Abe Igi
___________
Getting into the car, we fasten our seat belts before I set the car in motion.
I break the silence in the car when I ask, “What type of music do you prefer?”
“Anything you choose is fine.”
“We can listen to the school’s radio?”
“That’s fine.”
Abe Igi is about nine minutes away, a recently launched cozy local eatery on the pricey end, frequented by the well-to-do locals and the big boys and girls of Hopewell Uni.
I concentrate on the drive, yet I’m watching him through my peripheral vision. His fingers drum on his thighs. “Are you okay?”
He hesitates before responding, the drumming fingers stilling. “I’m—it’s just— it’s strange being in a car and not driving.”
“You drive?” I spare him a side glance. Our gaze locks, and for a moment, it feels like we’ve been doing this for ages.
I think he senses it too because he smiles and shakes his head, like he can’t believe I would think he doesn’t drive. Yo… I’m getting to know you.
“I do. I’m the designated driver at home.”
“Oh,” I chuckle. “That’s my role too.”
“Yeah. It’s a breath of fresh air not being the one driving, but then… there are times in school I wish I had a car at my disposal.”
“Hmm,” I nod in agreement. “The only thing I don’t like is going out of my schedule to accommodate others. I love driving.”
“You’re Lag based?”
I nod. “Hmm mmh.”
“Is it fine for me to assume you’ll drive me home?” There’s a hint of humor in his voice.
“Who knows?” I play along and we both smile. “By the way,” I begin as I adjust the radio frequency, “I love your Shamballa.”
“Thank you.” He brushes the hand with the beads on his thigh.
Still nervous?
“I could get one for you.”
“Oh, thank you.”
He nods.
A comfortable silence envelope us, but as I press on the brake the moment I spot a traffic controller motioning for my lane to stop, a side glance at Evans, who is looking out the window, tells me something is off. Not like I’ve got superpowers or anything, but his brow is furrowed.
What is on his mind? “Is everything okay?” Is he not comfortable with my driving skills?
He turns to me, a groove forming between his eyes.
I give a short, sardonic laugh. “I’m going the right direction, yeah?”
With a smile, he explains, “Oh, it’s... This sounds silly, that’s why I’ve been lost in my head. However, did I tell you earlier that you’re looking lovely? Did I—did I compliment your dress?”
Um… “Not that I can remember?”
“Oh.” Evans lets out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m so sorry. I thought I said it out loud.”
“Hmm.” This is so not going as I imagined.
“Really.” He tilts his head to watch me. “I mean it. I mean, you look lovely on any given day. But tonight, you’re looking lovelier. Thanks for dressing up.”
A calming wave of relief washes over me. “Thank you.” Thank God it has nothing to do with my driving skills. I smile. “I’m glad you noticed, because this took effort to put together on such short notice.”
“Ah…” The creasing corners of his lips form a dimple as he smiles at his omission. “How do I make up for this? I know better.”
“It’s alright.” I shrug. “I know I look good and hearing it now and then from others is great.”
“Yes, yes, it is. I’m so sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. You have great taste and it obviously had me missing my cue. You’re sexy and—I’m sorry, it’s not about sex. You look lovely.” He’s shaking his head, saying two, three things at once, “looking good.”
I struggle to hold back my laughter, suppressing it with a tight smile. “Really, Evans.” The traffic controller motions for me to move forward. “It’s nothing to get touchy about.” I ease my foot from the brake before accelerating the car.
“You look lovely. You always do.”
His hot, steady gaze on me makes me self-conscious. I’m smiling too much, without meaning to. “Thank you. Not to sound—whatever. We’ve only met like two—three times. How do you know what I look like on any given day?”
He seems taken aback by my directness. “Oh. Prior to meeting you, I’ve noticed you around.”
“Hmm,” I say, trying to get him to say more, but he doesn’t as much whisper.
Okay… that switch flicked too fast. What is this burgeoning feeling in my chest? I press my lips tightly together to keep from smiling as we walk towards the restaurant nestled beneath the shade of towering trees which emerges like a hidden gem in the heart of nature. The structure is a graceful interplay of bamboo sticks that weaves an intricate dance against the setting sunlight.
The bamboo’s earthy hues blend perfectly with the lush surroundings, creating an ambiance that feels both grounded and traditional. The calm but bustling atmosphere reminds me of Mama Gee’s pepper soup joint.
Reminds me of home.
Outdoor and indoor seating areas are spread across, offering intimate nooks and open spaces for diners to choose from. Low tables adorned with flickering local lanterns offering a warm glow of soft lights create an intimate atmosphere, perfect for a first date.
I’m really on an official first date.
Oh—kay…
Closer now, we’re greeted by the murmurs of fellow diners, the clinking of cutlery on dishes, and the melodic tunes of confam Yoruba?Ondo music playing softly in the background. If I were a music scholar, I would say Sir Shina Peters or Ebenezer Obey is what’s playing, but this is older than me. I give up on the guessing game.
A friendly lady dressed in vibrant colored Ankara approaches us with a warm greeting—she’s a server, because there’s a handful of people dressed this way, brightening the space, and adding an extra touch of authenticity to the experience. She asks where we’d like to dine, and we decide to dine indoors.
I swallow as the tantalizing aroma of what’s to come wafts through the air, teasing my taste buds and igniting my appetite. My stomach grumbles in response, eager to sample their cuisine.
Why have I never gone on a date? I’m almost twenty and—Oh… I might have been on something some people might call a date. It was that time in Secondary School when I went to Chicken Republic.
That wasn’t a date. I didn’t dress up for it.
That was a hangout where I was discussing with James Madu, who proclaimed to love me. If Mama Gee ever finds out I skipped evening classes to go eat a combo meal deal with a boy I eventually turned down, Lord knows tonight would be a different story.
We make our way to a table near the window slash bamboo fence as directed by the friendly lady.
“Do you like it?” Evans asks, bringing my attention to the present.
I spare him a grateful smile. “I do.” I take a moment to soak in our surroundings, smoothening my palm on the tablecloth. There’s a vibrant energy in the room emanating from the diners. It’s Friday night, and it looks like student couples and locals are enjoying the evening, laughing amid animated conversations.
“Want to order now or later?”
A friendly server approaches with a warm smile, asking what we would like to drink. I settle for just water while Evans asks for lemon in his.
Fancy much? I smile, nodding when he asks, “Do you want us to order later?”
If I were following Linda’s advice, I would have hopped on the food offer. But right now, I want to know more about the guy sitting across from me. He seems cool. I’m curious about what makes him tick. Thoughts of Special are the last things on my mind—no… I just ruined it.
I survived all day not thinking of him. I need to focus on this chance to connect with someone new. Someone who is available.
“Just so you know,” the server courteously leans forward, “we prepare our meals fresh, and it takes between fifteen to thirty minutes to get an order ready. So, I’ll suggest you place your order now before the crowd increases.”
“Do you mind?” Evans raises both brows at me, waiting for my response.
It starts as a gentle flutter in the pit of my stomach. Then energy pulses through my veins, like tiny sparks dancing beneath my skin, eager to burst forth into the world. It’s like a dormant ember that is incrementally igniting into a vibrant flame in my heart.
That’s so sweet!
Smiling, I nod. “Let’s order now.”
The server takes our orders of white rice, pepper stew, fried plantain, moi moi, fried chicken, designer meat sauce, and something listed as green salad.
Feeling comfortable and somewhat familiar, I grin slyly, tapping my fingers on the table. “So… what’s your go-to guilty pleasure when it comes to food? I’m assuming since you had a bottle in your bag, you’re a hopeless Pepsi addict?”
His eyes widen at my question. “Pepsi addict?” Then he chuckles, leaning back in his chair.
“You’re not?”
“Not at all.” He snickers. “What gave you that impression?”
I shrug, smiling. “You were walking around campus with a cold bottle of Pepsi in your bag.”
Still snickering, he uses one hand to cover his mouth before letting it fall on the table. “You’re something else.”
“So… your guilty pleasure when it comes to food?”
“Well, I have to admit, I have a weakness for crispy chicken wings. I just can’t resist their spicy, finger-licking goodness. But don’t worry, even though they have great fried chicken here,” he tilts his head, wearing a lopsided grin, “I promise not to steal any from your plate.”
Laughing, I pretend to guard my imaginary plate. “You better keep your hands to yourself, mister. My wings are off-limits!”
He laughs, and I smile, feeling a warm fuzzy sensation spreading through me.