Life as a handsome bachelor is filled with fun and adventure. I get loads of attention from ladies and since many of them are desperate to “settle down” (as if they’ve been scurrying around like squirrels), I’ve had quite a few trial marriages, lol!
Last week (10th of dec, to be precise), I moved to this flat in a respectable neighbourhood in ANAMBRA (oko).
I’d made some cool cash through a Ponzi scheme and felt an upgrade in my accommodation was in order. I moved in at night as I didn’t want the prying eyes of neighbours seeing my ratty furniture, which I’d hoped to change once I got my next payment from those I was matched with in Money MAKING MACHINE before public confidence in the scheme began to wane and people weren’t paying up as expected.
But you will not believe I got a knock on my door (it was almost midnight) and a lady in pj’s with a print wrapper tied around her bosom was standing there scrubbing her eyes. She squinted at me and yawned. I stepped back understandably. The woman had just woken up from sleep!
She pushed the door away from me and squeezed into the living room.
“Gosh, this place is so dusty!” she complained as she started moving further in.
“Excuse me, who are you?”
I wanted to ask if she was with the local government sanitary department, if there was such a thing. What made her think she could walk into my FLAT, in the dead of night, without introductions and start voicing her opinions on its state? This was the reason I came to live here, away from the room I occupied in a large compound at Obiagu, still here in Enugu, where everyone was in everyone else’s business.
“I’m your neighbour, Mama Chinonso. I’m the one who gave you the keys when you came around yesterday or was it two days ago” (an obvious reference to how late it was).
Right away. I saw that not only was this lady a stunner, her looks were exotic.
“I didn’t recognise you and you will recall we weren’t properly introduced.” I’m not sure I even looked at her when she handed over the keys. I was in some kind of rush.
She continued her inspection of the rooms while I restrained myself from ordering her out. When she returned to the living room, she announced, “You can’t sleep here like this. You will be sick. Wait for me.”
“Listen madam, I know you’re trying to be kind but it’s not your problem. I think you should go back to sleep.”
Just then a gust of wind blew in through the open door. It raised much dust and I sneezed repeatedly. How I hate the harmattan season!
In a few minutes, she had returned with a broom, a mopping stick and a jerrycan of water. She had also slipped on a shift which did nothing to hide her figure. I don’t do married women, I reminded myself, before history would repeat itself here.
“You should stay at the porch. If you had been specific about when you were coming, we would have arranged to do this before the day.”
I moved out with mixed feelings. I was grateful I wouldn’t be inhaling all that dust but the last thing I wanted was a close relationship with any female in this place. By letting this woman clean my flat, I would be unable to shun her and the rest of her kind as I planned to do. I hoped the people living on the top floor of the four-flat building were not going to be as “nice” as she was. Otherwise, I may have jumped from the frying pan to the fire.
There had been six women with grownup daughters at my former place and each of them was determined to make me her son-in-law. I don’t blame them. Did I tell you before that I am handsome? Check this out: I’m 6ft tall, ebony-complexioned (like my late mum), with a pointed nose, a natural cleft in my chin, even white teeth, a killer smile and a voice to die for. Seriously, I sing and play the guitar and I’ve seen people cry and empty their purses when I perform. I was a track and field athlete during my school days and even though I don’t compete any more and won’t bare my abs in public, I still look fairly okay in that department. Oh, and you might wanna know, my name is Ikem, short for Ikemefuna, but everyone calls me Ebony.
So as I said, the ladies had good reason to vie for my attention. At first, it was amusing and I ate their food and slept with the girls who stole into my room at odd hours. But I had no plans for getting married yet. (I’m just 29 for crying out loud!) When they started borrowing money they couldn’t pay back and pressuring me to contribute to school fees and family emergencies, I calculated that the cost of their “gifts” had risen beyond what I cared to pay.
So I started bringing girls home. The hint was taken and the battles began. These women and their offspring, who formerly lived like cats and dogs, banded together to deal with me. They beat up two of the girls who came to visit me, called the police to arrest me several times on spurious charges (like smoking Indian hemp in the compound, which I swear is the preoccupation of their sons, not me), set my motorcycle ablaze by “accident” and spread word in the neighbourhood that I was a 419er* (because my hustle is online with my laptop).
The last straw was when my mum died and I bought a car shortly after. They said I’d used her for rituals. I decided to move before they kill me and to go where I can be a loner and continue my hustle in peace. I hope to use my car as backup for taxi business if the slow pace of things online worsens. I’m continuing my investments through numerous accounts in several schemes but I’m seriously planning on having my own scheme. I will call it Consolidated and Aggregated Windfall Platform. Three months of that and I’ll be set for life.
This is no time for distractions. I will hit the big time or die trying. Yeah, yeah, you may say that’s not original. Well, what you don’t know is that guys like me make a good living out of copying and fine-tuning other people’s ideas.
“I’m through.” The voice startled me. “Do you need some food?”
“Listen, madam, you’ve done enough.” I brought out my wallet from my trousers’ hip pocket and extended five hundred naira to her. I had no intention of being in her debt. That would leave my door open to her and who knows what she will be demanding further down the road. She looked at me in shock and left, shaking her head and muttering to herself.
The next morning, I was woken by loud banging on the front door. I thought the house was on fire, only for me to rush out in my boxers to see Mama Chinonso looking like “Lord, have mercy on me!” Nobody had the right to look so good this early, I thought.
“You plan to sleep all day?” I was speechless. “It’s 8 a.m. Don’t you have to go to work or something?” I was still stunned by her looks and hadn’t recovered my voice. Her light skin had a lovely glow and she was shapely, too shapely!
“I wanted to make sure you were alive,” she said, with twinkles in her brown eyes, “and to tell you I’m going to the market. Are there things I should buy for you?”
“No, thanks!” I was now feeling self-conscious, wishing I’d spent some time at the gym rather than peering at my laptop 24/7.
“Think again. Curtains? Water containers? Mopping stick? Cooking utensils? Food?” Her inspection the previous night had revealed much.
“Alright! Since you seem to know all I need, make a list but don’t exceed ten thousand Naira.”
“Okay,” she replied and merrily walked back to her apartment. I gazed at her and absolutely loved the view. I doubt that any other guy would have reacted differently.
“D#mn,” I exclaimed.
I think you deserve to know exactly what she looks like. She is 5ft. 9″ or thereabouts, with some neat curves, which would look bad on someone of a shorter height. She has a high-bridged nose (like mine) and perfect dentition (the kind the Bible describes in the Song of Solomon as “each with its twin”. We used that love stuff from Solomon to toast* girls back in JSS*. Weird, right?).
She also has pale pink lips, lovely legs and best of all, masses of hair (not wig or weave on). With the number of girls I’ve had, I can tell the difference between the purchased and natural stuff from a mile. I later confirmed that she’s biracial (half Nigerian-half Greek) but, if you ask me, whoever contributed the Nigerian part was dulling*, making her look more like a Mediterranean than a Nigerian beauty. (I’m a connoisseur of sorts when it comes to female beauty, regardless of its origin.)
The moment I entered my flat, the red flag went off. What was I doing, I asked myself.
I hardly know this woman. What if she hasn’t enough money for her own shopping and is planning to cover it by skimping on my own purchases? Besides, how wise is it to let her shop for me? I’m certain prices will hit the roof when traders see a supposed Oyibo* woman.
I quickly brushed my teeth and pulled on jeans and my green “I love Naija” tee-shirt. A tap on the door and she met me putting on my sneakers in the corridor off the living room.
“Going somewhere?”
“I thought that since I’m free now, I’ll accompany you to the market in my car. You’re right. I really have a lot to buy. Carpets, a decent mattress, the things you mentioned and more.”
I kicked myself inwardly. If I bought all that, I would be spending thrice the amount I told her earlier. I never intended to squander money like that. But I continued, “It won’t be fair for you to shop for it all alone and move about in a taxi. The least I can do is carry them for you and be your chauffeur.”
“That’s very sweet of you.” You think! Although I had a policy of never hooking up with married ladies, I wasn’t too sure how things would play out with the beauty in front of me. But I was open to all possibilities.
“You’re just like my husband.” Oh-oh, that’s not good! “He usually accompanies me to the market.” Now, why would a guy do that? “It’s a good sign, you know, when a guy is patient enough to shop with a lady.” I perked up again. Could she be referring to us?
“Your girlfriend is a lucky lady.” Not what I was expecting to hear. “Do you have her picture around?”
“There’s no one at the moment,” I lied. The truth was there were several girls but I really didn’t know what I wanted with any of them beyond the usual ….
“No problem. In fact, it’s better you wait till you’re sure you’ll be committed before getting into a relationship.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” I lied again. I felt a desperate urge to agree with Mama Chinonso on everything and impress her thereby. Whether it would be enough to get us to where I was fantasising was yet to be seen
No comments:
Post a Comment