any plans for leisure today after work?” she asked. “Nope, I don’t. What’s up?” he pinged back. Even if he had plans, there was that subconscious pull to satiate her desires. “My mum came visiting last night. I’d love you to meet her. She’s a fantastic woman. You’d love her.” “OK. Bump in at the close of work so we’d hitch a ride in my car. But I’ll have a quick bath at my house before going over to yours,” Adaka replied. “No wahala.” She knew when to switch between formal and informal airs. She sent him a kiss emoticon. He sensed a note of excitement in her pings. He was close to her to sense what was quite important to her. Meeting her mum was. He dropped the phone on the table. Where he came from, meeting one’s parents was a serious issue. It connotes a bond beyond mere acquaintances. However, he wouldn’t push the buttons yet. The outing would do him some good, a respite from the ugly news of the past week. The Boston bombings, the Baga genocide of two hundred souls, the AP tweet hoax, Suarez’s flesh eating misdemeanor; the gory events could stop the heartbeat of an elephant. He loved football. The week had been dramatic. Too pensive. His favorite team Barca had received a trouncing, manacled by Bayern Munich and their entrails spread out on the slab of shame. Later that evening, freshly donned in a Campari styled T-shirt, baggy shorts and sneakers, they arrived at Rudy’s one bedroom apartment in D/Line Port Harcourt. Her mum was at the door as soon as she rang the bell. She peeked through the curtains before unlatching the door. Rudy hugged he rexcitedly before doing quick introductions. “Mum, here’s Ady my friend and colleague,” she grinned. Adaka did a mental note of the order of introduction – friend, then colleague. It felt good to be taken as a friend first. Rudy was a carbon copy of her mum. The peak of her nose, the pout of her lips, and the curve of her hips - they looked like sisters. Her mum held his hands and patted them lovingly as grandmothers always do to kids they hadn’t seen in ages. If she had rubbed his head like his own grandmother always did, he wouldn’t have minded. “You’re welcome my son. My daughter has told me a lot about you. I’m glad to meet you.” They walked over to the settee and Adaka sat down next to Rudy’s mum as Rudy made her way to the fridge to serve him juice. Mrs Boma Pepple, a lecturer in International Relations and History at the University of Port Harcourt, was an intellectual stimulant. Their discussion traversed politics to Biafran history, from the fall of the Soviet Union to the economic depression of the 1940s. Her grasp of national and international history was eclectic. When she spoke of Nigeria’s woes and political impasse, her eyes showed pain and discomfort. Her face fell like a native doctor whose cowrie shells signaled an imminent danger. At certain times during their conversation, he fell short-changed by her repertoire of knowledge. She sensed his discomfort at those times and she’d smile assuredly to make him feel comfortable. They chatted at length about contemporary and historical writings. She eulogized the works of the Nigerian female writers - Flora Nwapa, Buchi Emecheta, Sefi Atta and recently the exploits of Chimamanda Adichie, Chibundu Onuzo and Chika Unigwe - in eloquent terms. She didn’t do so in a chauvinistic manner though. Adaka seemed to be on familiar territory. His eyes lit up like a two year old that saw sweets when she mentioned Flora Nwapa. He had read her novel EFURU when he was in secondary school; a beautiful novel. To him, those ladies of the old stock were legendary writers whose molds the new ones are expanding. He loved how the influence of technology and social media had amplified our voices. Someone’s voice could be heard millions of miles away from the solitude of a dinghy room. Writers could set the wheel of their stories on their pen tips in their tiny apartments and let them echo globally via the internet. “Hello dears, the table is set o!” Rudy interrupted their conversation. They stood up to go the table. He ate the sumptuous dinner with relish, a culinary experience the kind he hadn’t had in a while. [Excerpt from my short story ADAKA. To be unveiled in 2014. All rights reserved.]
Posted on: Mon, 25 Nov 2013 08:48:52 +0000