It was almost 3 o’clock and the heat from the sun showed no intention of letting up. The dark t-shirt I had worn was already drenched at its breast, back and armpits. I used my left palm in a futile attempt to wipe my face clean of the sweat that would swim up to the surface in another two seconds.
It was Fry-day and after waiting in line for over an hour, I was finally two people away from the ATM machine. I looked up from my moist, small, almost feminine, palm and noticed that the Star-pregnant man presently in front of the machine had been fiddling with it for an awful amount of time now.
“Oga we no come here come sleep o!”, I bellowed, getting irritated.
Normally I’m not this bold but after being in a two hour traffic jam in Ojo road, Alaba plus an extra hour’s wait on an empty stomach, you begin to discover that you’ve had some underlying superpowers like I just did. But this Star-pregnant man, his head shinning against the sun, merely gave me a sullen stare and continued with his one-finger punches to the machine.
Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, the man left the machine with a satisfied smile. I stared at him as trotted out of the inadequate space Ecobank allotted for its ATM services, envious of his fate: the nearest buka for pounded yam and a sweating bottle of Star! The person after him wouldn’t take as much time, I say to myself in an attempt to console my grumbling belly.
So I’m up next and I’m picturing cold coke, gala, maybe roasted corn if I’m lucky: the only pitiable luxury for a broke student. In preparation and some anxiety, I transferred my enormous Land Law textbook to under my left arm from the right and feel a soft coolness there. Suddenly, a dark skinned, face-overly-smeared-with-foundation girl rushed to my face.
“Please, I need to use the ATM urgently. Please, be a gentle man and let me quickly use it!”
Enugu, America, Britain and Lagos, mixed together to cause a combustion of accent. Over one hundred channels on DSTV, the unrepentant culprit of this crime. I ignored the immediate catastrophe and tried to focus on the person before me. Breasts! Two filled balloons of them, with enough cleavage to blur the line between tease and invitation. I wet my lips with my tongue and quickly looked up, not to seem rude; meeting her lips, curved to one side in a smirk.
So here was my dilemma. Do I ignore the violent screams of my stomach and let her cut in or refuse her request and get my kobos out quickly so that I can satisfy my stomach? Women usually claim chivalry is dead and that men aren’t courteous anymore but several situations make you question whether or not to let women have the upper hand. What would you have done were you to be in my position?
“Abeggi! Go join line.”