Preordained #ProjectNigeria

19- Are You Asking Me Out On A Date?

Maduka's POV:

Isn't it funny that I don't have Nwanyieze's phone number, despite our funny, circumstantial meetings? It never crossed my mind for one moment to ask her for it because all I could think of was that if I wanted to see her, I would drive over to her place and come up with one silly excuse or another as to why she would spend a few hours with me.

It seems so natural to me, wanting to see her regularly.

Sipping my early morning coffee, I chuckle to myself at the thought of her expression if she ever finds out how I feel about her. I imagine her slender, dark brows drawing together and that generous mouth turning down at the corners.

Would she call me a stalker?

I doubt it. I am hardly the type to stalk a woman, let alone be possessive. I like women who go out into the world and do their own thing- or slay, in the more modern language- and then come home to their men, faithful as ever, queens to their kings.

She does seem like that type.

This Tuesday morning, I'm not in a hurry to get to work. Last night, I had overworked myself at the gym and after a hot shower, slept off like a sloth. My body still feels pleasantly sore, my muscles feel like mercury underneath my skin. Taking my time, I don a charcoal-grey, three-piece suit, brush my hair, and fix my tie.

Today, I have a meeting with the CEO of a budding snacks factory, who is willing for me to supply him with raw materials, especially cassava flour, for production. I grin at myself in the mirror. The man who grins back isn't the small, orphaned boy with ringworm all over his scalp and sores all over his skin. There are no tears in his eyes, no hopelessness. This man has a goal, and he's not far from achieving it.

You're getting there, Maduka. Steadily, you're building up an empire.

The drive to my office at Ikorodu is a long one, thanks to the never-disappointing, perpetual traffic jam at Maryland junction. While patiently waiting and crawling along, I spot a CD and DVD seller amongst other sellers of different products crossing the road in front of my car. My eyes settle on one of his CDs, and the man, noticing my interest, quickly runs over to my side of the car.

"Oga saa, gu'mornin'," he greets, smiling to reveal gaps in his dentition. "Which wan you want?" Good morning, sir. Which one do you want?

"The Michael Jackson collection," I reply after returning his greeting. The CD reminds me that Nwanyieze once told me she enjoyed Michael Jackson. I myself am a fan of the late King of Pop, but I buy the CD just because of her, in the hopes that she will sing along with me or to me when I play it in her presence.

My purchase complete, the man wishes me a nice day, thanks me for the jara- tip- and crosses the road. Yours truly continues the drive-stroke-crawl to his office, thinking of ways to con Nwanyieze, my baby girl (I can't call her that in her presence yet) into letting me take her out in the nearest future.

And by nearest future, I mean later this evening, if I'm lucky.

***

My meeting goes well, a deal is signed, and I spend the rest of the day going through other prospective deals, inspecting my farms, and looking forward to meeting Nwanyieze later in the day. By five-thirty, I leave my office, allowing my employees to continue their celebration of our new deal.

Driving towards Shomolu, I'm already planning on what to tell her. I park my car outside the gate leading into her compound and let myself out. In two minutes I'm at her door, knocking. It opens and a big, fair woman stands before me.