Entangled: A Little Too Many, A Little Too Close

by Kenneth Igiri

  Philip called Emem with a SIM card he had bought at the airport.

  “Hello…”

  “Hello Emem, it’s Philip!”

  “Hey! Charlie how far. Ghana man. What are you doing in our beloved country. Have you come to find a wife? Ha Ha Ha… it is well O. Will you be coming to the East? Are you...”

  Emem never lacked words.

  “Wait, wait, wait…” Philip interrupted, chuckling. He changed the topic and proceeded to gently narrate his experience with Zainab to Emem. He felt some kind of relief telling other Christians about his failings. The apostle James wrote to the Hebrews to confess their sins to one another and Philip felt that it was the right thing to under the circumstances. To him it seemed the act of confession helped him to shed the shame and guilt he constantly felt even after enjoying his sexual encounters. Emen listened intently unlike her. It was definitely a shock to her but not out of this world. She just didn’t think Philip was that kind of person.

  “But why did you allow her to stay with you in the first place?” she asked. This seemed to be the famous question of cause. No matter how sophisticated Christians become or have become, no matter how Pentecostal or how massive the grace revolution becomes, everyone still knows that living with the opposite sex for a protracted period will eventually result in fornication of one form or another. Grace never takes away our humanity, it merely covers its effects and relieves us of the eternal consequences of our sin. We are spiritual beings, carrying a very physical body about in a very physical world.

  “But thank God you did not have sex o. It would have been worse,” she said. Emem had never been shy about calling the word out over and over. Sometimes Philip thought she got emotional high by mentioning ‘sex’. She continued:

  “Philip do you know that some girls are just devilish. They can just give themselves a target to bring down someone, even married men. Someone can see you as you are now and feel that since you don’t even send girls, they want to show you they can bring you down. See, one of my colleagues eh…” Emem went on and on with tale after tale of similar men who were conquered by ladies not married to them and trapped into marriages or with pregnancies. Philip was always amazed at the number of tales of this nature she was privy to. He just listened and responded at intervals until he got to his hotel in Festac Town.

  Philip had deliberately opted to stay in Festac Town because he needed to sit with Wole Adelaja, a veteran of his secondary school fellowship whom he respected very much. He spoke to him about the issue upon his visit to his house, he was milder, telling him how perception of the boundaries of relationships differed from person to person based on their upbringing.

  “Before I got married,” he started, while driving him back to his hotel, “on my twenty-seventh birthday, Amaka said she had a surprise for me. She asked me to close my eyes and I did. I tried to cheat though and noticed she was coming closer. Before I knew it, she had planted a kiss on me, mouth to mouth. It was brief though, but I was shocked. It didn’t mean anything to her though. She did it with a clear conscience. So, some of these grey areas, they actually depend on upbringing…”

  For Philip, having someone speak in this way was soothing but he still had doubts that this described his scenario. He was not in a relationship with Zainab, so he could not compare with Wole’s case. Besides, the response of anyone who heard his side of the story would depend on the details he managed to give of what actually took place between him and Zainab; for him it was a very difficult story to repeat.

  The Other Side of the Story

  “So when they continued asking Him, He raised Himself up[g] and said to them, “He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first.” John 8:7

  Zainab assumed her position as Madam of the Ezeani Residence during Philip’s week out of town. She had begun mingling with friends from her university and some were coming home with her in groups, both male and female. She was never one to refrain from fraternizing with anyone who was willing. She simply loved affection; she didn’t feel emotionally bound to any one not even Philip. She was free. She got introduced to Erobosa Enebuwa very quickly during one of those times when they had to make payments at the bank and they both caught on to each other very quickly. Erobosa was the typical Nigerian diva from Benin, Edo state. Reckless, carefree, naturally smart, stunningly attractive but totally uninterested in any form of romantic relationship with even a tinge of commitment. She just wanted to have fun with life. She had managed to convince Zainab to let her visit on the next Saturday. Their time together was ecstatic for Zainab, she laughed her hardest during their conversations then it got serious.

  “So, do you love him?”

  “Love who?”

  “Mother Teresa! Philip in whose house thou livest in sin! Hahahaha”

  “Oh, get serious!”

  “That’s not an answer…”

  “Babe, forget that side”

  “Oh, see your face don turn red o. You love him. Well, I wish you well. Hope he loves you too. And how is he in bed?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, please get real, Zainab. Share with me! I have experience! I can help you. Ha ha ha ha ha…”

  Zainab was surprisingly embarrassed. As sanguine as she was, she wasn’t really accustomed to speaking about her sexual experiences with such casualness. Such discussions brought up memories of her past which made her withdraw. There was so much hurt hidden behind the sunshine of her smiles; hurt that had created within her such restraint that it was amazing how easily she fell into Philip’s arms.

  She was only eighteen when she became the victim of a scandal in Kwara State Polytechnic, Offa. Her Philosophy professor had trailed her to her flat off campus on several occasions and finally walked into her room on the first floor of a private hostel through an open door. She was shocked and excited at the same time seeing him in her room. It was about 5:30 PM, she remembered clearly because she had just finished watching a series on television while cooking. Three hours later, one thing led to another and the Professor shattered her hymen amidst suppressed screams. Nobody came to her aid. Screams of ecstasy were nothing unusual in off-campus hostels. Most students who chose to live off campus were either running away from the crowded hostels or were actually running towards the utter freedom to do and undo without the disturbance of the likes of Campus Fellowship preachers. Outside campus, the Cult Boys were the kings and the girls were available. Nothing was amiss, she was simply enjoying the encounter as far as everyone who heard her scream was concerned. The professor left in his well-known Mercedes 500 E vehicle and three weeks later his wife came and put up a show in Zainab’s neighborhood, naming and shaming all the girls her husband had been with in the same building where Zainab was living. She could not stay there any longer, but the experience stayed with her.

  Then there was her secret lover, a boyfriend she could not introduce to her parents because they were relatives. Up to three times he had slept with her in the family house. The entire arrangement was emotionally paralyzing but she simply could not break free from him. It was like heroine, drawing the addict back to itself over and over again, threatening to kill him with withdrawal symptoms whenever he tried to break free. Drugs and sex were similar kinds of slavery: the master was fun to be with, the master was in control, the master always left bitterness of soul after each encounter.

  “He’s ok” Zainab summarized looking innocently at her new friend in the face. She preferred to spare the gory details of the almost sexual, all-over-the-house encounters she had with Philip Ezeani. She gave Erobosa that look that made it clear she did not want to continue the conversation along those lines. The diva ignored the stare.

  “How many orgasms?”

  “What? Ero you are so spoilt! Sinful! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

  “Oh, forget that thing. We are all sinners. That is why Jesus came! If there is no sin, there is no grace!”

  “Erobosa please I don’t want to talk about it”

  “I can h
elp you o. I have this special viagra eh … And maybe we can even do a threesome. What do you think?” her eyes widened as she spoke.

  “Erobosa stop! Are you crazy?”

  “Ha! Girl it’s OK o. You can keep your man. I just wanted to help o. No hard feelings. In fact, I want to start going sef…”

  The look on her face spelt disappointment. Something was not right about this. Did Erobosa really have this threesome matter as an original plan? Completely unheard of. As scandalous as the suggestion was, what made it any different from sleeping with a fellow one was not married to? Or practicing homosexuality? Or bestiality? Or playing with sex toys? Masturbating? Casual kissing? The list goes on and on. Who makes the rules about where the boundaries are? After all every single one of these sexual expressions is an attempt to satisfy a genuine human desire. Who draws the boundaries as to what expressions is not allowed in a single person’s context? If a threesome is abhorrent, why are other expressions not so abhorrent? Or more abhorrent? Is there some kind of grading for these sexual sins based on severity? Who grades them?

  Erobosa left and Zainab was by herself again. She walked to the room and picked up her violin, locked the front door and sat inclined on the sofa, knees curved with feet on the sofa, playing to herself. Her thoughts then began to reel.

  “What is really wrong with a threesome? I have slept with three men, I am living with one and we have done just about everything except actual penetration! What has suddenly made me become Sanctified Mother Mary? I might as well just do it! Maybe it will be fun”

  “Will God ever forgive me? Why does he have to? After all He was watching when it all started. I am hurt. I don’t even know the way back or how to stop any more. It’s just not my fault”

  “I wish I could find someone who would help me. If only Philip could have helped me. Now he can’t even help himself. He was supposed to be the ‘Holy Brother’ wasn’t he? How we are the same!”

  “What am I even going to tell Hassan. Hassan? Why am I even thinking about him? One of my biggest problems in this life!”

  The tears trickled down through her lower eyelashes, messing up the mascara and down her cheeks leaving a rough trail on her facial. She didn’t wail, she didn’t even sob but she was deeply hurt. The tears kept coming until she slept off.

  Shocker

  “For she has cast down many wounded,

  And all who were slain by her were strong men.” Proverbs 7:26

  Sunday Afternoon. Philip was ready to return to Accra. Hassan had promised to pick him up but he was a little delayed. Calls kept going back and forth between them till they agreed to meet at Festac Extension near Oshodi-Apapa Expressway. Philip boarded a motor bike, carrying his travel bag on his right knee. The Lagos life in him was still intact!

  “Fatgbems! Fast please!”

  The reckless rate at which the Motorbike rider rode his bike through Second Avenue, Frist Avenue, Apple Junction all the way to the express made Philip wish he never made that second request. But he didn’t rescind, he just prayed under his breath that he would meet Hassan in one piece. He paid the rider just before he jumped off the bike. In seconds, he was running across the dual carriage along with other pedestrians to meet Hassan in his Toyota Corolla. He was ready to move quickly, already facing the correct direction. Philip caught up with him and promptly threw his single piece luggage in the back seat.

  “Wow! Thanks, Hassan,” Philip sighed as soon as he was seated in the front seat. It was a relief to be once again shielded from the hustle and bustle of Lagos by the rolled-up glasses and air-conditioned car. He strapped his seat belt and he couldn’t help noticing Hassan chuckled. Philip knew why the chuckle came but Hassan proceeded to announce:

  “We no dey tie belt here o. This is Lagos!”

  Philip burst out laughing.

  “’This is Lagos’. You just reminded me of that joke. When coming from the East to Lagos by bus, every state you pass through gives you a nice looking welcome message. ‘Welcome to Anambra’, ’Welcome to Delta State’, ’Welcome to Edo,’ … But when you get to Lagos it looks more like a warning: ‘This is Lagos!’”.

  Both men roared with laughter.

  “Seriously I am not even sure whether I can live in this city again,” said Philip.

  “Why ke? The stress? No be stress o, na hussle! No let Accra make you lose your hussle o. Because if person no get job wey dey pay am monthly im still need that hussle. Living in Lagos is great training my brother. You can survive anywhere”

  “Interesting. Well, if that is the case, it should be the most prosperous city in the world. Why must we think making things extremely difficult is a great way to train people? Are we moving forward or backward?”

  “Oh’ boy, if people for US or UK get the kain corrupt leaders wey we get here, dem go just dey die anyhow for those countries. We are still here because as a people, we get hussle and when it comes to hussle, Lagos is d main d main o. Na di blessing wey we get be dat!”

  “Survival. If we keep hustling and surviving decade after decade, we are not developing. How long can things be like this. Why are there eighteen million people in Lagos in the first place? Because nothing significant is happening in any other city of this nation. Is that how to run a country? With proper thinking, people will not need ‘Hussle Training’ to make significant strides in life. Let’s change our way of thinking”

  The discussion went on and on from jokes to politics to football to women then to Zainab. The conspicuously missing topic of discussion was spirituality. Philip could not even discuss anything close to spirituality. He couldn’t even discuss religion when Hassan mentioned something related from his studies of the Haddith. They were already on the stretch leading up to Murtala Muhammed International Airport when Philip began slowly breaking the news of his encounters with Zainab. He would not keep it in anymore. After every round of laughter, his conscience seemed to resurrect with more vibrancy. It would have been utterly dishonest of him to keep the issue a secret from his friend who trusted him enough as a committed Christian, Born Again and Spirit-filled, to let his female cousin stay with him for a few weeks in a foreign country.

  Zainab had warned him very sternly not to say anything to Hassan. “Why?” he had asked repeatedly and emphatically to which she would respond “Why do you have to? What do you intend to achieve by doing that?” or something similar. The aggression with which Zainab resisted this proposition of his was very suspicious. Philip could not understand it. He even quoted the Bible to her:

  “He who covers his sins will not prosper, but whoever confesses and forsakes them will have mercy” Proverbs 28:13

  Zainab would not budge. She warned him he would be responsible for whatever happened to her as a result of his telling Hassan about their ‘relationship’. She called it a relationship, but Philip certainly didn’t feel like it was a relationship, he felt like it was a sin they had to be set free from. Relationship? Every encounter he had with her seemed to make the whole scenario diminish in purpose. He knew very well he had no intention of marrying her, did not love her as a person even though he was definitely sexually attracted to her and was not comfortable with the circumstances of their ‘relationship’. He just had to find a way to end it.

  Hassan listened to him elaborate on what took place one line at a time. Hassan asked questions and he responded honestly, getting some relief that he was finally getting this done, feeling lighter as he confessed. He was grateful for Hassan’s understanding, he even hoped he would gain the respect of this Muslim friend of his by coming clean. Then they came to a stop at the Airport Car Park and stepped out of the car. The atmosphere had changed between them. Philip understood; it was bound to be disappointing to Hassan.

  Philip stepped out of the car wishing there was something he could do to relieve his dear friend of the pain and reduce the tension, but he just could not think of anything. He couldn’t look him in the eye after this and Hassan was unusually silent. He helped drag Philip’s luggage ou
t of the back seat. He dropped the wheels on the floor and began pulling it alongside Philip towards the departure gate. Philip noticed he kept his face as hard as a flint, eyes straight ahead of him. He heard the click of his car keys locking the doors electronically. Apart from that there was no other sound between them till they got quite close the departure gate where the Immigration officers asked for the passports. Philip took the box from Hassan and dipped his hand into the side pocket to pick his passport, he always kept it there, considering it much safer that his trouser pocket.

  As soon as he opened the data page he felt the sudden hard impact of a clenched fist bouncing off his face just beside his left nostril. The knuckle hit so hard that it cracked the layer of soft skin inside his nostril and he began bleeding. He had fallen to the floor and his passport booklet was at least two feet away, his black jeans were decorated, with a patch of white dust from the airport floor and he found himself resting on his elbows, partially dazed. His retina was blurred partially by the effect of the knockout. He wiped his eyes and sat up, briefly observing the immigration officers holding Hassan back who was yelling at the top of his voice:

  “You are a fool! You mess up big time! I say you mess up. Bastard!!!”

  “Wetin be dat?” asked one of the officers while Philip was still in shock, “No be your friend?”

  “Dis wan na woman matter,” laughed the other officer, “Im done go service im friend wife!”

  “Gentleman do you know where you are,” the first officer chided Hassan, “You want to be arrested?”