Feyishikemi was the sort of girl to fall in love with men who shaved their eyebrows and ate pussy for their own pleasure but were bad at it. Bimbo, her roommate and best friend had told her to try a different genre of men, preferably the ones with jobs and not more than two active social media accounts. Men who could take care of her, who could give as she gave. She understood the concern. Each relationship drained her. These men took and took and took till she was empty. When they left, she would lie in bed and cry for weeks only to ready herself for the next one.
Baby girl, take off your shoes.
She was seated across from Andrew. He licked his lips while gazing obnoxiously into her eyes and perpetually patting down his hair. She wondered if this was an attempt at seducing her or whether his vanity simply transformed her pupils into double mirrors he felt compelled to stare into. Between each effort to contain his hair, Andrew lectured Feyishikemi on the richness of his life. His present monologue explored the freedom he felt having decided that hell was not real, just a figment of some enterprising prophet’s imagination.
Feyishikemi and Andrew met at a concert three days ago. December was the month of shows and festivals, and she was determined to enjoy it to the fullest. The show in question was called ‘ALTE RAVE’ and featured a line-up of up-and-coming artists who, despite not being mainstream, had cultivated loyal fanbases. The venue was Freedom Park, formerly known as Broad Street Prison, a former colonial jailhouse that now played host to raging young adults. As was typical of most concert grounds, the teeming crowd stood below an elevated stage, looking up to take in the show.
In the middle of a performance by Azuka, her favourite artist, Feyishikemi struggled to see the stage, standing behind a wall of giants. Observing this, Andrew lifted her and placed her on his shoulders so she straddled his neck. She stared down, shocked, but intrigued by how strong he was. Andrew was lean, smooth-skinned, and carelessly handsome. His demeanour, half-hearted, mirrored the way he approached life. His bones jutted out at odd angles, and she was certain that if she dared reach under his shirt, she would feel his ribs through the thin skin. He didn’t seem capable of any heavy lifting; but here he was, balancing her atop his shoulders without breaking a sweat.
Feyishikemi ensured to make her new view count. For thirty minutes, she was suspended above the crowd, arms out, belting lyrics from Azuka’s mixtape ‘Sexy McThugger Dreams.’ It felt like a moment straight from her dreams. When the performance was over, he lowered her down gently and whispered, “you’re welcome,” with a baritone she knew she wanted to hear again. They spent the next two days texting constantly. Here they were now, on their first date.
Put your phone in your bag.
What she could not explain to Bimbo and the others was how having to take care of a love interest made her feel alive and useful. In what other context would she be able to sigh with exasperation before fixing an easily preventable problem? She needed to pick after these men, hold their hands, and guide them into a life she had carefully crafted for them. She wanted them to say “Oh, Feyishikemi introduced me to it” when people complimented their cologne, or “Feyishikemi suggested it” when friends asked why they finally cut the ugly pinkie fingernail they had been growing for three years.
Sure, every once in a while, she craved stability. She reckoned it would be nice to have someone who could hold her when she was tired and exhausted from working and navigating life; a person who didn’t need the most straightforward things explained to them. But she could never commit to something that secure. She needed a project. They (friends, family, and well-wishers) would never understand the rush she felt when a man with no direction stumbled into her path. Let me help, she would say. Let me give. Take from me till I am drained and almost dead. Take my body, my money, my house, my car, my skincare products, and my wigs (one of these men was an Instagram comedian).
Give me the shoes.
Andrew was a dreamer. The kind that never woke up. When he spoke, he used air quotes to emphasise his points. Feyishikemi found this counterproductive as it made him sound like he was being sarcastic; like he was not taking himself seriously. But she knew he meant every word, even when those words were random and ridiculous declarations like “ponmo is a bird that has no place in a cultured culinary sky.”
He described himself as ‘eccentric’ and ‘misunderstood.’ He could not keep a job for more than two weeks; or as he liked to describe it, he was “ideologically opposed to work, and not in a social media socialist sort of way.” He was also ideologically opposed to paying for services and had perfected the art of getting into concert grounds without tickets. He had a dog named Chukwudi and spent his days searching social media for “interesting things that stirred up his intellect.” As he droned on about his plan to revive Ojukwu’s Biafran dream and lead Igbo people to a new destiny powered by blockchain and cryptocurrency, she made a mental note – We need to find him a job. No, a haircut first. Then some clothes. Cut back on social media. Help him understand that he needs to wake up!
Do you trust me?
Yes. She trusted him because he was predictable. Like Kenneth before him and Wilson before that, he would take. She knew this and had made her mind up to follow through. It was all over him, that malodorous smell of stagnation disguised as aloofness. All he needed was a push, a reminder that more was possible, and maybe – just maybe, she could mould him into her perfect man. The waiter circled their table again and a look of confusion and annoyance clouded his face. Shortly after, Andrew smiled and looked intently into Feyishikemi’s eyes. She had only known him three days, but that was long enough to tell that he was having a light-bulb moment. She smiled back, understanding perfectly.
Give me the bag. Hitch up your dress. When I nod, run out the door and don’t stop till you get to the shops by the T-junction. Okay?
As the wind slapped her face, she saw his face in the evening sky. She meditated on the changes she needed to make, and the butterflies fluttered again. So much was possible, and so much could happen. But for now, she tried to focus on a clean getaway. Life with Andrew would begin tomorrow, but only if she survived the night.
