AMID SECRETS - CHAPTER 7
*Nwanyieze’s POV*
Two days later, Saheed calls and invites me out for lunch with him.
“I’m sorry, Saheed. I’m currently very busy this week and I don’t want to make promises only to disappoint you,” I said over the phone while working on a crossword puzzle at the back of an old newspaper.
“Can’t you spare me even an hour?” he pleaded
“I can’t,” I said bluntly.
“Aw, girl. Don’t play hard to get.”
Why would a Minister’s son be into me? Is he just wooing me to sleep with me and then dump me? If he wants me in his bed, why can’t he just come out straight and say his mind, knowing fully well who and what I am?
Some men are truly mysterious.
“I’m not playing hard to get, Saheed. I’m really busy.”
“Are you still mad about that night?”
“I’m so over it,” I said with a laugh, remembering how I’d screamed before hitting the water.
“Thank Allah,” he breathes. “Look, I must see you before I go back to the States next week. Won’t you do me this favour?”
I mentally said, good riddance with my eyes looking up at the ceiling.
“Fine, then. I’ll be free on Friday.”
“Wonderful, Queen. Just wonderful. Thanks”. He said
***
Friday afternoon, I was ready for Saheed to pick me up. I was a bit nervous because I’ve never been on dates with guys before. All I used to do was book appointments, go to the designated hotels, and then give my clients the satisfaction they paid for.
I’ve chosen a simple black and brown Ankara gown that I had made for myself and loved so much because it’s free and has deep pockets as a bonus. With minimal make up, brown leather strappy heels and a matching clutch, I complete my outfit. Mama Uju has been out since morning, and so I have to drop Adanna with our neighbours who live on the floor below our apartment.
Someone knocks on the door and Adanna looks up from her colourful building blocks and asked , “Mama?”
“No, love,” I said, walking towards the door. I opened it to see Saheed, dressed in a dark navy suit, with his easy smile on his face.
“Hey, gorgeous. You look so stunning,” he said, putting an arm around me.
“Thank you,” I replied. I led him into the living room and he saw Adanna, who was staring up at him curiously, eyes wide with her rosebud lips in a pout.
“And who is this beautiful little one?” Saheed gushed, bending down to scoop Adanna up. “How are you, darling?”
“Hello,” she slowly said, not entirely trusting him.
This seems to amuse Saheed, who bursted into laughter. “She’s so cute, Queen.”
She was eager to get back to her toys, and so she begins to squirm restlessly in his arms, making him gently place her on the floor.
“I’ll have to drop her at a neighbour’s before we leave,” I explained to him. Picking up Adanna’s little Indomitables school bag packed with snacks, I took her hand and led her out the front door. After dropping her off, Saheed took my hand, and gave me a bright smile, and asked, “Shall we, then?”
***
Saheed drives to Oriental Hotel in a sleek grey Porsche, blasting Wizkid and Runtown’s Lagos toKampala.
I was waiting for him to made mention his intentions, to tell me that he knows what I am and so he would like the pleasure of my services.
Isn’t it obvious? ‘You’reTemi’s friend and your photo was sent to him as a ‘party girl’. It was your job to have segz with whoever was ready to pay that night, wasn’t it? Who’re you kidding?’ I told myself.
When he parked his car, he acted like the perfect gentleman, firmly holding my hand and helping me out of the car. With an arm hooked with mine, Saheed leads me into the massive Oriental Hotel building, one of the most splendid man-made structures I’ve ever had the chance to walk into. It was here that Olamide, aka Badoo, shot his video for Bobo, creating a popular dance move known as ‘Shakiti’.
Saheed left me at the waiting area and walked up towards the reception counter, his steps brisk, back straight. After a few minutes he returned and said, “We’re moving up.”
I feel a momentary pang of alarm. By going up does he mean a room?
Anyway, I followed him across the lobby into an elevator.
“You look nervous,” he said with a chuckle.
“I’m not,” I lied through my teeth.
The elevator ride was silent, with Saheed not taking his eyes off me. It opened onto a beautiful terrace with a big, blue swimming pool surrounded by chairs and tables. What catches my eyes was the large expanse of sea water beyond the terrace, a dull blue glistening in the lazy sunlight and rippling in the slight breeze.
Forgetting my fear, I let the sight draw me away from Saheed and towards the railing, where I stood and stare at such beauty.
Who said Nigeria isn’t a beautiful, blessed country?
My heart swells with pride at this endless stretch of water, lined by trees and skyscrapers, a mixture of nature and modern architecture which blends so perfectly that you’d think the structures just grew out from the soil.
Saheed came to stood beside me.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked him, turning to smile up at him. He almost as tall as Maduka, but leaner. Light skinned, with a shadow over his square jaw and a cleft in his chin.
“Not as beautiful as the woman beside me,” he said quietly, his light brown eyes boring into mine.
Lunch is served five minutes after we are seated.
“You should try the snail sauce, Queen,” he said excitedly. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted.”
I was about to tell him I dislike snails, but he has already ordering for it, along with some red wine and jollof rice with a side dish of salad, then some diced pineapples.
Saheed talks on and on about his life in the United States, university life, and how he’s going to get a PhD next year hopefully. I’m content listening to him, watching him gesticulate, and laughing along with him.
“You’re not eating your snails,” he observed.
The rice is exquisitely garnished and so tasty that I eat it slowly, savouring every spoonful (I had requested for a spoon).
“I wanted to tell you I h@?? snails,” I said
“I’ll eat it all, don’t worry.”
I was still waiting for him to drop the bombshell, to tell me that after this meal, we would go up to the special room he had booked for the both of us.
I was waiting for him to talk so I can tell him no, pick up my purse, pay my own part of the bill, and then stalk out and go home in a taxi.
But again, Saheed surprised me and pleasantly asked, “Are you single?”
‘What game is this one playing, now?’ I thought baffled.
“You know what I am, Saheed.”
“What are you?” he asked, tilting his head to one side and regarding me.
“Temi sent you my picture. For your party. What exactly are you playing at?”
I was tense, just like the strings on a guitar, waiting to vibrate at the slightest touch.
He chuckles, dabs at his mouth with a napkin and pushed his empty plate aside.
“Isn’t it obvious, Queen?” he asked with a grin.
“What?”
“I want you to be my girl.”
_______
*Maduka’s POV*
Friday sees me at home, staring at an old photograph. It was of me at eleven, solemn as I stood between my new parents. Mum and Dad held each of my hands, smiling and singing, urging me to blow out the candles on my birthday cake and make a wish. The cake was a large, rectangular one, in the form of a football field complete with miniature players, goal posts, and a football. In the centre stood eleven little candles.
My mind flies back to that day:
“Smile, Kaka,” Mum pleaded.
“It’s so difficult,” I replied frankly.
She looked over at Dad, who squeezed my hand in reassurance.
“We love you. You know that, don’t you?” he asked.
When they spoke to me, they did so like I was their equal. This was because of my nature. They said I acted like an old man, that I had an old soul.
“I know that, Dad. Thank you for loving me. I’ll never disappoint you.”
At eleven, still trying to get used to my new family and Nwanyieze’s absence in my life, I felt the party was too much. That day,surrounded by the Obiagu’s and presents wrapped in beautiful boxes and fancy paper, the only birthday present I asked for was a visit to the orphanage.
Jide hits the back of my head, snapping me back to the present.
“Guy, comot for my house,” I demanded, frowning up at him. ” Get out of my house.” I repeated.
Jide studies me for a moment longer. “Something dey worry you, abi?” (Something’s worrying you, right?)
It’s too early to confide in him, and so I pull a hand over my face and sigh. I don’t want to tell him that I’m thinking of Saheed’s new conquest.
“Let’s turn up tonight, as we’re less busy. Saheed invited us to Quilox. Phyno and Olamide are performing there tonight. Even the super segzy Yemi Alade will be there.”
“Jide.”
“Wetin?” What?
“Jide.”
“Wetin?”
“Jide.”
“Wetin na?”
“How many times I call you?”
“You don dey craze ba?” (You’re going crazy, right?)
I’m not going to tell him that I dislike Saheed, after what he’d done to Nwanyieze. I mean, who throws a fully clothed girl into a swimming pool and watches her drown? Minister’s son or not, Saheed Bello is not the kind of person I’d be friends with.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jide asked.
In order to avoid Jide’s questions, I said, “We’ll turn up tonight.”
***
Club Quilox, Nigeria’s most expensive night club.
Owned by the socialite Shina Peller and housed in a massive building, Quilox is renowned for its exclusive celebrity clientele, star performances, and costly drinks.
I’m not one to go clubbing every Friday night, and I’ve been to Quilox a few times but Jide is just my opposite. The people at Quilox know him already, and as we approached the door after alighting from our seperate cars, one of the bouncers spotted him and quickly rushed over.
“Welcome, bros!” he greeted. He was a huge mountain of a man, dressed in a dark suit.
“Ahmed, how far na?” Jide asked, shaking hands with the man.
“I’m good. Mr. Saheed has requested that I be on the look out for you. He said I should bring you directly to his VVIP corner.”
“Lead the way.”
We are led past a long queue of people trying to get in.
Inside the club was air conditioned, with strobe lights dancing off bodies writhing on the dance floor and music blasting in the cold air. On the stage, Yemi Alade was standing in full Ankara regalia complete with a head full of thick but beautifully styled hair, singing her relatively new single, Ferrarri.
Ahmed leads us up a set of stairs onto a terrace-like area. On this floor are dimly lit soundproof cubicles with a glass wall overlooking the floor below.
“Here,” said Ahmed, stopping before one of them.
Saheed was seated on one of the over stuffed leather sofas, inhaling shisha smoke. A girl sits close to him, her face hard to see in the haze of smoke curling through the air.
“Guys, guys,” Saheed greeted, standing up to hug Jide and I. “So glad you could turn up tonight.”
Gradually, the smoke dispersed and the face that looks at me gives me a little shock.
It’s Nwanyieze.
Dressed in a black shirt and a pair of short denim dungarees, sneakers on her feet, she looks like an innocent secondary school girl. Her hair was in a simple puff at the top of her head, full, dark and thick.
She smiles at me in welcome and I smile back.
Are she and Saheed an item, now? I wondered.
I order for a bottle of Campari, which swiftly arrives. Sipping from my glass, I listen to Saheed and Jide discussed his plans to fly back to the US. I’m content with being silent, because I’m not in a chatty mood and I’m still trying to figure out lots of things.
Like who the girl before me really is.