You can’t spot them from an arm’s length, but you can smell them from a mile away – playboys, casanovas, and womanizers. Within ten minutes of meeting him, he had talked to three females – Charity, Shakira, Vera – over the phone. He was pinging and I saw that most of the display pictures on his BBM were of females. I would not have summed him up so fast because characteristically, I am not given to hasty generalizations but the dude got to me. I mean, his charming overtures were ensnaring. The goddamnned rake!

“Good morning…” He said to me, and the morning turned good for me. His smile was the golden early morning sun lighting up and warming Accra. I felt warm and light down to my very core.

He has the aura of a heartbreaker around him… handsome in a rugged way. His gait, when he walked in earlier was gangly and kinda rolling (but sure), like he owned the world and everything within – like he owned me. I distrusted him instantly when my discerning nose could’t even place that bitter-sweet-smelling scent of his. That tells me he is a rogue – you know, the kind who would carve out your heart with a thorn and stuff rose petals in the empty space beneath your breasts.

The permanent smirk on his face I mistook for arrogance, but when I peeked in his Nigerian passport later and saw Lagos, I realized it was confidence and the gidi-ness of Lasgidi. Although, he has this unmistakable Warri accent and the crow’s feet tribal scar of the Delta Ijaw people, the bobo has to be a charmer or a snake or a wild rose with all its thorns in place.

“…morning” I replied(after an awkward pause), smiling back, even when I thought it better to bone my face like ladies do when they are disinterested in a guy or inversely playing the Hard Customer purposefully, to sustain a wooer’s attention.

He was making deeper impressions on me by every tick of the clock, and killing me softly with every Boompeetyboom of my racing pulse, even at half his attention. I guess I would’ve let down my panties… (No, scratch “panties” take “guards”). I would’ve let down my guards if his roving eyes, having scanned my entire frame in that once-over sweep, hadn’t strayed away to ogle a set of very pretty twin girls that arrived with annoying giggles. He has that exasperating manner of checking out every female that passed in front of us as we sat there, waiting, shoulders touching, in the waiting lounge. He even sought my opinion on the passing ladies’ sizes, shapes, smells, garbs and gait as if prospecting to buy a sports car, or some fine mare.

He said his name was Chris, and it was his first time in Ghana.

“I’m Rebekah, studying here in Accra… Two years now… Bored… Going to Nigeria for a break… and some… I need a real guy… (Scratch that)…I need the break… ” I caught myself in time before I started to sound like a sex-starved siren. I could have gisted him about how I am single and searching for a real guy- a Naija guy; how Ghanaian guys no de try at all; about how I have confirmed that Nigerian guys know how to treat a lady like she deserves to be treated, while Ghanaian boys are just too sweet-all-the-time like saccharine. That is if I could have sustained his straying attention.

I hate the rake in guys, especially Naija guys. It makes them so cocky, sure of themselves, making them appeal to you like predators that toy with their preys and leave them dead. “Guy abeg, toast me. No dey kill me die. Abi I no fine reach for your eye?”, my heart kept crying out to him; if he heard my heart at all, then, he’s a master of the art of seduction- a kind of poker game in which all the cards are Hearts and Jokers.

I don’t care for casanovas, but Chris will have to do for this journey, if only I can hold down his straying attention. Thank heavens the Heartbreaker is my co-passenger on this journey. I will catch him and I will cure him yet. So help me God, make I no miss this guy O!


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