Calm down: (This is) a very short story

Photo by NeONBRAND on Unsplash

“Calm down,” he said as he gently and reassuringly placed his right hand on my shoulder.

Tola and I have been close friends for five years and have known each other for at least five more. I have only one sibling, also a girl, and I attended an all-girls secondary school. I don’t know if that’s enough reason but I happen to be shy around men and don’t have many of them in my tight circle. Tola is one of the exceptions — the only other ones being my father and ex-boyfriend.

We have been next-door neighbours since our childhood but I can count, relying only on one hand, the number of times we said anything other than “good morning” or its many variants to each other. That changed in 2015 when we gained admission to Obafemi Awolowo University. Though I was in the History Department and he was admitted to the Faculty of Law, attending a few general lectures together strengthened our bond and sparked a friendship I could count on during days of need.

Tola is the image I see when I think of the phrase, “pillar of support”. Our friendship was not defined by frequency but by depth.

My feelings slipped out of their shell whenever he was around. I could share my fears with him. I told him everything: how I love to watch Korean movies and have started learning the language even though I’d never admit it in public, how I have a crush on Michael Jackson and still have not gotten over the reality of his death, or how I was molested by my Sunday School teacher as a child and have since harboured an irrational fear of anyone who wears a cross and an oversize jacket. Tola listened. He listened to all my dry jokes and awkward stories. I felt at home beside him because our little republic was one place I was sure my voice would not be homeless and displaced.

Oh, he supported me even more when I started advocating for the rights of women after joining the Female Lives Matter Movement (FLiMM) in my third year. He helped review campaign materials after I became the Public Relations Officer, gave me money for transportation and refreshment during major events, and skipped a class or two to attend rallies with us. He even considered joining the group and possibly would’ve if membership was not restricted to female students. “You guys have the finest breed of girls on this campus,” he often teased.

So, I was not surprised when he volunteered to accompany me to Abuja for a demonstration against sexual violence.

FLiMM members from across the country were converging at the National Assembly to demand for stiffer penalties for rape and child marriage. A 12-year-old girl, Modupe, had just committed suicide a few weeks after she was molested by her neighbour. The reports said the police did nothing at first because her parents could not afford the mobility fee they said was for arresting and charging the offender.

I had a job interview in Lagos the next day and explained my frustration to Tola. Half an hour later, he sent an email containing a return flight ticket that should secure my arrival in the state just in time for the interview. I could not hold back the tears.

Tola’s baritone voice was a joy to listen to during the protest. When the policemen itched for trouble, he intervened with such calmness and humility often alien to lawyers. FLiMM’s national president, Katherine Adegoke, even offered him a seat at the legal aid unit and said he could join as soon as he was through with Law School.

The protest went smoothly, and the Senate President addressed us with empathy and respect, but my mood turned sour as we headed to the hotel. MaxAir sent a text to “regret to inform” me that the flight had been rescheduled to 1 pm — a whopping seven-hour difference — “due to unforeseen circumstances”.

The hotel had only one room left. But even if it didn’t, with their lowest rate being N30,000 per night, we would have opted for their security lodge if we could.

Even after taking a shower, the thought of missing the interview after scaling through three rigorous stages of evaluation settled heavily on my mind like a depressed hippo. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get my heartbeats to slow down. Neither the bed nor the pillow felt comfortable. Nor did they exactly feel uncomfortable. I guess I just didn’t care. I stared blankly at the ceiling, counted how many companies I had submitted my CV to in the past year, and wondered how many more years it would take before a History graduate got close to clinching an offer this good.

Tola must have sensed I was growing increasingly uneasy because he leaned closer. But the warmth that crept between us only made things worse.

“Calm down,” he said as he gently and reassuringly placed his right hand on my shoulder.

I think the hotel room’s ceiling also leaned closer because I could feel a broad frame — also as lightly coloured, right before me, only a few inches away. This ceiling had a familiar scent and seemed to breathe in familiar rhythms.

“Calm down,” he repeated, more impatiently this time. I did not see his right palm move but, one second, it held my shoulder mildly and the next it had swooped down on my lips like a starved predator. Through uninvited tears that had started to build up, I saw his other hand shake vigorously as it fumbled with what must have been his zipper.

“Don’t worry, Lolade. It won’t hurt,” he mumbled between pants.

It did.