ii. A GMAIL KINDA LOVE STORY.

If you’re new here, ensure to read the first episode before reading this. You can tap the clap icon up to 50 times, doing so makes my little fairies dance.

March 24, 2024. 09:45.

The previous e-mail I had sent him stated that I was a wrong recipient, but when his second e-mail dashed in, my cheeks were chiselled with a scissoring smile, there I knew, no room for lies.

“Hello, Stranger.”

You caught me. Yes, I’m Omowumi, I did drop the review on Goodreads. It’s not so nice to meet you. You ruined my reading schedule, but because you have a signed copy of Chimeka Garrick’s book, you shall be exempted from the list of people I’ll never forgive. I’ll have you know that I live in Lagos as well, small world, right?

Ps. I can’t meet up for coffee, since I don’t like it.

I also don’t have the luxury to meet up with anyone right now, maybe next time. Thanks for the invite.

With loads of scorns,

Omowumi.

It’s 10 pm now, and my focus has been shifted, thanks to someone. I’ll just drift off to sleep.

April 10, 2024. 04:14 pm.

I closed up the bookstore since my Director was not there to help, reasons unknown. The closing time is usually 6 pm but I closed up early cause of my heavy flow, I was out of sanitary pads and needed to change to avoid having an America map designated on my dress. I got an email and I knew who the sender was without checking. Yemi and I became friends and decided to keep it a mail thing, to make our friendship official. We usually exchanged phone calls but swore off WhatsApp. I had convinced myself lots of times that ‘this thing’ is friendship and nothing else.

We’ve talked about all the books we’ve read in the past years and the ones we are yet to.

I found out that we both like thrillers, and while I’m more into non-African fiction, he chooses to go with the culture. I remembered how I punished him last week for bashing Sidney Sheldon and Colleen Hoover. It’s a known fact that Sidney solidifies my love for thrillers while the King of Rascality solidifies his; Umar Abubakar Sidi. I can’t fault him though, I’m a fan of Sidi’s work too.

I hollered at a cab which zoomed past and nearly broomed me off the road. Lagos and madness go both hands. No wonder we all have madness in us. At that moment, I wonder if Yemi has a little madness in him too. What does this man have up his sleeves?

I waved at another cab that was heading towards Mile 2 since there was no direct bus to Festac town. Lagos and unending bus stops.

I opened the mail as I entered the cab, paying less attention to the hush pleasantries I threw at the chauffeur. I laughed loudly at what the mail said, but instead, the driver asked if I was laughing at his jokes, which made me scoff.

“Ah, madam, I no know say I dey funny like that o”

I cautioned myself to not be rude to him but someone needs to water his delulu. Who does he think he is, Kevin Hart?

“Oh, not. I laughed at my boyfriend’s text”

Hol’up. I just called him that? Shit. I’m too deep in ‘this thing’.

“Issalie. How old you be wey you don get boyfriend? As you dey so, you pass 19? You think say you big cause you get fine face and big body.”

A tinge of annoyance boiled down my throat but I cautioned myself again. Being disrespectful has never been my thing and this man won’t get anything out of me this evening. But any more disparaging comment from him, I might just shove a used pad in his throat. And so, I read the text out loud, for him to hear and for clarity’s sake, that I do have someone.

There was a bout of laughter from him, and then I joined in when there was nothing I could do.

“Your man sure dey funny. You tell am say your flow dey heavy, hin come make the ‘dam’ joke. I dey learn from you gen z o”

At that moment, I felt like a trophy wife. I might have lied about my relationship status, but it got him to shut up, which was all I ever wanted.

05:25 pm

I called Yemi immediately I got home, flinging my wig in the wardrobe as I dialled his number. I narrated the whole cab ordeal to him without mincing a word, and couldn’t help but marvel at the sound of his laughter; masculine yet soothing. I like how he listens. I can’t even pinpoint what exactly drew him to me. He’s smart, funny, kind, an all-around goodness type of guy and he reads. What can a monotonous girl ask the lord for if not a spontaneous partner, a friend in my case?

I noticed the silence that fell between us and asked if he was okay.

“I’m just thinking about what you said.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

“You told the driver that I was your boyfriend.”

“I said that so he could shut up”

I had narrated the story without sieving out the titles because I didn’t think he’d be pissed.

“Are you mad that I called you that?”

There was a moment of hesitation. It was at this moment I knew I fucked up.

“I don’t know. I just don’t want you making up stories about this. I mean we are just friends, right?” he declared.

This is it. My village people have chalked my online shenanigans up to desperation for a suitor.

“Yeah”

That’s a lie. Friends don’t call each other every passing minute. They don’t text for an unhealthy amount of time.

“I have to go, my soup is burning.” I said.

“You don’t even know how to cook.”

“Welp. I do now. Thanks friend. Talk to you never.”

I ended the call before he could say anything else. The pieces of advice Twitter NG drops daily concerning Yoruba men had never been clear to me until now. They’ll make you and shatter you into pieces the next minute. So ladies and gentlemen, wait for episode 3.

It’s day 74 of the chronicle of a final-year student. I don’t know when episode 3 will come out, but I hope it’s soon. I’m not out of creative juice, just out of battery and I’m busy too. Trying to balance my showing up here and my degree is a lot harder.