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foolish virgin, usury and legal tender.

amma birago

A letter. To the husbandman. His own with usury. I am the one who digged in the earth, and hid her lord's money, not the one who put his money to the exchangers, so that at his coming, his own with usury.

I hear love is looking for me in Africa. Looking for me everywhere. Looking for me, calling my name. ... My love is looking for me in my mothers village, on my grandmothers compound. So before I leave, I will tell you my story, tell to you all of my story and why I am leaving you. My first romance was before the cell phone. You see, before the cell phone, there were no plots then. There were no plots, or should I say there were real plots, plots thick and thickening, plots thick, thickening and yet without codes or passwords so you really had no idea when, how, who, at which time, on which corner, .... My first romance was before the cell phone. You could not craft encounters so much. You could not craft encounters really, nor image-consult and be camera-ready all the time. Once he came to find me carrying water from the well to our compound, a couple of mornings while I tended to the hens, or the goats. Livestock. Husbandry. Isnt husbandry what you call that? Animal husbandry. Well, poultry and animal husbandry Well, so one could not craft encounters so much. You could not craft encounters really, nor image-consult and be camera-ready all the time. Several times, he came to find me while I was getting my hair done, braided on the veranda, sitting on the floor in between the thighs of my auntie, my auntie who came to visit and our boudoir on the veranda, . This auntie of mine, grace embodied, a quiet graciousness

about her, purity and reverence in her every gaze and her very presence, her generous cheeks and mouth, restful and at ease. Her welcoming eyes that have known incalculable losses but extend to even strangers and onlookers alike a stubborn sparkle, a quiet and sincere interest and often engendering manifold stories of bread upon the waters, stories in this and surrounding villages, even those where her step-father is from, the border, Lome-Togo, also villages in Cotonou Benin, and even Calabar, beyond Lagos and even also Doula where she from time to time went to trade. My auntie seated on a kitchen stool, the slight cracks of her heels speaking volumes to the terrazzoed floor of the veranda, her sarong on which I was sitting and looking at the slight cracks in her heel, the cracks, slight but insisting on stories of untold hardship kept under gracious wraps, her welloiled heels, immaculate pedicure, bold and very woman-looking toes, strong toe-nails varnished burgundy, her sweet calves which bear her thighs, her thighs which cradle my head as she sectioned with a fine-tooth comb, sectioned, sweet fractals, architectural, draughtsman, the work of a reverent craftsman, these sections, She then fine-tooth combed, sectioned and combed once more, twice and then slightly oiled the length of my hair, her thumbs working my scalp, and then she began to deftly weft three-strand braids, the rhythm of the braiding, you would think an adept clipping my hair bit by bit with a pair of scissors, bit by bit, the braiding up and up, unrelenting, each one rooted by a sweet fractal, intelligent design and woman, while my eyes to her feet, so to allow for the nape of my neck from where she began working the first of the four sections.

That day the rhythm of her work, the unrelenting rhythm of her deft wefting gave, ... It gives and she taps my shoulder, her smiling eyes, the stubborn sparkle in them and my puzzled look, my puzzled look and looking to her, my neck slightly stiff, looking to her and looking to know why she was readying to up and leave, without a word, leave me without as much as a word, alone in our boudoir on the veranda, and my forever gracious and stubborn sparkly eyes and smiling auntie, packing up, upping and leaving, my hair, threequarters of the lot, yet to be braided, the one-quarter in sweet fractals, I raised my head, following the gesture of her eyes. The gesture of her eyes and there stood the handsome smile that was mine, the handsome smile that was looking for me, having waited patiently all those weeks I hear love is looking for me in Africa. Looking for me everywhere. Looking for me, calling my name. ... My love is looking for me in my mothers village, on my grandmothers compound. So before I leave, I will tell you my story, tell to you all of my story and why I am leaving you. You see, my first romance was before the cell phone, in fact there were no phones then, well, not in that part of Africa, in my mothers village and on my grandmothers compound in the outskirts of the city where I ran away to from home. My sweet and tender-hearted auntie, she gestured, I raised my head, and there stood the handsome smile that was mine, the handsome smile that was looking for me, having waited patiently all those weeks, waiting still, as though he would have waited till all of my giant jungle of hair was tamed, bracketed, fractals at their roots My auntie gestured and there, come out of nowhere, the Congo, Gabon, Chad, My auntie gestured and there was the

handsome smile that was mine, the handsome smile that was looking for me, having waited patiently all those weeks and now sneaking up on me. It was a Friday that day and that Monday, the first day of the week, a letter came. It was the week he wrote to tell me he would come to see me, that he was on his way the following week but not that day, not that week, not four days earlier, My letters, he said in the letter I received that Monday, all seven of the letters I wrote to him in the five weeks he had been away, Yes, he was waving the letters at me, as though it was my sweet punishment to be doled out, just like he said in his last letter that he would do, do to me, that he would drive me off to the foothills of Aburi, where we often went to wait for and watch the setting sun and there read each one to me, each letter, each stab at his heart, each arrow, each sentence, all and each which broke his heart while he was away from me on some trek of a sort, some devilish feasibility studies and the legalities that yanked him here and there and all over Africa, That there at the foothills of Aburi, there he would read all and each one of the letters I wrote to him, all and each which broke his heart while he was away from me and in my absence made it fonder At the foothills of Aburi, read each one of the letters, the breaking heart and rising woman in them, He is here! He is here! The sweet burden of missing him come to term and the woman hatched in his absence standing in my stead, standing in my stead and dreading the spell to be cast, the swoon of his touch, . the sway of his voice and eyes, the each one of these letters which he would read to me and under the heavy hand of his kissing, its heavy hand which directed, altered my character, bringing me forth, anew The beautiful bow of his brow, Read

each one to me, each one written in the deep of the night and by the fat yolky light of the lantern, the slight whiffs of kerosene, each one of those letters fat and sorrowful, fat and just so happy, so giddy-happy to have gotten two letters in one week and another time, the first time, baffled and not quite knowing what to do with the foreign currency, the South African Rand or some such brand of African country money stuffed in the EMS, the equivalent of DHL or UPS Stuffed in them, fictitious-looking notes, fictitious and dud-looking, but on them, on each one, bona fide, a statement, a statement hand-on-heart and sworn legal tender Legal Tender The name I reserved for him when no one was listening Legal Tender. When no one could hear me. Legal Tender on waking or in the middle of the night, because without him I lay fallow I hear love is looking for me in Africa. Looking for me everywhere. Looking for me, calling my name. ... My love is looking for me in my mothers village, on my grandmothers compound. So before I leave, I will tell you my story, tell to you all of my story and why I am leaving you. You see, So my first romance was before the cell phone, in fact there were no phones then, well, not in that part of Africa, in my mothers village and on my grandmothers compound in the outskirts of the city where I ran away to from the plush residential area of the city. This my first romance was with a junior attorney, just recruited and so had sold all of his time, his time and his heart to the new devil in town, Coopers and Lybrand, the company of men who sent my love trekking, taking an incongruous hike, this devilish company of men who sent my love trekking and accompanying explorations, feasibility studies in all over Africa and away from me for weeks at a time, so that at times he got to town before his letters,

he came before his letters which announcing his coming arrived, or they had arrived and I had not gone to the post office to get them because lovelorn and worn out being in love with him in absentia, or just worn out, paralyzed and unable to do much about his coming or going, especially his coming or because what use is there to know the day and time of his arrival if I could not be there at the airport, when I never knew if by plane he was to come or by red dirt road, red dirt road turned mud-slinging river, red dirt, his wellington boots and Land Rover cross-country and border-crossing Rugged attorney. I hear love is looking for me in Africa. Looking for me everywhere. Looking for me, calling my name. ... My love is looking for me in my mothers village, on my grandmothers compound. So before I leave, I will tell you my story, tell to you all of my story and why I am leaving you. That day, my auntie seated on a kitchen stool, the slight cracks of her heels speaking volumes to the terrazzoed floor of the veranda, her sarong on which I was sitting and looking at the slight cracks in her heel, the cracks, slight but insisting on stories of untold hardship kept under gracious wraps, her welloiled heels, immaculate pedicure, bold and very woman-looking toes, strong toe-nails varnished burgundy, her sweet calves which bear her thighs, her thighs which cradle my head as she sectioned with a fine-tooth comb, sectioned, sweet fractals, architectural, draughtsman, the work of a reverent craftsman, these sections, ... She then fine-tooth combed, sectioned and combed once more, oiled and began to weft deft three-strand braids, the rhythm of the braiding, unrelenting, intelligent design and woman, while my eyes to her feet, so to allow for the nape of my neck from where she began working the first of the four sections . The rhythm of her work, the

unrelenting rhythm of her deft wefting gave, ... It gives and she taps my shoulder, her smiling eyes, the stubborn sparkle in them and my puzzled look, my puzzled look and looking to her, my neck slightly stiff, looking to her and looking to know why she was readying to up and leave, without a word, leave me and our boudoir on the veranda. I raised my head, following where her eyes and head gestured to, and there stood the handsome smile that was mine, the handsome smile that was looking for me, having waited patiently all those weeks His second, third, fourth and fifth coming that year He came unannounced, making of me one of ten virgins which took their lamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom, making me one of the five foolish and unprepared virgins, one-quarter of my hair done, the three-quarters combed out, but wild, without fractals, my hair oiled but none, no oil in the vessel of my lamp, so that while he tarried, while my love in the company of devilish men, the company of men multinational and whatnot of Coopers and Lybrand, while he was feasibility studying and legalizing, compliance measuring and avoiding litigation, while he was gone hiking and lawyering, I lay fallow, I lay worn out, I lay lovelorn, absentminded, unaware of the time, often not knowing what time or what day it was, or what time of day, and this so often that frequently both his coming and I will be caught unawares. ... Foolish virgin. This man, this son of man, and often, suddenly, there it was, the handsome smile that was mine, the handsome smile that was looking for me, having waited patiently all those weeks and now sneaking up on me. . My first romance was before the cell phone. You could not craft encounters so much. You could not craft encounters really, nor image-consult and be

camera-ready all the time. Once he came to find me carrying water from the well to our compound, another time tending to the hens, their eggs in my fodder-lined basket, and many times while I was getting my hair done, braided on the veranda, sitting on the floor in between the thighs of my auntie, our boudoir on the veranda, One Monday, the first quarter of the year, it was on his second coming, his second coming unannounced, He came to find me working the pestle and the mortar full of palm kernels and the sweet scent of palm oil on my brow, on my brow and on my hands, my dress too and there he was the handsome smile that was mine, rugged attorney come from the heart and wild of Africa, come home to me or rather come to town, passing by, like Jesus, passing by because bound for another, making me, hand on heart, smile tears, my hand on my mouth, my hand on my heart and my heart in my mouth, in my mouth and in the pit of my stomach, sinking, sinking, shipwreck, high seas, overseas and over the moon. My first romance was before the cell phone. There were no plots then. You could not craft encounters so much. And so the plot thickened I hear love is looking for me in Africa. Looking for me everywhere. Looking for me, calling my name. ... My love is looking for me in my mothers village, on my grandmothers compound. So before I leave, I will tell you my story, tell to you all of my story and why I am leaving you. Tell you all of my story, why when I was sixteen I was on the run, sixteen, on the run and have never looked back since. Sixteen and on the run to my mothers village, my grandmothers compound and her arms.

I hear love has checked everywhere and hacked every which way and heard it confirmed that I am not on facebook nor am I on yahoo, not on hotmail either, not on google-plus and not on twitter, and that I never had myspace. You see, my first romance was before the cell phone and the internet, emails, instant messaging, and you could not rely on emoticons then Emoticons. You see, in those days, emotions were real, iconic almost. My first romance was before the cell phone and I was sixteen, almost seventeen when it happened to me, Life. Love. I was in the throes of it and in at the very deep end. Before the cell phone, there were no plots then. There were no plots, or should I say there were real plots, plots thick and thickening, plots thick, thickening and yet without codes or passwords so you really had no idea when, how, who, at which time, on which corner, ... In those days, life was organic, emotions were real, iconic, and life and love were the stuff of epic movies, life and love were firmly laced and overarched with Hans Zimmer and Lebo M orchestral and giant opening sequences. That was the life. And love was Lion King. Love was the circle of life. The heart of it. And now to why I am leaving you ... foolish virgin, usury and legal tender. A letter. To the husbandman. His own with usury. I am the one who digged in the earth, and hid her lord's money, not the one who put his money to the exchangers, so that at his coming, his own with usury.