Bimpe Coker was born in London but returned to Nigeria for cultural grounding at the age of 10 by a very strict and religious father.
By Taju Tijani
Siji Randle is a hulking six-footer of a hunk. He is muscular, handsome, and charismatic. Clean looking, confident, bouncy and a playboy. He wears a rimless Lindberg glass. He carries three mobile phones. Two iPhones and an Infinix Note. He spots a grey goatee beard that sits on him perfectly. He looks like a typical pro who knows his onions. He wears an EA7 (Emporio Armani) top, a pair of dark, Levi’s 505 regular jeans and a white Nike trainer. There is an air of arrogance around him. He exudes the typical alpha male image.
Behind the veneer of his rock-star macho hardness, Siji is a philanderer. That lifestyle changed him for life. It remodelled him into the gentle giant he is today. He was born in Opebi in Ikeja. He bagged a degree in Political Science from the University of Lagos. Yes, he was a member of the Eiye Fraternity and took part in all the rough and tumble of university juvenilities. He smoked marijuana, gambled, romped with girls, and drove his dad’s car all over the campus at weekends to impress the girls. He lived a bad-boy lifestyle.
Bimpe Coker was in the law faculty of the same uni. Petite, pretty, smart, intelligent, and ambitious. She was born in London but returned to Nigeria for cultural grounding at the age of 10 by a very strict and religious father who wanted to shield his daughter away from the contaminating moral decay of the London of his days. Yearly, Bimpe travelled to the UK on holidays to see uncles and other relations. She enjoyed this sortie so much that at times she picked up summer odd jobs. To earn some bobs.
The New Covent Garden fruit and vegetable market in Nine Elms, London was not a regular place where love could blossom. Siji and his friends had been in the market to buy flowers for a friend’s wedding coming up at the weekend. Siji was the remaining bachelor among his friends. They heckled, bullied, and called him out several times to go and get a wife. Siji was too involved in the playboy life to settle for the rigour of married life. He wanted to enjoy the streets, the bachelor hedonism and timeless fun to the limit. He was able to quieten all protestations. Until…
Siji could be given the badge of the best dancer in the UK. He had been to the smartest parties in the square mile where he won best dancer several times. He was part of the crowd at a friend’s party in Stoke Newington. He could waltz like a John Travolta and wriggle like a Michael Jackson. Then The Bee Gees was his favourite group and he particularly liked Barry Gibb among the lot. Kunle Sowemimo’s party in Stoke Newington was the rave of the month. Nigerian heavy, middle, and light weights were present. Then ….
Walking majestically into the venue of the party was Bimpe Coker. In a flash, he recalled that he once saw this petite lady at the New Covent Garden Flower market. It was a total recall. He got her number at the flower market but misplaced it. And Bimpe never called. He had traversed all the nooks, crannies, and joints of Old Kent Road looking for Bimpe, but all led to a brick wall. He fantasised, dreamed, and hallucinated about this black beauty but luck eluded Siji. Until….
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The party was bustling with noisy camaraderie. Old pals were having a good time. Siji has had his favourite brandy and Coke. Then the DJ woke him up with The Bee Gees’ Saturday Night Fever. He dropped all his timidity. He rejected his coolness. The voice of Barry Gibb, as he crooned Saturday Night Fever, was irresistible. As he was going to the dance floor, he went straight for Bimpe. Bimpe fell into hallucination. She was in a dreamland. She could not believe what was coming for her. She was momentarily lost in a time capsule. She had been trawling everywhere looking for his dashing six-footer. She had repaid several visits to New Covent Garden hoping to see Siji.
Twenty-two years together produced three girls. In between motherhood, Bimpe pursued an MBA in Finance and got a job with an investment bank in The Strand in the heart of the City. Siji was unstable. He moved from job to job until he decided to stake his money in a business in Nigeria. Then the love drought set in. Bimpe began to cope with prolonged lonely nights without her husband. Siji began to love the tropical fun he was enjoying in Nigeria – the suya nights, the trips to Abuja, the side chicks, and the thrill of local money he was making.
Then the whirlwind set in. The Grove Hospital in Ikeja had something in store for Siji. He paced up and down the doctor’s surgery like a caged lion. He cupped his head on his knees. The battle of his life has just begun. He cursed his star. He was restless and sweating. The hospital receptionists were mocking him in their hearts. They were used to seeing Siji’s kind of tragicomedy on their receptionist shop floor. Too often!
“Molara, call the gentleman to see me in the office,” the doctor hollered.
Nervously, Siji jumped up and dived into the doctor’s office.
“This woman is three months pregnant,” the doctor announced.
“Pregnant? What do you mean?” Siji asked awkwardly.
The doctor was silent. Bidemi Abidogun’s parent had warned her never to abort pregnancy in her life. The father pastored a church, and the mum was a deaconess. Nigeria gave Siji a set of twins. All boys! Bidemi who was yesterday’s side chick became the mother of the rare jewels, Siji, the Casanova, had been looking for. The birth of the twins was bittersweet. Siji had been looking for a boy from his adorable Bimpe. Bidemi’s twin boys were the answer to that quest. There was back and forth and irruption between families. He rented a flat for Bidemi at Surulere and put her on salary.
Then another love draught started for Bidemi. When Siji travelled to the UK, Bidemi remained the typical home-alone mum. Siji now shuttled between two continents – Europe and Africa. Bidemi was devoted, respectful, loving and patient. Bimpe was ambitious, bossy, authoritative, pushy, arrogant, and materialistic. Siji was calculating and worried about his peace. What he was missing at home, Bidemi readily supplied in lorry loads in Nigeria. He had by now built a thriving logistics business in Nigeria. He had to manage a delicate balance of making a success of two lovers, two homes and two continents.
Last year he celebrated his 66th birthday and became a pensioner. That was the golden opportunity he had been waiting for. He broke the news of his twin sons – Tomiwa and Damilola – to Bimpe. Rather than lapse into a coma and stone-throwing, she smiled and nodded her head. There were goose pimples all over Siji at the calm reaction of his wife to the news of a rival.
“Siji, guess what, I knew about the babies. You were sleeping one night when I scanned your phone. Yes, call it breach of privacy, you know I am a lawyer. It was there I saw your message relating to Tom and Dam your sons,” Bimpe revealed.
“Nothing must happen to this relationship. You have been too dear to me. Remember you paid for my MBA course; you raised our girls with me. You pushed their buggies with me. You did the school drop-off. You prepared their lunch and dinner when I was away at work. You sacrificed your time when I was busy chasing my career in the City. The obsession with my career made you look for love elsewhere. It was partly my fault. But I still love you,” Bimpe assured.
Siji rushed into the bedroom to cry. Bimpe could hear him sobbing.
“Bimpe, the matrimonial cloud of London does not breed your kind. A woman who remembered the good, bad, and ugly times in a relationship is scarce – too scarce. Most Nigerian women in London do not care. They do not want to know the sacrifices of fathers over their children abroad – the school runs, the walk together in the park, the protection, the food on the table, the evening buggy strolls, the meeting with teachers and the fatherly chat at the dead of night,” Siji said.
“Open the bedroom door,” Bimpe demanded. She had prepared a memorable night for Siji. She held a “Forever Rose” given to her on their first date. When Siji opened the bedroom door, Bimpe held out the “Forever Rose”. “Are you for real…..Is this real…….Are you for real………Are we in this together? Forever?” Siji kept saying.
Siji sipped his brandy and coke. He put on his Ted Baker hat. Both of us heard a car hoot. Bimpe had come to their joint to pick him home. “What a lucky man,” I cooed to his ears before I melted into Peckham High Street.
The story continues…..
