You Took a Part of Me With You.
A short story about wild nights and unexpected endings
We are cruising down the boulevard, the road leading from Che street through the food Market. We navigate our way up the bumpy road to the Commercial Avenue and come to a grinding halt in front of Njeiforbi snack bar. I look at my friend Chris, he looks back at me. We don’t need to say any words, we know we are about to have the night of our lives.
We step out of the vehicle and take in the cold night air. It reeks of soya, cigarettes and fornication. In front of the snack, people mill about. The music is loud but does not hinder the buzzing of discrete conversation. A couple of girls pass us by, hoping to catch our attention. They don’t need to try hard. We had spotted them from a mile away, anyone would. With cropped tops and mini-skirts, their almost nonexistent clothing leads us to wonder if they are trying to hide their nakedness or expose it.
Chris opens his mouth to speak but I cut him short, “That’s not my type. We are better than that.”
“I’m not,” he shakes his head.
“Tonight you roll with me,” I reply. “We go for the girls no other man would be courageous enough to.”
“To be fair, no other man has spoken to the lovely ladies who just passed us by. If someone had, they wouldn’t be here. They’d be drinking inside.”
I smirk and walk into the pub. He follows closely at my heel. We make a foray through the drunk crowd and upstairs to our usual spot opposite the wide-screen TV. Our other friends are seated and judging by the number of half-empty Hennessey bottles, my boys are already in an altered state of mind. A couple of girls I do not know are by them. I shake hands, exchange pleasantries and take my seat facing the rest of the pub.
I look up and there she is.
It feels like something out of a telenovela. The room goes dark, the spotlight shines on her, the wind blows through her hair and she giggles in slow motion. I have seen many girls in my life but, by Jove, this girl is special. She has the biggest afro I’ve ever seen, a slim dark face and even from where I’m sitting, her pearly white teeth are almost blinding. With thin long arms and legs, she looks like she walked straight out of my dreams into the pub.
She glances across and catches me gawking. I smile. Her face conjures up the fiercest frown imaginable. I wink. She looks away. I shift my gaze from her to her companions. She’s with two other friends. Both are pretty but pale off in comparison with the melanin queen. Who can blame them? Even Helen of Troy does not stand a chance with my new found crush.
I know as surely as I was born, if I do not talk to this girl, I would hate myself forever. The night goes on. Every now and then she steals a look in my direction, she finds me staring every time and I wink to let her know I’m not intimidated. The night wears on, she seems more and more hospitable. First, she ignores my repeated winks, then she smiles and finally she starts to wink back.
She whispers repeatedly to her friends and now they all look in my general direction. I have to assume she has brought me to their attention, my appearance has been under scrutiny and I have been found to be without flaw. (Don’t judge me, male confidence is the bedrock of courtship.)
I know I have to make my move but I have to be as tactical as Napoleon going to war. Timing is everything. I have to wait till they are really in the mood but not so long they are bored and about to leave. I’m a patient man. Their bottle of whisky is 2/3rd of the way finished and the pub is steadily emptying itself out, the hour hath come. In my head, I replay the words of my high school math teacher who said I’d never amount to anything and I vow to prove him wrong once again.
I walk up to the ladies, introduce myself and ask her friend if I can join them. The friend shoots her a look. They must have some mastery of telepathy because through those looks, they agree that I can.
I sit down. We start talking. Hard as it is to comprehend, her personality seems to outshine her beauty. She is cool, eloquent, smart and above all she shuns social media. I like her even more than before.
It’s almost 3 am, she has to go home. I walk them out. Taxis are waiting outside to carry drunk peeps home. I look for the cleanest, hire him to drop them off at their various destinations and I pay. We trade numbers. I promise to call and she promises to answer. She reaches out, hugs me and leaves.
For a moment, I am perhaps the happiest man that has ever lived. I can sense the admiration of the crowd behind me. I am the man who had gotten the most prized girl of the night. I slap on a smug smile. I should text her, I think to myself. That way she sees it as soon as she arrives. I reach for my phone and immediately I come to grips with what has just transpired.
This slay queen had no qualms giving me her number because she was going to steal my phone immediately.
I rush to my friends, seize Chris’s phone and dial my number. She answers.
“You have my phone,” I say, cool as I can be given the circumstance.
Her voice goes cold as ice, “Please don’t call this number again. You are disturbing the new owner of the phone. By the way, where can I get a good charger?”
I’m lost for words. This must be a joke. My phone is an extension of me. It’s the first thing I pick when I wake up and the last thing I look at before going to bed. In-between, it’s what I stare at all day.
“I’m not jok-” I start but she ends the call before I can complete my sentence.
I call again, this time it doesn’t go through.
I sit back and take it all in. I send a text to myself, perhaps she’ll read it someday.
It reads, “You’ll never know but you took a big part of me with you.”
