WHORE Of BABYLON (Episode 13)

The ride to Imperial Hospital, Chinatown, where Francis works is a very uncomfortable one. I did not know when halitosis became so trendy in this state. Even young men, young handsome men who I’d give anything to give a one-off blowjob behind any uncompleted building, would ask you for the time and your nose would start bleeding.

When I eventually get down from the bus I took all the way from Gariki, it is with great relief that I take in the heavy noon-day air. I’ve never been one to enjoy public commuters. All those perspiring bodies jampacked inside the small confines of the bus, touching me and sucking the fragrance out of my body; passengers nodding off en route and not having the decency to keep their mouth shut – and their mouth odour closeted – after they wake up.

Tufiakwa!

I could do without the stress. But my bank account is charged at pink at the moment. If nothing gives, I’m sure that in a few weeks, I will be red-hot broke. So you see why I can’t afford the taxis I’m used to?

When Francis texted me the address of his office, I almost cried from the distress of contemplating the distance. I would have cancelled at once, had it not been for my word which I gave Mandy. And truth be told, I haven’t really been myself mentally, on top of everything else, since the late night romp between Bryan and I last night.

I figure a session with the good doctor will help clear out my head. I find myself also praying that Francis’s office be air-conditioned as I trek down the street I’d been told the hospital is located in under the fierce onslaught of the Enugu sun.

I find myself approaching a sour-faced, elderly woman coming toward me on the same side of the road. I see her brow knitting even more unpleasantly as I slow my steps to speak to her.

“Good afternoon ma,” I greet, attempting a smile. “Biko, I’m looking for Imperial Hospital.”

She looks me up and down, her apparent displeasure deepening as she takes in my outfit. I’m looking my most fabulous in a cropped denim jacket over an ash-coloured polo. Ripped blue jeans extend over my legs snugly above black suede shoes. A fez cap shielding my face from the sun finishes off the attire.

I see her struggle momentarily with the characteristic Nigerian urge to offer her input on my choice of dressing, an issue that is totally no business of hers. I glare a warning at her, a nasty retort already working its way up my throat.

Finally deciding not to go in that direction, she snaps at me, “I naghi afu signboard n’ihu ebeahu?” As she points to the signpost a few metres ahead of me, her face creases further like she has just encountered the person who is responsible for her wrinkles.

“Thank you ma,” I say, blessing her with a bright smile.

I’m too relieved by the imminent end of this hellish journey to be bothered by this witch’s bad attitude.

As I make to step past her, she reaches up a hand to detain me. Her eyes sweep over me before she says, “Bia, emezina ka nwanyi. I bu homo?”

And just like that, my magnanimity evaporates in the face of the insult. What is it sef? You will be trying to cage the Jezebel in you, but adamant, ignorant, narrow-minded bad belle Nigerians won’t let you be.

I shrug off her gnarly hand and hiss, “Come back and talk to me when you have finished being a witch to your family.”

The comment strikes her with a force that makes her eyes widen and her hand to fly to her chest as though to subdue a heart attack.

Without waiting to confirm if she’d indeed to be going into cardiac arrest, I saunter on, making sure to add an extra swing to my hips, just in case she is still looking.

***

It’s been fifteen minutes and I’m still at the waiting room, patiently waiting for Francis, who has gone on his lunch break, according to the light-skinned nurse with the ridiculously-fringed weave-on.

I wonder when ladies will realise fringes only look good if they are stretched down to the brows, not stopping midway over the forehead.

Anyway, even though I’ve been waiting awhile, I am not put-off. I am too busy enjoying the cool touch of the split unit air-conditioner refrigerating the room. Seriously, the sun out there is murder!

The coolness of the room brings with it a wave of nostalgia which makes me to suddenly start missing home. This isn’t the first time I’ve been struck with homesickness. My mother hasn’t tried reaching out to me, and thus, I have also been cut off from communicating with my siblings. Suddenly I find myself yearning for just one more chance to scream a chastisement at my stubborn little sister, Kamsi.

These depressing thoughts momentarily distract me from noticing the young guy who has just occupied the space on the upholstered bench next to me.

When I become aware of him, I sense him stealing glances at me, but I refuse to look back at him. The last thing I want is to observe the scorn or mockery in yet another person’s countenance – certainly not after my encounter with that old woman.

So I continue typing away at my phone with utmost concentration.

The door of the waiting room creaks open and the fringed nurse emerges.

“Doctor Francis will see you now,” she announces to me. Her voice has such a musical quality that she might have sung the words out to me and I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“Thank you.”

I make to get up from the seat only to be held back by a strong hand.

“I don’t like sling bags,” a voice drums in the still, chilly air of the reception.

The voice belongs to the hand.

My eyes, already flaring with indignation, trail the hand all the way to the face from whence it’s outstretched from.

And my furious response turns into garbled nonsense that has me coughing to cover up for my flustered self. As I gently pull my hand out of his light grasp, I observe that he is smiling up at me with a set of teeth that only gods and a regular dentist appointment can give.

He is gorgeous.

No, let me rephrase. He is the reason the word ‘hot’ was made to define physical beauty and not just an element of temperature.

And instead of going on to see Doctor Francis, I do what everyone faced with a higher purpose does. I sit back down on the bench after flashing a smile at the nurse aimed at mentally willing her to be patient. I retrieve my notepad from my bag, all the while quietly berating myself for not taking notice of this specimen of hotness all the while I had the time to do so.

I scribble my number on a piece of paper ripped from the notepad and hand it to him. He is still smiling as he takes the paper from me. I smile back, flirtatiously so, not minding the nurse who is still waiting at the door.

Now feeling immensely pleased with myself, I stand again and follow after the nurse, whose expression is a study in the mix of impatience and bewilderment. It’s her kind that won’t understand that a man has just chyked his fellow man in her very before. All this clueless women sef!

I am still feeling a glow of pleasure, already anticipating an immediate future in the company of His Royal Hotness back there, as she ushers me in to see Doctor Francis.

Written by Delle