Last week, I went to the restaurant to escape the quietness of my home. My husband, Mezie, had travelled to Enugu and I was missing him so much that I thought I was going to pull out the hair on my head in one demented act of frustration.

With Anne Rice’s Pandora in my hand, I took in the aroma that wafted from the kitchen and I felt bliss. Good enough, the restaurant staff have come to recognise me as a “devoted” customer.

Sometimes, when people sit at the restaurant for too long without buying anything, the management literally shoos them away like vermin- only that they don’t carry brooms. On occasions like that, I hold back myself from laughing. Well, I don’t blame these people that sit in restaurants without buying snacks. First of all, not many people know of the parks in Lagos. They’d probably have gone there. Secondly, it’s possible they came here to escape their lives. What if they were immersed in the sticky waters of sorrow and appetite was far away from them? You can’t be so sure of what a person is going through until you ask them.

About thirty minutes into sitting at my favourite spot in the restaurant, I heard someone ask, “May I join you?” It was a man’s voice. It’s always a man’s voice.

Tearing my gaze away from the novel became a chore. Within less than few seconds, my mind processed that if I ignored the question, if I pretended that no one was there, the man would go away.

I was wrong.

“Excuse me,” he spoke louder. My silence made him stronger the way diseases get resistant to antibiotics. “May I sit with you?”

Languidly, I looked up from my novel and stared him square in the eyes. Trying to hide my irritation was not of concern to me, “I didn’t get you, what did you say?”

At this point, I love to state that you should never repeat yourself if a woman asks you “what did you say?” She heard you the first time. The fact that a rational person could arrange words to make an asinine sentence probably had her bemused. If she asks, you had better rephrase and restructure your sentence. Sadly, the guy, who asked that ludicrous question, wasn’t armed with this knowledge at the time. I hope he reads this.

With a big grin on his face and an extra dose of confidence, he asked for the third time, “May I join you?” I could see his big, dark hand gripping, almost about to pull, the chair adjacent me. Ostensibly, he was so sure of himself that I’d acquiesce to him joining me. What a prick!

Without breaking eye contact with him, I replied, “No, you may not. I am busy,” I raised my book in a way he’d see the title. I expected him to take the cue and walk away. But, no. The society in which he lives in believes that a woman sitting out all by herself is doing it to garner attention from men. Isn’t it interesting how men believe we do everything for them? If you dress good, someone asks you, “Who is the guy you are dressing like this for?” If you don’t dress good, they’ll say, “Dress well! You don’t know if this is where you’ll meet your future husband.”

From the look on his face, I knew this guy didn’t know how to take “no” for an answer. Shrugging, I went back to my novel.

“What’s a pretty woman doing all by herself on a nice day like this? I was sitting with my friends and you caught my eyes and I decided to chat you up.” Did I mention he had a phony accent? I couldn’t place it. It sounded like Jamaican Patois and Arabic with an Irish Brogue! Lord! If his accent wasn’t original, what other things about him were fake?

Seeing I was focusing on Pandora, he said, “Okay, if you can’t talk, can I have your number?”

I laughed in diabolic powers and I thought he would certify me certifiable. Just like that? In 2017, a stranger was expecting me to give out my phone number as if we were old pals reconnecting. Really? The world has become like this? What a wowwity!*

Eventually, I lucidly told him, “I do not want to give out my number to you.”

“Why?” He smiled to hide the exasperation growing in his tummy.

“Are you asking why?” Glancing up at him, I gave him that cold stare that comes from a frozen place. Every girl needs to master the art of the cold stare. That way, she can freeze every rubbish person and thereby deactivate that person’s idiocy.

Regressing an obnoxious man into childhood might be a good tactic in dealing with him. You simply sound like his mother by being… authoritative. Didn’t they say that Jesus used his authority to expel demons? This is in no way an analogy. But, when some boys are called Yoruba Demons, what should I think?

I held his gaze and stated, “I do not want to talk to you.”

“You don’t have to be so rude,” he was about picking offence. “That’s what’s wrong with you girls nowadays,” his accent was miraculously becoming more Nigerian and I was happy I didn’t have to endure one more sentence of his Arapatois*.

Firmly, I stated, “My no is final. I am through with you. Please, leave whenever.” Being rude was in place, you know. You can’t reason with a foul stench, do you? You take mean measures! He could have left me alone when I said I wasn’t interested. But, male ego.

I knew I battered his ego. In a desperate bid to make me feel bad, he said, “When you are forty and single, you will know.”

Once more, I looked him square in the face with feigned surprise like he had said the stupidest thing ever. Stifling a chortle was difficult. I could have told him that despite me not wearing a wedding band, I was happily married. Not all of us love wearing rings- it doesn’t make us less married. In fact, I know of married people that Bleep different people with their wedding rings on their fingers. I dare to imagine that some men, maybe women, probably finger-Bleep their mistresses with the ring finger. Pah! Why not take off the ring?

Arapatois stood staring at me with anger shimmering in his beady eyes, which reminded me of a shifty character I’d read about, “And that was meant to get me angry? Did I tell you I wanted to get married? Please, please, just pick what’s left of your dignity and go.” I chuckled and waved my hand contemptuously at him.

“Ashawo*,” he said venomously.

Without looking up from my book, I retorted, “Ashawo no dey Bleep ‘imself*. You, sef*, na ritualist and yahoo* boy.”

“Ugly bitch,” I heard the vitriol in his voice. This guy was too petty. I simply ignored him and went back to ancient Egypt to follow Pandora’s new life. I figured I had deigned enough. Moreover, as one Gordana Biernat wrote, “Drama can’t grow unless you feed it with your energy and presence. Turn around. Walk away. Let it go”

When the guy saw I was done with him for real, he went on his way. And it was comical watching his walk of shame. It made me think of a dog walking away with its tail between its legs.

You see, as a girl as a matter of fact, you need to develop o de-eshi!* I mean, tough skin. Many things and people are out there to break you physically, emotionally, spiritually, financially...


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