All the talk about closing the Third Mainland Bridge reminded me of one harmattan evening when the bridge was covered with fog. I was driving home that evening from the mainland to the island.
The evening was overcast and as I got on to bridge, I found myself switching on my headlamps even though it was just a little past 6pm.
The harmattan fog was thick, so thick I couldn’t see the cars in front of me and even the huge Coca Cola billboard, the one at UNILAG, was covered up by fog.
When it’s cold I go all ‘spiritual’ so instead of heading to Victoria Island, I dropped off and headed to the Goodies outlet at City Mall.
I had my stack of spirits; three bottles of Martell cognac and two of single malt whiskey which Cynthia likes to drink and was waiting in line at the till when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Still going spiritual,” the lady said.
I’d looked at her. She had gym wear on. Black tee-shirt over blue leotards. Her feet were shod in blue trainers and her perfume was everywhere.
“You’ve forgotten me, abi” she’d asked taking of her snapback hat. “Because you moved from Squadron to Martell.”
“Julianne!” I cried as I dropped my basket and enfolded her in a bear hug, memories falling about me like petals.
She waited for me to pay then we headed outside and tried to catch up. She didn’t stay long because she was meeting her husband at the gym. So we exchanged cards and I promised to stay in touch even though I knew I wouldn’t.
Once an old flame is married I give her a wide berth. Okafor’s Law is real and can be a bitch.
As I drove, I remembered Julianne Dakolo. Back then in school, she was a petite bomb shell. Small, full lips, light skinned and long haired, she had an arse that could cause a war. And we knew she was the kind of girl who would end up married to a stinking rich man.
She was clearly the prettiest girl in our class and everyone, including students, lecturers and their fathers wanted to sleep with her but she had gotten herself entangled with Dona, a very ugly and mean cult boy who kept a close eye over her when she was not in Abuja or Bauchi sleeping with rich men.
Julianne wasn’t very smart. She didn’t, as we used to say, have a ‘head for book’ but she had cash to burn and so, my friend, Dave and I helped her with assignments in exchange for cash and food but along the line, Julianne started hitting on me.
“I am sure, your thing is big, that’s why all these small girls are following you,” she told me that evening as I helped with her assignment.
I had looked up at her and said, “Pay attention, abeg.”
That was how it started and I kept avoiding her not because I didn’t fancy her but because I didn’t want to cross Dona. If he found out I was shagging his babe, I was cooked meat.
He knew I was always at her place, and whenever he met me there, he would say “Small boy, teach am well o” and if I met him at the buttery, he would buy me a drink. I didn’t want trouble.
But then one day in class, as our Semantics lecturer droned away, Julianne had slipped me a note.
“I don’t know what this man is saying but its making me horny and Dona travelled. If you don’t do it I will ask David.”
I stared at the note for a long time then I picked up my books and my knapsack and left the class.
Julianne followed me out. We were quiet in the cab until we go to my room then as I pushed the door shut, Julianne grabbed me and we were kissing and touching and panting like sex starved prisoners as we fell into my bed.
Julianne was prettier naked. Her tummy was flat and her kintus was as thick as her lips. Her skin was flawless and tipped with goose bumps as the harmattan cold did things to her.
She took my whatchamaccalit in her palms and stroked it like it was made of gold then, she opened wide those beautiful lips and slurped all over me before she lay back, opened her legs wide and bid me come.