He made me feel so wretched the first time a woman visited me. It was on a Saturday. He was washing clothes downstairs when I went to the gate to receive my guest. He paused his washing and watched us with eyes that emitted a mixture of disappointment and disdain. Later in the evening, when I saw my visitor off, he watched from the porch on the second floor with a sneer. I saw him shake his head. When our paths crossed the next day, he said, “Hmm, I thought you’re quiet o and would be different; I didn’t know you have joined the children of Sodom. God have mercy on your soul.”
Bartholomew was one of the tenants I met when I moved into the compound. He was considerably older than the rest of us; hence, we didn’t feel comfortable addressing him by his name alone. We called him Bro Bartho. He was also the longest-staying tenant and doubled as the caretaker. Information had it that he and the landlord not only hailed from the same community but were also relations.
Bro Bartho was tall and had the kind of body that needed little effort to stay lean. He could easily pass for a much younger man but for his receding hairline. He was very different from the regular Ariaria trader. He paid remarkable attention to his personal grooming, made sure his clothes were always ironed and often tucked in his shirts. He had long, lean fingers and took special care of his nails. Often, he assessed one’s hand before accepting a handshake. Something seemed off about him. At over forty, he was unmarried and showed no interest in women – I never saw him with one. He reminded me of a Reverend Brother from secondary school.
He also seemed uninterested in other activities one would usually associate with young and unmarried men. In the evenings, we sat in front of the store across the road and had drinks. He would ask for non-alcoholic malt drink while others took beer. He could take as many bottles of malt as others took of beer. When someone lit a cigarette, he would make a comment about people already roasting their hearts even before they got to hellfire; he would then move his seat away from the smoker.
For a man never seen with a woman, he showed surprising interest in discussions about them. He’d usually start by saying how this generation of youths was so obsessed with women and couldn’t stop talking about them. Then, he would launch into a conversation on the same topic. He liked to show that he knew women much better than those who slept with them. No one liked to argue with him.
One recurring theme of his conversations was that women were the special agents the devil was deploying to completely capture and enslave humanity. He would denounce them for wearing clothes that showed their flesh and rain curses on prostitutes. Sometimes, he went as far as declaring that the creation of women was the first mistake God made. At that, Peter or Ifeanyi would beg to disagree. “Nna, Bro Bartho, don’t go there o,” they’d say. “What is this life without women? Even you, as a man, what would you be hustling for?”
Bro Bartho would shake his head. “The day you meet God in judgement, ask Him what the life He gave you is for without women. Children of Sodom.”
“Children of Sodom” was his favourite epithet. During my first days at the compound, he had confided in me about the enormous but ultimately futile battle he had fought to keep the compound from descending into Sodom. There was sadness in his voice.
“I did everything possible to keep this compound pure,” he had begun. “Until the children of Sodom invaded, one of the rules was ‘no women’.” Seeing the uncomfortable expression on my face, he hastily added, “Not that women are totally not allowed here, but they’re not supposed to sleep over.”
“But everyone here is an adult,” I ventured. “Some have girlfriends and will get married sometime in the future; what is the problem if they choose to let their female friends sleep over? It’s their apartment, after all.”
Bro Bartho shook his head and smiled a sad smile. “This is the problem with you young people. You speak too much about freedom to the point of disregarding the One who gave you that freedom. Yes, it is their room, but does that permit them to live immorally? Even the body you have, are you supposed to use it in a way that does not please your Maker?”
“Well, I don’t endorse immorality o,” I declared, “but then I also understand that young bachelors are bound to have female friends. I don’t see why those friends cannot visit them.”
“So you also have a girlfriend?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment, but I’ll definitely have one sometime. I intend to get married someday nah.”
“Okay, you’re still looking for a girlfriend; and when you find one, you will be inviting her to your place, ehh?”
“If she wants to visit me, I can’t stop her nah.” The chat was beginning to look like an interrogation, and I couldn’t wait to excuse myself.
“And when she visits, what will you two be doing?” I thought I saw a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Haba, Bro Bartho, is there any special thing a man must do with a woman who visits him? Can’t they just relax and chat?”
“Keep deceiving yourselves,” he sneered. “Those that defile their bodies shall pay a heavy price on the last day. Let me tell you something you boys don’t understand. Most of these women roaming about are carrying bad luck and dumping it on unfortunate men. Many businessmen have had their destinies destroyed by these daughters of Eve. Some harbour such a powerful dose of bad luck that they can infect even those who did not have direct contact with them. That was why I was against women coming to this compound. But sadly, the children of Sodom do not understand this and started crying that I was trying to control everybody, as if the compound were my personal property. Anyway, I do not expect carnal people to understand things of the spirit.”
At that point, I pinched myself and concluded that I would probably not get along so well with Bro Bartho. Days later, I learned that he had let go of his attempt to enforce the ‘no women’ rule after nearly coming to blows with Ifeanyi for interrogating his female visitor.
Rumours swirled around Bro Bartho. One claimed that he had queer tastes, another that his organ was out of service, and still another that he had taken to celibacy after his tribulations in the hands of women. I didn’t know which was true and honestly didn’t care much about how a man chose to live his private life. Ordinarily, I would not be telling this tale but for what I saw one day.
I returned home one evening, sweating and in need of a quick bath. To my surprise, the shower was not running. I proceeded downstairs with a gallon to fetch water from the communal tap, only to discover that it was locked with an unfamiliar padlock. I hurried to Bro Bartho’s room to seek an answer and, hopefully, get the key.
I tapped softly on Bro Bartho’s door, but there was no response. I tapped again, louder, and still got no response. I pushed the door, and it gave way. Inside, Bro Bartho sat behind a laptop with an earpiece plugged into his ears. When he saw me, he moved quickly to close the screen, but his panicky fingers could not hit the buttons quickly enough. The curiosity of a tech enthusiast pushed me to investigate what he was doing with a laptop. I beheld some of the biggest black manhood I had ever seen and glistening naked women of varied anatomies.
“I was trying to analyse these prostitutes,” he announced with a muffled grin. I acted as if I hadn’t registered what was on his screen or noticed the giant bulge in his boxers, made my enquiry and left. For the rest of the day, and many weeks to come, one question kept ringing in my head: Does Bro Bartho also have desires of the flesh?
© Chidiebere Nnoli
augustchidiebere@gmail.com
