Read Previous Episode [Ghana Razzmattaz II]
Wealth at times could be a curse. Being blessed with good looks could be an additional one. The height of it is being responsible – women take you for granted, not all of them though.
I have seen it all – Virgin Mary laced with self deceit and obsession, whores, gold diggers, mummy’s girls – name it. Relationships are tiring; so these days, I rarely bother myself about going into one until recently.
I was bored after work so I allowed my friends indulge me in clubbing, which was where I first met her. She had the eyes of an angel. I think I was able to visualize a halo on her head. I could see she was struggling in her mind on whether she wanted a drink or not – her friends were obviously the fun type. There was something about her I couldn’t place. She caught me staring and looked away shyly. Somehow, amidst all the music and fun she seemed to be having, she looked sad to me. She tried to conceal it but I could see it. For the second time in my 34 years on earth, I felt like I could figure out the opposite sex.
Lately, I’ve been fighting hard within on whether I will ever settle or just keep entertaining myself. My mother had tried her matchmaking skills on me twice; none had worked. The latest was one of the shareholder’s daughter at work. She was all over me and for the sake of being nice, I allowed her. We have been intimate on two occasions. Don’t judge; women are queens of seduction. I would have loved to start something with her. I would have, until I met her.
She had the cutest smile. I had heard and watched her laugh. Her attempt to stop laughing usually ended up like a screeching stereo. It made me want to laugh myself. She had the longest straight legs I’ve ever set my eyes on. It wasn’t really the things of the physical that was the basis of this attraction; it was that sadness.
I needed to get close to her, just to look into her eyes – yeah yeah, I know I sound creepy right now – don’t blame me, it’s not everyday a man experiences love at first sight, but is this love? I know I had this urge to take care of her, to be there for her…what English word can describe this sudden rush of emotion?
I ignored the waitress who was practising her high school flirting skills on me. All I asked for was a shot of Baileys and not a shot of insolent juvenile-driven flirtation. What was she doing in a club anyway? How old – maybe 16!?
I drifted onto the dance floor absent-mindedly and as fate would have it, she and her friends were dancing. Should I go dig it with her? She turned her back. I seized that opportunity and held her from behind. Honestly, if she had slapped me, I would have said ‘thank you’. I am going against what I believe in. I decided to blame it on the alcohol.
She didn’t slap me; instead she danced with me. I tried all my moves – the Azonto dance, the Swing, Alingo – everything. I think I caught her giggling. Maybe she was tipsy. She looked it.
“My name is Femi”, I shouted on impulse.
“What?” She asked.
I told her my name again. Before I could say Jack Robinson, she turned her back to me. I had to see her face; I needed to know her name. She was dancing really slowly; the silly DJ just had to change the song at this time. I wasn’t looking for a one night stand; it was more than that. I was intrigued, so I made her turn so we could look at each other. I embraced her for a while. Impulse!!! She opened her mouth to say something but her friend came and said they had to go. The action that came afterwards can be defined as amusement laced with disgust: wanna know what happened? She kissed me and before I could react, she threw up on me! What do you call that? My Gucci shoes were ruined.
I had to carry her to the car. I wasn’t upset; I wasn’t. Her friends wouldn’t give me any details of her. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
So I woke up to reality and decided to forget about her, only this world is as small as a mustard seed. I’m walking to her room right now; I’m going to find out all about her. I could explain the sadness I saw that night; at least the little story I heard last night was enough. It was time to get my game on. It was time to let fate play its game. It was time to stop interfering. So I knocked on her door.
“Who is it?” She asked.
A toast to a new chapter.
Omoshalewa Benson: Tales of a Lagos babe is written by Tobilola ‘Bella’ Agoro (@tobiagoro)
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