Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Finally coming to terms with the gruesome truth that Richard was gone forever, and uncomforted by the disturbing and depressing thoughts of him, Monica contrived to get over the remnants of his hurting and sorrowing memories and move on with her life. Most nights, she clasped the soft pillows in her lonely and cold bedroom and wished it was the warm body of the man she loved and treasured that was clasping against hers, with their legs tangled and their lips squashing and squelching together, in a long and breathtaking kiss. But the cruel reality that it would never happen always left her blue and forlorn. Yet she never grieved over Richard again. Running her affluent and incredibly big business empire more efficiently, became the uppermost thing on her mind. If she let the business her father laboured to build go into rack and ruins, or run into the ground, then the man would turn in his grave, and that was what Monica was not sure she would ever be able to bear. She would protect her father’s legacy with all her energy and blood, because she had loved him so much and he had loved her back in return. Also, she had admonished herself to move on and see the door that was now open to her and not remain in the doldrums, grieving and staring hopelessly at the one that was now closed against her forever.

And so, as Monica began to care less about what the people and staff in her office gossiped and whispered behind her back, she grew more confident and absorbed in her work. And she was incredibly glad that it began to make her thick-skinned and less vulnerable to overripe and embellished feelings and the attraction to the opposite sex. In fact, it made her resolve she would even be more stringent, tougher and harder to get, and impressed by any man. She would wash her face with water and a good soap next time, before she would ever fall in love again with any man. Or let any of them hop into her bed.

Helen on her part was delighted with Monica’s complete convalescence. For one to pick up the broken pieces of one’s life after such a devastating heartbreak was not a stroll in the park. But she loved the way she had let Monica mourn and cry all her tears and heart out, and how she had picked herself up again and moved on. A man’s life is like a flowing river, and no matter what happens, he must keep moving on, she had told her countless times. Finally, she was glad she had succeeded in drilling that into Monica’s head. It was amazing how beautiful and healthy she now looked; her skin gleaming in the sun; her smile constant and beautiful; Monica was putting on weight, and her once shattered confidence was back. But Helen was far happier about the business. It was growing again in leaps and bounds, with Monica clinching deals after deals, and executing the contracts seamlessly, with no ounce of glitches.

Yesterday, Monica had returned to give her far cheerier news. She would be travelling to London to seal a mega deal in steel with some Arab businessmen. The deal was worth millions of dollars, and it would thrust the empire on a more solid financial grounds. Helen danced all night, showering her astute daughter with loads of plaudits, just as tall glasses of frothing wine clinked and clinked in the merry night air, interspersing with their hearty laughter, as they celebrated.

Monica’s flight to London two weeks later was without perturbations of any kind. It was safe and smooth. When the plane touched down London and she walked down the ramp, she was greeted by the Arab businessmen with hearty smiles and warm handshakes, and was quickly chauffeured in one of their flashy cars and lodged in The Mandrake Hotel. That night, when the men walked her to her room’s door after a lavish dinner of grilled chicken with shallot sauce, and asked her with some amusement and mischievous twinkles in their eyes, if there was anything else she would need to make the night more pleasurable and memorable, Monica shook her head slowly, with a naughty and knowing smile and said ‘nothing.’ When she shut the door and sat on the soft and cozy bed and slipped her shoes off her feet, she disrobed slowly, unfastening the garter belt on her lean and graceful waist. Then she stepped into the warm bath and closed her eyes tightly, clamping her finger in her sparkling teeth, as she imagined the men’s offer. The sheer thought of it, made her feel blindingly horny. London was cold as a dog’s nose. And it was somewhat customary of the men to ask her that, since she was still unmarried and open to being laid. These things were all part of the fun of spinsterhood after all. She bit her lower lip sexily and wished she had come with Richard. For all his ingratitude and treachery, he was extremely good in bed. He would have been all she would have really needed for the cold and lonely night.

Yet she survived the cold night alone. She woke up the next morning and strolled down the sparkling stairs to the hotel lobby to discuss the business deal over some bottles of champagne with the men. When the deal was finally signed, and she shook hands firmly with the men, she was delighted that her father in his grave would be utterly pleased with her and the steady progress she had made so far, since she took over the reins of the empire.

After shopping for the next two days, Monica boarded her flight back home. She sat stiffly on the plane’s seat, as the plane lifted from the smooth tarmac like a bird, and thrust itself into the blue, windy sky. She had been taking flights all her life. Yet it surprised her how nervous and frightened she always was, each time the planes make to take-off. It always made her feel embarrassed and somewhat primordial.

The man sitting on the seat next to Monica was calm and insouciant about the plane’s take-off. In fact, he had a headphone to his ears and was mangling a very popular Nigerian song. He was wearing a white, sequined tunic, with a shimmering black shoe. Monica stared at him briefly, and then looked out of the window, staring at the white clouds as they flew. She brought out a magazine and began to peruse. Then the man suddenly stopped singing and removed the headphone and exhaled. He cast some furtive glances at her, and Monica pretended not to notice him. The man fiddled with his phone briefly, and then faced her squarely.

‘I see you like the dress in the photo,’ he said to her finally. The man was speaking of the dress in the glossy magazine, stashed with celebrities and their showy clothes and extravagant lifestyles. Monica turned and stared at him with an indifferent face.

‘Yes. The dress looks nice. I like it because it’s simple. It’s not as gaudy as the other ones here. But I like it more because it’s pink. Pink is my favorite colour,’ she said to him, running her hand on the glossy paper of the magazine. The man smiled; his laughter making a spitting sound.

‘That’s good. A lot of women are in love with pink. It’s their favorite colour. Mature and sensible men would never choose that as a favorite colour. A real man would choose blue any day,’ he said, grinning. ‘Tell me, did you enjoy your stay in London?’ Monica looked at him again and she loved the fresh fuzz on his upper lip, the redness of his lips and his glistening goatee. And of course, his well chiseled face. She thought he was handsome, and he reminded her of Richard.

‘Of course, I did. London is always a good place to enjoy any day,’ she said calmly. ‘You live in London?’ she asked him.

‘Yes. I do. But I travel to Nigeria often to see my parents and do some businesses. You know, one should never forget home because home is always home.’

‘Of course, home is where the heart always belongs. But if you know that, why don’t you just come back home and stay there permanently? Why do you have to come and live in another man’s country that they have worked so hard to fix?’ she asked him. The man was silent for a brief moment; he sat pensively, and Monica thought he must be thinking of what to say in his defence.

‘You speak as if you are not a Nigerian,’ he said finally, after the fleeting silence. ‘Nigeria is a dream killer. Do you know how much the lads over there with brilliant ideas have tried to contribute their ideas and talents to help the country grow, but their ideas are killed even before it takes root? The greedy and heartless men over there that call themselves our leaders won’t let you lift a finger. They enjoy the status quo. They have turned the country into their mine; their private fiefdom. They are milking it dry,’ he raved on; his eyes flushed with a seeming temper. Monica admired his passion; his seeming patriotism and felt his pain and irritation. But there were not enough reasons for someone to loathe his country that much and run away to another man’s country where you are treated like a second-class citizen. Stay in your own no matter how hard and tough it is. Somehow, you could make your own little change, she reasoned.

‘I suppose you’re one of the brilliant lads with the ideas and talents the politicians have stifled?’ she asked him churlishly.

‘Of course, I am one of them. I really tried to do a few good things. But I was always frustrated. I got tired and had to leave to a country where they are sane people.’

‘Maybe you have to try again; harder this time. You cannot quit because it was tough. Where are your balls?’ Monica asked him. ‘This time once we enter the country, I will take you to Aso Rock to see the president, and you’ll tell him the few good things he can do to make our country utopian.’ The man scoffed and stared into space.

‘That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘How do you catch a glimpse of the president when he is guarded by thousands of hungry soldiers and several pot-bellied advisers?’ Monica laughed, and the man laughed even louder.

‘Forgive my bad manners. I am Melvin,’ he said, extending a hand to Monica. Monica took out her soft and polished hands and they shook; the handshake lingering, as Melvin looked into her face, admiring her polished prettiness.

‘I am Monica… Monica George-Bode. I am a businesswoman and I am honoured and proud to be a Nigerian and to live in Nigeria,’ Monica said, smiling, her gap-tooth flashing. Melvin’s eyes widened theatrically, and he withdrew his hand as if in sheer shock. He cleaned the hand on his tunic and extended it again to Monica for another handshake. Monica took it reluctantly with dismay in her eyes.

‘Wait a minute! You’re Monica? You’re Francis George-Bode’s only child? The much discussed business mogul? The empress?’ he asked; his eyes twinkling; his lips quavering. Monica looked at him and smiled.

‘Well… yes. I guess I am not supposed to deny who I really am.’

‘Honestly, am very glad and fortunate to have met you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Aren’t you supposed to be in the first-class?’ Melvin asked her, grinning at Monica.

‘Oh please, just because you have money, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be prudent. Money is not for reckless spending,’ Monica replied, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Now tell me, these things you’ve heard about me, how awful are they?’ she asked him after a light pause, remembering her mixed fortunes, especially with love and her sex life.

‘You said awful? They are nothing awful about you. All I know are glowing and mind-boggling things. For a start, the rumour of your peerless beauty and business nous are not overstated. And I think the catchphrase: “Like father, like son” should be modified to include: ‘Like father, like daughter.’ It makes more sense to me when women of your kind are considered,’’ Melvin said. ‘But I am afraid; lads like you are very class-conscious people.’ Monica stared at him steadily and then laughed; her hand cupping her mouth.

‘Well … if there is a comparison with me and my father, I would say it’s really nice. It doesn’t surprise me; an apple doesn’t fall far from its tree. And about the class-conscious thing, you know as they say, the truth is the storm that always destroys everything. So talking about that, I think it’s your thinking and accent that seems a bit classless here,’ she said to him teasingly.

‘That’s not supposed to be a very good wit,’ Melvin said, a bit abashed by Monica’s humour. ‘I disagree with that. I am not one of the people who pierce their ears and decorate them with earrings and change their accent because they have travelled to the white man’s land. I stay true to my roots. I am original. I don’t need a strange look or a phony accent to impress anyone.’

‘I like those lines,’ Monica said, nodding her head in slow motions, like the nodding of the red-headed Lizard. ‘It’s always important for one to stay true to oneself, and that one never forgets his roots. My father always said the river that forgets its root will dry up.’

Just then, a stewardess strolled past them with a tray of steaming cups of black coffee, with the smell thick in the air, just as the raspy voice from the flight deck pierced the air, intruding their conversation. They have just arrived Lagos, and the passengers were being advised to fasten their seat belts for landing. When the plane touched down in Lagos and they climbed down from the plane and strolled together, trundling their bags. Melvin was staring deeply into Monica’s eyes as they talked.

‘I will be staying a few months in Nigeria for a business deal, and I hope you can grant me the honour of seeing you again. We need to have a proper conversation when we have lunch or dinner.’ He dug his hand into his pocket and brought out a card. Monica thought about the proposal and the card fleetingly, and then took the card from him.

‘Here is mine,’ she said, handing him a hard, shiny card. ‘We may see again. For now, I really don’t know if we will. I really feel jet-lagged. I have to think about it.’ Melvin placed his two hands together in supplication and smiled flirtingly at her.

The red and black Toyota Land Cruiser jeeps screeched beside them and some men in black suits came sprawling out, saluting, grasping Monica’s bag and opening the car’s door. Monica went in and sat at the backseat and waved at Melvin as they drove out of the airport. Melvin stood there briefly, watching the jeeps as they disappeared. He shook his head slowly, with a warm smile hovering over his face.