She had stardust in her veins, and the moonlight in her soul, and a heart that beats pure gold. I mean Joromi. But B. G. Santa Claus followed his dreams. Georgetown was a beautiful place in the 60s. A place where anyone could arrive with fragments and leave without. A place where you could keep your happiness in a jar and find it still full and frothy the next day. I can't say this for other cities I know, save for Georgetown. When I was a child, and had nothing to worry about, I did not want to be a painter. Instead, all I wanted was to be many things in different ways. But here in Georgetown, and like in other cities I know, a rolling stone is sure to gather no moss. So I gathered every piece of me into one unit of dream – compartmenting myself in it so I could go nowhere else, I being my mind, as regards this dream. The dream was to become the sole dream I was eager to pursue. They say 'Take up one idea, and make that one idea your life.' And, frankly, that's what I did. I decided I was going to be the best painter from Magudu, Georgetown. Yes, I decided I was going to be Magudu's greatest. I decided to wear a form of rarity as nothing short of the blue moon. And so I did one day in August of 1975.
The crowd had gathered in thousands for this painting marathon. It was I against five other painters who had made it to the last round. I was giddy as F. I was giddy and excited to win, to paint the whole city with the aura of one man's greatness. I loved Joromi, but I loved my passion more. The hues of my passion were often in my eyes. It was the only thing I saw everyday. It was the only thing I woke up to. It was my only song. It was my fire and ice. It was my beginning and my end. I am B. G. Santa Claus. I run like the wind. I burst like swollen pipes, I burst with two chains. I have passion in my veins. So when the competition started, I raced off – painting faces, eyes, skies, moons, earth. Everything. Everything I can think of. There were cheers. Loud cheers. Those cheers, no doubt, motivated me. But when the result came out, it was shocking that I lost.
***
If you live or lived on Faucet Crescent and claim not to know B.G. Santa Claus, then it isn't far from the truth as to be true that the devil is your papi – because how could you lie through your teeth? Not like he was born B.G. Santa Claus – in fact, which woman would love her son so much to christen him with the most outlandish of names? Well, as etymology of nicknames go, he got the name from his street friends during those days they were boys and played shirtless from one corner of the street to another – during those days when everybody still called their parents mma and mpa before those words evolved to mama and papa. During those days when Faucet Crescent was still covered with the mist of rurality, and would have rejected any English name or fought any attempt to anglicise its native name. During those days when children still played and listened to tales by moonlight. During those days when the night was made bright indoors with hurricane lamps, when the day's sunlight was gone. B.G. Santa Claus even witnessed the Nigerian-Biafran war as a kid and could paint the picture – whether vividly or not – for whoever was willing to listen. He was born Okonkwo Ikemba on "nkwo" which is one of the four market days in Igboland. He was of a muscular build and often wrestled at the village square. The villagers knew him for his clever moves during wrestling, and for his incessant abuse of palm wine – and even, to a lesser degree, his staggering love for women which he allegedly tried to hide under the guise of being drunk oftentimes. He was a man known for many things, and not everyone had a grasp on the entirety of his multiplicity – which implied that the bunch anyone had differed from the bunch of another by either a difference of one or two or three. He was remotely famous, if not notorious. Even though he was highly regarded by many, there were still others who called him a "Local Champion". And as years passed by, people began to write him off as one only good for drinking and womanising. But suddenly some things began to baffle people about him. One thing that baffled people, if it's a thing actually, was how B.G. Santa Claus managed to escape poverty in the twinkle of an eye. People began to criticize and judge. Neither did they know he really wasn't into women, nor did they know that Joromi had never spent a single night in his house. Neither, too, did they know that a flower was blooming out of the crevice of his mind and unfurling with pollen of creativity – pollens that littered the pistil-esque road of his life's journey. All they knew hinged on their limited imagination of him, and so it came as a surprise to them when they heard B.G. Santa Claus had traveled overseas for education and business. They wondered how he managed to travel to England, knowing he was born into near-abject poverty. As a matter of fact, when they looked for him many years ago and did not see him, they thought he was probably dead or rotting away in jail. And so when he returned with pomp and pageantry, and as a successful man, everybody's jaw dropped with surprise. The whole of Faucet Crescent struggled to believe him when he told them about his adventures and study at Cambridge, how he was lucky to have been friends with the really opulent and movers and shakers. During the days that followed, he took some of his old-time friends to a fine restaurant that offered cordon bleu meals at cutthroat prices. There he was forced to regale them with stories of his adventures and achievements in England, pride immanent in his voice. He told them about his engineering experience and his work with tungsten filaments and robotics. They all listened with rapt attention and wondered when B.G. Santa Claus became so bright and intellectual. However, they ate with him and asked occasional questions. When they had eaten to their fill, one reminded him of Joromi – that she was still unmarried and had been asking of him ever since he disappeared without a trace.
"You mean Joromi is still unmarried?" B.G. asked, his eyes widening with disbelief. "Tell me this is a make-believe tale. Not Joromi."
"No, B.G., it's true. Joromi's still single." one of them named Fide said. "She's completely single, and we don't know why. Who doesn't know that Joromi is every man's dream beau? You set your eyes on her and you are going crazy. But your old-time lady is still single, and it baffles all of us. She often talks about you."
"I can't believe this." B.G. said, shaking his head. "I am struggling to believe this. I can't believe this one bit. It's been years now."
"Yes." Okey said. "But she once told me you disappeared without saying goodbye, that there wasn't even a proper separation or breakup. I think she still wants you."
B.G. nodded and folded his hands upon his chest, his sanity seeming to be hugging barrels of disbelief. He tried hard to guard his mind from growing damp with pity – and this he did with every ounce of strength he could gather, his succulent-ripe and rounded joy wizening with every thought. He looked at his friends for a while before asking: "Where is she now?"
"Can't tell exactly now. But the last time I set my eyes on her, she said she was leaving town to return in a fortnight. She should be back now." Fide said.
"Where does she live now?" B.G. asked, bringing a drinking cup to his mouth.
"She lives somewhere around Nzogbunzogbu street – you just have to walk past the grinding machines of Cephas. The house should be the green one at the first junction. It wouldn't be hard for you to locate, I tell you." Fide said.
He stood up and shook his head. "I will see you guys later." he said and walked to his car. They sat still and watched him as he drove away like he could be dead any minute.
***
On his way, riding through undulating roads, he came upon an old man who looked deadbeat and out of ideas on how to carry on with his journey. Through close examination, he realised the man had a hunchback, and quickly presumed the prominent hunchback must have contributed to his weariness. Upon a certain inward impulse, he opened the door of his car and stepped out to see how he could be of help. While he asked the man questions and tried to enquire if he could be of help, two men uprooted him from the lonely road and tried to transplant him to somewhere else. He tried to struggle for freedom, but he was beaten and manhandled until he withered in their hands and was left to lie helplessly in a bush. Alone in the open, he yielded to the peculiarities of the environment about him. The knifing harmattan cold poked his ribs until he sneezed and jerked up – and this was only after forty minutes of lying helplessly in the bush. However, he managed to stand up with a deep groan, his face and ribs hurting like numerous metallic impacts had known them. Everything that came to his blurry vision looked like the Grim Reaper waving his scythe with a glowing smile. He found it difficult to walk, but he did anyway. And when he finally reached his car, he was bleeding from his thigh. He immediately realised that the doors of his car were all flung open. He tried to raise his leg up, but began to shout for help when he couldn't. The pain was sharp, and he had tried to get into his car. In the moments before help came, he wondered what could have happened to him and his car. He clenched to the filigree of his imagination and tried to see if there was anything that could point to how the events transpired before he lost consciousness – but this was futile and harder than he had thought. Suddenly, and with a flash of wonder, he remembered the old man with a hunchback. He wondered and pondered on what could possibly have become of him. His helpers now we're lifting him up and trying to get him to a hospital. Funnily enough, he seemed to be begging them to take it easy with his body – that it belonged to Britain as much as it belonged to Nigeria. And while they drove him away, his car being watched upon, the face of one of his attackers flashed through his mind – he yelped and shouted "Bastard!"
***
"If you imagined that thought experiments were mere mental gymnastics meant to bamboozle, think again." the article read. "Imagine for instance...".
With a nurse entering into the room, B.G. dropped the magazine and focused on the nurse.
"How are you doing today?" the nurse asked, with trained composure.
"I am getting fine." he replied. "Only that my groin still hurts."
"The pain will subside before you know it." the nurse said to him. "I am here to ensure you take your afternoon med. Have you already?"
"No." B.G. replied. "Let me have them, please. That's if that wouldn't be too much of a task for you."
The nurse nodded and went over to the water dispenser to get him a glass of water. B.G. managed to sit up, using his pillow to support his back against the wall. He watched the woman bring him his drugs and water – and just then, the thought of Joromi came knocking on the door of his mind. He took his drugs and thanked the nurse who had already set about to leave. With the nurse already gone, he slowly lowered himself from the pillow and into a supine position. He closed his eyes and tried to think about his life – about the strange meeting involving an old man, about his attackers and why they had to attack him, and then about Joromi and why she had stayed unmarried. And then, with his eyes momentarily closed, he was off to the land of Nod.
***
When he was discharged days later, and he recovered his car, he went home to have more rest. On entering his house, his robot Pretty Computer 101 greeted him before the house recognised the presence of the owner and began to say with highly working AI: "Welcome home, Mr. B.G. Santa Claus. You have been away for four days, eleven hours, twenty-five minutes and six seconds. We got really worried. How do you do?"
"I am fine." B.G. replied and walked on while Pretty Computer 101 blinked green lights from its two eyes and began to wipe the sand her master's shoes had introduced into the house. He had not walked too far from the robot when the whole house went into a seemingly uncontrollable frenzy – tiny bulbs blinking everywhere with diverse colours. Then, suddenly, a host of voices echoed in unison:
"Uh-huh! Shoobedoodle!! Happy birthday, B.G. Santa Claus. Today is your birthday. Happy Birthday from all of us at the Confederacy of Bugatrons. You are a flower blossoming in the skies. Cheers to a brighter future!"
B.G. stopped in his tracks and chuckled with delight. He had forgotten that it was his birthday. He walked gently to his bedroom while the house played birthday songs and vibrated with rhythm. From the bedroom, he went to the kitchen where he asked for tea and bread. In a fast series of movements, mechanical hands toasted bread and poured him a cup of tea.
At exactly 12' O'clock, the house beeped and asked:
Would you like to go out? The car's clean and ready. Remember, it's your birthday – go have the most fun you ever had. The car's ready and clean. Wanna go for a ride?
"Well, I should." B.G. said thoughtfully.
Good, the house said. The garage is open, and your Bugatti is ready for the jolly ride. Go have fun.
B.G. sat and thought about the place to go and which friends and relatives to invite – and in-between those moments remembered Joromi again. He stood up and said:
"I know where to go, for my feet have been yearning to reach the mile. This time, I shall be sure to reach the destination and to return with my desires met."
Alright, the house said with soft music playing. But be sure to be safe. Be on the qui vive – drink less wine.
"Alright. Thank you." B.G. said and beckoned on Pretty Computer 101 to join him. And through the garage flanked by roses on both sides, they went away.
***
Out on the rough roads, we drove – B.G. and his robot Pretty Computer 101. On the road, and while talking to his favourite android, he remembered how he nearly spent a great chunk of his money on the failed attempt to import "Brooklyn love dolls". He had jumped at the idea for business sake, not like he fancied it himself. His gratitude for backing out earlier was like blue flame now, and it burned brightly. With Pretty Computer 101 sitting behind him, they drove into Nzogbunzogbu Street. While they drove on in search of the green house, B.G. recounted to Pretty Computer 101 his experiences down the same road – how he was uprooted by two men while he tried to help an old man with a hunchback.
That's totally despicable, Pretty Computer 101 said and tried to assure her master that everything would be alright this time.
Gradually, they passed the grinding machines of Cephas and reached the green house whose painting had seen better days. B.G. stepped out, asking Pretty Computer 101 to remain in the car. He crossed to the other side of the road and tried to enquire from a shop next to the house if anybody named Joromi lived there. The shop owner, a young man with afro, smiled and said:
Sure, that's Auntie Joromi's house. Hope all is well.
B.G. assured him that all was well and quickly went to knock on the gate. Deep inside his heart, he began to wonder if he really loved or had ever loved Joromi. She was beautiful, no doubt – but, sometimes, the heart and the head thinks otherwise in matters of love. He knocked again and waited for a response. He listened and heard footsteps approaching, footsteps from legs that treaded with healthy gait and feminine pride. In a minute or two, the gate moved and opened. Two stood and looked at each other – one looked at one. Their eyes blinked, their jaws dropped and they struggled to speak.
"Jo...Joro...mi." B.G. said. "Are you not?"
Joromi, smiling with tears in her eyes: "Have I changed?"
"Not quite. But you are quite fleshy and shapely now. I heard you have been asking of me."
"Of, course." Joromi said, rubbing her eyes. "Did I offend you?"
"No."
"Did I steal from you?"
"No."
"Then why did you leave without telling me? I have missed you all these years. Dated a couple of men after you disappeared, but I always kept wanting just you. You could have at least told me."
"I apologise." B.G. said. "Let me make it up to you. Go change. I'm taking you out."
"That sounds interesting, B.G." Joromi said and rushed to change into better clothes.
I waited outside and wondered if I was making the right decision.
***
On our way out of Nzogbunzogbu Street, B.G. held her hand and kissed it. And before we drove entirely out of Nzogbunzogbu Street, I tried to introduce Joromi to Pretty Computer 101 who had remained silent all the while. However, she was totally shocked as she had never seen a robot in real life – in fact she considered the idea outrageous and incongruous.
"What can this thing do for you?" she asked with contempt. "Science my foot. You should get rid of it."
I tried to persuade her to understand that having robots isn't at all a bad idea, but it only gradually went down to rubbles of debate. Joromi claimed it was against her belief and even her culture. We argued and argued until I began to wish I had never invited her for an outing. It is true I had really wanted to make it up to her and possibly see if I could settle with her eventually, but life seemed to have other plans ― a sinister tragedy was lurking somewhere behind our own shadows.
"You have to stop. You just have to stop." I begged her.
"Not until you get rid of this thing!" she barked. "I won't keep quiet over this."
And while we still argued and debated on what's right and what's not, Pretty Computer 101 rose from the back and smashed her neck with two incandescent bulbs. "Listen to my master for once." the robot said and sat back.
With blood gushing out her neck, I parked my car by the roadside and held onto her body. "I am sorry, Joromi." I cried, panic-stricken. "I am so sorry."
I looked pitifully into the eyes of the dying woman. And it was at this point I began to fall deeply in love with her. I wept and hugged the dying Joromi.
"Drink coke and forget." the robot said to me. "You will be fine. Just drink coke and forget."
I cried harder and wished death on the robot as I tried to rush her to a hospital. But while on the road, I realised all hope was already lost in the basket of death – and I wept and wept, and wailed and smashed the computer into smithereens.
Bio:
Marvel Chukwudi Pephel, also known as Poet Panda, is a Nigerian biochemist, writer and poet. He has contributed research papers to the field of Biochemistry as Nwachukwu Godslove Pephel. As a poet, Pephel's work explores themes of love, life, nature, and social issues, with a unique blend of creativity and scientific insight. His poetry is characterized by its lyrical style, depth, and emotional resonance. His work is a testament to the intersection of art and science. He is a fan of the surrealist painter Salvador Dali, and writers Helen Oyeyemi, Ray Bradbury, Irving Washington, Edgar Allan Poe, Frank G. Slaughter and Philip K. Dick. He calculates what he calls "Creative Functions", an experimental but effective way of writing short story endings before their beginnings.