D is for Dora

Esanland 1979

Obebo smoothed the crinkled edges of the paper. He had tried to keep it as pristine as possible; the Ogun State heat had other plans. The photo had survived from his uncle’s house in Lagos but it stood no chance against the sweltering humidity, even from the safety of his polo shirt pocket. 

Impulse actions had got him thus far. It was an impulse to drop out of high school. It was an impulse to join the navy. It was an impulse to move to England. Impulses worked for a reason. They were speedy and felt electric, Obebo trusted his impulses wholeheartedly.

The photo burned a hole in his pocket. Her playful smile, ebony black skin and ceramic white teeth were breathtaking. The way her hair fanned around her face, like peacock feathers, was regal. He’d imagined she’d smell divine, like cocoa or shea and she’d have the most beautiful voice, smooth and decadent like custard. Her limbs were perfect too, she was poised like the ballerinas he’d met in Italy but with curves that flowed like water.

“Oga, car don spoil oh.”

“We’ve broken down?”

“Yes, sir. But I go push am.”

“Let me help.”

“No, no.”

“I can’t sit in it and make it heavier and I can’t watch you push alone.”

“Oga.”

“I will push it with you.”

In theory Obebo was strong. He was in the navy, naval men were broad and muscular, built by their hard labour. However, in practice, he was a naval engineer. Despite having to pass physicals, and the inherited advantage of his height, Obebo was not strong enough to push the car. 

In his mind, it would be like the movies he’d seen in America, the car would glide and the mystery lady from the photo would see him, under the sizzling Esanland sun. The sweat on his back would drip in slow motion and her eyes would widen in glee. It would be love at first sight and they’d live happily ever after, or something like that.

Alas, his sweat soaked through the thick fabric of his shirt, his forehead veins (not his ‘swollen’ biceps) bulged and the car did not glide, it moved a few inches with each grunt and push. There was no mystery lady watching him, just a group of three lanky boys, playing in the shade of the gas station, a few yards away. 

“Oya, come help us now.”

“Yes sir.”

The boys wore the same uniform. Sand brown cargo shorts with frayed hems, vests that showed their lean arms flailing as they ran and PVC flip flop sandals that clacked with each step. Each of their vests was a different primary colour and had mimicry of foreign logos plastered across them.

Obebo stepped back to catch his breath and wipe his brow. It was only a few yards; he hadn’t exerted himself in a long time. His handkerchief was wrapped around her picture, an extra barrier from the weather. Given the beads of sweat accumulating on the rim of his glasses, the handkerchief was a necessity. He tucked her photo in his back pocket then pressed the handkerchief delicately to his brow, dabbing at the pooling sweat. 

“Make I go comot go buy water “

“Ok. Boys, come here.”

He rubbed his fingers on the back of his trousers, carefully to remove any moisture from them. Gingerly, he took out the picture, his trouser pockets had made it fray and the heat had faded the photo. 

“Yes Sir.”

“Do you know this woman?”

The boys exchanged looks and snickered. “Maybe Sir, wetin you go give us?”

“What will I give you for an answer?”

“Yes, oh.”

Obebo grinned. The crafty boys grinned. “Ok. I’ll buy you sweets.”

“One second Sir.” They convened into a circle, muttering amongst themselves.

The one in a pepper red vest looked over his shoulder and looked Obebo up and down before reconvening. The sound of their clacking flip flop sandals filled the air, “How much sweets Sir?”

“1 pack each.”

“Just one? Sir we don push your car-“

“Ok two packs each.”

“Wait Sir.” They waddled back into their informal meeting huddle. After a few seconds, the one in the cobalt blue looked over, “Three sir.”

“Ok.” Obebo raised his hands in defeat, “Three it is.”

“So tell me, who is she?”

“Ah ah Sir, we take payment first.”

“Nawa oh!”

“It’s business Sir.”

They walked up to the stall by the gas station, its old beams and corrugated roof had been bleached by the sun over time. “Choose what you want and I’ll pay when you answer me.”

“She is our teacher sir.”

“Teacher?”

“Miss Dora.”

Dora. The name sounded beautiful and exotic. Obebo and Dora, what a beautiful combo. The future Mrs Ozique, she’d love his surname as well.

“Oga?” The woman at the kiosk had lips black like locust beans and hair the colour of ginger. “You go pay am?” Her question dragged him from his daydreams. He nodded, frantically pulling for his purse. Absent-mindedly, he handed over the cash, “Where can I find her?”

“At the library but nobody can disturb her there.”

“Ok. Thank you boys.”

They scurried off, jumping with glee from their snacks.

 The Buka was particularly quiet. Thursdays couldn’t have been the busiest days; Obebo had expected something more lively. It was on the edge of town with amber canisters lighting it up. The plush amala reminded him of her cheeks from the now disintegrating photo, her eyes drew him in like the okra soup in front of him. His driver sat across from him on an equally squeaky stool. Smacking his lips as he chewed his shaki, his driver’s focus was clearly on their food. He gulped at the cola while Obebo watched his plate.

“Oga. I no sabi wetin you want.”

“I want to eat, I am just tired.”

“No. Abi you want 

He leaned back and unbuttoned his belt. Obebo watched his amala. “I saw her photo with my cousins and thought maybe we are cousins.”

The driver furrowed his brow, “I found out we are thankfully not cousins. So I asked who she was and where she was. I will go back in two days so I have to find her now.” Obebo scooped a ball of amala and plopped it in his mouth. 

“You no sabi her?” Obebo shook his head slowly.

“No but I want to marry her, my uncle gave me her address to find her.”

“You dey craze for love?”

“she is more beautiful than even twiggy!”

Truthfully, Obebo had imagined her in striped ewedu green fabric, walking across the aisle to him. Maybe it was premature to plan a wedding but the navy usually came with quick marriages and quicker proposals.

“Nawa oh. I no go lie, e dey shock me.” 

Obebo chuckled. As his driver rambled reason, and explained why Obebo was crazy, he made his way through the bowl of food. Dora was going to see him and fall head over heels from his gesture.

The local library wasn’t much. A square, cream-brown building with a red roof. The windows were low, in line with the table for better lighting and a hand printed sign that slanted every time the door was opened. 

Through the window, Obebo could see a woman from behind. Her hair was neatly cornrowed and she was hunched over a book. Was it Dora? Would she mind the interruption? Obebo took slow breaths to calm his flurry of thoughts. 

“Hello.” The woman beamed a wide smile. Her skin was yellow-brown like akamu, it wasn’t Dora. Obebo was welcomed by shushing from the side of the wide room. “Quiet Sir.”

He mouthed an apology and unfolded his photo of Dora. “Do you know where I can find Dora?”

The smiled melted into a sly grin with a quirked eyebrow. “She just went home.”

Proper etiquette would be continuing conversation, feigning interest and thanking her. Obebo neglected all etiquette and span out of the library. 

“Oga?” His driver’s feet were out of the window, sandals barely holding on. He hadn’t anticipated such a quick turnaround.

“She’s just gone home.”

He nodded and adjusted himself to sit again, hands firmly planted on the wheel.

“Obebo! Your uncle said you were coming to visit.”

“Yes Ma, I came to see Dora.” 

She called out for Dora. The moment seemed to be frozen, stuck in time. He had enough time to inspect the room and memorise it. If he was going to come back to ask for her hand in marriage, he wanted to be familiar with the room. The parlour was quaint. The local wood and handwoven patterns were typical for a village home. Books were piled at odd angles in the corner of the room, on the centre table and there was a half open book on the sofa. The fan groaned. Obebeo groaned. 

The air smelled like spicy yam pottage. It should have tasted like it too; Obebo tasted the acidic aftertaste of nerves and anticipation. The woman returned to the room. “Obebo, sit now.” He should have focused on the offence in her face. Instead he looked at the etchings of laughter in her cheeks and the shine of her eyes. Dora was going to age marvellously. For a woman so beautiful, he couldn't conceive of her ageing any other way. Like jollof the day after, like palm wine left out for just long enough (before it started souring).

“Yes Ma.”

Her voice was velvety, deeper than he’d imagined. He wondered how it would sound, whispering in his ears. Sweet nothings surely tasted sweeter from her.

“Someone is here to see you.’

“Yes Ma.”

The second time sounded more mellifluous than the first. His pulse quietened so he could hear her better. He watched the door frame, diligently. Her footsteps grew louder as she approached. 

“Dora, this is Obebo. Big Daddy Lagos’ son.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you visited.”
She smiled. It was sheepish and polite but her ceramic white teeth were exposed, just a little. They shone more in real life than the picture. Honestly her beauty put the photo to shame. He was engulfed in awe. Her hair was straight but not like the women he’d met in England. It was thick and vivacious, full of life. Her eyes were shaped like half moons, perched on her full cheeks. And her lips, her lips. They were the most magnificent colour. A shade of red he couldn’t pinpoint, he had never seen. It was redder than the fish he’s seen in Ghana and richer than the pomegranates he had seen in Turkey. They looked plush and full and inviting.

“You two can talk, I’m going to the kitchen.”

The woman winked at Dora. Obebo wasn’t sure if she was trying to be subtle. Subtlety wasn’t her strong point. At all.

“Who are you?”

“You visited my dad last week when you went to see the UniLag campus.”

“I know that. Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you.”

“What?”

Glasses clinked. They were clear green, thick glass, like the glasses he’d seen in Germany. They were full to the brim of dark brown, with ice cubes peeking out. “Sorry, I just wanted to bring drinks. Obebo’s eyes didn’t leave Dora. “Thank you Ma”

Dora smiled at her mother. The same sheepish polite smile she offered Obebo. Her eyes weren’t as soft. She glared. Anger flashed molten in them.

“Why are you here Obebo?”

The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up, alert soldiers. Her hissing was electric, not quite the whisper he’d imagined but the next best thing. 

“Obebo?”

He couldn’t judge her mother’s lack of subtlety, he was just as bad. Her lips just looked so enticing, he couldn’t help himself but stare.

“Yes Dora?”

“Why are you here?”
“I saw your picture.”

“My picture?” As he retrieved the less than pristine photo, her mother re entered the room. 

“Snacks? The yam isn’t ready yet.”
“Mummy!”
She ignored Dora and dropped the tray on top of the stack of books. There was fresh aromatic chin chin and plantain chips still warm from the oil. “Thank you Ma.”

“Oh look at that picture.”

“Yes Ma, she took it at my father's house.”

“How is your father?” 

Small talk was one thing Obebo disdained. He could never understand it. The other engineers were recluse and seldom spoke. But the sailors loved to talk. They always did. Chattering away like seagulls. Sometimes they chatted even more than the seagulls.

“Let me go and check the yam.”

He nodded.

“Let me see that.” She opened her palm. His eyes traced the lines. He wanted to trace them with his hands, with his skin. “Obebo?”

“Oh, yes.”

She inspected the photo for a brief moment, the anger didn’t leave her gaze. Her ire thawed ever so slightly. The room didn’t feel lava hot any more, just Esanland summer hot.

“What about the photo?”

“I thought you were beautiful.”

“I am.”

“I want to marry you.”

“What?”

Her eyes darted back and forth in disbelief. She was meant to be flattered and fall for him. 

“Who do you think you are?”

“I-”

“No! Listen to me. I don’t know you and will never marry you.”

“Dora.”

“No, you don’t get to plead with me.”

“You should go back to Lagos. Never come back here.”

“My ship leaves tomorrow.” He stood, the distance wasn’t enough to cool him down so he reached for the green glass and took a sip. “I will send you telegrams from everywhere we dock.”

“No.”

“Wait.” He took another gulp of the cold liquid. Breathe. Breather. She wasn’t meant to be this disagreeable. “I will be back in a year. I will come and ask you to be my girlfriend and we will date.

“Excuse me.”

Her mother walked in with three pumpkin orange bowls. “I packed for your driver as well.”

“Thank you Ma.”

“Why are you standing?”

“My ship leaves soon, I just wanted to greet Dora before I left.”

“You are too kind. Your mother raised you well.”

Obebo heard Dora muttering something under her breath. He didn’t strain to hear it. It had to be an insult or a curse and neither was particularly flattering.

“Let me pack you food for the road.”
“Thank you Ma.

“Dora, what do you say to someone who has come so far to see you?”

Dora continued to glare at her mother as she turned and left the room.

Obebo flicked through the different things he could say. Not one possibility ended with Dora being receptive.

“Why me? Can’t you find someone else?”

“Because you’re Dora.”

THE END