The capital city on the west coast of Africa was bathed in glorious sunshine that early afternoon: a warm, dry and harmattan-like weather. I was traipsing back alone to my office on the other side of the ever-busy ten-lane Independence Expressway, after visiting a bank for some transactions. My thoughts darted from the weather to some banner headlines on the front pages of newspapers sprawled at a news stand near the pavement till I got to the pedestrian bridge adjacent the Alpha Estates.
I had only started making my way up the bridge when I heard someone whistle from behind me. The call sounded distant so I took no notice. But as I took two further steps up the bridge, the call grew louder and closer. Yet I continued ascending, as were a few other persons, while others were descending at the same time.
On the first landing, the persistence and intensity of the call prompted me to turn and look back. Immediately, my eyes caught a young woman walking briskly towards the foot of the bridge and pointing frantically at me. Her face was totally unfamiliar to me. So I waited, shifting closer to the railings in order not to obstruct passers-by. But I was transfixed, wondering what could be the matter. She wore a colourful flowing gown over a pair of black designer jeans. Her head was wrapped in a silky yellow scarf, which shimmered in the sunlight. Her eyes were shielded from the sun by her pair of sunglasses. Her gorgeous face bore no obvious emotion except that she appeared a bit unstrung by something.
My physical features were not pronounced though I was a five feet eight inches tall man with a chiselled face and marginally broad shoulders. And I had on a pair of black trousers which held my azure shirt and silky maroon tie in place, complemented by a pair of black shoes.
I waited as she climbed up the pedestrian bridge slowly and with extreme care, clinging to the railings almost like one feeling her way through a dark room. As she got nearer I reckoned she was probably in her late twenties, making her about two decades younger than me. I couldn’t say if she was married or not as she had no ring on her finger, but she appeared well-groomed.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted me.
“Good afternoon,” I replied, eager for the next sentence. Please may this beautiful young woman not ask me for money, I wished. On several occasions recently, I had encountered individuals on the pavement who stopped me and asked for money, claiming to have run out of transport fare or that neither they nor their children had eaten for a whole day.
She continued, “Please I need your help…” She paused and scanned my face.
“Go on,” I prodded her.
“I have a phobia of heights and need to hold your hand to walk across this bridge.”
“That’s not a problem at all. I’m very happy to help.” I pushed out my right arm, flexed at the elbow, so that she could hang her left arm, and I ensured that we ascended together cautiously. A brief silence ensued before my curiosity overcame my reluctance to speak. The question just popped out, “Have you ever been outside the country?” I enquired.
“Yes, actually I was born in France.”
“Great!” I couldn’t balk at the urge to ask if she had visited the Eiffel Tower.
She replied, “I have visited the site, but I didn’t go up the structure.”
“You’re a brave woman.”
“Why? What makes you say that?”
“Brave people are not ashamed to ask for help and they’d rather attempt and fail than not attempt.”
I tried not to delve too deep into her personal life, given her fragility and apparent confidence in me. I speculated that the phobia may have taken a huge psychological and emotional toll on her. As we stepped on the main landing, which towered above the expressway, I kindly cautioned her not to look down at the cars accelerating like threatened cockroaches under the bridge but to look straight ahead. Her response was so touching, “My eyes are shut tight.”
I had not fully appreciated the depth of her personal struggle until that moment. Suddenly it occurred to me that fate may have sent me a patient for treatment. But I was neither a medical doctor nor psychotherapist; I was a financial analyst. So how do I help her, I thought? How do I reset her pathological frame of mind? How do I turn her phobia into a stepping stone to liberating emotions?
“Would you like some ice cream, when we get off the bridge of course?” I asked.
“…only if it’s not much of a trouble to you.”
“It’s your prize for winning the battle against your nemesis.”
She smiled coyly. Like a bolt out of the blue, a sudden burst of energy and courage coursed through her. Then she recounted how she and her two siblings grew up in, a house surrounded by dreadful artwork and gloomy wall paints, and a household dominated by fear and intimidation. Her father’s words and attitude consisted of searing criticisms, barking instructions, outright rejection, and smacking. For her part, her hawk-eyed mother never stopped fussing, including whinging over how loudly the house echoed from the children’s chatter. They were even told not to leave the house without permission and not to communicate with friends and neighbours. These acts of physical and mental abuse contributed to leaving them scarred by an outrageous sense of insecurity and debilitating anxiety, which sapped away their self-confidence and sense of self-worth.
Nevertheless, clutching her ice cream gleefully and beaming with confident smiles, which lit her entire face, was a bubbly and emboldened Philippa who stepped into a taxi as we said our goodbyes.
Written by Princewill Udom