You’ve got a girl named Dooshima and she is the prettiest windfall ever to come your way in your entire unlucky lifetime.
She’s about five nine, oval masterpiece for a face, a cute little dimple when you make her smile, long legs that carry a magnificently huge ass, and hips that would be sure to raise the brows of the pope himself.
She walks into a room and you can almost remix a chorus from the gasps and gapes that follow her sexy stride.
And you are so proud to grace her side. She’s the type of girl that greased your boyhood dreams long before you lost your virginity, the type you still wish to meet long after you get tied down with a ring.
You met her on a bus ride to Maitama and really didn’t see her till she got up to make an exit at her bus stop. And your lungs froze. You make your own exit knowing the plain stupidity in getting off at the wrong bus stop, knowing that it would cost you twice as much to get another bus and get to your right destination in undue time, but still you get off knowing that every iota of reasoning has left your bedazzled brain at the site of this girl. You are rusty at chasing and haven’t wooed anything in a long time, but you ignore your non existent confidence knowing that whatever the outcome, this price was worth the chase.
And chase, you do.
You reach out and hold her luggage without her permission for assistance and she turns to look at you. And wallahi you thought you would die from the innocence in her eyes. You tell her immediately where you where headed to, why you got off at the wrong stop, you tell her that you don’t normally do this which by the way is your first lie, but you would love to get to know her a lot better and see her a lot more.
And she smiles.
So you exchange digits and you tackle her heart on the phone which happens to be your favorite territory. One week later you find out all you need to know about this fallen angel. She’s an exchange student of the University of Abuja, is half Idoma and half British, was raised by her mother in Kano, and spends every summer with her father in London.
Beauty, brains and background put together she is, as my old friend Ode would say, a complete package.
She loves your lone dimple, you love her great behind. She loves the radio, you will only listen to the playlist on your very old ipod. You love Stephen King paperbacks, she never even read Mills and Boom epics. You love to cook flawless meals, she needs an operational manual to get the gas cooker going. Still your infinitesimal difference don’t stand a match for the chemistry between you. Lai’lai. She is the only Benue girl, half or not, that you managed to date. She brags about you to her friends how amazingly matured you are for your age, how good you are in bed, and how you whistle in the shower as sharp as an old farmer. On the other hand, men will never admit to gossiping but when the drink hits the mark, you truthfully tell your boys how her beauty spars her personality to a stalemate, how she responds to your words and touch, and how you have to up the volume on the stereo to keep your secrets secret from your snotty neighbors.
She is evidence of the hospitality of Benue girls which by the way was a legend unconfirmed to you till you met her. She is living proof. Wait till you get one.
It’s a sweet vanilla chili relationship coated in mutual understanding.
You are not a playboy, at least not just, and she’s only eighteen. Innocently so. She’s had a relationship or two in the past but that won’t count where you stand. You are the real deal. When you’ve lived the last six years with scars of dented crashes from broken hearted relationships, mbanu’ she won’t count. You have been hurt before and she knows this so there’s a kekere’ minimal level of mutual understanding between you both. You will always have a fence to protect your heart, or pardon me, what remains of it. She loves you none the less and she is patient. And in patience comes wisdom. With wisdom comes understanding and with understanding, knowledge. The knowledge that with persistence, the love she brings will magma your fences to liquid.
People pray for angels, I found one in a bus.
Eleven months of heavenly bliss, so sweet it made her December holidays unbearable. Now when London becomes unbecoming for you to stay because the one you love is sitting-pretty in the hot climates of Lagos, then wahala dey. Your slippers don cut be that. She runs back earlier than scheduled and it is at the airport arrival lounge, the least likely place in all the earth that you fall in love with her.
It was in everything: the light chill in the air that the harmattan wind alone could not account for, the fact that she was garbed in that blood red Fruit of the Loom top, the sweet smell of her so familiar lacoste perfecto bouquet mixed with the tears she’s got in her eyes before she collapses into you open arms.
It was then and there you fell like a toddling child, your fences broken as easy as Sunday mornings like Lionel would say. You fall in love with her. Dooshima…
And oh, love is a tricky thing. No one masters the art of resisting it. It’s a coefficient of physics not chemistry. With just the right kind of pressure (p), for a certain period of time (T), it will knock you down. Your undefeated heavyweight status will equal the value of lollipop. You too, will fall. Think about it…
So you get a cab home and take her not just into your apartment but into your life and for a moment the world will stand still. You watch her sleep at night and then you break down in tiny vulnerable pieces of emotion. You will die a million times in her arms as a coward than once as a hero in another’s. This moment will never end. You’re an old die hard romantic. While she sleeps, you say your first prayer in ages. Lord, make this work. Amen.
And it does until 10am the next day. As an old romantic, you go to the stores to get petty stuff to fix breakfast with. You whistle your way to the grocery store elated in high spirits and hope. And while you try to make up your mind what loaf to get, she stumbles across your journals on the magazine rack beside your bed. The last three entries tell of how you have been sleeping with this wonderbird Sade whom you met on a clubbing spree with the boys while she was agonizingly away from you for just a few weeks.
You whistle your way back home to find her holding the exhibit in her left hand and your heart cracks and sinks kpata-kpata like the Titanic. There’s an awful excess of oxygen but breathing gets hard to do. You are overwhelmed by an overflowing sense of sadness. Sadness at being caught, certain its finite because she WILL never forgive you. You stare at her, five feet nine, oval face, long legs that entwined you these last months and all for close to the last time.
She calls you a bastard, a cheap town rat, screams “fuck you” in three different dialects and throws it at your chest. You pick it up as she walks into the room for the last time, and you get a last minute glance at her magnificent behind.
It’s worth the whole world to make it right but you can’t when you are caught dead wrong. Baby I’m just a writer you say, and this is part of my new project, but you sound as convincing as a hung-over traffic warden on a Monday morning.
This is how you lose her.
Is this another journal I ought to safeguard? I know not. I’m not particularly certain.
I am just a writer..