DIARY OF A PORT HARCOURT BACHELOR 1

“I’m sorry I cannot make it again this weekend. Church event”. This was the reply I got after trying Eno’s number for the fifth time to ask if she was still coming that Friday evening.

I almost dropped the phone in my hands. This girl is definitely jerking this lifeline too much.

Pause.

Seriously, I am not disappointed, I am livid!

I mean I totally postponed all my plans for this weekend because her royal highness finally decided to lighten up my shabby apartment with her presence by spending the weekend at my place, after three weeks of steady pursuit. I really wanted to text her back with a million cuss words that rhyme with “thunder fire you”, but the rational part of me was quick to intervene this time. I ended up routing her number to voicemail. Well managed of me because I always overdo things. I make a mental note to get an extra bottle of Andre for myself the next time I go shopping for supplies.

Well, I am Bura, a typical Ogoni boy if you want to toe that line. I am also a disappointment if you truly believe stories peddled about Ogoni boys, I mean I don’t care about lands and land disputes, totally indifferent about oil bunkering, and hate onunu and fresh fish soup. But I do care about women, a lot, which makes my story very remarkable.

I am in my mid-twenties, own a car, and earn a six-figure salary by working for an engineering company here in Port Harcourt. By Nigerian standards, you can say that I am young and getting it.

But the highlight of this story is that even with my averagely handsome face, my comfortable apartment and flexible wallet, I still find it extremely hard to land girls. I still do not know if it’s my fault or the ripple effects of that tiny swear Amaka swore for me in primary school when I told the whole class her hmm hmm smells like rotten fish.

I sat down, and while thinking about how I was gon’ have another wasted weekend of drunkenness and konji, I remembered Ebiere- the soft dark-skinned girl I had met at Market Square last week. She wasn’t forthcoming with her number at first, but that changed after I had paid for everything in her shopping basket. She was a bit considerate though, I mean she did not rush to put more items in the basket when she saw I was willing to pay.  She was fun to talk to too, and she kept flashing those dimples that melted my heart every single time she smiled.

So I put a call across.

“Hello”. Her voice sounded like honey and orgasm. Or maybe it was the konji making me imagine things. The conversation moved from “what’s up” and “what’s popping” to heavier things that hinted I wasn’t going to be so unlucky that weekend.

No matter how unlucky I am with my escapades, I always make sure not to ask a random chick-“have you eaten? ”. It was a question that screamed “zero game” to any girl and I learnt this lesson the hard way.

“I will come over”. She said like it wasn’t even a big deal. There was a “but” after the statement though, but my mind already overrode everything after she agreed to come over. The demand wasn’t for a human head sha. She only wanted a bottle of her favourite wine and weed.

She clearly did not look the type, but wetin concern agbero with overload?