You can call her a prostitute. I won't.
|At the instance of my arrival, she was the first thing you could see when you entered the small room. She was sitting at the far end directly facing the small door, holding a white Smartphone on the left hand adorned with three, four shiny bracelets. The right hand would shift between caressing the screen and picking the glass on the counter for a sip.
Her maroon dress did not reveal much of her breast line, and she was facing the left anyway, so at this point I wouldn’t be able to see even if it did. The dress however was sufficiently short; sufficient enough for me to see much of her left thigh. I didn’t move up to the counter since Antony Ndirangu who had invited me for a Fanta was sitting on the immediate left of the door. Thankfully enough, this position allowed me to take a better look at her face.
She was beautiful. Not the top model beauty you see in expensive magazines, but beautiful all the same. She would definitely compete with the magazine models if she put on makeup. I always have a bit of reservation for ghanian hairstyle- but on her it looked okay.
The first time I saw a lady with ghanian style was back in 2011 in a matatu. I was going to school. I was sitting at the back right while she occupied the second-last row seat where I lay my elbows. On her left was a person I guessed was her man, and on his left their bubbly friend whose voice I heard from the moment I boarded the vehicle and throughout the 30 minute ride.
I liked everything about the matatu lady except her hair. It looked too big on her small body. She was around 22 but the body would perfectly fit a 13 year old. Ghanian hair also looks too tough; like it’s something that should be left to a man or a feminist. When you have a small body like this girl, the hair hovers over you with authority; it’s like you’ve surrendered everything to it.
The girl at the bar however seemed to own herself. I could still feel the ghanian on her head roaring but it was a muffled roar. She, her brown thighs, her smooth legs with pink slippers at the feet, her white smartphone, the glass which I noticed was not draining despite the 5 minute interval sips; they were all in control. If she would have replaced her ghanian for something gentler I bet her power would have smitten me beyond repair. For the record I don’t recall much about her breasts except that they were life-size. I can’t remember how far the neckline extended.
This was months after I had read a book by Allan Pease on body language, whose exact title I cannot remember. Anyway I was still putting much of the techniques Allan proposed into practice everywhere I went. One of his many premises is that you can tell if a person you meet for the first time likes you by looking at how they position of their body while you are sitting or standing around them. If their feet point towards your direction then there are chances they do.
It was therefore interesting that when I came in, the brown girl’s feet were pointing to the left, parallel to the counter. When I went to get my cold Fanta, she momentarily stopped looking into her Smartphone and pasted her eyes on my face. I returned the look but she quickly retracted into whatever was happening in that screen. For a moment I wished I were the device.
Then gradually her sitting position started changing. Halfway through my second bottle, now Sprite, her back had completely turned to the counter and she was facing our table directly. I told Anto about it and soon we were arguing over whom the feet were pointing at. We pushed over the voting rights to a friend; he said I was the one.
We could now see both chocolate thighs extend past the short dress. However, the gap in between the two grew smaller and smaller as eyes climbed upwards, until displaced flesh from both limbs eventually blockaded view of “Da Place”.
I swore within me that I was going to talk to her after finishing my Sprite. But things started going wrong after this. First, the bartender, a lady in her early thirties, who was our acquaintance, called Anto and introduced him to the chocolate girl.
I was relieved to learn that the conversation was about an unrelated business; the chocolate girl was selling a gas cylinder; Anto is great with business connections. After they had finished talking Anto come back to the table while she remained at her place but now she turned and faced the counter. Her back was good but not as great as the front. Again she was studiously staring at her Smartphone.
Ten minutes passed. Before I mustered the courage to walk to attack, a man entered the room and headed straight to her. They had a little chit chat and before I could finish muttering the word “Bastard”, they were already outside and gone. She came back an hour later, wearing a different dress and shoes. She looked great as always. But I was no longer interested.
My name is Philip Fulu. I write general content to websites for a living. During my free time I like to swim, watch movies, listen to other people's stories and write mine. If you need any articles for your site, feel free to drop by my inbox.