Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

34- Gotten

Song: 'Like I Do' by Fireboy DML

"Finally."

Satisfied, I step back from my easel and study my work. The face of the woman I have drawn is looking away from me, her profile in full view, curls standing around her head, as stubborn as she is. She is looking straight ahead, a small smile teasing her full lips.

"This is your third drawing of her," I murmur to myself, "And she hasn't seen a single one."
Carefully, I unclip the drawing paper, slide it into a brown envelope, and store it safely in a plastic folder where the other two drawings are waiting.

Waiting for what? I wonder. Baba must think I am a creep.

My father has chanced upon my drawings of Ola a few times and each time he had complimented them before sighing and shaking his head. Each time, I heard what he never said out loud: My son, you're in hot soup. This woman has gotten you.

I wonder why she hasn't responded to my dinner request for the second day in a row now. Briefly, my stomach tightens into a knot at the thought that she may have decided not to bother with me, not after I had shown her time and again...

Do I call her? Would that bother her? What is she doing? Saheed, Baba may be right.

The sudden need to see her grips me so hard that I grit my teeth and will myself to stand still, to not grab my keys and fly into the elevator and drive over to her place like I had done two days ago, straight from work, not even bothering to change my clothes. I had looked at her face and everything had felt so right, all my tension had melted...even when she had frowned at me from the other side of her turf and said, "You have got to be kidding me," and it had sounded like music to my ears. Wanting to be in the same space with her-- albeit grudgingly, on her part—had been so overwhelming that I am still baffled till this day.

Do I call her? Yes.

I grab my phone from my bed and dial her number. Standing, staring at nothing at all, breath held while her line rings, I briefly wonder if this is normal.

"Hello?"

"Ola."

"Saheed."

"I miss you."

I can imagine the expression on her face, how she pulls the phone away from her ear to confirm that I am truly the one calling.
"Is everything okay?" She asks, concern creeping into her voice.

"Yes."

"Right."

"Are you sure you're not angry with me?"

"Oh no, of course not."

"That's comforting." It is on the tip of my tongue to remind her of my invitation to dinner, to ask, 'Have you forgotten me so easily, Ola? Don't you want to spend time with me? Did that question unsettle you?'

But I don't.

"I just wanted to make sure you're okay. I haven't heard from you in two days."

I can hear the amusement in her voice. "Forty-eight hours."

"Too short?"

"I don't have an answer to that, Saheed."

"What did you do today?"

"I visited my father at work to sign some documents, delivered some outfits, got some professional shots done for them, worked some more on new designs. The usual."

"Seems your father is slowly pulling you into the family business."

"It's a step-by-step thing."