FEMI AND SEGUN
Sitting alone amidst the assembly of unknowns, he couldn't help but wonder how he had ended up in this situation. The train was packed to the brim, with bodies tightly squeezed together like disorganized matchsticks in a matchbox. The others seemed to prefer standing over sitting next to him, and he couldn't blame them. He stood out like a multicoloured firecracker in a sea of monotony. His imposing figure, standing at six-foot-one or two depending on his posture, was stocky and square-faced, with a pair of almond-shaped eyes that peered out from either side of a small nose. He was dressed in his customary attire, an extravagant agbada, a free-flowing kaftan-like outfit that went all the way down to his heels, with big flowing sleeves that were carefully folded into three pleats. The embroidery at the neck matched the detailed patterns on his outfit. He wore three out of the four pieces that made up the agbada, and his favourite blue fìlà, a type of cap, was covering his freshly cut hair. It wasn't a costume or a cultural day; this was just his usual attire for significant occasions. As he sat there, he couldn't help but feel like an outsider, an anomaly in a world that didn't quite understand his flamboyant style.
As the train hurtled towards its next stop, Robina, Femi scanned his surrounding. It was like playing a game of 'spot the difference,' and he was the obvious choice. He didn't belong there, and he knew it. The other commuters disembarked in a rush as soon as the train screeched to a halt, eager to start their day. Femi, on the other hand, heaved a heavy sigh of relief. It was always a relief to get off the train, away from the suffocating feeling of not belonging. But today was different. As he watched the rail staff assist a lady in a wheelchair off the train, their eyes briefly met. Femi's heart swelled with warmth as she smiled at him, and he nodded back. For that fleeting moment, Femi felt like he belonged and was a part of something bigger.
As Femi settled into his seat, a reminder on his phone buzzed - his psychiatrist appointment was in just thirty minutes. He let out a sigh and gazed out the window, trying to calm his racing thoughts. His mind felt like an untamed stallion, galloping wildly out of control. He remembered how it all started, in his small living room in Taringa, sipping on a sweet and fruity zobo drink made from hibiscus plants. As he savoured the flavours, he stumbled upon a TV program with a tall man whose egg-shaped head spewed venomous words with spit flying everywhere, said with a scrounged up face that Australian was being invaded and were at risk of losing their identity . Femi couldn't help but wonder if he was the problem. But before he could even squint for an answer, the man disappeared, leaving him feeling unsettled. Femi switched the channel and tapped his sofa with frustration, as his drink turned sour in his mouth, and the air around him grew stale.
Sleep evaded Femi, while anger became a constant companion. He used to brush off the jabs about his slimy Okoro soup at work, but lately, he could barely contain his frustration. Just the other day, his boss Lachlan had triggered Femi's anger, making him clench his fists in an attempt to control his temper. Lachlan's red eyes and scrunched-up face made him look like a crazed dragon, ready to devour Femi. With a deadpan expression and two heavy sighs, Femi knew he was in trouble - he would likely lose his job soon. He had left Nigeria after his National Youth Service Program, hoping to escape the memories that had become monsters in his mind. He wanted to explore the world, but he had forgotten that distance couldn't erase the ghosts of his past.
*
Femi knew he needed help and was thrilled to find a Yoruba psychiatrist, Dr Segun Agoro, practising privately in Queensland under the name 'Freud meets Beck.' Although he found the name odd, Femi understood that Australia was a land of peculiarities. He called to make an appointment but was informed of a two-week wait. However, yesterday, Linda, Dr Segun's receptionist, delivered the best news he had heard all week - a cancellation meant that Femi could see the doctor the next day. Linda's nasal north Queensland accent made the news even sweeter.
As Femi made his way to the appointment, he wondered what Dr Segun Agoro would be like. Femi had seen his profile photo online - Dr Agoro wore a black suit with a black bow tie, a well-groomed goatee, and a stylish haircut that revealed his dark, thick eyebrows and big black eyes. A pink tinge in the middle of his lower lip complemented his nose that sat perfectly above his lips, equidistant from both cheekbones. Dr Agoro's dark tanned skin and melting eyes always gave off a reassuring expression, and his broad smile exposed two rows of perfectly white teeth. Femi couldn't decide if the photo was photoshopped or if Dr Agoro had a dentist who gave his teeth regular scaling and polishing - they were just that perfect.
Dr Segun Agoro was a seasoned adult psychiatrist, who had honed his craft studying overseas for many years. He had completed his high school education at the prestigious Kings College, Lagos before journeying to England to pursue his medical degree at University College, London. Born into a wealthy family, his parents ran a thriving business in Lagos. He completed his medical internship in the UK and then made the move to Australia with his former girlfriend, Lisa, who was a pharmacist. The sun-kissed weather and stunning beaches of Queensland had reminded him of home, but unfortunately, his relationship with Lisa had not survived the move.
Segun's childhood memories were filled with the sounds of the Anglican church, where his father and grandfather both played the organ. He would wake up early on Sundays to accompany his father to the 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. services and then again at 5 p.m. for evensong. His piano lessons with Mr Ola were held every Friday afternoon, but the old-style teacher was quick to punish any mistakes with the cane, which made Segun nervous. Despite the strict discipline, Segun developed a love for music, which he still carried with him to this day.
Femi stepped into the sleek, two-storey building, taking the lift to the second floor where Dr Segun's office was located. As he entered the reception area, Femi couldn't help but feel impressed by the ultramodern decor. Behind the gleaming counter, three receptionists, all female, were seated in the central area, looking almost like identical sisters. Two of them were on the phone, while three people waited on comfy sofas, their eyes fixed on Femi the moment he walked in. The third receptionist greeted him with a plastic smile, announcing, "You must be Femi." After Femi confirmed his identity and filled out a form, he looked up to find a fine-looking man approaching him. Dr Segun looked just like his profile picture, with a slow, smoldering smile that captivated Femi. He winked at his receptionist, Linda, and she smiled back, suggesting a positive relationship between them. The doctor's dark suit hugged his large, chiseled frame closely, making Femi think that he wouldn't want to introduce this man to his girlfriend.
Segun's eyes lit up with curiosity as he took in Femi's attire. His smile widened, revealing a hint of amusement. Femi's confidence wavered as he sensed a touch of sarcasm in Segun's gaze. Was his agbada not suitable for this occasion? Segun welcomed him with a firm handshake and gestured towards his plush office, adorned in elegant washed-out shades of blue, red, and black. Except for a sofa, it was like any other standard GP practice. Femi couldn't help but feel unsettled by the eerie presence of a replica of The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli, looming over them from the wall. Three replica Ile-Ife bronze heads stared back at him from the opposite wall, making him even more anxious. He nervously smiled and greeted Segun in Yoruba.
"Do you like art?" Femi asked, trying to break the tension in the room.
"I do. Do you?" Segun replied.
As Femi moved the box of tissues aside, he could feel the unease between them. He frowned disapprovingly at the interior design of the room.
"I won't be needing this..." he muttered, referring to the tissue box.
"Time will tell," Segun said, sensing Femi's discomfort.
Femi continued, "I like art, but who was responsible for the interior design of this room? It's just hideous, really."
Segun's mood shifted, and he looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. "Are you an art critic? Is that what you do for a living?" he asked, attempting to lighten the mood.
"I don't have to be one to have an opinion," Femi retorted.
Segun chuckled stiffly, "Good art is subjective. To some, it might seem like a mess of colors and lines, but to others, it could be a masterpiece. That's the beauty of art. It's open to interpretation. So is therapy. Anyway, what do you do for a living?"
Femi's posture stiffened as he explained his situation. He was an IT graduate working in a hardware store. Segun's eyes flickered with curiosity as he asked, "Why are you here?"
"I'm still trying to figure it out. How does this process work?" Femi gestured towards both of them.
"We talk, just talk. And I'll see if you need medication or therapy. Why does your GP think you're anxious?" Segun asked, glancing at his watch.
"Seriously, he hardly knows me. I've only seen him a few times," Femi replied.
Segun raised an eyebrow, "Since when have you been feeling anxious?"
"I saw something on TV a while back. Some dude said Australia has a problem with African gangs," Femi said, his voice trembling slightly.
"The minister?" Segun asked, trying to understand Femi's perspective.
"Yes, some Minister," Femi replied as he moved the tissue box away.
Finally, Segun seemed to grasp Femi's concerns. "He was talking about Melbourne," Segun said, making a connection.
"It had an effect on me, a strange effect. Particularly on the way I see the world," Femi explained.
‘What do you mean?’
Femi's chest tightened as he took a deep breath, his mind conjuring up a vivid image of himself struggling for air in a crowded street, his desperate gasps for breath ignored by passersby lost in their own world. The suffocating feeling lingered as another image replaced it. This time, he was in a room full of people, dressed as a clown and performing for an expectant audience. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make them laugh, and they soon lost interest in him, leaving him feeling helpless and ignored. Femi blinked, and the clown image disappeared, leaving him staring once again at the unsettling painting on the wall. The weight on his chest felt like a demon that refused to leave.
Segun was quiet, they seem to be on different pages again. Femi looked at his wrist watch and said ‘being me is a problem.’
‘…how…what does being you look like...’
‘…I am alone, a misfit in a world that demands conformity…’ he declared, his shoulders slumping.
He noticed Segun observe this reaction with keen interest, like a judge listening to the opening remarks of an accused person representing themselves. Femi delved deeper into the subject by describing his experiences on public transport. ‘The lonely, cursed one’, he called himself, or the ‘contagion man’, whom no one ever wanted to sit beside on the bus or train. Instead, they would rather stand.
After a pause, Femi said, ‘The social distance is obvious.’ Then he added, ‘This never bothered me in the past, but I am sick to death of receiving strange looks and hearing comments about my dress every single time I go out. A few weeks ago, I realised I was not coping...’
‘…what brought this realisation…’
There was silence. Femi could no longer meet Segun’s gaze. His head swam, his eyes had glassed over. ‘I was on a bus going to the city the other day when this old lady came at me.’
He paused to catch his breath and noticed for the first time that he was sweating, despite the air conditioning. Droplets of sweat trickled from his armpits. His heart began to thump, so loudly he felt it in his ears. Suddenly, it was like he was back on the bus, able to smell the woman’s sour breath and feel it on his face as she spat out those thorny words. His head reeled. She was in his therapy space!
Segun appeared to sense his distress. ‘Breathe,’ he said calmly.
Although comforting, the doctor’s words came too late. Femi’s breathing grew shallow, and he felt sick in the tummy. This was new for him; he hated this feeling of not being in control. For the first time in a long time, his body was not listening to his mind.
Segun handed him a paper bag and, in the same calm voice, instructed him to breathe into it. ‘Take six deep breaths into the bag,’ he said, ‘then take easy natural breaths through your nose, counting one to four, hold it for two seconds, and then exhale counting one to six.’ His voice sounded like one of those guided meditation recordings Femi had heard on Spotify.
Segun counted and took the breaths along with him. Almost at once, Femi’s breathing slowed down, his heartbeat quietened, and his vision began to clear. As he gradually relaxed, for the first time he noticed a framed picture, some five by six inches in size, in the far corner of the room. It was a black and white photograph of a white dude smoking a pipe.
‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ Segun asked.
Femi declined. Every movement seemed to require so much effort. He sank deeper into the couch. It was so comfortable. An image of himself standing stark naked at the Ann Street intersection formed in his mind, only to quickly dissipate.
The office was silent, and Femi felt like he had just fallen apart in front of a complete stranger. Fear and anger drove him. He avoided the doctor's gaze, still shaken from the frightening experience. A Yoruba proverb came to mind, "One does not keep quiet and yet misspeak; one does not silently contemplate the world and yet get into trouble." The quietness in the room only confused Femi further, reminding him of his reputation as a "mummy's boy." Suddenly, memories from his childhood flooded back, and he saw himself as a helpless little boy being teased by his older sister, who he still called "Aunty" in the traditional Yoruba way. She used to call him "Cry-cry baby" whenever she upset him, a nickname that still stung.
Segun sensed Femi’s shame. He adjusted himself on his black office chair, displaying his good upright posture; then, wriggling his wrist to reveal an expensive TAG Heuer Carrera wristwatch from beneath the cuff of his shirt, he peeped at the time. Segun was a show-off, Femi thought, but he displayed his pride subtly, without coming across as arrogant, or maybe just a tiny bit. As Femi lay there, Segun moved forward into his space, keeping his head steady and focusing his attention entirely on him. The doctor’s hands were placed palms down on the table, making him appear even more confident and self-assured.
‘This room is a place where you are free,’ he said in the same deep voice. ‘It’s a place where you can share your thoughts, fears and fantasies without guilt or shame or fear of judgement. In this room, you will confront your emotions. At times you will be laid bare and made to feel vulnerable but, in your vulnerability, lies your strength. It is the fulcrum for inner growth.’
The image of Femi’s former Pentecostal pastor flashed before his mind’s eye. As clear as daylight, Femi could see him dressed in a fancy suit, galivanting up and down the stage, hustling for his day’s work, wiping sweat from his face using his white handkerchief, while his audience eyes like exploding galaxies are fixed on him.
Femi smiled. ‘You sound like a Nigerian Pentecostal pastor, the ones that say corny things such as (Femi assumed a heavy Yoruba accent), “Your attitude determines your altitude.” Are you a Christian?’
Segun did not find it funny. ‘The short answer is no, but the long answer is that in therapy I can be anything you want me to be, in as much as we both maintain and respect our firm boundaries ehn...’
Femi began to relax. Segun had this ‘sweet mouth vibe’, like boys from Isale Eko in downtown Lagos, who could sell you ice water on a cold harmattan morning. In the few minutes they’d spent together, Femi had noticed that he had this habit of licking his lips intermittently. Femi hated this sort of thing, which triggered his ‘sleazebag alert’.
‘There is no point to this if you cannot be yourself and feel free to unburden your mind in whatever way you find comfortable,’ Segun added.
Femi thought about this and sat back in the chair, the room looked smaller. Segun rolled his wrist as he looked at his wrist watch, he licked his lip again, he was fighting off a yawn.
‘What did the old woman say?’
Femi's breaths became anxious and rapid as his vision narrowed. He closed his eyes and a woman's face appeared before him. She was old with leathery, wrinkled skin around her eyes, small tired blue eyes with bags underneath them, and thin salt-and-pepper hair. She wore a faded blue skirt and a threadbare blouse, reminding Femi of his neighbor Lucy who always greeted him with a smile. He wondered if he should share this with the doctor.
He recalled how he had sat alone in the middle row to the left, next to the seats for disabled people. The woman had been sitting opposite. She looked at him for some time and Femi had sensed an aura of disgust emanating from her, but he didn’t suspect that it was his presence that had aroused this feeling. Initially when she spoke her voice was muffled, so Femi ignored her. But then, suddenly, her rambling had become louder and clearer, like she had coughed up a stone in her throat. ‘Are you going to a circus?’ she’d said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Femi replied, a little surprised.
She asked again, but this time in a voice laden with sarcasm that accentuated her broad Australian accent. ‘Are you going to a circus?’
Femi replied, ‘No, are you?’
‘No, but seriously, where are you going dressed like that?’
Exasperated now, Femi replied, ‘If you must know, I am going to work.’
As he related his ordeal to Segun, Femi moved uneasily in his chair. It was almost as if he was trying to mimic the old woman’s actions. He recalled how she had laughed and moved closer towards him before saying, ‘Dressed like this?’
Femi told Segun how some of the passengers had smiled at the woman’s words. ‘I looked at their faces, their very pale faces,’ he said, staring hard at Segun as the confused feeling returned to him, throwing him off-balance all over again.
Segun looked at Femi without speaking, probing him with his dark and sensitive eyes.
Segun continued to stare at him, sitting with his hand on his well-trimmed goatee. ‘What did you do?’ he finally asked.
Femi started tapping his hands on the table making a discordant note he could see this annoyed Segun.
‘I ignored her and looked at my phone. But she was not done. She was like a dog with a bone. She wouldn’t give up.’
‘“Where are you from?” she asked me. Then, when I still didn’t reply, she leaned forward and said, “I am talking to you, black man… ” As she said this, she looked around the bus as if it was a theatre and she was looking for applause.’
‘And how did you reply to this?’ Segun asked as he moved the tissue box back to its usual place.
‘I said, “White woman, mind your business and leave me alone.”’
Segun raised his eyes as Femi continued.
‘She exploded at this saying, “You don’t talk to me with your filthy mouth. You come here with your gangs and diseases and fancy clothes and refuse to live the Aussie way, you lazy piece of shit. If you don’t like it here, go the fuck back to where you came from….”’
‘She is horrible…’, said Segun
Femi paused briefly before continuing. ‘The bus was quiet, It was as if everyone on that bus agreed with the woman. She had revealed their innermost thoughts.’
Segun nodded; his gaze focused on Femi’s troubled eyes.
‘She continued to talk in the same way, asking if I had moved from Melbourne, the city of African gangs, to Queensland because I was feeling the heat. She reminded me that the minister was from Queensland and said there would be no hiding place for “black cunts like you”. She got in my face and I pushed back. At this point the driver yelled, “Don’t touch her or I’ll call the police.” I turned to him, saying with indignation, “How dare you speak up at this point? Please remain silent, sssshhh… enjoy your sideshow.’ I looked around at their red faces, horrified by my outburst. It’s very rude, in Yoruba culture, you know, to speak to an elderly person that way. A child raised in a good home must always honour their elders. They are never wrong and, even if they are, you cannot tell them.’
Segun knitted his brows. ‘That must have been very difficult,’ he said after a pause. ‘How did it make you feel?’
‘Feelings…what do you think…angry, very angry,’ Femi replied.
‘What thoughts were going through your mind?’ Segun asked.
‘I..I don’t know…first was nothing ..later ..hmmm I thought she did it because she knew she could get away with it,’ Femi said.
‘Maybe,’ said Segun. ‘It was obviously a very difficult event for you. What about it disturbs you most?’
‘I think that’s obvious, doc,’ Femi said, staring hard at Segun.
‘No, not to me, it isn’t,’ Segun said, before adding carefully, ‘I don’t like making assumptions.’
Femi laughed at this. ‘Doc, have you looked in the mirror lately?’ he said. ‘I am sure that you too have experienced racism in this country.’
‘I may have, but I do not take notice,’ Segun replied.
‘Oh! I am seeing the wrong therapist then,’ said Femi.
‘My experience does not matter. We are here to talk about you. I ask again what it is about the incident that disturbs you most? Is it because she was a woman?’
‘No, of course not,’ Femi said.
‘Then what?’ inquired Segun, probing.
‘…hmm..Inherent in her insult is the premise that she is somehow superior to me…I don’t belong.’
‘Assumptions!’ said Segun, scribbling in his notebook. ‘Tell me, what else about the incident angers you?’
‘Assumptions?’ echoed Femi, who thought to himself, Is this guy for real? I hope I am not talking to a coconut. Then, despite himself, he smiled at Segun.
As a period of silence set in, Femi thought what a funny experience therapy was. Twenty minutes into the session and already he was feeling comfortable saying his thoughts aloud to a stranger. Not only that, but when he put things into words it was like he was hearing his thoughts twice. They became clearer as a result, and although sometimes they sounded silly, other times they served to reaffirm his beliefs. Suddenly, out loud, Femi remembered, ‘The passengers in the bus, their silence, the woman’s grin, the horrified faces, and that lady…’
‘What lady?’ Segun enquired.
‘…She was sitting in the second-to-last row on the opposite side of the bus. She was white, with dark hair, wearing glasses, she was not wearing make up, in her twenties, I’d say. Her face was aghast, she seemed transfixed.’
‘It is the bystander effect,’ Segun remarked.
‘The bystander effect?’
‘Yes.’
‘You need to explain, doc.’
Segun nodded. ‘The bystander effect is the term used to describe when individuals are appalled by an incident such as yours but are either unable or unwilling to help. The greater the number of onlookers, the less likely they are to act. The effect is usually more pronounced if the victim is of a different race or the onlooker feels they don’t share his or her values or experiences. It is part of the human condition…’
‘…I can’t wait for bystanders to act before standing up for myself or I will be six feet under in no time,’ Femi said, mimicking the act of nailing a coffin closed while shaking his head.
Segun smiled. ‘Six feet under,’ he mused. ‘You have an interesting way of expressing yourself, but, please, go on.’
‘The bystanders in my life are invariably cheerleaders who egg on the perpetrators,’ Femi said. ‘I hear them on television and radio and in the comments sections on social media sites. The perpetrator is their spokesperson. He conveys their deepest desires. This gives them a cathartic release….’
‘…Cathartic release?’ Segun scrutinised Femi with curious eyes.
‘Very close, doc, very close.’
‘Is that how you see it?’ Segun asked with indifference.
‘How else should I see it, doctor? It is a system deliberately crafted to ridicule, persecute and make perpetually vulnerable those who have high concentrations of melanin in their skin.’
‘The burden you carry is too great for one man to bear,’ Segun remarked.
‘We all carry this burden.’
‘But not all of us are in therapy, Femi. You are.’
‘You mean you are part of the system?’ Femi asked Segun coldly.
Segun stared back at him while thoughtfully massaging his goatee. ‘Our time is up,’ he said at last.
