Lanre. II.

Lanre. I.

You met at Ruth’s thirtieth birthday party. What feels like decades ago now.

Source: TripAdvisor

The small living room had been teeming with people, the sweet intermingling smell of food, alcohol and cigarette smoke effusing the space. You had been on your way out of the front door, attempting to get away from the noise, the music and the people, when you brushed past someone with a strong, pleasant smell. Extreme by Hugo Boss, you would soon find out it was called. You looked up and there he was, looking down at you, his mouth parted, about to apologise for walking into your path.

“It’s okay,” you say, making away.

You noticed he followed you into the dimly lit landing, asking if you were leaving so early. You stopped then, becoming aware that that was what Nike called flirting. He was flirting with you. And you didn’t even look your best. You didn’t feel your best. But this stranger had followed you and was making an attempt. And it made you feel so, so good. It made you feel, seen. When was the last time you had caught anyone's attention?

You could barely make out his face in the dimness, and maybe the alcohol you had been consuming had a little to do with your clouded vision.

“I’m Lanre,” he said. “I hope you’re not leaving.”

You weren’t leaving. Certainly not anymore.

He convinced you to go back into the party with him. You both sat on plastic chairs in the dusty, clustered balcony. At first you shared the space with a quarreling couple (the guy wanted to leave; the girl wanted to stay), and then they left, and the two of you were alone, and the noise, the music, the people didn't seem to bother you so much anymore.

Lanre talked a lot; about his work at Skye Bank, about feeling dissatisfied, about his father’s recent demise, about wishing he had met Zora Hurston, and one day knowing he would have a beer with Okey Ndibe. You didn’t talk so much. What would you tell this stranger? That you were planning on leaving without telling your girlfriends until you were safely inside the Uber, because even when you are with people your loneliness gnaws at your insides threatening to rip you apart? That you would have spent the night binge-watching Suits, but he got in your way instead and now there you were, Origin nestled in hand, mind clearer and freer than you’d known it to be in recent weeks? That you knew, you knew you had only just met him, but it felt like you’d known him for years, and being with him felt so easy? You don’t say shit like that to strangers, Deola would tell you, keep your deepness to yourself, please.

It was past one in the morning before you knew it. Lanre’s friends were leaving and you could tell he was caught between staying with you on the balcony and picking up his friend’s call. You, too, were caught between finding Nike and Deola and staying with him on that balcony.

He asked for your number, and the digits rolled off your tongue. He stood up, placed a firm hand on your shoulder and told you he would call you tomorrow, or, he added with a laugh, “today, today, actually, because it’s already tomorrow.”

Then he left and your darkness found its way back in.

Nike and Deola found you on the balcony staring into nothing. On the ride to Deola’s, Nike said she was sure you had made away when she couldn’t find you in the kitchen or in the bedroom or anywhere else. You didn’t tell them about Lanre. Instead, you closed your eyes and remembered his firm touch on your shoulder, feeling as though his hand belonged there.



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Lanre. III.