Rama stood in front of the
mannequin, frozen. A split-second felt like hours. An ambiguous rush of
temperatures overwhelmed her insides; she had chills; goose bumps and a
horripilation that left her almost numb. She wondered if anyone could notice
the erection of the few strands of hair on her almost bald head. She seemed to
be hearing passive disembodied voices. She felt like she was in a life movie,
the voices seemed like just meaningless background noises. She was more
concerned with the smiling mannequin that stood before her; the sculptured,
painted, polyvinyl plastic; it looked disturbingly like Arnold.
“Hey get over here” Talia
gripped her left arm a little tight, breaking her two-minute-trance; “where is
your head?” Talia said as she pulled her enthusiastically across the boutique
to the accessories section. Rama threw a few sequential glances over her
shoulders as Talia pulled her away, but she could only see so much; step after
step, the mannequin slowly disappeared from her view. This had happened before.
It was déjà vu; this untenable guilt she was feeling; something was pulling her
away from her Arnold…again and she was letting it.
Arnold died last December,
and Rama could not forgive herself. If only she had gotten the purple tie for
him earlier like she had planned to; she would not have needed to go out on
that 22nd night, Arnold would not have been alone when he had gotten
the attack, and maybe… just maybe he’d still be alive. She had come home with
smiles and a wrapped box of designer’s cravat, to a struggling half-dead
husband, crawling on the floor like a very hurt retarded giant baby. For the
life of her, she had never been able to get out of her head the incoherent
sounds he made as he fought with his breath. She screamed tremulously and
dropped everything; bags and smiles, at the terrifying sight of her crawling
and crying husband. She managed to lift him above her narrow shoulders to the
car; but before she could drive him two miles down the road to the Amazing
Grace hospital, his heart had stopped; he had just…died; and she was officially
a widow; a 27year old widow.
Rama became a complete
wreck; walking around the house like a zombie, not knowing what day of the
month it was. She became a shadow of herself. Arnold was the one person she
could open up to, her family, her husband, her best friend. They had gotten
married on December 27th two years ago, and with plans for their
anniversary, Christmas and New Year, this holiday was supposed to be one of the
best in her life- in their lives; probably even better than two years ago,
because at least now, her parents had come around to the fact that she had
married Arnold; her age mate, who was also still a final year student at the
time. Tears streamed down her big brown eyes effortlessly; she cut her hair,
wore nothing but a long black kaba
and had decided to see no one. She was not afraid of the dark anymore; she had
become accustomed to eigengrau as she
had usually locked herself in her dark bedroom, reciting mantras; telling
herself that Arnold was coming back.
‘Maybe he is back…maybe he is back for me.’ She told herself in
front of her full body mirror; hand-gesturing melodramatically; something she
did whenever she was trying to convince herself. She stared into the mirror
expectantly, waiting for some sort of concurrence; but a reflection staring
back at her expectantly did not cut it. ‘He
is back…he is back for me.’ She said finally; hearing the words from her
own reflection like some sort of divine revelation.
A soft October rain was
falling; no strong winds; no thunderbolts, just a soft serene shower; shower of
blessings that came with the return of Arnold maybe. She drove back fast to the
boutique. The road was all muddy, and the potholes were filled with standing
water, the color of some really bad pineapple juice. She stood silently
studying the perfectly sculptured plastic; that looked every cheekbone like her
dead husband. It was hairless; Arnold will never go this hairless; ‘It is not macho’ he would have said in a
very matter-of-fact tone, stroking his neatly shaved beard; ‘all grown men should have some amount of
hair on their face…and other places’ He’d have winked after he said ‘other places’. She snuggled its neck
gently, and she could swear she felt it smile; after all Arnold always liked
that. She ran her hand over its torso until it found its way on its chest. She
smiled, staring deep into its dead eyes, seemingly reading meanings
incomprehensible to the ordinary man outside her little reality. She jerked in
pleasurable fright as she thought she got a heartbeat. She gasped anxiously,
her own heart racing even faster. Every heart in the world seemed to be getting
a bonus rate.
“I’ll take this” she turned
to the shopkeeper who had just gotten in front of her.
“Hmm ma, boyfriend or
husband?” the shopkeeper asked grinning exaggeratedly.
“Hmm? What?” Rama’s heart
skipped a beat, as she tried to process why the shopkeeper will ask that. “Why
would you ask that?” her voice extremely taut; with a faint trace of
defensiveness.
“Sorry ma, I no mean it like that.” The shop keeper said in an
accent befitting of an uneducated villager. “ It is just that I see you looking that shirt long time now; even that
time you came here with your friend; that short one with shiny skin like
pawpaw; I think you like it very well; I think you want to buy it for special
person, like boyfriend or husband. Sorry ma if I have…”
“It’s ok.” Rama interrupted;
wondering if the girl had been forced to speak in English. Well at least she doesn’t think I am crazy Rama thought- not yet.
“I don’t mean the shirt. Can
I have him? It? The mannequin.” She stammered; hoping that nothing about the
sudden quivering of her voice screamed ‘weird’.
“Hmm?” the shopkeeper
chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “That one
not possible ma; here we don’t sell ‘maniken’. There is ‘maniken’ shop on that
side; corner…” she was gesturing as if to describe where mannequins were
sold.
“No” Rama said firmly; hoping
to intimidate her, knowing she was probably new here; “I want this one; please.
Where is Mrs. Fonkeng? She owns this place right?”
“Yes ma, she has go out; but since you insist I go help; but you will
buy this shirt on the ‘maniken’, and ma you will pay me extra money o, because
I will go far to buy new ‘maniken’.”
“That’s fair enough” Rama
said trying to conceal her immense relief.
“What is your own name?” “My
name is Ndi ma” she said in such an irksome accented high-pitched voice. She was
definitely from the village; somewhere from the North West; Rama thought.
Not much had changed in
Rama’s room from since after the funeral. Talia had been a darling. She has
tried all she could to resurrect Rama’s spirit; retail therapy, stupid
supposedly funny stories, and even staying away from her when she had insisted.
She had also brought her younger sister Quam and they had helped Rama clean up
the whole house. “Don’t touch my bedroom” she had warned them in such a cold
voice they didn’t dare argue. Not crying, had been enough joviality for Rama;
and when she as much as smiled, Talia will dare to ask or render suggestions
about her almost artistically rumpled bedroom; “you should try redecorating,
that way it will look new, and you can start afresh” was the worst of all the
suggestions she had ever given. They always infuriated Rama, and she’ll go back
to upset, ‘I want to be alone’ mood. Talia had therefore refrained from doing
that, and hence the bedroom had remained the same. The same suitcases stood
still near the huge closet; a couple of coupons and balled-up waste papers
rested on the floor; tchotchkes, jewelries and perfume bottles laid in total
disarray on the small bed side cupboards; the cravat she had bought still slept
in the unopened box beside the turned-over make-up table; pieces of broken nail
polish bottles and other cosmetics littered the floor, colorful smears of
varying types of nail polish and colored powder coined an abstract painting on
the terracotta tiled floor. She had turned the table over in her grief. She
broke things whenever she was in frenzy, and Arnold had always been her
antidote; even when he was the cause, he calmed her down. She had once in the
university, slammed her phone across the wall, watching it rain in a million
pieces when she had called Arnold, and Zuh had answered his phone; she had also
in intensive ire, broken the glass stool in their living room, when her father
had asked Arnold out of his house the day he had come to ask for her hand in
marriage.
She looked around again. Her
bed…their bed, was wearing out unevenly; her side more than his; she hadn’t
been able to sleep on his side just yet; she didn’t think she’ll ever be able
to. Well, good thing he was back home; she thought.
“Welcome home” she smiled at
the mannequin as she laid it carefully on Arnold’s side of the bed; she felt it
smile back. “I know what you are thinking” she said “it’s all disorganized; but
that is just because I was sad when you left. Now that you are back, don’t
worry; I’ll clean up. I can’t let you stay in a place like this; it is not healthy…for
anyone.”
Rama viewed the neighborhood
from her window. The rain had stopped, and everywhere looked green; smell of
fresh leaves and trees filled her head, beautiful
houses with green lawns. She had caught Arnold watching the view from here a
million times, she had always rather watched the view of his chiseled torso;
now she understood why he always stood here; the G.R.A in Limbe was a beautiful place to settle in; it was quiet-
peaceful. She remembered their university days in Buea, kids of almost all ages
from 6years old and above in torn, worn out clothes, went around hawking
groundnuts, and fried snails, and bananas, screaming on the top of their voices
‘fine groundnut’, ‘buy your sweet bananas’, ‘Congo meat, Congo meat’, disturbing the
neighborhood, and the few serious students who were trying to study. Arnold
loved Congo meat; but she never
understood why people ate snails. ‘Whatever happened to beef or chicken?’ She’d
ask Arnold every single time. She missed those days.
Fifteen minutes later she was standing in
front of the Arnold-looking mannequin with a huge pair of scissors in her hand;
she had lain out his favorite shirt and a random pair of black trousers on the
bed. She remembered how he would run to that shirt first whenever he had a job
interview, or when he finally got a job, a business meeting; he’d try it on
before they go out on dates; and whenever there was a party, it was his go-to
shirt. It was a pretty fashionable maroon shirt; classic and classy, and could
work for almost any occasion. “No, not that one” she’d say usually “you wore
that last week; try the black satin” and he’d take it off disappointed, like a
child who had been told to drop the chocolate, and pick-up the carrot. She dug
into the fabric on the mannequin’s chiseled body with the pair of scissors, and
one clink at a time, shredded the outfit her new Arnold had come with.
She nuzzled its nose, eyes
closed; inhaled hard on its naked skin; sniffing away into imagined ecstasy.
Smell of paint and plastic almost choked her; it smelled nothing like Arnold.
She brushed her cheek softly against the mannequin’s; Arnold loved when she did
that too; it was unnaturally smooth; the bristles of his facial hair always
tingled her soft cheek; arousing some sort of pleasurable prickling pain. She
stood up straight facing the mannequin a little frustrated; then she turned to
the mirror, clicking the cutting machine in a rhythmic way that was almost
musical. She touched her head and felt her hair- it was really low- a
pinch-full in length; she had made it a habit to cut it bald every now and then
to mourn Arnold. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror like it had given
her yet another revelation; it smiled back at her; she threw one more fleeting
glance at the mannequin; she knew what to do.
Click…Click…Click
small
balls of hair rained down her shoulders after every clicking sound. When she
was almost done, she had used a blade and cream to smoothen her head like she
always did. She looked beautiful, bald. She stooped down to the scattered pile,
and gathered a handful of her jet-black hair. This will do, she thought.
She glued her hair to the
mannequin with superglue. She knew him all too well; she discretely glued the
hair in places Arnold will normally have hair in; and when she was done with
the beard and moustache, she thickened the hair patches on the head and chest,
doubled-checking for accuracy every now and then from his portrait that was
hanging on the headboard.
She washed it in his
cologne, and dressed it in his clothes. She saw her husband, she smelled her
husband. She remembered their promises, she remembered their oaths. She fitted
the cravat she had gotten carefully like some sort of neck tent. She held its
still hand. She smiled in consummate content.
Talia was stunned when Rama
opened the door. She hadn’t seen her in almost a week. And apart from the
strangely welcoming smile, she was wearing a short strapless silk gown, an
elegant sapphire necklace, and a sea-stone-studded silver anklet hugged her
lower left leg. Her beautifully manicured toes popped out of her slippers
strips like small exotic sausages. A lot seemed to have happened this
week.
“You- you…what happened
here?”
“What?” Rama smiled
“You look…” Rama smile
expectantly. “Different. You look different…in a good way; very good way.” She
could read the pleasant surprise on Talia’s face, which also seemed to have a
hint of acceptable curiosity.
“Here” Talia handed over to
her a small flask. “It is a traditional medication made from herbs and other
things; Quam made it for you…for your cold. It cures everything” she added.
Rama remembered she had used the ‘I have a cold excuse’ to escape Talia all
this time.
“Thank you”
It was a brownish green
gooey liquid. It didn’t look good at all, but it did look medicinal. Rama wasn’t sure she wanted to try it.
“Go on. It’s pretty good.”
Talia pushed. Rama lifted the flask; it smelled weird- piquant, pungent, both
maybe. She took a sip; it was peppery, with a lingering taste of bitter. Yikes she thought, her face contorting.
“Ginger and aloe vera.”
Talia said “good right?”
“Hmm, very!” Rama smiled
wryly; promising herself she’s not taking another sip. One sip was one sip too
many.
A Nigerian movie had just
finished and a football match had started. Commentators were already dishing
out commentaries.
“It seems old, but I’m sure
Arnold would have loved to see this.”
“I know Rams. Too bad.”
Talia looked at her; she would have put a hand over her shoulders, but she
didn’t seem pathetic, she seemed fine.
“Yeah, too bad he’s asleep.
I don’t want to wake him.” Rama said passively.
“Yeah…Wait what? Wake him?
Wake him how exactly?” Utter bewilderment hung on Talia’s face.
Rama looked at Talia for a
bit; like she was asking herself if she could trust her. “Okay I’ll show you,
but you can’t tell anyone.” She whispered loudly.
Talia could hardly believe
her eyes when she saw the bedroom; just about a week ago it looked like a
playhouse for infant hoodlums. It was sparkling. Everything properly arranged
in its place. The silhouette of a man
rested on Rama’s bed.
She gasped loudly in fear
when the lights came on suddenly; she hadn’t seen Rama touch the switch. It
felt all too morbid.
“Shh, he doesn’t like to be
disturbed” Rama said. Talia tiptoed quietly to the edge of the bed, a thousand
things going through her mind. Rama followed her. The man was still, from where she was standing, he looked dead. A dead man on her friend’s bed was
unfathomable. Half a plate of fried rice and Congo meat sat on the bed side table. Dead men don’t eat Talia thought; her curiosity swelling. He’d
forgive her if he were alive; she told herself. She quietly pulled off the
thick coffee brown blanket that covered him;
Rama right beside her, waiting to prove herself right. Talia grabbed him by the arm and shook hard in a bid
to wake him; it was plastic; dressed up, made up, painted polyvinyl plastic; a
freaking mannequin. She looked up at Rama eye brow raised, frown waves formed
on her forehead; confused if she should be sad or mad.
“I think you woke him” Rama said
expressionlessly
………….
Rama sat on the bed just
beside the mannequin; her face buried in a book, a Sidney Sheldon book, she
wasn’t sure what the title was, Arnold would love anything by Sidney Sheldon.
She, on the other hand, didn’t read much, and when she did it wasn’t novels,
inspirational books maybe. Electricity had gone out, and she was bored, she
thought Arnold would be bored too, so
she had gotten into his little study for the first time since he died. It
smelled of books- stale old books, and peanuts. She had seen a whole collection
from Sidney Sheldon on the side shelf just beside the door. Sidney is such a genius she had
remembered him say while flipping through pages and smiling foolishly; so she
had chosen one- anyone.
‘She
snapped off the monitor and jumped to her feet’ Rama
was reading out loud when the door flung open. It was Talia.
“Knock much?” Rama said to
Talia; carefully positioning the opened book upside down. “Excuse me honey” she
said to the mannequin.
“Are you alright?” Talia
asked as they hugged.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You don’t seem…”
“I’m very well Tali” she
smiled confidently.
“Listen Rams, you need
help.” Rama frowned. “You have a problem, and I thought I could make it better
all on my own, but retail therapy, hanging out, or not hanging out might not
cut it. You need professional help.”
“Ugh, quit the theatricals
Tali”
Talia chortled in disbelief,
“Wait…I am being theatrical? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”
“I have” Rama yelled, her
eyes shooting wide open “I have looked at myself in the mirror lately and I
look great- I feel great. Stop trying to make me feel bad for feeling great.”
The door grumbled one more
time and an elderly gentleman walked in hesitantly. “I heard the shouting” he
said. He looked like he was in his fifty’s; chubby and averagely tall; he had
patches of white on his head and beard but a well-polished English accent.
“Who are you? ...Who is he?”
Rama turned to Talia.
“I am Doctor Nfua; a
psychiatrist from the Goodwill Hospital. Talia wanted me to meet you.”
Rama looked at Talia; a ‘what is happening here?’ look. “He’s
great” Talia said it like he wasn’t there. “You need professional…”
“So you think I am crazy?”
Rama’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but firm, with a tone that said it
wasn’t a rhetorical question. “You brought a shrink to my house?”
“Not crazy” the doctor said
“But I understand what you are dealing with. It is not uncommon with people who
lost someone they really loved; they might think of them so much and sometimes
even see them in things, even lifeless things.”
“In order words, I am crazy.
Arnold is making me crazy?” She looked at the doctor, and then looked at Talia,
but there was deafening silence. Rama remembered how her parents had always
called her crazy because of Arnold; “you really want to marry that boy? You are
both in school, and he has a serious medical condition. Are you crazy? This is
total madness” her mother had said; and when Arnold had come to ask for her
hand in marriage, and when her father kicked him out, she had broken the glass
stool in anger, and her father had said “because of a schoolboy? Those whom the
gods want to kill, they make mad first.” Her life with Arnold felt like déjà
vu...yet again. She sat on the bed crying endlessly; wondering how one person
can make the whole world think she was insane.
“We’d have to get rid of
that first, and then we could start our sessions.” The doctor said pointing to
the mannequin that sat up right on the bed as Rama had placed it. She turned to
it and kissed it in tears; sharing more than one kind of body fluid. Talia would
have stopped her but the doctor said it was okay for her to say her goodbyes. So
Talia sat next to her, hugging her tight as the doctor carried it away. Rama
watched her Arnold slowly go away
from her again, and just like the last time, they were both in tears.
