“I swear I feel my face involuntarily twitch, shift and settle into a frown every time Dubo’s actions return to mind. I still cannot believe a grown man with a beautiful wife and family would think that I, I would fall for his expanded waist line and distended gut because of a swollen wallet.
“Sauda, you’re a fool!” Ife was still laughing when I grabbed the grin off his face and crushed it with my foot.
I stood staring at Ife, wondering how to convey the revolting feel of Dubo’s pudgy palm choking mine like a vice, as a solitary, wet digit broke away from its chubby brothers to stroke, to stroke the center of my palm. Back and forth. Back and forth. How do I convey the depth of my shock at this man- my supervisor’s- boldness, his disrespect in a room full of colleagues. If Ife had seen the triple-decker of hate, revulsion and anger in my eyes clashing against an answering lust, hunger and anticipation in Dubo’s swollen irises, he may have left his grin under my shoe.
But, he didn’t. He continued to laugh. To laugh at my face, at the outrage edged between each lash, painted across my forehead, swirled across my cheek bones which now rose in indignation as I thought of the first time Dubo looked at me, I knew, immediately, instinctively, that I would avoid him always. He stared and stared until my nerve receptors learnt to fear his scent, knew his presence, felt his heavy, stifling looks when he joined my training that December afternoon. He looked at me like he had seen me in a compromising moment, as though he knew secrets about me. Or would like to know secrets about me; base, primal secrets. In that first week of training, my receptors were consistently alert to the heat of his eyes on the back of my head, side of my face, next to my ear. I would turn around on the lunch line after class and find myself nose-to-lip with him and at once I would feel my face twitch, shift, settle into a frown.
So I avoided him. And avoided him. Until yesterday. Now, every time I felt something slide against my palm I remember and I am angered afresh. What do I do? Who do I tell? And perhaps most disturbing, what is there to tell?
Everyone would ask me to man-up, ironic as it sounds. Sexual harassment was as Nigerian as bribery.
I could tell HR. Yes. And get respite if the Human Resources department is run by a woman. Yes. If it’s a woman likely to view things from a moral or pseudo-religious perspective. Yes. She would know what to do about this vile man who could not respect a fellow wife like her. Yes. She would pour out that unique blend of concern…and criticism …for after all, there are women in the same building who are not harassed, sexually or otherwise. Yes. My dressing will be discussed. Yes. My style, sashay, my sass. All of that. Yes. A recipe for harassment. Yes. I deserve it.
Yes. It could have been worse.
They will say.
So, I looked at Matter and cradled it in my own hands.
High-waisted trousers and a jacket to look mannish, strong. I accosted the accoster right in front of his office.
“Hey Man! You never treated me with the respect, the graciousness, the goodness I gave you.” I didn’t shout. I spoke. “Look, if you do not respect me…respect yourself. Or your wife. Or your kids, or the God you claim to serve. Or at the very least your damn job man! Because here’s the thing, I am unafraid. And I will annihilate you and nothing will happen to a hair on this body, the next time you look at me like you left something between my ribs. Touching my palm like you did? Rethink.”
I turned and stalked away…all the while worried that my bum might jiggle, negating the hard work of the last 54 seconds.
Then I thought, a bum jiggle and a hip sway are not my problem. For a man like this, cleaning my ears and picking my nose at the same time would be read as a sign of my desire for other things, in other holes. Crude and disgusting imagery fitting for a crude and disgusting man.
I finished my tale.
Ife, Ife asked if I was perhaps reading too much into too little?
There, in that moment, I wanted to wrap my little palms along the stretch of his long sinuous neck and squeeze until I heard the gentle melody of each tiny vertebrae cracking in tune with its swan song. I wanted to hold and press down, stop air from whizzing through until he wheezed, small and powerless, useless and afraid. Unable to protect himself.
Oh Wendelyn! 