There is a particular air of uncertainty that always hangs about when you are about to do something dangerously stupid. Like aborting the child of an affectionate, tall, black and handsome lover; throwing a pot of good meat-stocked soup away or, like me, waiting outside the closed door of a meeting of board of directors to tell everybody that the boss is nothing but a fat pot-bellied man who farts in his sleep and wears pink underwear. I’d thought too carefully about how to come back at him for leaving me for the new fair-skinned intern. I could probably have forgiven him if it were a dark-skinned woman because he always told me about how ugly every fair-skinned girl appeared to him.
As I stood at the door, armed to the leg with six-inched heels and a show-it-all cleavage, revealing V-neck jumpsuit, I knew I was being silly. The man was married, so what right did I have to him? “Damn remorse, she’s a bastard,” I whispered to myself. I really did not have any idea why I was putting up this act. Was it a desperate move to get him back? Perhaps, the sight of my long legs and half exposed bosom would melt his stupidity away and make him come running back. Or maybe not.
I took one final look at my watch and realised I was getting late for call. I was due to resume at the hospital in a quarter yet I was still away by a 45 minutes’ drive. Finally, the voices rose and I could hear rickety laughter coming from bloated stomachs. As the door opened, he came out first as though his fate was pulling him to me and I folded my arms, flipped my 22-inch weave backwards and got ready to start my speech. As I made towards him, a familiar face appeared behind him with a warm-like cold smile and came towards me with a big hug. I was trying to place the face when she said “Doc., wow, what are you doing here? I see you’ve met my husband.” After a moment of silence between the three of us that seemed like eternity, she pushed me to a corner, away from him.
Almost deafened by my own stupidity, I managed to hear her words, faintly and dream-like.
“Give me more time, you have to understand. You said you would not interfere in my personal issues didn’t you? I will tell my husband at the right time. Please.”
I had to blink and blink to confirm what was really happening. Why did they bear different surnames? Or was she one of those high-class people who received treatments under false names?
After all the blinks, I affirmed it was really happening and managed to speak, “You didn’t come for your ARV drugs last month, so I have come to find out what happened.”
Then she replied, “I did, but forgot to stop by and see you. How did you find my office though? I only left the home address.”
All my throat could cough up was, “A friend of mine works here.”
Binogun Winifred is a final year student of English who enjoys exploring the various genres of Literature. She won the Nigerian Writers Awards Best Teenage Writer of the Year award and is currently sharpening her poetry skills as a mentee under the Ibadan Poetry Foundation. While she is an unapologetic ice-cream lover, she also enjoys white wine and chicken.