An Unexpected Match

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Kurt folded his arms across his chest, his backside plunked against the front of his black desk, his legs crossed at the ankles. He smiled at the beefy, fat-cheeked man standing in front of him. “She actually left her car to come and check on me. And you can imagine my surprise when I met her again at One Plus One.”

“That’s Farida. Always helpful. Always kind.” Osita boomed, his hands in the pockets of his sky-blue trousers. “What were you doing in Ibadan, anyway?”

“The nightclub opening of a friend of a friend.”

“Ah.”

“I noticed that she doesn’t have a wedding ring on her finger.”

Osita chuckled. “Ah, you noticed that, right?”

Kurt shook his head, grinning. “No, no. It’s not like that. I just wondered... with her being a matchmaker.”

Osita scratched the hair under his chin. “She’s divorced. About two years ago.”

Kurt winced. “And she’s fixing people up?”

“She’s good at helping others. Not so good at helping herself. But she has an eighty-nine percent success rate so you don’t have to worry.”

“Eighty-nine percent?” Kurt whistled. “That’s high.”

“Yes, she’s very good. I’ve always known her as a high achiever from as far back as UniJos. Three of us were close friends in Jos; me, her and Sobechi.”

“Does she have children?”

“No, she doesn’t. I think it was something to do with her ex-husband, not her.”

Kurt glanced down at his desk, his gaze alighting on the Forbes and G.Q. magazines sitting on his right. He murmured, “She impressed me, though. Building that business into what it is now. And she mentioned that she screens her clients and their matches.”

Osita nodded. “I’m sure she’ll find you a nice girl and I hope this time, you’ll marry her.”

Kurt laughed. “I’m not thrilled about the title, Breaker of Hearts, you know.”

Osita spread his arms. “Then don’t break any more engagements, okay?”

“Whatever, bro.” Kurt glanced in the direction of the lone black-and-white horizontal striped wall on his left. If she could help him, that would be awesome.

“Um. Kurt, about the club... do you want the good news or the bad?”

Kurt groaned, scrubbing his face with one hand. He mumbled, “Give me the good first.”

“One of these celebs with more money than sense wants to rent a space in the club for a party. He’s willing to pay whatever I ask.”

Kurt bobbed his head down and up. “That’s awesome. And the bad?”

“The thefts...”

“Mist. Yes, you mentioned them.” Kurt’s eyes soared to the computer monitor mounted on the black wall to his right. The close-circuit camera feeds from within the various sections of the club and from the entrances and exits.

“Another guest’s car was broken into last night. I called the police. They’re looking into it.”

Kurt snorted. “The police... I’m not holding out much hope.”

Osita lifted and lowered one hefty shoulder. His deep voice boomed, “We’re required to make a report, by law.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Kurt pushed away from his desk, arms still wound around his chest, his top lip grinding against the bottom one. “I’ll have to talk to Leke. I know he’s busy now but I need his help.”

“I was just going to suggest that. Will you see him today?”

“Yes, I’m going over to dad’s for dinner once I’m through here. All the guys will be there.”

“Say hi to your dad for me.”

“Always.”

***

FARIDA STROLLED TOWARD her Honda. Five fifty P.M. She couldn’t wait to get in her car, brave the traffic and drive home. It had been a tiring day. Fun, though. And memorable. Utterly memorable. And that was because of him, Mr. Kurt Achike. Her new client. And it was her job to snag him a girlfriend. Ugh.

She aimed her key fob at her car. The car bleated.

“Hey, hey, Farida.”

She spun around. And groaned. “Yomi, I’m tired.”

“Yes, yes, but I need the money. Bisi’s not happy. I can’t keep delaying the wedding. You don’t understand.”

Farida sighed. As usual, he spoke fast, rapid-fire. She glanced over his pink checked silk shirt, tight dark red jacket and gold Bulgari watch. “You have a job, Yomi. Why don’t you use your salary to pay for your wedding? I’ll reimburse you later.”

He glowered at her. “What do you mean by that? Don’t you realize I have expenses? Look, all I need is my money. You’re doing well here. And remember I helped you build this company.”

“Did you help me build it? You lent me money.”

“And didn’t that help you? You have to do something because I can’t keep waiting on and on for you. I know you don’t want me to move on because you’re stuck, alone, with no man but you need to answer me—”

Farida gritted her teeth. Gosh, he could be so annoying. Whiny and talkative. “I’ve promised you that I will pay you back. You should know me, that I keep my promises.”

“When? I need this now. Do you want me to tell you how much weddings cost these days, especially high society weddings? And you know Bisi is from a prominent family—”

“Tell your fiancée to stop coming to my office to pester me. I owe you, not her.”

Yomi scowled. “When can I expect the money, Farida?”

“I’ll let you know.” She dived into her car and ignited the engine. Staring at him through the window, she said, “I will call you, Yomi. Believe it.”

He hissed through his teeth and stalked away, out of the compound, through the pedestrian gate.

She shook her head and then pumped the car horn for the gateman.

***

FARIDA DROVE IN THROUGH the gates of her apartment complex. She shut off the engine, yawned and stretched. It had taken over three hours to get from Victoria Island to Anthony Village. Oh, what wouldn’t she do for a cool shower and a plate of spaghetti and fish stew.

She eased out of her car, locked it and started to walk toward her ground floor flat. Her eyes sighted a battered red Suzuki Jeep parked on her left. No! Not two of them in one day. Argh.

Farida unlocked the main door to her flat and stepped in. Slamming the door behind her, she called out, “Dad! Dad!”

Her father, Francis Yusuf, swaggered toward her. His bald head gleamed, competing with the shiny gold chain around his neck, visible because his black shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. “I told you to call me Papa.”

Farida groaned. His mid-life crisis hadn’t ended. At sixty-five, it was still going on strong. Her mom had died many years ago, over fifteen years ago. Her dad needed to get over it.

He pecked her cheek. “How are you, Fari-Fari?”

She twisted away from him, her nose twitching. “You reek of cigarette smoke. Dad, you promised me that—”

“—Papa.”

She shook her head. “You have to stop smoking, da—Papa. You have to start taking better care of yourself.”

“I am, Fari-Fari.”

“And what about your...” Farida wrinkled her nose. “... barely legal girlfriends? Aka whores?”

Her father bounded away, toward the sitting room. “I didn’t come here for a lecture.”

She sighed, dumped her bag and car keys on a table by the door and trailed him in.

He was sitting on the edge of one of her beige armchairs, a cream throw pillow in his lap.

Farida sighed once more. “Okay, what’s the problem this time?”

“It’s nothing... I have some bills to pay. Some stuff I bought on credit.”

“Da—Papa! You have your pension; you have the houses mom left you...”

“Lagos is expensive, Fari-Fari.”

Oh Lord have mercy. Farida shoved her fingers through her bob. “How much?”

“Not much. About two hundred thousand.”

“What? I don’t have that now. I’m running a business and paying salaries. Have you asked Bako?”

“Your elder brother has enough on his plate with his wife and five children.”

Farida collapsed into the nearest armchair. “Okay, fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Fari-Fari, that’s why you’re my favorite child.”