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“Sweet love, had me calling out your name”, Anita Baker sang to my through my iPod, but I wasn’t interested in the least. My fingers, heavy as a crane, could not even change the track on this my little gadget. I wasn’t exactly thrilled being where I was.

The lounge of the airport looks dull and everything seem to look black and white as I wait a call for boarding. No colours observed. I wasn’t happy to go on the trip. My boss called in at he final minute to say his wife was ill, so the only person to represent the firm was Ricky. Me. I hate being forced to do anything, but such is the present situation. I looked around the business class lounge and with every heartbeat came a push of bile up my throat. Nothing interested me and I was sweating and cursing like a man just told his death is around the corner. Sealing a big oil business deal in Kuwait does not appeal to me. It’s been six months since my girlfriend left me. We’ve dated since when I learned to pee until she left me with no word. For heaven-knows-what.

But just around the corner came a sparkle, a beautiful angel materialised. My iPod was shooting blanks as every concentration in my head was directed to his eyes. Other senses were temporarily on hold. Around 6 ft 1, she stood on the ground, graceful fair skinned body adorned with a blue-black skirt suit. Eyes like hazel nut encapsulated in black diamond, surrounded by carefully combed long panoramic eye lashes. Her eye brows were natural, unshaved, long, thick and looks carved out like the wiper of the new Mercedes Benz S350. Nose, small and pointed, better than what M.J (R.I.P) would have wished for, just up north of her cute fried lips. Her lip pouted, defiant and looked like it has been soaked in unrefined chocolate. I suddenly developed fever.

She had a footballer’s thigh, stood very well on the ground with her lips well parted, standing on 3 inch high heels. Her waist was so tiny I could swear she six packs. She looked exactly like the new coke bottle, deadlier than the previous bottles. Her upper frame was perfect; her boobs will give Salma Hayek a healthy competition. A shape so sharp it could cut ur finger by just looking at it. Her carriage was precise and powerful. And the execution of her cat walk was exact, with so much swag, style and grace. I know the economy is not exactly purse friendly at the moment, but I could spend my last mite on this little piece of structural wickedness.

She sat a few meters from me and when she said ‘hi’ to the attendant nearby, I heard a little bit of Madonna, some Celine Dion, Minnie Riperton and Amy Winehouse all in one. Oh My Gosh!! Her lips were dripping the sweetest notes like a honeycomb. It was my personal brand of opium. If she happened to have existed in the medieval times, history wouldn’t reckon with Nefertiti’s beauty. She had an effect on everybody, an aura that only the Mercedes imprint could posses.

I summoned all my charm, wit and air. I went up to her and sat next to her right. There was a dude occupying her left. I smiled and she flashed me a Nobel winning laser carrying smile, my heart melted like a candle thrown into the furnace. My face gave a boyish look and goose pimples made my skin home.

I opened my mouth and words came out, I told her some funny things and she was giggling like a little girl. My plan was working. We spoke for a while, or better put, I spoke for a while and then I asked her name. “Kofoworola Collins” she said. That name sounded like Mozart’s music to my ears. At last, my flight was called. She smiled at me and I wanted to ask for her number. She said “pardon my lack of manners, I should have introduced you to my husband, Major Collins. Darling, meet Mister Ricky here”, the dude by her left showed me a cruel smile that showed his mind. Not good intentions there.

‘Husband?’ I thought.

That trip went into my record book as the worst I’ve ever had.

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