Chinedu Ogoke - Under Fire

“It’s like you’ve just come, and we’re...”

“What are you going to do, now?” Imoni asked her. “Your sister can always understand.”

“Oh, me, I’ve not introduced this guy,” Cos cleverly said. “He’s Imoni Waltz.... Imoni, perch now. There’s a seat for you.”

“No. I will soon fash.”

“Imoni Waltz is...”

But the girl got up to go.

Imoni had to fill up for Cos with complementary statement. It was then a sister that might be offended, he said. Let him take the guilt. He could perceive a sister’s anger. With due respect to the sister, let the sister’s anger knock on his door. He would place his door at their disposal. The little talk influenced the girl. Inexperience and the inability to absorb Cos’ fat talk may have compelled her attitude. She unwillingly lowered herself on the bed.

“It’s like you’ve seen now how you’ve upset my friend?” Cos was saying.

“I’ll see you later,” Imoni said, and abandoned Cos to his hopeless package.

The room spurn a tale of how the fortunes of a simple hostel apartment could be redefined, with a shower of wealth, and all possibilities appeasing to the feelings artistically and fully explored.

Imoni’s attention returned from the little fishes moving merrily in their miniature phoney world, to the film.

It was the Bangkok Hilton starring Arkie Ragan, the suave character that would test his popularity with any group but the women folk.

Katrina Stanton’s apprehension in fact, attracted their fire and flamed their dislike of Arkie.

But they soon shrunk into vengeful silence with Arkie’s temporary isolation. Iyke was formed in sleep, against the wall. And lined on the same bed on her stomach, and her eyes settled on the television, was Kendra, his girlfriend.

Modesty and Ifeyinwa had the other bed. The girl converted his laps into a prop, tracking the film from that position. Both Imoni and Imeh shared the rug, enjoying the same film. Imeh had moved in and out with two girls, and just re-emerged. Imoni remembered and disposed the foil and bottle he had fed from. Modesty meanwhile raised Ifeyinwa’s head and reseated himself. Ifeyinwa looked up questioningly and feelingly at him, then unwound her legs towards the head stead, and lowered her head on its improvised pillows. Time and again, Imoni’s gaze strayed to Kendra’s incredibly smooth legs. Each time he fought the diversion. Imeh had remained calm, occupied with the film.

After a while, agony crawled across Modesty’s face. Ifeyinwa stirred. “What is wrong?”

“What’s the problem?” Kendra turned to them.

“Oh, perch, it’s nothing,” Modesty replied, but he clutched his stomach, then his chest.

“What, Modesty?” his girlfriend asked in a voice fitted with affection, sitting up to a favourable study of him. “You’re sick.” She stroked the bed. “It’s like you don’t want to tell me.”

“Modesty. Modesty,” Imeh called. “What’s the problem? Are you sick?”

Modesty, for reply, rolled up with a strength injected to rest Ifeyinwa’s fears. “Leave me. I’m going to be okay. He stumbled out, Ifeyinwa’s eyes following.

“I have been watching him,” Imoni said. “He’s not feeling very fine, but I guess it’s a little problem.”

Allowing tears now, Ifeyinwa walked out. Imeh followed her. Ifeyinwa’s weeping broke in after a while. “Come and see, Kendra,” she was saying as Imeh conducted Modesty into the room. “It’s like Modesty is dying. He’s vomiting.... He’s. Oh...” But Modesty’s expression disproved the girl’s claim.

Kendra got up and roused Iyke. “What’s it?” Iyke asked, beating off sleep.

“It’s like, it’s Modesty,” Kendra answered with concern. Imoni provided a pillow for Modesty’s head as Imeh lowered the young man to the bed. He shunned the fuss playing around the young man, which he felt exceeded the ordinary.

A neighbour burst in, showing the same attitude. “Iyke, Imeh,” he called, “What’s happen’?”

“It’s alright, Iffy,” Iyke was saying. “Just perch. It isn’t serious.”

Modesty was now folded on his buttocks, his head rested on his arms, bridged over upright knees. He lifted his head. “It’s nothing.” His lips smiled. “It’s like, I just...” But the words were cut off as he squeezed his stomach again. He was now on his feet, one hand on the chest. “No, leave me.” He declined Imoni and Imeh’s help, and was strolling out.

“Please, do something,” lfeyinwa was weeping in Kendra’s arms. “Modesty is dying.”

Imoni joined them outside. To his surprise, darkness had rushed in, as if its painter suddenly dashed it against the clear, day light. Some loud students, crossed over some games, had suddenly suspended their games, asking questions and passing comments.

“He has vomited again,” Imeh commented as he conducted Modesty out of the nearby bathroom.

“It’s like, there’s a medical student here,” somebody suggested.

“No,” Iyke objected. “We’re going to our doctor in the town.”

Bowing against a railing, Modesty said, “I don’t know why you’re worrying so much. Somebody should stay with Iffy. It’s like the clinic here should be okay.”

“Please, pally,” Imeh motioned to Imoni, steering Modesty by the elbow, “get me my car keys. In the next room, 27, and on the teevee set.”

Imoni knocked and entered the said room. A student had a girl trapped under him. He disengaged, bashful. “Car key, Modesty is sick,” Imoni announced, “and Imeh wants to take him to the hospital.” He saw the key on the television set, and picked it up. The room was even more fortified than Modesty’s. Imeh’s roommate escorted him to the door, but no further. Imeh met them at the door and collected the key. He hurried down, to join Iyke and Modesty, who was leaning on the Golf. They got in and Imeh reversed the car, and sent it off.

When Imoni turned, Ifeyinwa was twisting in the hands of kendra and two male police. “He can’t go without me,” she was weeping. “Please, let me go. Oh, my Modesty.”

Her enthusiasm in accomplishing her aim weakened eventually, and she allowed herself to be led into the room. Imoni hung a leg on the railing. Modesty’s return had to decide his departure. Inside the room behind him, Ifeyinwa’s sobbing was being rendered quietly. His interest changed to the hostel nearby, Rufus and Tijani’s den. And his thoughts playfully locked Rufus and Fostina in each other’s hands, leaving the place. The night thickened to coffee black, and his departure was delayed further until the Golf’s arrival relieved him.

There was an overpowering blast of music from the common room. He sighted Innocent with Eva and another girl at a kiosk, and ignored them.

“Imoni Waltz,” somebody called.

“Hi.” He waved. He didn’t even know the fellow’s name.

Two hurrying students with books smiled and waved. He responded, pretending to know them.

He realised his popularity had really taken a leap. One of five students recognised him. And now he misjudged intentions by the frequency of raised hands. Embarrassing a nice fellow by a belated or non-response, or even himself when the intention meant even to drive off flies. Now, he was locked with a hurrying student between two of three motor barricades. He drew back, but they were jammed in thoughts, and were pulled together again. They were united in laughter at their dual folly, as their thoughts disengaged, and each used the passage to his left, forsaking the luckless passage.

Gladys was seated on a concrete stool, chatting with a male student. It wasn’t a carnival, he learned from Gladys’ friend. A launch of the reggae club was just getting underway. And all the lighting and decorations to go with? The reggae movement emphasised colour a lot. It was actually a colour ambassador. It didn’t have any history in the school, and didn’t come too soon. It was good application hadn’t been denied it, now the talk was on review of license issuance. The other question was if it would get a big hug, or survive in a pop crazed environment. Some people had already been signed on. Some of them, in their gaudy attires, were coming their way. “Airee!” some students shouted after the reggae fellows.