The bus was one of those long, state owned buses that plyed the route from Ikotun to Ikeja. And there were a lot of people on the bus, Lagosians steadily going about their day, hustling for their bread whilst cursing the government for a myriad of problems that never seem to end. There was a woman that was cursing someone loudly over the phone, a man that seemed to be a repository of events happening in the country and an old woman clutching a worn out bag in her wizened fingers. But I had the privilege to be seated next to this woman.
At first, I was intimidated by her perfection. Nothing was out of place and she clearly knew how to handle all the stares that were coming in our direction. I discreetly checked to see if my lipstick was popping and if my clothes were not wrinkled, no such luck, only my lipstick could be repaired.
And then I was jealous. How could she be so flawless? Appear so put together and why does she smell so good? I deduced that her perfume had to have cost a fortune, and her skin care products would pay my house rent. But how much money was she making? I do not think that models make such money, at least not in this economy, and she is too fat to be a model. And then I slipped into that conscious state that women are taught from their prepubescent years, how to think that if another woman is looking better than you look, it is not her money, it is someone else's money. Someone is most of the time, another woman's man.
I decided that I would ignore her for the rest of the bus ride. And I almost succeeded, except that the bus hit a pothole and the contents of my overstuffed bag spilled out. I scrambled to pick them all, huffing and muttering under my breath while the other passengers yelled at the driver and cursed at the governor for kissing ass and giving all the money in Lagos state to 'the Jagaban of Lagos'. I let out a breath as I sat down again, smoothing my flyaway strands. She spoke to me, and I felt a jolt in my lower belly. Stunned by my reaction, I could only gape at her as she held out a piece of paper to me. She repeated the words again, and I hastily muttered a cross between yes, thank you and fuck. The piece of paper was the result of my last fertility test, and I was mortified to see them out in the open, in some flawless stranger's hands. It was like walking in Jibowu market with your period staining your white skirt.
I snatched the paper from her and stuffed it back into my bag. She smiled graciously and I felt the need to explain, to defend myself. And so I did. I told this stranger how much I wanted children, how much I had planned my life to revolve around the children that I now may never have because the doctors said I had too many bad eggs than good, and so babies were not in my destiny. I had choked on the word, and she had smiled in that unnerving way of hers, patting my right hand, silently encouraging me. And on and on I went, spouting details and facts and medical history, even as she asked all the right questions about me, my husband and our families. She also asked about how we had sex, how often we fucked, and if we had tried certain things. I spewed information like a leaking pipe, she was that easy to talk to.
All too soon, the bus rolled into Ikeja, and I held back a disappointed sigh. At the bus stop, which wasn't the actual bus stop but the driver stopped there all the same, yelling about how he wanted to turn and make the return ride to Ikotun, so we should all get down, I turned to ask this professional for her card. I felt like there was so much I had to tell her, to ask her, and I was thanking God for this chance meeting. She looked at me with a funny expression, as if to say, my card? And I nodded hastily, saying that she was one of the best medical professionals I had talked to about my issues and she had offered some of the best advice and I wanted to meet her again, preferably with my husband too. She laughed hard and long, holding her sides and flipping her bone straight wig behind her shoulders. I was beginning to feel like a fool, when she uttered the words that brought me to a standstill. She said, "honey, I am no medical professional, I'm a prostitute." And then she winked at me and walked away.
The End.
P.S. Oh, I had so much fun writing this! I agree that it is slow, and the lack of dialogue may throw some readers off, but this is my guinea pig stage and I am experimenting everyday, so ignore that voice telling you to close this page.
Photo by Dellon Thomas from Pexels
The shoes are nice, no?
I guess the stranger had a flaw after all.
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