First Impressions

2. Richard

One thing I love about Kizz Daniel's One Ticket is the nostalgic memories of my recently concluded relationship it arouses. My memories of Natasha are . . . more bitter than sweet. I wouldn't trade them for anything.

With a groan, I lift the last brown box filled with picture frames. The coolness of the box absorbs heat whenever it encounters my bare abdomen. The journey from my room to the living room is less than a minute but after moving items for most of this morning, my arms are ready to take a rain check. TJ should be here helping out as I had planned but I am yet to hear from him.

To be fair, the downfall of our relationship was caused by our mutual faults. After four years of patching up a relationship that was predestined to fail from the start, with me being the only crazy stupidly in love partner, we called it quits.

Initially, when I suggested we end things, she went philosophical on me.

"It is good that you love me more because . . . as a woman . . . loving you would come naturally to me if you protect me, please me and provide for me. Unlike if it was the other way around."

I ignored her for a while and in her desperation, she tried other means.

"Ah . . ." I sigh, as the vision of her in that sexy black lingerie she had worn the night she tried to entice me back into her bipolar life. I stupidly agreed because I thought I was going to be her savior. My mind did not register that I needed to save my sanity first.

I still have my brooding moments, but it doesn't last for long. Nothing good music can't cure. Several things still trigger memories of her, and I must confess there are times when I feel like picking up my phone just to ask her back into my life. Not manly, I must admit, but I am human. We made history. What can I say? If we try enough, we can rescue those we love. Depraved, inconsiderate and twisted ones excluded.

I am Richard Osita, twenty-nine and, only until recently, a confirmed single bloke. The first of four children who at the age of twenty said goodbye to my father's house, much to my mother's chagrin.

"Leave him alone! He is no longer a child," the veins on my father's neck were popping as he addressed my mother, both ignoring me. "He just graduated college and thinks life is like college. Leave him! He would learn the hard way."

Although I became an example of the proverbial prodigal son, my mother was always there. My father? He went on with his nonchalant lifestyle, giving my mother more headache than he was worth. He was right, life is not like college, it's worse.

Fast forward the years, and here I am. I've had my fair share of jobs, failed businesses and of course, strings of failed relationships. I'll put it this way; I was boyfriend to all, but boyfriend to none. None can compare to my relationship with Natasha though.

After Natasha, something in me feels quite different. I must agree with my high school teacher on this, "with proper planning comes a different approach to life". Although I can't place what it is yet, I'm glad to start this new journey and follow this path wherever it leads. I made my decision months ago and today it's all about my regained freedom, flourishing business and new apartment.

Beads of sweat form on my lower back as I adjust the last frame on the wall. I tap my feet to the music blaring from my speakers. Swaying backward, I raise my voice in worship as I belt out the lyrics with Kizz Daniel. Stretching my hands before me like a boxer, I raise my shoulders one after the other, with alternating knee raises after every fourth shoulder raise. My sore body embraces this form of dance called 'shakiti bobo', and I get lost in the rhythm.

Dancing into the kitchen, I add oil to the beans I had left simmering. The pot's cover clanks as the banging on my door startles me.

Rolling my eyes, I wonder which of my neighbors want to check me out. I feel I would be meeting everyone in this estate if they continue like this.

This is Nigeria. You don't knock on a new neighbor's door bearing food or whatever gifts . . .

Hitting the pause button, I march towards the door, ignoring the voice telling me to look decent by picking up a shirt. Opening the door, my gaze falls on a little girl. She cringes and this makes me curve my lips into a friendly smile. I lean close, holding the door still, only to realize she is no little girl!

She stands there, mouth opening and closing rhythmically. Bush for hair, poking their way out in lumps, looking unkempt like an unfortunate child. I find her eyes sizing me up and she presses her lips tight. Now she knows what it feels like to be caught ogling.

"Hi," I grovel out with a smirk.

Her brows furrow, then she angles her neck to look up at me and says nothing

Why didn't the caretaker tell me that the only other resident on this floor is deaf and dumb?

I should have done a background check on my neighbors before moving in.

The thought of ending this awkward situation abruptly crosses my mind.

"Good morning," she squeaks. She swallows then continues, hands akimbo, "I guess you are new here. This area is a private residence for so many reasons. Private."

She turns to leave, and as if on second thought, returns to face me, "Don't you think your eardrums are at risk? The music is rather too loud. Some of us are trying to have a quiet weekend after working our asses off the entire week."

The effrontery!

Who does she think she is?

"Pardon?" I say with my brow raised.

I need her to repeat herself maybe I did not hear her correctly the first time. She stares back at me with brows raised too.

Perfect! A staring contest.

She loses the contest and folds her arms. I assess her stance, why in heaven's name did I open my door?

"Next time, please turn down the volume."

"I'm sorry," I mumble.

She smiles crookedly at me, very suspicious lady.

"If that would be all, have a great weekend." The frames I hung by the door threaten to fall as I slam it shut.

"What the heck? Where did they get her from?" I whisper.

Keep calm. I inhale – "Oh no!"

Rushing into the kitchen, I meet a burnt what-should-have-been-breakfast, no thanks to my dramatic neighbor.

Without batting an eyelid, I remove the hot pot from the cooker with my bare hands, tossing all the burnt content into the waste bag. I place the now-empty pot under running water, filling it to the brim. Moving like lightening, I bring out yam from my store, eggs from the fridge and other ingredients needed for egg sauce. Like a robot, I begin the process of changing my menu.

As an entrepreneur, getting lost in the pressure of doing and being all things can ruin you. It almost ruined me. I've had close calls with ulcer, thrice. The third time, the doctor advised me never to neglect breakfast.

I smile as I survey my handiwork, then toss some diced tomatoes into my mouth. I stare at the ingredients on the board. Something is missing . . . My hips sway and I realize what is missing.

Cleaning my hands on a towel, I bring out my phone and press play. I pause in the motion of putting it back, holding it up to reduce the volume. I didn't intend to disturb my neighbor earlier, and neither do I want to do it now that I have met her.

Women and craze.