Married But Available. B. Nyamnjoh

you to Mimboland, although I’m unable to think up possible accommodation for you right now.”

      In truth, he didn’t even want to try. Still fresh was a recent experience with another female Muzungulander student who arrived only to accuse a colleague, who had bent over backwards to accommodate a similar request, of having acted dishonestly by conniving to stick her into an expensive mildewed “rat hole.”

      So he wrote: “If I find nothing before your arrival, here are the names and prices of a few hotels for you to choose from … It rains round the clock here this time of year, so expect the rooms to be damp and mouldy …”

      He was not unaware of the fact that even zero star hotels such as those he had recommended are exceedingly more expensive than living with a family or renting a place, but he simply wouldn’t allow his efforts to be rewarded with ingratitude.

      “You could always find more appropriate lodging once on the ground.”

      With regard to NGOs he didn’t want to discourage her by saying he lacked faith in them. Instead he said she could easily link herself to one or several on arrival, as “Mimboland is a place where NGOs are formed and deformed on a daily basis”, and “the University of Mimbo has even employed the services of a fulltime money doubler to liaise with mushrooming NGOs that wither away like blighted plants.”

      Then he gave her the good news: “Find attached a letter of invitation, not affiliation, signed not by the VC, not by the Dean, but by the HOD. It is the best I can do for you. Hope it works…”

      And as a special favour to his friend Professor Dustbin Olala, he offered to meet her at the Sawang International Airport, “if you send me your flight details in time, and if the Internet gods are good humoured. In any case, look out for a man with your name on a placard.”

      “Safe trip and he clicked.

      The next week for Lilly Loveless was one of hectic preparations for what her mom worriedly termed “Lilly’s impending African misadventure.” In a way, her mom was right to. The first and only time she ventured into Africa for two weeks of vacation, Lilly Loveless came back with a few screws rearranged. Her choice of music had changed overnight into appreciation for wild drumming. She had plaited her lovely curly hair into dozens of little braids. She had practically forgotten her boyfriend of two years. All reasons why her mother would rather she went elsewhere to do her fieldwork.

      “Tribal communities are all over the third world, why your fascination with Africa?”

      “Mom, you too much,” Lilly Loveless would say, whenever her mother went on and on about the need to rethink her choice.

      “And I am right to,” her mom would persist. “Africa is too dangerous for a young woman on her own. See what happened between you and …”

      “Africa had nothing to do with it,” Lilly Loveless would interrupt her mom. “The relationship would have ended with or without what happened in Sunsandland.”

      Her mother would shut up only to resume yet again, at the next mention of Mimboland. But Lilly Loveless had made up her mind, and there was no turning back.

      ***

      The Air Mimbo flight was hitch free. The few women on the flight with Lilly Loveless were black, elegantly dressed, heavily jewelled, and mostly wore artificial hair grafted into their own hair or as wigs. The majority of Lilly Loveless’s co-passengers however were men, mostly black Africans, with only a handful of whites whom she thought were businesspeople, development agents, international civil servants, or husbands of Mimboland ladies. There were a few Arabs as well, mostly Lebanese – was her guess – if the literature on these parts of Africa was to be believed. And there were Chinese as well, lots of them, of whom the Muzungulander media had become so jittery of late, posing as they do, as the new conquerors of the consumer world. She imagined each of them with ‘Made in China’ stamps in their briefcases, ready to conquer every city and every village in Africa.

      Lilly Loveless did not regret her “courageous” decision to fly African. Her initiation into Mimbo ways started just as she had wished. Already, she had drank three cans of Mimbo-Wanda, the country’s most popular beer with its trendy, pacesetting, football-loving, Internet-crazy, cell phone conscious, vivacious youth, thanks to the friendly stewardess, Yoyette, who was keen on making her feel at home. She attracted Yoyette’s attention while standing at the back of the plane, watching the stewardess make coffee, as she waited for another passenger to finish up in the toilet. In her smart Air Mimbo outfit, Yoyette moved around the small kitchen opening this miniature metal cabinet and closing it securely before turning to open another. Lilly Loveless could not help remarking, “You girls sure do know how to manoeuvre in small spaces.” The stewardess paused, gracefully holding a small coffee cup by its handle, turned, and looked Lilly Loveless up and down, and back up, and said slowly, “We sure do, pretty.” And they bonded instantly.

      Lilly Loveless sat next to an elderly man with a fulfilled belly – politician by profession or aspiration. “You’ve got lovely blue eyes and nice curly blonde hair,” the man told her. He kept insisting she must come and study in Nyamandem the capital city instead, because, to his mind, no serious knowledge ever comes from the periphery, not to mention a rat hole like Puttkamerstown. “Nothing that matters happens in backyards,” he said repeatedly, licking his lips as if he had smeared them with honey. “Truth hails from the centre, falsehood from the margins,” he claimed, and with the fullness of his eyes, he protruded onto her face, “That you should know, being from the mother of all centres.” What made her slightly uncomfortable was the way he splashed his sneezes and coughs as if everyone around him wanted his showers of blessings.

      On her other side, at the window, sat a thin light-skinned black woman in a colourful lacy top that exposed her midriff, tight-fitting jeans, and big gold loop earrings. Her straightened shoulder length hair with waves almost overwhelmed her small face but with stunning effect. Before takeoff, she worked frantically on her laptop. Then she spoke on her cell phone in a rapid stream alternating between languages and interspersed with “Bisous, bisous.” Later, over a meal, Lilly learned she had just completed a degree in reproductive health in Muzunguland where her mother was originally from, and was now returning home to Mimboland to take up a post to train in HIV/AIDS prevention. When Lilly asked her how she lived her ‘métissage’ the woman replied that these days, even if it doesn’t show in the skin we are all mixed somehow.

      The descent to Sawang International Airport was breathtaking. The plane plunged gently through the clouds, revealing a vast and extensive sea of green in glorious synchrony with the sleeves of the Atlantic Ocean. This was the once virgin rainforest Lilly Loveless had only read about or seen in documentaries on TV. Even with the pride of its virginity gone, the balding rainforest was still a rare environmental hope in a world busy writing cheques the environment couldn’t possibly cash. The sooner more and more people understood that one can only command nature by obeying it, the better for all and sundry. Her heart flowed out to the mangroves below and to the shorelines of the beach to the east, full of colourful fishing boats and people in screaming attires. But her enthusiasm was tempered just as they approached the runway – a maze of grey shacks rose from the swamps like a nightmare. Greyer, because of the rain.

      The landing was smooth.

      After touchdown, the woman to her right offered Lilly Loveless a box of 250 condoms, saying “life’s too sweet and too short to waste”. Lilly Loveless broke out into a big smile and thanked her for the timely gift, having forgotten to bring some along despite repeated insistence by her reluctant mom. The woman also handed her a business card saying, “Don’t hesitate to give me a call if you need something while in Mimboland.” What a lofty mission she had! In a continent already devastated by lords of war, it made all the sense in the world to snatch what was left of life from the jaws of HIV/AIDs with laudable actions like hers.

      “A few thunder clouds shouldn’t dampen your enthusiasm,” the man to her right told Lilly Loveless, giving her his card, on which he had added by hand his personal cell phone number. As they separated, he whispered to her with his eyes, “I’m waiting for you in Nyamandem. Call me.” She looked at the card which had a Nyamandem