Lit-zine
JU
Ring Will be Ring
Chalya Princess
Miri-Gazhi
Chalya Princess Miri-Gazhi is a Nigerian whose fiction short stories titled, "Anfara" & "Kokosikoko", has appeared in Grain Magazine & the Kalahari Review respectively. An MBA graduate from the University of Hull, UK, she runs her own small business in corporate event facilitation while pursuing her passion for writing. She grapples often with the question of diversity, often exploring the strength of diverse influences in her multi-ethnic Nigerian nation.
www.facebook.com/princesschalya
Aunty Manji wanted me to be a writer so she gave me a diary. The encyclopaedic Mr Obayemi wanted me to be a lawyer, so he bought me two encyclopaedias filled with too much information about law and a thesaurus to boot. The gracious Mrs Effiong gave me a cake mixer – she wanted me to be a baker like she was. But uncle Bams simply wanted me to look beautiful. He gave me a Chanel box set of lipsticks that came in many shades and colours. With a conspiratorial wink, he whispered to me, “Look beautiful for me my Ring, look beautiful.” A beautiful woman would always turn heads and go places darling, he often said to me. Then he would grab one of my hands, lift it high and swirl me around while we both laughed. I loved uncle Bams the most. He was my favourite adult.
Daddy was a Pentecostal pastor while mommy was the perfect pastor’s wife. We lived in Federal low-cost Jos, just off the Bukuru express way. Our three-bedroom home had a rectangular sitting room consisting of four brown chairs covered in upholstered tapestry. The usual bed, dressing table and wardrobe adorned each room with cheap tiling on the floor. A bathroom and a shower that seemed to have been set to work to welcome us initially had long stopped working. Bathing was a simple ritual of water in a bucket and a bowl to fetch water and pour on your body. All in all, the furniture was rugged standard quality meant to serve its owners for almost forever.
Into this setting, they all gathered to wish me a happy birthday. Mommy gave me a bible – that was no surprise. Now Daddy, daddy gave me something entirely different – it was a thick hard covered heavy pictorial book that came with a CD. It was an adventure book about visiting the many exciting places of the world with a picture of the Eiffel tower and the Great Wall of China showing on its front and back respectively. My ten year old sister gave me a beautiful colourful drawing of what looked like me holding her hands. I loved that. Nobody really cared about what I wanted to be. So when they gathered around and told me to make a wish and blow out the candle, I didn’t hesitate. Ring will be Ring. I wanted to be Cleopatra. I blew out those candles and that was that. My name is Rinmicit. I am sixteen years old today.
Nine years after, I have grown from wanting to be Cleopatra on to wanting to be something more exciting like a Newscaster. I want my face on Television doing serious things like reading news and pretending to be mature and intelligent, you know, all the things a newscaster embodies – self-confidence, decorum, poise, perfect grooming, nice clothes, etc. That’s why I am on the fourth floor room of the Abuja Hilton hotel, room 419 to be exact.
Laughable isn’t it – that fate connived and threw me a curve ball with sinister motives. What are the odds that my clandestine weekend appointment with the handsome minister of Information and Communication would be in a room number assigned with the roguish 4.1.9 numbers. I shrug. God, no scratch that, the devil has a wicked sense of humour. God wouldn’t indulge my sinful lifestyle. Forgive me Lord, I mumble a quick prayer of five seconds contrition – only five seconds. No need dwelling in guilt.
The sex was great. I have drawn aside the heavy velvet blue drape, standing naked, wearing only panties; I’m looking out the window overlooking the swimming pool. I see some Caucasians and a few blacks swimming. Others have swum and are lounging, drinking from elegant looking margarita glasses. Waiters in maroon shirts and trousers or skirts are serving out finger foods to them. What an idyllic life it looks from up here. Men with their wives, girlfriends draped beside rich looking executives of renowned companies, everybody seems to be having a good time. Do I envy them? No. I’ve done enough of that and if I wanted more, at the snap of my beautiful fingers, I’ll get it. I’m just past that phase.
I feel Paul put his hands around me as he reaches round to fondle my 40C breasts. I feel myself getting stirred again as he continues to caress my now taut peaks. He dips his fingers into my pant and finds the centre of my already moist core and begins to finger me. I moan and part my thighs willingly. Paul is such an artful lover. He turns me around, gets on his knees, and pulls my crotch right into his face as he begins to lick and suck on my clitoris. I hold on to his head, moaning loudly and rubbing his hair wildly as he brings me to a climax. And that is how I spent my Saturday, satiated with lust and desire for more of Paul. He matched me with his generous insatiable appetite for energetic sex. We drink champagne in bed and resist eating anything spicy because our lips are very much eager and engaged in drinking from body parts too sensitive for spice.
Paul is my friend with benefits. He gave me a spot on NBTA – Nigeria Broadcasting Television Authority. I couldn’t get the national newscaster position. They said I’m too young and not yet up to five years in NBTA. People will talk. So I ended up being the NBTA face for a segment called Society and Class – a twice a week segment covering the extravagant activities of the rich and famous of Nigeria. I don’t mind. People still murmured at NBTA about the new girl with connections getting the juicy deal. Silly people. Don’t they know I pay my dues? In a competitive industry like NBTA, rarely does merit get you anywhere. You better pray to God you have a face and a great body to boot. I remember my early first two years at NBTA, I was filled with great ideas but since I refused to go out with the randy head of my department, he never gave my ideas even a cursory look. I learned my lesson, and quickly too. Ring will be Ring. I went for his Oga at the top. And everything fell into place. My name is still Rinmicit and yesterday, I was freaking twenty five years old.
I am at the bustling Kings Cross station and then to St. Pancras Int’l station. Now seated on the euro star train heading out to Paris for the first time. I’m excited can’t you see. London is described as a man but Paris as a sensual woman where all sensual women like myself ought to visit. Literally, I already feel wet down below. The joy of going to Paris is an instant turn-on. An announcement tells us we are passing through the sea canal, that part submerged under water. As a Nigerian, I’m thinking – these oyinbo people will not kill somebody, they are something else. I mean how does one connect a passage from land through the sea all the way from England to the other side of France? How is that possible? Is it witchcraft or darn brilliant engineering? I am enlightened enough to know it’s the latter. Frizzles of excitement are buzzing through my body.
I’m one happy woman right now. Dressed as a Londoner, I’m feeling on top the world in my red turtle neck blouse on pencilled blue jeans tucked into red leather high knee boots. I am every bit the cosmopolitan woman, holding one of those freebie fashion magazine you get at the train station along with an Elle magazine I brought along. I try to flick my hair but it does not flick. I forget I tied it in a bun. So I yank off the bun and let the tresses tumble free around my face. There! I’m free. It is this refreshing intoxicating freedom that’s pushing me right now towards Paris, singing Rihanna’s “we found love in a hopeless place.” When you’re an unmarried Nigerian woman in the UK for your masters, it can be quite exhilarating. Nigeria drifts away in the distance at that moment your feet touches the tarmac of Heathrow airport. You can be anything you want to be, away from all the societal invasive judgments – chic, daring, fiery, adventurous, peachy, you name it.
There’s a Caucasian couple sitting on the next seat across from me. I notice they stare at me intermittently with a kindly smile. And then I realize I am singing out loud to Rihanna’s latest track, “We Found Love In A Hopeless Place!” which I’ve put on repeat that is plugged into my ears via my iPod. I quickly tap on the volume button to reduce it as I smile back at the kindly couple. That song is the perfect description of my story right now.
I met Nick via the Chatous app – a place filled with your typical nut heads and freaks. But then I waded through all the frogs and finally met my prince charming soon-to-be lover. We connected instantly. He is cool and sexy and yet not facially fine though. But that doesn’t bother me at all. That dope baritone voice of his – mehn! That voice would melt Nordic mountains and create ice-cream out of a bowl of Fufu. He invited me over to Paris and oh my goodness, I couldn’t say no to his sexy drawl. The lure of romance, sex and adventure in the city of lights pulls at me.
A pushcart or is it a trolley is wheeled into the aisle and it makes its stop row by row for passengers to pick and pay for the snacks and drinks they want. When it gets to me, I sight the small vials of Smirnoff Vodka and Hennessy and go for them along with some fancy looking Can drink and some inviting chocolate chip cookies. The cookies taste really nice. Wish I’d bought more but the pushcart is almost exiting to the next coach. I shrug and begin to go through my bag contents just to be sure I haven’t forgotten anything – like that would make any difference when I’m already half way under or above the sea towards France.
The air around me smells delightful –the cold clings ferociously at me. You either love it or hate it. I love it and it was kind to me or so I thought until it hit me with the trinity of flu, cough and fever. Still, I love it. I am now wiser about putting on appropriate clothing.
My HUU Hull University student ID card, check. My ISA membership card, check. My young person’s student railcard to be carried on all rail journeys, check. I speak to the national railcard, telling it I’m not young. I’m thirty freaking four. But what the heck, I ought to be polite to this card. It’s meant to give me student discount on train fares. I see again that my two favourite vital cards: GTB MasterCard and Lloyds TSB are present. One can’t afford to lose that. Shopping, purchasing power, they’re all tied to these two simple purse-held objects. One is basically stranded without them. I sight my Nandos loyalty album card. Not now Nandos, not now. In a few hours, or less, I’ll be a temp Parisian, devouring all kinds of French snacks and delicacies. Go away Nandos. I push it faraway, tucking it out of sight. See you next week. No need antagonizing Nandos. I’ll need it once back in Hull. I smile with guilty pleasure. Oh! What’s this? A Bunac summer camp leaflet had somehow found its way into my bag. Oh well, it’s adventure time. Summer is still faraway though. It is August. The climate is not so cold. The weather is friendly; everything is dandy.
Soon the train arrives Gare du Nord station. Excitement and fear hits the pit of my stomach. Excitement because I can’t wait to have the adventure of a lifetime in Paris; Fear because I’m hopeful yet dreading that Nicholas may not turn out as great or even as charming or friendly as I envisaged. Or yet, he may be disappointed in this African woman he sees in the flesh. I push the thought out of mind. I’m here now. There’s no retreat. With my back pack and my suitcase, I brave my feelings and move towards the arrival exit platform.
At the arrival point, I sight his 6ft frame. He’s not holding any cardboard with my name on it. Yesterday he told me in that sexy drawl of his that he would recognize me even if he were blind.
“Rinmicit.” Confidently he called out my name. He got the pronunciation perfectly. He told me he’d been practising to say it right. I loved him already. He just knew it was me and I said “Nicholas?” Mine was more like a question. He pulled me towards his broad chest and tightly embraced me. Then he pulled away, lifted up my chin with one gentle finger, he gazed right into me and kissed me hungrily. Me, who’d never been publicly kissed, ever, responded greedily. I forgot where I was and allowed myself to be drowned in that one kiss. When we parted, my seared lips ached wanting more, so much more. There was a way I was feeling that I couldn’t deny. Surely that was Rihanna talking. But I’d recovered enough to come back to my senses. All of a sudden, shyness came over me. Nick grabbed my box, put his arms proprietarily around me and we began to walk towards where he’d parked his car. All around me, I saw people in pairs, lovers holding hands and kissing openly. My shyness disappeared as suddenly as it had come. I threw my hands in the air and screamed, “Bonjour Paris! Oui Oui Oui!” Nick laughs and tells amused passersby in sweet French that it’s my first time in Paris. They nod their heads understandably and wave me a welcome. We get to his rugged green range rover. In the car, we kiss again. I don’t know who is more excited between Nicholas and I. In the car, Nick has champagne waiting in a bucket of ice and a tall stemmed glass. He pops it open and pours me a glass. We clink and I say "to Paris." Nick says "to us."
We drive off to one of the roadside café where I experiment, eating many delightful tiny cakes and cookies that melt in my mouth. I taste different kinds of nibble-bite-size pastries. From there we stop at a place where freelance artists are gathered drawing pictures of tourists. I get a portrait that looks nothing like me drawn for twenty Euros which Nick pays for even though I tried to pay for it. He tells me, “You’re here on my treat. You pay for nothing!” I am loving this guy. Who wouldn’t?
We would later head for his home in a place called The Loire Valley. Google had already told me it was a lovely agriculturally rich place steeped in history. Nick is a Vintner and he had filled my ears with the science of wine and winemaking. I couldn’t wait to see it. As for the other things we will do, you’ve read enough. I’m keeping them to myself. May be another time. Just know that Ring will be Ring.
My name is Rinmicit. I’ll be thirty five next month and I am darn right where I want to be.