WRECKED
/ WRECKED 2 1
Agnes was stout and round-faced, with a small down-turned mouth like that of a disappointed baby. Her large black eyebrows met over her nose, giving her a permanent scowl that expresses a sense of disapproving outrage. It was obvious that she detested being a maid; Anaya wondered if there was anything else she might prefer. She had tried imagining Agnes as a prostitute but she couldn't picture any man actually paying for her services. Agnes was a hefty creature, and could snap a man's spine in two with her thighs, which Anaya envisioned as blackish, like burnt grilled plantains, and stubbed liked a singed chicken, and enormous, each one as large as a pig.
Agnes tramped across the room and unceremoniously placed Anaya's tray on a table. "Here's your food!" she bellowed as if calling a dog. She did not wait for Anaya to respond, but stumped out, closing the door behind her just one note short of a slam. Anaya levered herself out of her chair, disentangling her long legs, stretched herself and yawned, and walked over to the table with the tray on it. Yesterday, the spaghetti was like rubber, and she could see today that the fried yam looked black and the fried eggs too greasy. A piece of yam cracked like slate between her teeth. Curse the woman, Anaya thought and walked to the window.
The weather here is very good, she thought. June was truly glorious that year. Everyone agreed that the month came with a spell of lovely weather. Yes, the year was going to be a good year for people who wanted to enjoy themselves. There were parties, comedy shows, dinners and luncheons every week. For the rich, that is. Snuggled in the valleys of rocky hills and eroding monoliths, Abuja's sprawling landscape underwent a decade-long transformation to become one of Africa's first planned cities. The city has often been described as one of the most expensive cities in Africa, as well as one of the most charmless. Visitors and arriving residents were greeted by wide, well-designed and maintained roads and clean streets. The skylines were dominated by the space-rocket spires of the National Christian Centre and the golden dome of the National Mosque, facing each other pugnaciously across a busy highway at the city's centre. To Anaya, Abuja typified some of the failings in a society that had enough for everybody's need but not enough for everybody's greed, a society where the greed of the elite most often surpasses the need of the populace. Abuja is for rich, mostly corrupt Nigerians. All other people live on the outskirts of the city, called "satellite towns", and come into the city to satisfy the whim and services of the rich. The rotten smell and evil face of corruption were overpowering, nauseating.
Most of the great economies achieved greatness by a simple economic strategy. They made it a necessity to conserve their resources and consume less than they produce. In Nigeria, the reverse is the case; the citizens consumed far more than they produced, and this is reflected in the constant annual deficit budget. The sad thing is that most of the wasted resources do not go to satisfy the basic needs of the people, but was simply used to feed the ever-burgeoning avarice of the rich. Government officials are most guilty. Daily, the nation is regaled with stories of how poor Nigeria is by government officials and how Nigerians should adjust their belts yet the same government officials lived like Arabian royalties, as if they had all the money in the world. They fly out of the country at the slightest whim and when they travel, they don't do economy or business class, they do first-class, lodge in six-star hotels, collect hefty allowances, they are paid all sorts of allowance and salaries that is clearly not commensurate with the services they give Nigerians. Abuja, being the capital city, was supposed to be an embodiment of Nigeria, and Nigeria, in all ramifications–culture, politics, socio-political development, a testimony to a country rousing itself out of the ashes of civil war, religious riots and ethnic rivalries, on its way to being a modern and developed country. But no, you couldn't see all these and many features of political and democratic emancipation in Abuja. What one could see, if he looked closely, was a vagrant display of stolen wealth, outright oppression, arrogance of power, unchecked political, governmental and moral corruption, neglect of fellow Nigerians and all the vices that have virtually destroyed the nation, and turned the majority of Nigerians into paupers or crooks. God, help me in this town, Anaya thought.
Anaya Owhonda, who had arrived on ABC Coach with her mother, had just enough money to last the year in Abuja. If she failed to catch a rich husband, she would have to return to Aba and take what she could get. She hoped she wouldn't. Northern men were sought after and popular; many were wealthy.
It didn't trouble Anaya. The Owhondas were Aba aristocracy; they had a well-documented Biafra General among their ancestors, but they were not rich. Anaya's father had seen to that. Drinking and womanizing had eaten away what remained of a substantial inherited fortune. When he died there was not much left beyond a couple of buildings that somehow eluded him. Anaya was twenty-three. It was her idea to go to Abuja. Her mother, Aleruchi, was described by friends and family as a sweet woman. By which they meant she was weak with her profligate husband and too stupid to see their ruin approaching. But Anaya knew better. She knew it wasn't weakness or stupidity. Aleruchi loved her husband.
Aleruchi always spoke of her husband as Ezigbo Nna, even though he died in another woman's bed. Mother and daughter were so different, but they couldn't have been closer. Aleruchi Owhonda was small, dark and inclined to plumpness; Anaya was like her father, with his graceful height, slender build and dark piercing eyes. No wonder the women had run after him; it wasn't really his fault. Anaya also had his magnetism so that people clustered around her.
"Why go to Abuja, Ana? You've got some nice men just dying to propose, but you won't let them."
"Mother," Anaya had said, "they are dull and I'm not in love with any of them. I want someone special. There's no one special here."
"Like your daddy?" Aleruchi asked.
Anaya raised her eyebrows. Is she kidding me? The bastard hurt her enough for a lifetime. But she wasn't going to say that. She didn't want to hurt her mother. Anaya was disgusted with their financial state since the death of her father. Sure, she had a roof over her head and food on the table, but it wasn't enough. She wanted luxury. Anaya loved her mother but did not understand her choices.
"But you're beautiful, mama," Anaya would say. "You could have married anyone. A real millionaire or a businessman. You could have gotten out of here."
It was true. With her looks, Aleruchi was the prettiest girl at every school she had ever been to. She could have married her way into wealth. Real wealth. Instead, one smile from Zubi Owhonda, Anaya's charming civil servant father, and it was all over.
"Why would I want to marry a businessman, Ana? Your dad is worth a hundred Dangotes to me. Besides, where you live is geography and you can't ever measure happiness in nairas and kobos. You'll learn that as you get older, Anaya."
Anaya hadn't learned it. In fact, she had learned the opposite. Geography was important. Who wanted to waste their life in Aba, a city full of fake wares, bad accents and despair, whose very name sounded like a dull grind, when they could choose to live in Abuja or Lagos or Port-Harcourt? Why would anyone choose to love a poor man when there were so many rich men out there to love? Too many, Anaya sometimes thought. No, Anaya did not want to be poor and anonymous.
"If we go to Abuja, I'll meet the sort of man I want. I know I will."
They moved into a two-bedroom at in Wuse. "Anaya," her mother protested, "we really can't afford to stay in this town."
"We can't afford not to," Anaya replied. "We must do things in style or not at all. We need a pretty house where we can receive guests –and it has to be in the right part of the city. I have made a budget, remember? At least we've got a year. Don't worry, mummy. Everything will be ne. I just know it."
"I don't know where you got all that confidence," Aleruchi said, "certainly not from me. Maybe from your dear father. Rest his soul."
Anaya turned away. I hope he burns in hell, she thought as her mother walked in, complaining about the horrible breakfast.
"I have to cook the next meal. All our meals, in fact. We can't afford to die of food poisoning in this town. Please, get rid of that girl, Anaya. She is not worth a kobo…"
Aleruchi's cell phone rang, she answered, spoke excitedly for about ten minutes and cut the connection. She clapped her hands and laughed with excitement. "Chizi has invited us for lunch tomorrow."
"Chizi? Mummy, isn't she…"
Aleruchi held up a hand. "Yes she is, but you're not going to say it." Chizi was the mistress of the president of Nigeria, a fellow Igbo woman who had known Aleruchi when they were girls in Aba.
"That's sweet of her," Aleruchi said. "I didn't expect to hear from her so soon. She will be helpful to you, Ana. She knows people. She says her nephew, Obinna, is having a party, too. She mentioned a Club opening or something. You can go. I need to rest."
Anaya bent down and hugged her mother. "It was clever of you to think of calling her before our trip. It's going to be wonderful here, mummy, I promise. I'll make you proud of me."
The party was the opening night of the Black Divine, a nightclub in a converted church. It had finally managed to open despite complaints from former worshippers, who failed to see that if they hadn't stopped attending services, the church would still be a thriving Christian oasis in the seething heathen mass of the town centre, instead of a state-of-the-art club with four bars, leather sitting and a VIP area. Obinna had wanted to call it Angels and Demons but that part at least had been vetoed by his wife, who was pregnant with twins and very superstitious. There was one bonus though: all the people, especially former church members, who had put in a complaint, had received VIP tickets to the opening night.
Jubril looked round with disinterest. The food and the girls didn't appeal to him. He wished he had refused the invitation. He preferred business to society. His mother urged him to meet new young girls. At thirty-ve and the head of the family since his father died, she felt it was time he got married. She confided to friends that she was in mortal fear of some wild girl snapping him up. Morals were so slack these days.
Jubril was very eligible. His father's forte was the stock market. He started the rst private banking in the country and Jubril had been involved in this family business since he graduated from Harvard Business School. He was now in control, remotely assisted by his younger brother, Mustapha. Jubril scanned the floor for his brother and saw him gyrating with two girls. This was Mustapha's scene, Jubril thought with disgust, as he shook his head, as if in pity.
Jubril slipped out to the terrace with his glass and began to go through his mail on his phone.
"Are you lonely or bored?"
He looked up quickly. She was fair and very beautiful. She stood with one hand touching a hip and stared down in amusement.
"Bored," he countered. Igbo; he recognized the heavy intonation. What his friends referred to as Engl-Igbo, where English is spoken with Igbo intonation.
She looked at his glass. "Are you drunk?"
"Of course not! How can you say that?"
"My dancing partner is," Anaya responded. "That is really annoying. Bad breath and all. You haven't seen him, have you? Dafe Smith. He is tall and dark with a beard?"
He knew Dafe Smith by reputation. He was always drunk at parties. "I'm afraid not."
She sighed. "Okay. Let me look somewhere else." She disappeared back into the babble beyond. He got up and followed her.
She had not found Dafe, but she was now surrounded by young men, he noticed. Someone said "Hello, Jubril. How are you? Didn't know you were here…"
"I'm good," he answered, not taking his eyes of the fair girl. "Do you know who that is? The girl in the red dress."
"Oh, you mean Anaya Owhonda. A real beauty. Sharp tongue, though. She says anything that comes to her head."
"I noticed."
"Are you interested? Do you want to meet her?"
"I already did." He excused himself and walked towards the group. Anaya saw him coming towards her but pretended not to notice until he was right beside her. Then she turned and smiled. "You again!"
"I'm Jubril Rufai," he said.
"I'm Anaya Owhonda." She held out her hand. Her grip was firm.
"I didn't find Dafe," she said. "Maybe he's gone home."
"Frankly, I don't care. Come and dance with me." He slipped a hand under her arm to ward o anyone with the same idea.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go."
She was a very good dancer, but then so was he. They danced for most of the evening, and he took her back to the terrace. She talked and laughed with infectious gaiety. Jubril was rather serious but she was fun to be with. There was a subdued recklessness about her, and when she smiled, both top and bottom teeth showed. She was intelligent too, judging from the way she spoke vehemently about the high prevalence of jungle justice in the country, making particular reference to a middle-aged man who was beaten and burnt alive for allegedly attempting to kidnap some children.
"It was in several newspapers; you know? Quite sad if he was innocent. I wouldn't mind watching the execution of the guilty person, though."
Jubril was taken aback by such directness. He disapproved of jungle justice, guilty or not, which are unhealthily exciting and produce bloodthirsty fancies in the weaker-minded part of the population. "I wouldn't allow my sister to attend or watch such, if I had one."
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Anaya widened her eyes. "But why not?"
"Women should not attend such grisly spectacles," he said. "They pose a danger to their refined natures." He was conscious of sounding pompous.
In the course of his travels, he had encountered many women who could scarcely be accused of refined natures. He had seen mad women tearing o their clothes and displaying their naked bodies; he had seen prostitutes of the lowest sort do the same. He had seen women drunk and swearing, struggling together like wrestlers, pulling the hair from each other's heads. The streets of Lagos, Abuja and Port-Harcourt swam with them; he had known them to make away with their own infants, and to sell their daughters to wealthy men who hope that by raping children they would avoid diseases. Jubril was under no illusions as to the innate refinement of women, but that was even more reason to safeguard the purity of those still pure.
"Do you think I'm refined?" asked Anaya.
"I am certain of it."
"Good," she smiled. "I like that. You are an interesting man, but as much as I am enjoying my time with you, I have to be going home soon," she said.
"Of course. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?"
Anaya looked intently at him. He hadn't tried to kiss or maul her and that was a relief. He was more of a gentleman than some of the men she'd met.
She knew then that she liked him. She really did. "I'd love to."
Chapter end
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