Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

23- Party Scatter

Ola:

Still reeling from what I have just experienced, I make my way to the table at which I had been seated. It is hard to tell if the kiss or the sheer force of Saheed's presence is the reason for my increased heart rate.

And, goodness, everywhere feels much warmer. It seems there is no difference between the coolness of the outside world and this fully air-conditioned hall.

Saheed.

As I seat myself at the table, suddenly uninterested in the events lined up for tonight, he remains at the forefront of my thoughts. Seeing him earlier today had been a mild surprise. I hadn't been expecting to look up into a pair of amused amber eyes and a wide grin. I hadn't even been expecting him to be so easygoing this afternoon- Saheed isn't particularly the easygoing type, not especially when he cannot control something...like his attraction to me.

The self-disgust had been in his eyes that day at the hotel, right before he had calmly told me that his liaisons with women were purely transactional, and nothing more. And then the elevator kiss had happened earlier this week, reaffirming what I'd always feared: our bodies still want each other, and common sense seems to conveniently vanish when we are together.

Exhibit A: I followed him to his apartment when I knew I shouldn't have. It resulted in the elevator kiss. Exhibit B: I followed him outside after our Salsa dance session. I all but melted like butter in his arms when he...wrapped his fingers around my neck.

The thought makes me face burn with embarrassment. How could I have been so...malleable? Why did I shiver like a wet hen when he whispered into my ear that we have unfinished business? And what is this unfinished business?

But you know what it is.

A small part of my mind worries that something is not quite right with Saheed tonight. There seems to be a shadow over him, a burden on his shoulders that he is trying so hard to carry. His eyes looked sad tonight. Or was I imagining it? Maybe I was.

A waiter passes with a tray holding a few glasses of wine. I signal him and accept one from him. A little alcohol will help me settle down; I think. Andre. Not bad. All around me, everyone seems to be having a great time. There is an artiste onstage, that baby faced young man with the three cornrows and tiny cross earrings that is making all the teenage girls go crazy these days. Yes, Rema. In person, he sounds really good. I leave my seat and move closer to the stage. He is singing about taking an African girl to his BMW, I think.

My movement is stopped when someone blocks my path.

"David? Fancy seeing you here."

"What a surprise," he nearly shouts over the music. "I was just seated there and I saw you passing." He points to a very full table a few meters away. The other occupants are too engrossed in their food and the performance onstage to even bother.

The table I had been planning to sit at has already been taken by a group of people. I nearly roll my eyes in frustration. "Can I sit here with you guys?" I ask David.

At least, it's still closer to the stage than my last seat.

"Sure," David signals with a nod and a thumbs up. He takes a bag from one of the unoccupied seats and politely hands it to the owner, one of the female occupants. She is about to protest, but she thinks better of it, accepts the bag, and diverts her attention back to Rema on the stage. He has taken off his shirt and is now showing off his abdominal muscles.

When David and I are seated side by side, I pull out my phone from my pocket and glance impatiently through my notifications. The usual notifications greet me: Instagram likes and comments which I will attend to later, a few Facebook reminders, a text message from my father... Dad and I have been using text messages as our primary mode of communication for a while now. It offers the comfort of being impersonal.