“Don’t touch me with that hand!”she shouted. “Never ever!” She gathered her things frantically andran like a mad woman out of the hospital ward, with everyonestaring at her, then at me.
My worldended. I do not think that I can ever love any other woman the wayI loved Ruth. My entire world had revolved around her. I know Iwould have stood by her, even if she had lost both of her hands inan accident. The bitter lesson, I seemed to draw from this, wasthat it is an expensive mistake to build your life around the loveof an individual. If it fails, you tend to crash with it. Andbelieve me, human beings will fail you.
Butafter I was discharged from the hospital, I summoned the courage tocontact her. My attempts were rebuffed. I tried to console myselfwith the knowledge that there were too many women out there, for meto continue forcing myself on one who continued to make it clearthat she was not interested in me. Or to draw hasty conclusions onthe generality of the womenfolk based on the actions of just one ofthem.
Of course, not everyone reactedin the same way as Ruth. A lot of people did, though. Buta few ofmy friends stood byme. They were pained that I had lost my fingers, but it did nothave the slightest effect on our friendship. It was James Bata whosuggested that I come down to Obudu for a short holiday. He feltthat the atmosphere of the place would cheer me up. And I needed alot of cheering up. He wanted me to see that there was still joy inbeing alive. Live while you are alive just as you would study if youwere a student, he says.
I became downcast whenever Iremembered Ruth, which was almost all the time. James is an artistlike myself. We had planned an art exhibition togetherfor thisDecember, but Ibacked out, since I could no longer paint and my woman was gone.All I really wanted to do was hide myself somewhere, live like arecluse and die quietly. But James encouraged me to be outgoing andcheerful. He has a strong and forceful personality; that's how hefinally convinced me to come to Obudu.
I didnot feel like staying anywhere flashy. That's how I settled for theKinging Guest Lodge. When I arrived, there were no otherguests.
I saw that Ayuba and his wiferan the place efficiently. His wife particularly was drawn to mewhen I told her about the accident … she had asked me what happened to my hand. But Ihad become very suspicious of people and had made up my mind tokeep to myself. I started carrying a white, silk handkerchief in myright hand to avoid either the pity or revulsion, which I oftenevoked.
TonyeBriggs came after I did. His facial appearance reminded me of theJapanese. He asked too many questions. He did not make any effortto be friendly towards me and that suited me fine, because I wasnot in the mood.
Willieand John Brad were next. They came on the same day, though theyarrived separately. It seemed to me that they had met before at achurch programme. Willie always carried a Bible around the Lodgeand hung a crucifix around his neck. He tried to preach to me. ButI guess I was the wrong congregation, because once was all it tookto rub me the wrong way. The way he tried to force his religion onme, was a turn-off. The crucifix hanging around his neck, the largeBible he always carried around, the smug attitude, like he wasbetter than everyone else, the religious verbosity. It was just toomuch for me.
I remember I was sitting in thelounge andreading abook when he came to meet me. According to him, the Lord hadlaid it in hisheart and on his mind, as he woke up with his body thatmorning, tominister to my spirit concerning the salvation of mysoul.
“Willie,” I had said to him. “Iactually came here, hundreds of miles away from home, to have somerest and a little bit of privacy. Is it possible for you to respectthat somehow, even if it is just a small, tiny, little bit ofrespect, and give me some space?”
He hadbeen in the process of opening his Bible, before my words stoppedhim.
Then came Mrs. Marshall and herdaughter. I felt a kinship with Mrs. Marshall, when I saw her withher crutches. Her car accident had even been more tragic than mine.She had lost her husband. She had a way of looking at one, as ifshe wanted to see into your soul and her big ears quivered at the slightestsound. Icould tell that she heard and saw an awful lot. Though her wordsstung, I could also see that she had a listening ear that madepeople open up to her with their problems and secrets.
Maria Marshall was a bird of adifferent feather. While her mother maintained a calm dignity, shewas a social butterfly. She was the only one at the Lodge whosought my company, even when I made it obvious that I liked stayingon my own. It started on the first day she met me in the lounge.She had been pleasantly surprised. It seemed she had a keeninterest in the arts and had seen my pictures in somemagazines.
“I can’tbelieve my eyes!” she said, rubbing her hand over her eyes,theatrically. “It is a lie! I’m actually staying in the same housewith Nagoth Ali!” And she giggled excitedly. “My friends aretotally going to die, when I tell them! We have to take a selfie together, before Ileave.”
Iremember she was wearing a dark blue, micro-mini skirt and a pinktop that showed a lot of cleavage. She kept grinning from ear toear and chattering non-stop.
“How did you feel when you wonthe Artists' Pride Award, last year?” she asked.
Ishrugged my shoulders, indifferently. None of that meant anythingto me now, I thought to myself. I could not even hold a brush, anylonger.
“It must have been amazing,receiving the award. And having your name and
