Lanre. IV.

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Lanre. I.

Lanre. II.

Lanre. III.

First date.

You had been having a terrible day. It wasn’t just the sudden arrival of your erratic period, which soaked through your underwear, through your skirt and had Clement, the office cleaner, whispering viciously as you walked by him in the corridor, Madam, Madam, your sket, your sket!

It wasn’t just having to wrap Halima’s scarf around your waist as you spread your skirt under the hand drier in the ladies’. It wasn’t just your boss making you work late, again, for the third day in a row.

It was the suicidal thoughts swimming at the periphery of your mind, wasn’t it? It was the lingering feeling that had kept you company since the morning, when your alarm went off and you could barely get out of bed. It was that deep darkness that lurked at every corner of your life, beaconing to you, telling you to forget about wellness and normality and just cave in.

When you returned to your desk, you had missed four calls from Lanre.

By this time, you were kind of sort of dating and had, in very few words, confirmed that you really, really liked each other. This phase was always the best part of relationships, you’d come to find out; the doting and cooing over each other, the late conversations that filled the night and the I miss you text messages that dotted the days; the opening up to this novel, wonderful person about the entirety of your life, spreading yourself bare to their probes and questions about your childhood, your fears, your hopes, your body count, your regrets, your deep, dark secrets, your sickness.

When you saw his calls, your face broke into a smile and you forgot about the semi-damp skirt uncomfortably clinging to your hips.

“There’s this place in Ikoyi we should go to,” Lanre said when he picked up.

You told him you were working late again and before you could complain about your sadistic asshole of a boss, Lanre sang into the phone: “Then I’ll come to you!”

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And he did. He showed up in his work clothes with fried rice, coleslaw and bottles of Origin carried in a Shoprite nylon bag.

You signed him in downstairs and the security guard at the lobby eyed you both as you stepped into the elevator.

It was 8PM and the office was deserted. The air conditioner and lights were switched off bar the florescent bulb over your desk, casting a white spread on the laptop and clutter. Standing alone with Lanre in that empty office with vacant desks that seemed to span miles, you realised you both hadn’t been alone since the party. His tie hung loosely around his neck and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, the veins and muscles lining his arms accented by the load he was carrying.

“I wanted to tell you…” you said, as he placed the nylon bag at the foot of your desk. “I wanted to tell you I have a deadline.”

“I have deadlines too,” he said. “But I cannot come and die.”

He looked around at the office then, taking in the wide space and glass walls which demarcated each department.

“Nice place,” he said, then he looked back at you and placed a hand on your shoulder. “You look tired.”

“I am.”

“Let me help you, okay?” He comically robbed his palms together and you giggled. “How can I help you?”

You glanced over at your desk, picked up a folder labelled ‘2012 Accounts’ and handed it to him. “Can you photocopy?”

“I was born photocopying,” he said.

You led him to the photocopying room, where two large machines stood against the wall with a waste bin overflowing with paper.

“Two copies of each month,” you said. “Back and front. We at Digi Press care about the trees.”

“Yes, madam,” Lanre said.

You went back to your desk, got your laptop and the nylon bag and returned to the photocopying room, sitting on the floor, and beginning a template document for the 2012 accounts report. It was usually tedious, mind-numbing work but you didn’t notice it that evening because Lanre animated the chore with stories; about a superior at work who recently got back from a month-long course in  America and has been saying, Yeahh, man and You kno' wommean? About a neighbour in his compound whose new car got stolen over the weekend and has been wailing as though she lost a child. About how he hasn’t been to church in years because church is a scam, and notice how it’s packed with many poor people and very rich pastors?

When Lanre had finished photocopying, he sat on the floor next to you and fed you fried rice and coleslaw. You remember looking at him and thinking if it was possible for someone to be so perfect.

“You’ll make a great accountant,” he said, wiping his oily mouth with the back of a hand.

“If I can pass my exams, maybe.”

“You will," he said, “by God’s grace.”

You eyed him. “God’s grace? Do you believe in God or not?”

He chuckled. “I believe. But man has ruined everything with greed.”

You were looking at each other now, the space between you static, and suddenly the depression that had been gnawing at you the entire day seemed like a distant memory.

You were about to look back at your laptop when he kissed you.


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Lanre. V.