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 Literature › Re: My Dear Chikodi (mrsakachukwu) by lagosconvo: 4:46pm On Dec 03, 2014 |
Stop plagiarism! Nairaland delete this post, it was stolen from www.lagosconvo.com |
| Literature › Re: My Dear Chikodi (mrsakachukwu) by lagosconvo: 4:03pm On Dec 03, 2014 |
This story was stolen from www.lagosconvo.com Guruscrew: |
| Romance › Beauty At The Square (1) by lagosconvo(op): 9:35am On Jul 24, 2014 |
The sun peered brashly out of the sky. After a long, hard winter, no one seemed perturbed by the heat. With the reputation of summer in the United Kingdom, it would not be long before the warmth went cold. Although he had lived in London for a few years, he was yet to grow weary of the city’s charm and beauty. He stared at the pigeons whose numbers matched tourists that descend on Trafalgar square every summer, if not outnumber them. They feasted on whatever humans left behind, feeling at home with the throng of humanity around them. The fountain was jetting out currents of water at full blast, drawing crowds as tourists savored its beauty, while getting light sprays of water, which doused the heat to some extent. He stood by the fountain as he soaked in the beauty of the scenery. The big red buses that have come to symbolize London plied effortlessly through the thick, yet subtly organized traffic that streamed in all directions. The South African embassy was housed in a quaint building to the left of the square, and the Nigerian embassy was only a short walk away, beyond the South African embassy. He dreaded visiting the Nigerian embassy. A trip there was hardly devoid of the usual Nigerian red tape, with its ever present side kick, frustration. He did not want to sour this moment with such an unsavory thought, so he set his focus back on the exquisiteness around him. He watched her glide majestically towards the National Gallery, north of the square. She picked her steps as though she were royalty, walking elegantly. Her every step left him agape. She delicately raised her hand to pull back her long, glossy braids, of which strands dangled beautifully on the corners of her face. She wore the famous “Bob Marley” braids that left a hint she might be Nigerian. She was not beautiful. She was beyond beautiful. The sun bounced off her smooth, ebony skin, which shimmered like mirror in the sun. Her big, bold eyes were complemented by thick, full, and sumptuously inviting lips. To top it off, she had killer curves, which were accentuated by her fitting jean trousers and light purple T-shirt. “She has got to be Nigerian,” he muttered to himself. She looks every bit Nigerian, he thought as he continued his unverbalized soliloquy with himself. Perhaps that will make it all the more easier to talk to her, he wondered. He felt he had to figure out a way to chat her up. His heart was jangling ferociously against his rib cage by now. The more he considered the possibility of talking to her, the louder the quaking sound emanating from his pounding heart. Involuntarily, his mouth and throat went abruptly dry, and he began to feel somewhat hazy. His legs struggled to hold up his body weight as though he had put on two hundred extra pounds instantaneously. She had spotted him from the corner of her eyes. She was convinced he was gawking at her, albeit somewhat masked. He is handsome, she thought. She carefully sized him up. His muscles undulated with every slight move of his upper body. He was well dressed, broad shouldered and seemed confident. Suddenly, she craved a conversation with him. He looks Nigerian, she thought. His haircut is not that different from my brothers’, he is Ibo or Yoruba, she assured herself as her mind went into overdrive in an effort to deconvolute the athletic, handsome figure observing her from a distance. She sat on the step just in front of the gallery. She could see him clearly from her vantage point. He turned sharply to avert her. She mustn’t notice that I am looking at her he warned himself. He was seated near the fountain. He looked towards the road as though he were engrossed in the traffic. I should go talk to her. It is not a big deal. I can do this. A barrage of thoughts raced through his mind. No, I can’t do this; I’d be making a fool of myself if she rebuffs me. Carefully, he turned northwards and managed a peek at her. She was looking in the opposite direction, feigning absolute indifference. As he pondered the situation, his phone rang. “Ugonna, how you dey now?” he inquired speaking into the phone. “I dey fine Nwakamma,” the voice over the phone answered. “Wetin you dey do today?” Ugonna asked. “Man, I am at Trafalgar square. I had a day off from work, so I decided to take a tour of London. I am sitting by the fountain at the square, and a short distance away is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in the whole world.” “Haba! Nwakamma, I bia kwa ozo (there you go again). You have not even seen a millionth of all the women in the world, so, how can you conclude she is the most beautiful one?” “I mean the most beautiful of the ones I have seen. Ugo! Nwa anuwa bu asa mma (she is a paragon of beauty).” “So, when do I get to meet this queen?” Ugonna queried. “I have no idea.” “So, you won’t even allow me, your best friend to meet her?” “That is not what I mean Ugo. I’d let you see her tonight if it were possible, but the point is that I have yet to talk to her.” “O ji anya eri (you are just admiring her huh!),” Ugonna teased. “Man, I have been looking at her for the past half an hour or longer. I have no idea how to approach her. She is so beautiful she’d not even notice me if I ventured to ask her out.” “Do not sell yourself too short. You never know until you try. By the way do you know where she is from?” “She looks Nigerian.” “You should not talk to me again if you fail to ask her out or get her phone number at the least,” Ugonna said matter-of-factly. “See you at the weekend. I hope to hear all about her by then,” he said and hung up. It’d be cowardly of me not to try, Nwakamma encouraged himself. He turned in the direction he last saw her suddenly ready to face the challenge, but she was gone. He could not believe it. “How did I let this happen?” He wondered out loud in frustration. His fears vanished precipitously. He walked up towards the gallery hoping and praying fervently she had gone inside. That was the only placed he could not see from his position. He stopped in front of the gallery and scanned the vicinity. There was no sign of her. His heart was beating so fast it could jump out of his skin like a rocket headed for outer space. He could not believe what he was doing, but he could not help himself. He raced into the gallery, but the sheer enormity of the arena dawned on him. Where do I start? How am I even sure she did not cross the street and boarded a bus home? I don’t even know her! What does it matter anyway? If I try and fail so be it, he concluded as he began a frantic, yet controlled search of the National gallery. The gallery was swarming with tourists. Undeterred, he kept going, looking into every room and section and taking a few minutes to take a close look at art lovers who were absorbed in their adulation of classic paintings. He scampered down the hall way on the left wing of the ground floor. Convinced he had rifled every display room in that section, he headed for the right wing, walking as fast as he could. He pushed through hordes of tourists as he sought to find the beauty that seemed well within his grasp just minutes ago. Suddenly, he wondered if she may have stepped back outside, so he abandoned his planned search of the right wing and scurried outside. Drops of sweat streaked down his forehead, zigzagged their way down to his neck and descended onto his body. The heat outside had intensified. He remained unperturbed; completely engrossed in the singular mission of finding the beauty he hardly knew. He found a perfect spot that offered him a vantage view of the square. He was forced to squint against the sun as he looked around. There was no sign of her. A feeling of despondency crept up in his mind. You cannot find her in this chaotic and growing crowd, he thought. I have to try one more time; he encouraged himself and steered back into action. The hopelessness of his search gnawed at him, yet the flaming urge to see her one more time fanned his desire to keep going. His search of the right wing came up empty. Dejected and fagged out, he lumbered languidly to the massive lobby and sank into a vacant couch. He was heavily disappointed with himself. He cursed his cowardice. He shot his eyes for a few seconds and traced the outline of her dazzling face in his mind. “If only I could see her again,” he mumbled. He opened his eyes praying for a miracle, but there was none. After a ten-minute rest, he rose to his feet and began a disconsolate walk to the bus stop. One last look inside, he sighted a figure that looked exactly like her. The figure was climbing the stairs with a young man. He could not care who he was. He raced to the foot of the stairs and ascended as briskly as possible. To his utmost chagrin, a closer look revealed what he had feared. It was not her. Every Bob Marley hairstyle-wearing black girl looked like her though, causing two more mad dashes in opposite direction in a last-ditch effort to find her. By Victor ***The story continues** Source & more episodes: http://lagosconvo.com/country-people/beauty-square-1/
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| Nairaland General › We Love Fridays In Lagos. by lagosconvo(op): 5:34pm On May 24, 2013 |
Have you ever thought about the quantity of urine generated in Lagos every friday night? Can you stretch your imagination? |
Serve together
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