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Monday, February 20, 2017

Finding Hubby (6)


I could not even drink myself to sleep that night. No alcohol could numb my pain and I spent a large part of the night re-enacting the evening in my head and adding all sorts of evil things I should have done to Femi as he left.

 I could not pull myself together to go to work the next day and quickly sent an sms 
to my boss to allow me take the day off. I stumbled around my house in just my underwear, picking things up, arranging things. 

I had Adele’s 21 album 
on repeat. Talk about setting the mood. Men, Femi hit me way-way below the belt. I had mumutized big time.

It was 8:30am 
when my phone rang. I didn’t bother to pick the phone, I didn’t want to talk to anyone that day. The phone rang a few more times, and I let it ring out. 

Then my other phone rang, and I knew it had to be someone real close, 
since few people had that number. I stumble-walked into the room from where I stood in the parlour and checked the caller id. It was Ossy. I picked the call and put the phone on speaker as I flopped onto the bed.

Ossy:     Hey babes

Me:       Hi

Ossy:     Dropped into your office and was told you called in sick. What’s the ish 
dear

Me:       Yeah

Ossy:     An an! Which one is this monosyllabic mode you are giving me now?

Me:       Sorry

Ossy:     Anyways, open your door, I’m here

Me:       Where?

As an answer, my doorbell rang. I heard it both from outside and through my phone.

Me:       What! (Shriek) You’re at the door. Ossyyyyyyyyy!


Okay, lemme tell you about Ossy before you begin to wonder if all my travails have finally left me delusional and I’ve started taking phone calls from an imaginary person.

Ossy works in my office. He’s an oga 
(boss), so oil and gas money plenty, dashing dark dude, witty, intelligent and goes out of his way to make me happy. And men, when I say goes out of his way, I mean he wows me steady. Ossy doesn’t hide that he’s crazy about me, and wants me to be his woman.

I’m sure by now you are wondering if I am crazy. Here I am, going through hell and high waters to find a husband, and I have Ossy dying to make me his wife. 

But I guess that’s the irony of life. Ossy being so available makes him just not desired like that and his sweetness sometimes comes off as desperately dramatic.

 So he provides the shoulder that I cry on whenever my heart is broken (which is better than having Toke tell me “I told you so” in every gesture), the ears that listen to my tales of woe, and the balm that soothes and heals me. 

Every time, he hopes; and every time so far, I have run out on him once healed. I know I’m gonna get possessive if he ever wants to marry another girl sha. By the way, Ossy is short for Ositalogbon Onisokame. 

Each time I consider him, somehow, the thought of going from Oyin Clegg to Oyin Onisokame sort of does a Hulk Smash! And beats all such thoughts to death.

Anyway, back to today. So I put on a boubou and headed for the door. When I opened the door, Ossy’s wide smile greeted me and I couldn’t help but give him a tired smile.

 “Seems you’ve gone down one cup size”, he said, grinning mischievously. I laughed for the first time since yesterday night. Ossy’s way of telling me I’ve lost weight is to point out that my boobs have become smaller. Nonsense shudren.

“I would say you look like a hot mess, but then you know that already.” He stepped in and gave inglorious me a big hug and I felt safe in his arms.

“First to make sure you add flesh.” He went into my kitchen and began to rummage through my fridge. In minutes, a beautiful aroma began coming out of my kitchen. Ossy came out and changed the music. 

“No sad women singing about broken hearts for company, only dashing young men”. He slotted in Tu Face’s 'Unstoppable' album and did some silly dance moves.

 A few minutes past nine, a sumptuous breakfast of bread and eggs and sausages was ready with steaming coffee. He served me on the couch and I began to break the bread at the edges. As I ate and the heat of the coffee warmed my hands, I began to pour out my woes to Ossy. He listened to me patiently and kept me eating as I spoke.

“Ossy, you want to get me fat and unattractive so no one else will like me abi?” I asked laughing. “Anything to achieve my aims,” he retorted, a sheepish smile on his face too. 

Somewhere, something tugged at my mind and kept asking me why dependability was within reach and I kept looking for the super duper flyest 
hubby around. Toke had once asked me if I was not being followed from wherever I am from. Sometimes I wonder so too myself.

The shrill sound of Ossy’s alarm broke into our world and he quickly checked the phone. “Gotta go, appointment 
at DPR”. My mood took an instant nosedive.

He kissed my forehead and adjusted his tuck-in. Reluctantly, I stood up to go and let him out and waited at the door to hear the sound of his car leave and then dragged my feet to the couch. My house felt empty now that I was alone. 

BBs are saviors 
at times like these. Going through updated status messages (and everyone does that jor) is an easy way to while away such time. I picked my BB up and noticed it was blinking. I had ignored it all morning, so I guessed I had tons of pending messages.

All the usual suspects had sent me messages. My mum. My girls. Kalu (RME) and hawt (as one of the commentators on the blog corrected me) Pastor. Most recent of my chats was one from Ossy. I quickly opened the chat to see what he was saying. I had two pending voice notes from him. I played the first and his voice came through.

“Hey dear. Go to your kitchen and look under your microwave. Do not open the second VN until you do”. He chuckled at the end of the message and I was so totally tempted to open the second one but decided to play along.

 I ran into the kitchen and lifted the microwave up. My eyes widened when I saw what was there. A return ticket to Dubai and a 5 day 
holiday package. I quickly listened to the second VN. 

Ossy’s voice sounded like sweetness now. “I think you need that break you’ve been talking about dear. I’m handling your leave already so you don’t need to bother to come to the office. Enjoy your trip. And call me when you get there o. Ciao”.

I stood dumbfounded. How could someone be so sweet? If it was 99% of the men I knew, for such a gesture, they would expect plenty payment in kind. I dialed 
Ossy’s number but he cut the call and I guessed he was in his meeting already.

 I checked the flight details. I had only three hours to get to the airport. I hummed a tune as I packed up, wondering where in the heavens men like Ossy were made. Maybe I’d give him a chance when I got back from this trip. 

 ***

And so Oyin Clegg broke out of her depression. Not exactly getting her groove back yet o. And she’s happy, a man might have finally killed the dragon to come rescue her from the dungeon of singleness with his sweetness.

See me o, as Ossy is making me wax lyrical. Me that called in sick at work that morning was in a cab enroute the airport, looking all fly, omo toh badt gaan. I wore my favorite jeans, one that made men turn around and take a second look at my behind, and a chiffon top with a hat to match and my very tech specs.

I surveyed myself before my mirror for a few minutes. If you can have a tummy like mine at 35 without body magic and lipo, then you are one of the chosen few (some of you will say shebi I haven’t had kids yet, but darris your consign).

 Satisfied with what I saw, I called my cab man. I’m one of those that yab people for coming to the airport dressed as if they were going to a Paris runway, but heck, I’m feeling gay and intend to dress every inch so.

I tried Ossy’s number again but when it didn’t go through, I kuku sent him a VN, expressing (profuse) thanks and calling him many sweet names I shall not mention to you.

Onto big girl things, I didn’t use any of those painted cabs. My cab man drove a black Honda City, with full blasting ac. With Lagos traffic, caused by unruly drivers, things like Lekki toll gate and the sheer number of we Lagosians that equate owning your own car to a status symbol, the ac is very essential.

After battling mad traffic, I made it to the airport just on time. Thankfully, Ossy had checked me in online and I didn’t have excess luggage, so I just went up, got frisked and went into the waiting area to chill for the next 30minutes for my flight (30mins before is just on time for a flight in Naija).

 I was so engrossed in the Tunde Leye novel I was reading on my iPad, I didn’t notice her when she walked up to me, until her hands covered the screen. I was about to give it to the person when I saw who it was. And she was the last person I wanted to see.

                                                                    ***

You know those people that seem to have perfect lives, as against your own. Got into university right out of secondary school when you waited for Jamb for a year. Got a 2:1 while being very popular in school, whereas you had to select which semester you wanted to pass and which you wanted to be social.

Has a job just as good as yours. Got married in her mid-twenties. Has a fine hubby. Two kids, one boy and one girl. And the person has a way of asking innocent' questions that are really veiled barbs aimed at you where it pains most. And each time you see her, you are reminded of how much your life is missing. That’s the five foot eight yellow pawpaw standing in front of me now.

“Hi Oyin, so nice to run into you…”

“Moroti, moroti (fake smile from me), how now? Been a while o. where are you headed?"

“My own waka no dey pass UK now. Are you traveling alone? (barb question 1, meaning, hope you have finally found a man).

I responded: “Holidaying in Dubai.”

“Abdul is around with the kids o, I left him with them there when I saw you and decided to come say hi”. (Barb 2, meaning some of us have a family we travel with).

We chatted for a bit, and she kept throwing the barbs, until the announcer saved me. Normally, they have to announce like three times before I go and board, but today, before the first announcement was finished, I escaped from Moroti sharply. No goodie two shoes was gonna spoil my mood for this trip.

In no time, I boarded and was glad I had a window seat. On my way in, I had passed one of those 'agbayas' that still dress like Wizkid and Davido wannabes when they’re over thirty.

Beats me how a full grown man will want to dress like a boy. Some of them are old enough to be Davido’s daddy o. Anyway, I stowed away my luggage overhead and took my seat.

Not wanting to be disturbed, I looked intently into the window and got lost in thought, oblivious to the goings-on around me.

“Interesting convo with your friend there”, came a thick, rich baritone from beside me, drawing me out of my beautiful thoughts. I turned to see who had such a lovely voice, praying in that breath that the man would match his voice.

Oh my God, yes oh my goodness gracious God. The prayer was answered. Emphatically answered. Resoundingly answered. Beside me was my dream. Taye Diggs complexion. Chocolatey (pronounce Cha-ka-lay-ti  ) Even seated you could tell he was tall.

Age, I put somewhere in the range of 37 (yes, I have inbuilt age sensors in my eyes). Well put together. Immaculately dressed. Well manicured finger nails. Those dancing, intelligent kinda eyes. Handsoooooooome. Mo gbe, mo ku, mo daran (in Wande Coal voice inside my head).

I straightened up sharply, thankful I had taken care to dress as well as I did. He introduced himself as Yomi Kester-Jacobs. My head did a quick memory search. It couldn’t be the same Kester-Jacobs, Lagos big, wealthy family (yes I keep well informed of such.)

And if I wasn’t mistaken, this Yomi was the scion and only son of that family. “Oyin Clegg”, I said calmly, masking the riot of thoughts going through my mind.

“So are you really travelling alone?” he pressed. I didn’t have any qualms admitting that to a dashing stranger who seemed alone himself.

“Yeah”, I replied.

 “And you?”

He was alone too. I knew this Yomi to be single, from the tabloids. I asked if he was just stopping over in Dubai enroute elsewhere in Asia and he wasn’t. He was in Dubai for four days on business.

 I told him I was in Dubai for five days. “Well, it is not good for man to be alone, so says the Holy Book,” he joked, and then offered to be my company in Dubai. I did a backflip in my mind. “Sure”, I said chic-ily.

By the time I landed in Dubai, I had all but forgotten about Ossy. And so began my whirlwind romance with Lagos big boy, Yomi Kester-Jacobs.



To be continued...


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