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First Approach

From the first time I saw her, the universe came to a halt, the earth stopped rotating, everything around me was going on a slow-motion pace. My heart skipped a multiple times, I was charmed by her heart-warming beauty right there and then. She wasn’t tall or short, she was just the height you can call average. Her gleaming brown skin was just right for her chubby body size. She had the Roman nose rightly fixed on her beautiful face, with oily lips aligned just where they needed to be. Her bright eyes, God! Those eyes could charm even the most hardhearted man.

I was a young man of about 26 years of age then, but with no job and the circumstances of life made me to look even older than I was. Tall and muscular, with an unkept dreadlocks I struggled to maintain. I was wearing my oversized hoodie with skinny jean shorts, and on my one and only brown timberland boots when I saw her for the first time. She was a lady of about 22 years of age, though a friend of mine said he knew her from the neighborhood street and that she was younger. As a guyman I wanted to shoot my shot, not minding where we were at that time. It was at the neighborhood fun-zone, where lots of young men and women, mostly singles go to catch fun every Friday evening.

All my life, I had never toasted or approached any girl in the name of love before. The closest I have gotten was being friends with one, and it was back then during my undergraduate days. Eve was the boldest girl I have ever met, the only girl I had tried to toast. That was after she took the honor of approaching me first, after which I slacked and it resulted to us ending as being just friends. Since then, I hadn’t mustered the courage to approach any girl again.

I was the most handsome guy in my street, and I had all the tools of being a good toaster. In fact, occasionally I had boasted to my friends of having too many girlfriends than I can count. On the contrary, I was the praise worthy lonely-ass grown man I believed had ever lived on the face of earth.

As the saying goes ‘everyday is for the thief but one day is for the owner’. My friends happened to be there with me, at the neighborhood fun-zone when I saw Cindi, the chubby lady with oily lips. I showed interest in her and feigned getting ready to make my move, even though deep down I knew I wasn’t courageous enough to. I really cared for her though. Like the devil, my friends pushed me to make the big move, and insisted I showcase to them my natural girl-trapping skills. With my heart pounding hard against my ribcage, with legs shaking not out of cold but fear, I approached her. I was sweating profusely underneath my oversized hoodie, and it wasn’t even the summer time of the year.

“Hell… He- hello,” I said to her, stammering.

“Hi.”

“Good evening, ma,” I blurted out. All her friends tilted and stared at me in disbelief. I knew I was not having a good start.

“Ehn… my name na, I mean my name is ehh… Evans, Evans is my name.”

“Ok. Nice to meet you, Mr Evans, I’m Cindi by name. So, how can I help you?”

“I… I wan. Ah think your father works around, I mean is… or… I mean you stay around Dantata street abi?
Her friends chuckled on hearing me struggle with my words.

“Yes, I stay there. So?” she replied, looking at me expectantly. I was literally melting there.

“If you don’t mind, can… can we be friends? I mean—”

“No,” she interrupted. “No, we can’t be friends.”

“I meant, can we be just friends ooabeg, ma.”

“I said no, mister man. What don’t you understand by no, a capital NO?” she queried, gesticulating with her fingers to stress the capital NO.

“So, wee–we can’t be friends?”

Ahahh… is it by force? I said no. No, no, no, no, no oo…” she spoke at the top of her voice.

Everybody turned their attention to us, including my observing friends who thought I was doing a good job from afar.

I gingerly walked back to where my friends stood, with my hoodie soaked with sweat around my armpit areas; you would think I was a victim of a scorching sun, but it was the harmattan period. I struggled to control myself not to burst out into cries like a baby, for I had never been embarrassed like that before. My friends understood how I felt, or at least they imagined my pain. In an attempt to cheer me up they called her names and said she wasn’t even on my level, and that people like her normally reached menupause without getting a husband. Even though I knew they wouldn’t say such things to her face, I was relieved of having to explain myself to them on how my self-proclaimed girl-trapping skill failed me.

I didn’t get Cindi, but at least my friends still think I’m a professional at girl-trapping. Something I will not try again anytime soon, since my first approach was a disaster.

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