I went through RL3 yesterday and I must say I’m appalled at the level of blunders and typos I made in it. I’m so sorry guys. I just hope I didn’t confuse anybody. I have been so busy this week but I promise to be more careful onwards when I want to post . Typos are no-nos. It’s like having potholes on a journey one is supposed to enjoy. I have edited it. Please, you can check it again.
I’m at Erike eating correct Amala and cow leg after the tough day. Sigh. School is frustrating enough, I’m not about to compound it. I wish this food would never finish but I am already feeling full self. I take my piece of meat and put it in my mouth, chewing silently and savouring every bit of it. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I fish for it. In the process, spilling the plate of stew on my top. Oooohhhh. I’m torn between checking my phone if it is a transaction alert or finding a solution to the stew rapidly sinking through the shirt to my skin. I drop my phone on the table and look for something to clean it hoping fervently that I brought tissue or maybe a handkerchief. I didn’t. Lawd. I wish either of my friends was here right now. Tito would have a tissue or maybe Anu would know what to do but Tito wouldn’t be bothered to eat Amala and Anu has traveled again. I can’t stand up like this. Stew and ewedu on a white shirt is a sorry sight. Yes! I’ve got an idea. I wash my hands in the bowl of water placed in front of me earlier by the owner’s child and dry them on my jeans. I grab a book from my bag and tear several sheets from it and I dab at the top. The damage has been done really but it looks better now. I pick my bag and shrug it on frontwards. I board a bike straight to my house lamenting about how expensive it is at the back of my mind. Usually, I would take a cab to the junction of my house and walk down. I just hope my dad would send my pocket money today. I check my wristwatch and see it is few minutes past three. Dad, come on! I flinch when I see a car speed by the bike I’m on. It is deep red like his. When will I finally get over this? Everytime I see a car in the shade of his car, I flinch and my tempo increases. I adjust my bag well to cover my top. Soon, we are in front of my hostel. I get down; pay for the bike man’s services and walk into my hostel. I pull my top off and jump into the bathroom.
I’m relaxed in front of my laptop in the evening when I remember the message that caused the disaster my afternoon was. I roll over and peer under my bed for my bag which I drag out as soon as my fingers reach it. I pull my phone out from the side compartment and check for the message.
Sorry this is coming slightly late. How are you now? Feeling better? Akintomide.
I am. Thanks for checking up. Feyi. I type and press send.
My phone pings almost immediately. Feyi? I think I got the wrong number. Sorry.
It’s Boluwatife. I’m sorry I don’t go by that name anymore. I’m now Feyi. Just Feyi.
Oh. Okay. Miss Feyi. Or should I call you Mrs Feyi? Although, I’m not sure where your husband ran to when you needed him the most on Saturday.
My husband? What is he talking about? I’m starting to think maybe he really has the wrong number. Maybe he meant to text someone else. Of course, he meant to text someone else. I put my phone on vibration and plug a charger in then continue with my movie. I’m laughing hysterically because of how ridiculous the movie is when my phone starts to vibrate incessantly. I pause and check it. His number. I pick up.
“Hello.” I say in a neutral tone.
“Hi.” A pause. “I sent you some messages but you didn’t reply.”
“I was in class.”
“Oh. Wow. Sorry. That was five-ish?”
“Yep. Was in class.”
“Okay. How are you feeling now?”
“I’m better.” I say and roll my eyes. Didn’t he see my text?
“Good. Can I see you this week? You are the closest to a friend I have here and I have had my fill of my own company.” A pause. Nothing from me. No reply. “Hello? Are you there?”
“Yes.” I say in a small voice.
“Common, Tife. Don’t tell me you are also awestruck. I bleed too you know? I just want to hang out.”
“My name is Feyi and I have classes.”
“What about the weekends?”
“It’s a date.” He says and I can see him smile in my head. I want to say it is not a date but I don’t want to sound cheesy. What if it is just a saying and he didn’t mean it literally? But the thought that there is a chance that he could mean it literally seizes me with fear and something else. Something I don’t wanna touch. Something screaming for me to run the other way.
“It is not a date.”
“Call it whatever you like.”
I don’t like this at all.