CHAPTER ONE
START DATE: 05-03-2019
A girl around the ages of fourteen to sixteen is in a restaurant by the window, observed by two men dressed in matching suits.
These men have concealed hearing aids and they pretend to talk as business associates.
The girl is obviously either high on drugs or starved for drugs. She keeps scratching her kinky-coily hair, packed high in a bun.
Her hair is thick and full, shaping her small, oblong face more and highlighting her thick lashes, full lips and adequate pointed, Nubian nose. Her neck is willowy and her buxom form is more lithe than curvy.
‘Great ass,’ one man jokes ‘and perky breasts –’
‘Too young – looks too young; you’re a paedophile.’ The second man cranes his neck and then winces. He is the one wearing a hat to cover his Band-Aid. This is supposed to make him look less threatening.
The girl’s hand inches upwards. The way her hair loosely heaps, makes her harmless, a pretty girl having dinner. She is dressed in jean shorts and a loose top and a bandana tied around her neck. A sweater tied around her slender waist to hide her round bum.
The restaurant is an expensive one, in an upscale town. The girl just looks too young to afford a place like this.
A matronly waiter appears by her side several times, peering at the window as she speaks politely to the girl; the staff must address patrons politely, even when they are dressed casually in jeans and scratching themselves.
‘What will you like with your soup?’ the matron asks.
The soup is growing cold. The girl walked in nearly an hour ago.
‘Are you waiting for someone – I can warm it up for you.’ She points at the untouched soup.
The girl does not speak much, or maybe she does not like to speak much. She nods, glancing out the bulletproof window.
The waiter picks up the ceramic bowl and retraces her steps. As the woman leaves, a new patron walks in.
it is an expensively dressed woman. Her brown gown skimpily suggestively clings to her body, bordering more on prudent with a sense of adventure.
The woman should be in her late thirties or forties. She looks too well put together in a Brazilian attachment, dancing to the small of her bag and her four-inch heels adds to her five foot six height.
‘Damn’ the first man comments, ‘classy mamasita.’ He admires.
‘They are all classy’ the second one comment sipping his fourth wine. He loves the wine in this restaurant, though it is too expensive.
He glances at a light-complexioned woman in Buba and headgear having lunch with a man dressed in agbada. ‘Just feeling the romantic vibes’ He says distantly. ‘Honeymoon or anniversary’
‘No-oh, they look too old – anniversary for sure or an affair – they’re both wearing wedding bands.’
The second man smiles and as it is his habit glances at where the girl is sitting. The space is empty, but the bag is still on the table.
Opposite where the girl was sitting, which is now empty, the new patron settles into the opposite seat.
The matronly nurse goes over and takes her order.
‘Do you think she went to use the bathroom?’ the man with the hat asks his partner.
‘Should be, I didn’t see her walk out.’
The hat man relaxes in his seat to sip the contents of the red wine. He had drunk more than he has eaten.
Ten minutes tick by and the newcomer served with salad and a transparent liquid in a tumbler, in no time.
She is done and pays her bill, Ivory Coast currency which is obviously too much, for just a plate of salad and water. She picks up the bag on the table and brushes out of the door.
‘Did you see that?’ the hatless man says.
The second man who has poured himself a sixth drink drains the wine, pours himself a seventh glass and drains the wine not caring that he is in a refined restaurant.
‘Come on.’ He counts out some cash and places the mint on the round, covered table.
His friend imitates his actions. They both grab their jacket, hung on their seats and rush out, craning their necks. They are not too concerned because they own the town. The girl cannot get very far if she tried.
The girl has been on the toilet seat for a long time. She is definitely not stupid, all too aware of the audience, regardless of the outraged glances the other patrons were giving her, but they were too much of refined folks to stare for long.
Being part of them to know the rules, a lady does not stare at people, it is rude. Sa mere used to say the duration to stare should never be longer than five counts. Putting it to word precisely;
‘Une dame ne doit jamais regarder. C’est grossier – juste compter cinq comme l’horloge mais plus rapide.’
She used to take too long to count to five. She had always known she has a rebellious streak. She was counting to a slow hundred.
As soon as that woman strode in the girl stood up and went into the lavatory. By the time she counted, a snail-paced hundred; our girl flushed the toilet and walked out to return to her seat.
The waiter who must have seen her return placed the food on the table. She seemed nicer. ‘Your mother has paid for it. I hope you’re feeling better.’
For the first, time the girl spoke. ‘Thank you.’ It came out soft and caressing. She gulped down her soup and walked out of the restaurant empty-handed.
The streets of the city were as busy as any city, just not as crowded and just not as organised as you see in the movies or the bigger more developed metropolis.
She pocketed the extra cash the woman had stashed under the flower vase. The smell of lilies still lingered and she looked yearning at the flowers.
***
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GETHSEMANE
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