No Longer a Piece of Meat

Suya by KitchenButterfly

Theirs is a spacious car park unprotected from the glare of the sun and the noisy wind that ushers autumn in. Hers is the silver-grey Toyota Aygo, that ubiquitous city-car that cushions Europeans from the perils of economic recession, road tax, fuel costs, and ah yes, carbon emissions. His is the black Mercedes, that German beast that roars.

Having never seen him before, she wants to say hi, and make small talk, for the benefit of their mutual skin colour, if only for a few moments, so they can put up high walls against the cold and enjoy the warmth of solidarity.

Instead, she walks past him, and quickens her steps, the koi-koi of her heels, lost in the now harsh whispers of the wind, her mind replaying images she had thought long forgotten.

She is ten again and in the country club with her mother, in front of her soon-to-be swimming instructor, who took in her thin frame, and let his eyes linger, then wander, and then linger on the small mounds on her chest, which strained against her one-piece suit.

Her mother followed his gaze. What was supposed to be a conversation about swimming timetable, changed to a conversation about swimming lessons ending. The uneasy feeling that followed her relief and disappointment, which she could not define, she submerged in that room in children’s heads that they do not like to visit. Years later when she understood the term, dirty old man, she remembered the way he had moved his bushy eyebrows up and down in quick succession, as first her mother turned and then she turned to leave.

That thing that was in her swimming instructor’s eyes, she now sees in his. His eyes, they reduce her to a piece of meat. They touch her the same way that women and men haggling over meat in Lagos markets grab the meat from the wooden tables, slap the meat on the wooden tables, and push the meat on the wooden tables, wooden tables with fissures that are smooth with age and vegetable green at the edges.

Reflex causes her to tug at her skirt, to pinch the fabric in front of her thighs and try to drag it down, as though she can turn her mini skirt to maxi, as though her legs are not encased in black tights and boots.

His eyes drill holes in her back. She nearly misses her step. His laughter is low, but to her ears it is as loud as those of the traders who called her Shabba, and tried to grab her hands as she shopped at Tejuosho market long ago, wearing a long skirt with a thigh-high slit.

All the way to the traffic light where they encounter one another again, she thinks of his greedy eyes, his hungry smile, the shape of his gorimapa head, and the shiny darkness of his skin. She divides Africa into four: east Africa, south Africa, north Africa, and west Africa; he resembles her, but she cannot decide where he belongs.

She pulls up slowly beside his Mercedes and stiffens her neck. She wills herself not to look at him. But she does. You see, the force of his gaze, and everything intangible that had transpired between them is like a horse’s bit. His handsome features do not captivate her. His smile does not captivate her.

It is his left hand. The way he raises his shoulder and bends his elbow so his fingers rest on the steering wheel in the 12 ‘o clock position—that unmistakeable way Naija boys with new money driving new cars with shiny alloy wheels, hold the steering wheel—that is what captivates her.

So now, she knows where he belongs.

She begins to laugh and laugh and laugh some more as his brows furrow in consternation. She continues laughing as the traffic light turns green, and he speeds off. She laughs as the cars behind her pull out into the other lane and the drivers stare at her and shake their heads, before they zoom past. She laughs until the traffic light turns red. Then she stops. She is no longer a piece of meat.

 

Postscript

Chaos defines her Mondays, but the chaos lights her fire and adds purpose to her steps. The only thing that halts her fall is her desk, which is behind her. She feels its edge cutting into her thighs as she stumbles backwards for safety and support. Her gaze meets his and holds while they shake hands. When Ben gestures to another employee and whisks him away, Ben’s words hit home. With vast experience in mergers and acquisitions, he comes highly recommended from J.P. Morgan. He is her new manager.

 

© Timi Yeseibo 2013

If you loved the photo of the suya as much as my post or more than my post (how dare you?), if you miss suya and live where you can’t buy it, if you’re adventurous, if… if …, whatever, okay, read Kitchen Butterfly’s post about suya.

Photo credit: © Kitchen Butterfly

Original photo URL: http://www.kitchenbutterfly.com/2010/07/15/how-to-make-nigerian-suya/

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Advertisements

23 thoughts on “No Longer a Piece of Meat

  1. I am proud of anyone who decides to give up on the old allowing themselves to be viewed as a piece of meat. As a young woman, it was wrong of the swimming instructor and inappropriate, too to look at you that way! You have grown, changed and have come to be a smart woman who won’t put up with this kind of behavior! It is hard, even at my age, to sometimes not be complimented by attention. But I now view people who see my external self and not examine my internal self as shallow and not worth my time! Great post!

    Like

  2. u are who you are, the koi koi of the heels is fantastic, whenever i see you post i always read them when an less busy bcos i appreciate more and it always makes me laugh. keep it up

    Like

    1. Charles, I just read your link (btw, good job, that story needed to be told), and you are right. There are many dynamics in this post, and I’m so glad that you pointed this one out. Thanks.

      Like

  3. …and that suya, tomato and onions… we have to do something about that. I also think one of your greatest skill is in using the right picture(s) to go with your stories! You are good and I know where it comes from. I am looking forward to your novel… and movie adaptation!

    Like

  4. I can tell you what the guy was thinking… that must be Miss Juliet Imoti if I remember correctly from the on-boarding dossier of my new team… What are the odds we live in the same block…. Hmm, I must be wrong, this one seems to have a loose nut!

    Like

  5. Excellent writing and very imaginative as usual it was like I was there when it happened. I like the way u use the phrase ‘ his gorimapa head’ in the context of this story (lol!). It sends d message just the way its supposed to be. Yeye rich man !

    Like

  6. Timi, Timi….Gripping.

    I LOVE the way you write, the way you weave in history and our peculiar language. The images my mind conjures….Thank you for making me laugh, and feel proud of our collective African (Nigerian) understanding!

    Like

  7. I honestly don’t know what prompts some guys to see ladies as nothing more than just a piece of meat/ as some achievement to be conquered. Really enjoyed reading this piece, loved every bit of it, the ending was priceless, “She laughs until the light turns red”.

    *Dare I say, The mere sight of Suya rekindled some fond memories.*

    Like

The conversation never stops, please join . . .

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s