Girl in the Life Magazine

I sat on a cold, lumpy, partly carpeted stairwell. Head tilted to the side, back straight, legs crossed at the ankles and swept to the side. The auditorium was packed; I looked around for a way out which wouldn’t alert people to my departure. The speakers so far had been very wishy-washy, for lack of a better description. I’d built castles and boxes and hung stick insects in little compartments and two A4 scribbles later, my stomach reminded me again that skipping lunch was bad enough but turning down a perfectly good glass of wine, homemade egusi and pounded yam to sit here was just inhumane.

Tired of staring at the spaceship on my page, finally accepting it would not actually beam me out of the room, I moved on to my other reality home. I’ve always fantasised about carrying out lewd conduct that could potentially get me arrested. Like streaking during a polo match and shocking the bejesus out of all the hoity-toity people. Who needs a fancy hat to catch an eye when you can have an exposed cheek making the headlines or the local newsletter…‘socioeconomic standard …’ continued the bald guy now at the podium. Oh, get to it already! What the devil is he on about? Would it be wrong if I heckled? My butts coming over all numb. I tried to think up new ways to shock the very stiff audience around me and abandoned each idea as it presented itself in my head, people clapped, I clapped louder. Next!

Introduction over, this new guy already had my attention. He walked into the room wearing a hat which he took off as he walked up the stage. He put it down at the side table next to the bottle and glass of water, buttoned up his blazer, picked up his already poured glass of water and observed the crowd as he sipped. He stood fairly cocksure behind the pew in his power suit looking like a Kofi Anan in training. Putting the glass down allowing time for a pause which would have been an excellent punctuation to a sentence had he already begun speaking.

‘I’ve been to Nigerian three times this year…and when I talk of Nigeria, I think only of Lagos, a city which…’ the audience shifted in their seats. Nice opening, I thought.

‘… looking at the change in telecommunications in Nigeria alone shows how fast it has grown recently and it is of my opinion that Lagos will not only be key in pulling Nigeria forward, but it is also a city who’s greatness can (potentially) match that of Johannesburg ...’ the audience shifted again and gasped in confusion at his speech so far. I looked around and read the speech bubbles that formed clouds above their heads, each one floating and vying the other for its own individual spot on the ceiling above us. Was he trying to shock us all or rather naively believed that as a city worker, who’d been to Nigeria three times this year, he knows it all and hence Lagos is the only place in Nigeria that matters?

And why shouldn’t it be so? With all the conviction in his words, he spoke on without faltering about his vision for Nigeria (Lagos) as a thoroughly independent nation (well, state) which is self financing and soon to be in the ranks of great cities. ‘Let’s not kid ourselves, Lagos is not New York nor will it be a world leader but that still leaves us the rest of Africa to dominate’. The balls of it all. I like!

Intuitively, I preened forward to look at the rest of him. His suit, his shoes, the briefcase he came in with, his hat, any other accessories. Nope, no ring. Out came my fillofax and I flicked at it meticulously looking for potential suitors. Nope, too short, too tall, too sweaty, too slim, can’t speak without saying ‘plethora’, no, no, err maybe? Err… I looked up, I caught his eye, he smiled.

The smile, neither flashy nor threatening, was the kind of half smile you get from your favourite artist at a concert which suddenly makes you feel like the spotlight is on you and no one is in the room but the two of you. Did I imagine that rather clichéd twinkle in his eye? He had an accent. Not Nigerian, not Naijerican, not British either. It was like ... his own phonetic twinge of something, and I was ready to give up my passport and be citizen to his land. I sniggered, apparently out loud, the man next to me shot me a glance, some patriot I am! I frowned at the thought and simultaneously nodded at the speaker’s latest remark. He looked up at me and smiled again. Is he flirting with me?

He spoke more on the subject of Lagos, its urbanisation, economics, reform and sustainability...‘bring people to Nigeria (Lagos) not because they (should) love black people or care about Africa or want to help but because they can come and wet their greedy appetites on the opportunities Nigeria (Lagos) has’. Appeal not to their humanitarian side, he urged, ‘but to their shameful and so far well hidden inner gambler, have them throw their money on something that will more than quadruple their investment faster than you can spell Bloomberg’… somewhere in the six minutes that followed, he called on my inner naïve, tree hugging, friend of the earth self and I was ready to protest or heckle him off the stage but he made sense, sometimes, I think. If the auditorium had been a church, I would have passed my offering; he had my attention all right. Is it common to be partially aroused by speeches?

The evening ended with drinks and canapés in the foyer. Time to mingle and rub minds with our guest speakers the facilitator had announced. I’d like to rub something all right. I’d like to say I tripped and he caught me or we reached for the same glass of wine or some other terribly trite notion of sick bucket romance. But none of that happened. Well, not technically anyway. I’d left my sweater in the auditorium and on retrieving it, I noticed his hat on the seat several rows ahead of me, near the main podium. I scuttled down to get it, tried it on and gave a little theatrical production to my audience: empty seats. When I was done, I bowed and on my way up heard clapping. The owner of the hat, I would have blushed if I wasn’t tipsy, I would have run out the side door if he hadn’t looked like something that needed to be stripped. There was something very old school and manly about him which had my butterflies fluttering in the same way a black and white moving picture of Clark Gable and Gene Kelly made many a woman loose her mind in the 50’s.

Nice performance you give there m’lady, he said.
M’lady? LOL! I curtsied.
May I have this dance?
You do realise there is no music in here? I asked.
I can still hear the one you were singing up until now. Boys to Men fan eh?
You could say that. I’m surprised you know them; you look more like a fan of the classics.
That I am, but not exclusively so. You know the song Girl in the Life Magazine?
Yes.
Would it sound totally stupid right now if I told you, you looked like something that just stepped out of a magazine?
Yes.
Fair enough. You can breathe now.
Yes. I mean huhn?
You’d stopped breathing since the moment you heard me clapping.
Oh, yes, I mean no, I mean. You smell … tempting.
We stood toe-to-toe as though waiting for the music and our cue to start our waltz.

So, do you come here often? He asked, smiling again. Did I imagine that twinkle? I raised my hand and tilted his hat - which was now resting on my head - to the side so I could get a better look at him. I start to say something but instead decide to just look up at him. My stomach growled.
Hungry?
Very. I whispered.
Not much of a talker are you.
No, I’m just appreciating the moment.
Interesting.
Would it be terribly unladylike to tell you right now, in the spirit of spontaneity, I mean I already embarrassed myself earlier so why stop now, that your lecture was very... I mean… and …
He moved closer and said ‘do you intend to spend the whole evening rambling or would you care to join me for dinner’. I kissed him.

Yes.
Not much of a talker eh?
No, just appreciating the moment.
So…
Let’s do this