Everything’s in a name

As usual, I got home in the early evening. Jackie was in the living-room on the single recliner sofa by an open window. Her head was bowed over her bulging belly and I supposed that she was sleeping. When I noticed an open book on her lap I was sure that she was. I chuckled.

She hated to read, but you couldn’t tell if you got inextricably tangled in debates with her. She always sounded scholarly I would always tease her that she’d fall asleep halfway through reading a newspaper headline. And to that she would say, “My experience and instincts are more reliable than your encyclopaedias, babe. Reading only inflates your head and squashes your heart”

“Well,” I’d retort, “you’ll argue better if you have facts rather than opinions. That subject would end with her punching me or hurling a cushion in my direction.

I kissed her temple and she stirred, the book on her lap slid off to the floor. I rubbed and kissed her belly then picked up the book. It was a dictionary of 60,000 baby names listed alphabetically along with their phonetic pronunciation, origins and meanings. I’d bought it on the first month of pregnancy but it had remained on the shelf still wrapped because she’d wanted us to feel for a name. And yet despite having involved our families, the neighbours and some workmates, who were induced or coerced to vote for my choice or hers, we were nowhere in sight of an accord. We each had some cherished boy and girl names that we clung to.

Then one evening I quoted an African proverb from one of the pregnancy books in our library. It read, “You cannot name a child that is not born.” And with that we agreed to defer this baby-naming campaign until after the baby was born. It might have been procrastinating, but least then we’d know the sex of the baby and be able to narrow down our options – and perhaps whatever discernible personality the baby might have would also suggest for us a more suiting name.

“See, Benjie, I’ve been reading,” she said, smiling and rubbing her sleepy eyes.

“Oh? I thought you’ve been napping,” I teased and ducked under the lazy punch she threw.

“I wasn’t, silly boy! I was meditating about what I’d just read. Aren’t you pleased?”

“This book has no pictures’ Oh, I am impressed, I must say,” I say.

I skimmed through the “L” index in the dictionary, then slid the book back on the shelf. I turned and looked back at her. She was looking out at some boys in school uniforms playing football down on the street. Her hair wavering in the breeze from the window; the way her flowery, flowing dress bared the lithe skin of her shoulder and neckline for observation; the dignity and grace of how she sat. I perceived with pleasure that she was feeling special. And although we called each other during the day and often chatted online, I felt I’d missed her. She gave a long yawn as she scratched the side of her belly.

She’d complained about contractions earlier and I’d almost flown into a panic thinking that she was going into labour and would have to deliver prematurely. She quickly reassured me that it was just normal false labour, which our ob-gyn called Braxton-Hicks. I have since kept our doctor on speed dial. Jackie has had her mother and aunties on speed dial. I trusted medical qualification; she trusted experience. Yet as far as her physical and emotional changes were concerned, the ob-gyn was almost no use to her at all, it seemed as though he was more my doctor than hers!

“You gonna just stand there and stare at me or fix me a power shake?” she asked. She hadn’t turned about to see that I was ogling her. This was eerily reminiscent of my mother in my boyhood. I smiled and shook my head. I walked over and helped her up. As I walked to the kitchen she waddled behind me.

Jackie was saying, “You got stuck in that lift again today? I think you ought to complain about that elevator, it ought to be connected to the back- up power like the others. If it keeps failing worse things are bound to happen.”

Elevator flash
In the kitchen she leaned on the kitchen counter and watched me. I poured some warm milk into the blender jar, cut up two bananas into it and threw in a handful of strawberries and then dumped in a glass of citrus juice. But before I put the cap on, Jackie grabbed another handful of strawberries and strewed them inside then squirted in honey from a squeeze bottle.

“Yeah, and you know who was in there with me?” I said then turned on the blender.

We were silent for several seconds as the blender whirred. I could see anticipation on her face about what I was going to say. I winked at her and she tittered. I then I poured the mix in two glasses. “Ms. Mremi.”

“Really? A full twenty minutes”!” She exclaimed, “So what’s she like? Is she cute?”

“Nah,” I blurted, “she has a bony face, crooked teeth – and those large eyes give her a look of constant surprise. She’s skinny, looks kind of emaciated. Really very ugly if you ask me, those twenty minutes in the lift with her was a harrowing experience”

Jackie only smiled. “Well, she has a picture of very delectable woman on her Facebook profile – but, of course, that can’t be her real photo, eh?” I grinned shamefacedly as I put her milkshake in her hand. She said, “I’m sure she’s like a diva for the girls on 36th.” The 36th floor is where the company’s administrative offices and some operational department is, and also where I work.

I said, “I guess. he’s a PhD and very accomplished, and I’ve heard rumours that P&M poached her from Capital Media.”

“A young, beautiful and only single woman on the executive board of a predominantly male echelon – yeah, she’s a diva to the naive ones, and a bitch to the rest. A woman’s bitterest enemy is usually a woman.”

“Hm. Doesn’t sound like you have fuzzy feelings for her yourself.”

“Well, you see, she’s pretty. You know I hate any woman who is prettier than me.”

“Oh. Then you’ll be happy to hear that I was the one who gave her the Baptism. I shredded her to bloody ribbons.” The Baptism was a tradition at P&M where a new employee was examined by staff of a lower level, usually with pointed questions that were designed to embarrass or annoy. The idea was to blow-torch their affectations and reveal authentic qualities.

END: PG 48 /48-50