LOVE, FATE AND THE MONSTER
She crawled together at the tip of her bed holding him close to her. Hot tears filled her eyes, and she could feel it trickling down into her throat.
She flashed back to the encounter with the person she often describes as the coldest bitch she has ever met in her life. Mrs Iniobong was in charge of GST registration for the Faculty of Basic Medical Science in the university of Uyo that semester.
‘Good afternoon ma’. Greeted Oge with a warm smile.
‘Nsido’? The woman breathed out roughly in ibibio.
‘I want to register for GST 211 ma’, she continued, ignoring the fact that she did not understand the Ibibio the woman spoke, hoping that the rest of the conversation would be done in English language; after all, that was the official language, or so she thought.
‘Mmo receipt mfo’? the woman interjected, yet again in Ibibio, making Oge look around for a moment, wondering if she was in the wrong office.
‘I am sorry ma. I don’t understand Ibibio.’ She said politely.
‘Where are you from?’ ‘Abia state ma.’ Oge managed to breath out, totally pissed at the woman. ‘Then what are you doing here? If you don’t understand the language, then go back to your state! Or don’t you have universities in Igbo land’? The woman taunted in the most bizarre, stupid, selfish and rude way Oge has ever seen anyone do. She wondered why there was so much hate locked up inside the woman.
Akwa Ibom and Abia states share boundaries, why would an academician like Mrs. Ini hate Abians that much? Or does she hate other people who are not from her ethnic group just as much?
She stood here, lost in thoughts and amazement, then she remembered the numerous inscriptions written on the walls of the toilets inside the main campus; “Anang will destroy Ibibio”, “Oron people are dangerous. Avoid them like the flu”, and so many other hateful inscriptions. As Oge remembered these things, she concluded not to blame the woman.
If a state as small as Akwa Ibom state, with three main ethnic groups will hate each other so much, then why should she not treat an Igbo girl with so much hostility?
Her heart bled and broke into shreds, knowing that she would never be happy in all her life, that her happiness was about to be offered as a burnt sacrifice on the altar of ethnic hostility. She hated her father even more.
What a monster he was. What a hypocrite he was! The same man who always supported and prayed for Barrack Obama to win the United States presidential election simply because he was black.
Morning devotions in those days became very boring.
After the torturous half hour of praise and worship which was made more unappetizing by the choice of out-dated 1980 classic kinds of choruses her mum always raised, her dad, Chief Obiara would spend nothing less than twenty minutes praying for Obama.
‘Dear lord,’ his voice will always cry, ‘arise and make us have a voice in the world. Arise and put a stop to racism by proving to the world that one of us can rule America. Make our brother Obama the president oh lord! Decorate him with that crown and our race shall be librated forever! Then black tribulations and sufferings will become gone for good.’
As he went on and on, Oge marveled at his choice of words and wondered what the prayer would have been like, had it been that they were in the era of Martin Luther King or in the days of apartheid regime in South Africa.
She found it amazing how her dad was so concerned about the success of Obama, a man who he never knew and would most likely will never meet in all his lifetime. ‘Perhaps it’s all about patriotism for the black race and love for any man who has the black skin color.’ She thought.
She wondered were all that love had flown into. How could the same man who prayed for a stranger in far away America hate the Yoruba man next door with so much passion?
‘Oh! Lanre!’ She cried, ‘why is this happening to us? Your parents hate me so much because I am Igbo, and my dad would never hear me mention the name Olarewaju under his roof. He has threatened to cut off my neck if I ever mention your name again. Oh my love, I can’t live without you.
As she felt his palms wiping the tears off her eyes, she knew that those hands are the hands she wants to hold her, cuddle her, fondle her body and touch her in places no other hands can. She couldn’t imagine being in another man’s arms. For a moment, she wished she was never born into that family.
Her father, chief Obiara was nothing different from Mrs. Ini. He seemed to have resentment against every tribe on planet earth- even in Igbo land where he hailed from.
‘Fear Mbaise man oh! They are conning like the serpent.’
‘Don’t trust Ngwa people; they eat human meat.’
‘My daughter can never marry an Anambara man oh! So he don’t use her for money rituals.’
‘My son can never marry an Arochukwu woman. They don’t last in marriage. There matrimonial bed is hardly enough for them!’
‘Yoruba girls are pigs! So dirty! That’s why they are always fat and black. Ibu dirty!’
‘Ibibio girls are all ashewo. Harlots! They can fuck for breakfast, lunch and dinner. They must have some kind of gene of dogs encoded in their DNA.’
‘Hausa is no no-go area oh! Bokoharam!!!
‘Benin people? Those ones are all witches and wizards. They can just look at you and ascertain how your blood will taste. Abeg don’t even go close to them o!’
He could go on and on.
‘I can’t let him ruin our happiness. I can’t!’ she cried, sniffing hard. She wiped the tears off her face with the back of her palm.
She looked deep into his eyes, he was lost. Wandering away in the whirlwind. His eyes were so bleak and she knew that he couldn’t see her at the moment.
‘Lanre, do you love me?’
Her gentle voice tugged him back from the land of the broken, where his mind and soul were darting apart in the journey to find peace.
‘Lanre?’ She called again, eyes searching his soul.
He blinked, and then, once again, he became aware of the beauty which had been lying in his arms all the while.
‘With every single breath I take.’ He replied, looking deep into her eyes.
Her eyes held his gaze as her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt. She undid the first button and paused, waiting for response. She got none.
He was taken by her beauty which seemed unfading, better with each passing day. She undid the next button and the next. Her face moved closer to his, her lips found his; they kissed slowly and passionately, and waves after waves of passion flowed down her spine.
‘Get me pregnant, Lanre,’ she whispered into his ears. ‘Let’s make a baby.’
She felt bliss when he thrust into her. With each successive thrust, she felt peace overwhelm her. She wished she would remain that way forever, right underneath him, moaning in ecstasy as he performs his magic on her. She wished they could sleep off, or disappear and appear or wakeup in a place where there is no ethnic hostility. Where the Igbos love the Hausas, a place where the Fulanis see the Yorubas as their brothers, and would do anything to defend and protect them. She longed for that land where the Ibibios love the Anangs and make friends with the Oron man.
She wished above all things that the black man would stop accusing the white of racism while he himself hates the other black man because they do not speak the same dialect.
These wishes clouded her mind as she basked in the wanton ecstasy of his hardened man-meat devouring her juicy horny pot. His body became rigid, his breath became faster. As she felt spurts after spurts of his seed pour into her, she knew that Lanre Jnr. was on the way.
And when he arrives, her father will have no choice than to accept her choice of husband, because right then, he would have to either let go the hatred he had for Lanre or risk his integrity being rubbished in the church board, as he was an Elder, and the president of the church presbytery council.
In her mind, she could see him asking Lanre to hasten up with the wedding preparations, to save him from the shame and humiliation he would feel when the news of his daughter’s pregnancy becomes public.
Lanre collapsed on top of her, she held him tight and smiled, a very victoriously wicked smile; as she imagined the face of the monster with a deflated ego.