ON THE 25TH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

During the festive season, challenges unfolded like a series of unwelcome surprises. Last year, the nation grappled with a scarcity of circulating currency, a move the government believed would curb election malpractice, though, ironically, election malpractice persisted. Money became a rare commodity, with banks reluctant to disburse anything beyond a meager five thousand naira to customers. I recall waking at the unearthly hour of three am, standing in line at the bank like a nocturnal pilgrim seeking a mere two thousand naira – the highest denomination they claimed to offer. The early risers like myself knew that coming at dawn was wiser, for some never returned home, choosing to linger and evade the serpentine queues that swelled as the day unfolded. Arriving one morning, I found a queue resembling a congregation of desperate souls, wearied faces etched with disappointment. "I'm behind you, sir," I announced to those already lined up. The desperate longing on people's faces mirrored a collective frustration. On days when the banks anticipated chaos, they distributed number slips, attempting to prevent any commotion. Yet, on this particular day, chaos ensued as number slips were withheld. The line extended, a living testament to endurance. I clutched my number slip from the previous day, marked W154, only to wait for over eight hours before the bank's announcement that the funds had run dry. A man, probably in his sixties, his face etched with the tales of sleepless nights and hardships, interrupted the line. He looked older than his years, a weathered soul who had borne the weight of suffering daily. Returning to reclaim his spot, he faced denial from unfamiliar faces. "Sorry, I was the one standing here; I just stepped out to buy something," the man explained. "Oga, we no see anybody for here when we come o," a tall, dark-skinned man replied. "What do you mean, you did not see anybody here?" Now facing other people in the queue, he asked, "Madam, wasn't I here before? Talk na, you saw me here just a while ago." "Oga, go back go join queue; you carry your problem for house wan come disturb us this morning," a stout man from behind echoed, standing tall and stern. "You must be very stupid; do you know who I am? You are very foolish for saying that. I will push you aside now if you don't let me stand in my line." A woman entering the scene exclaimed with a familiar look, "Eh! Pastor Jerry! Is that you?" Laughter erupted in the crowd. The man, recognized by one of his church members, didn't want to embarrass himself further. He quietly went to join the queue from behind. This year tells a different story – the cost of commodities and the increased standard of living is all there is to cry for. The economic struggles have cast a shadow over countless lives, creating a landscape where survival is a daily battle.

**********

Growing up, I was like a quiet book on a shelf, preferring the company of my own thoughts. Indoors was my sanctuary, a cozy haven I'd revisit day after day. Even in the company of friends, it was like I was a background melody, rarely diving into the symphony of conversation unless beckoned. I was branded as boring, talking to girls felt like deciphering an unknown language. The notion of female friends puzzled my mother. "Do you even have female friends?" My mother queried one day. I had overheard her on a conversation with one of her friends, she thinks I'm gay. She is considering taking me to a spiritual house for deliverance. 

Back in Auchi after my service year, I had a plan, even though expressing myself was still a bit like solving a puzzle. While knowing where I was headed, my main goal was to understand women better. More than that, I wanted to boost my confidence and break free from being too shy. Before thinking about marriage, I aimed to become an 'idan' in women affairs.

"Aluko this is a perfect time for you to get a job or even learn a skill in tech," my mother told me barely a month after my POP. "You can't change my mind, get behind me woman," I retorted in my mind, but to her I just nodded with a forced smile.

I knew my mum was right so I began job hunting with my 2:1 certificate in Mass Communication, but I was determined to execute my plans. I noted five dating apps for exploration, but I made sure to set the locations far away from my neighbourhood. The last thing I wanted was to end up meeting someone from my vicinity, or who happens to be a friend of a friend. After browsing through the different apps, I picked Blinkdates App because it seemed like the most effective place to find a date. I signed up and made a profile that looked perfect, even though I said I was four years younger and worked at Keystone Bank. I put up a picture looking sharp with the name Glen. I said I wanted to meet new friends, especially from the opposite sex. In less than a week, lots of people responded, and for the first time in my 'boring' life, I felt really special. I was elated. I extracted the contacts of fifteen women I thought I could win over easily. After talking to them online for weeks, I chose five and disqualified the others for different reasons, thinking some might be only interested in my money. In the end, I had five potential dates, but I only needed one. I kept talking to them, not just online but on the phone, hoping to find the one I could give my heart to. 

Aisha was like a magical conversation, whisking me away from reality to a dream world where it was just her and me. As we wove the fabric of our friendship over weeks, our talks covered everything from the ordinary to the extraordinary—our family tales, preferences, dreams for the future, and beyond. Back at home, I radiated a newfound energy, strutting through my neighbourhood with a confidence that screamed, "I am a real man now." Job worries became irrelevant because, everything was just right with Aisha. My mum noticed the constant smile on my face and the aura of happiness I emanated—I couldn't help but agree. It felt like love, and love felt perfect. Aisha hadn't met me, but she shared she was a year younger, in her final year at university. Unbeknownst to her, I hadn't mentioned my employment status as I claimed on my profile. I intended to spill the truth when we officially started dating. Aisha, the fifth child in a family of seven, lived an average life with both parents still alive. Her father worked as a carpenter, while her mother managed a small provision store. I adored everything about Aisha, and seeing her pictures only deepened my love. Her dark skin, smooth oval face, and the enchanting gap between her upper front teeth, like a natural pause in a conversation, adds a unique touch to her smile. It's akin to a charming space, creating a distinctive and endearing feature on her face. When she smiles, this delightful gap becomes a standout trait, giving her expression a character all its own. Our phone conversations fueled our desire to meet in person, each word making the anticipation more intense.

**********

As the clock approached 6 pm, our rendezvous at One Love Fast Food on Poly Road was imminent, casting a shadow of anticipation. Anxious glances at my wristwatch were like fleeting ripples in a pond of uncertainty. My imagination painted the meeting as a picturesque landscape, a scene I reassured myself would be pleasant. At exactly quarter to six, my phone rang, and with a palm as sweaty as a midsummer downpour, I answered.

 "Hello, Aisha, good day, have you arrived?" My words trembled like leaves in a tempest. 

"Not yet, Glen, I'm almost there, I will see you soon," her voice whispered, a delicate melody in the background. 

Inside the eatery, I waited with bated breath, a spectator in the theater of our impending encounter. Minutes later, her call echoed again, she announced that she was close. Her description echoed in my mind - a white t-shirt paired with blue jeans. Swiftly, I positioned myself at the rear end of the expansive space, a strategic retreat veiled by a chair obstructing the view from the entrance. Through the transparent glass door, a figure matching her description alighted, but an unexpected unevenness in her steps unveiled itself. She moved with a constant lean. She had legs of unequal length. She had never sent me a full picture of herself, though I had thought to ask her once, but I concluded it wasn't necessary. Now I know why her pictures only came in portraits. I felt slightly disappointed, but I steeled myself, grateful for her presence. I hadn't quite seen her face. She phoned again, and I directed her to the last seat. I pretended to be engrossed in my phone as a curtain of anticipation descended. As she approached, I kept up the charade, feigning obliviousness until she stood before me. We locked eyes, and an awkward silence enveloped us, like a heavy fog settling between two worlds.

We just sat there, staring at each other, wondering what to do or who should speak first. There was an awkward silence. I couldn't tell what she was thinking. For me, I recognized the face from photos, but in person, it had dark spots and pimples. A permanent boil was near her lips, and her thick lips didn't match her small nose. None of the pictures had shown this. Pictures can be so deceptive, I thought. I wasn't going to let this awkwardness last. Love is blind, isn't it? So, I started talking excitedly to break the tension between us. I expressed my joy about finally meeting her, but then I started saying things that were only partly true. I told her she looked even more beautiful in person, surpassing what her pictures showed, and that I felt lucky to have her. We called the waiter, and he took our orders. With my stomach tied in knots from the day's tension, I settled for half a portion of jollof rice and beef with a Fanta. She, however, went for two portions of fried rice and jollof rice, turkey, and a Coke. We ate quietly for a bit, and I felt satisfied with how things were going, assuring myself that the day was fine, even if not perfect. With a sweet smile, I asked her what she thought of me.

"Did I meet your expectation? Am I good enough for you?" I inquired.

Aisha's response was slow. She seemed uncomfortable and started to stutter. I thought it was shyness, finding some amusement and satisfaction in it. Trying to encourage her, I asked again, "Talk to me, babe. I really need to know what you think."

"I-I-I, I think you are cute, but you look like a womanizer."

"Womanizer?" I grasped.

 "What do you mean by that?" I managed to ask, though I understood what she meant. I, who spent all my years not knowing how to talk to a girl, unable to find the right words to say.

"What do you mean? Do womanizers have special attributes evident in their looks?" I asked, but she stayed silent.

After our meal, I asked if she was okay. She said she needed something strong, so I ordered two bottles of Guinness. Even though I'd never tasted alcohol, I didn't want her to think I wasn't man enough. She downed her drink quickly, and I was only halfway through mine when she asked for a third bottle. Checking my phone, I saw 7 missed calls from my mum – it was late, 11:07 pm. I wasn't bothered. At this point, I giggled at my own words and said things that made sense and didn't. Maybe it was the alcohol doing its job. I felt more confident.

That night, I ended up at her place. I have only fragments of memories from that night, but I remember her urging me on, begging me not to stop.

**********

The morning of December 25th, my phone's ring snapped me awake like an unexpected storm.

"Hello. Who is this?" I grunted without glancing at the caller ID.

"Hello, Glen, it's me." I recognized Aisha's voice but played ignorant. It felt as if I had endured a beating the night before; my head hung heavy.

"Who is me?" I mocked.

"Ha, na wah for you o. So you don't recognize my voice again? No wahala, it's Aisha."

"Aisha, can you tell me what happened last night?"

"Well, you were all over me," she replied.

"Does that mean we..." I faltered, searching for the right word.

"Aisha, why did you let me touch you, even kiss you with the way your face is?"

"What do you mean by that?" she snapped.

"Does that mean I'm not as fine as you said. I knew it; you are just a player."

"I never said that."

"You never said that, but isn't that what you meant?"

"Well, fine. If you choose to put it that way, suit yourself."

"That means I'm an ugly woman, right?"

"Well, I didn't say so. Okay, I'm sorry if it made you feel bad. I like to say my mind, the truth. I'm an honest person."

"There's no need to be sorry. It's too late for that. Keep your sorry to yourself. After all, you didn't really meet my expectation either. You are too skinny."

"Fine, that's your opinion. I have a right to mine, and I like the truth. I'm honest. I like to say things as they are!" I fired back, now feeling frustrated.

"Who's stopping you? But I can also voice my own opinion, right? Just as I have done here. What I don't get is why you have suddenly started to shout. Are you pained? After all, everybody has the right to express their opinion irrespective of the other person's feeling. Does it hurt to learn that you are skinny and you have a big head?" She shot at me.

"Let me tell you the truth, I hate skinny guys. I can't stand them, and you are one of them!" She fumed.

"Aisha, are you insulting me? No wonder you have legs with uneven length and a disoriented face. It's a pity it has come to this. When I started talking to you, I really liked you, but not anymore. I will be ashamed to present you as my girlfriend in public; you are too ugly," I said.

"You know what, Glen? I didn't want to tell you this, but I'm now very glad it happened anyway. I'm infected with the deadly virus, and from our affair last night, so are you now. I've had enough of your nonsense. Merry Christmas and goodbye forever." She said, and ended the conversation. 

I froze in bed with the phone still in my ears, as if I could still hear Aisha from the other end.