Chapter 5: Chapter 5

When Monica reached home that night, she greeted her mother languidly, as she clattered up the stairs to her bedroom. Helen had been utterly delighted about her daughter’s date, and was hoping to see Monica’s face lit-up, and her cheeks swollen with laughter and cheeriness when she returns, but Monica’s tanned face and wobbly steps told her all she needed to know. Her face furrowed with sadness as she watched her climb the stairs languorously. She stared into the chandelier, sighed heavily and plonked herself into the soft-leathered armchair in the living room. ‘Poor child!’ she gasped. She hated the fact that Monica have continued to walk around the place with sand in her shoes. It was that nagging feeling of shattered dreams, depression and loneliness that she desperately wanted her to get rid of.

Monica shut the door of her bedroom and flung herself on the bed, as tears prickled her eyes. She still did not know what to do. She did not know whether she was ready to love and trust again, after Richard’s cold-hearted betrayal. Her thought was in a shambles, as she undressed slowly, her hand running down the sharp curves and outlines of her lissome body. She walked to the mirror and stood there fleetingly, staring at her pretty and gleaming face and her long, drooping hair that buried her nape. There was no thinness about her now. There were no hollows in her throat and her collarbones were no longer sharp and jutting out as they once were, when Richard left. In her own mind, she was sexy and eye-catching, and she wondered why Richard ever had to cheat and leave. The fool was nothing more, than an ingrate and a traitor. And after his cold-hearted treachery, it was still early days to trust anyone, let alone another stranger like Melvin. There was a prescient fear that was lurking at the bottom of her belly, clutching her throat and threatening to strangle her. It was the fear that Melvin, given the same chance as Richard would do the same thing. He would leave her after she had come to love, trust and give him her whole heart. Men were not so different after all; they were all the same.

She went into the bathroom. Sobbing in the water, as the cold water trickled down her lustrous flesh and gurgled through the plughole. She turned the stopcock and stepped out of the bathtub and wrapped her body in her crisp, white towel. A thin layer of powder coated her face that night as she wore her filmy nightgown and white lacy underwear and climbed her bed, and slipped under the soft duvet. She was fortunate to have slept peacefully that night.

When the thin rays of the glorious morning sun pierced through the heart of the mist that covered the trees and sky, and came streaming through the chink of her door and the curtains of her window, Monica woke up. She stretched herself and yawned sleepily. She had to go to the office. There was a backlog of work craving her attention. She bathed quickly, did a light make-up, and hurried into a nice, clingy blue gown.

‘Good morning, Monica,’ her mother greeted, smiling at her, as she reached the living room. ‘How was your night?’

‘It was glorious, Mom,’ she said, smiling back.

‘Come and have your breakfast. Have some tea and bread,’ her mother said.

‘No Mom, I can’t. I have to go. I will rather have coffee and bread at the office,’ Monica said, making towards the door.

‘Fine, but make sure you do. It’s unhealthful to skip breakfast,’ Helen said, waving her goodbye.

The Mercedes car was already rasping. The door was open when Monica came out; she handed her briefcase to one of her guards and climbed into the car. The chauffeur backed the car out of the spacious compound and eased onto the crowded road, filled with noise, the crawling cars that nosed into each other and the pedestrians in the hold-up; the cramped and rumbustious road reflecting the hubbub and boisterous life of Lagos. Monica looked out of the tinted glass of the car, and watched the crowd of people that hurtled on the busy roads, with some talking, standing and scrambling into the yellow scrappy buses that ambled on the potholed roads. And for a brief moment, she wondered how the people in Lagos could have so much energy, defiance and resilience, but very little sense of hygiene.

Her phone already had two messages when it beeped again. Monica spun in the plump chair and picked it up from the shiny mahogany table. They were messages from Melvin. She peered at the phone and read slowly, as a smile wreathed her face. Melvin was a creative and talented writer. His messages were always original and romantic. She placed the phone back on the table, and shook her head slowly, as she began to type in the computer. She worked till midday, and even forgot to have her breakfast until she felt a sharp twinge in her stomach. She clutched her stomach and moaned and looked out of the window. It was a sweltering afternoon already. Then her eyes fell on the crisp and enthralling painting of the famous Benin Art on the glistening wall of her office. She loved the painting. She loved Arts and thought that most Nigerian artists like: Ben Enwonwu, Aina Onabolu and Bruce Onabrekpeya were really good. Though, from childhood she had always been a Picassoan fanatic. She had always had a strong crush on Pablo Picasso and his cubism ideology; it was the reason the walls of her bedroom were lined with most of his famous paintings. When her stomach growled again, she was certain she needed to go over to the usual restaurant at Macaulay’s drive, and have a nice lunch.

She shut down the computer and made to leave, when the intercom rung. It was her secretary telling her that Melvin was outside and wanted to see her. She told her to tell him to wait for her at the reception, as she was already on her way out for lunch. She came out of her office and found Melvin in a black sequined tunic that was not too different from the one he had worn the day they met in the airplane. She stared at him steadily, as sentimental thoughts filled her mind. She settled that Melvin was really handsome in the dress, just as her unguarded heart craved for him.

‘Hello, Monica,’ he said, smiling and walking up to her.

‘Hello, Melvin. You look sharp,’ she replied him, looking him all over. ‘I am on my way out for lunch. Join me if you want.’

‘Of course,’ Melvin said, walking beside her, as Monica’s sharp stilettos clattered on the tile floor of the reception. They sat at the backseat of her car, as the chauffeur backed out of the compound.

‘How are you enjoying the busy life of Lagos?’ she asked him, as she looked out of the window and watched the Porsche cayenne that whooshed past them. Then her eyes fell on the beggars with shriveled legs sitting on wooden trolleys and straw mats on the roadside, stretching out their dirty plates for alms. She rolled down the glass of the car and threw some crisp naira notes at them. ‘I am doing my part, making lives better and changing our dear country,’ she said, when she looked at Melvin. Melvin smiled and shook his head slowly, as he remembered the saying that a wealthy person who continues to give alms to every beggar may become a beggar one day. Then there was a fleeting silence in the car as he sat pensively, and thought briefly about the truism of that saying.

‘You know, corrupt practices are like a baby when nursed,’ he said finally, snapping from his thought and shattering the silence of the air-conditioned car. ‘Our leaders here are very good at what they do. They know how to get the people ensnared in the tentacles of poverty, hopelessness and helplessness. They make us poor, so that they can control us. The poverty and horrible education we receive have left the common man hopeless and ignorant. The people can no longer decide their lives and their fates, because they are excruciatingly hungry and poor. The politicians buy their votes and souls and decide what they want to do with the country and the people.’ Melvin’s voice was sounding somewhat exasperated.

‘I guess you’re still not ready then to come with me to Aso Rock and see the good man at the helms of affairs, and tell him your few good things that could change our godforsaken country,’ Monica said sneeringly. But Melvin laughed instead, and she joined him.

‘Life in Lagos is too much in a hurry. Everything is in fast motions. It’s always boisterous and disorderly here. It’s nothing like the quiet life of London,’ Melvin said. ‘But that’s why we are the third world country, anyway.’

‘That’s what they tell you, and that’s what you have chosen to accept. Who are the first and the second world countries? What makes them better than us?’ Monica said derisively, in a strong and voluble tone. ‘A hunchback does not see his own hunch, but always points at that of his neighbour. That’s what they do. They always demonize us. They talk about our poverty, diseases and failed leadership. But they never talk about their terrorism, racial discrimination and the blood-sucking effects of colonialism and neo-colonialism that they perpetrated in Africa that is still holding us back. Have you ever imagined Africa without colonialism and the unneeded interference of the Europeans? It is what they say and tell you, that racist and jingoist view that keeps you inferior, while they bask in their white supremacy. I refuse to accept all that. It’s all a charade. I think it’s about time you changed that crude view, too.’ Melvin stared out of the window and his throat parched. Monica was right somewhat, and he felt it was unimportant to stretch the subject further, as it had the potential to irk her and leave her red-faced.

‘I accept your view, but if it ain’t broke, we don’t need to fix it. This country is broken and everyone knows that. It would be foolish of us to drop all the blames on the feet of the white folks. We cannot cut our leaders some slack; we cannot absolve them of the blames. They have been culpable as well,’ Melvin said, smiling thinly. Monica cocked her head on one side, and as anger welled up inside her she wished Melvin would just shut up.

‘Sometimes you sound like Jon Snow!’ she said in a catty and slightly raised tone. ‘You talk like you know nothing. No one is cutting our leaders some slack, or saying the country is not mismanaged. I’m only of the opinion that you shouldn’t be too critical of your own. There’s no El Dorado or lily-white country in the world. Have some faith and let it be the cynosure of which you can walk by.’ Then there was a fleeting silence, as the music from the car’s stereo filled the air. Monica looked at Melvin briefly, and shook her head. She really didn’t expect anything different from him anyway, not when his aversion for everything Nigerian was so well-defined. She removed her eyes from him and began to sing and bob her head slowly to the rhythm of the music. Melvin looked back at her, surprised at the fluidity of her temperament. The way Monica switched moods effortlessly amazed him. It wasn’t quite long she was pugnacious with him, stressing her point in that vocal, feminine voice that sounded peeved. Now she was nodding and singing like it wasn’t her.

‘You love music?’ he asked her.

‘Of course, I don’t remember anyone who doesn’t.’

‘You’re right. Everyone does. Music has no boundaries. So what kind do you really enjoy?’

‘Opera and Jazz are my favourites. Even though I know it might sound a bit high-class and unconventional to you. You should listen to Kenny G’s: In the rain and Sentimental and of course Yanni’s Nightingale and Rites of passage. They are my best.’

‘Oh really?’ Melvin asked. ‘I love Kenny Rogers, Don Williams and The Beatles.’

‘They are great singers. Though I feel Michael Jackson should have been on your list. That African-American man splits opinion. He was both controversial and legendary.’ She watched Melvin nod his head stiffly, and the catchword: ‘Pan-Africanism’ crossed her mind. She and Melvin were guilty of the same sin. She wondered why they did not cherish and support African singers. How could they have left great Nigerian singers like: Victor Uwaifo, Osita Osadebe, Onyeka Onwenu, Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, Prince Sunny Ade, and instead choose to love foreign singers? Such an attitude smacks of inferiority, and was against the spirit of ubuntu and Pan-Africanism. To her it was a subtle form of racism and colonialism. This time, strangely and ignorantly, by Africans themselves. Where was that sense of allegiance, value, and the immense pride to support and promote one’s own?

The chauffeur pressed the car’s horn and some hungry-looking barrow pushers scrambled out of the road, as one of them called him: ‘Ole buruku!’ in a strong Yoruba accent, flashing his five fingers at him in the glistening sun. He slowed and brought the car to a grinding halt. They were now at Macaulay’s drive, and in front of the gorgeous Tasty Fingers restaurant. They climbed down from the car and strolled into the restaurant. Monica ate rice with chicken and cheese salad, while Melvin had a glazed ham with chilled orange juice.

‘You haven’t said anything about my confession to you,’ Melvin said, looking up at Monica, who was forking rice into her mouth.

‘I haven’t said anything because there’s nothing to say,’ she replied him indifferently. Melvin placed the ham in the plate and stared at her.

‘I think you’re playing with my feelings. I think you are being unfair to me. What else do I need to do to prove what I feel for you is true, and that it’s not superficial? Are you trying to put me off with that class-conscious thing that rich folks do? I know you matter, but I matter as well, and we all do. I will never give up on you,’ Melvin said, rising from the chair, paying the bills and leaving. Monica remained tight-lipped and stared at him as he scurried out of the restaurant. Her heart felt a sharp twinge of guilt, as she nibbled slowly at the chicken and left a large chunk of it on the plate. She had lost her appetite. Then she got up and left the restaurant and went back to the office. She sat clumsily on the plump chair and thought that perhaps, that she was being unduly hard on Melvin and unfair in the way she was treating him. Or perhaps, that she was letting the bitterness of the past ruin the brightness and happiness of her future. Or maybe, that she was now settling Richard’s scores with Melvin. She needed to break free from those tentacles of bitterness and distrust that have held her down for far too long, and finally be happy again. To love again, feel rested and cherished in the arms of another man that truly loved her. And that to her, was the only way she would be able to finally lay Richard’s ghost to rest forever. She clamped her finger in her teeth and scalding tears danced mournfully on her face.

That cold evening, after Monica closed from work, she drove to Melvin’s hotel room. She had planned to pay him a surprise visit. Melvin was shocked to the bone marrows when he opened the door and found Monica standing there in flesh and blood. He smiled and moved away, as she waggled into the air-conditioned room. She sat on the bed with her legs crossed; her smooth and polished thigh gleaming in her slit gown.

‘Why do you choose to stay in a hotel when your parents live in Lagos?’ she asked him.

‘It’s a choice. Just for convenience,’ Melvin said. He was wearing a short and his chest was bare, and Monica looked at the sprawling fresh hairs that tangled and lined his chest and flat stomach. And for once, she noticed how sexy and athletic Melvin really was.

‘But that’s also being extravagant, don’t you think?’ she asked him, looking away from his hairy chest. ‘It’s not the ideal for a shrewd businessman you claim you are.’

‘Yes. It might look like it’s not, but not when I have done the balancing act,’ Melvin said, with an air of confidence. ‘Tell me; to what do I owe this surprise visit?’ In Melvin’s mouth was the strong smell of vodka. Monica could perceive the stench as she looked at him steadily and swallowed spittle. She could see the strong leer in his eyes as he looked back at her. She remained silent and rose from the bed and walked over to the painting on the wall that looked like the renowned Igbo-Ukwu Art. She stared at it, admiring the painter’s creative idea and talent, running her fingers on it and feeling the smooth texture. Melvin followed her closely, as if controlled by some strong magic. He wrapped his hands around Monica’s waist. And Monica could feel the manliness of his firm grip; the tempting scent of his body and his Vodka-filled breath. They made her crave for Melvin’s touch and his lovemaking. Since Richard left, she had only continued to mourn him and have not moaned from that ecstatic feeling that came from being laid.

She turned swiftly and faced him. Melvin brought his red lips forwards, and to Monica’s consternation she did not push him away or refused him. Instead her body crumbled in his warm and strong grip. He kissed her hungrily and Monica moaned. Then their lips locked together, squelching in a breathtaking kiss. He fondled her expertly, as Monica moaned and breathed hard. He reached underneath her gown and ran his hand on her slick thighs, as his hand travelled deep and sensually. Monica could feel the wetness between her thighs. She pulled at his short, and they sprawled on the bed, panting; their clothes forming a shapeless heap on the floor. In a short moment, Monica was moaning and purring from Melvin’s sharp and deep thrusts, as his raspy and lusty breath filled the room. The rawness and sheer pleasure of his warmth inside her filled Monica with real grace and left her feeling extraterrestrial and marked another turning point in her love life.

They lay spent, gasping for breath, after the craziness of the act. Monica looked up at Melvin and pressed her red lips steadily against his.

‘Somehow you found the way into my heart. I’ve decided to trust you with it. Please guard it well and do not cause me pain. My heart cannot stand heartbreak,’ she muttered to him.

‘You can trust me with your heart. I am a good businessman and a great heart keeper,’ Melvin said, smiling and kissing her, as they giggled under the bedsheet; just as Melvin readied himself for another round of the sheer primal pleasure.