LAGOS CITY; IMITATIONS AND A BOY WHO BECAME DAD – Ajayi Oluwashogo
As a sharp guy who lives in Lagos, you often make lame attempts to approach random fine girls, but this is not due to the fact that you are not a fine boy, you are, but you know Lagos babes, you know how they can be.
Over the passing months, you invested your time into your career, anyone will make a decision like you did if their ex calls them on a fine Monday morning and say “Wale, I’m getting engaged” Just like yours did. You remember how pained you were and how you surprisingly kept calm, what could you have done? You will later say “Okay, I’m happy for you” After asking her if it was a prank, you will say “I’m happy for you” not because you were truly happy for her, but because the light at the end of your tunnel had been turned off by some man who would tie the knot, a knot you’ve tied severally in your head over the years you spent with her, and because she will have a child that will not be yours.
You work as a freelance Artist, and you wanted to say that’s why she left but you did not, instead, you assumed that your being broke played a part, you knew you might be wrong, that there might be more to her engagement, but you ignored because you were filled with rage, you assumed you were not just her type. So, you must work hard.
To afford most babes in Lagos, you must own an iPhone especially when you live in a ghetto on the mainland, never mind that iPhones are not proof of having actual money, but just have it. You must also bathe up each day, most especially in the evenings. You must randomly leave your house wearing pink shirts and shorts and matching sandals and socks to your leg, you must top it up with heavy cologne in fact, you must be an Imitation of a low-budget Americana. Only then will you get the attention of random fine girls whose buttocks are padded and heavy with pride and whose faces are painted unnecessarily in an attempt to hide how different the colours on their faces are from that of their knees and toes, the ones who also are poor imitations of Mexican slay queens.
Most of the time you get tired of staying indoors so you’d sometimes take a walk. One such walk was when you saw a guy you knew from the past year, he looked huger and fatter than he was the last time you saw him. He was with his friends, the types you’d refer to as agbero. You stared at him, wondering if he’d recognize you. Your gaze met his and his face brightened, he raised his hand and hailed you “tuale! Oga o” he did recognize you.
You looked at him again; your face was expressionless, you were not sure of what to say to him, you wondered if the white head warmer you wore or the black, oversized hoodie that bore the inscription “BROOKLYN” in capital letters gave him an impression that you had lived in a place different from the ghetto, never mind that the weather was so hot. You wondered if he thought you had enough money in your wallet to press onto his stretched hand that was multicolored like a bad artwork as a result of his attempt to change the color of his skin. You wondered if he fell for your Americana style; a poor imitation of how you hoped to dress after you Japa.
You walked into a room with your hand in your pocket while the other one held onto an iPhone you bought from Computer Village.
You reminisced on how you emptied your account because you wanted one, and how you thought you made a mistake because you didn’t have enough savings left to stay alive for the rest of the month – not that you were going to die, but you barely had enough left, yet you bought the phone after consoling yourself with the thought that you needed it for work.
You pondered on these things until Chile your friend came to you and said “omorh! You don buy new phone, walahi you don get money o” you wanted to talk, but you did not say anything, instead you looked at how he rolled his large mouth and wished that he knew what you had to sacrifice to get it; your stomach for a piece of metal every young man like yourself used in a bid to poorly imitate a life of belongingness and class. You got it for work you tell yourself, but deep down somewhere in you, you wanted a little slice of the cake – an imitation of lives lived around you.
————————You have always been a reserved person, you always wanted to disappear from among people. You preferred to stay alone. You could go up days in your room without stepping out, you are an introvert. But being an introvert was not what kept you in your room for days, it had nothing to do with solitude or not wanting to socialize, it was the thought that Sade might be carrying a baby, your child.
Sade was a girl you met a few months after you had a breakup. You were so bitter, so desperate to fill in the gap your ex left, it felt too open, too vacant that when you first saw Sade, you didn’t have a second thought. You wanted to love again, not because you needed it, but because it felt like you must live a life of love, an illusion you hadn’t gotten out of.
You were going to be friends with her so you could get to know her better as you’ve always done with other ladies; a deliberate action that will determine compatibility, but you didn’t, instead, you took a night, sat beside her, and asked if she would be your girlfriend. Your heart raced, but you knew she would say yes, because you saw it in her eyes; flickers of excitement, a joy that a fine Lagos boy would be her boyfriend.
You remained in your room, reminiscing the moments you had with her, you were not sure if they were happy moments, your heart was consumed by the desire to forge her into who your ex was. You knew that what you shared with her was desperation, the desperation of having a hand to hold, having someone to call your own, you wanted to move on, even though it felt like you did. You wish you never did, because only recently, Sade texted to tell you she was pregnant.
You read the text, carefully picking out the words like you did when you were in primary 5 when teacher Kehinde stood behind you with a cane in her hand ready to flog you if you got a word wrong. You stood up abruptly from where you sat, your stomach ached from fear, you pulled your shirt because the room suddenly became hot, you couldn’t breathe, you looked at your friend, you wanted him to ask what was wrong so you could say nothing, so you could give yourself a hope that it was nothing but a prank, or a dream, that nothing was actually happening, but he did not.
You went outside the room and onto the street, you placed both hands on your head, and your life flashed before you as you came to the realization that you might soon be a dad, a poor imitation of a legitimate father. You did not care about the people around you because you spoke to yourself loudly and replied her texts with the speed of a superhero, like the Flash. It was as if your hands were running one of the Lagos Marathon races, the one organized on the Island and won every year by a Kenyan. You were certain that it was the end for you. You think about the Lagos marathon and you typed even faster.
You asked Sade to come over for a pregnancy test that same day, and when she came, you made a lame joke about naming the child, you didn’t mind the lurch in your stomach, she didn’t look pregnant, she seemed fine, you wanted to see it all in her face, you wanted to see her face bloated and her stomach slightly swollen, but she seemed fine, you doubted and vowed to get a breakup if it wasn’t true.
You got to the clinic, and the man who was going to attend to you was elderly, you wanted to think of what he thought about you but you composed yourself, you were soon to be dad, you thought, and you strangely felt this pride of a parent, a feeling you hated, yet you felt.
You glanced at Sade as she sat waiting for the doctor, her white dress revealing her curves, making her body look like the letter eight, the same curves you fell for, but now scared you. You looked at her stomach again, you imagined the possibilities of becoming a dad, you would call your son Nnam, a fond name your mother called you when you were younger, or Adetutu if she was a girl.
The doctor came in with a syringe in his hand and a form for you to fill on the other, you looked at the syringe’s sharp pointed teeth and the liquid in it. You filled out the form, it included your name and number, you searched through, and it included a space for your relationship with the girl; you wanted to see a space for boyfriend, so you could be sure they didn’t assume you were her husband, in fact, you were about to be her ex-boyfriend.
You wished the syringe had gone through Sade’s skin and punctured something else order than the intended vein. You imagined her screaming from pain as her blood pumped fast to her stomach where the fetus might be, causing it to drink lots of blood and die, you didn’t wish her well.
You jolted out of your sinister imaginations as the doctor came out of the room with another paper that you assumed to be the test result, you searched his face for answers, your heart thumped hard, and it felt like you should use the toilet because the anxiety had forced something down your throat, but he kept his face expressionless, he was a professional.
“The test result says negative” he finally said after what seemed to you like hours.
You stared at him, and then at her. You tapped your hand and feet rhythmically, your anxiety loosened, you wanted to ask her “why” but you kept silent, you looked at her again, anger in your eyes, but you didn’t show it, you kept your cool like a disappointed husband.
You paid for the service with your last 2k. You looked at her again and finally said. “We will share the bills” She got up to go, you waited, then followed her from a distance; that was what you wanted, to know her from a distance.
You looked up to the sky as you went, you would go to church on Sunday, for that day was a Saturday.
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