Walking towards me was this voluptuous lady who reminded me of a similar-looking lady from Texas. She ambled her way to the space next to me. She was wearing a loose local tie and dye dress that attempted to conceal the amount of flesh that was hidden inside it. She was scouting for a free seat. It was a Friday evening, and the local wing of the airport was filled to capacity with passengers on the weekend getaway. My mind was on Sgt. Jackson and the bursar, two characters from a manuscript titled ‘A Corner of the World’, and I wondered why Sgt. Jackson would behead the bursar. Sgt. Jackson had fought for his homeland in the civil war up north and came back home alive to find that all his entitlements had been embezzled.
He got a job as a gardener, working for the local university. For six and a half months he had not been paid his wages, but the officials of the university were driving nice posh cars, living in well-maintained staff quarters while all the low-salaried workers were suffering in abject poverty. Promises upon promises, and meetings upon meetings, but the bursar did not have a clue as to when the workers would be paid. One of the office staff leaked that the staff salaries had been deposited in a bank to reap dividends for the top officials of the university. How could Jackson believe such a story? He went berserk and beheaded the man. He was arrested and put in prison.
“Excuse me, is there anybody sitting here?” the voice asked.
He looked up and saw a plump lady. He moved his rucksack from the vacant seat and placed it in between his legs, and continued his thoughts on Sgt. Jackson.
A few seconds later, that voice rang a bell in his brain. He took a closer look at the lady. She smelt of perspiration masked by a cheap perfume that stank of staleness. She kept trying to bring up phlegm from her throat.
A chord struck within him. He knew her from somewhere. She looked like a rain dancer. She had rings on her neck, portraying a typical African lady from Zanzibar.
“Edima,” he whispered.
She turned around and looked at him in utter shock. Nobody called her by that name except her dad and a friend from long ago. A long time ago, when he first met her, it was a battle to get to call her Edima. Her English name was Charity, and everybody called her Charity.
She stared at him. Etekamba removed his fez and looked at her straight in the eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the public address system blared, momentarily cutting through the moment. “This is to announce the boarding of flight AP245 to Abuja. All passengers for the 4.30pm flight are advised to proceed to gate E for boarding. Thank you.”
“Etekamba, oh my gosh. Is this you?” she asked, right after the announcement.
“Yes, it is me,” he answered.
“You look so different,” she went on.
“Really? How?” he quizzed.
“I mean you are now sporting a beard. You look like a bouncer, and you still look very fresh,” Edima replied.
“Thanks very much. You look different too,” he stated.
“I know I have gained a lot of weight and look older,” Edima carried on.
“I never said so,” Etekamba protested.
“Okay, that’s fine. So where are you off to?” she asked him.
“Abuja. You?” he asked in return.
“Enugu,” she replied.
“What do you do now?”
“I’m a housewife, but I still do my private business of buying and selling,” Edima answered.
“Nice,” he said. “You have always been a businesswoman.”
“What about you? What do you do now?” she asked.
“Currently, I live and work in Geneva. My home is in Chelsea. I also spend a considerable amount of time in Dubai consulting for a firm there.”
“Wow! I knew you’d go places,” she complimented Etekamba.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
Just then, the same voice from the public address system intercepted the conversation again. “Final boarding call for flight AP…”
“Can I have your telephone number please?” Edima requested.
“Yep. I will give you my Geneva number and fixed Chelsea number. That way you can always reach me.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Would you like my number?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” he answered her.
Etekamba saw five missed calls from a Nigerian number he didn’t recognise. Just as he was trying to figure it out, the phone rang again. It was Edima at the other end.
“I have just lost my mother-in-law. Can you please give us some financial support to help us organise the funeral?” she asked.
“I am sorry, I don’t have.”
“Really? Wow. If you had, would you have assisted me?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
“Are you still upset?”
“Upset about what?”
“About the way I walked out of your life.”
“I was never upset and will never be upset.”
“I am sorry about…”
“You know what? I gotta go now. Take care, and bye,” Etekamba said, and hung up.