Chapter 14: Chapter 14

Monica spent the next few weeks scouring the city of Ibadan searching for a job under the pitiless sun, with the dust-laden harmattan winds blowing on her sweaty face. And to her utter consternation, she found out that getting a job in Ibadan was more difficult than getting an American visa. In truth, she wanted the job not because of the paltry money she would earn. She wanted it because she wished to keep herself busy and responsible, and to mingle as well. She had always loved the hardworking and gregarious life. Besides, she could never tell where she could find her Prince charming and her knight in shining armour. She trekked one sweltering afternoon with her file in her hand, and she felt very thirsty and dog-tired. She sat under a leafy mango tree, breathing the fresh air blowing on her face and counting the avalanche of applications she had written without replies, the scant interviews she had attended that were packed with people who had come for just one job, and the managers who had told her bluntly, without mincing words that they would love to have sex with her, if she really wanted to have the job. She had never experienced such frustrations and neglect in her life before. She had always lived the sheltered life. Now the thought of all the hardships, the grubbiness and shamelessness of these lecherous and heartless men was making her resolve to think twice before she would ever sack any worker in her rich business empire.

What really baffled her most was the fact she was never considered fit for any of the jobs she had applied for. She graduated from the prestigious Yale University. She had a Summa cum laude degree in Business Management, and she had all the work experience that was needed to run a business and take it to new heights. But why she was being overlooked left her in the dark and in the doldrums.

That afternoon, as she trudged home exhaustedly, looking at the several signposts plastered with ‘SALESGIRL AND SALESBOY WANTED’ she almost considered them. But she felt she was far too beneath those jobs. She was condescending too low, for Christ’s sake! She was still thinking and staring at one of the signposts when a man in a jeep, splashed the color of spinach, whooshed past her, and splashed the puddle of green water on her. She cringed and yelped in utter disgust. But the man was gentle enough to reverse his jeep and climb down from it to apologize.

‘Oh, my goodness! I am sorry I soiled your pretty dress. I should not be driving. It just happened that my driver is on two weeks’ leave,’ he said, his hands resting together apologetically.

‘It’s okay. At least you were gentle enough to stop and say sorry,’ Monica replied, cleaning her dress.

‘Please, I could buy you another dress; if you don’t mind. Or I could drive you home so you can change into another one,’ the light-skinned man said.

‘I’d prefer you drive me home instead,’ Monica said, looking at his face and liking his refinement, his humaneness and his modesty. She entered the man’s jeep, and there was an eerie silence until the man broke the stillness and asked her what a beautiful woman like her was doing walking under the scorching sun. Monica looked at her file that was swathed in a rubber jacket and sighed.

‘I am looking for a job. But I’ve seen that finding one in this city is a mirage,’ she said pessimistically. The man laughed loudly and swerved the jeep expertly to dodge a big pothole.

‘That is not peculiar to Ibadan alone. It’s the same dreadful situation in all the cities and villages in this country,’ he said finally. ‘By the way, I am Danny.’ He was looking at Monica and smiling.

‘I am Monica... Monica George-Bode,’ Monica said in her characteristic manner. The man turned sharply and stared at her intently.

‘That name rings a bell. It’s just that it’s absolutely ludicrous you would be her. I heard she is only child of the late billionaire and business guru – Francis George-Bode. Are you related? Or is it just a coincidence?’ Monica heaved a sigh of relief that she had escaped by the whiskers. It did not shock her that someone knew her name in the city. But it shocked and pleased her that she was now so different that no one around here could recognize her.

‘It’s just a coincidence. A daughter of such a billionaire wouldn’t be combing the city in the scorching sun searching for a job. Don’t you think so?’ she asked him.

‘Yes, of course. That wouldn’t make any sense,’ Danny replied. When he stopped Monica in front of her humble abode, he gave her his card.

‘Call me tomorrow. Better still, come to my office. I shall give you a job,’ he said, smiling, as he drove away. Monica clutched the card on her chest and smiled back, waving at him as she thought about the happenstance that could bring her a job. She also thought about Danny’s gentility and his handsomeness; and she wished he would be different. And perhaps, be the treasure she had come to find. Yet after she had a good bathe and scrubbed her skin really hard with a good sponge and a sweet-smelling soap, it still seemed to her like she stank of the grotty smell of the green puddle. The thought of that made her feel uneasy, and irritated her skin all through the day.

The next morning, Monica squeezed herself into one of her clingy blue gowns and went to Danny’s company. Danny was not doing badly. He was running a thriving noodle and biscuit company. When she sat down with him in his air-conditioned office, he opened the pages of her curriculum vitae methodically, as the papers rustled. Then he looked up at her and said: ‘What I do not understand is how you got to study at a prestigious university as Yale. How did that happen?’ He was tapping his long and tapering nail on the table and staring at Monica in wonderment and suspicion.

‘It was a free of charge scholarship. I was brilliant in the secondary school. Chevron, the beneficiary of our country’s oil was generous to give me that at least,’ Monica said flatly.

‘Oh, I see,’ Danny said, somewhat pompously. ‘All right, your CV is rich and solid. But I cannot remove the people here who have served me well. You shall be my personal assistant until there’s a better opening.’ Monica accepted the offer. But she was still at sea as to what the work of being his personal assistant entailed.

‘Don’t worry about what you’ll have to do; I shall intimate you as time goes on. About your salary, I think seventy-five thousand naira for a start is a juicy offer. Your work begins tomorrow. And one more thing, always dress smart and beautiful,’ Danny said, almost as an afterthought. Monica shook hands with him and as she picked up her file from the table to walk out of the office, she noticed Danny’s eyes piercing through her dress. She looked to see if her dress had suddenly become see-through, but it really was not. She could see the strong lust in Danny’s eyes. The leer made her feel somewhat uncomfortable. She remembered how she had gone through the horror of combing the city in search of a job, only to find this one on a platter of gold. When she thought about it and Danny’s awkward stare, the saying that there’s no such thing as a free lunch, crept into her head and unsettled her. But she shrugged it off and went home, glad she had at least found a job and the environment to meet new people, share ideas and mingle.

Monica resumed work the next day. Throughout the week she sat in her spacious office writing letters, carrying files, serving tea and coffee and going to business meetings with Danny. Most times Danny invited her to have lunch with him. The last time they sat in a restaurant eating together, their forks and knives clicking on the ceramic plates, Danny was staring at her again in that manner that gave Monica the impression he wanted something more than the office work from her. But she was prepared to wait till when he would make his move. She was not a presumptuous person or a perfect mind-reader.

‘Drink some wine,’ Danny had said to her, as he reached out and touched her hand. Monica withdrew her hand slowly and looked up at him.

‘No, thank you. I am a teetotaler. I don’t drink alcohol,’ she lied to him.

‘Really? You don’t?’ he asked her, a little bewildered. ‘You’re the first gorgeous woman I am meeting that does not drink alcohol. But you should drink sometimes. It’s healthful. Unless you drink, you cannot see visions, read the deep thoughts of men and see the things beyond that wall,’ Danny said, pointing at the glistening wall of the swish restaurant.

‘Is that true?’ Monica asked him; knowing in her heart that what Danny was saying was not really true. ‘Thank you. But I don’t need to be a seer or a mentalist to be happy,’ Monica said softly, straightening the crisp, white tablecloth. Danny smiled thinly at her; his eyes full of that strong leer that made Monica’s heart miss a beat.

‘Really, I know it’s a matter of privacy, opinion and personal decisions not to drink alcohol, but I sometimes imagine how interesting the life of a teetotaler will be. I think it will be very dull,’ Danny said, with furrows on his face.

‘To be honest, I don’t think so. At least I can say my life is not bland. Everything in life is about the choices we make. And like you said, everything is a matter of privacy, opinion and decisions. So your opinion of the boring and lonely life of a teetotaler also counts,’ Monica replied

‘You’re right anyway. But does every opinion really count?’ Danny asked her.

‘Of course, have anyone been killed for airing his thought or opinion?’ Monica asked him. Danny stared unflinchingly at Monica with flashes of surprise in his eyes.

‘I am really surprised you said that. Does history not teach us that? Do we not have histories of such instances of the several men that were forced to drink hemlock because of their opinions? Is Jesus’ case not a clear example? The man was brutally killed because of his opinions. If what you say is not so, I am sure the Constitution of our beloved country would not strive so hard to guarantee the freedom of speech,’ Danny said, smirking. Monica stared hard at him; hating his smugness and overbearing pugnacity.

The next day was Saturday. Monica did not go to work. It was her work-free day. She washed her dirty clothes and cooked a pot of tomato stew and white rice. Her cooking had become a lot better since her first fiasco with the jollof rice. She ate, and she was lucky to have electric power that day. She saw a few new movies on the television. Electric power had become a luxury, a once in a blue moon sight, since she moved into the yard. It had always been total blackouts, every time she returned from work, and the heat and mosquitoes always gave her unpleasant nights. Yet it was funny and unreasonable how the electricity bills came streaming into the compound, unencumbered, and with unbelievable money to pay. She switched off the television after the last interesting movie was shown and brought out one of her several novels to read. She loved reading novels – bodice rippers. It was one of her hobbies. The reading of such novels made her feel womanly, alive, sexual and relieved. The exciting and erotic plots always kept her intrigued and warm inside. She was reading and relishing it, and almost feeling horny, when she heard the knock on her door. She got up and peered through the keyhole. It was Funke. She pushed the bolt back, and the door rattled open.

‘Welcome, Funke. You didn’t go to work today?’ she asked her, as Funke sauntered into the room in her miniskirt and strappy top.

‘My sister, for where you see work? If I see hair to plait, I go plait. Money no dey this country again. Our politicians don carry everything go overseas. If you never see food chop, you go plait new hair?’ she asked Monica listlessly. ‘Please, I am hungry. You cook food?’ Monica nodded her head slowly and ladled some rice into the rubber plate and spread some stew on it, and passed it over to Funke.

‘Ah, rice and stew?’ Funke asked, as her eyes shimmered. ‘Big man food. Wetin you go come cook tomorrow ni?’

‘Must we all cook rice and stew every Sunday?’ Monica asked her, wondering if it was really a tradition to eat rice every Sundays. ‘Don’t bother about tomorrow, it will take care of itself.’ Funke shook her head slowly in partial agreement with Monica as she ate the rice hungrily and licked the bone in the meat like a glutton. Monica stared at her, watching her gluttony. After Funke finished eating and drank two cups of water, she belched and asked Monica if she heard the gunshots that rattled the air last night.

‘No, I did not hear anything,’ Monica said innocently.

‘Then how you dey sleep sef? Like dead body or log of wood?’ she asked Monica, surprised at her. ‘I did not close my eyes at all when I hear the first gunshot. The thing come shake everywhere like bomb from the next street. Armed robbers come the compound. Them take all their money and even raped a woman and her children. But they did not kill any person. They rape and rob here all the time,’ Funke finished, in better English, her forehead sweating and her eyes twinkling.

‘Are you serious about these robberies and the raping?’ Monica asked tensely, as tentacles of fear closed round her body; just as she imagined the robbers storming into the yard in the night, breaking down her wonky door, robbing and raping her. Ghastly and creepy scenes of the dirty robbers which she was certain would be smelling like goats, pointing a gun at her, striking her on the face, running their dirty hands on her lustrous flesh, kissing her with their stinking mouths, rending her clothes, yanking her legs open and ramming themselves into her precious body, played on her mind, filling her with fear and utter revulsion, just as goose pimples spread helplessly all over her body.

‘No, no. God forbid!’ she muttered suddenly and absent-mindedly, as she snapped out of the odious and gory thought. ‘Please, how is your boyfriend?’ she asked Funke, changing the subject immediately. Funke’s face wreathed with a smile, as they began to gossip and talk about men, marriage, relationships and all whatnot. Their conversation lingered, as they nattered until it was night, and Funke left to her room to sleep. Monica bolted her door securely and checked her window to make sure she was safe. She yawned sleepily and lay on the bed. And before long, she was snoring.

When the thin light of morning pierced through the see-through curtains of Monica’s window and streamed into her sleepy eyes and room, she knew it was a glorious Sunday morning. She woke from sleep and stretched herself languorously, and began to prepare to go to church. Since the incident with Melvin, after which she recovered from the trauma and her mother, organized a Thanksgiving Service on her behalf, she had not gone to church since then. So she made up her mind to attend Mass that morning. The Roman Catholic Church, Saint Cecilia’s–a magnificent edifice–was just two streets away from her yard. After she had her bathe and applied a light make-up, she walked to the church with her missal in her hand. The Sunday was the Feast of Epiphany. She sat on the middle pew and listened to the grey-haired priest as he gave a sermon about the three wise men that came from the East to pay homage to the newborn king born in the stable and placed in the manger. The priest urged the congregation to be wise in their decisions in life and take bold steps like the wise men. The sermon made Monica think of her stupid deeds and emboldened her to be wise, to fight for her true love and to do the right and adventurous things no matter the dangers or the risks involved.

After the sermon, the congregants filed out to take the holy communion, as the strong whiff of incense filled the church and blended with the slow and sonorous hymns of the celestial choir that were all clad in green, draping robes. Monica watched as the priest pressed the communion methodically, on the tongues of the spirit-filled communicants. Just as her eyes drifted slowly and fell on the handsome and light-skinned seminarian sitting on the armchair, inside the sanctuary. Their eyes met and lingered, and she smiled at him sexily. The seminarian’s red lips made her dream of kissing him. But as the thought of his celibacy crept into her head, it filled her with horror, as she thought of his virginity, sexual naivety and how a handsome man like him would spend his whole life, away from all the beautiful and shapely women in the world. She looked away from him, away from God’s property and shook her head slowly, and counted one husband less for herself and for all the countless spinsters in the big church.

When the Mass was ended, the church compound was filled with people who made their way through the small, black gate of the church to their various homes. Monica was humming a hymn when a hand tapped her on the shoulder, in that peculiar way Funke always did. She turned and found a brethren standing next to her and smiling broadly.

‘I watched you all through the Mass. Why didn’t you take the holy communion?’ he asked her.

‘How funny and awful of you to start a conversation in that manner,’ Monica said to him curtly.

‘Pardon my misstep then. I am not really a good wooer and talker,’ the young and light-skinned man said bashfully. ‘I am Philip Boyega and I am pleased to meet you.

‘Next time, you can start by telling a woman her dress is beautiful, or that you have met her somewhere. Those lines may sound trite and old-fashioned, but at least it’s better,’ Monica said, smiling at him. ‘I am Monica.’

‘Thank you, Monica. I will do well to remember your advice and those perfect lines of yours,’ he said, smiling back. And as they talked and walked towards Monica’s house, Monica found out that Philip was handsome, well-built and not really a bad talker. When an austere looking woman suddenly stormed out of her house and flung what was inside a black waterproof into the small bush that was on the dirty and tiny road. Philip turned and told Monica that it was faeces.

‘It’s a “short put.” I remember throwing one of them straight on the face of one of my wicked teacher, back then in the secondary school. I can still remember the look in his eyes when the shit splattered on his face,’ Philip said, scrunching up his nose. The imagination of the teacher’s face with faeces on it and the thought of Philip’s silly and thoughtless childhood misdemeanors, made he and Monica laugh boisterously, as they strolled leisurely along the bucolic road littered with nameless grasses that poked their heads on the road, swaying and waving at them in the gentle breeze of the sunny morning.