This is how it happened.
I have known Babajide for a year now. We have spent quality time together, hung out like real buddies, watched movies together, shared CDs and novels and kisses and cuddles. Yes, we are cool like that! He works at Port harcourt, and travels down to Lagos to see his folks like once every three months. He is a muslim, a 21st Century classy, bad-ass and devout muslim. Plus, he’s a bad-ass cook too. Oh my Lord!! We met on Badoo, one of the most unlikely places I ever imagined to find someone i’d be very much into. From the first chat he sent in– “You look like a young Lauryn Hill”, which to me sounded like an award more than a compliment– I had known he’d be different in every other kind of way. And he is. I mean, Lauryn Hill (whom I didn’t know much about until that day) isn’t in my opinion gorgeous, or beautiful, or hot or sexy. She is one of those women you might have to know to love, rather than love to know– and because he attributed that feeling of abstractness, and innate beauty to me, he nailed me in without a sweat.
Back to the point! It’s quite obvious ‘m into him much as he appears interested in me. Every weekend when he pops in, we always make sure to hang out– whether at the movies or the beach, or his house or mine– but it’s never been past that. I mean, we are just friends. No, good friends. Scratch that! Best buddies. Babajide is one of such men that command your respect. He doesn’t demand from you, doesn’t cross the boundaries, he doesn’t even set boundaries; he just– lets things happen. While it’s a quite sexy thing, spontaneity and all of that, it gets nerve wrecking for a girl like me. I mean, every time we meet, I keep thinking maybe one day he’ll ask me out. Maybe one day he’ll suggest we took things further. He is 30, I am 26; we’ve both got fine jobs, he’s his own man, ‘m my own woman; we are adults, we are different but we like each other… so why not? Or maybe– oh no! Maybe he’s just being a nice guy. Maybe– maybe he doesn’t even love me. May– but! If he doesn’t love me, he wouldn’t chat me up all the time, he wouldn’t come visiting, he wouldn’t cook for me! Or would he?? Omg! I am near my wits end now. I wish Steven Harvey would write a book on ‘how to know a man loves you in 10 steps‘, or something close. I need to know where I stand in the scheme of things… Think! Think Sola! What can you do?
Bimbo! Bimbo! Yes, Bimbo. Bimbo is my writer girl- friend and well, school daughter. She lives in Portharcourt too, atm; where she’s serving the Nation at some elementary Primary School. Bimbo is very much like Jide. She is HOT, a bad ass Chess Player, spontaneous, watches movies and series like a maniac… so this is the plan– I suggest to Jide to meet my friend who’s hot, sexy, single to the tooth and very ready to mingle. If he loves me, he’ll come at me with a harsh “no, no!”– and if he doesn’t love me, he’d be like “oh? Alright. Let’s see a picture of her, shall we?” or something like that. Hey, don’t look at me like that! ‘m not a guy, I don’t know how you guys think, but I think I might just be close. So, I call Jide up, to hatch my plan. I shall maybe know where I stand tonight, with Babajide Okunola, my man of very little big words.
“Good day at work today?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I just want a long shower and good rest now. You?”
“Yeah, me too!– err, you know I was chatting with my writer friend Bimbo who lives in PH recently, and she’s single.”
“And I told her I have a friend in PH too, hot ass somebody, and he’s single too.”
“Hahahahha! No, you didn’t.”
“Well, I did. And I gave her your number and PIN. I hate that you have to be alone and by yourself over there.”
“Hahahah! You touch my heart with your kindness. Alright baby. We’ll see how it goes, won’t we?”
Spoiler Alert! Omg! Omg! No–
“Err… I guess we shall. Hahah! Alright buddy, fix a date and do let me know how it goes. Okay?”
“Sure will! Night darling.”
Tum Tum Tum– there goes the sound of the disconnecting call, and maybe the sound of my breaking heart too.
Maybe it’s true the saying– ignorance is bliss. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that. Maybe, maybe…
© The Short Black Girl, 2016.