WHORE Of BABYLON (Episode 10)

Previously on Whore of Babylon...

*

I am about to dial Francis’s number when a call comes in. I look at the caller ID and sigh inwardly.

It’s Mark.

Remember Mark from when I mentioned him in episode one? Fine banker Mark who won’t take “I don’t love…” for an answer.

Yes, him.

I wait a while, letting it ring on, so it won’t seem like I have been eager for him to call.

“Yeah, hello.” My voice pours into the receiver with all the disinterest I can muster.

“Baby, what’s up?”

That crisp, rich voice. The sophistication of his accent. I really do not know why I haven’t said yes to him.

“I’m good,” comes my curt reply.

“I have a conference to attend in Enugu by weekend and would like to see you then. How possible would that be?”

“Not possible.” The response comes even before he had finished what he is saying. I do not have to rehearse the two words. It’s as though declining his requests is programmed into my system.

“God! Ikem –”

“Sizikora!” I slice through what looks like the beginning of an irate response. He is always trying to form familiarity and it irks me.

“Okay, I’m sorry, dear,” he says cajolingly. “But why you have decided to be this harsh and inaccessible is what I don’t understand.” His tone is heavy with something akin to sorrow.

A big part of me wants to give in. After all, it’s not like he expects I come to Owerri to be with him. But after putting him off for such a long time, giving in so easily now won’t make any sense.

Where’s your pride? I can almost hear Iliana ask me.

Speaking of Iliana… She left the room some minutes ago to get drinks for our intending visitor. In a matter of minutes, I’d be meeting a new friend.

I hope.

The word ‘friend’ seems to hold a lot of meanings to me lately. Such ambiguity for a simple word.

“Look, Mark,” I say quietly into the phone, silently – if not fervently – hoping my next statement won’t deter him entirely, “I can’t see you because I don’t like you. Why won’t you leave me alone?”

My eyes are shut. I know that ought to have hurt. The falsehood of it skewers through me, causing me to wince. But they are words that have to be said. If this man wants me to love him, I have to be sure he is the real deal. And what better way to do that than push him to the limit?

I do not know if this tactic will work though, and I cannot be blamed for it as love isn’t exactly my forte. In all my dealings with men, the best are usually the most patient ones. And for love, I want the best.

“Well, I can’t stop bugging you and that’s because I really care about you and would like you to give me a chance.” His tone is resolute as he speaks. “You can’t just hate someone. Especially someone you haven’t met.”

It isn’t until he has finished talking that I realise I’d been holding my breath. It feels good, almost surreal, to have such a hot man persistent on my case, especially after my recent resolve with Mandy, however indecisive.

Inside of me, I’m screaming: I do not hate you. As a matter of fact, I love the suits you wear to take pictures! (Yes, I stalk you on Facebook). And I like your beard, your height, your voice. Mark, I like you!

But love?

To him, I say, “Please ehn, I have a friend coming over. I have to go now. Bye.”

I say the “for now” that was to follow loud enough to be heard by just me, which is immediately after I clicked the disconnect button and tossed the phone to the bed.

Just then, I hear noises in the corridor. At first, I think it’s the new neighbours, Dennis and that camel Iliana would have me believe is his boyfriend, even though I’m not so sure they are dating.

How can anyone want to date a hybrid of Mariah Carey and Melania Trump? I wonder. Love must not only be blind, but dumb too.

But upon listening further, I realize the voices I’m hearing belong to two females. Iliana’s is obvious.

Ife must be here!

I bolt up from my position on the floor and plant myself on the chair with my phone in my hands like I had been busy with it.

Seconds later, the door creaks open and Iliana comes in, followed immediately by a dark-skinned girl.

She doesn’t look like I’d expect a lesbian to look. I have always thought lesbians to be butch, you know, thick-statured with aggressive mien, or simply off-looking, but this girl, even though she’s not entirely feminine, seems well-put-together. She is even wearing lipstick. She has on short dreadlocks, which sway above a compact body clad in a red polo shirt and sky-blue, hip-hugging, ripped jeans tucked into black suede shoes. She also has on a nice, beguiling smile, like she knows a thing or two she’s not telling the world. And the smile, tipped up slightly on the left side, is directed at me.

I observe her, my hip cocked to one side and my brows arched, not knowing what to expect – a confrontation or a salutation. You never know with these lesbians and their sensitivities over gay men.

“Hi, I’m Ife.” She stretches her right hand toward me. “I like how you look…and stand. To God!” She places her right index finger on the tongue she’d extended from her mouth and lifts it skyward in that theatrical manner school children have with them when they’re attesting to a truth. And then she lets out a small but enthralling laugh.

I find myself instantly warming up to her. With a chuckle of my own, I ignore the extended hand and hug her instead.

This one is a human being, I muse within me with relief.

“I’m Ikemefuna, Ikem for short. Or you could go with the crowd and call me Sizikora.” Breaking the embrace, I gesture for her to take a seat on the chair I’d just gotten up from, before settling down on the bed.

“Are those locks real?” I ask moments after she is seated, amazed at how beautiful they look, shiny and bouncy around her pert shoulders.

I cast a sideways glance at Iliana who makes a show of ignoring my silent message.

I have been pestering her – no, suggesting very strongly to her – for quite awhile to wear locks.

“Yup! All hundred percent Ife-rised hair,” Ife says, picking out a strand and leaning toward me to offer it up for my inspection.

“Wow. How long have you kept it on?” The hair is dark at the roots but tinted brown at the tip.

“Why don’t you have your bath first, eat before coming to answer this questionnaire of a boy?” Iliana cuts in just then. “He wee just drain your last energy with questions.” She pulls Ife up from the chair and steers her towards the door.

Ife looks back over Iliana’s shoulder, winks at me and smiles broadly before disappearing round the corner.

On my own once again, I begin to think about how I may have actually made a friend. The thought is as pleasing as it’s true.

In about twenty minutes, she returns to the room with Iliana’s wrapper tied above her breasts. She is sorting through the numerous boxer shorts she came with while I am sorting out plates to dish food out for everyone. We are having the jollof rice and fried fish Iliana prepared earlier in the day.

As we are doing a very good multitasking of eating and chatting at the same time, Dennis steps in after a quick knock on the open door. He looks like he has just returned from work, formal clothing and everything, which I find a little odd, considering they’d just moved in this morning.

Must be a very important job, I think.

“Sorry for the interruption,” he says in a polished voice that oils the route the apology takes to our acceptance. I’d heard him speak in that voice earlier today, slightly accented as it is, and I’m still trying to make up my mind on whether it is natural or an affectation. Whichever it is, I like the accent on him – that and his baldness.

“Did Mitch drop the key with you guys?” he queries.

“Dennis?”

Ife’s husky but yet feminine voice fills the room.

Iliana and I look at her with an expression of surprise as she shoots up from her seat with bustling energy.

“Ife Williams!” Dennis responds with as much enthusiasm as they both hug the life out of each other. “Sweetheart, what are you doing here?” As he poses the question, he sweeps a glance over her, one that appreciates what he’s seeing.

“Iliana is my friend, and most recently, Sizi here.” She points to both of us as if Dennis is just getting to see us for the first time.

Iliana and I both have on plastic smiles, and I fight the urge to wave at him in response to what I think is an introduction.

“You know what, darling,” Dennis says, “I have to freshen up. Then we can talk. I’ve had the ghastliest day.”

Sweetheart… Darling… Ghastliest… I give Iliana a “who talks like that” look, and she tightens her mouth in a strength of will over her bubbling mirth.

“You live here now?” Ife asks.

“Yeah, I do,” Dennis replies. “In fact, I came over to know if my roommate dropped the keys here before stepping out.”

At the mention of his keys, I come back to my senses, remembering his ‘roommate’ (since that’s what we are calling that ill-mannered porcupine) did indeed drop their house key off before heading out. “He did drop them off,” I speak up. “Let me get them.”

I reach for the rack beside the bed-stand, find them and hand them to Dennis with a slight, patronising smile on my face. I do not know what it is, but I find myself feeling slightly intimidated by this bald-headed, well-groomed man who says words like “ghastliest”.

He hugs Ife briefly before leaving the room.

Ife returns to her yoga position on the floor beside us, her face still beaming. “That guy is one of the most amazing LGBT activists and writers I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.” She guides a spoonful of rice into her mouth before continuing, “I knew him in Lagos, and you can imagine my surprise at meeting him here. The world indeed is a small place. I pray he is still into those kinky shorts he loved to wear back in Eko.”

Iliana and I look at each other briefly before nodding our heads in affirmation of her last statement.

“I heard him refer to you as Ife Williams?” I ask Ife.

“Yup. That’s me.” She has an exuberant way of responding affirmatively, and I find it endearing.

I nod. Now, I simply have to ask the follow-up question.

“Okay, umm…” I swallow hard as I try forming the words I need to voice the question. I feel a sudden tension leash itself inside me, and because she’s basically like a twin to me, Iliana catches on to my discomfort and shoots me a querying look. But I am focused on Ife as I ask, “Do you by chance know any Tosin Williams?”

I am holding my breath at this point, hoping this new friend of mine will reply in the negative.

Iliana’s breath catches softly, and I know she has understood my tension.

“You mean Sage?” Ife says.

The taste I had in my mouth of delicious rice masticated and swallowed suddenly turns woolly, like I have tufts of hair going down to choke my oesophagus.

“That hoe that can’t keep his nyash one place,” Ife says with a chuckle. “He’s my elder brother.”

Written by Delle