Thirty minutes later, as she sucks sauce off her index finger, Abigail says, 'I wrote a poem while you were away. Pass me my guitar.' Emeka gets it for her, watches her in what used to be awe as she does some warm-up strumming.
They'd met at a Faculty of Arts party three years ago. Abigail had been performing a crass original with a loud band. Emeka had been at the front, shyly sipping tepid Coke, wondering again why he'd let his roommates persuade him to attend. While the Director of Socials was making a drunken speech, Abigail had come up to him and touched his cheek. 'I was playing for you, you know', she'd said, swaying from side to side. Abigail has never been able to keep still. 'I looked down from the stage and saw you and thought, 'Hell, I've found my muse.'' Emeka had said nothing, just looked, and Abigail had caressed his right earlobe and asked his name.
'Emeka,' she'd repeated, with reverence and adoration, like it meant salvation, or a promise of it. And Emeka had felt an alien feeling begin in his belly and work its way up to his head, filling it, but making it light. He would come to know what that feeling was days later, when Abigail brought him an umbrella and everyone in his class watched as she herded him away, holding the umbrella over him while she got drenched. She wasn't beautiful, but she had a great sense of humour and was friends with everyone and composed songs and wrote poetry and that meant she was deep. If they got married their children would be confident, witty. He'd train them well, watch them bloom into prodigies as he stood by Abigail's side, pushing her up the ladder. This was what he thought as they made their way up the hill to Abigail's off-campus apartment the first time, Emeka uncertainly placing one foot ahead of the other, Abigail smiling bright as the sun. She'd told him to sit on the bed, and had given him sweet wine, and played with his hair, and his ears, and massaged his shoulders. She'd said into his neck, 'You're tense. I'd never hurt you. Tell me a funny memory of yours.'
And he'd told her about his first ever lecture here, how the introductory lecturer had come in and given a great pep talk about making great grades and the equality of both sexes. The boys had been excited. They'd clapped and hooted. The girls were silent, passively antagonistic, condescendingly amused. 'You know how these things are.'
'I do,' Abigail had said, and kneaded deeper, and Emeka had sighed and, for a moment, forgot that he was alone in a small room in a secluded lodge on a hill with a much older girl he had met only days ago.
'Well, and then, he told us that he would conduct elections for the class rep and assistant. About six girls and one guy came out to contest. And then the lecturer said, 'Let's have a female class rep and male assistant. I know why I said we should do it like that.' The guy walked back to his seat, embarrassed. The girl next to me was in full agreement. She was like, 'The man's trying to save you people and you're complaining. You'll be the class rep now, running from lecturer's office to lecturer's office, they will now rape you and you'll start crying and trying to trend on Twitter.' But I wasn't surprised by this girl: she looked like an ass, through and through. I was worried about the lecturer. I wondered if he knew that he had just shat on his equality speech.'
And Abigail had said, 'shat on his equality speech. I like it.' And then she'd kissed him.
And that had been their little love language, as weird as it was. In class, once, Abigail had sent him a text: 'Equality speeches need to be shat on so bad, baby. I have wine.' Another time, while they were out with her friends, she'd made her own contribution to a discussion about twofacedness as she unzipped a terrified Emeka's jeans under the table: 'Some people are just really excited about shitting on their own equality speeches.' She'd then grasped him and stroked. And then one day, much, much later, Emeka had said it and Abigail had frowned and said, 'What the hell? Don't be disgusting.' And Emeka had lost many words, so, so many words.
'How old are you?' Abigail had asked after their first kiss.
'20.'
She'd stroked his cheek. 'That's a great age to be.' And then she'd kissed him again. She'd furiously scribbled a poem about him later, while he lay in her bed, wrapped in her threadbare blanket. She'd pressed it into his hand as he made to leave by 5am the next day. His father had seen it when he went home for the Christmas holiday. He'd screamed. Emeka had placed a call to Abigail, his father seething next to him. Hands shaking, heart thumping.
'You're the bastard who has ruined my son?' was what he led with. But then, his voice had gone lower and lower, and when he'd said, 'All these things you're talking is not my business. Will you marry him?' it was almost casual, conversational. Abigail must have given a satisfactory response, because his father had heaved a heavy sigh and said, 'Now you're talking.'
Now, Emeka listens to the poem, which sounds like all her other poems. This is not so hard. All he has to do is keep her happy- do her laundry, cook her meals, listen attentively when she rants about the small degradations of staying an extra year and being poor while at it. She has other men, but she never brings them to her lodge; they don't have the shiny faux diamond ring on their middle finger. There's Marcus from Agricultural Economics and Somto from Microbiology. And Tochi, the sales boy in Emeka's former hostel. And a professor of hers whose name Emeka does not know. What he does know is that they hang out at the Staff Quarters and he likes her hairy. He knows this because once, when she was on the phone with Amara, she talked about 'Prof X' being on sabbatical and how she could shave now. Isn't he married? Doesn't he have a home to keep, children to take care of? He doesn't blame her much: women are wired to cheat.
But he'd thought about it hard that evening and when Abigail had asked his opinion about a piece of poetry he'd called it dry. Your songs are dry. Your poetry is dry. It's full of nudity and little else. Why don't you consider real poetry for once? The slap had surprised them both. Emeka had picked up his phone and his backpack and walked away. Abigail had appeared in front of his hostel the next evening, bearing chocolates and an engagement ring. Emeka had found a buyer for his room space and moved in with Abigail and when he'd handed her the money, she'd counted, tip-of-finger-to-tongue-to-note, and given him N5000 for a haircut and clothes or something. And Emeka had said thank you.
This is the second story in the Tales of Uneven Love series.
Read the first story: Tales of Uneven Love #1: The Caretaker
Juliet is a Nigerian writer and storyteller drawn to the unseen narratives of everyday life. Her series explore the profound moments hidden in ordinary relationships.
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