THE BLACK CARD AFTER AMALA
1872 Words
AMARA'S POV:
I left Sky Lounge like someone chased me.
I did not even make my delivery well, because I was still in shock. I just quickly gave the nylon to my customer, Toke. "Madam, your gown, 18k, transfer."
Toke was still looking at me like "Girl you don go pour drink for Moretti." She whispered, "Amara you know who that man is? That's Matteo Moretti! His family owns half of VI! He is Mafia!"
I didn't hear. I just wanted air.
Outside, VI air hit me. Hot, car fumes, but better than that AC that was freezing my sweat. My rubber slippers were still shouting "shhh shhh" as I walked fast, almost running.
Inside my head, thoughts were doing gbas gbos.
His eyes. His shoe. Red Chapman. "Clean your hands, not my shoe." "You are hungry." How did he know I was hungry? My stomach that was growling now, growled more louder from shame as if mocking me.
And in my hand, his black card. And his white handkerchief that smelled like expensive perfume and danger.
I held them tight like they would burn me.
My original plan was still there, Iya Mulikat shop. Real food.
Iya Mulikat's shop is not far from Sky Lounge but it's different world. No AC. No small steak. Just big coolers, big plates, and the smell of amala that can wake dead person.
"Mama, one amala and gbegiri with ewedu, put plenty orishirishi for me," I said, sitting on the low bench.
Iya Mulikat looked at me, "Amara, you dey sweat like who thief. You dey okay?"
I nodded. I could not talk. I was still seeing his face.
Food came. Hot. Steaming.dark and smooth Amala, yellow and thick gbegiri, green and slimy ewedu, assorted meat roundabout, shaki, ponmo and beef swimming inside. With cold pure water.
I ate.
God. I ate like someone who has not eaten in days. First mold, I used my hand, took a small dip in gbegiri, added meat. Second mold was bigger. By third mold, I was forgetting Sky Lounge.
Food does that to me. Real food brings me back to myself,makes me forget my worries. Steak cannot do that. Chapman cannot do that.
I ate to my satisfaction. My stomach that was growling since morning finally kept quiet. I burped alittle, drank water, and sighed.
Iya Mulikat laughed, "You don belleful now. You fit reason well."
But I could not reason well. Because after having filled my stomach, my mind came back to my hand. The black card was still there on the table, beside my tote bag.
Black card. Gold edge. Just a number. No name.
Opportunities.
That is what my mind started saying. Amara, see opportunities.
If this man is truly billionaire Mafia, one call can change my life. My shop rent in Yaba is due next month, 150k and I don't have that. My mom's drugs for her leg, 40k every month. My small brother's WAEC lesson. My i********: thrift page that has only 212 followers.
One call. "Sir, please help me, let me clean your shoes, so you can be paying me." And he might say, "How much?" And I might say, "Anything."
But then second voice entered. The voice of every Lagos girl who has heard stories.
Nothing goes for free.
My neighbor, Bisi, collected money from one big man in Lekki. This big man bought her iPhone 13. Next week, big man said "Come to hotel, you go pay back with your body." When Bisi refused, big man sent boys to beat her brother.
My cousin, Favour, followed a Yahoo boy who was spending on her. She entered his Benz, they went to clubs, he sprayed her money. At the end of the night, he said, "I spent 200k on you, you must follow me go house." She said no, he seized her phone.
Every girl in Yaba knows: If a man spends on you and you don't know him, he will ask for something. Either your Body. Or soul. Or something worse.
I became very self-conscious.
I looked at myself, white t-shirt with sweat marks, faded jeans, tote bag , rubber slippers. Normal girl. Very beautiful, people say, but very normal. Why would a billionaire Mafia give me his black card if he doesn't want something?
Is he thinking I will call him and he will say "Come to my house at midnight"? Is he thinking I am one of those girls who will open leg because he owns Sky Lounge?
Fear entered my filled stomach.
I wanted to return the black card by all means possible. I don't want any issue. I don't want any man's trouble. I just want to sell my thrift and eat my amala in peace.
But return it how? I don't know his office. I don't know who this person is except Toke said "Moretti." I don't know where he lives. I don't even know his first name.
I packed my tote, paid Iya Mulikat 1,500 naira, and entered danfo back to Yaba. Inside danfo, hold-up, sweat, conductor shouting "Enter with your change!", my mind was still on the card.
Getting home to my one room, self-contain apartment, curtain as door, my mom sleeping on mat, my gowns hung on line I sat on my small bed and stared at the card and the handkerchief.
The handkerchief still smelled like him. Clean, expensive, dangerous. I should wash it and return it.
But I kept smelling it.
I brought out my small phone, Tecno Spark, screen cracked.
I called my best friend, Simi. Simi is the only person who understands Yaba girl life.
"Simi! Simi! You won't believe what happened today!" I shouted.
I told her everything. From entering Sky Lounge, to slipping, to Chapman on his shoe, to kneeling, to "Clean your hands, not my shoe," to "You are hungry," to black card, to amala at Iya Mulikat's.
Simi screamed on the phone. "AMARA! JESUS! You poured Chapman on Matteo Moretti? The Moretti? Girl! Do you know that man owns that restaurant? And you are alive? He didn't slap you?"
"He gave me handkerchief," I said.
Simi went quiet. Then she said, soft, "Amara... what if it is God sending a man to rescue you?"
"What?" I said.
"Think. You have been praying for helper for your business, for your mama's drugs. You have been posting thrift every day, with few to no customer. And today, you mistakenly pour drink on the richest man in Lagos and instead of beating you, he gives you his private card and asked if you were hungry. Amara, this is not mistake. This is God!"
I shook my head even though she could not see me. "Simi, you know nothing goes for free. If I call him, he will say come to hotel. I don't want to sell my body. I am not doing runs.
"who says he wants your body?" Simi argued. "Some rich men just like normal girls. They are tired of i********: baddies with fake yansh. They want real girl who eats amala with hand. You are very beautiful, Amara. Very beautiful but you don't know. Maybe he saw that."
"I don't know him, Simi. I don't know his office. How do I return his card?"
"Return? You dey craze? You want return black card of billionaire Mafia? Amara, keep it! At least wash his handkerchief and keep it as souvenir! Or call him tomorrow and say 'Sir, thank you for the handkerchief, where can I return it?' That's how you start conversation!"
I looked at the black card again. Gold edge shining in my small room light.
Opportunities, my mind said again.
Danger, my other mind said.
I did not know who this mysterious man was. I had no idea about this man. But my stomach, which was filled with amala, was now filled with something else curiosity, fear, and a small, stupid hope that maybe, just maybe, a man like that could see a normal girl like me and not want to spoil her, but want to feed her.
I hid the card inside my bag..the one I take to important place ,safest place in Yaba and folded his handkerchief neatly and put it under my pillow.
I told myself: I will not call him. I will find his restaurant and return it.
But deep down, I knew I was lying.
I was going to call.
MATTEO'S POV
SAME EVENING:
She left fast.
I watched from my tinted car across the road as she walked, almost ran, out of Sky Lounge. Faded tote bouncing on her shoulder, rubber slippers slapping.
She did not look back.
My driver asked, "Oga, we follow her?"
"No," I said. "Let her breathe."
But I followed her with eyes until danfo swallowed her.
She went to Iya Mulikat shop. I know that shop. I have bought amala there before when I was tired of fake ass food too. So she went there.
She sat on low bench, ate with her hands. molds after molds, Fast. Like someone who had been hungry all day.
I watched from car, window down small. She didn't see me. She was focused on food. And when she finished, she sighed, touched her stomach, smiled a little. first smile I have seen on her face. Real smile.
That smile did something to my chest.
She brought out my card and stared at it. Long. She was debating. I could see it even from far should I call? Should I throw it away?
She put it inside her Bag.
Good.
She thinks she wants to return it. She thinks she doesn't know who I am, where my office is.
She will know soon.
Because tomorrow, her landlord will call her and say rent is paid for one year. Anonymous.
And her phone will ring. Unknown number.
And it will be me saying, "Amara, did you return my handkerchief? You still have it under your pillow."
She doesn't know that I already know where she lives. Yaba, Number 14, Brown Street. One room.
She doesn't know that nothing goes for free, yes but for her, everything is free. I will ask nothing in return.
Except her.
Entirely
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