Beautiful Poison (A Nigerian Love Story)

Chapter 10

When “Just Friends” Ends



A1 spot wasn’t far from his place, but it wasn’t the kind of place you took a date if you were trying to impress. It was local. Open-air. A row of makeshift stalls under a faded blue tarpaulin, the air thick with charcoal smoke and the smell of grilled catfish, pepper, and burnt onions. Women in wrappers and head ties worked over open flames, flipping fish on wire grills, shouting prices to customers who sat on low plastic stools. The tables were wobbly. The plates were chipped. The napkins were tissue torn from a bulk pack.

But the fish was good. The kind of good that made people drive from Garki to eat it.

David got there at 6:48. He picked a table at the edge, where the smoke was less thick and he could see the road. He called her at 6:55.

“I’m here,” he said.

“I’m coming,” she replied.

She arrived at 7:09, walking fast, no bag, just a phone in her hand. Her her blouse was plain blue, her hair pulled back in a scarf. She looked smaller in daylight, but her eyes were the same.

“You found it,” she said, sitting down without waiting for him to pull out the chair.

“I said I would be here first.”

She nodded, scanning the stall. “You like A1?”

“I like fish,” David said. “You?”

She shrugged. “It’s okay.”

David called one of the women over. “One catfish. Make it spicy. ”

The woman nodded and went back to the grill.

“What drink?” David asked, turning back to Chandeline.

“Malt,” she said.

He nodded and waved at the bar man. The drinks and the food came from different people here. The women handled the fish. The men handled the drinks. Different pay, different tips, different hierarchy. Nobody mixed it up.

“Beer for me,” David told the bar man.

The drinks came first. Cold, sweating in the glass bottle. Chandeline opened hers with the edge of the table and took a long drink. David opened his beer and waited.

“So,” he said, leaning back. “Adamawa.”

She looked up. “What about it?”

“You said you’re from Adamawa yesterday.”

She set the bottle down. “I’m from Michika in Adamawa. But I’ve been in Abuja all my life.”

“Michika,” David repeated. “That’s up north.”

She nodded. “And you’re from Abia. You said that yesterday.”

“Yes I am” he said. “My parents still live there.”

Chandeline took another drink of malt. David watched her.

“You know,” he said, “I was thinking about something.”

She waited.

“If we… if this goes somewhere, I hope your family wouldn’t mind an Igbo son-inlaw? I mean, I’m eastern. You’re northern. Some families make it a problem.”

Chandeline blinked. “Why are you talking about family already?”

David shrugged, trying to play it casual. “Just asking. I don’t like wasting time.”

She considered him for a second. Then she said, “My father is carpenter. My mother sells akara. They don’t care where you’re from as long as you’re serious. And you’re not beating me.”

David almost smiled. “I’m not going to beat you.”

“Good,” she said. “Then it won’t be a problem.”

It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t a ring. But it was closer to agreement than he’d expected, and he felt something in his chest loosen.

The fish arrived ten minutes later, sizzling on a metal plate, skin crisp, pepper glistening. The woman set it down between them and moved off to the next table.

David picked up the plate.

He put it directly in front of him.

For two seconds, he forgot she was there. His brain went straight to habit—grab, eat, don’t share. It was the kind of thing you did when you were alone, or when you assumed the other person didn’t matter.

Chandeline didn’t say anything. She just watched.

David caught himself. His face went hot. He slid the plate back to the center, pushing it halfway between them.

Chandeline noticed, but didn’t say a word.

She noticed things. That was the problem. She noticed when people reached for the last piece of meat first. She noticed when they ordered for themselves without asking. She noticed when they talked about the future like it was already decided.

Her father was not like that. He’d bring home meat and leave the best part for everyone else to eat. He’d not make a fuss about it. Chandeline had learned early: people who had a little money acted like they had all of it. They thought first, shared second.

David had that look. The look of someone who’d never had to wait for food.

She didn’t say it. She just filed it away and started eating.

The fish was good. Spicy, flaky, the kind of heat that made your nose run. They ate in silence for a while, the only sound the sizzle of the grill behind them and the low murmur of other customers.

“So what do you do besides home lessons?” David asked after a while.

“I bake,” Chandeline said. “Chinchin, meat pie. I sell them between lectures.”

“Businesswoman,” David said, nodding. “That’s good.”

“It’s not business,” she said. “It’s survival.”

David didn’t know what to say to that. So he asked about her classes, about Adamawa, about whether she missed Michika. She answered in short sentences. She didn’t volunteer much. She watched him instead, seeing how he used his hands when he talked, how he finished his beer before the fish was halfway gone, how he kept glancing at her like he was trying to memorize her face.

When they were done, David called for the bill.

“Two thousand eight hundred,” the woman said.

David paid with three one thousand naira notes and didn’t wait for change.

Chandeline stood up. “Thank you for the food.”

“You’re welcome,” David said. “It’s time to go.”

“I’ll see you off to a keke” she said. “my house is close by.”

“Ok” David said. “That would be nice”

She nodded.

Outside the tarpaulin, the road was louder. Okadas zipped past, headlights cutting through the dust. keke drivers called out, “Where you dey go? Where you dey go?”

David flagged one down.

“Kurudu.. Hilltop Estate” he told the driver.

The driver nodded. David climbed in first, then as if it was a second thought, he called out to Chandeline.

“Come let’s go together”

Chandeline was reluctant, she had’t planned to go to his house. But he was convincing, his confidence overwhelmed her. She didn’t know when she entered the keke.

The ride was short. Ten minutes, maybe less. The keke bounced over potholes, the engine sputtering. Chandeline held onto the metal bar, her eyes forward. David put his arms around her as if they’d been dating for years. She didn’t complain.

“You don’t talk much,” he said as they slowed down near his street.

“You don’t ask much,” she replied.

“I do. As a matter of fact, you only talk when I ask questions”

She smiled “Give it time, a time will come when you will be begging me to keep quiet.

They both laughed.

The keke stopped in front of the estate. David paid the driver and got out first, offering her a hand. She accepted it and he helped her out.