At some point in the past you didn’t have this obsession that seemed like the stuff of Beyoncé’s Dangerously in Love song. You never saw yourself joining the ranks of the screen obsessed, staring at your phone as if your life depended on the next frame. In fact, you would marvel at such shameful vanity; as far as you were concerned, these tech obsessed Gen Z folks should just wake up and get busy living.
Then you fell in love with Dammy and became a different man.
Now your phone would go with you to the toilet; and you would place it beside the bathtub in the bathroom. It would be beside your pillow on the bed; it would be between your legs as you drive; and near your notepad on your desk at the office.
You did not want to risk missing any of her calls. The thing was called a mobile phone for a reason, wasn’t it?
You had over two dozen of Dammy’s pictures on your phone; once in a while you would stare dreamily at her beauty, in different postures and different dresses, as if you were seeing her for the first time, captured by the art that was her presence. You even had imaginary conversations with the pictures. You were not proud of this; but no one would ever know.
You had a favourite: Dammy, dressed in a body fitted black sequined blouse, and a pouty smile.
You eventually forgot that you once thought it irresponsible and inconsiderate to take private calls or send such text messages during official hours. It was something you did for love, again and again.
During a midweek staff meeting your boss, Mrs. Thomson, whom you addressed as Oga but called Ogre behind her back, asked you to put the phone away.
“Tobi, will you please put the phone away and focus on the matter at hand?” she had said, slightly incredulous.
Dammy’s love made you take calls anywhere; she made you send text messages in the bathtub when your head had been covered with soap bubbles, or while frying dodo in the kitchen. You composed text messages on the back of an okada during your trips through the muddy narrow roads that led to your mother’s house.
You were always ready to respond to her engagements on the phone. A prompt response was one of your love languages, you wanted to be steady and dependable.
You even took a call from her during a church service on a Sunday morning and an usher raised her brow at you. You whispered to Dammy to call back in a few minutes.
Thanks or no thanks to your love for her, or whatever it really was, you saw nothing wrong with your obsession. Sure, you’d almost knocked down a pedestrian one evening because you were talking to her while driving, but you did apologized with a pounding heart to the shocked pedestrian who stared at the man who refused to stop even when the traffic light turned red.
There was also that afternoon when you bumped into a woman on the sidewalk and spilled her coffee because Dammy’s words came alive, like her presence, on your phone.
“What the hell!”, the woman yelled. Maybe the coffee was hot enough to hurt; maybe the act deserved such seeming overreaction, or maybe you were just a victim of transferred aggression.
Dammy. At times you would wonder what exactly made her different from the numerous girls you’ve met and dated. The more you thought about it, the more curious you became. She was not the only tall girl you’ve seen. She was not the only one with an demeanor so innocent and you wouldn’t really say that her chocolate complexion was the attraction. She could not compete with the silky, smooth skin of Amarachi whose British accent gave her an exotic edge among your female admirers until she told you that she was bisexual and asked if you would ever consider an open relationship.What the hell was that?
It may be Dammy’s smile; but you’ve told Titi whom you dumped for Dammy’s attention, that you have the most dazzling smile in your world. You were sure it was not Dammy’s white teeth or luscious lips that turned you to this obsessed man.
She did not even have the adorable legs of Bukky Modele, a pastor’s daughter who left you for some guy who had acquired a huge fortune in Lagos by taking photographs of models and actors. Sometimes you would wonder if the guy got her because he was taller than you. You’ve heard Bukky speak of her preference for tall men, especially ones with well-toned muscles. When you got to know this, you registered at a gym near your house and would wake up to work out at five thirty in the morning. You gave up after a few weeks. It was easier for you to go to the gym than to stop the steady fufu diet.
Even if you got the well-toned body, would you be taller at twenty-eight?
Bukky was one girl that could turn you on by just walking. Dammy was not in any way like her.
Dammy was not in any way like any of the other girls; with her you were never really in control, and you would have believed she had placed a love potion in your drink during one of your visits to her house, but you did not believe that kind of voodoo bullshit.
She was like a perfect mix: sometimes a bored and casual friend, sometimes a love-struck teenager; sometimes an evil genius, sometimes a solemn and insecure girl asking for your advice. She seemed to know when to make you long for her, and when to draw just a little bit closer to keep you from slipping away.
Indeed, to your mind, she was good at these things. She was three years younger than you but seemed way ahead of you in this game of love.
You hated games; she had a way of making it seem as if she was not really playing games.
She was a busy girl. Bankers are usually busy because money never sleeps. Bankers would get to work at about a quarter-to-seven and close at six in the evening. Dammy would typically have a one-hour lunch break at noon; but sometimes she would not even have time for this. You had reservations about the way Dammy would gulp cans of energy drinks like water, but you wanted to remain your sweet self, so you kept quiet.
There were days when you would clench your jaw and vow never to call or text her if she did not return your call or reply your text messages. There were usually those long hours of putting your phone on silent mode and keeping it out of sight.
You would go back to the phone, hoping to see missed calls and text messages from her, and a certain desperation common to the insecure. At least she should also know that you were too busy to think of her. On many of such occasions you’ve been disappointed.
Dammy Taylor was in control; as if she knew she was killing you slowly and softly, and was enjoying every moment of it.
Later she would send a text message, poetic and sublime; and your mood would brighten and you would call, and agree on a date, and have a good time together as if she had not annoyed you with her attitude.
How could you ever forget that afternoon on Valentine’s Day? It was a Wednesday, and you had dialed her number four times. How could she be so insensitive after seeing four missed calls from you on her phone? She did not call you; and you wanted to maintain your stubborn stance but later considered it pointless once you realised that it was almost evening on Valentine’s Day and she may have just closed at work and gone home to sleep.
She was hardhearted like that. Just too smart for her own good! If you confront her the following day, she would smile and tell you she had been tired, that Valentine’s Day was just like any other day and that she does not believe in this mushy love thing.
You didn’t believe the whole mushy love thing, but you’ve had sleepless nights wondering if she would agree to marry you rather than her secondary school friend in Milan that she seemed to talk about a lot.
When you called her that evening she said she was sorry and you imagined the innocent smile that you’ve found irresistible; she said the battery of her phone had been low and she was charging it at a power point in her boss’ office. That was why she was unaware when you were sweating and stressing, dialing her number and getting a headache because she did not take your call.
You had Valentine’s dinner at Captain Cook. Her brown eyes were so bright, so liquid, that they seem to melt your soul. What was said was as touching as the words unspoken.
At times she would ignore you for days and you would be sure that she was not really into you; then you would give up, and swallow your pride, and call her, and speak sweetly to her as if you were not in any way bothered by the days without the calls and text messages.
You almost hated yourself for making her feel as if she was the most desirable girl in the world. You would have loved to put her in her place, or to let her know that there are many fishes in the ocean, and that she can be replaced. It is not as if you are in this thing wholeheartedly, no of course not. There are other girls that are willing to be nicer and sufficiently desperate, if given a chance.
There were times when you wished you had some superhuman ability to know what is going on in that head of hers.
She was like a philosophy textbook: there are so many questions; but the only answer you ever got was that there are no answers.
She visited on a certain night; that night of bright moonlight and cool breeze, as you sat with her on the balcony of your flat and listened to Colbie Caillat while sipping mango juice, you tried to kiss her. She slapped you, stood up, and told you how disappointed she was. She had only given you a chance because she thought you were serious about your Christian testimony. How dare you? And who do you think she was? You were puzzled.
What the hell? Christians don’t have sex?
But you did not ask the question on your mind. You said you were sorry. It was the work of the devil. You’ve known so many girls, you were sure you knew what could work with this one. Was her bible against premarital kissing too?
She did not take your calls for a week that seemed like a month of grief, she did not reply your text messages, she avoided you like a mad man because you did not even see her on three occasions when you went to her house in the mornings, hoping to see her on her way to her office. It was as though she was one step ahead of you; reading all your moves and making superior counter moves.
Once you went to her office, and told a smiling receptionist that you were there to see Dammy Taylor. She said to sit down while she calls her. A few minutes later a frowning security guard came to tell you to leave the premises if you were not there for a transaction. He said it was a security measure; but you were sure it was Dammy’s idea because when you looked to the receptionist for support she simply shrugged, looking quite bored.
The days after this it was as if your phone had died; it was as if a companion, a pet, your treasured pet, had died. You took a few calls, even received a few text messages. Some girls whom you had considered ugly, boring or too desperate, tried to chat with you online. You were not in the mood for this. Dammy is just Dammy and she is irreplaceable. Or so it seemed.
Sometimes the phone would ring or beep for an incoming message and you would hurry hopefully to it, only to realise that the person you were expecting was not the caller.
Yes; it only lasted a week, but felt like a month in the desert with nothing but endless sights of sand. You called her on a Tuesday, at exactly five-thirty in the evening, and she took your call. You weren’t ashamed to be considered pathetic or desperate. You were sorry.
“It is the work of the devil; Dammy you are just too irresistible, too charming, too… in fact, I’m short of words when it comes to your charm. I have been trying hard to fight the feelings but you are just too charming. I hate the fact that I may sound too cheesy like the love songs of teenage pop stars, but you have to know that you’re standing tall, you’ve got it all, and you’re everything I’m looking for.”
She listened to your three-minute monologue on the amazing Dammy Taylor, and was silent for a few seconds after your silence.
“Dammy, won’t you say something?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know, anything, just tell me how you feel.”
“How do you want me to feel, Tobi? What you did was the last thing I expected from you. I never saw it coming. I’m disappointed, and I’m in a difficult situation. If you can do this, then I can’t help but be bothered about the details that I don’t know about you.”
“I’m sorry. It was just a moment of weakness. I can assure you, there is nothing to be bothered about.”
She cleared her throat. “I’m afraid there is. Tobi, how many girls have you made such a move on, and how many have allowed it to go too far? How many times have you had that moment of weakness?”
“Dammy baby, we shouldn’t be having this conversation on the phone.”
“Isn’t that an easy question? How many girls have you…”
“Dammy, please…”
“I thought we had something serious.”
“We do. That was why I wanted to kiss you. It’s not as if I kiss girls here and there when I get to spend time with them. I’m sorry, I just wanted to kiss you, not to go all the way, I’m not justifying my actions, but it is what it is. I wasn’t planning to let it get too far.”
She was quiet for a few seconds; you held your breath and your heart pounded. “That is my point Tobi,” she said finally. “Your selfishness is blinding you to the gravity of this thing! Do you think you are some guru with a perfect control of such things? You think we’ll kiss and you’ll just know the perfect moment to stop? You think you’ll be able to control the emotional wind or whirlwind?”
“Please Dammy, I’m sorry, let’s not discuss this on the phone.”
She agreed to a date at Alagbaka park in about thirty minutes. You wanted to be there earlier, wanted her to find you waiting on a table for two in a quiet corner of the park. Once you’d get rid of the worry of keeping to time; you would be able to focus on the important matter of saying the right words with the right expression for maximum impact. You would do the same thing you did before your ill- fated attempt to kiss her: you would look straight into her eyeballs and say the words.
From experience you knew that women become weak when you say certain words while looking into their eyes. You decided to be optimistic and began your walk towards the park. That night might be a game changer.
Your phone rang near the gate of the park. It was your boss, your Oga. You froze for a few seconds when you saw the name on the screen because it was her first time calling you on this line.
“Hello,” you said as your heart pounded.
“Tobi where are you?”
Then came that moment that started with sudden pain and darkness, and then blurry lights. It was a swift and vicious slap, followed by the pain in your jaw. It was as though your oga’s question was meant to mock the coming moment of uncertainty, because for a moment after it, you weren’t sure whether you were standing or floating. You felt the coarseness of the sandy soil against your face and the phone was near your head.
The man who had slapped you wore yellowish brown Timberland boots. He stood over you with a sneering smile on his face, before picking up your phone and walking away casually with it.
He could have a gun, or a knife with a shiny blade. Maybe all he had was the aggressiveness of a carnivore.
You felt light headed, stood up with a bit of effort, brushed the dust off your trouser, and decided to suspend the pitiful look.
You sat on the bench in that corner you had shared with Dammy sometimes in the past; your eyes alert and roaming, as the evening turned to night. You soon felt you had waited for too long, and wondered how much longer you would have to wait.
You felt your phone like the death of something dear; but it was not as important.
