EMOTIONAL MARKETPLACE (A short story series).

            Waiting for a ‘Dear student, your student loan has been paid’ text message was the most depressing moment of my life. It was as depressing as waiting for ‘dumsor’ to end, or for our nation leaders to reason, or for Liverpool to win an EPL title, or for the moment you would successfully make it out of the friend-zone. In certain instances, it seemed as impossible as the tarring of my manhole-prone Fodome road; more like waiting for a train at the airport. Akuffo Addo may become president of Ghana someday, but that goddamn payment of students’ loan text message may take forever to come. Why should money I would definitely payback take this long to come? I wondered. Nothing pained me more than the fact that all the money I was expecting would be used to pay off debts, leaving only a meagre rest for my personal use. Just last weekend, I had received a letter from Dzigbordi (the girl to whom I’ve been betrothed) telling me about her father’s deteriorating health, and that she needed money to add up to what they already had, to seek treatment for the ailing man. Considering the grammatical impotence of her letter, I wondered if Dr. Kwegyir Aggrey really meant what he said about girl education. But I don’t blame her. Her level of education was just adequate to get her betrothed to me (or vice versa). I really didn’t like her. I had heard her father owed mine some money, and so our betrothal was some form of collateral.

            “Man, body dey?”

            My very good friend, Yusif, patted me on the back to awake me to my present setting. It was then that I remembered we were sitting in front of Independence Hall purposely to look at the young ladies that strolled by. Because I wasn’t in my usual mood, I hadn’t taken notice of those enticing cleavages, the tempting imprints of their womanhood on the leggings some of them wore, and the seductive wobbling movement of their gargantuan backsides.

            “See, abeg, make una forget this people jorr.”

            “Which people?”

            I asked; not sure whether he was asking me to forget the Students’ Loan people, or the lecturers whose courses I had trailed, or Dzigbordi’s family people who kept calling my Siemens phone to demand for a portion of my lean Students’ Loan, or my landlady who constantly abuses my dignity because of common light bill, or the sitting President, John Mahama, who we didn’t know (for all this while) was suffering from dead goat syndrome. Yusif was the only non-Ghanaian friend I had. Inferring from his rich authentic Pidgin English, you don’t need to be told he was a Nigerian. How he became my friend, only my Fodome gods know. Having a friend like this who advises me to just sit and stare at girls, or to buy panties for Sally (the girl at church I’m crushing on), is as questionable as my landlady responding to my greeting. I can swear that my mother would slaughter me should she finds out the kind of company I keep in school. But Yusif and I flowed.

            “Ynkↄ bush,” he proposed.

            I followed him. We walked in silence till we got to our usual wee smoking base where we met some other guys who had taken wee-smoking like gyming (going in turns, round after round, variety after variety). It was a place we called G-spot, a cemetery, located in the bushes several meters beside the Evandy hostel. The atmosphere was enough to make you high.

            “Efo, this one na higher grade. Make una try am see. Your mind no go dey for that village girl en calling wey she dey call call you.”

            I sucked the roll.

The next day, Saturday, was another slow and boring day. As to how I got to my room, I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t heard from Yusif all morning. Maybe he was unimpressed about the fact that I’ve been smoking weed for this long yet my confidence still suffered from erectile dysfunction. My roommate had already gone for a church program. He was a fine young man. I particularly admired the way he took God serious. But me, I was a dead Christian. I had given up hope on myself that I could be consistent in church, so I never tried. Maybe once a while, I would show my face in church and instead of paying attention, my stare would deviate towards Sally. She was beautiful, had a nice smile, was fair (you know how Ewe guys have a thing for fair girls), and took the things of God like it was the World Cup. But you see, I believe I could quench the Holy Ghost in her with just a kiss. But where was my confidence? I couldn’t even talk to her yet alone imagine kissing her. She seemed always happy, and was a chorister. Maybe I should join the choir, maybe not. Well, if they smoked wee at choir rehearsals, I would join them…

I went to the extension (what in KNUST parlance is called balcony). My roommate had boiled some pathetic jollof rice. As usual (without permission), I scooped half of the left-over and fed my lean stomach. I ate slowly just to waste time. Then the door opened.

“Can I come in?” A young man peeped in.

I asked him to come in. From his sharp look (tie and shirt, and a small handbag), I correctly guessed he was a Jehovah Witness who had come to (as usual) tell me about God’s kingdom, but wouldn’t tell me what it takes to get there. He sat on my roommate’s bed and talked. The only thing I heard was “Please try and go to church tomorrow. God loves you.”

My Saturday evenings were comparatively boring. On one or two occasions, I would meet the landlady’s daughter and we would go for a walk. But mostly, I feared being with because she was underage and was just in Junior High School. The day her obese mother would grab the two of us together, Yusif would have a tribute to write. Her name was Fawusia. Like her mother, she was stout, busty, and had a bleached skin. She was spoilt beyond repairs. Had it not been for the scary things I had heard about premarital sex and a prophetess who had once told me that my first premarital sex would bring me an unwanted baby, I would have donated my virginity to her long ago.

Yusif would say, “Forget that prophet…Make una no make slow for that chick.”

“I want to stay a virgin till I marry,” I would say.

“Shun dey tok me that virgin shit. Which boy you hear say e be twenty-two wey e be virgin?”

I would be mute, bowing down in shame.

“You kiss before?”

No answer.

“Waa see. This boy na jon boy ohh! Sometimes I dey wonder how you den me turn friend.”

No response. He would then signal me to come closer. I would obey, like a lamb. He would put his left arm around me, marijuana defining his breathe, and then put his right hand in his breast pocket for two condoms.

“You go fit go two rounds abi?”

I would sigh weakly.

“Oya, collect the thing before I ask you to pay me back all the money you owe me.”

I would collect them, and then forge a smile which would please his soul.

“Good boy. Make una no disappoint me ohh!!”

 Not wanting to spend the evening inhaling smoke or being with Fawusia, I decided to blow time by challenging a few friends to FIFA. So I went to campus, wasted the little money Yusif had given me on snooker and FIFA, and then waited patiently for hunger to  humble me to retire to my room; my mind still debated whether or I not I should go to church the next morning.
            Sunday morning came like a trosky going to Kotei. Time to weigh the pros and cons whether or not to appear in church. I had several reasons not to go and just one reason to go; to become like my roommate who was already up preparing for service. Like every other undergraduate guy, I had this one trouser I was passionate about. I took it and gave it an ironing. After bathing, I wore a blue-striped shirt, my favorite trouser, and my shoe then went to church. I had scanned through the crowd to spot Sally. I found her, glimmering in indescribable beauty. Throughout the sermon, I was just rehearsing how I would talk to her after church. The preacher’s message was inherently long (another reason why I didn’t like going to church). Had I been high that morning, I would have gone to push him down the pulpit. But he was lucky for the several things that prevented me from creating a scene; my attentive left eye on Sally, and flirty right eye which roamed searching for feminine thighs to feast on. At a point or two, I battled with sleep.

 

I pushed the wooden gate that led to our compound house. All activity on our compound stopped at the sight of me. My mom came out of the kitchen where she had been grinding pepper. My father, paused the journey his right hand was making with a morsel of fufu to his mouth which was wide-opened. He put his hand down, and gave me a serious look.

“Selah?” My mom called.

“Whose daughter is that?”

“Daddy,” I said.

I signaled Sally to come out and show her beautiful self to my astounded parents. She gave my unimpressed parents a smile, and said “Hi”.

“What does that mean? And who is she by the way?”

“Daddy, it’s a greeting.”

“Greeting! I see! Wait for me… I’m coming…”

He gently pushed his food table back, adjusted his cloth, and went inside. He reappeared a few seconds later with his hunting gun, and fired a shot into the sky. Sally shrieked in fear and we fled. I could still his curses behind us.

“Useless son! You should have waited for me to come and respond to your greeting. How can you come home with a witch? NOUN-SENSE! Come here again with that girl and you would see if I would rearrange your face for you…”

 

            May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ…

I woke up when I heard them sharing the grace. I wiped my sweaty forehead, and sighed, thanking God it was only a dream. The lady sitting by me whose thigh my right eye had been monitoring looked at me as if to say, “Are you Okay?”

…TO BE CONTINUED…