It’s the usual buzzing in and out of people. Tall. Short. Black. American. Asian.
It baffles her,the sequence of their movements. Everyone with the demeanor of a hero on duty. Totally busy. For nothing.
You see varied combinations of couple love. An Asian, good looking man with an unkempt short woman in her thirties. Or older American women in their fifties with boys not up to thirty. Now you wonder, does love really not care? What’s her business though. She’s got weightier things to worry about.
Things like her Ghanaian banker boyfriend screwing her neighbor, who’s a Journalism student and buys them matching gifts. Or the depression she is fighting. Or the tightening in her chest she never seems to understand. Living in the constant question of what next, barely enjoying the present.
She is seated at the mall, working on a project for a celebrity client. An article on spousal rape. She writes…
“Marriage is not slavery”
Getting a due consent from your spouse just seems only responsible and right. We are not animals for the universe freaking sake.
There’s no justifying to the fact that a person pounces on another’s private parts because an amount was paid on their account? Which brings us to this topic of bride price payment. Such a sham. Total crap. But that’s a story for another day.
She doesn’t mind working for the famous people, while they soar on her guts as long as she gets payed. Her mum says she’s without ambition. Her brothers think she’s an alien for not wanting the spotlight by starting a blog. Her only ambition is the trip to Cold stone to get ice cream every weekend. She’s the one that’s been celibate for years. No dicks! Her best friend that’s a pharmacist teases her. In a Ghanaian accent that sounds like- No Decks! She finds it nontraditional to let a man into your temples when your father hasn’t met him.
The reason she pardons her boyfriend’s infidelity? She’s not bothered. He wouldn’t break up either. He loves her. But cheats on her. How creepy?
She’s seated, trying to appear purposeful like the people walking in and out. She squints, glancing at her wrist watch frequently, as though she waits on someone. There’s nobody coming. She’s got to feign purpose. Though she doesn’t believe in it. But she’s got to appear busy so she doesn’t look lost. A rat race?
She catches the constant glaring of a young man that’s got the looks of fantasia Ice-cream. Looking so edible. He would sit next to her,offering her fantasia ice cream. He got for two. She’s the one that would laugh so hard at his jokes which she found weird . She never laughs that much. He’s Nigerian. Nigerians and humor? Pretty inseparable.
as she sits, she notices the people she tagged “Mall wanderers”. They sit on the benches in their rows. Staring till one misses a step. Awkward. Weighing your prosperity and social status by looking at your shoes. With their nose lifted as though sniffing for the amount of money in one’s purse.
Or the males that would stare at other women’s backside carelessly, while holding another woman’s hand. She thought they deserved a knock but? God gave the ass and eyes? The eyes are for staring. And the ass? Whatever you please. Leave me out of it.
Or the ones that ate so comfortably in public. Or the ones dressed as though they were delegates sent to welcome the president. Or as though for a wedding ceremony. And those that came for the pictures looking mall-ish.
She’s exhausted from writing and researching spousal rape cases. She packs her things and heads home in an Uber . It’s 9:30pm and there’s a basket containing flowers . Chocolates. And Elizabeth Arden’s untold perfum On her bed. they are from her boyfriend. He’s got her keys. She rolls her eyes. One of the reasons she can’t walk away in a snap. He doesn’t stop trying.
“Dumb ass. She whispers to herself. Smiling. She looks at the bathroom door, shakes her head. Damn it! She said, dropping to her bed, and lets out a long yawn.
It’s 5:30am already. OMG. It's a Rat-race.
Zoë Eberechi