A week before Valentine’s Day, I found myself in the throes of existential despair. What was the point of it all? How was I to occupy myself during the upcoming weekend of love and its various performative displays? In years past, I had idled away the day in front of my hostel, bearing witness to the various dramas of my fellow co-eds: laughter, tears, fights, swears, snatching, lying, and all the rest of it. Ah, the stuff of life!
But one year, one particular Valentine’s Day, stands out in my memory. A girl, eager to visit her beloved fiancé in Port Harcourt, embarked on a journey to see him, only to find upon arrival that her roommate had already made the same trip a week prior! The two rivals returned to our school campus, where they proceeded to engage in a daily battle of wills, a ferocious conflict that lasted for over a month. It was the most memorable Valentine’s Day I had ever experienced.
It was time to do something different for Valentine’s Day, I thought to myself. As Thursday morning rolled around, I found myself alone as all my friends had embarked on trips to various destinations: Port Harcourt, Enugu, Abuja, the United States, South Africa, Obollo Eke, Ovoko, and the list went on and on. I refused to be left behind and quickly went through my list of admirers. As I scrolled through my list of potential suitors, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of my attractiveness. Being a beautiful woman seemed to offer limitless options, yet the search for a suitable companion proved to be a difficult task. In Benin, there was one potential match, but his volatile temper left much to be desired. I recalled the last time I visited him, he nearly choked me to death while we were making out on his sofa- BDSM or homicide? So I called up another guy, pretending that I just wanted to say hi. And as expected, he invited me to come visit. I was elated! I asked him to send me money for a flight, but he suggested I take a bus instead. “I’ll be at work all day. Just take ABC transport so that by the time you get here, I would have closed for the day,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. I could almost picture him scratching his head in confusion. As Friday morning dawned, I dragged my feet to the dean’s office and concocted an absurd lie. Private universities, as is their custom, require a pass to leave the premises, a process as tedious as obtaining a visa to the United States. my fabrication was so creative that the dean granted me the pass, and I left his office with a skip in my step. I hurriedly packed my belongings and made my way to the bus station to board a God Is Good bus headed to Aba. With my heart beating wildly in my chest, I carefully picked out my outfit for the weekend. I knew I had to look like royalty, no, more than that, like a princess straight out of a fairy-tale. A queen, while majestic, was too mature for the excitement I felt bubbling within me. And so, I slipped on my favourite heels and stood before the mirror, admiring the sight of myself in the regal ensemble. This Valentine’s weekend had to be unforgettable.
I had never set eyes on the man I was going to visit, not even on social media. Our introduction was a matter of chance: he dialled my number by mistake, and upon realizing the error, called back to express an interest in friendship. With nothing to lose, we began a telephonic companionship. I must confess, his manners over the phone were impeccable, he knew exactly what to say and even sang to me when the occasion warranted. According to him, he was not married, and during one of our chats, he disclosed to me that he was a politician, an only child, and lived in a grand house with four cars. Despite his apparent modesty, I sensed that he was more than comfortable. He calls frequently, which is why I wasn’t surprised when he called every second of the journey. My roommate nicked named him “monitoring spirit” because of the frequency of his calls, but I see it as a sign of care. In the midst of my journey, he called me and asked, “darling, what would you like to eat? So I can prepare it before you arrive.” I smiled coyly and replied, “Just some goat meat pepper soup, dear.”
He called again, “My love, how are you feeling? Has the journey been smooth?” I responded, “Yes, my dear (even though my feet were on fire from these high heels, what was I thinking wearing them?).”
Without even realizing it, I began to plan my wedding in my head while on the bus. The colors, the venue, my bridesmaids, the kind of car he would buy me…it was all so exciting! I couldn’t help but smile and giggle to myself. Finally, we arrived in Aba! Aba Ngwa! My first time visiting. I called him countless times before we arrived and he assured me he would be waiting for me at the park. But alas, he was not there. I continued to call.
He reassured me that he was on his way, but as I waited, every passing car and stopped vehicle caught my attention. I nearly passed out when I saw a beaten-up Peugeot 404 Opi Achara parked in front of me. I let out a sigh of relief as the driver continued his life’s journey. What a close call!
And just as I thought my day couldn’t get any more absurd, a man in his forties wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and bathroom slippers came running towards me shouting “BABY!” I quickly moved aside, giving him ample space to continue to run to his baby. But to my dismay, he stopped right in front of me with a big smile playing on his lips. Picked up my bag, and placed it on his shoulder. I was startled and screamed, thinking he was a thief. He reassured me, saying, “Calm down, it’s me.” Still recovering from the shock of meeting my host, I asked, “Where’s the car?” He then hailed a very noisy tricycle, and I couldn’t help but exclaim, “Ewoooooo!!! I’m finished!!”
As we hopped onto the noisy keke, my heart was pounding so hard that I could barely hear what my host was saying. His words were lost in the chaos of the roaring engine and the blaring horns of other vehicles on the road. I tried to smile, but my mind was in turmoil. How long was this night going to be?
I couldn’t help but cry within as he continued to talk. His voice was even noisier than the keke we were riding in. He spoke of his dreams and ambitions, but all I could think of was how to escape this awkward situation.
Suddenly, he said something that caught my attention. “I love you,” he declared. My heart skipped a beat. How could he say that? I barely knew him!
The keke man interrupted our conversation with a remark in Igbo language that I didn’t understand. But the look on his face said it all – “silly girl.” I felt embarrassed and exposed, as if everyone on the road could see right through me.
As the keke bounced and jolted along the bumpy road, I prayed for the journey to end soon. I longed for the comfort and safety of my hostel, where I could put this embarrassing encounter behind me.
We got off the keke and approached his big house, Well, the big house part was no lie, it was big, a big house that had seen better days. My heart started to race. I had imagined his house to be a magnificent palace, with marble floors and chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. But this house was old and in a state of disrepair. The roof was rusted, the paint was peeling off the walls, and the windows were covered in cobwebs.
I tried to mask my disappointment and put on a brave face as we entered the house. The first thing I noticed was the musty smell that permeated the air. I coughed, trying to clear my throat, but it didn’t help much. He showed me to the sitting room, and as I sat on the couch, I felt like I was sinking into it. The cushions were old and saggy, and the springs were sticking out.
As I tried to get comfortable, he laughed and pulled me out of the seat, cautioning me to sit carefully on the edge. I felt embarrassed. Was this what I had travelled all the way to Aba for? To sit on a broken couch in a dilapidated house? Hei! I exclaimed inwardly
I gazed at the kitchen with disbelief and disgust. It was a complete mess, with dirty plates piled up from the floor to the ceiling, some of them looking like they had been there for years. The stench emanating from the sink was overpowering, making me feel nauseous. And then I asked for my goat meat pepper soup, he pointed towards what looked like a brownish object in the corner. At first, I couldn’t tell what it was, but as I got closer, I realised it was a fridge.” Is that a fridge?” I said it out loud before I realised I wasn’t thinking it. I touched the handle and it gave me a sound electric shock! Causing me to recoil in pain. Thank God the shock didn’t kill me.
After receiving a jolt of electricity, he quickly came to my rescue, smelling of grease and grime like a mechanic from the auto repair shop! In that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was on a date or following a mechanic around. Oh dear, I could have just gone to Kada Cinema like a normal person and watched a film! But there I was, in this old house, with its rundown fridge and rusty appliances. He apologized for the fridge and opened it himself, revealing the sad sight of uncooked meat.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Was this really where he kept his food? I wondered how anyone could live in such filth and squalor. I love cooking though so I wouldn’t mind! Then he said the most heart breaking thing, “We’ll go to the market so you can buy stuff for the cooking, “I also want to show you off.” Show me off? At the market? My heart sank as I contemplated the implications of this request. Who would he show me off to? Market women?
My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the cooking area. There was no gas cooker, only three blackened stones with a pot precariously balanced on top. My irritation flared. How could he expect me to cook under such conditions? But he seemed oblivious to my discomfort, his smile unwavering. I was famished, but when he suggested we visit the market, I balked. I wasn’t in the mood for the chaos and cacophony of bargaining and haggling with a middle aged man that looks like a mechanic. So, he took me to a roadside eatery. It was an assault on my senses. Flies buzzed around my head, and a big blue one landed on my arm. I let out a blood-curdling scream and bolted out of there before they could even bring out the food.
He called me baby, and the more he did, the more I felt the urge to slap him.
It was as we got back to the house that I noticed his cars. He spoke about having 4, I counted 3 unless he’s counting that 911 at the side as one! The cars were nothing more than rusted hulks, relics of a bygone era. All of them were shrouded in a thick blanket of dust. The tires were flat, and the mirrors were cracked or missing altogether. It was as if they had been abandoned and forgotten.
I made my way to the bathroom, bracing myself for what I might find. Let’s just say that cleanliness was not a top priority in this household. I had to channel my inner cleaning lady and do some serious scrubbing and polishing before I felt comfortable enough to take a bath.
After the ordeal of my hygiene was complete, I retired to the sitting room to watch a movie, hoping to find some respite from the chaos and confusion of the day. But alas, there was no Netflix to be found, no DSTV, no Hi TV, not even the one with the big dish that looked like a basket.
He reached for a pile of movies, and I let out a sigh of relief. Finally, some form of entertainment. I sifted through the stack, eager to find something to watch, only to be met with disappointment. They were all pornographic in nature. I laughed, but my amusement quickly gave way to concern.
I handed the stack back to him and asked if he had any cartoons. It was his turn to look at me incredulously, as if I was joking. But I was completely serious. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any, leaving me to retreat to my bed with nothing but my thoughts for company.
As I drifted off to sleep, I made sure to lock the door. With such a collection of films at his disposal? I wasn’t about to take any chances.
In the dead of the night, I was awoken by a persistent knocking at my door. At first, I tried to ignore it, hoping that he would get tired and eventually give up and leave me in peace. But the knocking only grew louder and more urgent, until I could no longer ignore it.
“Baby, please open the door. Are you alright?” His voice called out to me from the other side. My heart raced in my chest, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead.
As I hesitated, paralyzed with fear, my mind raced with all the horror stories I had heard about young girls being taken advantage of by men with bad intentions. My thoughts turned to Cynthia, a girl I knew from secondary school who had gotten involved with the wrong crowd and ended up being killed by a man she had met online.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen to me. This man continued knocking, his voice growing more and more desperate with each passing moment. It felt like he was at my door for hours, though it was probably only a few minutes.
Just as I was about to step my foot on the floor, to pick up a heavy chair to block the door, I felt something brush against my toe. I looked down to see a rat scurrying across the floor, and let out a piercing scream. He must have heard me, because he stopped knocking and went silent.
For a moment, I considered calling my mother and confessing everything to her, begging her to come and rescue me. But then I remembered the shame that would come with admitting to my family that I had gotten myself into such a dangerous situation. So instead, I spent the rest of the night huddled under my blankets, praying silently for the dawn to come and the nightmare to be over.
The next morning, I was already up before the break of dawn. I knew I had to leave that place before he woke up. I didn’t want any part of him or his shenanigans anymore. I hastily packed my belongings and slipped out of the house, leaving no trace behind. He never called me again.
