NO LOVE IN LASGIDI

FIRST LOVE,FIRST LIE

The rain is beating against the roof of the café in Victoria Island like it wants to break the glass. I'm sitting by the window, swirling a spoon in a latte that costs more than a cleaner’s weekly transport fare. I am bored. I am beautiful. I am Halima, and I am waiting for something to happen. That is when he walks in.

He is not wearing a suit like the other men in this part of Lagos. He is wearing a simple black t-shirt that fits his chest perfectly and a pair of jeans that look expensive but lived-in. He shakes the water off his hair, and for a second, he looks like a movie star. He scans the room, and his eyes lock onto mine. He doesn’t look away. He walks straight to my table, pulls out the chair, and sits down without asking.

"You look like you are waiting for a reason to leave". He says.

His voice is deep, like the hum of a luxury car engine.

"I am waiting for my driver". I lie, trying to keep my face cold.

"I am Femi". He says, extending a hand. His skin is smooth, and he smells like sandalwood and rain.

That is Day One.

By the end of the first week, I am hooked. I am totally in love with my lover boy. Femi is a whirlwind. He doesn't take me to the usual places where my father’s friends hang out. He takes me to the mainland, to small spots in Yaba where the music is loud and the jollof rice is spicy enough to make your eyes water. He tells me he is a disruptor. He talks about tech, about coding, about building an app that will make banks look like dinosaurs. I listen to him and I feel a spark I haven't felt in years. He makes me feel like I am not just a billionaire’s daughter. He makes me feel like a woman.

The first month is a blur of late-night drives on the Third Mainland Bridge. I am always in the passenger seat of his car, the wind whipping my hair across my face. He drives fast, weaving through the yellow Danfo buses like they are obstacles in a game. He always has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my thigh.

"One day, Halima". He says, looking at the Lagos lagoon stretching out under the moonlight.

"We are going to own this city. Not because of your father, but because of us". He adds immediately.

I believe him. I want to believe him so badly that I don't notice the red flags popping up like Lagos streetlights.

Month two starts with a small problem.

We are at dinner in Ikoyi, and the bill comes. Femi reaches for his wallet, then frowns. He tells me his foreign card is acting up because of some central bank policy. He looks so embarrassed, his jaw tight with shame.

"Don't worry about it, Femi". I say, sliding my gold card across the table.

He kisses my hand.

"I'll make it up to you, baby. This startup life is just stressful right now". He says, smiling.

Soon, the snags become more frequent. He needs five hundred thousand for a server upgrade. He needs a million because his developer in India is threatening to quit. I am sending the money before he even finishes the sentence.

But Femi is changing. The sweet words are becoming shorter. He is on his phone constantly. When we are driving on the bridge now, he doesn't hold my hand. He is busy typing, his face illuminated by the glow of the screen. When I ask who he is talking to, he snaps at me.

"It’s business, Halima! You wouldn't understand. You’ve never had to work for anything in your life". He shouts.

The words sting like a slap, but I swallow the pain. I tell myself he is just stressed. I tell myself that the five million naira I just lent him is a small price to pay for love.

By month three, the silence begins. I am sitting in my room in Ikoyi, staring at my phone. It’s 11:00 PM. Femi hasn't called in two days. I check his i********:, but there are no posts. I drive to his apartment in Lekki, but the gate man tells me he hasn't been home since Friday.

My heart is pounding against my ribs. I am driving back across the Third Mainland Bridge, the tires humming a tune on the asphalt. The lagoon looks like a giant black hole waiting to swallow me up. I feel the tears starting to blur my vision. I hate that I am crying over a man.

I pull over to the side of the bridge, I come down from my car. I call him one last time. He picks up on the fourth ring.

"What?" he asks.

There is loud music in the background, I hear a woman’s laugh.

"Femi, where are you? I’ve been worried". I say, my voice trembling.

"Halima, You’re suffocating me". He says, angrily. He sounds bored.

"The money you gave me? Consider it a consulting fee for all the time I spent listening to you complain about your rich girl problems". He snaps from the other side of the phone.

"Femi, what are you saying?" I cry out.

"I'm saying I am done. I am in Accra. I found someone who actually knows how to have fun, not someone who spends her life crying in a mansion. Do not call me again". He shouts angrily.

The line goes dead.

I am standing on the bridge, Three months. Five million naira. My pride. My heart. All gone in a thirty-second phone call.

I get back into my car. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, smearing my expensive mascara.

Lagos has shown me shege again. Femi didn't just break my heart, he robbed me while I was smiling at him.