Shaking Tables

Mister Bola calls himself a writer and comes boasting to me how he is a fine writer and has won this award and that. Imagine o! This is a writer that cannot even keep full stops and commas in a committed relationship. But we editors are the ones going to the Golgotha and receiving the tons of pains that could have been avoided if these writers can just take their time and do a neat job.

Ah, but please, let me digress. We’re in Ibadan, a.k.a. the home of Nigerian publishing where some tables must NOT be shaken.

Speaking of tables, so it came to pass that boyfriend visited last week and plenty things happened. Plenty things that started on the table. Hmm. Betty, Betty. Plenty things on the table?! Plenty things like writing abi? LOL. I hear you all, o ye people of God. Let’s just say there are things that often happen at night between two people especially when the breeze is kind and PHCN people decide to read minds from their station. Er, na you sabi wetin you think from here but let me continue my gist.
That particular Thursday morning, everything started on a wrong note. From my waking up to dressing up, it all felt as though my soul had left my body and had gone on an errand for God-knows-what.
The only thing I was grateful for after mumbling my Thank-you-God-for-this-day prayer was my ironed jumpsuit, the dress for the day. Sigh. Even the dress came with its own headache and I wouldn’t have selected it for ironing the previous night had it not been for the damn August cold. Arrgh!
This jumpsuit, a black, long sleeved bodice with its wide pants, could be worn for any occasion from professional to casual. But being the somewhat carefree person that I am, I prefer wearing it especially on casual occasions – and without its sleeves because that is where its beauty lies especially for the glorification of my God-given feminine gifts. But here is the weather foretelling a very cold day which means that I cannot wear my dress without its sleeves to work. (And I’d also be a fool to look forward to a gentleman’s suit!) August should please go already abeg.
‘Joromi Joromi, I want you to love – ‘ my phone snoozed for the first time in the day and sent chills down my spine. That song hasn’t played on my phone for two weeks.
‘Oh God. Can this day ever get any better?! Why does he have to call at this precious time?!’ I cursed under my breath as I watch the phone ring out and tried hard not to be enchanted by Simi’s voice.
‘Joromi Joromi…’ the damn phone rang again and I know boyfriend won’t stop calling until I talk to him. I know the patterns of his tantrums. Calling repeatedly is one way of saying, ‘well girlfriend, since you’re refusing to talk to me, we’ll both die here today’.
Mtcheew. ‘What if I’m not with my phone?’ I had queried him once and he had replied he still won’t stop until the 15th time. 15. That’s his birthday number. March 15. Sigh. Only a child behaves the way he does sometimes, this boyfriend of mine.
‘Joromi… J-‘
‘Hi…’
‘Hey babygirl. Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Um. Are you okay? Your voice sounds a bit down.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Are you sure? Is it work? Are they stressing you?’
‘No. No… It’s not work. I’m alright. I’m fine.’
‘Okay… So, babe, I’m coming to IB today.’
‘You’re wh… why?’
‘We need to talk love. Or don’t you think so?’
‘Well, I…’
‘Do you still love me?’
Pause
‘Yeah. Yeah. Course I do.’
‘Okay. I love you too. I’ll see you in few hours.’
‘Wait, are you really serious?’
‘Of course I am, babe.’
‘But I… Hello. Hello?’
Line disconnected.
And I, disappointed, went to work in my black, long sleeve jumpsuit that I know won’t turn any head(s) my way.
Not even Uncle Lakin’s.

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