When You Are 29, Single And Nigerian.....

My heart was pounding as I approached the gate. I walked fast, gasping in shallow breaths as the words George said to me lanced through my mind. The security guard bade me goodbye but I eyed him maliciously in return. You are one of them. Disloyal, two-timing employee, I cursed under my breath. 

Bankole, wherever he was, was no different. If he truly wished me ‘good’, he should have advised me from day one. 

I was angry with myself. This was too embarrassing to share with anyone, not even Bibi. She had warned me but I was carried away with George’s good looks and exotic living. 

I thought of the threesome joke he made the other night. Was his fiancée supposed to be the third person or maybe he had some other girl that came around whenever I was unable to? I should have smashed the TV, his car windscreen or something expensive in retaliation but he was stinking rich and capable of replacing it in the blink of an eye. 

Maybe I should have poured his fiancée’s stew all over the house. I felt stupid for washing the dishes earlier, the dishes they both ate from together. And then he had the guts to invite me to be his sexual lunch when a woman was right under his nose. I cringed at all the things we did intimately and I had a sudden urge to puke. At least he was honest enough to say he had no intentions of leaving her for me. They were going to get married and I wondered what part I was going to play if I stuck around. 

One of the ushers at his wedding, perhaps? I sighed inwardly.

     

‘Are you not going to come down and open your stupid door for me?’ I snapped at the driver.

     ‘Sorry Aunty.’ He was startled. That was my first time of making such a request; I always opened the doors myself. I had an overwhelming desire to kick the tires. Destroy everything that belongs to George.

Seated in the car, it surprised me that my usual emotional self didn’t give in to tears. I guessed it was because I was guilty too. Or maybe it was the age factor; I was an adult and only teenagers cried over men; two-timing men at that. My nose was suddenly itchy and I took out my septum ring and flung it out of the window. 

A month ago, we were watching E! when George had mentioned he found nose piercings attractive, and for that reason I had mine pierced, just to please him. So I was the one that was fit to move around with a steel ring on my nose while his girlfriend wore a diamond on her finger? Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I cursed under my breath. 

     

The traffic had built up and I estimated it was going to take me not less than two hours to get home. I peered out of the window. In one of cars, a young girl was laughing and taking selfies with a male occupant in the driver’s seat. You better run a background check if he has a fiancée that comes in from the US to cook stew for him. I hissed loudly. 

     ‘Aunty?’ The driver turned.

     ‘What?’

     ‘I think say you call me.’

     ‘Is that why you called me aunty? Me or you, who is older?’

     ‘Ah! But na aunty I dey always call you.’

     ‘Please don’t call me that again. I am not your mate or rather I am not older than you!’ 

     ‘Sorry.’

     ‘How many girls you dey carry for your oga?’ I asked.

     ‘Ah! Na only you oh,’ he said.

     

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