Joycee: A Rough-handed Love

by Ejiro Onojaife

John’s voice was what lulled me to sleep almost every day. He never stopped sounding husky like the first time he mistakenly dialed my phone number.  “Good morning doctor.” he had said in remorse that day I answered his unsuspecting call. “Sorry I could not make it to the hospital as planned.”

I told him that I am not a doctor but a P.R.O in a company that does not have anything to do with even pain killers or Vitamin C, and that I am single too —when he asked if I am, after he had apologized for his mistake and for disturbing the crowd of my activities. But ever since that time, no day went by without us speaking on the phone.

Soon, we became friends, and calling each other became our hobby.

Soon, there was this burning urge to see what the other person looked like before going physical with our budding love.

“No I am not on Whatsapp” I told him.

“Facebook will do.” He replied. So, we exchanged our Facebook usernames.

I wasn’t disappointed with John’s pictures online. His voice matched his uploads, and he was masculinity personified –six packs, cocoa brown, tall and very macho. I thanked God. I began to feel like a missing rib.

Today, I woke up with butterflies and spiders in my stomach. Finally after almost year of marathon phone calls and chats online, I was going to meet my John. I said to myself, “Joycee, relax. Congratulations! Your prince charming has finally come for you.” And then I reddened my lips and heaved a breath of happiness and relief.

We had planned on meeting in The Lovers’ Safari— a serene hangout where roasted chicken and spicy croaker fish give visual and nasal enjoyment before anything else.

John arrived looking gentlemanly and finer than all his pictures on the internet. His crispy kaftan was presidential and oh, what a lovely boom in his voice when he said, “Hello Pretty! Look at you!” His muscular chest bouncing with every word. He was just magnetic, awesome, marvelous…, my John. We kept on hugging and hugging.

But there was something. It wasn’t hard to hide. I observed it when we sat to eat the grilled croaker fish we had ordered. The thing was in the way he kept on screwing into his nostrils with his index finger; in the way he used that same finger to spread the barbecue sauce all over the poor croaker and to push chunks upon chunks of the croaker into his mouth without pausing even when he was hiccupping— licking the finger with reckless abandon, as if he was eating the forbidden fruit. With a shattered heart, I watched how hard it was for John to keep his other fingers calm— I watched how my ripening pimples were what he suddenly wanted to squash with them, after he had belched in a nasty croaking way.

“Joycee.” He boomed my name and leaned towards me. “This pimple here is ready.”

I looked at him motioning to a part of my face, tears welling around my eyes. “Joycee.” He called again, “Please, let me just pop that other one. Joycee?” He smiled, the sides of his mouth almost touching his ears.

With my every resounding ‘No!’ this John guy screamed ‘Yes!’ with his nasty smile while bringing his heavy hands closer and closer to my face, poised for a love attack— as if my pimples were his birthright. It was only then it dawned on me that my date had a hand, or should I call it a ‘finger condition’ that was the accessory of an overcharged brain? I dabbed at my eyes with the serviette on the table, and then I held his eyes with mine for him to see how serious I had become. Still, his hands came closer.

“John, wait!” I pushed his hands back, and continued. “John, the first time you called you were talking about missing an appointment with a doctor—” He brought his hands towards me again. Closer and closer. That did it: I removed all the beautiful things my feeling for him had put in my heart, and then I stuffed them into those hands and pushed them back forever…To Be Continued