Just To Open An Account

Chinwe Oranye

Oct 1

5 min read

I was 15 when my mother took me into Navy Town to open a bank account.

We drove in her blue Volkswagen, with the front windows wound down. There was a lot of breeze to cool us. Thinking about it, I never saw my mum use the air conditioning in her car or … did the car even have air conditioning? I don’t remember.

To go into the Navy Town base, one had to pass a gate with two naval ratings standing sentry. They would usually stop every car and ask what business you had going into the naval base. If they were satisfied, they let you through and if not …

My heart almost burst with pride as my mum introduced herself and then allowed me to state our mission for the day. I cheerily told them I was going to open a bank account.

My first bank account.

The officer looked at me like, what is doing this one sef?

I didn’t care. I felt so proud, like I was finally an adult - it felt like I had qualified for a rite of passage.

My mum drove into First Bank’s premises and she asked straight away for the branch manager. We were ushered inside his office without any delay. He was a good-looking man in his late thirties, he got up to receive us, smiling. He told my mum I looked exactly like her.

I don't even know what he meant by that because my mum was really fair in complexion and plump, whereas I was charcoal skinned like my dad and so skinny, like I had donated blood one time too many.

I filled out the forms carefully under my mother's watchful eye and signed my spidery signature. He then passed them to a younger guy who was standing with more papers and looked about 23 years old. I hadn't noticed him before then. The guy asked me my name with a thick Calabar accent and I told him. We completed the registration and they confirmed my account was open before we left. I happily went home, a proud new bank account owner.

A week later, I went to the post office to check our mailbox and, amongst the letters, was one addressed to me. It was strange because I wasn’t expecting one, except maybe finally a reply from the countless letters we wrote to our uncles and aunts abroad, but we all knew better - they never responded.

I turned it in my hand. It felt slightly heavy. I couldn’t wait to open it.

I went to my room and opened the envelope carefully. It was a four-page letter from someone named Emmanuel. The writing was neat and mature, not exactly beautiful but at least it was legible.

It started with an introduction of how the first time he saw me was at the Navy Town First Bank and how …… I’m sure you all know how the love letters of that decade went.

It was the young man who had brought the account opening documents and had stood quietly by while I filled the forms. He explained he was an intern at the bank.

I panicked, with my heart beating fast. It wasn’t the love letter that was my problem, but the fact that he had used the information I submitted to the bank while opening my account to contact me.

I didn’t tell my mum as I thought it was going to be a one-off, till it became two years of receiving a letter every week, same weight, and I never replied once nor acknowledged receipt of his letters.

But I was terrified because if he had my mailing address, he also had my house address.

Still, I didn’t tell my mum.

Then I got admission into university and had temporarily forgotten the letters till one of those forced breaks I was home, another letter arrived.

This time heavier than all the rest.

It was six pages long. He sounded very angry and bitter that all these years I had never replied to any of his letters. He wrote that he knew by now I should be going into university and, if I was finding it difficult to gain admission into any university, he could help me secure admission to his university - the University of Calabar. So that I could become a Malabress.

I didn’t know what it meant, but even if, by some impossible chance, I wasn’t in university yet, it didn’t sound particularly like something I wanted to be.

However, it wasn’t the six pages that ruffled me, but the 12 pictures he had enclosed with the letter.

Mehn.

I almost had a meltdown.

This was a stalker. Finally, I was ready to admit it.

I still could not tell my mum or anyone else for that matter.

So, I had a board meeting with myself and decided to finally write back.

I thanked him for his steadfastness all these years but told him I was not interested. Not only had he breached the confidence we reposed in the bank to safeguard my details, but I also simply didn’t want any relationship with him.

Then I sent back the pictures.

Three weeks later, someone knocked on my gate.

I went to see who it was and I immediately recognized him. It was already too late.

Before I could react, he grabbed my arm.

I had never seen anyone so angry.

He demanded his pictures back and said if I wouldn’t be in a relationship with him, then I had to return his pictures.

I stammered that I had returned the pictures and he shouted, "You're lying!" I looked at him and saw he had spittle at both sides of his mouth, like he was foaming at the mouth.

Yuck.

Then he raised his other hand.

Till today, I can never tell what his next action would have been because, at that exact moment, my mum returned from work. He let me go immediately.

My mum looked at him, laughed and said, “Oh, you are the one that has been sending my daughter those ugly monkey pictures? Wait for me, I already reported you to the police station, we’re going there now.”

With that she ran into the house.

By the time she came out with her whip, he was long gone.

She looked at me and shook her head.

When I think of this now, for almost two years I lived with the fear that this man might come to my house, thinking my mother had no idea what was going on.

Yet, apparently, she knew.

Obviously, she had seen some of those letters and some pictures, probably while I was away at school. She never mentioned any of it to me.

And when he finally showed up. She didn’t ask me what I had said to him. She didn’t ask whether I had encouraged him. She didn’t tell me I was mature enough to handle it myself.

She went for her whip.

Honestly, our parents tried, with everything they had, to protect us. Sometimes they protected our innocence even better than we wanted them to.

They understood that protecting us was their job.

I was 15 when my mother took me into Navy Town to open a bank account.

We drove in her blue Volkswagen, with the front windows wound down. There was a lot of breeze to cool us. Thinking about it, I never saw my mum use the air conditioning in her car or … did the car even have air conditioning? I don’t remember.

To go into the Navy Town base, one had to pass a gate with two naval ratings standing sentry. They would usually stop every car and ask what business you had going into the naval base. If they were satisfied, they let you through and if not …

My heart almost burst with pride as my mum introduced herself and then allowed me to state our mission for the day. I cheerily told them I was going to open a bank account.

My first bank account.

The officer looked at me like, what is doing this one sef?

I didn’t care. I felt so proud, like I was finally an adult - it felt like I had qualified for a rite of passage.

My mum drove into First Bank’s premises and she asked straight away for the branch manager. We were ushered inside his office without any delay. He was a good-looking man in his late thirties, he got up to receive us, smiling. He told my mum I looked exactly like her.

I don't even know what he meant by that because my mum was really fair in complexion and plump, whereas I was charcoal skinned like my dad and so skinny, like I had donated blood one time too many.

I turned it in my hand. It felt slightly heavy. I couldn’t wait to open it.

I went to my room and opened the envelope carefully. It was a four-page letter from someone named Emmanuel. The writing was neat and mature, not exactly beautiful but at least it was legible.

It started with an introduction of how the first time he saw me was at the Navy Town First Bank and how …… I’m sure you all know how the love letters of that decade went.

It was the young man who had brought the account opening documents and had stood quietly by while I filled the forms. He explained he was an intern at the bank.

I panicked, with my heart beating fast. It wasn’t the love letter that was my problem, but the fact that he had used the information I submitted to the bank while opening my account to contact me.

I didn’t tell my mum as I thought it was going to be a one-off, till it became two years of receiving a letter every week, same weight, and I never replied once nor acknowledged receipt of his letters.

But I was terrified because if he had my mailing address, he also had my house address.

Still, I didn’t tell my mum.

Then I got admission into university and had temporarily forgotten the letters till one of those forced breaks I was home, another letter arrived.

This time heavier than all the rest.

I didn’t know what it meant, but even if, by some impossible chance, I wasn’t in university yet, it didn’t sound particularly like something I wanted to be.

However, it wasn’t the six pages that ruffled me, but the 12 pictures he had enclosed with the letter.

Mehn.

I almost had a meltdown.

This was a stalker. Finally, I was ready to admit it.

I still could not tell my mum or anyone else for that matter.

So, I had a board meeting with myself and decided to finally write back.

I thanked him for his steadfastness all these years but told him I was not interested. Not only had he breached the confidence we reposed in the bank to safeguard my details, but I also simply didn’t want any relationship with him.

Then I sent back the pictures.

Three weeks later, someone knocked on my gate.

I went to see who it was and I immediately recognized him. It was already too late.

Before I could react, he grabbed my arm.

I had never seen anyone so angry.

He demanded his pictures back and said if I wouldn’t be in a relationship with him, then I had to return his pictures.

I stammered that I had returned the pictures and he shouted, "You're lying!" I looked at him and saw he had spittle at both sides of his mouth, like he was foaming at the mouth.

Then he raised his other hand.

Till today, I can never tell what his next action would have been because, at that exact moment, my mum returned from work. He let me go immediately.

My mum looked at him, laughed and said, “Oh, you are the one that has been sending my daughter those ugly monkey pictures? Wait for me, I already reported you to the police station, we’re going there now.”

With that she ran into the house.

By the time she came out with her whip, he was long gone.

She looked at me and shook her head.

When I think of this now, for almost two years I lived with the fear that this man might come to my house, thinking my mother had no idea what was going on.

Yet, apparently, she knew.

Obviously, she had seen some of those letters and some pictures, probably while I was away at school. She never mentioned any of it to me.

And when he finally showed up. She didn’t ask me what I had said to him. She didn’t ask whether I had encouraged him. She didn’t tell me I was mature enough to handle it myself.

She went for her whip.

Honestly, our parents tried, with everything they had, to protect us. Sometimes they protected our innocence even better than we wanted them to.

They understood that protecting us was their job.

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