The University of Port Harcourt, formerly known as University College, situated in a small pseudo-urban town of Choba, East-West Road, Port Harcourt, Nigeria, was both Ifue and I favourite choice, considering the proximity to Aba where we resided. And also for its pedigree as a citadel for academic excellence since its inception in 1975, so it was a win-win for us. I would finally get the chance to escape from the little ‘cage’ I’ve been put in; I would have the freedom to wear trousers that will accentuate my contours, mini dresses to flaunt my full lovely legs and of course attend parties and all the good stuff, and with Ifue my canny friend in tow, it never seemed there was going to be a dull moment. We had planned to rent an off-campus apartment, but trust Mama to always be on hand to throw the spanner in the works.
“Pastor Ajani and his wife are already waiting to receive you, you’ll remain with them for the time being” Mama said, as she unpacked my bag.
“But mama, I could squat with Ifue and her cousin” I cried.
“Pastor Ajani is a better option, he is a disciplined man and you are better off there” came her stern reply with a tone of finality, as she tossed away my body-hugging clothes.
There was nothing remotely appealing about the idea of living under the same roof with Pastor Ajani. He was reputed to specialise in curbing the excesses of any exuberant around him. One of my elder sisters, aunty Kodiya, once lived with them in her first year in Uniport and as reserved and conservative as she was, she still had a running battle coping with Pastor Ajani’s strictness. All my explanations, followed with tantrums amounted to nothing as Mama wouldn’t budge. My fate was sealed, just like every other time.
“What’s wrong with these African mothers”? Jessica, Ifue’s cousin asked.
“That was the kind of stunt my dad wanted to pull, when he suggested that I stayed in a family friend’s house, but I reminded him that I was already eighteen, the requisite age for admission into any University.” Ifue said.
“My parents didn’t give me any headache, they simply paid for my accommodation in the hostel and come to think of it, I was barely seventeen when I got my admission.” Jessica said, as she opened her refrigerator, brought out three pieces of apples and shared them amongst us.
“But that’s because, your parents are American-based Africans, it would have been a different kettle of fish if they were Nigerian-based.” Ifue said, as she grabbed the TV remote control.
“Exactly” I quipped and sunk my teeth into the apple.
“You are right to an extent, but I know of some Nigeria-based parents that are quite open-minded in raising their kids.” Jessica continued.
“So you see Jessica, it’s not always an African parent’s thing, it’s about individual’s disposition, value proposition…” I said.
“And level of exposure” Ifue chimed in.
“Absolutely” I exclaimed.
“I think there is an African culture dimension to it, for instance in the western world, at age eighteen, you are already an adult and you are entitled to all the trappings of adulthood that comes from the Government” Jessica said and crunched away on her apple.
“Then you are alluding to cultural differences, the structure here is different, in this case our African culture directly or indirectly influences the decision our parents make, whether or not such decisions are in tandem with modern-times realities” Ifue said.
“And trust me, it gets even messier if your parents are religion fanatics as mine” I quipped.
Jessica was the twenty year old, plain-looking, 6ft3 British born, tomboyish cousin of Ifue. She was an engineering student in her pen-ultimate year in Uniport, a regular feature on the party scene, and was popular on Campus for her Boujee lifestyle. I loved her mostly for her generous nature, although she was quite obnoxious and could pass for a spoilt little brat. Did I mention what a great dancer she was? Oh, she was a delight on the dance floor, hard as I tried I just never matched her dancing prowess. One remarkable thing about her however, was how she effortlessly combined her edgy social life with her excellent academic performances, it was a puzzle, largely because the few times I ever saw her with books, she merely glossed over them. She remained a 4pointer, and was just two marks shy of a first class when she graduated.
“I’ll remain eternally grateful to the universe that I can eat my cake and still have it” Jessica said, as she refilled her cup of wine, wearing her trademark toothy smile.
It was one of those lazy days in School, lecture periods were over, so Jessica invited me over to her room for an ‘easy’ afternoon of white wine.
“Wine lovers are happy people” she muttered and chuckled to herself as she normally would. Did I mention that Jessica, apart from being a great dancer and a brilliant chap, was also a consummate wine lover? She tippled quite a bit, and she duly deserves the credit for successfully indoctrinating me into the wine lovers happy family, plus, she taught me how to sip my wine with ease, and not to gulp it down as I was used to.
My major life defining moments were within the first six months on Campus. A lot happened within this time frame; my first taste of alcohol, first drag of a cigarette, which by the way landed me in the hospital, with a bill that took a tidy chunk of my pocket money because the cough from just that one “drag” lingered for over a month, too drastic a punishment for just a drag of cigarette if you ask me, and of course the vicious scramble from the members of the opposite sex, to rip my hymen and put me at the highest risk of ‘hovering pregnancy’ situation; I had scanned encyclopaedias, journals, etc, in a bid to unravel the triggers, the green lights, the red flags, and the whole mechanics, just to ensure that Mama didn’t have to continue messing with my psyche for longer than required and I have only me to give the credit for such diligence at self-discovery.
Fanyi, a 100 level student of Theatre arts department, had this fresh, soft and creamy looks that could not be easily ignored, even if you tried. I admired him right off the bat, during our Matriculation ceremony, and as providence would have it, he also happened to be in the same department as me. I must quickly add, I’m yet to see a more fantastic cook as Fanyi, (he literally cooked his way into my heart), that and many other things endeared him to me. I could never thank him enough for fitting into all the many roles he played in my spring-chicken life on Campus, without necessarily exploiting my naivety. If I’m permitted to be graphic about the “robustness” and “curvaceousness” of my physiology, I would say it must have been tough for him to have resisted the urge to ‘till’ the green ‘garden, or maybe his spec was thin girls. He it was, I learnt cooking, cleaning and washing from. He made it easy for the cupid arrow to strike me. Somehow I thought I had the voyage under self-regulatory mode, until the negative spin to the friendship emerged, on a cool Friday evening.
“I swear Ogoh, she’s just a friend” Fanyi muttered, trying to close the door with his right foot as I made to run out of his room.
“I didn’t know that “just friends” could be caught half-naked on the bed, kissing and caressing each other” I cried.
I had gotten a little over-zealous and had gone visiting Fanyi three hours earlier than we had scheduled, on a Friday evening as it was the tradition since the beginning of our friendship, an ill-conceived idea it turned out to be; for there on his 4 by 5 inches mattress laid a light-skinned, slender girl, almost unclad except for her flowery panties. Her already unhooked brassiere had slipped halfway down to her navel. To say I was shell-shocked would be putting it mildly. I couldn’t tell which was more devastating, her flawlessly ravishing looks or the nauseating fact that my ‘lover boy’ could have been dealing with a (CCS), conflicting choice syndrome, given that I am chocolate skinned and the mystery girl was light skinned, a difference that could be likened to day and night. That presupposed that I hadn’t paid attention to my so-called heartthrob’s preferences in ladies. In hindsight, there must have been a huge likelihood that as a nineteen year old, he was only experimenting, a major red flag it was, but I was in love and I wasn’t keeping a mental note, I probably didn’t even have the brain to keep one.
That ‘’unclad-beautiful girl- on-lover’s bed’’ episode set the ball of our relationship rolling, and in the subsequent weeks I realised that Fanyi’s existence literally supplied the oxygen to my heart, something I’m sure, had to do with the clichéd first-love-claptrap. I was just eighteen, life to me was in a rose pink glass, plus, it was my first attempt at the idea of love, (whatever the hell that was) and I was hooked on it like opium.
“My goodness” I mourned, as I felt my head spin at the second sip from the glass of beer. The intoxication was swift, how come no one warned me that it took only a second sip from a cup of beer to get the head spinning.
“Relax, don’t rush it okay?” Fanyi said, and gently took the cup from my hand.
“Why is that”? I asked, my heart raced as my head got lighter, while my eyes flickered involuntarily.
“Why is what”? He asked, stifling his laughter.
“You are doing that again” I mumbled.
“Doing what exactly”? He asked.
“You just laughed at me again” I mourned, as I grabbed the glass from him and took a long sip.
“Now Ogoh that’s okay” he said and collected the cup, and in the process mistakenly splashed the content on his white bed cover.
“Sorry” I muttered and belched loudly.
A special kind of feeling swept through my entire being, it was euphoric. The only image my mind could conjure at that moment was that of one of my late Uncles, Ike, who was a habitual drinker, and how no one succeeded in getting him off the bottles till the day he died. But in his defence, what drinker in their ‘sane’ mind would consider quitting, if this kind of euphoric feeling was there to be gotten from just a few sips of beer?
“Let me take a sip” I said, my voice had grown husky, I could barely recognize it.
“Sip what”? Fanyi asked as the smoke seeped out through his nostril, which I found quite fascinating.
“Sip of cigarette” I answered, and stretched my hands for it.
“Young lady, they don’t ‘sip’ cigarette, they smoke it” he corrected, as he brushed my hands away and gently stuck the cigarette in between my lips.
And just that single drag of cigarette sent me into complete delirium, everything that could possibly happen, eventually DIDN’T, thankfully. Again I salute Fanyi for choosing not to do what he could have conveniently done. Maybe he was simply not a fan of some random alcohol-induced romp. Whatever the case, he saw to it that I left his room that evening the same way I came, with no ‘tissue’ in any hollow part of my body severed. If there was any reason he remained my spring-chicken-days hero, it was because of the level of maturity he demonstrated, a rarity amongst nineteen year olds, or maybe he preferred them light-skinned and skinny, who knows?
TO BE CONTD.
