It was late. The remains of our supper had been cleared away by that woman. All three of us had stayed together in Garba's room watching videos and talking generally, me about life in Lagos and the South, and how what so far I'd seen of the North seemed so very different from the South that I was used to; them about how they perceived southerners, and how people from the South seemed to be so much more westernised than they were. Abdulrahman in particular, was keen to show me how westernised I was in the way that I chose to dress, and the hair product that I used. But all of this was good-natured and amiable, and there was a lot of laughter and quite a few jokes. Garba, I was told, was an architect.
I learned that he had only just completed his own one year of national youth service and had a few weeks previously started in a job with a firm of architects established by some chap who, having been granted a scholarship by the state government, had trained in America and now returned. Garba was still living at home with his parents, but he reckoned that he would move to his own place within a few months. There was a lot of talk about how much there was yet to be done in Bauchi, talk about contributing to the development of the state and Bauchi town in particular, especially in relation to municipal and city planning. Garba seemed really enthusiastic about his profession and his job, and I listened attentively, although I couldn't help admiring his fine angular jawline and the way his lips moved when he spoke.
Soon came the moment when that problem of the sleeping arrangements was to be considered. Garba was our host, but Abdulrahman it was who had invited me here. It was obvious that both of them would have shared Garba's huge double bed had I not been here. In the room, there was also a chaise lounge upholstered in an expensive looking damask, and I did not think it was customary for Garba to have guests sleep on it. Anyhow, there was the problem of working out where each of us would sleep, but as is the custom in most of Africa, the guest is always in an honoured position. So I got first choice of the bed.
Abdulrahman kindly deferred to his cousin and chose to lay on the chaise lounge, over which Garba carefully draped a sheet. Which meant that Garba and I would share this huge bed. And as I climbed into it, I thought to myself that this day must be one of the most eventful I had yet seen.
In the morning, I woke up to find that I was alone in the room. Shortly afterwards Abdulrahman entered to say that his uncle had requested that he accompany the driver on an errand down Tafawa Balewa Road, which he explained was in the opposite direction from the house to where the NYSC office was. However, Garba had agreed to take me to the NYSC place on his way to work.
This sounded fine, but it was still early and I was sure the NYSC office would not be open for another couple of hours. I lingered in bed, wishing that I didn't have to go out at all this morning. But just then Garba came in. He sat on the bed and shook my shoulder, obviously thinking that I was still asleep. He said breakfast would soon arrive and that I should get dressed as he didn't want to be late for work. Quickly coming to my senses I made for the shower room and returned to find that Garba was waiting for me so we could have breakfast together. The breakfast was already laid out.
He didn't leave the room this time as he had done the previous evening. But this didn't bother me either. Perhaps we two having slept all night in the same bed, there was no longer ice to be broken. It just seemed so natural putting on my clothes in his presence. I'd heard of the term 'sexual tension', and I wondered if that is what this was. There was a feeling, some chemical electrical inexplicable thing. It was similar to what had happened when I had first met Moses sometime ago, but with Moses the feeling was strong and uncontrollable. With Garba it was more subtle, but clearly there was the potential for this to be even more far-reaching, and I was in no doubt that this feeling was mutual. It was like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that were coming together without any effort, something magnetic.
Garba drove me in his brand new car to the NYSC place. He sat in the car waiting to see that I achieved some success with locating the exact room where my registration would take place.
I found the desk of the person who would perform the registration, but was informed by the other person in the room that although Mrs. Giwa had not arrived, she was expected within the hour. I could sit and wait, or alternatively, I could go and come back. Go where? I wondered.
I went back to the car to let Garba know what the position was, then he suggested that he would drive to his office and then return in about an hour. My things were still in his room, and we would at some point later today have to make arrangements to move them to whichever accommodation I was allocated by the NYSC after my registration.
I waited in Mrs. Giwa's office for about half an hour, when she finally turned up, heavily pregnant. I started off the conversation with her in as polite a manner as I was capable of. But for some reason, or maybe she was just having a bad day, this woman was very irascible. I told her who I was, then she requested to see my NYSC call-up letter, the letter I had received informing me of my posting. I explained that because the letter itself had not stated that I was required to present it when reporting for registration, I hadn't brought it with me. I said I had seen the list on the notice board in the corridor of this building, and that my name was on it.
She became even more irritated and uncooperative. She insisted that without the call-up letter there was nothing she could do for me, and that if I didn't have the letter with me I should leave her office immediately because she had other things to do. I was despondent. I mean I had travelled nearly 1000 kilometres only to be told by this woman to leave her office. Tears of desperation came to my eyes, and I didn't know what to do.
I walked out of the building, dazed, confused, when I heard a familiar voice shout my name. It was Garba. He was sitting in his car parked across the road. I rushed to meet him and got into the car slamming the front passenger door shut. I was distraught, agitated. Garba was puzzled.
Holding back the tears of frustration I tried to explain to him what had happened and that this meant that I would have to go all the way back to Lagos to look for that letter, wherever it was. He put his hand on my shoulder trying to calm me down. He said he had told his boss that there was a small family matter he needed to attend to, and his boss had allowed him the day off. He asked me to look at the bright side, this meant that I wouldn't have to go and stay in some anonymous room somewhere in town by myself. I was with him and Abdulrahman and everything would be alright. Even if I had to return to Lagos for a short while, my things would be safe with him in his room.
I looked at this man whom I met only last night and wondered if it was right for him to be offering me so much. "I really like this guy," I thought to myself.
Garba drove off. He didn't tell me where we were going, until I asked.
"Somewhere nice," he replied, then I turned and looked at him. He was looking straight ahead at the road in front of us, but there was a twinkle in his eye.
