African StoriesMystery and Thriller StoriesNaija Stories

Not My Size

The footsteps of people moving to and fro lured me out of sleep, I open my eyes to see and feel I had slept on a cement bench. I can feel the pains from my neck down, moving to a sitting position. I lift my eyes to see I’m in front of a senate building, at least that’s what the block letters at the top of the building spell: ‘SENATE’

A few stares where thrown my way, making me painfully conscious of surrounding. Yep. This is not the best place for a… wait! Am I a girl or a guy? I quickly use my right hand to touch my face and chest. Haha, I exhale a deep sigh. Yeah, this is not a convenient place for a guy to crash for a night’s sleep. Thank goodness my chest is flat. Whew!

Looking down at my feet, I saw a pair of shoes not meant for a guy. I pick up one, yeah, definitely not my size.

“Excuse me?” I spoke to a young lady passing by. “Please where are we?”

She looks at me with a dazed expression. “Ermm… Kantagora Garden.” She looks to her right and left when she saw the puzzled look on my face. Stepping closer to me, she whispers, “Are you OK? She bends to look directly at me.

I just stare at her. “Look I need to get to my class, do you have a phone?” She asks.

I remained silent. She straightened up and spoke: “What is that in your left hand?” I quickly move my gaze to my left hand and saw a piece of crumpled paper. I flatten it out with both hands and stare at the words.

“What does it say?” she rasps out. Where exactly are we? I counter. She tilts her head a bit, looking a little sad and replied in a breath: “This is Ahmadu Bello University, Kaduna State. We are right in front of the Senate building and you are, or were (she shrugs her shoulders), sleeping in a graden near Kantagora Square Garden. She points towards the building, that has a fountain near it.

“OK. Quick question, how did you know I slept here?” I asked.

She folds her arms over her small chest and replied, “What does the note say?”

Huh! This girl must be a Mass Comm student. I don’t even know how I knew what Mass Comm was. I scratch my head and stan up, putting the note in my pocket. Smiling to her, I say “I’m sorry I delayed you in going to your class, thanks for your time,. Goodbye.”

I try walking away, she calls out, “Wait! Do you know where you going? Hey! Your shoes!” she screams as
I kept moving forward; midway in my stride I stop and pull out the note from my pocket and read the words again: “The best form of flattery is imitation,” — Jide. My hands drop to my sides.

Wow! I exhale. This is one hell of a clue buddy. I shove the note back into my pocket and continue walking.
I have no idea of who I am or whom I’m to flatter. But at least I have a starting point—Jide.

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