Sentimentally Played

There are differences between daring adventures and stupidity. Every sentient man ought to know. In hindsight, Butata, like the rest of his gender, may corporal his moral sensibilities but when we take advantage of them, aren’t experiences our best teachers?

Friday after work, he was at the barbers. The downpour started from Apapa, where he boarded the bus for his apartment in Surulere, Lagos. The peltering drew a lonelier arc of a long night accompanied by thunderstorms.

From dawn until now, the bright sunshine encouraged the inevitable void of Saturday sporadic drizzles and butterflies winging at the wetness of blooms. Enough time to groom his pencil-styled mustache, take a shower, and brush his teeth.

“Bachelors wait discretely for lovers. Like a honeybee, you groom and wait to take pleasure of the bloom.” He whistled softly.

He gazed at his reflection in the half-length mirror. He made faces at it, before dabbing cologne on his chin. “Fine, man. No pimples.”

Butata changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a fresh apple-green tee shirt. He didn’t feel passionate unless when painting or sculpting. But Ronke, his lover, hadn’t showed up and the clock on the corner already chimed twice.

He picked up the half-inch scalpel and drove detailed grooves into the bust on the small table. He carved deeper, braided hair shapes on the wooded foot-long object, for the next half-hour. He smoothed the object with his right hand, blew off the dust and sneezed. He leaned back to admire his creation.

“This beauty shows. I can see, shine, and say it. But for Ronke, I don’t know.”

Few minutes later, repeated knocks on his front door brought a smile to his face. Ronke had come after all. “The devil won’t stay vanquished…”

The nature of their affair was understandable, though, somewhat complex. She showed up on most Saturday mornings when she wasn’t looking after her mother. She claimed she had a boyfriend when they met at work on Lagos Island. In her cubicle at the bank, she hung a photo of the handsome uniformed officer, not much older than him. She said he is on a four-year training overseas. She wasn’t sure when he’ll return to marry her. Butata is not jealous of a distant lover. He appeared to understand her situation. Her truth and freedom to express herself left it up to him to prove his devotion and maybe time will take care of the rest. So long as she is not cheating on him with someone else, he is okay to contend with her Japa lover. Her occasional absences didn’t bother him so much. However, it was unusual for her not to show up, three weekends in a row.

“I won’t complain. I’ll stoop low to conquer.”

Butata turned off his mobile telephone before sticking it in his right pocket. He dragged himself away from the emerging bust piece and stretched. “I won’t take calls during our time together.”

He was eager to see how Ronke was faring though tempted to complain. Three Thursdays ago, he was at the Secretaries’ Pool, on the third floor of the bank building, where she worked. However, he left unable to confirm if she would visit that coming Saturday. Management frowns on office affairs. It was best to avoid being seen together.

“Oh, yes, the door.” He pulled off his protective clear glasses. As usual, he unbolted the door, ready to recite his praise of her. Over the past three years, Ronke regaled him with tales of her royal ancestry. Mostly, stories of her great-grandfather, who once reigned as king of an old city in the southwestern region. Three generations have passed yet she enjoys being regarded a princess. Butata, who had no remote kith or kin of royal lineage, dignified her. Their arrangement, if it turns permanent, may graft his future lineage to that culturally esteemed few.

Whenever he opened the door he would say, “My princess, listen not to careless whispers. My heart and soul are yours to keep, your highness.”

The notion may sound silly. Surprisingly, it made her dimpled cheeks glow. For, if she bore guilt, there may be no frolicking. He didn’t wish to chance that. Their times together were sharp, spirited, and sparkled with pleasant appetizing flavor and wit. This praise removed any layer of burden she might feel about her absent overseas lover. So, he continued to indulge her. There is proof that this very act spiced their affair as she wasted no time cavorting. In fact, often, she rushed to his bed, taking time to enjoy his company, craft, and culinary, in that order.

Butata took whatever he got. It beats a bachelor being alone. Butata told Ronke he wasn’t dating anyone when they first met. That wasn’t true. It took him three months to terminate the relationship with Wande, a nurse who he dated before her.

When Butata opened the heavy, top-domed, wooden door, no pretty princess waited. The hopeful forlorn and dream of a sensual afternoon evaporated. Instead, stood a broad man at least a head taller than Butata. His protruding belly under his sweaty, poor-fitting, dirty, brown-colored native gown filled the door frame. That didn’t annoy him as much as the unkempt mustache covering his thick lips, which he trailed by his tapping fingers as he appraised Butata. His head of hair didn’t fit in his native cap, but it might in a biker’s helmet.

The man removed and slapped his folded cap against his palm in one single move. His seedy eyes looked past Butata into the parlor behind. Butata looked both ways down the street to see if Ronke was steps behind the unwelcome visitor. This side movement left ample space for the large man to go under his arm, moving swifter than Butata imagined. He planted his feet squarely in Butata’s large parlor.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my…?”

“Are you Butata, the painter?” The intruder asked.

Butata resented being called a painter. He dabbled in oil painting but preferred being recognized as a sculptor. Sculpting is sophisticated. It’s like a craft many dared not venture. “I live here but I prefer sculptor or …”

“Ah! That’s it. My daughter said I will find you here.”

The intruder sounded more confident and stirred. He dangled like a leaf in morning dew, assured that the rising sun won’t hurt it. Butata remained at the door still held open with the intention of sending the intruder right back through it, in no time at all. Sooner than this stranger thinks.

“I understand you work as a manager at Island Bank. How come you were paid to paint…?”

“Paid to paint…?”

“Yes, paid to paint…”

“I’m a sculptor and do not get paid to paint…”

“My daughter told me her mother posed for you. She wasn’t allowed to observe you… paint. Often, she sat across the road, at the public library, until her mother finished here.”

“Her mother? I don’t know your daughter or her mother.”

“I’m Otunba Dolapo Runsewe, General Contractor. Aderonke’s husband.”

Beware, a craftsman’s befuddled mind. Butata felt the ground shift. This is vertigo if he ever felt one. His wrist dropped from the doorknob, which slowly closed under its own weight. As he steadied himself, he stayed to press it shut with both hands and turned to face the large man. It wasn’t anger at Ronke that shot through his veins. Something else ravaged his being. A shuddering force between hate and adrenaline. He didn’t know whether to escape through the window or backdoor. The man said something else he didn’t hear. Then, ten different things raced through his mind at the same time.

You are undone. You committed infidelity, adultery, and sacrilege. You will be taken down. You’ve been discovered. You will lose your job. You’re dead. She must have confessed to her husband. What are you going to do? For a moment, his sculpting left hand shook convulsively before he grabbed hold of it.

The huge man said something else. He was slow to understand him, but it came together. “Where is it? The painting. I mean…if five thousand dollars of my hard-earned forex was spent on commissioning it. I deserve to see it, don’t I?”

Butata sighed with great relief.

“Otunba, Otunba, painting…oh yes, yes, oh my god, painting. Yes.”

He tapped his temple, thrice. The unwelcome guest pitched his hands akimbo. He clearly feels he earned the right to fill the space. He watched Otunba squint and probe. He looked left and then right. What can he see that belongs to his wife in this room?

“Yes, I’m Otunba Dolapo Runsewe.”

“Of course, don’t mind me, Otunba, Otunba… It’s all coming back to me. Here is my hand. Good afternoon, sir.” He bowed.

“We haven’t met, have we? I’d remember.”

“Fantastic, oh no. Painting…oh yes. Painting, right? Otunba Runsewe. Such a shame we haven’t met before now. How is your wife? I haven’t seen her in days. Is she okay? How is your daughter? Em, what’s her name again?”

“Oh, never mind that.”.

“Is she okay? How was your trip? You traveled recently, didn’t you? I would have finished the painting, only she said there was ample time…Please, take a seat over here. Let me move these throw pillows out of your way.”

Otunba ignored Butata’s jabbering, sized up the living room, and went over to the dining area. There, he saw pieces of unfinished sculptures, framed paintings of nature, and paper sketches thumb-tacked on the back wall. Under the chandelier, this intruder looked nothing like the one hung on Ronke’s cubicle wall. This is outrageous. He is easily twice the weight and must be twenty years older than Ronke herself.

Three years ago, Butata thanked Mr. Ajayi, the General Manager, who introduced Ronke and arranged for her to sit by him during the first employees’ end-of-year party. Everything between them has since appeared to follow a natural progression. The next week, three days before the new year break, Ronke asked him to take her to Cinema One that Saturday. After the matinee, he invited her to his apartment. Though reluctant to start an edgy affair at 28, the secrecy added to their adventure. There is something about the thrill of not being discovered in a scandalous affair. He didn’t see Wande early that year.

The looming dark fellow towering over him brought him to the present. “Ronke’s husband?”

“Is that a question or confirmation?”

“Neither. Can I offer you water or any drink at all? I don’t know if you’re a beer drinker. In that gown, you could pass for a religious cleric…”

Otunba resumed pacing the dining nook, searching for the painting of his wife. He flipped some of the framed sketches stacked against the back wall but found no joy there. Without looking back, he shouted, “Religious, I am not. Beer, any lager would do just fine…”

Otunba seemed to monopolize wherever he occupied. He breathed noisily like a vacuum cleaner, sucking the air out of the space. The frown kept his wrinkled forehead anxious, curious, and unsatisfied. Butata placed the cold bottle of beer and a tumbler on the coffee table. He filled his glass and drained it as a camel driven by the sun desert to a distant oasis. He drank without dignity or finesse. In two tumbler-filled gulps, the bottle was empty. Butata rushed back to the fridge to replace his bottle. The tropical sun must have done a number on him before he got here.

Butata recovered from his vertigo. Sitting a minute in the kitchen helped. He wasn’t over his invaded privacy. His pursed lips screwed tighter into a twist. He slurped water with a straw. In a flash, he remembered, an hour before Ronke departs, she liked to play wife. She would rearrange his two-bedroom apartment, top-to-bottom. This violation by her husband can never be rearranged. Many things won’t after this day. Imagine, to be accused of being paid for a painting, such a good thing with a bad label. No one had paid for his crafts. Most of the time, he gave them as gifts to people at work. Butata recovered his breath and composed himself. He coughed and returned to the parlor.

“Well, Otunba, it is a pleasure to finally meet, won’t you say?”

“What I don’t know is…”

“Ronke, I mean, Mrs. Otunba, I mean, Mrs. Runsewe. She often spoke of you, at the bank. We are all so close there, you know. We attend each other’s anniversaries and parties.”

Otunba rose, picked, examining the new piece he was working on and said, “What I do not know is if this posing for a painting is a ruse for an affair with my wife or ….”

Butata rose to face Otunba and clawed back his carving. “Me? Affair with whom? Madam?”

“I’ve seen no painting of my wife. Two days ago, she told me the money removed from my account went to pay you. Are you planning to elope together?”

“What? Elope? Where? With your wife?” Butata chuckled uneasily. How much this man knows is not clear.

“You won’t be the first, you know. I mean, men, who find my wife pretty and wish to take advantage of her kindness. I’ve dealt each I found, a tough hand.”

“Her kindness? Take advantage? I assure you, sir, no hanky-panky or such acts about here. Ronke is professional…”

Momentarily, he looked brave. Butata underneath was harassed to the bone.

Otunba side-stepped into the corridor leading to the guest bedroom. He scratched his head. “It must be somewhere in this apartment unless you operate a studio. Are her clothes in rooms here?”

“Otunba, please, sit down. I don’t operate a studio. I, also, do not show people, client, or anyone else my works-in-progress. That’s a principle and I must stand by it.”

“Well, there is the dilemma. If you can’t show me what I paid for…”

It seemed right for a moment that Butata stood up to him. He was deliberate in his response. “What would happen?”

But guilt countered his rebellion. Unknowingly he wronged this man for years. Who knows what else he has discovered? He felt sick when Otunba retreated but pointed.

“I was going to say, she didn’t come home yesterday and may be hiding somewhere in one of your rooms. Did you attend the same party last night?”

“Why?”

“She left a note that it was a party for one of her co-workers.”

Butata couldn’t believe his ears. He processed it again, Ronke is married to this rather ugly beast, not the uniformed man smiling on her desk. She has a teenager, who spends time in the library opposite his house. She lied about what she spent her poor husband’s money on. To top it, she went to a party of a co-worker or eloped without him. He didn’t know whether to laugh or shout.

“Oh, that party…? I was a little tired and afraid that the rain might worsen my cold.” Butata sniffled a couple of times. He extracted a handkerchief from his shorts to blow his nose. That accounted for his absence from the co-worker’s party. Then the shocker was unveiled.

“I searched her call log over the past couple of weeks…”

Butata’s heart skipped a beat. He fingered the mobile in his right pocket, stared back at the man opposite and fumbled his seat behind him.

TO BE CONTINUED…