A bad lunch.

She doubled as a waiter and manager in the little restaurant or more accurately: ‘mama-put’, tucked between the laundry mart and the liquor bar in a low down part of town. I had gone visiting the bar with a couple of friends when, between drinks, someone had suggested getting a quick lunch. The meal had been terrible; the beef was hardly cooked and my friend had discovered strands of blonde hair in his plate-synthetic, of course. After a few beers, it wasn’t difficult to cause a ruckus and by God we did. The regulars did not like that we city boys raised so much hell and, by and by, they got aggressive too. The management of the ‘mama-put’ consisting solely of this very attractive, curvy, young woman with close cropped hair, large earrings and animal print pants, stepped in to quell the erupting melee but things only got worse. A friend, suitably tipsy, had called her a”fuckin’ bitch” and may have groped her too. While I doubt the regulars had any idea what said friend had said, her reaction got them all up in arms. It was war, and, when it was over, I was nursing a black eye and a bleeding lower lip which was nothing compared to what my friends ended up with.

A week later, I was back at the restaurant sporting a Von Dutch trucker cap pushed low over my eyes. I ordered a plate so as not to arouse any suspicion then sat down to wait. I had to be sure that she was as beautiful as I remembered and maybe to tell her that I was sorry for the mess we caused- or my part in it at least, and consequently, take her to lunch at a decent restaurant. You see, I had it all figured out and I was the man with a plan. I have a thing for women in close cropped hair, beautiful, shapely, ones too. You cannot but notice the graceful contours of the neck and other such sublime inducements. (I reckon it is why I fancy CNN’s Becky Anderson, even though she looks like a character best suited to the Simpsons animation.) She does not turn up that day or the next. I should know, I was there the next day. 

After a week, I run out of improvised disguises and have become something of a regular myself. Folks ask me to buy them lunch rather than just stare at my order. They either are a forgetful lot that they do not remember that they beat up my friends and I days ago or, they are more interested in the culinary experience than I had cared to observe. But then, a clean shave works more wonders than the best Nollywood make up effort.

At the end of the second week, I resolved to ask the real regulars about her and one of them, Oga Kofi, indicated his willingness to talk to me after a hefty double lunch on my tab and couple of beer bottles. Kofi is a large, pot bellied, local mechanic in his mid-fifties and, a rather loquacious one too. He would cut me off abruptly to launch into long, witty, flamboyant narrations of his ordeals especially when they bordered on shared interests. For instance, when I told him I was in town to register for a professional driving course, he made a face and asked if I did not know how to drive. I told him I did (even though I hardly drive as a conscious choice) and attempted to explain that it was a little above regular driving, a sort of marginal utility on the traditional driving experience. He grunted his interruption, took a swig of his beer and said with what I suspect was a slight measure of condescension:

‘What do you want to teach me of cars, Charlie? I know folks that can drive from Kaduna to Zaria with the gear in reverse. Myself, I do it at 120Km/h all the while dodging potholes, and overtaking trucks, thank you very much.’

It did not take long to figure that I would benefit little if I tried to make the conversation a two way street. It was better I let him talk on. After all the beers he had downed, I suspected when I finally told him what it was I wanted, he would spill his guts nonstop. As I sat there listening to my new acquaintance; sipping on my pear Fayrouz, a burning Rothmans stick in hand and bitter Kola in mouth, I noticed that I had come to like this fellar and his queer Ghanaian accent. His English was good- surprisingly so – and his manners, although gruff and rather aggressive, was a refreshing difference. I was entertained and felt obliged to buy him more bottles- and I did. Then I asked if he was married. He told me his woman was late and that he had four kids. Three boys and a daughter, the boys had all moved down south while his daughter decided to stay behind which was good because he did not want any of these little boys trying to “spoil” her. He vowed he would hack to death any “born-bastard” (whatever that meant) that tried. In return, he asked me if I had any “woman” (funny how he used the gender description ‘woman’ instead of a functional description, a wife or girlfriend) and when I said no, he looked up at me and asked why. At this point I figured I’d tell him what I was up to but I did not want him discovering what nuisance my friends and I had been up to in the next door restaurant a fortnight ago. Even though I had not noticed him there that night, we had probably punched some of his friends and, with these folks, there was no telling; he could be honour bound to break me up in two. Instead, I told him I saw a lady around that had stirred my interest but I had not walked up to talk to her. When he probed further, I told him I had been somewhat shy to as I did not know the town proper and I didn’t want to disrespect anyone. He looked surprised, scratched his throat then spat out on the floor. He wiped his mouth and turned to me, pointed a finger and said, solemnly:

‘Of all things, do not be shy. To be shy is to be cursed. What is shy, Charlie?’

 I tried to make a reply but he continued- almost philosophically, with a wave of his strong, muscled arms, apparently, the question had been a rhetorical one.... 

‘No one really knows but, everyone thinks they know what it is not. Me, sitting out here, I think I have figured it out. To be shy is to be cursed. How could it not be? A shy girl, nervously enjoying a lover’s touch, might be mistaken for a prude. Heavens forbid she runs away when he leans in for a kiss! And mind you, that may not have been her intent. You say you were shy but, that girl you saw probably thinks you are a stand-offish city prick.’

 

 Then he lit his Benson and Hedges cigarette, dragged deep and continued:

 ‘You see, shy is a crazy curse. We really cannot tell when the next person is shy. Rosy cheeks might be a sufficient indicator in some instances but, never always. Hence, the odds are, a supposedly shy person is quickly mistaken for whatever suspicion occurs to our fancy.’ 

 He probably noticed that his little speech had me perked up so he leaned back into his seat for grand effect. I listened with rapt, unfeigned, attention. This here was a conversation I did not bargain for but it was worth the drinks. Wait, was he drunk already?

‘....so folks look at your “shy” self and say he is high, or confused, or arrogant, or imbecilic, probably autistic. Look here my boy, shy is often a time-specific character vacuum we are all too willing to fill with our own projections...’

The table rocked slightly as he spoke because he kept swinging his legs. The alcohol was kicking in apparently. Already, there was a slight slur to his speech and I was forced to cover my drink as drops of spittle shot out of his mouth like heat seeking missiles towards me. Now he broke into pigeon English:

‘Abi she no fine? Na only woman wey no fine naim person dey shame for. Any woman wey fine, wey set wella, person no dey shame o. Infact, na with plenty ginger dem take dey follow that kain matter. Tell me the honest-to-God yarn Charlie, she no fine?’

Clearly, this last question was hardly rhetorical and so I answered otherwise, quite emphatically too. He smiled but continued that line of questioning:

‘She no set?’

‘Set?’

‘She no sexy?’

‘Bros, she sexy die.’ Then I made an exaggerated hourglass shape with my hands, let my tongue hang out and, rolled my eyes for greater emphasis. He laughed.

‘All you city boys wey like big, big, Ikebe so. No worry, as long as na this town you see am, I go help you fine am make you fit cure that your konji...’

He slapped my shoulder awfully hard as he said so and my almost finished cigarette fell to the floor. When he noticed what he had done, he stamped out the stub and laughed even harder. I felt the cold, uncomfortable wetness of a drop of spit on my face. Clearly, the dude was wasted or borderline close. Soon enough, I got up to ease myself, figuring I had better chances of finding the girl on my own without getting drowned in a pool of saliva. At the door that housed what passed for the gents, I turned back to look at Kofi and found him holding his head in his hands, looking out in space and muttering to himself. That part of the male psyche that takes delight in leaving his companions an un-sober mess took over and I found myself smiling, as if I had accomplished some mission known only to my subconscious. 

When I stumbled out the smelly hole that masked for the gent’s, I could swear Kofi had performed some sort of David Blaine like magic trick because; there she was, standing right next to him and in a heated argument too. You could not mistake her curves, the large earrings, the cropped hair and the delicateness of her neck around which she had a gold chain with a crucifix pendant. She wore a plaid shirt that burst loose at the front where the fullness of her chest defied the constraints put up by her buttons. Oh goodness. I caught myself, wondering just exactly what was going on. No matter, it was my lucky day, or night, I concluded. I walked over to the table-they were, of course, totally unaware of me – and sat down awkwardly. Kofi was in a rage, his saliva missiles deployed at random. I wondered, briefly, how he still had any body fluids left. He was saying to her:

‘..No bloordy bagga daughter of mine gonna tehl me what to do! Go home now and lock deh door maza-maza. If I hear say you branch anywhere to talk to any born-bastard, I chop off im head. Infact, I chop off im prick. Now, commot this place becorz I get guzzling to guzzle.’

Daughter, ke? I had my jaw sagging for quite a while and for good reason too. This scene was moving too fast for me and I knew trouble was lurking after the cut. But she was so fine that it was impossible to break the stare or shut my trap regardless of the fact that I risked getting drenched in someone else’s digestive lubricant or even swallowing some. Also, I couldn’t help but notice that she was clearly unhappy with Kofi’s present condition. Her eyes glistened like she would cry but she fought back the tears with effort, clenching her jaw as she did so, her rage so barely contained that she seemed to throb with its passion. Then a tear dropped and she made to wipe it. It was then our eyes locked. I think at that moment I had on my face one of those smiles that indicate that the wearer is clueless, those ones that mark you out to the world as irredeemably stupid. I swear, I did not know what else to do. She smiled too, but hers was a cold type. The type women are rumoured to wear when hell freezes over in comparison. There was also something else; recognition. She turned back to Kofi and said;

‘Only you get guzzling to do, only you wan cut prick. See am here naah, cut am.’ She was pointing a finger at me.

Kofi only noticed me then. The bar had gone quiet, the general attention focused on us now. She did not stop there though; God knows I fervently wished she did:

‘Mumu, talk talk papa like you..’ Kofi’s eyes shot up. Drunk or not, he clearly was not accustomed to being spoken to that way. He was seething.

 ‘..see am right in front of you. As them dey buy you beer now you dey jolly. You told me, swore to Jesu, that you would find the person wey scatter mama restaurant, and deal with im an im people but, see yourself? You siddon here with am, the same person wey call me ashawo, wey siddon dey look me like say im wan use eyes take fuck me, drinking his beer and shouting at me, embarrassing yourself in public. Na im be this. You must cut am today o...!’

Kofi, mouth agape, turned slowly, and looked at me anew.

I finally shut my mouth as I forced saliva down my throat.