Stranger in his Homeland

Chapter Twenty-Three

171 Chapter Twenty-Three F our days after the burial of Pa Godsabi Antony was still acutely haunted by a fear that he would become impotent. Since the shrinking in Mulyoka, his manhood had still shown no signs of any improvement. For the first three following the death of the old man he had not slept with Vicky on the same bed. She had slept with women relatives and friends who tried to comfort her. He had slept in the parlour with other men on the first night. But the second night he had returned to his own house. On the third night he joined her again in her father’s house. It was on the fourth night that they had shared the same bed. That night, with the tears of mourning still fresh on her cheeks she made him understand that she would like a little sex. Antony looked baffled but welcomed the idea because it was the only way finding out if the situation had altered. That night Vicky slept with it in her hands, exhausting all her art of manipulation. No good. It would mot stir from that stunted position. She may even have contributed to the worsening condition because of the suggestions she kept making to Antony. She would ask him to try fondling it with a thick lather of soap, or palm oil and things of the sort. All these only served to pull Antony farther and farther away from her. The following morning, Antony spent one whole hour in the bathroom trying to employ all the techniques he had read in books or overheard from conversations about how to arouse sexual desire. It remained motionless. When he emerged from the gruelling session he told Vicky that he would be going to hospital to let the doctor know about it. Having failed, herself, she agreed that it was a case for a doctor. It was to the Likume General Hospital that he went. After enquiring from different nurses, but without revealing what was actually wrong with him he learned that the doctor to see was Dr. Samkwere Mandieg. He was about fifty years old, or older, and had 172 Linus T. Asong been practicing for the past fifteen years. Rather fat, and about a meter and a half in height, he was a very highly respected doctor who was loved all over the town, not only for his selfless dedication to duty but for a very fine sense of humour towards his patients. He was a Urologist who had also studied Psychiatric medicine in the Jewish Hospital in East London, and Gynaecology and Obstetrics in Ibandan. There were some fifteen patients waiting to see Dr. Mandieg, each patient spending no more than ten minutes. As they waited an interesting scene took place in the doctor’s office which kept everybody waiting amused. An old man who had reported with a case of trembling hands was being interviewed by the doctor. “Do you drink alcohol?” the waiting patients heard the doctor ask him: “No, doctor,” the man said. “You do not drink at all, pa?” the doctor asked again in apparent surprise. The old man changed his answer: “I drink, docta. Small.” “You mean small how?” “It depends,” the man said. “It depends on what?” “If I am the one buying,” he began with rare honesty, “I can drink like one bottle a day.” “But if it somebody else buying?” “Ah-ah docta,” the man smiled, “it is the man’s pocket that will tell me when to stop. How can I deny free drink?” There was a roar of laughter amongst the waiters. When the man finished and was going out the people laughed again. Antony found nothing to laugh in it. He was only thinking of how he was going to explain his problem to the doctor. He was wondering what he would say if the whole exercise was going to be overheard by everybody else. The old man’s problem might have been laughable, he thought. His was not, and should not be made a joke of. Antony waited outside his office very patiently until it was his turn to see him. Then he went in. Mandieg sat behind a large rectangular table lined with formica. Laughter was never too far beneath the skin of his face. The configuration of his visage left an indelible impression of a suppressed smile. 173...