CYBER-STALKING (for P.A.O. and I.O.E. - na dat small tori wey I talk say I go write) Patra sank her weight gingerly on to the padded seat before the table on which her laptop sat. She exhaled slowly, her vision clouding, then clearing, as she kicked off her high-heeled shoes. It had been a stressful day, and she could feel and smell the effects of that day on her. She shook her head, her lush black Brazilian weave bobbing up and down. She switched on the laptop. She needed something to distract herself with about enduring the yinmu-charged atmosphere that was her work-place. Although she was the boss of the place, she knew that those under her resented her for being four things: young, beautiful, successful and their boss. The air over there was always filled with their passive-aggressive shenanigans. Patra logged on to Facebook. It was a place where she could go and relax, enjoy the best of all possible worlds without really gathering the rust and dust which interactions in the real world usually covered one with. Within that virtual world of blue and white, she could let her hair down without fear. She could allow her inner Betty Friedan to show. While at work, she had made a number of wall-posts, with her Blackberry, bordering on her favourite topics: womens rights and politics. She saw a lot of notifications awaiting her. She ignored those from other wall-posts she had commented on and tags, and focused on hers. As she read through one thread, a comment leaped up to her, quite unique in its idiocy, shallowness and vitriol. She paused to read it, read the user name of the person who had made the comment, and sighed. It was from her usual Facebook stalker. She sighed and replied the other comments. She knew, even before opening the other comments, that she would come across her usual stalker s comments. She did not bother to read them this time. She knew from experience that they would all be remixes of the same boring song. She went back to her news-feed. She saw her message icon indicating that she had a number of inboxed messages awaiting her. She clicked on the icon and, in the midst of the messages lying there, she saw a message from her stalker. Something told her to open it, although she did not want to. She opened. She read. It was the same old hate-filled jazz. Luk, Patra, the message began, I do nt knw who u finks u r. U cums 2Fbuk 2 prtnds dt u r a sent nd d rest of us r evil pple. Bt I knw ur typ. U r nthg bt a cummn tief. Nonsense APC Tinubu who wants 2cums nd cnfuses pple. Go bak 2Bourdiln nd tell ur sugr dady dt we r nt fool. We doesnt... Patra paused there. The queer orthography was giving her a headache, to say nothing of the grammar. She clicked on to the profile page of the stalker. A snapshot of a healthy looking, rotund woman figure, with torchlight-bright and a smile like something on a Halloween pumpkin, drew her attention. The woman was wearing a headtie and white lace material. She looked to be in her middle-forties. Her face did not ring a bell. Patra scrolled down the profile page and was surprised to see that the woman had attended schools in London and the United States, and that she had two Masters Degrees. Her bio showed that she was also married and that she even had children. A sigh dropped out of Patras mouth. She wondered for the umpeteenth time whether she should delete the woman from her friends list. Her mouse-button lingered for a while on the Block This Person icon. As she hesitated, she thought about her many encounters with the woman. None of them had been fruitful. They had all be hate-filled - on the womans part. But she could not find it within her to block the woman. She was not the type of person who blocked off people that easily. She wished at that moment that she had the facility of Yam-Head, another Facebook pal of hers, in that department. That one blocked people with the ease with which Ijebu man consumed wraps of amala. Patra sighed and closed the womans profile page. She put off the decision to block for another day, went to take her shower and dropped off to bed, to awake before midnight... Some two weeks later, Patra was on her way to work. As she was driving in, she saw a young man standing by the gates and waving for her to stop. Patra was late for an appointment, so she did not bother to stop. Beside, this was Lagos. Only a JJC or a public taxi or bus stopped when strange young men waved in their direction. But as she was alighting from her vehicle, she saw the young man running towards her, the two uniformed, elderly security men who guarded the gate hot on his heels. Patra wanted to run herself, but something told her to remain. So, she did, her heart lodged in her throat, beating quickly. Ah, guu morni, ma, the young man said in-between pants. Patra nodded in reply - she was still too terrified to speak. Erm, ma, my moda die yestehdey. She say you were her best frien. Patra frowned. But who is your mother? she asked him. He gave her a name. It did not ring a bell. She hask me, the young man continued, to tank you for peshience for her on Fesbuk. But, young man, frankly, I do not remember your mother, Patra protested. The name is strange to me. The young man dipped into the large brown envelope he was holding, fished out a photograph and handed it to Patra. That was when the realisation hit her. It was the photograph of her Facebook stalker. Patra gasped. As she was trying to make sense of the whole thing - the fact that the woman was dead and how come she, Patra, was her best friend - she realised that the young man was still talking. ...Den hour fada chase her hout of di ouse hand marry anoda woman. We go to Okoko to live. Er friend leave and run away. Hi work ard for hus. Den she die yesterday, kill ersef. Di pain was too mush. Hi dunno if... His voice trailed off. Patra let the photograph fall from her hand as her eyes clouded in tears....
Posted on: Sat, 28 Jun 2014 11:18:14 +0000
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