THE BELEAGUERED LADY

By OMOSEYE BOLAJI

It was a quite satisfactory meal, and apparently as I ate with relish I was temporarily oblivious to the outside world. It was as if I was all alone at this cosy, small eatery!

Yet, someone was opposite me now across the table. A rather young lady who had been staring at me. As I put “finishing touches” to my dijo (food) I now looked up, and there she was, eyes fixed on me, almost accusingly. I recognised her. She was a lady acquaintance I rarely saw.

Now she said: “I didn’t want to disturb you by greeting you earlier. I could see you were really enjoying your food. You were in your own world! I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you now,”

My eyes shifted uneasily with some embarrassment. Her accent once again gave her away as “coloured” (half caste; mulatto). I muttered some words to the effect that she was not disturbing me. Then I tried to joke: “Actually it is my fault. I shouldn’t love food too much! That’s always been a weakness of mine!”

“Anyway,” she said. “I have been hoping to meet you for quite some time. I want to write a book, and I need your advice, and maybe your help – which I’ll appreciate. I want to write my autobiography,”

I winced. Instinctively, my mind went back to a book of Gerald Durrell’s we had studied at school, in Nigeria. Gerald’s brother, Larry (a writer) whilst young had sarcastically commented to a fellow writer who was writing an autobiography: “How young can one be before inflicting one’s autobiography on the world?”

But I said politely to the young, coloured South African lady now: “Aren’t you a bit too young to write an autobiography? You look like 25, 26 to me,”

“I’m 24,” she said. “So young people can not write about their lives? Even if they have something important to say?”

“So you believe at your young age you have a powerful message to readers?” I said.

She stared at me. “I think so. I want people to know we (ie women) can triumph against serious odds, or try to deal with horrific episodes. A few years ago I was raped by five, six men. It was a miracle they did not kill me. I was a virgin at the time. As a youngster, I experienced second-hand abuse as my step-father abused my mother horrendously and killed her in the end. I watched her die slowly,” I flinched, but she went on: “You might not know it, but I was married for over a year recently (We are divorced now). My man made me his punching bag everyday. Twice I tried to kill myself…don’t you think this is enough material for my autobiography?”

I was nodding my head, sympathising with her. So young and yet so beleaguered! How could she have been so unlucky in life? I was about to talk, but she added:

“Oh by the way, I am also Hiv/aids positive. I die slowly everyday. My life has not been easy. Do you still think I am not qualified to write the book?”

I said hoarsely: “You are more than qualified to write the book,”. My voice hardened. “And I’ll do all I can to help you with it,”