Irehobhude O. Iyioha

Ono forked up big chunks of ham and cheese and gobbled it. Her stomach rumbled, with one last puff as the food filled the void in her stomach. She noticed his smile from the corner of her eyes, and continued to chew slowly, a shadow of a frown darkening her brows. Ono swallowed. His smile was distracting. There was something unsettling about his manners. While he seemed urbane and worldly, he wore the suavity with self-assurance a bit too crisp at the collars. He was unlike any of the men to whom Itan had introduced her. Different from the associates Itan would have handpicked for her.

When she’d told Itan about London and the possibility of relocating there for a change, Itan had wanted to know if it was because of some man: Was he good-looking? Was he a lawyer too? Where was he from? Why couldn’t he relocate to Ono’s homeland – she was after all a successful partner at Inn and Packers. Once she was convinced there was no man in the picture, Itan began to scheme about a meeting with some man in the UK. She had friends everywhere in the world, wired to her wide-spread pals through social media; she could hook Ono up without trouble.

A few days before Ono’s flight, Itan scribbled a telephone number on a paper and handed it to her. They didn’t talk about the friend. Itan said she didn’t really know him beyond a few emails and online chats. As her departure date approached, Itan was reticent. Her silence was unusual. Something about a new office project, she said.

Ono didn’t say a word to Daren as she returned to the buffet table. The tomato bruschetta looked good. Gold-coloured dressing had been dripped luxuriously over the small mound of fresh veggies that sat on each piece of grilled garlic bread. Ono reached for one and placed it gingerly on her plate. He watched her as she did. He was still smiling.

“A healthy appetite, Ms. Ono.”

“Hm… What’s a lady to say to that?”

“Thank you, maybe?”

“No, I know what you’re thinking.”

“What?”

“That maybe I eat a bit too much. That I should be watching my weight.”

“Ha! Ms. Ono!”

“You call my name like you know me.”

“I feel like I do.” His voice took on a sombre tone. “Like I have known you for longer than a few minutes.”

His eyes were staring at her with the now-familiar deep, contemplative edge. She bristled under their intensity, her skin delightfully warm and prickly as they settled on her. She brushed a stray braid off her face and slipped another behind an ear. Then, she glanced at him sideways, a defiant smile playing on her lips.

“I’ll eat, Daren. It’s food. It’s meant to be eaten.”

He laughed. It was full and hearty. Like the dinner a half hour later. They’d joined the rest of the attendees in the warmly lit room and chosen a corner table. Daren nodded to a few acquaintances but his eyes rarely left hers. In the middle of dinner, he said ‘May I?’ before gently picking up another wandering braid and tucking it behind her left ear. Nervously saying something about ‘stubborn hair’, she scooped up her braids discreetly and pulled them back into a loose bun, teasing out a small pompadour. He noted how effortlessly she did it and commended her skill.

“Do you travel outside home often?” She asked.

“A couple of times a year. Canada and the USA mainly. But I spent the first few years of my childhood in – guess where…”

“Scotland!”

“Another try.”

“Eh – Ireland?”

“Come on –”

“Canada, Brussels, Paris?”

“You aren’t trying hard enough.”

“Really? Okay, Timbuktu?”

“Nigeria!”

“No way.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Let me see – dad a businessman or diplomat?”

“Diplomat. Worked at the consulate for a few years.”

“Tell me about it.”

She leaned forward, her eyes smiling, one arm a slanted ‘V’ on the table. There was something about her aura that made him carefree, willing to let go whatever props the dictates of lawyering had forced on him. He’d laughed harder in the last half hour than he’d done in the last four weeks. By the end of the meal, they were bartering stories of childhood adventures and courtroom faux pas in their early days after law school. And just before they got up to go, after most of the partners and guests had since left, he reached across the table, pulled out a braid from her bun, and rolled it around his fingers before letting it hang free. He’d been a mischievous child, he admitted, and disturbing her hair was his own way of reliving those glorious days.

Ono relived the moment as they left the room. He’d touched her hair this time without seeking her permission. He’d played with her hair in a room where the conversation was supposed to be stiff and affected. On his part, when he picked at her braids and moved a strand around or tucked it away, he did it not because they weren’t perfect as they were or he worried they’d slip into her soup: he did it because he just had an overwhelming urge to do so. They were soft; three strands of hair carefully crisscrossed until each looked like a strip of mat.

They talked about a lot of things: politics, food and friendships. He said he still kept a handful of friends in Nigeria whom he communicated with from time to time, especially Deji, Aitan and Marlee. They simply glided from one subject to another even before they were done with one. They seemed hungry for information, for as much as each could know about the other’s predilections and of the roads each had travelled on the way to becoming partners in the firm. He talked about cassava and the starchy fufu that came from it, about his love for egusi – he called it melon soup – and how he’d now learnt to use the seeds for his pastries. He could cook; she liked that. She liked food. Her face took on a glow when he said he could cook.

When they exchanged stories of home and what that meant to each of them later that night while sitting side-by-side on his balcony – she’d refused to go into his house, saying coyly it was ‘too early’ – he told her about his desire to return to Nigeria to start an NGO and explore his ‘options’. But she had no response. Maybe it was the wine or the perfectness of the moment, the breeze on her face, her head on his shoulder and his lips close to her ears. The moment felt surreal and boundless. Maybe she didn’t want to ruin it by talking NGOs. So, when he kissed her on the cheeks, his lips firm and warm against her skin, she gave herself permission to relax. She now had enough courage to run her hands through the soft threads of his hair and laugh about how strange it felt.

At a different place and time, her rabble-rousing self would have nitpicked his intentions for Nigeria and questioned his motives and the supposed altruism behind the gesture. She’d have recited her well-reasoned thesis about Africa not being a wasteland for breeding unstable species of charitable organizations. Then, in her customary style, she’d have reduced his prospective NGO to an insignia of a superhero mentality, recasting his definition of aid – offered upon her prodding – as confirmation of her assertions, no matter how he defined it. But tonight, his laughter, his touch, and his kiss took these words from her.

He saw her to her hotel in the morning twilight. It was just after 5a.m. He walked her to the elevator and watched her step in. She looked at him quizzically before stepping between the doors. There was no point stopping at the lobby, she said. He’d shown himself to be a gentleman and could come in to her room and have breakfast with her.

She insisted on him using the shower before she did. He was quick. In no time, he was fresh and out. She went in after, still giddy with laughter from their drifting conversations. He heard her singing in the shower. A song with a lot of ‘God’ and ‘amen’ in it. The words rattled his fascination with her silhouette, visible on the tinted shower screen, but not for long. He was enthralled by the view, by the water draping elegantly over her curvy outline like a silky dress flowing endlessly. She stepped out of the shower to see he’d made a cup of black coffee for himself and a milky cup of hot chocolate for her. She’d said she hadn’t touched the former in years and wanted to keep it that way.

Her phone buzzed as she took the second of the identical cane chairs on the balcony. She didn’t bother to look. It was Itan. She’d been calling all night. Daren pulled his chair close to hers and took her hand in one of his. They could see the River Thames and its aurous glow under the early sun. On her second day in the city, she’d joined a tour on the wings of the bridge. She told him about it.

“I’ve always liked water,” she said, smiling.

“Me too.”

“You like everything I like, Daren,” she retorted lightheartedly, rolling her eyes theatrically as she did.

“No-no, Ms. Ono. My names – the middle and last – are about water.”

“Really?”

“My middle name is in memory of my grandfather. He was a Mariner. That’s what Delmar means.”

“And Eaton?”

“From the riverside. That’s the meaning. I was always drawn to water. Swam professionally at university.”

“Ha. The things I still don’t know about you. What else are you keeping in a box, Daren?”

“That Daren is Hausa word for night – born at night.”

“Daren!”

“Ono?”

“You’ll go so far to woo a lady?”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“What?”

“Wooing you?”

“Isn’t it?”

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