From Naïve Wishes – The Bachelor (Inspired by Martin Aguwa, while we sat at a certain pub)
By Binyerem Ukonu Sam Jr.
I’m a jerk. Don’t patronize me, telling me I’m not. I was born like this. At birth, I emerged, like one of those endangered species we see on Animal Planet Cable TV; no baby looked like me. – - – (I’m not telling anyone that I’m yet to see a baby with that weird semblance) – - – I had no hair the day my mother dropped me, like that funny doctor said. I cried in that manner that made me sound like a chick running from a hawk. I usually had that innocent erection anytime the nurse came close to cuddle me. I doubt my “little man” erected innocently, considering the rate it does now. I’m a dog.
(I’m sure you’re thinking I’m a mongrel. To straighten things out, let me tell you my specie. PIT-BULL)
Looking now at Mrs. Ibeawuchi, I’m convinced the more that I was born a scallywag. How on earth could I have had that erection for her? Probably, she was young and pretty. A Sisi-eko. Nwa Ada. Nurse Eliza. There’re still some traces of that beauty now; when you look at her. From her well rounded but sagged bum that looks like a repackaged bag of cement, to the weight on her chest, which I doubt is still new. Imagining what they used to look like, builds muscles in my “little man”. She was even better than Doc – Mama said – who didn’t even have a stethoscope. He used his deaf ears for heart beats. Poor people also needed Medicare anyway, since they couldn’t afford doctors that had stethoscopes. We were not even poor. (Laugh wan kill me die)
The day I made plans to make love to Chiamaka, it was my first time. I did not need Doc to tell me my heartbeat was faster than Hamilton of F1. I was a good definition of a well raised Naija Jewman. First, Okey told me all I needed to do was to touch her breasts, and she would yield and pay for the Doctor Pepper and Kpuff Kpuff I bought her earlier. Do you know what I did? Before she could slump into my mattress, I grabbed her breasts (GRAB OH! not touch) and held strong to it, expecting a miracle. Of course, don’t tell me you think it came. She stood fast and ran away from the house with my miracle. When I saw Okey later, I lied, telling him it was quite an experience, and that she screamed my name all through. Dike – strong man – was what he called me. How I wish I was. And when Chiamaka came to the house the next day to apologise for being such a kid, I was sure my miracle had come. Chiamaka told me she was ready to do it, but…(ekwensu). Uju told her I would excrete urine into her, and that would be painful. She said that was what men did. How was I to know? Jonny Just Come. I did not want to wee into Chiamaka, so we decided to let go of the idea. I lost my miracle again. I did not lose everything. I was officially pimped into the GUYMEN group, being the only person to have had the fair share of the girl. I had the swagger. I liked the sound of NIGGA that they all called me. I was so happy they said I did something I did not do. But come oh, I was truly the only one who had touched her Holy Grail. (Don’t give me that look. Let he without sin cast the first stone.)
How many churches have I been to? I started with the Cathedral Church of the Transfiguration of Our Lord Anglican Communion, and then derailed slightly to Saint Cyprian. When I lost my nuts, I started my moon walk. Christ Embassy. Redeemed Christian Church of God. The Heavenly Church. House on the Rock. Mountain of Fire. Blessings International Worship Centre. Family Worship Centre. Money Fast Centre. I might have completed a cycle, because I’m back again with Christ Embassy, after visiting the Cathedral for a little Hymnal. I’ve been in the choir of all these churches. I’ve seen Pastors, Reverends, Bishops, and Primates. I might even be one, because I completed the Bible school at one of these churches. I have even tried preaching the gospel in a Night Club; the day I completely jilted my calling. Later, I knew all the DJs. I toured anywhere they said was happening. Club Xcellensior had all the pretty ladies. Sugar Club was indeed too sugary for my liking. NV Nite Club, Octagon, and Strips bought my heart. I’m sure Retro Club, as I heard, will be my last call. Till then, Dj Bombay remains my best gamer. He got me squatting, from Skonto to Swor, Garala, Macossa, to Yahoozeh, and now I’m perfecting my Alanta moves. I hate Dj Scratch, not for his attitude while on the wheels. He was the one that drove me away, the day I went for initiations into the school cult. He said I was a correct Jew. The way he said JEW gave him that look of someone grinding a mouthful of hard palm nuts. He’s not any different from those Captains that drove me away from Boys Brigade, Boys Scout, Red Cross, and even the Girls Guild. (Even Girls Guild…kai!)
(I’m not sure I should tell you this story. What do I have to lose? It might win me the Common Wealth Prize. I deserve one.)
Here is how it happened…
You will remain a bachelor, Ijeuru said to me. She’s a hater anyway. She hates me for many reasons. I refused to call her Krystal, her new name. Stan called her Krystal; his lover. Stan had become the only one that took me the way I was. We had grown a very special friendship between us. He nominated me to be his best man. Ijeuru had her objections to this nomination. She told Stan I was an embarrassment to humanity. She wanted Chris instead, since he might be the one with the best pick-up line for her friend Stacie. Stacie would be the chief bride’s maid, and she wanted the best “best man” for her. Stan was convinced about his nomination, and so I decided I was going to surprise Ijeuru that day. (Did I?)
Wait now…
The Lord Bishop was the one to preside over the matrimony (whether Holy or not), which meant I was about to enjoy yet another hymnal from the church of my birth. Many flipping stunts happened this morning. Stan is a bit like me, so it was this morning that we brought back our suits from the washer man – Nathans. We were busy watching Mario Puzo’s The God Father a night before. It was our seventh time on the movie. After rushing out of Nathans by 8am (the wedding was slated to commence at 10am, mind you), we stopped at Box Fresh to pick the wedding shirts and ties. It was when Stan handed me their wedding rings. It came from Dubai, he said, real gold. He wasn’t sure of the carats. We also bought our shoes. Italian Gucci. We were about to paint O’town blue-black-red-purple-green. We needed something different, so we planned to make a bizarre appearance.
It was around 9:30am that we dressed up completely. Something happened. My trousers appeared too short, dangling around my ankles, while my glossy black jacket hung a little above my wrists. It looked like it was wrapped around my body with a taut knot. The best thing for me to do was to go straight to Stan to drop my complaint. I ran off. Stan dashed out of his hotel room, and we met along the passage way. It was obvious. I wore his suit – his wedding suit. I should have seen the tag clearly written STANLEY on a paper tape, and pasted on the collar. He should have seen my name as well, but I had no reason to blame him. It is his day, I said to myself. We said nothing to ourselves. Stan followed me to Room 202 (hmmm!) – my room, where we made the exchange. Things were normal again, before 9:45am.
Na wa oh!
Our entrance was grand. Only Christ could have done it better. We couldn’t ride it like Christ did, since a donkey would have been too slow, considering we were running behind schedule already. We pedaled. We appeared at the cathedral in a 2009 Keke Napep – painted green-white-green. Those of you that refuse to come to Naija are thinking too hard now. Let me help you. Keke is an automobile with three tires; not a tricycle. It is a diesel engine vintage. It can be said to be between a tricycle and a Volkswagen Beetle. It is the work of an Indian who has just found out that Africa buys just anything from the outside world. It has recently become India’s biggest export to Africa. Keke buzzes like bees all over the country these days; better than Okada. (Back to the story). Guests were marveled. The Bishop was not at all. We were behind schedule, so he immediately ordered us into the church. Ijeuru was there before us, and we heard she was already crying and shouting my name. That girl will not let me be.
Hymn 202 (hmmm!) was the hymn that ushered the bride into the church. I cannot deny the fact that Ijeuru had the best wedding gown. It was pink; the first of its kind in the city. Stan’s sister brought it from the states. Stacie was looking too good as well. She was actually why I forgot the lyrics of the hymn. They walked in gracefully. Everyone was watching. People who knew what matrimony meant were the ones dropping tears. I was in between a few restricted smiles and wet eyes. Then, Stacie sat close to me. She gave me that smile that easily offers hope to a guy like me. My eyes danced each time our eyes met. She had a natural smile, and I had a fake smile. My lips danced as well. I knew I was trembling. My “little man” sunk inside this time. After church, I would ask her a few questions on politics and football. Those are not topics that pretty women want to talk about. Unfortunately, that is the only thing I know. Maybe I would – …
Here’s the bulletin, said Stan, breaking my thoughts into shattered pieces of china bowl. Everything happened so fast after then. Hymn after hymn and short prayers afterwards. We were summoned to stand before the Bishop at the centre of the church, which was where the altar stood. Vows were exchanged by the couple as the Bishop read them out. A woman at the last pew stood and shouted PRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE TTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEE LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRDDDDDDDDDDDD! Everyone replied HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! I felt the wave. People never change.
Drama…
Everyone was still and silent. I was the only one moving, searching all over. I was sure I carefully dropped those rings inside my breast pocket. If only they would stop throwing those darts of stares at me. I needed time to find it. The Bishop would have given me a hint. I would have started the search earlier, without pressure. I wanted to remove my jacket and search properly, but NO. Pearls of cold sweats were dropping. My eyes were dancing faster than when they met Stacie’s eyes. The people were not helping matters too. Murmurings were ascending. I could hear them clearly. Careless boy. Unserious. How could he? This same boy. Stanley must have lost his senses when he chose this idiot. This brat! Ijeuru could have easily used the word “brat”, but Uncle T didn’t wait for that to happen. “Here is the symbol, my Lord,” he said. He moved towards me, and gave me two rings, carefully placed on a white handkerchief. I accepted them. They were not the same rings Stan had given me earlier, but they were gold too and new. Uncle T is not “Uncle T” because he’s old. He’s “Uncle T” because it is his nickname. He is one of us. He wedded only a month ago, to his university girlfriend – Anuli. His rings were still new. The Bishop smiled, saying kids of nowadays had their new styles of doing things. He thanked us for thrilling him. He said that was his first time of seeing a wedding with two Best Men. He did not have a clue of what really happened. He did not know. He did not know he wedded Stan and Ijeuru with the same rings he wedded Timothy and Anulika, just a month ago. (I pray I’m not wedded with the same rings, because they would have grown old by then. Laughs…). Nobody knew, even Ijeuru. Stan knew. I knew. Uncle T knew. Anuli knew because we needed hers. I found myself throwing glances at Stacie once more. She gave me more hope.
People are dancing now. We are at the reception. Various currency notes are flying high and hitting the ceiling. Stan is using the Alanta steps for any genre of music, even gospel. I admire him. Now, he’s jumping up and down. He’s obviously happy. Is he really happy? Ijeuru is happier. Stacie is happy too. Stan turns to me, and throws his jacket at me. Two metals drop. They are the same rings Stan gave me earlier. They hit the ground so hard, that they are noticed by anyone who cares. Ijeuru cares. We had planned not to let her know she was wearing a ring from another union. Now, she has found out for herself. The Alanta steps stop. We all stop, watching the rings settle on the notes. Real Gold. Ijeuru will kill us later today. The dancing continues.
(Will there be another wedding? I’m just asking to know what you would do if you were Ijeuru.)
I pick up the rings, and slid them into my pocket. Now, I have my own wedding rings. Real Gold.
FLASHBACK (How it happened?):
It was around 9:30am that we dressed up completely. Something happened. My trousers appeared too short, dangling around my ankles, while my glossy black jacket hung a little above my wrist. It looked like it was wrapped around my body with a taut knot. The best thing for me to do was to go straight to Stan to drop my complaint. I ran off. Stan dashed out of his hotel room, and we met along the passage way. It was obvious. I wore his suit – his wedding suit. I should have seen the tag clearly written STANLEY on a paper tape, and pasted on the collar. He should have seen my name as well, but I had no reason to blame him. It is his day, I said to myself. We said nothing to ourselves. Stan followed me to Room 202 (hmmm!) – my room, where we made the exchange (We lost the rings here). Things were normal again, before 9:45am.
Things were not normal after 9:45am.
The End!
Any Common Wealth Prize for Me? I don’t mind the “Prize for Messing Up”.
