Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

5- Zaddy

Saheed:

I watch her pace the width of my suite, a palm on her cheek and a frown on her face. The stiletto heels of her bright red shoes click on the marble tiles, drawing my attention from my laptop every now and then.

Click, click, click.

How she has managed to have them on up till this moment baffles me.

"Would you please sit down already?" I ask, annoyed.

She stops her movements and turns to face me, her eyes narrowed at me like I'm the cause of her problems. "Oh, that's right. You don't have to be bothered about this because it's none of your concern."

"Why don't you just stop over thinking instead? Be like me."

"If I were like you, this whole scam would have been blown in the first moment."

I shrug. " Who remembered that you lied about going home and came back here over an hour later?"

Ola turns away from me and asks, "Where is your fridge? I'm thirsty."

I direct her and return my attention to my laptop, pleased to hear her click away from me. She returns a few minutes later, this time holding her shoes in her hands. "This is going to be a disaster."

"Only if you let it."

She sighs and settles on the cushioned seat opposite me. I pause my work and balance my chin on my palms. Ola pushes back her hair, which has been released from her bun. It is a mass of springy curls, matching the colour of her eyes and complimenting her skin, which is the colour of caramel.

"Tell me, how old are you?" I ask, to ease the tension.

"Twenty-four."

"I'm twenty-eight."

"Perfect age gap," she muses.

"I think we should use this time to know some basic facts about each other. Nonye seems like the probing type."

"There's nothing interesting to know. I live at Ikeja GRA, I just started a menswear fashion brand, and I don't seem to get along with men who are too fine."

I laugh at her remark. "You don't get along with men who are too fine? What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

She shrugs. "They know they're fine, and so they use it to misbehave. Sound familiar?"

"Oh, shade," I laugh some more. "And you have a sense of humour. The type I like."

"Your turn."

"I live at Lekki, I'm an architect, and I know I'm a very fine man." At that, I give her a very slow, deliberate smile. "Let's see how you'll get along with me."

"A bit too cocky, aren't you?"

"Just a dash of confidence."

"I don't have your strength," she sighs.

Honestly, does she have to make a fuss out of this? All we have to do is show up a few times, pretend, and go home. Doesn't she trust herself that much? How difficult could this be? I get this urge to distract her from her worries.

"What's your favourite song?"

She gives me a 'Are you serious?' look before replying, "I have like, a million favourite songs."

"Just tell me off the top of your head."

"Asa's Bed of Stones. Adekunle Gold's Ire and Damn You Delilah. Celine Dion's Where Does My Heart Beat. Michael Jackson's Blood on the Dance floor."