Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

19- Oluwa Wetin Dey Happen?

Saheed:

"Sir, grilled or fried?"

"I don't even know what I want," I murmur absently. "I don't want to be here, either."

The waiter, a young man in his early twenties, smiles at me. "The grilled chicken was sprinkled with lemon juice and the fried chicken is seasoned with paprika- "

"Do you really, really think I care about lemon and paprika right now, Jones? What about pepper sauce?"

Jones tries not to laugh. "You know what? I'll get you a piece of each, Sir."

"Very well. Half portions of each with some shrimps. You know I love shrimps. And don't forget the pepper sauce, Jones. Thank you."

Jones backs away, his steps brisk and his back straight like a soldier's. He soon disappears among the light crowd of party guests. For a few minutes, I watch the people around me, talking and laughing and dancing. The golden light bathes everything underneath it in a soft glow, illuminating painted faces and expensive jewelry. Adekunle Gold's voice filters from the strategically hidden speakers, singing about six-month holidays, twice a year. I laugh inwardly.

Ola loves Adekunle Gold's music.

"You look lost," Jide comments beside me.

"You of all people know I'd rather be somewhere else."

"Chillax. There's good food here; enjoy it."

My friend, Jide- yes, the very same Jide who is a friend of Maduka, coincidentally- pats my shoulder before turning his attention back to the lady at his side. He says something I cannot hear, and she laughs shyly, her hands over her mouth. I idly wonder if they will end up in bed tonight or make up a genuine friendship, or never see each other again after tonight. That's the thing with life in Lagos: everything seems to be fleeting, hurrying away like it's a one-chance bus. And so, you take chances when you feel like.

Just like I had taken a chance to play pretend-boyfriend, and I had been this close to falling down that slippery slope- again. I had withdrawn, but not without doing something I regret- hurting Ola. I hate to think that we could have parted ways in a more amicable manner. Was there a way I could have explained it better? Was it wrong of me to reject her the way I did, and at such a vulnerable time?

I feel Jide nudge my shoulder. Tearing my eyes off the party guests, I turn my head towards him.

"Isn't that the guy you fought the other day? Oil and gas David?"

Being Nigerian, I am wise enough to not swivel and search for the topic of discussion. I freeze and ask, "Coordinates?"

"Three o'clock," Jide confirms.

Then casually, I turn and there he is in the flesh, oil-and-gas-David Chukwueke, walking towards me with all the confidence in the world.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he greets smoothly, drawing up a seat to occupy the empty space beside me. The woman who had sat there previously had left after it was established that I was in no mood for small talk.

"Well done," Jide greets briefly before offering him a handshake, which David returns.

"Good evening, David. How's your chest?" I ask him.

"Very much better, thank you. How's your face?"

"As you can see, perfect."

Beside me, Jide is shaking with laughter.

"I am deeply sorry for talking about your brother the way I did. It was callous of me. I hope you forgive me."

I draw back and study David. His expression is earnest enough, but it makes me suspicious. The David I know, hardly gives apologies. I shrug and say, "That is fine. We settled that score."