In front of him the driver’s door came open, and in slow motion they emerged: two feet in high heels first, and a pair of skinny, silky smooth, light skinned calves that seemed endless. And then came the thighs, deliciously firm and covered midway in a denim miniskirt that rode higher as the rest of her came into view. And then there was her. She was wearing one of those tight black things – tube top abi pipe top? It stood out well against her light skin and moulded every curve. Her head was covered in short, dark curls. She got out of her car and stood for a moment with her right hand on her forehead. Her long face wore an anxious look and her full, bright red lips were pouted. Wahala had never looked so good. She began to walk to him.
His hands shook as he struggled out of the car and into the midday heat, trying to get some sound out through his suddenly uncooperative throat. Surrounded by Lagos rush hour, all he could do was stare, his face wearing a look that he was sure could only be described as mumu-ish.
“Oh my God, I am so so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, I’m so silly.”
She wrung her hands as she spoke, her forehead creased and her voice sincere. He could only gaze at her mouth.
She bent over to inspect the shattered headlamp in that distracted, completely unselfconscious way that only the truly confident could pull off – not minding that if the strange man tilted his head just so, he could catch a glimpse of pink lace under that excuse for a skirt. Well, he did tilt his head, and he swore he could feel his legs turning to jelly. Just when he thought he would collapse she moaned in despair and stood upright again.
“It’s bad. It’s really bad. That headlight is gone,” she said. She turned to him.
“Look, I don’t know what to say. There’s no excuse. My tail light is bad as well, but hey, this is entirely my fault. I am so sorry. It’s just… well it’s a new car and I haven’t quite gotten the hang of it yet so I mess up sometimes. This is the worst damage I’ve done yet. And your car is clearly new as well and really expensive…”
He stood there, drowning in her returnee accent, trying to clear his throat while making as little noise as possible. She took his silence for anger.
“God I am so stupid!” she said, hitting her forehead with an open palm.
“No, no, it’s okay. These things happen. It was a mistake,” his words came out in a croak he could barely recognize.
“Really? You’re okay? You’re not mad?” she asked, her eyes round and pleading.
“Of course not. It’s nothing…”
“Oh my God!”
He found himself in a hug he didn’t see coming. He froze for a moment, and then he put his arms around her, breathed her, reveling in her warm, soft feel. She smelled of something wild; tempting, yet elusive. He closed his eyes. When she let go of him he had a stupid smile on his face, but he didn’t care.
“You’re an angel. No! You’re a lifesaver. Thank you so much. I’ll never forget this,” she gushed, striding back to her car.
He stood there, trying to summon up the courage to ask her for her number. He was still there when she started her car and honked. He got back in his car to make way for her to leave, his head still reeling from contact with her. She blew him a kiss, her perfectly manicured fingernails waving at him as she drove by.
He sat there in the car with the engine idling. He’d had his slice of heaven. All he needed now was a good story to tell oga.
Uche Okonkwo loves a good story, whether she’s reading or writing it. She works as an editor and freelances in her spare time.