THE TALE OF TWO DYING STARS (EPISODE 6)

TAG: FICTION, ROMANCE, SERIES

click here for Episode 5

“Oh, no,” I shake my head, “I don’t even know how to thank you.”

“Really?” Her face brightens, smile perching on her lips.

“I…I wonder how you get to know.”

“You submitted your credentials on my desk, didn’t you?”

“Oh, thanks for being so kind, boss. I must say, you are the kindest boss in this company. I could never have remembered this.”

 I stare at the birthday frame, which reads:

I hope that you have

a great year

and accomplish all 

the goals you have set.

Wishing you a happy birthday.

May you get the best of

everything in life.

“You can wrap it back.  When it’s exactly 5’oclock, you need to drive me somewhere!”

 “Thanks a lot. I’m so, so grateful Miss!”

 “It’s alright.”

***

According to what I’m seeing on the dashboard, it’s up to eight minutes since we left the office. Rolling the steering wheel, I corner towards Cameron road, Ikoyi.

I don’t know her exact destination. She’s been the one directing me ever since. Before we set out, she has said: “Please, drive me to Ikoyi.”  I have queried her, “Where around Ikoyi?”  Her reply was: “Never mind, dear. I will lead you.” To my surprise, she is seated beside me. I’ve expected her to assume the owner seat. What if any of her relatives sees us in this position? What if they assume she is fornicating with another man?  I think I’m in danger. The Chairman is beginning to suspect too. He has stumbled upon me when I walked out of her office with a package. He questioned me about it. And I was delighted to tell him she’s the only boss that remembered my birthday. He has said nothing, but his face has spoken something suspicious. I don’t really….

“Mathew!” Her voice shatters my thought.

“Yes, Miss.”

“So, has she contacted you ever since then?”

“Who’s that?”

“Your fiancee.”

“No,” I pause and continue, “I’ve actually tried my best to reach her, but I couldn’t.”

After a long pause she says, “I wonder why some ladies behave that way. It’s so uncalled for! You mean just because you couldn’t afford a particular need, all she has to do is pack her things and leave. Do you think she ever loved you? I don’t think that’s a true love.” Her voice is soft and calm, indicating that she’s merely reacting about Adeola’s attitude. What a caring lady she is.

However, I wonder if to give a response to that.

“True love,” I say, “I don’t think that exists in dictionary of most girls of nowadays, especially the Lagos girls…”

“Come on,” she cuts in, “I’m also a Lagos breed, you know?”

I glance at her. She is frowning and smiling at the same time, curling the left corner of her lips.

“Yes, I know. That’s why I didn’t generalize the statement. I said, ‘most girls of nowadays’.”

“But you added, especially Lagos girls.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that. What I was trying to say is this, Adeola and I were best of lovers in our school days, and she stood by me in difficult times. But the moment we graduated, and she saw my old friends living great, her attitude changed.

“Adeola, you called her?”

“Yes. Adeola.”  I nod. She has pronounced the name with Igbo intonation, not really accent.

“I once had a friend by that name,” She says, rubbing her right palm on her cheek.

 “Really?”

“Yap.”

We’ve been going through a slight traffic ever since we crossed to this road. But now the lane is clear. There is a junction ahead. I’m expecting another direction from her.

“Where do I turn?” I ask.

“Your right.”

That is the road to Cameron Green estate. I pull the car gently along the avenue, a very exquisite area. The spotlessly tarred road is flanked by grassy gardens, flowers, decorative trees and palm trees. The vicinity is peaceful and quiet, disrupted occasionally by chirrups of little birds jumping from one tree to another.  

 She soon asks me to make a U-turn, after which I park behind a blue Honda accord, towards the left.

She motions me to come along while walking towards a particular garden. There are few people, young friends, aged ones, and couples seated on the couch-like plastic benches, which are strategically distanced from each other. Some of the benches are sheltered by tall patio umbrellas; that seems to be useless now, since the atmosphere is cool. Above us, the sunless purple sky is freckled with yellow-orange clouds, and the breeze sways the plants from side to side.

And right now, as we approach a yellow-brown bench at the center, the flowers’ perfumes are flowing too heavily in the air, mixing with the pleasant one from Janet. To the left, there is a thatched roof shed or mini mart.

As she reclines on the bench, she says, “I relax here on rare occasions. You can sit here, Mathew.” She slaps her palm on the space to the left. 

“It’s such a nice place, really nice,” I remark, after occupying the position, leaving close to five inches gap.

Janet swings her fingers in the air, then a lady on white blouse and blue skirt walks to us.

“What would you like to drink?” Janet turns to me.

“No, I’m okay,” I shake my head.

“You need to take something. It’s your day, you know?”

I chuckle, “Okay, okay. I don’t mind anything. Thanks.”

“Alright, bring my favourite,” says Janet.

The lady hurries off and soon returns with the orders.

When we’ve been served with two red cocktails, Janet says she has something on her mind to share with me. Leaning back, she stares heavenward, her face growing dull like the clouds above. She is drumming the cocktail glass with the left fingers.

“Mathew,” she says, “I don’t want you to be caught in shock. But I know you surely will.” She allows a short silence, sighs and stares at her cocktail as if her next statement is written there.

 I become confused; although I never look straight at her. I’ve been glancing at her—my eyes are focused on the blanket of grasses ahead, where little birds are now landing.

“Francis,” she says, “is not my fiancé. We are just friends….”

The statement jingles like a bell in my head. I wonder if I’ve heard her right. Just friends, as how?

She proceeds by telling me about her parents, their predicaments in the past, which has resulted to the desperation for a grandchild.  I’m just realizing she’s the sole eye of her parents. To spare the life of her hypertensive mother, she planned a false engagement with Mr. Frances. She reveals the two fatal heartbreaks she had from past boyfriends, and that’s why she is actually afraid to rush into any relationship.

Mr. Frances is just her veil? I can’t believe this. I’m completely dazed.  So, we are both in a similar situation. Even the rich ones are climbing the miserable mountain as the poor.

“Eeeyah,” I shake my head slowly, “I’m really sorry about that. May God provide you with the right man.”

After some moments of quiet, she says, “Now, I’ve met a man I love, who seems responsible. But I can’t tell if the feeling is mutual.  I need your advice. How do I detect if he is really interested in me?”

I hesitate and ask, “First of all, I need to know where you met, or rather, where he proposed to you?”

“As for the place we met” She says faintly, stirring her drink, “that’s a top secret. The problem is, whenever I stare him in the eye, he would ignore me.  What could be making a man behave that way?”

I shake my head a bit, “Most times, it’s either the man is not….I can’t really say.”

“Please, think about it.”

“Okay. I think he’s not in the mood to reciprocate that feeling. Perhaps he’s in a difficult situation.”

 Her head shakes lightly, “Mathew, that moment has repeated itself countless times. I don’t think so.” Frustration reflects in her tone this time.

“The other reason might be…..” I begin, then pause, thinking of how best I could present my statement.

Then she breaks in, “He doesn’t like me, right?”

“I guess so.” I shrug.

“Mathew,” She calls gently, “I really value an honest fellow….I have one crucial question to ask, and I would like you to be frank with me. Criticism has never been my poison. Please, tell me, am I really ugly to that extent?”

“You just said ugly?” I smirk, “I don’t think so.”

That man is a lucky one, fortunate even. To have stolen away the heart of a diva.

“I’m still not certain,” She says, placing her drink beside her, “For instance, assuming we’ve never met, and I walk past you. Would you be tempted to peek at me, for once?”

“I don’t think any man can resist you, Miss.” I smile, looking far away.

“Really?”

I nod slowly.

“Hmn.” She grunts tensely, “You mean…even you….”

“I’m also a man, of course.”

Then she sighs heavily, crossing her legs and sipping her drink. “Thanks, anyway.”

***

The next three days is a Sunday. I’ve been lying on my back in bed, basking in the refreshment of my new ceiling fan. The photo album in my hand is the history of my tertiary and secondary school days. R-Kelly’s song (The storm is over) playing in low strain from my deck tape.

My room, 8 by 7 feet, accommodating a bunk, one mahogany middle stool. And beside me, three feet away, by the square window, is a black shelf occupied by 14” Sharp TV,  DVD player and the tape. I’m thinking about changing the blue paint on the wall; the peels are revealing the initial rust-coloured cream.   

I open the album to a group shot (I’m posing with my four intimate friends under a cashew tree. Right beside me is Thomas a.k.a Tom-Tom.)

 I smile.

 I coined the nickname for him during our first year. Thomas was my closest friend. We have always studied together. We were also in the same club, THE KEGITE. He was the funniest, and he had dreamed of becoming a stage comedian; although he was in science department. I lost my phone as soon as we finished four years back. I have lost contact with them all, until Thomas bumped into me.  We met on Cameron green estate.

 When I was about entering the car after Janet, he had shouted, “Yinkus! Yinkus!” from across the road. When I turned back, he was scrutinizing me like he’s seeing my ghost. And he hailed aloud, “Ha! Yinkus, the Casanova!” He repeated the phrase twice.  After taking an excuse from Janet, I hailed Thomas by his alias. We embraced between laughter. He wanted to know if I was the owner of the car.

“No, na that my oga get am?” I told him.

“Na your Oga be that. That one wey fresh like pawpaw wey fly never touch? Na Yankee she base?”

I smiled, “Na naija base O.”

“Oh boy!” He exclaimed quietly, craning his neck for a better view. That moment, Janet was browsing on her Blackberry. “This kind girl go suck man die! You no see those curves, and even the height? Where this your oga dey when dem dey find Miss Naija?”

I quickly asked for Thomas’ contact, cutting him short. We discussed on phone yesterday. He said he would pay me a visit. According to him, he works in an insurance company, staying in a single apartment, like me. Thomas had earned his “1st class Masters” in womanizing. His sugar-coated tongue, alongside his tall dark figure, were the chains with which he enslaved girls on campus. I was called “the Casanova” because I was also popular with girls before meeting Adeola.

I open the album to the next picture.

At that instant, my phone is ringing from under the pillow.

Janet!

Two days ago, she asked me for a help. I should pretend as her boyfriend at a party she’s attending today. She doesn’t want to appear as a single lady. One of her old school friends is having a birthday. Location: Eko Hotel, Pool side.

The phone is still ringing.

“Hello Miss!” I say to the receiver, glancing at the wall clock. 5: 35pm.

“I’m on my way,” she says, “You can wait for me at the junction.”

“Okay, approximately what time would you get there?”

“Mmm…I should be there in seven minutes.”

 After dropping the phone, I pull at my new shirts and trousers from the hanger above. I’ve taken my bath earlier on.

I have finished dressing. I’m now spraying a Kenneth-Cole-reaction’s perfume.

I rush to check my look on the wall mirror.

 I have already trimmed my hair at the barbing salon. My straight tie, grey-coloured, clipping down my white long-sleeved shirt with vertical black stripes. Both my black trousers and shirt are hugging my body perfectly—my shoes, too, glossy black.

“Perfect!” I smile, brushing my low cut.

****

Forty minutes later, I’m pulling the car, a white Bentley 2011, towards the hotel park. I’m driving along hundreds of other latest cars, mostly jeeps. I park behind a black Toyota corolla. This is my third visit to Eko hotel.

Janet is the first to get down. This babe is a brutal killer in this glamorous pink tube and mini skirt. She wouldn’t dare to take something on the ground. Otherwise, her story will turn that of a fowl and the wind. Perhaps that is one of my duties here. To pick up any fallen object.

We’re walking side by side as we approach the edifice. I can hear speakers booming as loud as gunshots, with the pulsating beats of the song: Got us falling in love again—Usher ft. Pitbull.  Other than that, the atmosphere is cordial. The breeze is refreshingly cold—it feels like the dawn period when dews are falling gently on earth.

Two big-bellied men in agbada are walking past, their eyes ogling on the Angel beside me. The one that had been lowering his eye-glasses is not aware that his “alternate eyes” has fallen off. I almost laugh out. Meanwhile, Janet is facing ahead. Taking a backward glance, I see the men standing still, mouth agape. His friend is tapping his shoulder, pointing at his glasses on the pavement.

As we move along, we come across couples, many of them. Some are discussing with their partners, laughing and playing pranks, others are merely moving in silence as if in quarrel.  Among the swarm of couples, one guy is turning back, staring at Janet, eyes wide.  His woman has taken three steps further before realizing that her man is under a spell.

The guy has started begging his girl before I look away. I begin to wonder if Janet is a super human, because there are several other cases before we start approaching the poolside gate.

“Hold my hand,” She coos, offering me her left hand.

I hesitate, willing her to repeat the statement. Rather, she grabs my hand by herself.  I feel my temperature rising so high at the feel of her silky warm palm. I lay her palm on my cheek in my mind-eye, wondering what it would feel like. I would probably be lulled to sleep and find myself in paradise.

We come across two bouncers at the Poolside entrance, each with physique like mine. She presents the two invitation cards.

As we advance towards the party gathering, she draws closer to me. No one could ever doubt that we’re not a true couple. She is really good at drama. Maybe I am, too.

The vicinity is crowded already.  Half naked girls are splashing water in the pool, flirting with their men right inside. Even beside the pool, there are many ladies on pink panties and bras; some buttocks are clapping, breasts dancing, teeth flashing, hands punching and feet kicking the air.

The pavement is shaking under my feet from the loud speaker. There are still vacant seats, blue deck chairs. We then occupy the one under a shed, a white round table in the middle. We’re sitting face to face. Then I begin to browse on my phone. To avoid a direct gaze.  A moment later, two servers walk to us, male and female, asking what we care for.  As usual, I ask them to bring whatever Janet has requested. She requests red Bacardi cocktail, blue Tiki, classic Daiquiri, and veggie suya.

Almost immediately, they are served with stemware, ranging from martini glasses and snifters. The suya is well garnished in two white floral plates.

Soon, the music comes to abrupt halt.  We are facing the stage, which is about thirty meters away. The MC announces the next item on the program agenda.

 The celebrant should come on stage, to dance with her girl-friends. Janet leaves the table as soon as the speaker bursts with—Rihanna’s rude boy.

The dancers are too much, so I could only glimpse her in the crowd. Her motions agree with every beat and rhythm, even on her pink high heels.

The dance lasts for three minutes.

When she resumes the seat, I tell her, “You are such a wonderful dancer.”

“Are you serious? “She beams, “Thanks, dear.”

Some minutes later, after playing several DJ mixes, the speaker halts again. Then cheers rise into the sky from the ladies at the pool.

The MC picks up the microphone gain, clears his throat and starts another announcement.

“The next item on the agenda,” He takes a pause, “has been specifically included by our prestigious celebrant. Today, we want our honourable guests to throw some love in the air. Our visiting couples are to entertain us with a thirty seconds kiss, on their respective seats. This evening, we shall recognize the most affectionate couple. The show starts at the count of one to ten….”

What? What sort of program is this?  I exclaim in shock within me.

This time, Janet pouts her lips and looks away, as if she hears nothing.  I’m thinking of asking if I’m to get out, and come back after the show.

When the MC has counted to 3, I brave my mind to ask, “Are we to do this?”

She returns her face with a nervous facial expression, her fingers tapping on the table, head tilting.

“But…but…” words stuck to my throat.

“Mathew,” She says in a shaky voice, her lips trembling, “Would you....would you like to disgrace me?”

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