Get a girl and call her Jane. Make her beautiful; chiselled face, glowing yellow skin, full lips, artistic eyebrows, perfect breasts that stand like attention. Make her look like a glance from God. Or just make her look like Rihanna. After all, one fan said Rihanna smells like heaven and who lives in heaven if not God? But she must come from a poor home because poor girls are humble, making them good wife materials of immeasurable yards. Her mother who sells bolé, must be terminally ill; years of battling flaming coals has given her cancer and of course, she lost her dad as a teenager because how else can her story garner pity? So, poverty makes Jane well mannered. Men don’t like rich, spoilt girls. Mtchew.
Find a man. Let him be young, tall, dark and handsome with the body of an athlete, preferably Cristiano Ronaldo. A grand name isn’t necessary. Osareme would do as long as he can put food on the table before it is empty. Money stops nonsense. Let him have cheekbones like Brad Pitt. He must have beards to avoid Jane being mocked for dating a fellow woman, so add well-groomed beards.
Make them meet in an exotic restaurant. Osareme is waiting for a business partner so he orders a drink. When their eyes meet, let it hold because Osareme has never seen a girl so exquisite. Let it hold well; his eyes tracing the troubled lines on her face, counting the beads of sweat, intrigued by how firm her breasts are, as if trying to free themselves from the greedy grip of the brassiere. Let his eyes hold disbelief at how one can so prettily out of place in a restaurant as a sales girl until Madam Cash yells at Jane. She will apologise, she should know her job better than to stare at customers all day. She will serve Osareme but all he wants now is to fetch his complimentary card from his fat, multi-layered wallet and give to her because ‘he would love to get to know her better.’ She does not have a phone, isn’t she an ordinary sales girl? Let him get her one of those big Samsung Galaxy phones. It is a small thing for a Project Manager at ExxonMobil.
Let them visit everywhere in Port Harcourt; Pleasure Park, Garden City Amusement Park, Asian Town, Port Harcourt Golf Club. Let her take him to her own world and have her prepare him Bolè and fish so delicious he would come asking for her hand in marriage the following day because he is now totally Jane-crazed. After meeting the ill mother, let him propose quickly because responsibilities excite the rich. But wait, the proposal must be grand. Nigerian girls don’t do nonsense, no matter their backgrounds. He must take her to an open place, ask for a mic, recite some sweet poetry and bend a knee to show her the diamond ring. Let her be gobsmacked, hands covering her mouth as if covering a yawn while the crowds shout, ‘Yes, yes, yes…’ The proposal must make Instagram with plenty hashtags and comments like, ‘God when?, Oluwa wetin dey proposate?…’ You can either describe a wedding in Paris or you can leave that part to your readers because it isn’t good to spoon feed them. Let them participate in your story, too. But end it in a style so grand it will grab the attention of Instablog.
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