I made one of my most questionable decisions some time ago in 2022. Prior to that time, for reasons best known to my parents, I was never allowed to leave Enugu. I wasn’t allowed to visit relatives, travel for any inter-school competition, go for excursions, or even participate in the Christmas travel tradition most families I knew of had. I spent so much of my time in Enugu wondering what lay beyond the world my eyes could see.
Before my admission into the university arrived later in the same year, I worked multiple jobs like my life depended on them. I filled the role of private tutor for a number of secondary school science students. I was also present at ushering jobs, catering jobs, book review gigs and more. If it was legal and I was capable, I opted in. My goal had been to save up for my school and to begin supporting myself financially.
At this point, most of my peers were already in their various universities in their first and even second years. When an opportunity to travel finally came my way, I grabbed it like a desperate prisoner. A close friend, the son of a family I did one of my many side gigs with, announced his matriculation into Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. I was delighted for my friend but naturally felt even more excitement at the unfolding possibility of leaving Enugu for the first time ever.
I had assumed that securing permission from my parents to leave Enugu for the matriculation was going to be of no difficulty, since I was essentially “an adult” now. It’s somewhat interesting, how once you begin contributing financially to an African home, a surprising degree of respect and conditional freedom is accorded to you. Better still, I knew they were going to rest easy knowing that his family was going to take me there and bring me back home safely.
My mum however had been a bit skeptical, seeing no need to travel all the way to Awka just for a friend, a male one at that. In the middle of our back and forth, as I tried to convince her, I mentioned that the person in question was my madame’s son. I even chipped in that my madame would probably even pay me for helping out. Long story short, it worked.
Yet there was something else that I expected would make this trip all the more worthwhile. Someone else. The matriculation wasn’t even my main destination; there was a man.
How I came to know about Mr. E was via a friend’s status that year and well, I was young, naive, bored out of my mind, and desperately in need of external validation and acceptance. I felt lonely since all of my peers were in uni. So, stumbling upon the picture of an attractive man like him, I asked for his number and texted. I was quite blunt about how I thought he was really good-looking and how I would love to get to know him better. We began to talk, often at late hours of the night after work; sometimes if the weekdays were too busy for either of us, we’d talk during the weekends – it was a ritual between us to keep all the ‘gist’ for what had happened in the week for the ears of each other and I remember how much I looked forward to it that I’d even write down some in my diary to prevent forgetting even one detail.
He found me very interesting and said that I didn’t act, talk or behave like the regular 19-year-olds; hearing those words pleased me a lot. He always knew the right things to say, such that he soon became the person I confided in for anything and everything. Quite naturally, I started to get romantically attached, which he encouraged big time with his suggestive comments, calling me his lady; he’d comment about how much he missed me and how couldn’t wait to hear my voice during the weekend calls. We had video calls as well and he’d compliment me endlessly; he made me feel special and desired.
We had been in conversation for a while now and had made several plans to meet up, but work kept him busy. I was overjoyed when this opportunity to meet him finally materialized and I thought it must have been fate that he lived in the city I was now about to make my first trip to.We were to meet up at a nearby restaurant, spend one or two hours together, and I would return to the matriculation venue, rejoin the family and travel safely back to Enugu with them. No one would suspect a thing. It was the perfect plan and together we counted down to the appointed day, which soon arrived.
Our journey to Awka was smooth. I had some of my favorite music plugged in, the music beats in my ears pulsing alongside the excitement in my chest. I was exhilarated. We got to Awkaaround 2pm and by 2:30pm we had located the matriculation venue. Once we got in, chaos ambushed us. There were so many students in long flowing gowns, sweaty girls wearing heavy melting makeup under the hot sun, shouting parents, and people frantically trying for pictures. We settled under my friend’s family’s canopy and began sharing food to our guests. Once I had fulfilled my duties, I announced my intention to greet some other friends around the venue and told them I won’t be long. Like we had planned, Mr E waited for me at a junction he claimed was “popular.” It was popular to everyone except me, given that I almost got lost, twice, before locating him at long last.
There he was, my charming prince. He leaned against his car with a warm a smile. I smiled back, heat rising across my cheeks as I got into his car and he drove off. Now, I was sure we were going to someplace close to the university, a restaurant or some venue where we would eat and talk for an hour. But Mr E was driving far away from the campus. I asked why and he explained that all the spots close by would be too crowded and rowdy because of the matriculation. He preferred a quiet and more serene spot. That made sense to me.
Eventually, after what felt like eternity, we arrived at a place called Oku Ji. The roasted yam and fish I would later have here was in itself a life changing spiritual experience, deserving of applause and praise for just how good it was. Mr E and I talked, laughed, gossiped. We had such insane chemistry. He was gentle, attentive, hilarious. He made me laugh so easily I lost track of the hours. By the time I checked the time, it was 5:30pm.
The alarm bells in my head rang relentlessly. My friend’s family planned to return to Enugu by 6pm. They were my ride back home. I had not come to Awka with a single kobo, both in cash and bank account. I was broke, and waiting on side gigs was out of the question. Catering and ushering were completely hit-or-miss, sometimes lucrative for a month, then dead silent for three. My book reviews and tutoring paid monthly, but with the matriculation falling on the second Saturday of October, pay day was weeks away. It would be disastrous if my friend’s family left me. I would be in deep shit to say the least.
As soon as I checked the time and panic set in, we left the restaurant and headed back to campus grounds to reunite with my friends. Unfortunately, we got stuck in traffic. I then began mentally calculating how much shame I would feel after informing Mr E that there was no money to get me back home, should my friend’s family leave before my return. I needed only three thousand naira and not having this amount made me feel ashamed.
The matriculation venue was deserted by the time we arrived, my friend’s family’s canopy empty. They had all left me. Mr E suggested driving me to the park so I could get on a bus back to Enugu. In my mind, I screamed: “With which money, exactly?!”
As if Mr E could read my thoughts, he proposed finding a POS he could withdraw cash for me from. I was happy yet again. I would get home on time and my parents wouldn’t kill me. In that moment, I could swear that I began to hear Wind of Glory by Chinyere Udoma somewhere in that background. We drove around looking for a POS and when we eventually found one, Mr E realized that his debit card wasn’t in his wallet. The network also happened to be terrible and he couldn’t make transfers. He then suggested we stopped by his hotel so he could get the debit card.
It made sense that he was staying in a hotel and not his house, even though Anambra was his main base because he had previously told me that between his real estate business and other gigs, he was constantly on the move both in and out of the state. According to him, he actually livedwith his younger brother’s family in Awka whenever he was around, seeing no point in renting his own place given his travel schedule. But since his brother’s house was far from UNIZIK and traffic on matriculation day was bound to be a nightmare, he’d booked a hotel close to the campus area just to make meeting up easier.
Not suspecting all of his antics was my 700th mistake. We got to his hotel and I told him I would wait downstairs while he went upstairs to get his card. It was there that Mr. E became a stranger before my very eyes. He got defensive and began asking if I thought he was a rapist. I tried explaining that I wasn’t making any accusations but simply didn’t see why I had to follow him upstairs just so he could bring his card. He wasn’t having any of my explanations.
When he said “If you truly trust me, follow me upstairs and stop misbehaving,” I
confirmed he knew he was my only hope and was choosing to weaponize that. I followed him knowing I had no alternative. His room was massive, a proper suite. He went into the restroom, came out after a brief moment and casually announced his sudden tiredness.
He was too tired to continue driving around and now he wanted me to spend the night and he would drop me off at the park by the next morning, which would also be a safer time for me to travel, according to him. I declined his offer, and his response was even more ludicrous.
“You aren’t leaving unless you allow me to taste you.”
I knew stubborn refusal alone wouldn’t save me at that point. He was clearly a lot physically stronger than I was, and aggression would escalate things more than I needed them to be. I had to think fast.
“I want you too,” I lied. “But I’m on my period.”
Mr. E looked me straight in the eyes and delivered the vilest statement I had heard in all my existence: “Don’t you know that blood is the perfect lubricant?” I was stunned, to say the least. In that moment, I was ready to puke: in a bucket, on the floor, anywhere I could. I could no longer pretend or lie; as such, an argument ensued between us. Eventually, he got angry enough to kick me out of the room.
So, there I was by 8pm, stranded, broke, scared in a city I had never been. I stood there, trying hard not to cry. I gathered myself and asked the hotel staff for directions to the park and began trekking there. A man driving stopped and offered me a ride. If someone I thought I knew could have hurt me in this manner, I wondered what evils a stranger could unleash. But I had gotten to the point of exhaustion where I thought, “Sir, if you want to kidnap me, no problem. I deserve it.”
Thankfully, he wasn’t a kidnapper or organ harvester. We got to the park and luckily, the last Sienna for the day heading to Enugu was still loading passengers. I got into that Sienna knowing fully well that I had no dime to my name. All I had was faith in the God that ensured I wasn’t yet lost or, worse, dead.
I frantically texted my friends on WhatsApp, looking for anyone who would lend me three thousand naira. I texted five friends but heard back from none. The bus was close to filling up, the driver about to start collecting fares, my heart pounding violently against my chest. I pictured the insults I would definitely soon receive, the embarrassment, the dragging.
In the final minute, an old friend sent me five thousand naira. I had never felt such relief in my life. I paid for my fare immediately and journeyed back home. I returned to Enugu around 10pm but still couldn’t get a bus to my area. I searched around for something, a rock perhaps, that I could use as weapon for self-defense if anyone tried anything funny. I was in luck because nobody did, and I made it home in one piece with a hell of a story to tell.
