Naked

“What is the matter with you?”

 I looked up at James, hoping he could see that I was not comfortable. He had two men in the house that lived with him and now I was here and I too would have to live with them. I was also worried that one of the men was Nigerian like I was. This seemed to bother me more than anything else.

 “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

 “I would prefer it if you didn’t have those men in the house,” I said slowly.

 “You would prefer!” he snarled. “You just got here and already you think it is your place to dictate to me what I should or should not do.”

 “It’s just that you never told me about living with anyone,” I said, a little afraid of the way he was reacting. His tone was frightening me. “And this house… this neighbourhood!”

 “What is wrong with this house?” He asked. “What’s fucking wrong with the neighbourhood?”

 I looked around me in attempt to avoid his eyes. It seemed everything was already going wrong. I was wondering what I should do, what would Princess have done? What would Uloma do?

 “How can you criticize here when you are coming from that shit hole, Africa?” he spat. His face was squeezed up, eyebrows knotted and a thick vein protruded from the side of his neck.

 Who was this man? My mind screamed. This was certainly not the sweet man who loved black people and who wanted to have an African queen to be his bride. This could certainly not be the man who courted me all these months.

 He walked to the dresser and gave it a big kick. I jumped slightly in fright and stared at his back. I could hear his deep breathing from where I sat.

 “You women are all the same,” he said, turning round to look at me. “You always want to change things that need no changing.”

 “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

 “What?” he said.

 “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

 I held on to his eyes for a minute and then watched them trail down to my breasts. Instinctively, I hugged my breast closer together to make them look fuller. I noticed that this seemed to excite him.

 “Please let’s not fight,” I said.

 “Yes,” he agreed. “Let’s not fight… God, you are beautiful.”

 In no time he was by my side kissing me and fiddling with my bra. I was soon naked before him. Many thoughts flashed through my head. Many questions as well. I was not given an opportunity to ask him anything at all about what I was doing here and what plans he had for me now that I was here. There were promises of marriage and citizenship while I was still in Nigeria, but nothing was said that night. The only noise he made was grunting and ejaculating expletives while he jabbed at my insides with his withering prick. Did he care that I felt no pleasure from this? Did he even notice? I didn’t close my eyes once during this torrid invasion. It lasted what seemed like hours interrupted only when he offloaded his scum at intervals and then he started again after resting only for a short while. I felt wounded inside like only a woman could feel, raw and bruised from within my cave as he thrust in with so much force, imploding all my senses. As I watched his naked limbs dance on me I caught the wild look of ecstasy spreading across his face. The bed creaked and cried and shifted violently from side to side, objecting to this sudden and unexpected violation. And when he was done, he rolled over and slept, leaving me forgotten, naked and alone.

 I’m sure if James had any opportunity to discuss the happenings of our first night, he would have told a very different story. He would have been the victim and I would have been the cold, unfeeling one. But whatever version is told, the bed, the wooden floor, the window and even the door would attest to one story. If only they could talk.

 I lay in his bed with the covers pulled up to my chin with the stench of him still infiltrating my senses and I cried a silent sorrow. It occurred to me then that when women surrender to men, they lose all forms of their individual identity and become powerless, stripped of every vestige of their womanhood and left feeling naked.

Naked was how I remained the next morning when he left me in his bed and dashed off. I looked out of the window and noticed it was still pitch black outside. It looked like midnight but it was morning and he was gone. I looked round the stark bedroom trying to make out all the details in the barely visible light of the half morning. Everything was as I remembered it from the night before; the ugly armchair still stared at me from the corner of the room, the wardrobe stood in all its rickety majesty with one of its door strewn open, peeking at me. I soon dragged myself out of bed using the duvet as a cloak. I switched on the light and looked round the room for my suitcases. They were on the floor where James had left them. I notice they had been tampered with.

Before I could get to them, I heard the bedroom door creak open and as I looked up, my eyes caught black sturdy legs, a pair of white boxer shorts that had stains close to the crotch area, an extremely lean stomach that exposed the outline of several ribs and then a flourish of black pepper-seed curls that ran from a defined chest to a quaint belly button. Providence’s eyes were red; these were what captured me. He held a half smoked cigarette between the fingers of his left hand.

 My first instinct was to scream, which I did. Loudly.

 “Hey, take it easy love,” he said alarmingly. “It’s just me, Providence. I no go bite you!”

 “What do you want?” I asked as I wrapped the duvet tighter round me. My voice was shaky and my eyes were drawn to the cigarette in his hand.

 “I hope you are not going to shout again?” He said. I shook my head. “Good!” He said and suddenly slumped himself on the unmade bed with such nonchalance.

 “So, how is Nigeria?” He asked me as he dragged on his cigarette.

 I was silent. All that passed through my mind was my nudity underneath the cover and my silent infuriation. What manner of a person would saunter into the bedroom of a couple that early in the morning, smoking a cigarette and trying to engage a stranger in conversation regarding Nigeria? Not only that, he was practically naked himself without a care in the world. I was upset with myself for not having the courage to speak up and say my mind. I hated the fact that he was in this room. I hated the fact that he had no respect for the fact that I was a woman. I hated that he felt it was okay to just walk in here this early in the morning. I hated. I hated. I hated. But I could not voice out all this hate.

 “Abi you no sabi English again?” he asked in Nigerian Pidgin English.

 “I speak perfect English, thank you!” I said with a deliberately exaggerated British accent.

 “How is Nigeria then?” he asked again, propping himself more comfortably on the bed. “You know, I haven’t been home in four years.”

 How was I supposed to know that? I just got into the country and quite frankly I didn’t really care. I wanted him to go so I could put on something.

 “When James said he was getting a Nigerian woman over here, I was really intrigued,” he started off again. “You know, I sort off encouraged him right from the beginning. I told him what fantastic women we have in Nigeria.”

 At that moment he realised he had finished smoking his cigarette. He looked baffled at the stub as if he had not expected that it would burn out eventually. He then looked at me and smiled vulgarly.

 “You have any smokes?” he asked.

 I looked on in stunned awe. He sighed helplessly. I watched him rise from the bed; drags open the drawer by the head of the bed, lift some loose paper and magazines inside and withdraw a crumpled packet of Marlboros. He smiled seeing there was still a stick left inside. He found a lighter, lighted the cigarette and flopped back on the bed like it was his room.

 “This London has a way of changing a person.” he said matter-of-factly. “Who would have thought that I would be this jobless after bagging a degree in Economics! Yes, I studied at U.I, Ibadan. Was the top of my class, even.”

 At that moment I realised that Providence had no plans of leaving the room any time soon. He wanted to talk. From the looks of things, he was dying for an audience, someone to listen to his soliloquies. I was that unfortunate someone who had the misfortune of only just arriving from Nigeria, a distant memory of a place called home for him. The look on my face softened momentarily and I moved over to the armchair and sat down.

 “I didn’t go to any university,” I said solemnly.

 “Ahh,” he said with keen interest. “You don’t know what you missed.”

 I could see he had become totally relaxed now that I had showed some interest in listening to him. I quickly deduced that he didn’t expect much talking from me, rather a mute listener would suit him perfectly, and this was fine for me. I figured that maybe if I listened without interruptions, he would finish quickly and then leave the room.

 “Nigeria sweet o!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Any time I remember the tall dreams I had when I was back in school—you know, being rich, living and working abroad, shuttling in and out of Nigeria as if commuting between Dugbe and Lagos-- the naiveté of the innocent!”

 He looked at me then sheepishly and smiled. I noticed he had beautiful white teeth that seemed unaffected by his smoking.

 “So, tell me about home,” he said. “I here things from time to time from friends by email or phone calls but nothing beats talking with a Nigerian one-on-one, especially one so fresh from home.”

 He was staring at me expectantly and it dawned on me after a minute that he was actually expecting me to say something. I looked away briefly as I pulled the covers more securely to my body. It was almost as if I feared he could see my nakedness underneath. I didn’t trust my voice either.

 “What do you want to know about Nigeria?” I finally asked. My voice was as soft and as unrecognisable to me as a squeal.

 “I don’t know,” Providence admitted. “Let’s see-- how are things generally? Are people still running away from there? I hear the price of fuel is astronomical these days, is that true?”

 What did I know about these issues? I asked myself. Before I got the nerves and courage to walk away from Nigeria I was simply a Nigerian who though aware of some of the prevailing issues in the country—poor electricity that made sleeping at night unbearable, hike in fuel prices that drove the price of everything up, the occasional bus stop commentary on the dodgy nature of our government or politicians-- I really didn’t bother with Nigeria or the other issues involved therein. I know there are many of my type in this generation who are vaguely involved in slapstick politics but we are all so far removed that we depend on stray comments for information. For me, Nigeria is Nigeria; good or bad, it is the only country I know. There was nothing I could think of to say.

 “Fuel price did go up,” I said slowly.

 He sighed deeply as if this piece of stale news was going to affect his leaving the house that morning and finding his way round town. I began to wonder again when he planned to leave me alone.

 “You speak well,” he said as he sat up. “Which school did you go to?”

 “Night school.” I answered quickly, silently thanking Princess for encouraging me to finish up with my adult education classes.

 “Hmmmp!” Providence sighed. “Anyway, what plans do you have now that you are here?”

 I shrugged. I didn’t think it was right for me to disclose any plans to him. I wondered, if James had told him about our plans to get married so I could become a British citizen. It didn’t seem likely, but I could never tell since James had kept so much away from me already.

 I didn’t realise how long I remained still without answering him until he said harshly, “It was a simple question I asked, do you have a speech impediment?”

 I wanted so much to ask him to leave in the foulest of ways, but I was tongue-tied as always. Those things I most desperately want to say—the hurtful things—never left my mouth. I had always been like that.

 Finally he got up from the bed, looked at me with pity in his eyes and sighed like a typical Nigerian-- a long drawn out noise produced by sucking in air through clenched back teeth that produced a hiss.

 “Woman,” he said, “you need friends like me in this London-o.  Don’t you forget it.”

 I stood still. Quiet. Watching.

 “I found Jesus in streets of London.” he said suddenly. “I found him because I had no real friends here. I found him when I thought I was going crazy with desperation and hunger.”

 He wasn’t looking at me when he said all this. His eyes were focused on something else with a faraway look in them. He turned round after that and left the room as abruptly as he had entered. The stillness he left behind was very spooky. Within seconds I found myself by the door, latching it securely shut.

 As I searched to find something to wear, there was a torrent of thunderous knocks on the door. In panic I cried out, believing a mad man was about to break into the room.

 “It is I, Providence,” his voice boomed out from the other side of the door. “Please open up.”

 “Why?” I asked fearfully.

 “I need something from you,” he said.

 “What do you want?” I asked.

 There was a pause before he answered: “Can I have a fiver?”

 I didn’t understand him and just kept quiet as I pondered his request.

 “Can I have five pounds?” he said shortly, probably figuring out the reason for my silence.

 Why should I give him money? I asked myself. There was an edge to his voice that didn’t sound anything like when he was in the room earlier. I heard a determined surety, a certainty that he would get what he asked for. What if I didn’t give him any money? Would he break the door down and assault me? How far would he go to get what he wanted? I suddenly could picture his exposed torso again and the veins that lined his temple and particularly the one that trailed down from his belly to his navel. I was reminded of a hungry hyena and my mother telling me that hyenas would charge at a lion when they are hungry and desperate.

I rushed to my suitcases. I threw one of them open and started searching for the remaining money I had stashed away, tied up in one of my handkerchiefs. I found the handkerchief but the money was gone. I searched frantically in the suitcase, emptying its content before diving into the other one.

 “Will you help me out or not?” Providence’s voice boomed, followed by fingers rapping on the door.

 “Wait!” I cried out.

 I was really baffled now. There was no money in any of my suitcases. I went to the wardrobe and began scanning its content. There were empty bottles of skin and hair products, some mails, some old magazines and some videotape, but no money. I went back to the emptied suitcases and sat amidst its scattered contents. I could not have lost the money. James must have taken it. He may have kept it for me. That was a possibility, but that other voice in my head was telling me otherwise.

 There was a final deliberate rap on the door: knock. Silence. Knock. Silence. Knock. Knock.

 “I’m still waiting out here,” Providence crooned. “Any luck for a brother?”

 I stared at the door. I could imagine Providence’s lean frame embracing the door from the other side with his lips pressed against the flat wood of the door, speaking to me from the outside. I had no money. How was I going to tell him I have no money? He would not believe me, he would think I was lying to him and he would surely knock the door down and begin looking for money himself, just like he had casually opened the drawer and taken the cigarette there. He would do this and would not be able to stop him or do anything. For the second time within twenty-four hours I felt totally powerless. Helpless. Not in control.

 “Woman—”

 “I’m sorry,” I said, cutting him off. “I can’t help you. I have no money.”

 “Cha!” He sighed, irritated. “Why you waste my time then? Why make me hope then?”

 “I thought I had some money on me,” I said, “but…”

 “Let me guess!” He said. “You just discovered your man take all your money without even telling you – am I right?”

 He had a mocking tone in his voice and I knew his question was rhetorical to say the least if not downright patronising.

 “Cha woman!” He sighed again. “How come when African women come to London, they leave behind their common sense?”

 I heard him shuffle away from the other side, sighing loudly as he did so. I didn’t expect this, this sudden and unexpected withdrawal of his without even a fight or a show of doubt. There was something about this man. Even though I felt quietly insulted by what he had just said, I decided to ignore it and think of what to do next while I waited for James to return from wherever it was he had run off to. To achieve this, I had to focus my mind on the following half-truths I was desperate to believe: James is keeping the money for me; James had left for work that morning and didn’t want to disturb me while I slept; James respects me.

Isn’t this the kind of stuff we tell ourselves when we anxiously want to believe that we are not foolish? We secretly make up excuses for the people who hurt us because we are so ashamed of other people feeling pity for us or more aptly put, we do not want to feel pity for ourselves or deal directly with what is obvious. By telling myself that all was well and that James “respected” me, was I just fooling myself once again or was I protecting James? Yes, I know what it feels like to shield or protect a tormentor. I have in my past done so many times.

Providence’s last scornful remark tugged at me for the better part of the morning but I resisted the urge to ponder on its meaning. I decided instead to tidy up the bedroom. As I straightened the bed cover, cleaned out the wardrobe and swept the floor, I hoped that the phone would ring and it would be James on the line wanting to speak to me.

The sun finally peeked through the skies at a later part of the day. It was past noon and I had just finished with the bedroom. I was sure Providence and Thomas had left the flat because I had heard the front door slam shut twice that morning and I didn’t hear anyone else moving around the house afterward. Of course, I heard the constant shuffling of my neighbours above me. The ceiling was so thin that the muffled thuds could as well have been coming from my living room or kitchen. This somewhat intrigued me. For some reason, I kept comparing this England to Nigeria. I am sure many foreigners do this when they visit another country, subconsciously cataloguing the differences in surroundings, cultures and habits of the people, trying hard sometimes to discover what it is that makes the other people more superior or inferior as the case may be. In my case, thin walls and ceilings were definitely on the negative count against England. In this tenement, everybody’s business is your business. In the days and weeks that followed, I shared in the conversations, fights, music and heated passions of squeaky beds and satisfying grunts of my surrounding neighbours – all via the thin walls and ceilings.

†††

I am not the confrontational type. I mostly suffer my frustrations in the seething silence of sulk with eyes crossed, mouth pouting and the complimentary sighs poisoning the silence.

 This was the mood I was in when James casually breezed in late that afternoon. He looked the way I remembered him from last night-- young and irresponsible. He beamed happily at me and a million insults and questions flashed through my head but my tongue held its peace.

 I was in the kitchen trying to figure out what I could possibly cook with what little I could find in the kitchen cupboards and fridge. There were some canned tomatoes, an onion that was already sprouting some growth, a couple of potato balls, which were also sprouting growth, a bottle of olive oil and some spices.

 “Hi, love,” he said in that accent of his. “I’m so sorry I had to rush off so early this morning… I have to work.”

 If I were back home in Nigeria, I would have drawn out a long hissing sigh, but instead I remained quiet and unfeeling. I wanted to ask why he thought it was just okay to leave me alone in the house with his housemates, why he thought he could take my money without asking?

 He walked up to me, grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. With my eyes closed, all I could do was smell him. The stale sweat, faint traces of tobacco and his man scent hit me all at once and I felt like I was back in bed with him again. Did I cringe then?

 “You are mad at me,” he whispered in my ears. “I can tell from the way your body is responding to me.”

 Why was I tongue-tied? Why couldn’t I just say what it was I wanted to say to him? I had spent the better part of the day rehearsing in my head the detailed argument we would have when he returned.

 “You left me alone,” I said instead, meekly.

 “Hey,” he cooed into my ears. “You have me now… you have me all to yourself now.”

 His words weakened my resolve. How vulnerable I was then. I just accepted without questioning the flattering comments, stolen kisses, a reassuring stroke under my chin and I locked eyes with seduction that melted all logical reasoning within me. This was a moment of absolute vulnerability. A moment of nakedness. I let my guards down. I wanted to believe. I wanted to be. Loved. I allowed myself to forget what was important. I simply forgot.

 You have me all to yourself. My heart seemed to grab on to that and for a long time afterward I simply forgot. There are many ways to be naked and it has nothing to do with unclothing oneself literarily. As a woman, I have found I have spent almost all my life naked. I let things be. For peace. I let things be. For fear. I let things be. For man.

I opened my eyes and noticed he was looking at me. I saw Jesus then, just like Providence discovered Jesus in the streets of London. Out of hunger and desperation I discovered my own private Jesus. But this hunger was not the same hunger Providence spoke about. He spoke about a hunger that needed food to quench it; I hungered for something else. I hungered for control. I was desperate for it.

This Jesus with his green glacial eyes, two-day growth of beard and long tousled red hair looked down at me. If Jesus were Caucasian, he would have been standing in front of me that very minute. Suddenly I became cold again. Goose bumps covered my skin and I dragged my eyes away from his.

“Is everything all right?” he asked me.

 There was much I still needed to know about James. I was still not used to his warm-one-minute-cold the other personality. Was this an act of his to throw me off balance? This immediately occurred to me but was quickly discarded as I replied with a big smile that I was okay.

 “Good,” he said. “We’ll go out tonight. I want to show you a little bit of London and get you to meet some of my friends.”

 Friends. Not family.

I wondered why he avoided any mention of his family. I wanted to know where he came from and not who his friends were. You can tell a lot about a person by just meeting his family, my mother used to tell me. In Nigeria many parents would insist on meeting the family of their children’s friends just to make sure the friends came from good, responsible stock. It was a case of ‘show me your family and I would tell you who you are’. I wanted to know his family regardless of what trauma they may have caused him as a child. Knowing them would help me know him, I believed.

Nonetheless, I welcomed the idea of going out that evening. Being alone in that dreary house all day had been an exercise in absolute patience. I remember thinking then that this may be an opportunity to get some questions answered as well as getting to see a little bit of London.

How was I to know that after that night, the course of my life was going to change?