The girl on afro walks towards the bookstore, humming softly to Ayra Starr’s ‘Sability.’ She doesn’t wear her signature crop top on a mini skirt and a pair of crocs today, and wonders if he will notice the change in her appearance, and maybe finally look at her. Black sleeveless top on a pair of joggers is definitely not her style, but she is desperate for his attention now, and if wearing such boring clothes will attract him, then she just has to hang in there and get it over with.

Her phone chimes as a notification pops up on her screen; three new messages. One from Mummy, one from her best friend, and the other from the guy with hazel eyes.

She stops midway to read the messages, and double taps her left ear bud for the music to pause. It’s not that she can’t multi-task, she just does not do that. To her, music, books and coffee come first before every other thing in her life, her mother inclusive, so she doesn’t give in to any form of distractions when she’s indulging them. Except of course, if the distraction is this particular message she has been dying to receive from her best friend. She doesn’t always remember to text back, but when she does, she still doesn’t. If there’s something she’s ridiculously great at, it is leaving people on read, or mind-replying their chats. 

Whether you are commenting on her latest hair-care routine video on her Whatsapp status. The other day, the gap-toothed guy called her a weird snub, because she had consistently left him on read for a whole week, and if they had not accidentally met in the bookstore, she would have kept at it for maybe a year or so.

“You know you are a weird snub right? You’ve been reading my messages and blatantly ignoring them,” he said, sitting across her, over some cups of coffee in the bookstore’s café.

 The girl on afro is consistent in all of her ways, from her unique style of dressing, her habit of leaving people on read, to the way she likes her coffee; black, no sugar, and no milk.

“I think mind replies should be a thing,” she started, stirring her cup of Americano, her gaze fixed on the sexy, new barista. The gap-toothed guy stared at her, observing all her expressions with a careful attention like she was his mathematics teacher whom he was determined to please, to convince that he now understood the topic. 

“Like can’t you use your brain to know that I have replied your ‘how are you?’ of course, I am fine. What else did you think my reply would be?” she turned to face him now, shooting brown beams into his eyes, causing him to blink, and look away. 

Maybe he was intimidated by her aura, her unflappability. Not one strand of air was out of place in her mane of thick, black and long afro hair. Not one seemingly smear on her immaculate-white crop top. She oozed confidence from all her pores, and men like the gap-toothed guy, didn’t know what to do, how to handle all that sophistication, all that class. Since the girl on Afro didn’t dare to blink as she stared right into his eyes, he couldn’t meet her gaze, so he stared at his fake Nike shoes instead.

“It’s courtesy,” he finally replied, after some seconds of awkward silence. “I was only wondering how you fared, because I didn’t hear from you since the last time.”

“Then wonder no more,” she said, and gulped down the entire cup of bland coffee, without flinching. “I’m alive and well, as you can see.” She wiped the corner of her mouth with her handkerchief, stood up and adjusted her skirt, ready to leave. “And forget about the last time. I only fuck a guy once. Don’t worry about the coffee, I’ll pay.” And with that, she took one last look at the gap-toothed guy, smirked, and swaggered out of the café. She opens the first message.

Mummy: Please be home for dinner, Daddy is coming over.

As usual, she ignores it and opens the second.

Guy with hazel eyes: Can we meet? I miss you.

She kisses her teeth. “These guys never learn,” she says under her breath, and then opens the last and long awaited one.

Best friend: Babe, you will not believe this…

The girl on Afro holds her breath, as her heart nearly gathers its bag to run away from her chest. She inhales and exhales three times, and then types ‘spill.’

Best friend: So you even know how to reply to chats this girl, even in seconds? Omo, give the phone back to the owner, because who are you?

The girl on Afro smiles, shakes her head, and replies, “Abeg talk something joor.”

Best friend: Okay oo, since e dey your body… The guy dey teach Korean language online sha, but works part-time as a barista in that your bookstore. You never even tell me wetin you dey always do for there.

The girl on Afro’s eyes widen, as she digests this piece of information. So this guy is a Korean enthusiast? She thinks. Interesting. She will start learning the language ASAP. She puts her phone inside her bag and continues her walk to the bookstore, a sign that the conversation has come to an end, but remembers the information is still vague and needs some clarification.

So she snatches it and types, “How will I find this Korean class? Send me a link or something, I’m enrolling.”

Best friend: Enrol kwa? Na 30k oo.  Just dey play.

“I’m serious.”

Best friend: “Thought you said learning foreign languages is a waste of time, and you’ll rather pluck out your eyeballs?”

“Guess I’ll still pluck out my eyeballs, but are you sending me this link or not?”

Best friend: “Check out ktalkswithk.com. We go talk later abeg. Bye. Love ya.”

Her best friend is well aware that the girl on Afro would rather eat stones than reciprocate her gestures of affection, but she does them anyway, and always receives the same response. None.The girl on afro switches off her phone’s data connection, logs out of Whatsapp, and double taps her left ear bud so that Ayra Starr’s voice could come alive. She takes a deep breath and walks into the bookstore.

***

The girl on Afro has a weird obsession for the smell of new books and coffee, Ayra Starr’s songs, and the barista. Everything he does, all his features, from his boyish dimples, to his cute, tongue-in-cheek smile, to his broad shoulders, sculpted cheekbones, and even the way he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows as he asks her, “Americano, or latte?” 

She doesn’t know why, but she wants to have this boy so badly that she can really die, if she doesn’t get him. And for the first time in her life, this guy doesn’t give two fucks about her. He behaves like he has never even had a single fuck in his lifetime to give, and does not notice or acknowledge her as anything other than a customer. 

He seems not to ever recognize her, because since the day she set her eyes on him a month ago, she has been consistently visiting the bookstore, buying books she doesn’t need, and making the same order every other day, ‘a cup of Americano please… Yes, black. No. no sugar. Oh, thanks.’

And she wears the same kinds of clothes, crop tops on miniskirts and pairs of crocs. She knows she stands out well enough, and this guy should have known her by now, and at least try to do as little as smile at her, or chit-chat with her as he gets her order ready.

But he always shoots her that professional tongue-in-cheek smile he gives every other customer, and doesn’t treat her specially. For the first time in her life, a guy doesn’t look at her face twice, and tells her she’s breath-taking, or he loves her belly-button ring or that her waist beads are sexy. He doesn’t even compliment the Afro she wears with pride.

Who the eff is this guy sef, and who does he think he is? Even if he’s Lee Min Ho, or Ji Chang Wook, he should still calm down. We are all in this Naija, and if… But her train of thoughts is interrupted, as the sexy barista snaps his fingers, dragging her back to reality. 

“What would you like to have, Ma?” he asks, with his regular, annoying, professional smile.

“The usual,” she says, making a puppy face, maybe to look appealing to him, maybe to make him realize what he’s missing. 

“Which is…”

“Cut it off with the pretense, I’m sure you recognize me.”

“Am I supposed to?”

The girl on Afro smiles a crooked smile that belies the frustration and shame in her eyes. No guy has ever treated her like this. She has never had to work too hard to get any guy’s attention. Is she not the girl on Afro again? The one with the face every photographer dies for? Her complexion is terra-cotta brown like the outer part of her mother’s garden pot.

Her eyes are almond-shaped and framed by long, dark lashes that she has never had to fix artificial ones whenever she wears makeup. Anywhere she goes to, she attracts attention like a pile of shit does to a swarm of flies. If the people are not asking if her hair is natural, if they can touch it, they are asking if those are her real lashes or  extensions.

She is tall, like 6 feet something tall, with an adorable full-bosomed figure filled with erotic promise, and the high cheekbones of a model that complements her patrician beauty. Yet, this sexy barista stands behind the counter, with his red-chequered apron tied firmly to his waist, and asks her who the hell she is. After conceding to defeat and realizing that maybe the world does not truly revolve around her, the girl on Afro lowers her eyes and stares at her long nails. For the first time in her life she’s unable to meet a guy’s gaze. Guys are what she uses and dumps, they don’t make her flinch or cower. But here she is, flinching, cowering…

“You mean to tell me you don’t recognize me, even after my constant visits here? Like everyone knows me here. I buy books almost every day. I’m obsessed with books,” she says, her voice shaky, as though atiliogwu dancers are doing acrobatic somersaults in her heart, expelling their sweats through her perspiring palms.

“Well, that’s good to know,” the sexy barista scoffs. “Now, if you will excuse me, there’s someone behind you I need to attend to. When you finally make up your mind on what to order, please let me know.”

Before she can garner her thoughts and process the derisive comments the sexy barista had made, the girl on afro hears, “Good afternoon sir, please how would you like your coffee? ”How dare he? She thinks, heaving, sweating, anger coiling deep in her guts. She eyes the sexy barista who is so engrossed in the cup of coffee he is making for the short, grey-haired old man who might be in his early fifties, thin and sallow, with tousled hair and an obstinate chin. 

The old man smiles at the girl on afro, but she doesn’t smile back. Her gaze criss-crossing from him to the sexy barista and back to the old man.

“Nwa m kedu?” the old man asks, determined to strike a conversation with the apathetic girl on afro who refuses to acknowledge his courteous attempt to make small talk.

“Nne imaka. Is this your real hair, or are you wearing a wig?” the old man is definitely not taking no for an answer. He is persistently stepping on her raw blisters daring her to scream. So she takes it as a cue that her time at the café is long overdue, and if she spends another minute there, dead body go surplus. 

So she eyes the old man like her eyes have bullets and she can shoot him down. She eyes him contemptuously, as if he is the cause of her misfortune. As if he is the force threatening her chance with the sexy barista. She eyes him with naked malevolence, seething, livid. Then, after trying and failing to shoot him down optically, she hisses a long, long hiss, the sweat gathering on her forehead and nose, damping her underarms. And without looking back, walks out of the café.

***

The girl on Afro has a unique way of unwinding, buying books. Loving the smell of new books is not enough, she buys them in tons and cartons, and sniffs them every other minute. Buying books is the only way she knows to express emotions. When she’s happy, she buys books. When she’s sad, books. When she’s stressed, books. When she’s depressed, books. Her love language, books. 

It’s always books, books, books and more books. In the flat she shares with her best friend, there’s hardly space for any other decoration but books. She has two big shelves that are filled with books, and a dozen more cartons of never-opened ones. Her best friend stopped complaining since she started buying her books too. 

Even though the girl on afro loves her space, and enjoys her company more than anything in the world, she still goes for book launches, which double as places she buys new, signed copies of books. And hook-ups, too. Since the only places she visits are the bookstores and karaoke bars, her choice of men is limited to the ones she can get in these places. And she never commits, will never, ever commit. 

What’s fun about commitment? That’s her favourite line in Khalid’s Young, dumb, broke. If there’s anything she wants to be, then it’s the exact same thing her mother is not. If there’s a hobby her mother loves, then by all means she will despise it with every fibre in her. Her mother committed to a hopeless man, how is it going for them?

Men are such a hassle, she believes. They are only meant to be play things. Just fuck them once and throw them into the bin where they truly belong. This used to be her mantra, what happened to her. Why is this particular son of Adam threatening to snatch the sleep away from her eyes?

She is beyond frustrated today, and that means she will take it out on all the precious books she will buy. She doesn’t even have a list, all she knows is she will buy books, and buy books till her card declines. Even if her one card declines, she still has the untouched 500k her father sent her just last week, and she can always demand for more. So, no shaking.

She saunters to the bookstore section, cursing someone or something under her breath, and actively ignoring the greetings from all the sales persons who are already used to her gruff personality.

Ordinarily, they would never go through the trouble of greeting a consistent, unresponsive girl, but a job is a job, and she’s one of their highly esteemed customers. 

The air smells of a harmonic blend of new books and tangerine-flavoured air wick, which is her favourite air freshener flavour. Books are arranged in shelves according to their genres, with portraits of the president, state governor, and some award winning African writers hanging on the wall.

The girl on afro doesn’t do this often, she doesn’t care much about the people in the portraits, but today she is paying keen attention to them, watching them like they are new, like she didn’t see them there the previous day, and the day before that.

Chimamanda Adichie’s portrait is between Chinua Achebe and Ngugi Wa Thiong’o’s. And for the first time in her life, the girl on Afro thinks Adichie really has a beautiful smile.

“Maybe I should venture into writing, so I could have my portrait hanging on the wall in a bookstore,” she thinks, and shrugs. “Maybe not.”

She walks past the children literature section, and stops at the crime thrillers and psychological fiction. “Maybe I should read more of these and become a serial killer and kill off every girl in the sexy barista’s life,” she starts to say, but thinking better of it, stops mid-sentence, as she notices the girl with a little mole on her cheek, who has been strutting around the bookstore with her short boyfriend, and who has been either indecisive on the books to buy or outright broke, staring at her like she’s wearing the back of her clothes. And she realizes she has verbalized her thoughts aloud.

She eyes the girl with the mole, and walks away from that section to the African literature department. That is her favourite section. She picks a trolley, and starts buying. First, she picks up a copy of A spell of good things by Ayobami Adebayo. She missed her book launch last week due to severe menstrual cramp. Her best friend has been dying to read the book too, because Stay with me by the same author really stayed with her. So she picks up another copy and throws it into the trolley.

She’d rather buy her best friend a copy, than lend her hers to read. She never gives out her books to anyone. Even if you are on life support, and they tell her it’s only her books that can resuscitate you, she will rather contribute money to buy you a gold casket, than give in to your demand.

Next, she picks up a copy of Vagabonds! by Eloghosa Osunde. It’s the Nigerian edition. And even though she already has the UK edition and the other one with the beautiful cover art, she still buys this third edition, because she wants to have all three of them, for aesthetics.

She keeps piling away her anger and frustration, and when the trolley is filled to the brim, pushes it to the cashier, who stares in awe, her lips and eyes widening. She is sure the cashier will gossip about her with other workers when she leaves. They will call her a crazy freak who spends money unnecessarily.

“That one is their business sha,” she thinks and kisses her teeth, as the cashier runs a check on her purchase. And when she is done, she says, “Your bill is two hundred thousand naira, Ma,” her voice shaking, like the girl on Afro would never be able to cough out that amount just for books.”

“Okay, I’ll pay.”

“Wow,” the cashier whispers, shaking her head in stunning amazement. “Cash or card, please?”

“Did you give me any cash, abi you are not in this country with me?”

“I’m sorry,  ma.”

“Sorry for yourself. Give me your POS jor.”

The cashier mutters something about arrogance, as she hands her the POS to make her payment. The girl on afro ignores her unprofessionalism. The cashier packages her books in three cartons, the girl on afro ignores her ‘Thank you for your patronage,’ murmurs something about not caring about a stupid gratitude, carries her cartons of books, and hails a cab to go home. If the sexy barista does not want to notice her, then it’s his loss.

***

In the cab, the driver, a professional, distinguished-looking man, with a warm smile and an old-fashioned gallantry, is playing Obvious by Westlife.

… You don’t even notice me

Turning on my charm

Or wonder why I’m always where you are

I’ve made it obvious, I’ve done everything but say it

(I’ve crushed on ya so long, but on and on you get me wrong)…

The girl on afro wonders if the universe is telling her something with this song. Indeed, she has done everything but tell the sexy barista how she truly feels. Should she shoot her shot? She sighs and wipes off the sweat that has gathered on her forehead with her handkerchief . What is happening to her? 

There’s nothing fun about commitment and men are still scum, but there’s something about this sexy barista that’s contradicting everything she has ever known, ever believed in. Now she’s doubting herself. Who is she? She’s definitely not the girl on afro who doesn’t give two fucks about guys.

She should definitely forget about him. Yes, he’s not worth it. She smiles to herself, and brings out her cell phone. And when she opens the green app, the third time, she goes directly to her best friend’s message, and does the exact same thing she swore not to ever do, because rules are for breaking. 

She clicks on the link, and gains access to the ktalkswithk.com website. The sexy barista is smiling in a headshot photo of him, revealing his set of oyster-white perfect dentition, and for the first time, the girl on afro notices he has a dimple on his right cheek. She has been too mesmerized with his charms and grace that she hasn’t even observed him with a clear precision.

The more she observes the picture, the more she is convinced she needs to enrol for the Korean, or Mandarin or whatever class he teaches. She navigates through the site, finds the section for payment, and wires the sum of thirty thousand naira to his bank account. She has never cared about any foreign language, but she has just realized that learning this one is what she is supposed to do

So, she texts her best friend on Whatsapp, “I’ve enrolled in the Korean class sha. See you at home.” Then she smiles and looks out of the window.

From the cab’s stereo, Westlife’s Shane is singing, 

“But you never seem to see, 

I’ll say it in this love song.”