I had not asked to have Bobby in my life. I had not even asked him to come to my house.
I was cutting open the packet of an external Bluetooth device for my laptop when he knocked.
‘Bobby! How did you find my house?’
‘I dropped you off, once. Remember?’ He winked.
I let him in and offered him a hug. He squeezed my buttocks.
‘Why? Don’t you like it?’
‘Liar.’ He grinned.
‘Do you want anything? Coke, Fanta, Sprite?’
‘I want you.’
I got him a bottle of coke from the fridge and sat on a chair facing him. He patted his laps, I shook my head. He patted the seat beside him, I shook my head.
‘Why?’ He asked.
‘I like this chair.’
‘Are you scared of me?’
‘Then come sit on my laps.’
I sighed. ‘Listen, Bobby. You don’t know me.’
‘I know all I need to know.’ He said.
‘No. You’re judging me based on your first impression of me. Listen, what we did at that party, that girl was not me.’
‘Who was it? Your twin?’
‘No. It was me, but I was not myself. I’m not that kind of girl. I’m not.’
‘Sugar, that night we met, you had fun, I had fun. We’re together now. We can have fun again.’
He came to me. I stiffened.
‘Relax. I just want to kiss your forehead.’ I let him. He kissed my cheek, my neck. I pushed him away.
‘Forget about what happened that night, okay? That wasn’t me.’
‘I can’t forget it. I’ve been longing for you for eight months.’
‘You mean besides your smoking hot legs and your breath-taking figure?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something very special about you. I’ve never been drawn to a girl this way. After that party, I kept thinking of you. I just had to find you.’
I stood up, ‘Spare me the story. I’m not interested. As you can see, I have stuff to do. Please leave.’
With the knife, I ripped open the Bluetooth packet.
‘Why do you hate me?’
‘I don’t hate you. You’re a nice guy, okay? But I’m not interested in… what you’re interested in.’
‘Are you sure?’He was behind me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and blew into my ear. My blood cells danced.
‘Stop.’ I whispered. I tried to pry his hands off my stomach. He was kissing my neck.
‘Stop.’ His hands were roving. His tongue was in my ear.
I stabbed him in the wrist. It was a deep cut. It bled like a tap, gushing blood on our clothes, my rug. I ripped off my blouse and wrapped it tight around his wrist. Then I put on another one and walked him to his car. I insisted on driving him to the hospital even though he kept telling me he was fine.
On the way to the hospital, he said, ‘I love the way you ripped off your blouse.’
We rushed into the first hospital we saw.
‘Nurse, please, can we see the doctor? My friend is dying!’
‘Relax. I’m not dying. It’s just a cut on my wrist.’
‘Do you have a card?’ The nurse asked.
‘Registration is one thousand naira. When you get your card, you’ll go and sit down and wait for your turn.’
The waiting room was crowded, the benches were full. Some patients stood by the walls- a young woman with a wailing child, and old man with a chesty cough, an old woman with a swollen jaw, a young man with a bandaged arm. The walls were painted green, stuck with posters of sick people, labelled according to their illnesses. There was a poster that advertised free HIV testing. Another poster read, ‘It is better to wait than be late.’ We could not wait.
‘Nurse, please, let him go in and see the doctor. Please!’
‘Haba! What is wrong with you? Can’t you see all these people here? Do you think you’re better than them? If you cannot wait, leave! Stop disturbing me. I am busy.’
She pulled out a thick-cover notebook and glared at the open pages. We left.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you to another hospital. Just hang on.’
He nodded. His breathing had become laboured. He lay in the backseat.
‘Bobby?’ I was worried. He hadn’t been this weak when we left my house.
‘Stop worrying, sugar, I’ll be fine. Just wake me up when we get to the hospital.’ He offered a weak smile and closed his eyes.
The next hospital was a building with no compound. Cars were parked on both sides of the road. I drove four blocks, looking for parking space, then I drove into a street, and another. It was a long way to walk. Bobby was asleep. I couldn’t wake him. I couldn’t carry him to the hospital. The hospital was small and would probably be crowded too.
I decided to take him to a hospital I knew. It was further away from our location but it wasn’t always crowded. They had a compound with parking space, they had polite nurses and good doctors. I had a card there.
Bobby was pale by the time we got there. His blood had soaked the backseat through the bandage I made for him.
I put an ear to his chest and listened for a heartbeat. I checked his pulse. I lifted one of his eyelids and checked his pupil. Motionless, it stared through me. Goose pimples ran down my arms.
I waited for an answer, a miracle. None. What was I going to do? I had to call someone from the hospital to put his body in the morgue. Then the police would come, I would make a statement and they would hold me in custody, awaiting trial. I would be lucky to be tried. I could go to jail for life! Spend the rest of my days in a damp, dark, smelly prison; waking up to greet murderers and psychos and… I’d give up my life, school, friends, family, dreams…
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell him, ‘But I can’t.’
I unwrap the bandage from his hand. I wipe the steering wheel with a handkerchief. Not that it matters, the Nigerian police couldn’t detect my fingerprint if I e-mailed it to them. A stranger will find Bobby dead in his car. He will steal his valuables before calling the police. Bobby will get a corner of a newspaper. The police will tell the press that they are working on the case. The perpetrator of this crime will surely be brought to book. Bobby’s friends will be interrogated. Nobody will call me. I am not his friend. Just a one night stand from eight months ago.