A PLETHORA OF NEOS

By Omoseye Bolaji

The fact was now ineluctable – winter was more or less here in South Africa! Yet despite the withering cold, life still continued; in my own case newspaper work, orchestrating documents for literary clubs, contributing to books etc. Now here I was as darkness beckoned prematurely having supper near my office – at an eatery.

I was all alone or so I thought; there was a couple of perfunctory greetings with acquaintances, and feeling the worse for the wear, I suddenly became aware that a certain lady was staring at me fixedly; a lady who had been sitting alone enjoying a meal and drink too. Or perhaps it was my imagination?

No. Presently she stood up and came to me, smiling along the way. She was taller than I had imagined she was. She was perhaps around 30 years of age, slender with a small cleavage. She was well dressed, as South Africans often are (hurray to them!)  She was not unattractive.

By now it was clear she was making a beeline for me, arm outstretched for a hand shake. Wearily but gallantly (hopefully!) I managed to stand up and shake hands with her, regretting the fact that I could not remember her despite her friendly overtures. But as she stood right beside me I knew 100 percent that I had never seen her in my life. I invited her to sit down.

“Hi Mr Bolaji,” she said. “You might not have met me formally, but I have seen you at the library a few times – you write books. I don’t want you to think I am angry with you, or am fighting you, but I am well aware that you even wrote about me in one of your books. It’s clear that I am the ‘Neo’ you write about in your book, Tebogo and the epithalamion. And my name is actually NEO too!”

I winced. I knew only too well that the character ‘Neo’ in my work of fiction was - is - complete imagination; not modelled after anybody in real life. Certainly not after this woman, or anybody else. A “femme fatale” of sorts; which some critics insist I love writing about. But in this case I knew I was completely innocent, no matter what this woman might think.

I found out that I was stammering. “Ma’am –“ How could I defend myself? I felt like a fool. Now she said: “Oh I know your book is fiction and you changed things here and there, but it is clear it was still me you were thinking about, Neo; tall, allegedly dangerous to men. I can assure you that you must not believe everything you hear. Thabo lied to you of course,”

“Thabo?” I stared at her, completely baffled.

She said: “Oh, when I read your book I confronted Thabo, my former boyfriend – the one working at waterfront; he said he knows you quite well and he talks to you. I knew he must have talked about me to you and described me. I don’t blame you.’ (The fact is I did not know this Thabo! Maybe I needed to register at an asylum!) He said bad things about me just because I left him, always calling me evil, heart-breaker etc. So you used the portrait he gave you to produce Neo in the book, Tebogo and the epithalamion,”

At this stage I did not know who was crazier; the lady or I; it was clear that the woman was fixated with the idea that ‘Neo’ in the book was based on her. Actually looking at her now, she was in no way the ‘Neo’ I had imagined in the book (eg the fictional Neo in my mind was some years younger than her, and much lighter in complexion); but what could I say now? Again, I knew I must have used the name Neo in other fiction books of mine.

“My friend, don’t look so scared,” the lady went on, “I have said I am not angry with you. If I would blame anybody at all, it would be Thabo. He gives the impression everywhere as if I am some sort of seductive bad woman destroying men all over the place. You are an intelligent man, Ntate. I just want you to know that there are always two sides to a coin,”

I capitulated. ‘Thanks…allow me to just say I am sorry then,” I managed to say.

“I am not angry; actually I enjoyed your book,” the lady said. “Well I must go now,” she moved towards me for what seemed to be a hug and my reluctance must have been obvious. She laughed. “So even in real life you are scared of ‘me’; the Neo, eh? Just like at the end of your book where the detective (Tebogo) confesses he’s scared of the so called seductive powers of Neo…” She laughed. “Anyway, nice to have met you…sala hantle…”

I was still stumped for quite some time afterwards.

Pix above: the work of fiction, Tebogo and the epithalamion