Ola:
He is so close, too close. An arm rests on my shoulder and his breath, which reeks of alcohol, fans my neck because his head is hanging low, as he has no energy to remain upright.
"I was so stupid," he murmurs. "So stupid."
Shebi I told you before and you were vexing?
"I'm sure whatever it is, you'll be fine," I reassure him. "Just hang in there, don't throw up yet."
The thought of being covered in vomit nauseates me. And I won't be able to remain mad at him, because it won't be his fault. His body is trying to expel the large amount of foreign substances he'd put into it, and so vomiting is normal.
But not on me.
"Miss Ola," he slurs. "Why did you accept to be my girlfriend?"
"You lied too fast."
"You could have said no."
"Well, I didn't."
He goes silent, and the only sound is his fast and shallow breathing.
In the mirror panel of the elevator, I observe that he looks really sick. His eyes are sunken, his already high cheekbones look sharp, so sharp, I could slice some okazi or afang leaves with them.
Serious dehydration.
I hope for the end of this elevator ride to the sixteenth floor. My prayer is answered, to my relief. The moment we get into his suite, he falls to his knees, breathing heavily.
"Toilet," he murmurs. "Before I-"
I don't even wait for him to complete his partially incoherent sentence before I half-drag, half-guide him to the toilet door at the opposite end of the spacious suite. Inside the private area, I watch him eagerly hug the toilet bowl and retch so miserably as his body does its work.
Lesson learned. Now, wait for the huge headache, fatigue and muscle pain tomorrow morning, I think with a smirk.
"Feel better?"
He nods weakly. His eyes focus on me. They are amber, between orange and gold. "I'll take over from here. You can leave, thank you."
"I might as well finish my girlfriend work," I tell him. I feel I'm relatively safe in the event of any trouble, as he's too weak to even get to his own feet. I bet if I walked out now, he'd black out right there on the floor and wake up twelve hours later.
He makes a small sound, but the smile on his face is cynical. I get the feeling that I know what he's thinking of, but I brush it aside. He is handsome, and if I saw him outside, I'd definitely take a second and a third look before being on my way.
His skin is shades lighter than mine, contrasting nicely with his short, dark curly hair. A square, shadowed jaw. Thick, dark lashes frame his amber eyes. And from our previous contact, his musculature is perfect.
Awon heartbreaker prototype, I think to myself. I'm just a good Samaritan.
With a clean glass sitting on his sink, I give him some water which he gulps eagerly. He asks for more and I oblige him. This is a good sign. He is still very much drunk, because he tells me, "This feels nice. Having you take care of me and we're total strangers."
"You'll probably forget me tomorrow morning."
"I hope I don't."
I hope you do.
Mixed with his perfume, the cocktail of scents emanating from him is more unpleasant than ever. I try not to wrinkle my nose. But he notices and says, "I smell terrible, right?"
"Yes," I reply. " But you're too weak to shower on your own, so you should go to bed asap."
He lets me help him to his feet. "Shower," he insists. " I'll be fine."
But he doubles over again and turns to bend over the toilet bowl, making those miserable sounds as his stomach dispels more of its contents. This time, he doesn't turn to face me and I feel a bit of pity for him. I sense that he doesn't enjoy being vulnerable in front of people.
"Did you take something else asides from drinks?" I ask gently.
"I took an overdose of painkillers. I wasn't thinking straight."
Alarm bells ring in my ears.
"Don't worry, I wasn't trying to die."
"I never said that," I defend.
"I can imagine your expression."
I suppose I'll have to stay and ensure he makes it through the night, then. I have deduced that there's no need for a hospital, as he is coherent and aware of his surroundings. My mind drifts to the movie waiting on my laptop for me to watch in my own hotel room a few floors below. I think of tomorrow... a day I have been dreading for over a week.
"I'll let you take your shower now."
While waiting in his room, I look around. His space is huge, screaming of luxury and minimalism. The closets are barely visible behind chrome panels on one of the walls. A coffeemaking machine sits on a table beside a laptop and an assortment of wires. The bed is neatly made, covered with white sheets. The walls are covered with cream-coloured wallpaper, with vertical lines etched in them.
"You're...still here."
I turn towards the voice to see him standing close to the bathroom door, wearing a bathrobe, both hands on the wall to support himself. His expression tells me that standing straight is a chore for him.
I want to make sure you're not suicidal. "Just making sure you're alright."
That cynical smile is back. It pulls up a corner of his sculpted lips. "Really?"
"You could have ended up worse, after what you did," I chide him. "Overdose and alcohol?"
"Don't start that talk. Please. I told you, I'll take over from here. Go to bed, it's past midnight."
How rude. Not even a thank you.
"You have tried your best to rub your rudeness in my face since-" I begin.
"How can I be rude? You're the one acting like you're dealing with a child! I'm not one!"
Oh, he's testing my temper now.
"I only care because-"
"You want a reward, Miss Ola?"
It feels like someone has slapped me. " It's like those substances you took are doing far more damage to your brain than I thought."
He walks over to the bed and almost falls heavily onto it, sighing. "Everybody wants a reward. If we didn't, we wouldn't be doing a lot of the things we claim to love."
I press my lips together and narrow my eyes at this arrogant, drunken man in a bathrobe. "I suppose you'll be sleeping off from here. You'll wake up with a bad headache tomorrow. I'll send up room service with a banana and honey milkshake to help you. Good morning."
If I hadn't helped this one, I would have seemed callous.
He remains silent while I call up the elevator. I figure he must have succumbed to a deep sleep, due to the sheer exhaustion his body must be going through. When I'm about to step into the elevator, he calls to me. "Don't leave my pathetic self alone just yet, Miss Ola."
"Why? I mean, I agree with your opinion of yourself right now, but you can handle this, can't you?"
But I'm about to set my foot forward and move myself back into his space. Asides from the fact that I do care about his wellbeing, I am suddenly finding him interesting.
"As much as it irks me to admit...I need your company," he confesses, his speech slow and his voice deep. His eyes are now half-closed, but I'm sure they're on me. It's like I can feel them.
I leave the elevator and step across the huge space to stand at a safe distance from his bed. "What for?"
"Come and annoy me more. Your name, what does it mean?"
"Ola is a short form, my name is Olaedo. It means 'Precious Jewel' in Igbo Language."
"A beautiful name," he murmurs. "Who named you?"
"My father."
"Don't be so jumpy," he says with a smile as he sits up and leans on the intricately carved mahogany headboard of his bed. "I won't jump at you."
"I'm not jumpy." But I'm alert. Maybe it's because he's... I can't explain it. I pull one of the seats at the sitting area close to the bed and settle on it.
"Are you close to your father?"
"I used to be," I confess. "Life happened."
"Isn't life beautiful?"
I laugh at his sarcasm. "Come on, don't be so pessimistic. What about your own father?"
"I once hated him." He shrugs, in a non-commital manner, but his mouth turns down at the corners. "I don't love him now, though."
"Oh."
"Has anyone ever hurt you, Ola? To the point that you feel damaged?"
"Isn't that too deep?"
He shrugs again. "Is it?"
"We've all been hurt at different points."
"You could say that again."
"You look like the type to hurt others," I say without thinking.
I don't expect his reaction. He chuckles, and bursts into full-blown laughter. It surprises and confuses me. I also find the sound pleasant. I'm beginning to enjoy his company. From what I've seen so far, he possesses a dark sense of humour, and this appeals to me.
"You're not the first to tell me that, beautiful one. You, on the other hand, look like you've fallen victim to my alleged type."
His response annoys me, igniting a spark inside my chest as unpleasant memories resurface...
"Were you too naive for him? Too rigid? You do seem like that type. Did he cheat on you because you wouldn't offer what he wanted?"
"Why are you even interested?" I retort.
"Come on, tell me. I might not even remember your secrets later."
I rise to my feet. "This discussion has come to an end." I really need to get out of this fancy dress.
"I'm sorry," he says. "It's my nature to look for the bad sides of people."
His apology surprises me. I settle back on the chair. "I don't even know your name."
He looks into my eyes, momentarily captivating me. The image that comes to mind is of a lion gazing at a transfixed gazelle. "Saheed Hakeem Bello."
"Olaedo Matthews."
"Beautiful dress you've got on."
"Thank you." My dress made of red silk, the hem stopping at my knees. I had just returned from a blind date, which had ended up in a disastrous manner. Before meeting Saheed by chance, I had just been going to my hotel room to eat, watch a movie, and cry about my life in no particular order.
Suddenly an idea comes to my mind. I hadn't seen any ring on his fingers... "Are you single, Saheed?"
"I'll just act like that question didn't surprise me."
"Tell me."
"Quite the go-getter, aren't you? I like."
I sigh. "Come on."
"I'm married to three wives, and I have seven children. Do you want me to list their names?"
I blink slowly. I'm here, having a personal discussion with a married man. I wouldn't have guessed, but in this Lagos, I've heard of the tactics of some married men. It's almost never obvious when they don't wear their wedding bands.
You must be stupid, Ola.
"Does that discourage you?" Saheed queries.
"From what?" I retort.
"You were about to toast me. Don't you like men who are...a little bit married? Just small?" He asks as his eyes close and open a few times. I know he can't keep sleep off any longer.
"You should sleep, Mr. Bello."
"Oh, it's Mr. Bello now, abi? Because I told you I'm married?"
"Always leave no room for chances."
He nods with a smile. "Out there, there will always be women leaving yards of room for other people's husbands."
"And there will always be husbands seeking such women. Married people should excise more control."
"Makes sense. Yes, I should sleep..." he trails off, sliding down to lie flat on the bed. His robe shifts to expose his chest, prominent pectorals sprinked with dark, curly hair. I look away shamefully. His eyes close finally and he remains still and silent, breathing slowly. I return the chair I'd been using to its rightful position. I locate the light switch and turn off the lights, leaving only a bedside lamp on.
"Take care, Mr. Bello," I whisper before moving towards the elevator.
When I step into the small compartment, his voice, rough and deep and laced with sleep, reaches my ears. "Ola, I'm single- but mingling...it's such a bore these days."
"Or a rollercoaster ride. No in-between."
He releases a low laugh. "Thank you. And good morning. I hope I remember this conversation later today." He sounds so sincere, it brings a smile to my lips.
"Good morning, Mr. Bello."
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this ❤