Damaged Goods

A Story By Henry Chukwuemeka Onyema
Ezeka Emeruwa was the only member of his class who made a first-class with an awesome CGPA of 4.96. Nobody had achieved such a feat in the History and Strategic Studies Department of Kranyon University since the department came into being, not even in the colonial and early post-colonial days of the premier university. Ezeka also got the Best Graduating Student award of his entire graduating set. It came as no surprise when the university offered him a graduate assistantship along with a straightforward doctorate degree admission. Ezeka had always loved the academia; many of his coursemates owed their good grades to his wonderful tutorials that broke down arcane theories from bored lecturers to digestible bits. But he was wise enough to see the way the academia was treated in Nigeria, especially in public universities so while he took up the offer after his national youth service, he quietly made alternative arrangements.

Assigned to teach two courses to first-year undergraduates, Ezeka soon became a hit among the students. Unlike a few other admittedly brainy graduate assistants and young lecturers he had no airs and did not act as if anyone with a CGPA below 4.00 was not fit to breathe the same fresh air like him. He had a healthy sense of humour and his lectures were simply invigorating to even the most jaded brain. Besides, he knew about other sides of life and could yarn about Davido and Netflix with the ease he dissected the pre-Empire political system of the ancient Romans. Graduate assistants were given the latitude to produce hand-outs though within limits since they were not full lecturers. Ezeka shocked his students by producing high-quality materials for his courses and giving them to his students without collecting a kobo. They were gobsmacked the day he did this, especially when one of the courses was a real goldmine as it was also an elective for Sociology and Religious Studies students.

‘‘Good Lord, sir, don’t you have need for money?’’ asked Tim, one of his more outspoken students.

‘‘But my papa no be Dangote or Adeleke,’’ he burst out with the first lines of the chorus of Teni Apata’s hit single ‘Case.’ The class burst into laughter mingled with applause. When they calmed down Ezeka spoke soberly. ‘‘I want to change the narrative in my little way. Most of you aren’t from wealthy homes like me and hopefully this freebie’’ – fresh titters followed the term –‘‘will encourage you to take your studies seriously.’’

Only two remarkably unserious students who made Ds in other courses scored C in his courses. The remaining made well-deserved As and Bs. The brass in the department wondered if there was some hanky-panky in the results but their thorough scrutiny showed all the grades were legit.

Unsurprisingly the girls came at him with barely hidden fangs. These good ladies ranged from JAMBitos to post-graduate students and even a few fellow graduate assistants and one or two unconventional young lecturers. Ezeka was no Adonis but he was tall, slim and broad-shouldered. He was endowed with a rich ebony skin you would be tempted to touch. Only a rather too prominent jaw disrupted his facial comeliness but the girls went weak when his night-coloured eyes flashed at them from behind his glasses. He was always well-groomed. At twenty-five he was not much older than most of the students.

Ezeka knew many landmines lay about so he was careful. Under his easy disposition and sincere kindness lay a spartan mindset. So he made sure he was not unduly familiar with the opposite sex; he never kept his office door shut whenever they called; he discouraged social visits to his small on-campus apartment from his students, especially undergraduate ladies; he did not compromise academic standards. But the girls never give up without a fight. When many of them saw he was a committed member of the University Catholic chaplaincy even non-Catholics among them began attending Mass. Ezeka was not unfriendly towards them but twice he had to be firm with a few who refused to get the message.

‘‘Guy, you be eunuch?’’ It was Tamiye, his colleague. Both of them shared the office in the Administrative Block. Tamiye, a brilliant political scientist whose undergraduate CGPA even out-classed Ezeka’s, ate vagina for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And the girls obliged him. He had been admitted to a doctorate in Harvard and was leaving at the end of the session. Both men got along swimmingly despite their different outlook.

‘‘Wetin you mean?’’ Ezeka knew very well what he meant.

Tamiye smiled wickedly.
‘‘When last did you ask me to excuse you when one of these daughters of Zion called on you?’’

Ezeka smiled humourlessly.
‘‘I no be you, na.’’
Tamiye winked. ‘‘You are not getting any younger, bro. Enjoy your youth.’’

Ezeka sighed. He had had this conversation several times with his good friend.

‘‘See, you know me. I don’t compromise academic standards and neither should you. No sexual abuse or solicitations, either. Just get a girl or two to take the chill off the harmattan. Go to the PG department if you are afraid of comebacks.’’ Tamiye sat back in his upholstered straight chair after uttering these words of wisdom.

‘‘Last time I checked, you are engaged to Salima.’’ Ezeka could not believe such a refined, brainy guy was such an unrepentant Casanova.

Tamiye waved his hand dismissively. ‘‘What has Salima got to do with it?’’

‘‘Everything, for God’s sake. She is your wife-to-be!’’

Tamiye was unfazed. ‘‘Glad you said wife-to-be. Right now she’s battling with her degree exams at Washington State University and you think there is no blue-eyed oyibo boy helping her ease the stress of complex mathematical equations. Abeg! Look, it is these unrealistic expectations that are sending many of you holy Joes to premature graves.’’

Ezeka shut his mouth to avoid flies flying in. Tamiye was something else. Well, only he and Salima knew the kind of thing they had going for them.

‘‘Goodluck to you both.’’
Tamiye grinned. ‘‘You know Aina, the M.A. babe who comes here every Thursday?’’

Ezeka had seen her once or twice.
‘‘Wetin, you don give am belle?’’ he asked mischievously.

Tamiye roared.
‘‘Holy sinner like you. So that’s your game plan? Well, you have a chance. She has a friend in the Modern Languages department who admires you from a distance. Want an intro?’’

‘‘You lecher. ‘’
Tamiye tried hard but gave up when Ezeka resolutely refused to budge. He glanced at his watch.

‘‘Damn, almost late for class and I am here perusing the centre of female anatomies with you.’’ He jumped up as his friend laughed.

‘‘Your salvation is near, bro,’’ Tamiye crowed as he reached the door.

‘‘Crazy man,’’ Ezeka replied and shut the door behind him.

Exactly a month and two weeks later, as they were in their office marking their students’ assignments Ezeka looked up.

‘‘Tam?’’
Tamiye looked up and saw the serious look on his friend’s face. He put aside his papers.

‘‘I want to meet Aina’s friend.’’

Tamiye opened his mouth to exclaim bawdy surprise, saw that his guy was not smiling and shut it.

‘‘What is the matter, bro?’’ He looked concerned.

Ezeka took a deep breath, wondered if he should open up. Tamiye, for all his skirt-chasing, was very down-to-earth. ‘‘I don’t know if I should be telling you this.’’

Tamiye replied gently, ‘‘I am your friend. If you need my support, feel free. But I won’t press you.’’

The young historian sighed, and then opened up.
Right from senior secondary school he had dated Jennifer Kenechi, a beauty he met at a birthday party. Their families had known and approved of the relationship. Even at that age they seemed compatible. Both got admitted to Krayon but the remarkably brilliant Jennifer got a place to Oxford to study Business Infotech Systems. They kept in touch and met when Jennifer came home for the holidays. She was the first woman Ezeka slept with. But just three weeks ago Jennifer sent him a heartbreaking email to say she had found what she wanted with a black British classmate and they had gotten married.

The look on Ezeka’s face was hopelessly broken as he handed Tamiye the email. Huge tears rolled down his cheeks as his chest heaved with silent sobs. Tamiye was filled with sudden and deep loathing for a Jennifer he had never met before. No wonder Ezeka had been so restrained in his relationships with women. He was the rare breed of Nigerian men who still practised fidelity to their women. He came over to Ezeka’s desk and put his arm around his shoulder. He remained silent till Ezeka stopped crying and retired to their convenience room to wash his face. When he came back Tamiye, now sitting on the edge of his desk, looked up from the email.

‘‘You will beat this, bro. Trust me.’’

‘’Have you ever been heartbroken before?’’ Ezeaka asked softly.

Tamiye smiled uncomfortably.
‘‘Sorry, no experience. I have always done the heartbreaking.’’

Ezeaka smiled mirthlessly.
‘‘And I really loved her. That’s why I applied to British universities.’’ He looked at his friend. ‘‘What’s the point now?’’

‘‘Don’t be an idiot, Eze. Whoever Jennifer is, she has moved on with her life. She’s made her choice. She has proven unworthy of a rare guy like you. Don’t waste your plans because of her.’’ Tamiye’s hard tone softened.

‘‘If you were another kind of guy, I’d say go home, booze up and get laid.’’

Ezeka stood up.
‘‘That is why I want Aina’s pal. I nearly took the vow of celibacy for Jennifer and got this muck. No more.’’

Tamiye saw the raw hurt in his eyes and sighed.
‘‘You will end up hurting women or being hurt. You are a walking bomb now.’’

Ezeka was not ready to listen.
‘‘I better reach out to Aina. I know her department at least.’’ As he headed for the door his friend called him.

‘‘Please, Eze, don’t let your good nature get twisted. Don’t hurt any woman. Sit down.’’

After the three lectures he had for the day and a meeting with the head of his department Ezeka left for his apartment. Tamiye had given him the phone number of Ronke Davies, Aina’s friend. She was in her second semester as a Post-Graduate Diploma student of French in the department of Modern Languages.

He looked at his mobile phone thoughtfully. Why exactly do you want to call her? Are you ready for any woman wahala now? He knew the honest answer was no, but there was this gaping ache in his heart which wanted feminine presence. He took a deep breath and rang her number.

‘‘Hello,’’ came a soulful throaty female voice that sounded sure of itself.

‘‘Am I speaking with Miss Ronke Davies?’’

‘‘Yes. Who is speaking?’’
. This is Ezeka Emeruwa of the History Department. Goodafternoon.’’

There was a sharp intake of breath on the line. Ezeka smiled as he imagined her facial expression. She bounced back with an aplomb he appreciated.

‘‘Glad to hear from you. May I ask how you got my number?’’

‘‘We have mutual friends; Tamiye Bright and Aina Kolawole.’’

Ronke chuckled. The sound made Ezeka smile.
‘‘Interesting. To what do I have the honour of this call?’’

Ezeka hesitated only briefly. He was not the subtle type when it came to women. ‘‘Mind if we meet at ‘The African Calabash?’ You choose time and day.’’

Ronke chuckled again.
‘’Just like that?’’
‘‘Just like that.’’
She paused briefly.
‘‘Friday 6p.m, okay?’’
‘‘Perfect.’’
‘‘Hope you are not planning to build a new entente between followers of Leopold von Ranke and Victor Hugo?’’

Ezeka laughed.
‘‘You can never tell. Till Friday.’’

‘‘Till Friday. Au revoir.’’

‘The African Calabash’ is a swanky eatery located along Badmus Street just off the University Road. It not only offered cuisine from virtually all parts of the continent at reasonable rates, it was draped in all things African: music, furniture, setting, ambience.

Ezeka got there ten minutes to six. He had barely settled down at an empty table when Ronke arrived. He was pleased by what he saw. Ronke was elegantly buxom; her sizably arrogant breasts seemed to be rebelling under her blue denim shirt. Her accompanying denim trousers sat becomingly on her dangerously ample hips. Her rich tresses were framed in bangs that amplified her round, vibrant face. She endowed with a natural glowing complexion, the type Nigerians describe as ‘Yellow Pawpaw.’ She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. Ezeka was delighted by her perfect combination of light make-up.

‘‘Hi,’’ he said, getting to his feet.

She smiled.
Once they were seated Ezeka who was meeting her in the flesh for the first time said, ‘‘You have a brother in my department. Sodeke, if I am not mistaken. The resemblance is just crazy.’’

‘‘Yes. My kid brother, actually. He told me about you.’’

‘‘Bad things, I suppose.’’
She smiled again. ‘‘Sure. Like how you mauled Teni’s song with a frog-like croak.’’

Ezeka could not help laughing.
The hang-out was seamless. Conversation flowed smoothly as they tucked into plates of pounded yam and fisherman’s soup. Ronke admitted she had seen Ezeka up close during last year’s Inter-Departmental Colloquium where the graduate assistant got a standing ovation with his paper on the history of prostitution in early twentieth century Nigeria. Aina was her close friend, though she was running a Master’s in French Language. Both got their first degrees from the University of Benin, though Aina majored in French while she studied Business Administration.

‘‘So why the switch?’’ Ezeka asked.

‘‘International business requires multilingualism. Hope to add other languages under my belt.’’

Ezeka was impressed.
‘‘So tell me, why History?’’ She tossed her head to one side, boring her eyes into his.

‘‘Can’t say I was pressed to go one line or the other. I just like being different, so while my friends were filling in Law and Mass Communication I filled in History in my JAMB form.’’

Ronke nodded. A kindred spirit.
Over small calabashes of tasty palmwine they let the conversation flow to diverse topics. Ezeka was delighted and saddened by her versatility: she was his kind of woman, but Jennifer had been equally smart and a great conversationalist. Against his wish raw pain filled his eyes.

Ronke was perspicacious. She noticed the change; the sudden darkening of his expressive eyes. She paused.

‘‘What’s the matter, Ezeka?’’

He sighed and silently cursed himself for his inability to rein in his feelings. He reached for his half-empty bowl of wine, changed his mind.

‘‘Sorry, Ronke, I must seem like a big idiot.’’

‘‘Not at all.’’ Concern radiated from her eyes. ‘‘Is it something I said?’’

He hesitated for only a half-minute.
‘‘Your brilliance; your conversation skills; your humor reminded me of my fiancée. She sent me an email a month ago from Britain that she had married her classmate.’’ He went on talk about Jennifer and their relationship. Ronke’s heart swelled with pity and sneaking affection as she listened quietly. She made a mental note that in spite of his pain he said nothing denigrating Jennifer. He seemed lost in self-criticism.

‘‘What went wrong? The distance, the lack of intimacy? Did we grow apart and I was too dumb to notice? Too caught up my chase for a first-class?’’ With a manly effort he smothered the emotion threatening his larynx. He did not resist when Ronke took his right hand in both of hers.

‘‘Do you want to cry?’’ Her voice was low and calm.

Ezeka nodded.
‘‘Come, let’s go to my place. You can cry all you want.’’

Any other time, Ezeka would have gotten the message and said no. But now he was just overwhelmed by the explosion of feelings within him. The pools in her big eyes were drowning him almost effortlessly.

‘‘Where do you stay?’’
‘‘Oando Street, not far from here.’’

He nodded and called for the bill.
Ronke shot to wakefulness like a diver breaking water. Satin bliss engulfed her after a spurt of disorientation rushed through her head. She discovered she was half-lying across a trunk, her face snuggled under its armpit. That she was totally naked did not move her one bit. A smile creased her face as she adjusted her position. Ezeka was in the realm of deep sleep. She lay her head on his chest and wondered idly how a man whose existence meant nothing to her months ago had ended up in her bed.

Perhaps it was stretching things a bit to call it a pity fuck, but none of them could deny the unholy thoughts that filled their heads as they left the eatery. In any case there had been no reservation on either side and they ended up with a battle royal. They had sat beside each other in the big sofa in Ronke’s small but smart sitting-room, sipping from the cans of Pepsi Ronke fetched from the refrigerator. None of them knew how and when exactly matters took another dimension. One minute Ezeka was reminiscing about his times with Jennifer; next they were locked in each other’s arms, kissing like tomorrow would never come. Ezeka broke free.

‘‘I am sorry,’’ he gasped, painfully aware of the sweetly violent havoc in his loins.

‘‘What for?’’ Ronke’s sultry whisper filled his ears. The swell of her breasts attacked his eyes. ‘‘You do it well.’’

‘‘I , uh, don’t want to take advantage of….’’

She put a beautifully manicured finger on his lips.

‘‘We are adults. I have been longing to do this with you, since that day at the Colloquium. You need comfort; the strength to put Jennifer in her rightful place. Come.’’

Ezeka was only flesh and blood. And he had not tasted the core of a female anatomy for God knows how long, limiting himself to erotic videos of herself Jennifer sent him in the good old days. They used to talk dirty and end up masturbating to each other’s sight. But like the advert said, if it is not Paracetamol, it cannot be like Paracetamol. He pulled her almost roughly to him and they erupted in the kind of love-making that would have delighted the writers of the Kama Sutra. Ronke led him to the bedroom after three waves of body-crushing erobatics.

She was about to get up when strong but gentle hands pulled her back.

‘‘Thought you were asleep,’’ she murmured, raising her face to be kissed.

Ezeka’s teeth flashed.
‘‘You dispense dangerously effective sleeping tablets.’’

Ronke smiled. ‘‘Glad they were effective.’’ She nibbled at his nipples, igniting sparks in his head. Ezeka reached down between her legs with one hand, cupped her left breast with another. She moaned. The sparks became a smoldering blaze in Ezeka’s skull. He swiftly adjusted her position so that she was lying on her back, her legs gloriously apart. He slid his head between her thighs and with his lips and fingers, began a mission of mercy that soon had Ronke writhing, gasping and moaning things outside the realm of mortals. Just as she concluded that she had died of pleasure Ezeka’s turbo-charged, rock-hard phallus plunged in and they went wild. Ronke held him and raked her nails across his back as they went up and down, down and up. The bed screamed angrily as they burrowed into the depths of carnality. After what seemed like eternity they burst forth like NASA rockets, mouthing those things only those at the gates of paradise do.

They landed on planet Earth almost simultaneously forty minutes later. None of them spoke for what seemed to be centuries; too drained and utterly engulfed by a sweet afterglow. Ronke finally sat up and looked at him, her breasts dangling in his face like solid Plateau mangoes.

‘‘Was bongi part of your degree project research?’’

Ezeka laughed his first genuine laugh caused by a woman since Jennifer’s bomb blast. ‘‘Bad woman. So that’s what you do with all those vous and tus?’’

She kissed him lightly on the nose and rested her head on his chest. A deep sigh from its depth made her raise her head.

‘‘Ronke?’’ Ezeka’s voice was low, hesitant. She looked at his troubled face.

‘‘Will you make do with damaged goods? I wondered what I wanted with a woman so soon after my heartbreak. Can I handle mere friendship, let alone something deeper?’’

The overwhelming feelings that made Ronke decide to take him home surged again. Perhaps what endeared him to her was his complete inability or unwillingness to mask his vulnerability. She reached up until their faces were inches away from each other.

‘‘You aren’t damaged, lover boy. At least in the right places.’’ Her sultry words ignited sparks in Ezeka’s head as they chuckled. She reached both hands under his back and wrapped them around him.

‘‘It’s okay, darling. Get healed first. That is why I am here, to help you heal. Then you will know what to do and where to go.’’

Ezeka took a deep breath and let the sparks in his head become powerful charges. Almost brusquely, Ronke buried her breasts in his face and they began another round of bed-creaking exercises.

They got married as soon as Ronke graduated and relocated to Britain eight months later where Ezeka commenced his doctorate at the University of Hull.

Henry C. Onyema is a historian and author. Email:[email protected]

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