I used to live on the South Side of Chicago. I was surrounded by black people (yes, back then they were still called Black, so while I may be dating myself, I cannot be considered guilty of a racial slur here). I worked with black people. I lived with black people. I also partied with black people. That was my favorite part. Man, did they know how to party. For a while, I myself became black.
You could go to the baddest, scariest, most ghetto part of the hood, and amidst all the poverty and degradation you could still find a swank place with velvet seats, incredible music and three different floating bars which served any liquor your heart desired with a flourish and a smile. No matter how terribly the overall economy or neighborhood was suffering, these nightclubs raked in the dough and acted as an oasis of fun, ensconcing its patrons within a lovely veil where all was good and right with the world, between the magical hours of 2 and 5 am. If you could figure out a way to navigate the streets before and after such visitations, it was a virtual fairy-tale experience every single time.
Don’t get me wrong: I was literally the only white person in these joints, which were always packed wall to wall with human flesh. I got my share of dirty looks from the Project girls, who were invariably decked out in dated prom dresses with too many frills and in all the wrong colors, lining the walls like so many desperate advertisements of single women looking for a man to redeem their shitty lives. But I never was given a hard time beyond that, probably because by then I was pretty convinced I was black myself.
It was in one such nightclub that I met Joseph Agunbiade. He stood out in the crowd, not only due to his exquisite tailor-made suit and tie but also because he had a quiet dignity and self-respect that he had no need to overemphasize. He got attention for the mere fact that he didn’t try to draw attention to himself, a sign of a truly wealthy and self-confident man.
Joseph singled me out immediately. He knew what he wanted, and he wanted me. I enjoyed his company and I enjoyed his attentions. He was educated and well traveled, and his Nigerian accent lent a lovely lilt to even the most mundane of phrases. His goal was to be a millionaire by the time he was 30, and he was well on his way to doing just that.
His uncle was the Nigerian Minister of Defense, and his father was a village chief with 15 wives and countless children. All of the wives got along because the first wife had the power of veto as well choice over which other wives her husband was allowed to add to his collection. Joseph told me about his father’s 80th birthday party. His entire village had been closed down for a week. Thousands attended. Dozens of cows, sheep and goats were slaughtered and consumed at what sounded like the world’s biggest free-for-all barbeque.
Intriguing? Absolutely.
Joseph bought me a gold necklace and promised me that if I married him, I would get my own boy. By “boy”, he meant someone who would do whatever I said and ensure that my every need and whim was immediately attended to. I told Joseph I didn’t want a boy. Call me paranoid, but I disliked the idea of having a boy hiding behind my throne and popping up out of nowhere like a jack-in-the-box whenever I snapped my fingers.
This was back in the day when I didn’t think about who would do my laundry, ironing, cleaning or shopping for the rest of my life if I didn’t have my own pet boy to make sure someone other than I would be stuck with these tasks.
And make no mistake: if I married Joseph, I’d get my own throne.
Joseph told me stories of growing up in Nigeria. According to him, Nigeria was the artistic capitol of all of Africa. Its music, drumming and other arts rivaled none other on the Dark Continent. He told me about smoking banana peels as a child. That may have been his wildest transgression. He fed me an incredible stew made of green and red peppers, onions, tomatoes and cow feet and stomach linings. It was so good I demanded (and got) the recipe (I still make it to this day and never have to share it with anyone when I tell them what’s in it). Together, we explored the streets of Chicago. I liked Joseph. Joseph liked me. He did not hide the fact that it was hi intention to marry me. I did not want to marry him. I was not in love with him and back then I thought people married for love, not money. Besides, I was living with Eddie at the time.
After I graduated college, I moved to Tucson, Arizona, where Eddie was attending grad school. I gave away nearly all my earthly possessions in an attempt to emulate what little I knew of Zen Buddhism and drove myself and two dogs across the country to live the simple life in the deserts of southwestern America. Joseph and I stayed in touch. He continued to profess his intentions for marrying me and whisking me away to Nigeria, where I would have my damn boy and throne. Joseph didn’t understand that I was trying out the whole “less is more” concept and that his promises weren’t exactly hitting their mark.
Joseph finally conceded defeat in his amorous attempts and tried a different tack. He suggested that he and I become “travel companions”. His proposal was this: he liked to travel, and so did I. He preferred to travel in the company of another. For this reason, he would like to buy me tickets and lodging to far-flung places all over the globe, where we would meet and explore the area together.
Now this hit the mark.
For our first trip, he invited me to Vegas, all expenses paid. I made Joseph promise me that he’d get me a separate room if I agreed to his proposal, which he did without hesitation. I pitched the idea to Eddie, and he told me to do whatever makes me happy. I immediately informed Victor that I was chafing at the bit for this opportunity. Joseph sent me my ticket, Eddie drove me to the airport and Joseph picked me up at the Vegas airport.
Joseph had made reservations at a particularly swank and brand-new hotel on the Vegas strip. I was already impressed by his taste and class just walking into the lobby. Joseph showed me up to my room. It was large, with a round, king-sized bed and mirrors on the ceiling. Joseph’s luggage was already in the room. It was at that moment that I realized he hadn’t honored his promise of separate rooms. But what was I to do at that point? I’d let a man purchase my ticket to a strange city, and now I was pretty much at his mercy.
Goddamnit. Now what? I hadn’t thought of this contingency. I was now officially stuck in the craziest town on earth with no cash or credit of my own, at the mercy of a Nigerian businessman.
Fucking brilliant. Welcome to Sin City.
This story did not end well, and that's all I will say about it for now.
No comments:
Post a Comment