BENJY
Benjy had been having the same nightmare for two days. Okay, technically it wasn’t a nightmare in the
sense that there were no monsters chasing him through dark streets, but it was still valid as a nightmare
because he often woke up breathing like he had run a marathon.
It usually started with him being at an event of some sort with people whose faces he couldn’t quite
recognize, and then halfway into the party a woman with Elizabeth China’s facial features would burst in
and thrust a swaddled package at him and walk away. He would call out to her through the crowd, but
she would not look back or even acknowledge him and in despair, he would look down at his hands and
see the package – a baby – melting away like candle wax, dripping all over his arms. This was when he
often jolted awake with hands tingling and warm.
He knew what was happening.
Since he saw the message from Elizabeth China nearly four days ago – the photo of the stick with two
red lines staring at him, he felt a lethargy descend on him, like he was watching himself through a haze.
At work, in his store surrounded by clothed mannequins and the humming of sewing machines, he tried
to forget about the message, tried to bury himself in work but he couldn’t erase the picture from his
mind. It was like a pulsating boil calling attention to itself.
He had not replied to her message because he didn’t know what to say. A part of him wanted to believe
it was a practical joke, a prank like people on social media did these days. Because he could not
understand how it had happened. He had been careful; he had always been careful since he became
sexually active at twenty-two.
When he was fourteen, his father had found a dog-eared copy of Playboy under his bed and had taken
scissors to it in his presence, saying if Benjy ever thought of touching a girl, he better be ready to
become a father.
Simple and fleeting as that statement was, Benjy had held on to it with fervency, perhaps because their
father had a way of commanding fear when he spoke, saying things in such a matter-of-fact way that it
was impossible not to believe.
It was when he got to the university, away from his father’s watchful eyes and control, that he felt able
to breathe, and began to look a little longer at the girls who came his way. And even then, he had always
made sure to keep his pack of condoms on him. No matter how many promises the girl made about
being on contraceptives, Benjy never left it to chance.
So, how was it, he wondered that after practicing safe sex for over a decade without any mishaps, how
was it that this had happened to him?
Is this a joke? He had typed the question and deleted it multiple times. His lethargy wouldn’t let him hit
the send button. She was either playing a prank on him or she was lying. And if she was lying, why was
she? What did she want from him? He didn’t have money.
He wished there was someone he could talk to about his dilemma but unfortunately, growing up as his
father’s son, he had learned the bad habit of insulating himself from the rest of the world. It wasn’t that
he didn’t have friends, it was that he didn’t have friends he could confide in.
Friendship is for the frivolous, his father often said. Keep them at arm’s length so they can’t hurt you.
It was unfortunate that it was while he was in his thirties that Benjy realized how much of his father’s
junk his mind had soaked in. No matter how much he tried not to become his father, he was like him in
so many ways. He knew his father had been hurt when he was younger. He didn’t know the full details,
but there had been some story about a close friend, business partners, and a dispute that led to the
estrangement of that relationship. It occurred to him that years of listening to his father share his life
philosophies had led to him taking on his father’s trauma and experience as his. And so, here he was,
friendless, no one to confide in, to seek advice from.
Perhaps he could call his brother? Deji was wise in that calm, controlled way and would probably have
some advice for him. After all, he was a married man, a father, everything Benjy was afraid to be.
However, sometimes his brother scared him. He had the perfect life; he was the one who had their
father’s nod of approval with his well-paying architectural job and his beautiful family. He even went to
church! There were times when they were younger when Benjy spent time doodling behind his
schoolbook in Chemistry class and his brother spent his free time reading textbooks, that Benjy wished
he could be like him. What changed, he wondered? When did he stop looking up to his brother and start
competing with him?
Gosh, his head was swarming with thoughts that he didn’t want or need. He stared at his laptop screen,
at the design he had been trying to put together for days. His client needed the outfits in two weeks and
ordinarily, he should have gotten the design out to them by now so they could make the changes they
needed and still give his designers time to make the outfits, but he was stuck. Every time he closed his
eyes to picture the design, all he could see was the stick with two red lines.
“Oga?” Temi, his top designer slash assistant poked her head in.
“Yes, Temi. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to ask how far with the designs for MachoTech?” she stepped into the office. “Is
everything okay?”
“Um…yeah. Why?”
“It’s just…I’ve knocked like three times before and you didn’t answer.”
“Really?” Benjy leaned back in his chair with a sigh.
Temi nodded, taking the empty seat opposite his desk. “Any progress with the designs?”
He shook his head, “nothing concrete. I think I’m just struggling with their concept. I mean, how do I
represent macho but soft in men’s clothing?”
Temi laughed, a gravelly sound that didn’t match her petite frame. “Maybe use yourself as a muse.”
Benjy narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve known you for four years so would you say I should know what I’m talking about?” Temi leaned
forward, her braids grazing the desk.
“Depends. Spit it out.”
“Well, I would say you are the typical macho man. You don’t say much, you hide your feelings pretty
well and you pretend not to care. Wait,” she held up a hand. “Let me finish.”
Benjy sighed. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.
“But on the flip side, you are a softie. I hear how you talk to your sister on the phone. You don’t drink or
smoke. You are a fashion designer, for Chrissake, it means you are in touch with your sensitive side. You
know how society associates fashion with women? I don’t think it’s just a gender thing, I think it’s about
being sensitive. You are great at what you do because you are sensitive to people and their
personalities. You listen, observe, and determine what you think would suit them. Fashion is more about
sensitivity than talent and you have that, no matter how you try to hide it.”
Benjy opened his mouth to speak and shut it because he had no words.
Was this who he was? Was that how the rest of the world saw him? Was it how he wanted to be seen?
“Wow, Temi, if you weren’t married with two kids, I would propose to you right now,” he said,
eventually.
Temi threw back her head, laughing.
“I don’t know that I agree with your entire assessment of me but thank you, I guess.”
“It’s not thank you I want oh, I just want you to finish up with the designs and then we can get to making
the outfits. We don’t have much time,” Temi said, standing.
“Okay ma,” he said, returning to his laptop screen. “It’s strange but I think you might have given me
some really good ideas. Thank you.”
It was nearly 8 pm that evening when he got home and for the first time in days, he was feeling upbeat.
He had finally developed two designs for MachoTech and sent them for approval. He could still
remember his conversation with Temi and something about it made him feel good about himself.
He didn’t know whether he would describe himself as ‘macho’ though especially since he still low-key
cried when he stubbed his toe against the table in one of his clumsier moments. And he still shed a tear
or two on the anniversary of his mother’s death or when he thought about her.
After peeling his clothes off his body. Benjy transferred the rice and beans with ponmo that he had
bought from Mama Sheri down the street, into a plate and popped it in the microwave. Mama Sheri’s
food was good, but her stew was even better and he would choose her any day over a fancy Abuja
restaurant that was all plating and had no taste.
His phone rang just as he was about to grab a spoon from the plate rack, and without looking at the
screen, he answered:
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello. Who is this?”
“I’m surprised you picked this time,” the voice floated into his ears and Benjy felt his knees buckle.
“What, you have nothing to say to me?” the voice continued.
“Hi, Lizzy,” he said.
