He looked like a clean-shaven Jesus. A beautiful man he is, and I admired his looks. That pair of deep-set, twinkling constantly roving eyes; a prominent Arab kinda nose; the lips (they need a re-application of lip gloss) My last girlfriend will never need another weave, if she has just half this dude’s long, dark, silky-looking, hair. A Man can be this beautiful if society allows him.

We just happened to share a table at the cafe, and we were just talking about great coffee blends and exotic teas. I don’t, for the life of me, know how the talk drifted into exchanges about women, and Man’s sexuality. Fool that I am, I was just going on and on, and on, extolling the virtues of Women; how Every Woman is the creator’s masterpiece, how Every Woman is a State of The Heart perfection, how I loved and cherished women- Every beautiful Woman.

Looking crest-fallen in a moment, he asked: “you like woman?” I answered in the affirmative.
“How your ‘gelfrend’ now?” He asked next, in his Asian-accented bad English that rolled and over-stressed the “R”.

“No, I no keep Girlfriends” I replied.

“You no have gelfrend? You like man?”

“No” I replied, making my annoyance show, but be seemed unaffected by my theatrics, as he probed further: “ahhh! You no like woman, you no like man,” his face lighting up “you like boys, you like boys, baba!” Laughing out loud, Poking me in the ribs. What the WTF? Where’s The Fork? I’m peeved now.

I had a mind to invoke the Nigerian law on gayism, on this “Camel-humping, discoloured-teeth, sand-for-brain, buffoon, but what would be my case? I may just get bundled up by the nincompoop law-enforcers. I may even get to be the one who ends up behind bars for the next one decade and half. I can’t risk that. My familia needs me on this side of prison. And I got my whole life in front of me. So I played it cool and we got along fine. The banter drifted to other things like Victoria’s Secrets (not really though, but things as trashy as that) in hushed whispers (he initiated the whisper mode, not I)

He’s been smoking Camel (trade mark) all the while. One time he blew the smoke into my face, I did not give a damn. He’s a bundle of bad habits, he anyhow. I thought the baboon don’t drink, but he suggested we go drive around, drop into some lounge to share a pint, and… you know (wagging his head of beautiful tresses). That was my cue; I looked at my wrist (I wasn’t wearing a watch) put on a anxious face, and begged to take my leave.

“Disappointed” clearly etched on his face now, he asked, forlornly,

“Where you go now, now, baba?”.

“I no come home early, mother,she kill me”. I supplied.

“murder? Your Wife, ai? The confusion was as evident as his rolling “R”s

“Never mind, been nice talking to you, enjoy your evening…”

I had gathered my stuff that littered the table: a phone, a pen, a complimentary card I got from some acquaintance earlier that day, and the purchase receipt for Cafe latte. I stood, pushed back my chair, and had begun to extend my hand for a parting handshake when my phone rang. Guess who was on the other side of the line? You will never guess. But I think that Camel-fucker did guess, right orwrong.
From the corner of my eyes, I saw him nod, and then shake his head, wagging a finger at me, smirking knowingly. He don’t know shit(e).

He was still glaring at my retreating back when I walked out on him, with the phone pressed to my ear, and out the door of the Cafe. I never got his name or number, though he said his name was R.R. Repeatedly-Sounding-“R”s.

It was great chatting with him, over a cuppa, at any rate. To think I almost got picked up is a compliment. I will surely tell my mummy for him.


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