Illicit Appeal (fiction)
Eka padlocked the chain-link fence when she left with my beautiful daughter — Ima—inadvertently enclosing me in regret and entrapment of grief.
“Dad, you must come with us!” cries Ima, resolutely tugging at my wrists and pulling me to the Ford Caravan. We totter to the car together, then I crouch, hold her arms, and look sorrowfully into her eyes.
“Sorry, dear, Dad's got tonnes of work, so he can't go out with you today.” I suck in my cheeks, looking more sorrowful. “I'll make it up to you some other time.”
“But Dad, no, you promised Mom and me. Please, Dad, please!” begs Ima. She continues, tangibly irritated by another broken promise. “You always do this, Dad. I wouldn't say I like it when you break promises. But, if you do, I never want to see you ever.”
Ima's right. I break more promises than I keep. It seems the easy way out to get her off my neck. It's so easy to say things like: “Don't worry, I'll come home with a chocolate-flavoured Corneto from Genesis,” or “Get ready, let's feed the ducks in Pleasure Park with breadcrumbs on Sunday," or "Daddy's going to take you to Spar to choose a duper hoverboard TX.”
My wife, Eka, complains of broken promises too. She is fed up with many things in our marriage and takes it out by denying me sex. I try not to make a big deal of her reluctance, so these days, I keep away also. Now, it's become the norm for us — a sexless couple. Two adults bent on using sex as payback. Nevertheless, my appetite for sexual intimacy burns profoundly, and I suffer in silence.
Coaxing Ima into the car and strapping her up takes more effort than expected; she repeatedly puckers and bangs her fists on the back headrest. Finally, Ima calms down after much placating. Eka starts the car, and they drive off. Soon, all I see standing and waving is the distant image of the Ford Caravan as it fades into the horizon.
As I head home, I hear a hissing sound and steam escaping from a car's bonnet. A broken-down red Nissan Primera '03 edition; paint-washed, faded headlamps, and a cracked windshield. Beside it is a young woman, probably in her early twenties, beckoning to me for assistance. I scan her from head to toe; red-tinted tuffets are peeking from a black cap, a see-through blouse partially screened by a light grey camisole, a black leather mini-skirt with zip straps at the sides, and red plimsoles. Although it is rare to have visitors to my countryside, I know her because of her clothes. Most country women of Agpakpa wear bubus with frilly sleeves and tie wax-wrappers in firm knots around their waist.
“Good afternoon, sah, help me, sha?” She speaks pidgin English but spices it up with the city lingo. “Dis my car is bad, you feel me?”
“So, how may I be of help to you?” I reply, unsure of what I can render.
“Please help me call mechanic, and I can't cos my phone off,” requests the city broad.
“That's okay… eh.” I pause.
“Edidiong na my name, but most people call me Eddy,” she completes warmly.
“I'm Udeme, and it's my pleasure to be of help.” Eddy extends a handshake and explains she is a traveller passing through for an audition at a dance club.
“Sah, again, I want to piss. Would you mind helping me?”
“I could take you to my convenience.” So, naturally, I offer assistance, considering there is no traveller's stop nearby.
“Thank you, sah, you're a good man.” As Eddy speaks, she looks around her, somewhat puzzled. “Sah, why so many chain-fences in dis community?” It's a question most visitors ask, a question I answer repeatedly.
“Well, Agbakpa people keep these fences to prevent trespassing from herders in transhumance… em… I mean in movement. It's been a 35-year tradition,” I say proudly. I get satisfaction speaking about the Agbakpa community, our heritage, language and culture, and being an indigene vying for chieftaincy rites.
“Let's go in, Eddy; it's time you visited the ladies.” So I unhook the padlock, and we go through the chain-linked fence and into the living room. It's there Eddy uses the washroom. It's there things unexpected happen.
“Please make yourself at home, Eddy, before the tow truck arrives.” I offer her to sit and drink. “Don Simon Vinto is all I have. Do you care?”
“It's pafect,” she consents, “just as long as you're drinkin too, oh.”
I smile at her, “Yes, of course.”
We clink to long life and good health, then begin drinking and chatting and listening to the sonorous voice of 2Face Idibia floating into our ears in melodic appeal. Eddy does most of the talking. She tells me about her dance career, how it all started at a nightclub, and how she got hooked on dance, adventure, alcohol, men, and sex.
When I find out Eddy strip dances for a living, I twitch uncomfortably. But then, Eddy notices my uneasiness and takes my hand, smiling.
“I'm better off now than on the streets where I started hawking at the age of nine,” said Eddy reassuringly.
Eddy spoke in detail about her childhood. She sold fried bean cake, garden egg and groundnut paste, and ripe plantain. Every morning, she selected her wares and hoisted the tray on her head around the busy streets of Marian, cajoling motorists and pedestrians to buy. Her mother collected the money for sold items, all of it. The day a pedestrian knocked down her tray accidentally, and she lost everything, her mother was livid. She beat Eddie with the spoon used for stirring the peppery Banga soup and flicked some of it into her eyes.
The trade continued until she was fourteen before being waylaid and raped on a narrow path home. Four bushwhackers pointed steel blades in the dwindling sunset. The leader pushed her into the nearby bush, having his turn first on the dirt underneath the canopy of the emerging starry sky. The rest of the gang members joined the party and had their joy. Afterwards, she crawled home clutching on the relics of her ripped wrapper. Blood oozed and trickled down her thighs in rivulets. She cried to her mother, who insensitively scolded her for losing the money. To her, Eddy was careless and lost her virginity as a result. Eddy soon left her street market to be a waitress at Dreams Nightclub, then a dancer. Later, after a stint, a full-time strip dancer. Why not? More money, lots more of it.
“I feel like dancing,” says Eddy, taking her cap off and tossing it away. She is feeling drunk and in the mood for fun. The young, pretty Eddy sways and twirls toward me, flashing her haunches and flaunting her cleavage. Then, she dances around the armchair I sit in before she climbs and spreads herself on me like a platypus. Everything is happening so quickly, and I'm losing my sensibilities. I begin a protest, but Eddy hushes me, her index finger to my lips. The comfy sofa and Eddy's soft chest strap me tightly, making it difficult to breathe. But I love it, want more. Next, we begin kissing, slowly at first and then vigorously, tearing each other's clothes off in the frenzy of the moment. I fondle her breasts and suck on them passionately, making her moan in extreme pleasure. I, too, am lost in a complicated maze of ecstasy. I wish it's never going to end, but it does when Eka walks in on us.
I see Eka from the corner of my eyes, but she disappears as soon as she comes. Perhaps she turns away to shield Ima from seeing her father in the despicability of his nakedness, or she can't bear witnessing the infiltration by another in her matrimonial home; most likely both. She departs, only to be heard by the clanking of the padlock on the chain-link fence.
