A private matter
He
started like a preacher. His face, grim and unsmiling. His eyes,
narrowed, unfriendly and fixated on nothing but moping at everything. He wore a
navy-blue shirt, neatly tucked in a pair of brown cashmere trousers, streaked
with black zigzag lines. His belt, brown, broken and bent at the tip held his
trousers high, above his abdomen. I couldn’t help but notice the belt-holes
around his waist and how they overlapped on top of one another like the
tightened tip of a garri sack.
“Treasures appear in subtle packages my
dear” Keffi nudged at me. She seemed to knock me out of the climax of my
daydream.
“Hmmmm”. I was wondering why she made
such statement in this 49-seated-99-standing lorry. The air smelt of roasted
fish and tomatoes and sweat and rowdiness.
“That may be your future husband” Keffi
chipped in.
“God forbid! Tufiakwa” I retorted, twirling
my hands above my head and dusting them over her head. “It’s your portion
Keffi. Not mine”
“I already have my darling Kunle” She chuckled.
Yeah
right. I giggled. My stomach
tightened. I shuddered at the thought. My eyes darted to and fro the preacher’s
body and lingered on his chest.
What
kind of love or desperation would make someone like me marry a man like this? I thought.
His shirt, faded, missing a button
somewhere above the belly. His hair, uncombed, divided like ridges on a cassava plantation. He had thick upper lips
slightly parted by two rabbit-like incisor teeth. He didn’t even have the looks
that I wanted in a man. His body structure, small and frail.
Who
knows? He might not even have eaten for
days.
Even if he did, by the miracle of the
beauty and the beast, have the looks, he certainly lacked the svelte composure
that turned me on, the type that Keffi’s fiancé had.
