Yesterday, I tweeted that I tend to find myself in the most dramatic situations.
Apparently, the Fates were listening.
First of all, I need a car. For ages, I’ve been asking my friends and family to pull their resources together and buy me one. Don’t even try to judge me or ask me why I’m not buying it for myself. I can’t afford one yet 😭.
I need a car because I’m getting tired of all the drama that happens when I use public transportation.
One time, I boarded a cab and sat in front and the driver said my skin looked so delicious, he felt like eating it. On another occasion, a guy was toasting a girl at the back of the bus I’d boarded. I was sitting in front of them.
The girl became uncomfortable with his persistence and said, “Please leave me alone. I’ve told you no. Now you’re scaring me.”
I forgot to pretend I wasn’t listening to their conversation and laughed aloud when she said that. That bros, in anger and embarrassment, almost slapped me back to the Ming Dynasty in ancient China.
How can I forget the time I missed out on marrying Mr Right?
It was back in the day when I was still wearing low-cut hair. I’d just left my favourite restaurant with a full belly and a good mood. I boarded a cab; there was a man at the back. He gave me this very good look and then spoke.
“Hey, dear. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” I replied, frowning at the endearment.
“You’re so beautiful, I have to say.”
In my head, I was like, “No, you don’t have to say nada. You can choose to clam up, so I can have a light doze and let this garri and Afang soup digest properly.”
Instead, I smiled and muttered a distracted ‘Thank you.’
“You look so gentle,” he went on. In fact, I like your kind of person….fair and gentle. I would’ve loved to date someone like you. But….”
He shrugged and waited for me to take the bait.
Shebi there was food in my stomach? There was no chance that I could get annoyed. I struggled with my curiosity for a second and bit that lure.
“But, what? I asked.
“But you’ve got a low-cut. I don’t like women cutting their hair, especially those that permanently carry low-cut. A woman should have long hair. You shouldn’t cut your hair. I would’ve been attracted to you now, and even asked you out, but for this hair.”
Ah! See how I lost my future husband.
But I’m not sure any of that compares to today’s drama. I was heading home from the aerobics club this morning. I had on a baseball cap and my headphones, even though I wasn’t listening to any music. It reduces the noise and helps me think better.
I hailed a cab and got in the back. There was a lady in the front passenger’s seat. Five minutes later, we picked up an elderly gentleman. Not long after, we picked up another gentleman. He was singing as he entered. I gave him a cursory glance; he was young and looked to be in his thirties. I returned my gaze to my phone.
As soon as the car started off, he stopped singing and tried to get my attention. The side window was down, so I knew he didn’t want me to roll it down. I still had my headphones, was reading something on my phone and humming a tune. So I pretended I didn’t hear him.
“Excuse me,” he said. I didn’t answer.
In my peripheral vision, I saw him hesitate, and then say, “Excuse me. Sister….”
I didn’t answer.
The older gentleman piped up. “She can’t hear you. She’s had that thing over her ears and has been singing since I entered the car.”
At that point, the young man clapped his hand three times, like a gossip about to unleash some hot gist.
“Ah! Women can pretend!”
My ears perked up.
“You’re right,” the older man agreed.
In my mind, I’m like, ‘Papa, who asked you?’
The young man went on. “Chai! Women eh, fear them! See this girl o! After eating my money in Port Harcourt, she’s now pretending like she does not know me.”
The woman in the front seat sat up, intrigued.
Me, I’m like…..Hollup…hollup niccur. Say what?
As if he’d heard me, he repeated himself.
“I knew this girl in Port Harcourt o! We met and befriend ourselves. Then she ate my money and disappeared. Now she’s doing as if she doesn’t know me.”
Ah, I almost gave up my pretence o! Me ke? Port Harcourt? How? When? I mean, I’ve been mistaken for someone else a couple of times. But as a chop-hit-and-run babe? This was new.
Unable to restrain himself anymore, Young Man reached across Older Gentleman and tapped me.
“Madam, excuse me!”
I couldn’t feign any longer. I pushed back one side of the headphone away from my left ear.
“Yes?”
“Do you know me?” he asked.
“No, sorry, I don’t. Should I?”
“You mean you don’t know me from Port Harcourt? You and me that know ourselves in PH?”
I said, “No, I don’t know you. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
Then I put back the headphone. I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t buying my story. When I told the driver I was stopping at the junction, he asked the other man the name of the stop and nodded his head. Like he was going to come back and find me.
I had to put my phone’s camera in selfie mode and hold it up so I could see behind me and make sure he didn’t follow me home.
What’s the essence of this story?
Dear Look-alike in Port Harcourt, please, I beg you in the name of all that’s holy, stop scamming men o! I won’t take the rap for your bad deeds.
Dear family and friends, buy me a darn car! How long do y’all want me to continue telling these kinds of stories?