Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

20- Hard Girl, Hard Girl

Ola:

"You have got to be kidding me," I mutter under my breath, exasperated. "Why do I keep having to be in places where I may see that man?"

I let out a hiss, then a sigh. An emergency measurement session is the last thing I need this morning. And it gets more annoying because I was called up at six am in the morning, while I was trying to prepare my breakfast.

"I am leaving the country by noon, and so I need to be at the airport by ten am; shebi you know how Lagos traffic can be?" the client, a middle-aged man, had said over the phone.

Mr. Nwankwo is his name. I had given him my card at Khalif Bello's party, after he had seen David's outfit and expressed interest. He mentioned giving me a call but I was not expecting it to be this urgent.

"Nne eh, I want to look tek-away at this wedding, ị ghota go? He had said earlier this morning with a laugh. "I know it's too early to worry you, but I won't be back till the wedding next month. Please, come to my side and take measurements. I'll pay for an Uber for you, buy you breakfast, anything biko."

At first, I had been suspicious, but then he said, "Don't worry. We'll take measurements in the lobby of the hotel I'm lodged in."

"Which hotel, Sir?" I had asked while munching on some agege bread and butter.

"Luxury's Finest."

"Shit."

"Ị sị?"

"Nothing, Sir!" I quickly amended. "I will be there in an hour, and I'll call you when I arrive."

"Let me order a cab- "

"That won't be necessary. I will drive."

"But do you know the way, dear?"

"I'll use a map."

Of course, I know the bloody way to Saheed's hotel.

It is a Friday morning and so the road is blocked even before seven am. They joke that you could meet your spouse in Lagos traffic, date and court them, marry them, and have children- all while crawling to your destination. Fortunately, it seems like Lagosians are in a mood to behave well today, and there is steady movement albeit slow. Along the way, I see one of the reasons for today's delay: two Danfo bus drivers are fighting, their buses parked by the roadside, disgruntled passengers standing and yelling at them. Other drivers are dodging them, carefully moving their vehicles around the two men. I hear shouts for change, pleas to stop the fight, threats to beat both fighters.

Not a surprising phenomenon. Sometimes I wonder if everyone is angry in Lagos.

I arrive an hour later as promised, holding my bag containing my necessary equipment: my jotter, two pens- red and blue, measuring tape, and my phone. Mr. Nwankwo picks my call on the first ring, directing me to the private bar. I easily recognize him when he drops his glass of water and rises from his leather seat in a secluded corner of the bar. He warmly takes my hand in his when I approach him, his face in a smile. He has this grandfather vibe about him, with his slightly stooped shoulders, greying hair, and growing bulge in his torso. I appreciate the fact that he chose a public but secluded space to make me feel safe.

"Nne, kedụ?" he asks when we are both seated.

"Ọ dị mma, Sir," I reply.

"Please don't be angry with me. You know old age; I remembered you just this morning, dying minute. I will take care of breakfast to compensate."

"That won't be- "

"Let me. It will make an old man feel better."

"Thank you."