Trying not to loose the page I was reading, I stick my index finger in between the pages as I shift The Icarus Girl to my right hand, one knee on the ground, left hand on the couch, all in one motion I rise from the carpeted floor and make for the men’s room.
Heaving a huge sigh of relief as I drain my bladder into the sparkling and fresh smelling Ariston bowl, I hear the loud and boring ring of my land phone. I was thinking to myself once again, 'how a good piss sometimes can feel a lot better than sex', as I headed back towards the living room, at the same time wondering why my father would be ringing me again, twice in one morning; eighty five percent of the calls on my NITEL phone are from my family house, no cheaper way to discuss family issues in proxy. I lift the receiver, and with my gravely morning voice I answered.
“Yes?” I said
“Chindu, Chindu!”, the caller hailed merrily
“Hellooow”, I repeat a lot slower, my right eye brow raised with my head cocked to the left side
“Ke kwanu?”, amidst the static, this distinctly silky voice of a female asks with a strong Igbo accent
“Odi nma”, I answer without even thinking, in my best mimic of the same accent
“Amara, o’ no there”, I hear her say after a small delay in Engligbo, a very innovative silver-tongued blend of the English language and the major language of the eastern Nigerian people, Igbo
The line was sounding unclear; guessing it was a network problem, I turn down the harmonious voice of Robin Thicke, one of my new favourites, on heavy rotation on my home theatre, I catch her at the end of her question and say in a very polite tone,
“So sorry, I am not Chindu, I think you have a wrong number”
“E si? What? What did you say?” she asks politely with a lighter tint of the Eastern Nigerian tongue
“I said I think you have a wrong number, this is not Chindu, my name’s Baroque”
“Wrong number? Oh dear!” She exclaimed, “You sound like my cousin, Chindu” she continues apologetically
“Where are you calling from?” I enquired
“I can't hear you clearly!" she says, "Paris, France, but you are in Port Harcourt abi”
“Yes, I’m in Port Harcourt”
“What did you say your name is?” she asks and of course I didn’t miss the newly induced ‘britiko’ tone.
Considering that I was in no particular hurry to get back to the book about the obanje girl, I leave the arm of the only single seater in my living room and make for the ground, thinking to myself, ‘let’s see how this goes’.
“I never said. What’s yours? My name's Baroque”, I retorted in my own polite English inflection
“What? Barouge?, what kind of a name is that?”
“Baroque, with a Q not a G, its Hebrew. Yours?” I emphasise
“Its Nma”
“Nma, it’s a pleasure. Sorry you have a wrong number and I’m busy talking to you, taking your time and wasting your call units, have a swell day” I said, trying to sound regretful
“Pas de problem Baroque. Its not such of an emergency. I've got some time & you sound nice too”, I sense some patronising flattery and I’m thinking to myself, ‘this girl, take your time oh’
“Sound nice, hmmm! I try to, Nma. Thanks. Do you speak French?”, I reply smiling.
Dropping my book on the floor but not after folding the edge of the page, unsure of what I was thinking at that moment, I ask, enquiring bravely,
“Do you live in France and are you married? Forgive me, but I'm forward like that”
Heaving a huge sigh of relief as I drain my bladder into the sparkling and fresh smelling Ariston bowl, I hear the loud and boring ring of my land phone. I was thinking to myself once again, 'how a good piss sometimes can feel a lot better than sex', as I headed back towards the living room, at the same time wondering why my father would be ringing me again, twice in one morning; eighty five percent of the calls on my NITEL phone are from my family house, no cheaper way to discuss family issues in proxy. I lift the receiver, and with my gravely morning voice I answered.
“Yes?” I said
“Chindu, Chindu!”, the caller hailed merrily
“Hellooow”, I repeat a lot slower, my right eye brow raised with my head cocked to the left side
“Ke kwanu?”, amidst the static, this distinctly silky voice of a female asks with a strong Igbo accent
“Odi nma”, I answer without even thinking, in my best mimic of the same accent
“Amara, o’ no there”, I hear her say after a small delay in Engligbo, a very innovative silver-tongued blend of the English language and the major language of the eastern Nigerian people, Igbo
The line was sounding unclear; guessing it was a network problem, I turn down the harmonious voice of Robin Thicke, one of my new favourites, on heavy rotation on my home theatre, I catch her at the end of her question and say in a very polite tone,
“So sorry, I am not Chindu, I think you have a wrong number”
“E si? What? What did you say?” she asks politely with a lighter tint of the Eastern Nigerian tongue
“I said I think you have a wrong number, this is not Chindu, my name’s Baroque”
“Wrong number? Oh dear!” She exclaimed, “You sound like my cousin, Chindu” she continues apologetically
“Where are you calling from?” I enquired
“I can't hear you clearly!" she says, "Paris, France, but you are in Port Harcourt abi”
“Yes, I’m in Port Harcourt”
“What did you say your name is?” she asks and of course I didn’t miss the newly induced ‘britiko’ tone.
Considering that I was in no particular hurry to get back to the book about the obanje girl, I leave the arm of the only single seater in my living room and make for the ground, thinking to myself, ‘let’s see how this goes’.
“I never said. What’s yours? My name's Baroque”, I retorted in my own polite English inflection
“What? Barouge?, what kind of a name is that?”
“Baroque, with a Q not a G, its Hebrew. Yours?” I emphasise
“Its Nma”
“Nma, it’s a pleasure. Sorry you have a wrong number and I’m busy talking to you, taking your time and wasting your call units, have a swell day” I said, trying to sound regretful
“Pas de problem Baroque. Its not such of an emergency. I've got some time & you sound nice too”, I sense some patronising flattery and I’m thinking to myself, ‘this girl, take your time oh’
“Sound nice, hmmm! I try to, Nma. Thanks. Do you speak French?”, I reply smiling.
Dropping my book on the floor but not after folding the edge of the page, unsure of what I was thinking at that moment, I ask, enquiring bravely,
“Do you live in France and are you married? Forgive me, but I'm forward like that”
“It's ok mister, fresh, out of a relationship, still nursing my broken heart, and no, I don’t live here or speak French either. I’m in transit, here for four days. Should be leaving the day after tomorrow” she answers with glee
“That makes us two. I mean the relationship part. In transit to and from where?” I ask again
“Back home from Ireland" she said. "Baroque, it was really nice talking to you. Can I call you back, say in three hours, if you’re up to it. I'm sure it wont be a wrong number this time. I need to call my cousin to get him to do something for me. Hey, who knows, we could hook up when I’m back in naija” she suggests
I’m thinking; that was fast. Well it was her idea; it’ll take her up on it.
“Call me back, Nma, I’m gonna be lounging the rest of the day on this couch, it’s a weekend and it’s been raining cats and dogs here”
“I’ll call and have you tell me about your Jewish side” she says
Laughing, she says good bye and I hear the receiver drop at the French end.
“Na so trouble dey take start” I say to myself out loud.
If I know myself well enough, (sometimes, I wonder If I do), I’ll be fantasizing about her until she rings me again, now I’m praying she calls again. I must be very easy to please, only after three minutes of inconsequential jabber; I’m hoping and praying for ultimate fulfilment of this desire.
Now I need to urinate again, i bet, this one will not feel as good as the first one.
“That makes us two. I mean the relationship part. In transit to and from where?” I ask again
“Back home from Ireland" she said. "Baroque, it was really nice talking to you. Can I call you back, say in three hours, if you’re up to it. I'm sure it wont be a wrong number this time. I need to call my cousin to get him to do something for me. Hey, who knows, we could hook up when I’m back in naija” she suggests
I’m thinking; that was fast. Well it was her idea; it’ll take her up on it.
“Call me back, Nma, I’m gonna be lounging the rest of the day on this couch, it’s a weekend and it’s been raining cats and dogs here”
“I’ll call and have you tell me about your Jewish side” she says
Laughing, she says good bye and I hear the receiver drop at the French end.
“Na so trouble dey take start” I say to myself out loud.
If I know myself well enough, (sometimes, I wonder If I do), I’ll be fantasizing about her until she rings me again, now I’m praying she calls again. I must be very easy to please, only after three minutes of inconsequential jabber; I’m hoping and praying for ultimate fulfilment of this desire.
Now I need to urinate again, i bet, this one will not feel as good as the first one.
