Love Is Power, or Something Like That: Stories by A. Igoni Barrett

Author:A. Igoni Barrett
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Graywolf Press
Published: 2013-05-06T23:00:00+00:00

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The first time I met him I shook his hand and nodded when he told me his name, told me about his job and how happy he was to meet me. I had just arrived in the town. It had been a long journey: I was road-grimy, irritable, and looking forward to sleep. I got down from the hired car and a small group of men standing in front of my hotel lobby rushed forward, calling my name. They closed around me, all smiles and jabbing hands and drumming voices, new faces and names. He was with them, a man of medium height—maybe five-eight, same as me—with skin the color of rotted wood. On both cheeks he had tiger-claw scars: long, deep, in quadruplet. I wondered if his tribal marks were the reason his smile was shy, wondered if I would ever meet him again. When he said his name I nodded and looked interested, but did not repeat it, did not memorize it, so his name, like him, the person, the face, was forgotten.

I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed. After a big breakfast in my room I went downstairs to the hotel lobby to meet the president, vice president, public relations officer, and treasurer of Frontrunners Club. These four were the leaders of the men’s social club that had invited me to run a five-day leadership workshop for its members. In my first seminar later that morning I introduced myself to the class, learned the names of my thirty-three students, and talked about my accomplishments. My opening address took longer than I had planned, and the signal for lunchtime—the president’s mobile phone alarm—interrupted me. The class resumed from the one-hour break one hour later. Despite grumbles from the students, I stuck to my lesson notes, I touched on every point I had put to paper. It was early evening by the time I finished, and my throat itched from talking. I needed a beer.

I stopped at the open-air bar opposite my hotel building. Whenever I drank beer, I chose Star. I’d placed my order with the bartender—she wore a short flared skirt, pretty, and she had a cushiony behind, strong calves, small-boned feet—and I was waiting for her to return with my drink so I could crack a joke to soften her up, maybe ask for her mobile phone number, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up. The name, Babasegun, did not mean anything to me. I did not recognise the face. At the expression on my face, his smile slipped, he dropped his hand. “I was part of the welcoming committee that met you at your hotel yesterday.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, remembering. “You’re the secondary school teacher.”

He nodded yes, and stood his ground, so I asked him to sit.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. He walked to a nearby table, picked up a plastic chair, brought it over, set it down, and sat facing me. I extended my hand; his grip was bold.

“Call me Iggy,” I said.

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