Hey, you guys! It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? I was hoping time away from each other will make you miss me. Did it work? Oh please I know it did. Anyway, your prayers have been answered, I am back. Like I never left. I was thinking of a That ’99 Love marathon during this self isolation/quarantine period. Since we’re all confined to our houses anyway. It would be a nice time to read and enjoy some juicy romance, wouldn’t it?
Especially one featuring xters that aren’t so new to us. You know how this works; comments equals ‘Yass, we want that!’ so comment away and let me know your thoughts.
Also, I have decided to do a 50% off for Billionaire Heiress of Lasgidi on Okadabooks. It’s been three months the book dropped and we’ve had 128,000 naira in total sales since then. So maybe it’s time to slash it on there for more people to see what 128 people loved and were willing to spare their 1000 naira for. So for 48 hours, it will be for N500.00 Hurry, download and enjoy meeting Nimi Carew, Toks and Lola, Arin, Ryan, Layal, Aaliyah, Refrigerator grandma and a world we will be exploring for the next couple of years God willing.
I also wanted to say that the Book has been for $1.10 on Kobo for a while now. You know what that means, yup, literally cheaper than N500. So if you’d prefer that medium, here’s a link to it.
That said guys, let’s dig in. It’s Lola and Toks’ story back in the year 1999 and, drama becomes our insanely filled with romance and passion story world as usual.
Read episode 3 of That ’99 Love here…
That ‘99 Love #4
LOLA.
I hop off the bike that I travelled by and smile at the Rider; a man in his early 40s with deep tribal marks, calloused hands and a very warm smile. When he smiles at me, a set of kola nut stained teeth is revealed.
“Thank you Baba Habiba.”
His smile deepens when I utter my gratitude. “Ko tope, Omolola,” he replies as he dips his hands into the pockets of his faded adire shirt and hands me a paper filled with groundnut and popcorn neatly folded into a cone shape. “Guguru ati epa,” he adds telling me the paper is filled with popcorn and groundnut.
I smile at him and take the gift slightly kneeling in appreciation.
“And remember to face your study,” He says to me, his countenance enveloped by a more serious expression. “Nothing can make woman do shakara more than having her own money sho gbo?”
As he rides towards his farm, his motorcycle raising a cloud of dust behind him, I wonder what Baba Habiba’s story is.
A farmer by profession, Baba Habiba and I first met when I was stranded on my first trip to this part of town. His bike had broken down metres away and he watched with curious eyes as I paused for a sip of water from my water bottle. I told him I was on the way to find my newest student. He knew her. They all knew each other in the town anyway – Ife wasn’t too small. It was not the size of say Okemesi Ekiti or Oye Ekiti. It was bigger but most families here have been living here since they were born. Generations were birthed here, their family secrets, history, bonding as old as the ancient history of the Ile-Ife town itself.
When Baba Habiba offered to pick me, it was with a stern warning not to ever go anywhere without a proper detailed address. He warned me firmly like he was my father. Much later he told me he was about 21 years older and he could have birthed me, so he would always advise me like a daughter.
It was weird. Picking a stranger, helping her find her way while giving her firm warnings as a pseudo Daddy.
But I liked it.
When I finally met Habiba, Baba Habiba’s 14-year-old only child, I liked him more. He is a good man and a good father to his Habiba, a child he shared with his late wife. A woman he has sworn can never be replaced.
Just like the first day we met by chance, every time I see Baba Habiba, he always has an advice or two for me. Most of the time, they make me miss home. They make me miss my father.
I trudge down the narrow path that leads to the house where I will be teaching my new set of students. Habiba is one of my students this time. She is ready to write her “junior WAEC”, an examination which its success will guarantee her education continuing into the senior secondary class. Habiba is very brilliant but I worry about her.
Her penchant for wanting a life she is not yet prepared for is worrisome. She wants to leave Ife and go to Lagos, be a ‘big girl’ through modelling or maybe even dabbling in movies. She has watched the movie ‘Glamor Girls’ so many times and she wishes she were one.
I’m only 19 myself and I have absolutely no idea what I am doing more than half the time. But I know how girls like Habiba end up when they’re not properly guided – thoroughly fucked up.
“Tisa haf come o!” One of the students shouts as I emerge. The houses before me don’t have fences. The closest one with a fence is a kilometre away and it belongs to an indigene that only comes home during Christmas and the New year.
The other houses house extended families and have been around for decades.
Behind the house I have come to is a Mosque. The Imam there is popular and even I have seen him on TV a few times in the past preaching and speaking on politics, economics and women.
His views are archaic, his ways crooked like his lips. He also looks like one who will be up to no good. It is the vibe I get from him anytime I see him pop up on the screen in a common room in school or the cafeteria.
“Hanty Lola!” Habiba is wearing a mini skirt that flaunts her skinny yellow legs and a smile that lightens up her beautiful face. She is also wearing a scarf that covers her face like a hijab. That one is new. I haven’t seen it before.
“Ahan, Habiba who gave you scarf?”
As the class – a room with a chipped wall wide enough to fit a big goat – fills up with ten other students, a younger girl, Moriamo sits near Habiba and says in Yoruba, “My father asked her to wear it.”
Her large eyeballs stare at me, defiant. As if daring me to complain. I let out a chuckle.
I did not come all the way to pick fights with girls who haven’t gotten their first periods.
So I face the old blackboard and write the lesson of the day.
I don’t like the Imam but if he could curb Habiba’s excesses then maybe she can keep her head clear until she leaves this town, goes to school and gets a life.
💘💘
My class is eventful. I have to wade off younger children clothed in just panties from disturbing the class while struggling with the older ones in class.
But I finally manage to finish after two hours. I check my wristwatch, I need to be back in school before 5. I have to meet up with Yemisi who wants me to accompany her to make photocopies for our class.
We have about 120 handouts to photocopy and distribute tomorrow in class. Yemisi is the course rep for the said course and carrying 120 documents each 10 pages cannot be easy.
As I finish, Habiba walks up to me. The class was painfully filled with 10 boys and 2 girls – Habiba and Moriamo. I am aware of why that is; on this side of town, girls’ education isn’t really considered serious.
I am still surprised a girl like Moriamo whose father is an infamous sexist is even here. Imam Qudus has 12 children from 3 wives. All the boys are in school but most of the girls eventually leave school to learn a trade. He lives by the ‘woman always ends up in the kitchen with her education’ mantra. So he sees spending money on a girl child’s education as wasteful. He used the money that could have been for his last daughter’s education to buy a car.
“Hanty Lola, when are you coming again?”
As I zip my bag I drape an arm around her tiny shoulders, “Next week. Maybe Saturday sha. We still have small time before your junior WAEC.”
She smiles, “Yes, two months.”
As I lift my bag on my shoulder, I take a closer look at her. She is wearing a cologne. My nostrils catch the whiff of the faint scent when she leans closer. Another first. I decide to start with the scarf though.“When did you start wearing scarf, Habiba?”
Her eyes lower shyly. “Ahan, I am a Muslimah now.”
I laugh. “You have always been a Muslimah. But I have never seen you cover your head. You that you like to be a glamour girl.”
Her hands fly to her face, shielding them. A shy giggle escapes her full lips,“No o. Not again.”
I am suddenly curious. “Habiba that is serious. What changed?” Of course, I am relieved that her life goals have finally veered off the road of glamour girl-ing. And while I am slightly relieved, curiosity rises within me.
“It is…”
“Habiba!!! Habiba come joo!”
We both turn, startled by the voice. It is Moriamo standing with arms folded, glaring at us.
I glance at Habiba who nods towards her. I have known Moriamo for as long as I have known Habiba.
The last girl child of Imam Qudus, she is given more liberty than the others. For instance, she associates with people her age more, comes out more often and somehow sneaks in Hints and Hearts magazines into her home without being caught.
I always wondered what she would do if her father wasn’t overbearing and strict.
I also have never trusted her. And it’s not because she is rude with a caustic tongue. She just looks like trouble. But she’s been Habiba’s friend since they were toddlers so there is nothing strange here.
“Come now! Ahan!” Her voice has taken on a worried tone now.
Imam Qudus comes into view and Moriamo immediately cowers.
His bulky frame looms behind his teenage daughter as he glares at us.
“I have to be going now, hanty Lola.” And then she removes my arm from around her shoulders and scurries off.
“Good evening sir,” I greet the Imam but he only stares at me in return.
Strange.
💘💘
TOKUNBO.
I chug down what is left of my scrambled eggs and wash it down with the tea in my cup. As I return my batik designed tea cup to its saucer, I watch as Jibike toys with her food.
I have asked her twice already why she’s playing with her breakfast. Both times she snapped.
“I have a class in an hour. Do you think you would be done with that soon?”
She pushes the food away. “We can leave.”
I have barely paid for breakfast and asked a Waiter to pack Jibike’s meal when the door to Loaf swings open accompanied by a few murmurs.
Loaf is usually filled in the mornings and early afternoons. The breakfast crowd don’t return in the evening for dinner. They usually save their appetite for bars and restaurants that sell finger foods, suya and alcohol.
Loaf is dedicated to its service of mouth-watering breakfast mostly served in beautiful ceramic wares. It’s famed for that. And quite frankly, I like that they barely give a fuck about filling their space with too many drunk Patrons in the evenings.
Because it allows people like me to sneak in here and sometimes read or listen to music in silence.
Nights after we meet and the pack go on operations and I lose sleep, I sometimes roll up here, chill in my car before coming in as the first customer of the day for some freshly steamed black or herbal tea.
Days like that drive me insane, emotions running wilder than a feral cat.
As the Waiter hands me Jibike’s packed breakfast, a strong masculine hand grabs my shoulder. My nostrils catch the whiff of the familiar fragrance. And it brings with it vivid memories.
The look on the face of the Waiter attending to me has gone cold. He looks dead in the eyes. The realization doesn’t surprise me. The guest has that effect on everyone. Even the most hardened hearts.
I swing around a smile ready on my face, words ready.
“Canis lupus arctos,” I call.
A slight pause and we shake our hands the signature Nature boys way. Thumbs locking and immediately giving way to pinky fingers intertwining after which a fist bump follows and ends with a hand patting our left chest.
We finish ours with a slight nod, referencing our mutual respect for each other.
Unlike most of the pack, his eyes lack the usual redness associated with them even this early in the day. He barely smokes. A sharp contrast to most of the guys who will pick a bottle of beer, gin or even red wine on a regular day, he barely dabbles in alcohol. He’s not a party freak and he barely shows his face in public.
He’s been rusticated from three campuses – Uniben, Uniport and University of Ibadan. Yet, he is the most brilliant student in his faculty. The faculty of medicine. His brilliance matches his wit and demeanour. He rarely moves with the rest of us and his aloof demeanour paired with the coldness with which he dispatches duties earned him the title, Arctic Wolf. A position created solely for him.
“Grey wolf” he replies a meaningful smile creeping up the corner of his lips.
I return his smile with a chuckle, a bit more relaxed. I am the only guy who can look Nelson in the face when I speak to him. He’s slightly taller than me but shorter than Makay who is one of the tallest guys in the pack. Yet he leaves everyone he comes across with a sense of danger. He’s feared and respected. When someone wrongs him, he takes no prisoners.
Yet, every once in a while I catch a glimpse of kindness. Nelson is the one who would carry an old woman’s load from the junction of her house to her doorsteps. He has given blood to a stranger. He has saved a dying girl.
Sometimes I think I am the only one who sees who he truly is. Even he is blind to this.
“I am not the grey wolf, Nelson. You know that my nigga.”
Laughter dances around his eyes. “Not yet you mean?”
“There are rules, protocols and ordinances in the jungle.”
“All of which you have obeyed since you joined the Nature boys. Who wan stop you?” his eyes have regained the coldness they’re accustomed to. A few patrons have also begun to vacate Loaf.
Nelson’s presence is scaring them. Loaf is my favourite spot in this school and one of my favourite spots in the world so I am not about to let the Owner, a nice Kenyan woman lose money because Arctic wolf sauntered in.
“Are you here to eat something…”
The grim look on Nelson’s face tells me there’s trouble.
“My guy, gbege don happen. Emergency tonight.”
“What happened?”
Nelson glances around us and I understand before he says anything.
“Tonight.”
We exchange a look, I pay for his take-out and leave with him and Jibike minutes after.
Jibike barely speaks to me as I drop her off at her class at Amphitheatre. I head to my class at Aud 2 and when I am done about an hour later, I am reminded by the course rep that I promised to drive her to make photocopies for our class much later.
I promised her a week ago and I have forgotten.
But I don’t want to rescind my promise to her and so I drive her to the photocopy spot. She asks me a gazillion questions as I drive her to her destination.
Are you really dangerous? You don’t look dangerous to me sha. You’re cute and harmless in my eyes but I want you to also trust me. Can you trust me? Does your girlfriend find you scary? Are you really a Nature boy? Why are you called Wolves and Nature boy?
Her questions tickle and frustrate me at the same time. But the latter is a question a few have asked. It confused me at the beginning too. But I soon realized that when the fraternity was formed many years ago, it was by the name Wolf. But the name became Nature boys over the years because of how difficult it was for the school authority to nab them and how easily they blended with the earth – you couldn’t accuse the Nature boy of anything because they blended, you also couldn’t nab them because they were as important as mother nature. Going to war with the Nature boys meant running the risk of losing one’s life.
But I am not about to tell this chick any of that.
“Thank you,” I say to her as we reach her destination.
She falls silent. When I stop, she looks from the steering wheel to my face. “Are you not coming with me?”
“I-”
“I cannot carry 250 materials myself.”
I don’t remember telling her that I will be a willing participant on this errand but when I turn to tell her I want no parts, she is looking at me with a pleading look in her eyes.
“Come now. Please.”
I sigh as I turn off the engine and follow her into old buka. This is the side of me that drives my mother insane. She thinks I am too passive and it is perceived as a weakness by people who love to take advantage of others. Personally, I just hate to argue or fight over something I can endure or adjust to for a brief period. We walk through the wide-area marked side by side stalls. We take a turn and soon I find myself walking behind her in a narrow path, sometimes waiting for someone to pass before I can.
She continues to talk about the materials and how she would need my help in distributing in class and I mentally begin to find an escape out of here.
As I try to think of the best way to escape this errand, I am startled by resounding laughter from a nearby stall.
We have reached where we’re headed now and the chick who dragged me here is asking for the materials. The laughter from the other stall rings out again and this time I turn to see Lola standing with her friend, dodging the latter’s hand.
“You’re very foolish,” her friend says and Lola laughs harder. From the look of things, Lola said or did something and her friend is trying to punish her for it.
“I will show you. When I have your time ehn, even that your boyfriend will not be able to save you.”
I stand there distracted by Lola’s laughter which does everything to enhance her already beautiful features by the way. She suddenly turns my way and looks away almost immediately as she continues laughing.
“Help me with these,” a pile of freshly photocopied paper lands in my hands.
“Actually I have to go,” I say to her.
She looks slightly disappointed and I mutter a quick apology before I turn to leave.
Lola’s friend sees me then. “Good afternoon, Tokunbo. Thanks for last night.”
Lola says nothing. She stands there staring blankly at me.
My gaze falls on the cut I saw on her head earlier. It has dried up and a barely visible scar has replaced the more obvious cut from earlier.
“You’re welcome…”
“Yemisi.” Her friend provides her name.
“Nice to meet you under saner conditions,” I reply and she smiles politely.
“I’m glad to see the bleeding has completely stopped, Lola,” I say of the cut on her head.
She shrugs in response.
“I’ll see you guys around,” I say finally as I saunter through the aisle and go in search of my parked car.
You can literally get another episode tomorrow. Let me know if you want in your comments. Bless.
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