Fantamania, Amnesia and Other Diseases

by Azuka Chiemeke

Amnesia is not such a bad thing sometimes. Once in a while I have found it convenient to forget one faux pas or the other logged in my mind. In fact, one personal indiscretion which I would gladly expunge from memory, but which alas has stuck stubbornly like strands of meat in my teeth, is being caught by my mother, thirteen odd years ago, using offering money to buy suya. Another is when I taught a two-hour class (blissfully?) unaware that the zip of my trousers had been open the whole time. I very much doubt that the erudite damsels at AGGS Onitsha would ever forget the bizarre spectacle of a pair of yellow and pink-patterned boxers, peeping through the khakis of their English teacher (corps member), as he fervently explained the differences between active and passive voices.

Forgetfulness on the other hand can be hurtful, particularly when one is on the receiving end. Like when Amanda who, in the vain hope of making a favourable impression, I took to the Ozone cinemas with the remnants of my NYSC allowance (N3,000), conveniently forgot my existence in the presence of her current boyfriend, a bank manager (happily married, two kids). Yes, I have seen quite a few things.

You can probably imagine my extreme discomfiture when Christie, on whom once I had hung my universe and whose smiles had been the fabric from which my dreams were woven, had the gall to announce – not in the safe confines of a confidential tete a tete, but on twitter and then facebook – that I, Jaja lacked the boldness to woo a girl; that I, Jaja croaked like a frog and screeched like crow; that I had tried with her and failed. I, Jaja.

It is not her that I blame as I remember that cold, dreary September afternoon six years ago when we first met. No, neither is it the fault of my friend Jawbone who introduced us: he was just a cog in fate’s wheel. It was Christie’s black dress, the one with the pretty little blue and white designs, contrasting pleasantly with her fanta-yellow skin, those bright eyes that shone like spanking-new Honda headlamps, those impossibly perfect teeth fit for Close-up ads, the superbly sculpted nose and moonless-night-black hair; it is them that I blame, them and Akon.

Needless to say, I fell in love on the spot, promptly forgetting my name and my manners. Even after Jaw had introduced us, I kept repeating her name to myself for no reason at all, twisting it this way and that, as if it held the secrets of the universe.

I should have spoken my mind there and then? Seized the moment? Told her that I loved her? Declared intentions, or amnesty or something? Carp diem my foot! What did I, a hillbilly, 17-year old 100 level English student of Delta State University, Abraka know about love? We never even uttered the word at home. Yes, we dutifully told our mum that the soup was finger-licking good; we thanked our dad each time he paid our fees; we got worried each time a sibling stayed out late. But tell them we loved them? Never! To us "love" was an exotic animal, an endangered species found only in Daniel Steele, Harlequin novellas and steamy Mexican soaps.

Besides, what if I had told her - then what? Then she would have noticed my worn sandals with more mileage than BRT. Or seen that my Jeans – the only pair I owned – didn't quite reach down to my ankles; my oversized T-shirt, a promo gift from Emzor Paracetamol; the skinny arms that hung limply from my shoulders like broken branches; my hair so thick and unkempt that bush-meat probably roamed free in the undergrowth; my yellow teeth; bloodshot eyes – she would have seen all these, laughed and scolded saying, "love is not for people like you".

So I kept quiet and swallowed my words, choked on them. To my immense joy, Christie and I were course-mates and soon developed a friendship of sorts, after Jaw got out of the way like the good friend he is. Yes, Christie has quite forgotten how I faithfully followed her everywhere like a puppy after its mistress. She no longer remembers the numerous times she caught me staring during lectures and her mischievous smiles in reply. Wasn't that chemistry, proof?

She surely can't remember one night in the female ward of a government hospital when a nosy, overfed matron asked me – I swear on the grave of my dead cat – this matron asked me whether Christie was my "babe". Then I glanced wistfully at the beauty shivering violently on the bed in the throes of a malevolent fever and said, "Yes, yes she is". Just like that but Christie wasn't conscious at the time so it probably didn't count.

So you see, she is so easy to forgive, I don’t blame her. I spent a semester daydreaming of kissing her instead, surely she would taste just like Fanta, wouldn't she? After all, she was yellow just as an orange. So on and on I fantasized and each time I joined Jaw and the Room-19 gang at Coke-spot I stuck to Fanta while the others chugged Sprite, Coke and Schwepps. And then disaster. I looked on as the entire male population of DELSU Abraka wooed her, watched helplessly as beau after beau courted her. I saw her slipping from my hands like sand through a sieve but I simmered like a pot of stew.

You've got to hand it to those DELSU guys though. I mean those guys were pros, they knew how to woo girls. Academic endeavours aside, those belated undergraduates majored in taking ladies out to fancy restaurants like Bravo and Genesis where they fed their charges fat with chicken and rice and coke and fanta, slipping little morsels of flattery and lies in between. Those smooth operators – mostly SUG stalwarts sporting starched shirts, designer wristwatches and car keys – they found the strings to the girls' hearts and played with the dexterity of concert guitarists. They pirouetted the girls like ballerinas, spinning the damsels senseless like carousels. Then like harrier hawks they went for the kill.

Not one to be outdone by the competition, I quickly struck back. I plagiarized Shakespeare, devoured several self-help books, notably The Art of Public Speaking, Dating for Dummies, Wooing 101 and How to Get Your Dream Girl in Ten Easy Steps, studying them with the seriousness of a final-year medical student. I understudied the most accomplished Don Juans on campus. I drank Fanta. To coax more money from my dad I invented non-existent fees and phantom textbooks. With the proceeds of my treachery I bought a few passable second-hand clothes. I prepared frantically for the sessional exams, determined to make an all-round impression on Christie. Of course after taking any paper I would fortify myself with more Fanta. I cut my hair.

First semester, year two, I was finally ready. I took Christie to Coke-spot where we devoured wrap after wrap of Gala and drank bottles of Fanta; she loved it too, little wonder her complexion. I took her on walks to the bank of river Ethiope behind the Girls' hostels – since the more fancy beaches like Mudi and Arthur's were too expensive, being the exclusive preserve of those lecherous SUG chieftains and their bikini-clad acolytes. Certainly, that was enough proof of my love and devotion, wasn't it? What do you mean? I should have popped the question? Don't be silly. That would have been merely superfluous.

I tried, I really did! But to no avail. Yes I chose words carefully, like a suit-tailor his material and sewed those words together into phrases, phrases into clauses and then sentences. I washed them, ironed them, checked for tense, concord, punctuation and removed dangling modifiers. Then I tried them on for size but they didn’t fit. Ah! Imagine my pain, I could not tell Christie. So I consoled myself with even more Fanta.

As expected, Despair that portentous landlord of my mind came demanding rent and in my frustration I let loose my inhibitions, freed myself of all restraints and set off on a spree. I dated girls of all kinds – tall, not so tall, thin, busty, Igbo, Urhobo, Igala, Ghanaian, and even Somalian; I swear, Akpevwe and Stacy are my witnesses.

I slowly garnered a reputation as an inveterate serial kisser. My haunt was that open space in front of Council Hall, popularly dubbed "Small Market" by its other patrons. But all these girls were nothing like Christie. They tasted of sawdust, locust beans, garlic and engine oil but definitely not like Fanta.

Then, Final year, second semester; time was fast slipping by. Christie and I had remained friends through thick and thin, SUG stalwarts, Ghanaian beauties and nosy matrons notwithstanding. She said nothing and I kept mum, hiding my feelings like stolen funds squirreled away in Swiss banks.

However, one night, a week before our final exams, Courage – that prodigal son of mine – had snuck up to me like Nicodemus. In between the old AfriBank ATM and the staff quarters on Campus 2, I brought out my words from their hiding place and said them. As wrinkled as they were, I bared my heart before Christie; a million stars winked that night in admiration of my candour and a thousand crickets chirped offering moral support. I even smiled just like they do in those Dettol ads: "If I don't take care of her...."

You want to know what happened, you really want to know? Well, inclining her head, first to the right and then to the left, Christie took a long look down at me smirking, I had knelt in supplication. She took my heart, tried it on like a wedding dress and then rent it like sack-cloth before my very eyes. She turned and sauntered to her hostel.

What could I do? I just knelt there because I was too dumbstruck to move. My heart had sunk like the ill-fated Black Swan, all my hopes and fantasies were shipwrecked just like the Spanish vessel. I just stayed there like Jonah on the shores of Nineveh; like castaway fish rotting at the riverbank. What did I do? I forgave.

I forgave her as I got up, dusted my trousers and walked home, blinking back the tears that stung my eyes (I didn’t cry, mind you). I forgave her for not picking my calls the next morning, for never ever speaking to me again. I exonerated her as those clowns in Room 19 turned me to a laughing stock up till my graduation. I gave excuses on Christie's behalf even though she refused to invite me to her wedding (she is happily married, one kid, heavily pregnant with a second), I forgave.

Unlike her I never forgot, neither did the stars but the crickets are long gone. I know she did not lie but simply can’t remember. Time heals all wounds, they say; save for tribal marks.

I no longer drink Fanta.

P.S

1. DISCLAIMER: The above story is a work of fiction. While purely co-incidental, any similarities to real persons (living or dead), places and events are however NOT regretted.

2. For more information on the lecherous antics of SUG members please contact the Students' Affairs Division of your nearest higher institution.

3. The writer of this piece is an Achebe wannabe (currently unemployed), who, under the pitiable delusion of someday winning the Booker Prize, divides his time between writing bland, colourless prose and composing nonsensical verse. In his bountiful spare moments he gossips (over bottles of Chelsea Dry Gin) with his friend and fellow writer, Steven Osiegbu, wooes his neighbour's househelp (Onome) and supports Manchester United. He has never drunk Fanta.

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