Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

8- (Un)Invited Guests

Song: Versace On The Floor by Bruno Mars ft. Zendaya.

Ola:

"Do you want us to turn back?"

His voice snaps me out from my thoughts. My eyes focus on Saheed, effortlessly controlling the wheel. Today's ride is a discreet, matte black Benz.

"Low key," he had said with a boyish grin when I asked about his yellow Lamborghini.

From the little I've known about Saheed so far, his intention isn't to look 'low key' because matte black cars are anything but low key. And a Benz for that matter.

"Should we just go and have a fancy lunch at the seaside instead?" he asks again.

No," I reply. "I've already put on a good outfit, and there's free Jollof."

"Even if it's your ex's Jollof?" he teases.

"Even if it's Rexford's Jollof. Plus, I'm no coward. I was minding my business and he invited me. So yes, he asked for it first and I must be gracious."

He smiles. "You're beginning to sound like me, Ola."

I look at him with a nervous smile and say "You're quite the influencer. By the end of this agreement, I'll have learned a lot from you."

"I teach people the bad stuff. I'll try to be gentle with you."

"What are you on about?" I ask in amusement. "You pride yourself on being a bad boy? Please."

"You'll see." He winks at me and I laugh, feeling less tense.

This morning, I had received the shock of my life to see Saheed at my front door by six am, flanked by four, obviously excited ladies carrying an array of bags. They turned out to be a make up artist and a fashion stylist with their assistants.

"Isn't she beautiful?" he had asked the ladies, a smile on his face and a hand dramatically rubbing his chest while I stared in confusion. I didn't remember planning for make up and clothes with him.

The ladies had been affirmative, even though I felt like I was just waking up from the dead. My scarf had slid off overnight and I think I might have drooled while sleeping because one side of my face felt like there was dried glue on it.

And so they had swept me up into a flurry of activities before I could even protest: while I was in the shower, Saheed had ordered for a continental breakfast from who-knows-where. While the stylists had worked on me, and I had eaten in between, Saheed had disappeared, only to reappear when I had stepped into the outfit provided. It was a floor-length masterpiece in deep red lace. Off-shouldered, long-sleeved, and with a slit at the side, exposing a bit of my thigh with every step I took.

He had been dressed, adjusting his cufflinks and stopping when his eyes had landed on me.

We look like we're going to the Oscars, I had thought.

"Stunning," he had murmured.

"Thank you," I had replied. "You are...fine," I had managed.

And he was. Very fine, I mean.

A dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and a waist coat. A burgundy, velvet, X-shaped cravat with a huge zicrona stud in its centre. Black, suede shoes. It was another side of Saheed I hadn't seen, the part of him that was meant to effortlessly sweep ladies off their feet, to command everyone's attention while remaining aloof- if he wanted to.

His startling eyes had swept over me, from my loosely piled hair at the top of my head to my bare feet, which involuntarily curled their toes when he looked at them.