Ifeoma pulled the hood of her cardigan forward over her eyes, even though it did no good.
She peered down the street through the raindrops on her glasses. Where are these ‘KEKE’ (commercial tricycles)? It was dark and getting colder. And now it was raining, too. There was no kEKE in sight. ‘Wahala’. She sighed and tried to figure out if she had enough cash for a cab. As she stood there mentally counting her pocket change, a car pulled up to the curb and the passenger window slid down slowly. Ifeoma could barely make out a male driver, no passengers, non-descript blue Honda EOD …oh, not good, not good at all. Heart pounding, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and began walking away, quickly.
“Hey!” the driver called. Ifeoma ignored him, walking even faster down the empty street. The car followed her, slowly.
“Hey wait — Ifeoma!” She stopped in her tracks and spun around. “It’s me, corper Nnamdi Amadi.”
Still keeping a wary distance, she squinted into the dark interior of the car, and was pretty certain the driver was the man who had taught her English in SS3.
“Mr. Amadi?”
He laughed, “It’s been — what? five years since you graduated? I think you can call me Nnamdi now.” He leaned over to open the passenger door.
“Sheesh, girl, it’s pouring — hop in!”
Ifeoma hesitated for only a moment, before sliding gratefully into the warm, dry car.
“Oh, man, my clothes are soaked, I’m sorry, your upholstery…”
“Quit apologizing,” he said, “I saw you looking like a drowned rat out there, so I knew what I
was in for.” He grinned at her, and she couldn’t help but grin back. He didn’t look like he’d changed at all since she was in his class — same low cut hair, same easy smile, same kind brown eyes behind studious wire-rimmed glasses. She felt a quick rush of warmth to her face as she remembered what a huge crush she’d had on him. He pulled back out on to the street. “So, where are we headed?”
“Well…I live quite a way from here…” she gave him directions to her house.
He gave a low whistle. “And you always take the keke, this late at night?” He glanced over quickly, concern on his face. “I mean, not that you can’t take care of yourself, but it’s dark out there, and kind of deserted.”
“I know, I know,” Ifeoma replied. “But my car is in the mechanic workshop, and I was working on a paper at the library — it’s due on Friday, before second semester Break, and I’m kind of struggling with it.”
“Really? What’s your topic?” Ifeoma rolled her eyes. “comparative analysis of Wole Soyinkas works and that of Chinua Achebe on their views of the future .”
“Wow,” Nnamdi said, nodding thoughtfully.
“Ambitious undertaking.”
“Yeah, but I may have bit off more than I could chew this time.” She polished the water
drops off of her glasses with the edge of her t-shirt, which was slightly drier than her hoodie. “I have the outline, all of my note cards, the bones written down — I’m just having a hard time pulling it all together, you know, making it gel.” She sighed, her mood suddenly as dismal as the weather.
“Hmm…” Nnamdi mused, while they idled at a stop light.
“You know, my house isn’t far. We could go there, I could look at what you’ve got, see if I can offer any suggestions. We could even throw your sweatshirt in the dryer for a few minutes.” He grinned again. “What do you say?”
“Would you?” Ifeoma’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, that would be so great…I mean, I would really appreciate any help you could give me!”
“Absolutely,” he said.
“I remember you being a very good student, Ifeoma, an excellent writer. I’m looking forward to reading what you have done so far.”
Ifeoma blushed, and looked out the window,
“Thanks Mr. Amadi.”
He glanced at her again, quickly, then turned right, on to a street. “No problem — always glad to help out a former student. And please, call me Nnamdi.”
Ifeoma bit her lower lip, shyly. “Okay… Nnamdi. Thanks.”
Nnamdi drove through an older neighborhood, with small, well-kept yards and huge trees lining the street. His house was fairly small. They dashed from the car to the front door, laughing and dodging raindrops. He tossed Ifeoma’s hoodie in the dryer and gave her some towels to dry off and spread out on the couch so she could sit down. He introduced her to his Jack Russell terrier, Oscar — Oscar Wilde, named by a friend, Nnamdi explained, rolling his eyes — who was excited and delighted to have company visiting, but finally settled down, curling up on a cushion on the floor.
“Do you need to call anyone to let them know you’ll be late?”
Ifeoma shook her head. “Nope…my Gran couldn’t take the cold and the damp anymore in jos, so my parents moved with her to onitsha a couple of months ago. Since I’m in school, I decided to stay in Jos and get an apartment.”
“Ah, I see.” Nnamdi proofed and critiqued her work.
Ifeoma nodded, asked questions, and took notes…and remembered why Mr. Amadi had been her favorite teacher in secondary school. She wasn’t the only girl in her class who had had a crush on him. He was handsome, in a nerdy sort of way — tall and lean, with that wonderful smile. He was young, right out of the university two years ago…friendly, kind, great sense of humor — but also intense and passionate about literature, and he imparted that excitement and enthusiasm to his students. Finally, yawning, Ifeoma asked him to please drive her home. He helped her slip on her sweatshirt, now warm and drier than the rest of her clothes.
As he pulled up to her apartment building, he said, “You know, I could help you polish that paper a little more, if’ you’d like to come over again, maybe tomorrow?”
Ifeoma felt her heart pounding, her breathing shallow. “Yes, yes, I would really like that…I would appreciate it…um, I get my car out of the shop in the afternoon…what time would you like me to come over?”
They agreed about 6:00 would be good. They exchanged phone numbers, and Ifeoma programmed his number into her mobile.