‘Here’s your money,’ Luke shot a few wads of bills her way as she pulled up her fishnets to her thighs. She hooked them to her pants before she took the money from his hand.
‘This is way too much.’ She gawked at the money, estimating it to be around four hundred thousand naira.
‘That’s because I want you to start up a business.’
She smiled, knowing where this was going. They all thought the same thing, or at least, most of them: why was a beautiful, brilliantly articulate angel like her working the streets? What they failed to realize was that she was neither an angel nor was she forced to work the streets. She loved her job and saw it as a profession. That, for some people, may be hard to understand, but she didn’t do it so that people could dissect her life and understand it. She did it for herself.
‘Thank you, Mister, but I’m not interested in any “business”,’ she air quoted, ‘so this is what is going to happen.’ She split the money in four and took one part, throwing the rest on the bed that had creaked and groaned under the pressure of last night. ‘This hundred is what our bargain was. Thank you for last night. You were wonderful.’ She blew him a kiss, entered into her scarlet six inches stilettos and strutted out the hotel room.
Two nights later, a familiar black sedan stopped by her corner on fourth main. She instantly knew who it was as her colleagues rushed towards it, falling over themselves. She wasn’t surprised when they all walked back, faces drawn in anger and jealousy. It was Chinwe who spat, ‘he’s asking for you.’
She stood up from the brick she had been sitting on, adjusted her green silky dress and hung her Gucci purse across her shoulder. ‘Some of those girls can endure positions even I cannot. Why let them go?’ She asked as she leaned in on his window.
‘None of them wore a green dress. That’s my favorite color.’
‘Let me guess; you want to start up a business for me, give me a ring and show me off as your perfect, pretty, trophy wife. Isn’t that right, Luke?’
‘Fine. Don’t start anything you don’t want to. Just go on one date with me. Please?’
That was the word he was using again. That was the word that had taken her down the memory of eight months ago when she had slid into his car and gone on one date with him, the date she had sworn would be the last. But they had gone on another. And another. Only now, he had one knee firmly planted on the ground, a petite velvet box open and a diamond studded ring glistening in the lights of the restaurant.
‘Would you marry me, please?’ He asked again but this time she could see fear in his eyes.
It was the fourteenth day of February.
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