Obiageli walked quickly to the car park, craning her head slightly and peering into the darkness which enveloped the parked cars. She did not see the navy blue Mercedes. Did Paul not say he was going to be here at half seven? As she waited impatiently, a mosquito bit her on the leg and she bent down and scratched furiously and then spit on her hand to wipe away the white scratches that she did not see in the darkness but which she knew from experience must have appeared on her dark legs.

She stared into the dim darkness, hoping that he had not parked right in front of the hostel. She had asked him not to; she did not want the florescent lights shining on her. She did not want anyone to see her entering a car, even though many girls did this; men came to pick up their girlfriends every evening. Many of the men even went into the hostel to see the girls -- the ones who had become girlfriends and the ones who were still being wooed. They parked their cars in front of the hostel. Some of them would wait for the girls outside; others would go into their rooms to get them. This Friday evening was no different; girls were coming out, some of them skimpily clad, others in more modest clothes like Obiageli, chatting with their campus boyfriends or entering into the cars of men who were waiting to take them into the town for the evening or for the weekend or for the wild parties that provided fodder for gossip in the university.

She had met Paul two days ago as he drove into the university campus and she walked into the campus. Paul had stopped in a flat-boot Mercedes car and offered to drive her in. He asked her charmingly, a pleasant smile on his dark face. She thought it would be churlish to refuse; she did not admit to herself that she was flattered.

She could immediately tell from the way he spoke that he was not Igbo. She was right; he told her he was from Benue and had just been posted to Enugu from Jos a few months before. He worked in the army at the 82 Division of army command in Enugu and was thinking of doing a diploma programme in the Faculty of Business. She had told him she was a second-year student in the Faculty of Law.

"You are very beautiful," he told her.

"Thank you," she said a little diffidently. She hoped he really thought so; she was conscious that her clothes were not of the same quality as those worn by many of the girls in school.

"No, seriously," he said, an earnest look on his face, as if he had telepathically read her mind. "You should think of entering one of those beauty contests, you have a beautiful face, a nice figure and the height."

She smiled shyly. She was tall like her mother and people said she also had her mother’s pretty looks. She had never thought of entering a beauty contest before and even though she knew she would not do so, she found herself liking this man for paying her such compliments. He was good-looking too; his complexion was brown and not at all too dark, and he had a dimple when he smiled. Even though he was sitting, Obiageli could tell that he was tall.

When he dropped her off at the hostel, he asked if he could see her again one evening and they had settled on today. She hoped that he did not pick up on her overwhelming eagerness.

From the morning, she had been excited, picking out her best blouse and a skirt and ironing them carefully with her roommate’s iron. When she dressed up this evening, she applied white powder on her face and lined her eyes with an eye pencil; that was all the make-up she knew how to apply. Two of her roommates asked where she was going and she lied and said she was going to the class to study. She had no reason to share anything with them, least of all this special first date.

A few more minutes passed and she was beginning to wonder if he would show up before she saw Paul’s car pull into the driveway. She walked up to the passenger door and entered the car. "Good evening," she said.

"Good evening," he replied. "Have you been waiting long?" he asked and without waiting for her to respond, he added that he had left work a little later than usual and had to do some other things before coming out. It wasn’t a full apology but Obiageli did not make too much of it. Her heart was pounding a little strangely with excitement. "You look nice. I like girls who do not wear too much make-up," he said.

She smiled at him, but said nothing. She was afraid that her voice would come out trembling. He looked and smelled nice too, his lean body said that he took regular exercise and his cologne was strong and masculine just as in the books that she read. Would he notice that she was not wearing any perfume she wondered? She glanced at his profile as he drove. He was as handsome as he had been on the first day and subsequently in her imagination, handsome and mature. She was not sure how old he was, but she guessed that he was perhaps about thirty. Chikelu would think that was too old. But Nkiru her best friend would say that he was mature. Obiageli found herself agreeing with Nkiru.

"So, where would you like to go? We could go to a wonderful suya place I know in New Haven or to eat some nkwobi in Ogui Road although that place may be crowded this evening," he told her.

She wanted to say that it did not matter where they went. She did not know either place and did not particularly care what she ate. It was enough to be with him and look on his handsome face, listen to his strangely accented deep voice, smell his masculine cologne and glory in simply being with a man. But he was waiting for an answer and she said. "Wherever you choose is fine," she said.

"Ok, we will go to the suya place. Sometimes they waste plenty of time in the nkwobi place, and they may have lots of people especially on a Friday like today," he said. This made little difference to Obiageli had had neither suya or nkwobi. She leaned back from the edge of her seat in the luxurious car and tried to enjoy the ride to the suya place.

At the suya joint, a crude barbecue machine, which was really a big metal drum, perhaps formerly used to store oil or water, with a metal see-through tray was roasting several pieces of kebab-like sticks of meat, sweet-smelling smoke rising into the sky. Paul called over the waiter, who greeted him familiarly, calling him captain. Although she was nervous, Obiageli could tell that he came here regularly. She hoped that she could act as though she was used to this sort of thing.

"What type of suya do you like to eat?" he asked her.

"I don’t have any preferences," she told him. She did not know what types of suya there were; she had never had suya before.

"Oh, really? I prefer chicken suya myself. Ram suya can be tough to chew sometimes and I find they put too much groundnuts or whatever they make the beef suya with that it just turns my stomach. Get us the chicken suya," he told the waiter with authority.

"What will you have for drinks sir?" the waiter asked.

"Bring me big stout," he said to the waiter and turning to Obiageli, he added, "You will have small stout, or do you want big stout?"

"No, I don’t want small stout," Obiageli said a little shyly, trying to look at him, but unable to place her eyes on his. It was enough that she was sitting out at night with a man, but she would not add drinking alcohol. Involuntarily, the sound and image of Papa Osondu, their neighbour in the quarters, singing loudly and falling down drunkenly in front his house when he had had too much to drink as he frequently did, and the gratitude that her father did not add drinking to his gambling problem rose up in Obiageli’s mind.

"I thought that girls liked small stout. Do you prefer Star beer?" he asked her.

Obiageli could tell that he really believed that most girls drink alcohol, so she said, "No, I don’t drink alcohol."

"Come on baby," he cajoled, "you are a big girl now. How old are you?"

A little anger welled up in Obiageli. He was asking her how old she was right in front of the waiter who was listening intently to them.

"I would like a Fanta please," she said, choosing to ignore his question. As if he could sense that all was not well, he told the waiter to bring a Fanta and a big stout.

"So, you don’t drink alcohol," he said smiling indulgently at her. She did not smile back; there was something belittling in that smile. It said that even though he had said she was a big girl, she had acted like a child, but he was willing to forgive her. "You should try it," he continued. "It clears your head and makes your thoughts sharper, particularly stout."

"So, are you enjoying your course?" he asked.

"Yes," Obiageli said immediately. Study was something she liked talking about. "Law is actually very interesting. The cases are really interesting, especially the old English ones. There was this case of the woman who found a dead snail in her drink and sued the company. When I have Fanta now, I check the bottom of the bottle."

He was smiling at her but she could tell that he was not really paying attention to her. She kept quiet. "Baby," he said, and she wondered why he called her that. Did he call all the girls he knew ‘baby’ she wondered. "I can see you like books. That is good. I was a lazy student myself, even before I went into the army, I knew I did not like books."

"Why did you join the army?" she asked him. He launched eagerly into the story of how he joined the NDA. Obiageli could see that the army was a big thing in his life and that he liked to talk about himself. He told her how an uncle had been an army and how he had admired him, how he had been a troublesome child at home and how this uncle encouraged him to join the army. The discipline in the army, the hierarchy and the order fascinated him. He had joined in 1983 at nineteen just before the Buhari/Idiagbon coup that overthrew the civilian Second Republic led by Shagari. Now that they were running the country, life in the army was very good, he told her, and there were many opportunities to make money.

"But don’t you think the country would be better if we had a democracy?" she asked.

He frowned; he did not like being interrupted in the middle of saying important things. "Democracy?" he said. "When there was democracy what did it do for the country? Did politicians not go sharing bags of money leaving the so-called poor masses to suffer?"

"But is that not exactly what the military is doing now?" she asked him. There was no logic in what he was telling her. Everyone knew the military was bad for the country. People lived like prisoners in their own country and their human rights record was appalling.

"At least now there is some semblance of order in the society. You were still little in 1983 I am sure. How old are you?" he asked.

Obiageli did not see the connection between her age and knowing the history of her country. But she told him, "I am eighteen. How old are you?" she asked boldly.

"I am thirty-four, quite a bit older than you and certainly more knowledgeable in these matters than you," he told her smugly.

She had guessed thirty, but thirty-four was close. Their drinks and suya had arrived while they were talking and he dug into his plate, clearly unwilling to pursue this particular conversation. Obiageli ate too, enjoying the chicken suya and thinking that she would have liked to take some home for her brothers, but her mother would ask how she got it and Paul might wonder at her wrapping up the chicken to take with her. They made some conversation, nothing more about politics, mostly about Paul and how much he liked Enugu, which he found quieter than Lagos, but not too quiet with good eating places and attractive girls like Obiageli. She sat quietly listening to his deep manly voice; hoping. He did not seem to mind that she was not saying much; he obviously liked to talk.

At the end of their meal, when Obiageli was wondering if this was the end of the night and if he would see her again, he suggested that they should go to his house and stay for a while. The night was still young and she had no classes the next day. Obiageli had no watch, but she knew it must be at least ten o’clock at night. But she did not object, she was not going back to anything special in the hostel and she was eager to extend what seemed a magical night.

His house was a small bungalow in GRA, where the British colonial government had once housed the civil servants and which subsequently was taken over by the state government. Some of the houses were still allotted to civil servants, but increasingly accommodating private persons were buying them for large sums from the government, and putting tall fences in the previously unfenced compounds to keep out armed robbers. Paul’s house was lightly furnished; the sitting room was covered in a brown carpet and contained just a single sofa, a rectangular, wooden centre table and a large TV set and CD player. There were a single enlarged photograph of him in his uniform and a large round wall clock on the wall. It did not really say much about the person who lived in this house except, perhaps, that he was a bachelor. He asked her to sit down and make herself comfortable and went into the house.

She sat down on the sofa, but she was careful not to get too comfortable. Now that they were here, she was not sure why she had agreed to come home with him. Besides, it was late, the clock on the wall said it was quarter to eleven. She was thinking that she would tell him that she wanted to go back to school when he came out with two bottles of Star beer and glasses on a tray.

He poured the drinks and held out a glass to her. She shook her head and said no.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked, gulping down his drink quickly. "Are you the only girl in Enugu that does not drink beer?"

She did not answer the question and said quietly that she would like to go back to school.

"But, you only just came here. I will take you back soon, stay with me a little while," he said cajolingly. Perhaps he was lonely, Obiageli thought. It could not be easy being new to a town, with no family living close. But, she thought uneasily, it was getting really late, she had never been out of the school this late.

He sat down and put on the television. The CNN news was on. He listened to it for some seconds, poured himself a second drink and moved closer to her. His free hand went around her shoulders and he hugged her to him. She was rigid with nervousness and excitement, her heart beating the tune of a crazy drum; she was uncertain what would happen next, but afterwards, she could not be sure whether she merely thought or hoped he would kiss her. He put down his glass on the centre table and with both hands now he drew close to her again. She was not quite sure what happened next but he was hugging her tight and his lips were on hers. Something told her that this was going too fast, faster than she had anticipated. Any idea of romance fled from her brain, a little panic gripped her, sweat formed in her armpits and she began to struggle out of his hands. He held her even more tightly.

"Please, please, this is too fast," she begged.

"You Enugu girls too do," he said in Pidgin English. "Even when you want it, you want the man to beg for it," with which he proceeded to tear off her blouse. Somewhere during the struggle Obiageli gave in. He was too strong for her.

He grabbed her breasts and began to suck greedily, his saliva dribbling over her face. His own face was no longer handsome, but was contorted into something ugly and predatory. In a hungry and lustful voice, he complimented her on being a proper woman, an African woman with breasts. Big breasts ran in her family; her mother, her grandmother, her aunt Mama Ogechi all had big breasts. But she did not say this, instead her mind hurried him on; she wanted it to be over soon. She tensed as he entered her. The first pain hit her and almost sucked the breath out of her. When she recovered a little, the smell of beer wafted from his open, grunting mouth all over her face. As he pounded up and down between her legs, she did not say to herself that this was a travesty of what she had imagined her first time would be. That belonged to the world of novels; this was what the real world felt like: this pain and shame. Indeed, she did not think of the act that was going on. A dissonance stood between her mind and body: her mind always worked feverishly when she felt herself to be in trouble. Instead the smell of beer brought back the image of Papa Osondu, their neighbour, his loud nonsensical songs, his stumbling around. Was the Constitutional Law test on Thursday or Friday, she wondered. Why did law lecturers find it difficult to give areas of concentration for tests? It sometimes felt as if they wanted to punish the students. Her mind went to anywhere and everywhere but to the inescapable act which was going on as if it would never end.

He gave a little cry as he climaxed, and he shook as if the cold was gnawing his insides, which could not be, Obiageli thought, because his sweat was dripping down on to her chest. A short time later, he ceased all movement. His body felt limp and heavy on hers and she felt something inside her shrivel up in defeat and die. Afterwards, he rose from her body and lay by her side on his back.

"I would like to go back to school," she said to him after a short time. She had put on her clothes which had been strewn on the carpet and were now rough-looking from the earlier struggle. She could see some blood stains on the floor where she had been lying. If he saw the stains, he did not say.

"It is late," he replied, his back on the carpet, and his face looking up at the white ceiling but not at her. Let us go to the bedroom and sleep. ‘I will take you back tomorrow morning."

"No," she said coldly. "I want to go back now." She wanted to shout and say, ‘I want to go back and have a shower and wash myself and see if I can get the dirtiness out of my skin, my insides,’ although something told her that no amount of water would make her clean and whole again. Her anger was directed more at herself than this man whom she barely knew. She had been stupid and naïve and now she was soiled.

"Don’t be silly, I will take you back tomorrow."

She said nothing; she just walked to the door.

When he saw that she seemed serious, he stood up, not bothering to cover up his nakedness and said coldly, "You will have to walk back to school then." It was obvious that he could not see what she was creating fuss about. He picked up his clothes and went into the bedroom.

She opened the door and peered outside. The mango trees in front of the house seemed menacing, like ghosts with big heads waiting to catch the disobedient little child who against his mother’s instructions leaves his bed in the middle of the night when he thinks no adult is looking. Anger and frustration gnawed at her from inside; she did not know the area well and could not think of walking out into darkness. She would have to wait for the morning. She went back into the sitting room, sat down on the sofa and began to sob quietly. She did not know when she fell asleep. When she woke up, it was almost half seven and the sunlight was streaming into the sitting room through the windows as if the night had not happened. But the night had happened for there Obiageli was, sitting on the sofa, her neck which she had rested on the arm of the sofa aching from the awkward position it had been in and her breasts painful from all the grabbing, pulling and chewing of last night.

In the morning, bare-chested he walked into the sitting room and greeted her as if nothing had happened, as if he saw her in his sitting room every other morning. He asked her affably if she wanted some breakfast. She was careful not to look at him directly as she said no, she just wanted to go back to school. He said he would have to dress up. She waited for him to do so. Soon, they were in his car driving to school. The silence in the car was thick and the air conditioner she had considered a luxury the previous night felt as if it was blowing air on a corpse in the mortuary.

In front of the hostel, he stopped the car and asked when he could see her again. It was incredulous that he would ask her that, but she did not say so. She only said she did not know. He looked at her for a moment and then took some money out of his wallet and offered it to her. She hesitated, looking first into his smiling face and then down at the money. It seemed like a large sum of money; there were hundred naira notes in the bundle still intact with the white paper band that the bank put on it to hold it together. Recalling how difficult things were at home, the mimeograph lectures she could buy with it, she pushed out intruding pride and futile humiliation, took the money silently and got out of the car.

She walked into the hostel, hoping no one she knew would see her; how did other girls who went out at night walk into the hostels in the morning she wondered? Her own walk into the hostel was hesitant, less sure than it had been only the previous night.

When she looked back on that night afterwards, the shame that pervaded her being attached itself to the excitement of a first date, to her painful innocence and naiveté, to her powerlessness in the face of a domineering evil, and to the humbling moment she took the money.