There are moments in life you wish never happened or you could take back. The day I decided to shoot my shot, I knew things could go awfully wrong. Yet I took the step and a couple more because the other voice in my head said, “Fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen?” As a kid, I was pretty mouthy (nothing too pervy), which sometimes helped but mostly got me into trouble.
This was the era of the Nokia 3310, the must-have gadget. It was the iPhone of its time, the holy grail of tech. Everyone had one, flaunting different cases to match their social status. I’d saved up for months to get mine. When I finally did, damn, I was swagged up! I felt like king Tchalla, and I am hailing from Wakanda. My confidence level soared higher than the Eiffel Tower, and I was ready to wield my superpowers to win over any chick.
My mission was simple: get as many digits as possible. My line was as straightforward as it gets. I’d just walk up and say, “Hey, you got a number I could reach you at?” Then I’d whip out my Nokia three-three-one-zero. At the time, this was my version of suave. I figured getting a girl’s number was the ultimate bragging right among my friends, who I’d regale with tales of how she’d slipped me her digits and how I planned to “slide in my biological weapon” later. (Hey, teenage brains operate on their own unique logic!)
I remember setting my sights on a girl known for her looks and confidence as she occasionally visits my territory. She was effortlessly cool and way out of my league. But with my Nokia in hand, I felt invincible, like Tony Stark with a battery-powered suit (hey, Jarvis unlock suit Nokia3310). I sauntered over, heart pounding, and flashed my most charming smile. “Hey, you got a number I could reach you at?” I asked, channeling every ounce of imagined charm.
She giggled, gave me the once-over like she was appraising a used car, and said, “Sure, why not?” It felt like I’d just hit the jackpot and scored the winning goal in the World Cup—at the same time. I whipped out my phone, fingers dancing on the keypad like I was defusing a bomb. Beep-bop, bop-boop, boop-beep beep, bop-beep-bop-beep. Eleven digits. You know, the kind where some ladies lose interest by digit six, but I kept my cool, though inside, I was doing the Macarena in my head.
I couldn’t wait to brag to the crew, and sure enough, Akim was front and center. The guy took one look at me and said, “Dude, she’s Gor-fucking-geous! Damn! Can I get a pass when you’re done with her?” I shot him a look, “Nah, man. Don’t go falling in love with this one. He replied, “Don’t worry about me, I don’t fall unless I get tripped”. Akim, who’s convinced romance died in the Dark Ages, smirked. “You know there’s no such thing as unconditional love between a man and a woman, right? It’s all about the sex.” Akim kept rambling for another two minutes, going on about how sex is the only reason men and women ever become friends. “I’m all about the fuck(s) and that’s it. One fuck, that’s all, and I never give two fucks… I mean, except on rare occasions.”
“Oh yeah? Like when?” I asked, half-amused, half-exasperated.
“Well,” Akim continued with a smirk, “a fuck that was once fucked can be re-fucked, if the fucker and the fuckee both agree that the fuck that was fucked before was worth fucking again. Why do you think they nicknamed me Superman, like I’ve got an S on my chest? Because, my man, Sex is the only essence (S-sense).”
I stared at him, incredulous. “Do you even hear the SHIT that FLIES out of your mouth?”
Akim just shrugged, unbothered, as if he’d just dropped some profound life wisdom. “So, what’s her name?” he asked.
“Kate,” I said, feeling pretty pleased with myself.
Akim snorted. “Kate? My dear dummy dumb dude, let me edu-kate you about names. Nobody in Africa is named Kate. That girl’s probably gonna bamboozle you. I bet you a pint and a heartbreak that she gave you a fake number.”
I started to doubt whether she’d given me a fake number. There was only one way to find out. So, I gave her a ring—not proposing yet, calm down—and to my surprise, she actually picked up. We quickly set up a date for Saturday. Perfect timing too, since my monthly allowance had just kicked in. I’d already blown all my savings on my prized possession, a Nokia 3310. Priorities, right?
The wait for Saturday was torture; it felt like time itself was mocking me. I knew this Saturday would be different the moment I woke up. My radio kicked in with the morning Lagos news about some Clifford dude the police are on the hunt for. I faintly heard Clifford is a mad man, and I was like waste of my tax money chasing down a mentally challenged man (never paid any tax money). I could not be bothered, I had beauty and booty on my mind. I freshened up like I was getting ready for the Oscars. I brushed my teeth like I was trying to scrub away years of bad decisions. Breath? Fresh. Cologne? Sprayed every last drop. I even practiced my walking steps in the mirror, trying to perfect that swaggered stride. I was going to make sure she knew she wasn’t dealing with just any guy—she was dealing with a guy who owned a Nokia 3310—how shallow eh.
I even shaved whatever pubic hair I had down there, wanted to look CLEAN and NATURAL, like I was going all GREEN, just in case the opportunity to SMASH presented itself (I was HULKING out, ready for action). We agreed to meet at a restaurant near her place, which was quite the trip for me, but I didn’t mind at all as long as I ended up scoring at some points. Sure, the restaurant was way above my pay grade, but so was she, so I took my entire monthly allowance with me.
I arrived 15 minutes early, nervous as hell, and then spent another 25 minutes anxiously waiting for Kate to walk through those doors. The whole time, I could hear Akim’s voice in my head, taunting me: “Ha! You’re one stupid mudafucker—Kate doesn’t exist.”
And then, there she was, walking in like a vision in a red and white dress. I was speechless—like Michael Jackson’s song. What a beauty! And that dress on that body? Good Lawd! I offered her a seat across from me, but she said she’d rather sit beside me. Oh mama!
Now, in Nigeria—and I’m pretty sure in most of Africa—the man is expected to pay for lunch or dinner, and even though I was just 19, I figured I was well-endowed enough (in confidence, people!) and more than man enough to handle the bill.
She ordered something that danced on the line between too expensive and just barely affordable, but honestly, I didn’t care. As she looked into my eyes, her gaze pierced right through my soul. Then she asked, “What do you think about this, babe?” And in that moment, I was like, I’ve been babe-tized. My swagger must be off the charts. I mean, I swagger jacked her and got her hooked already.
She placed her hand on mine, and without thinking, I blurted out, “Oh yeah, that feels delicious. Please, order that.” We already had our drinks on the table—she even ordered the same thing I did, a pint of beer. A pint! I thought, She’s perfect.
She started telling me all about herself, but honestly, I don’t think I absorbed a single word. I was too busy being mesmerized by her… and, well, those cleavage. At some point, probably to avoid drooling, I blurted out, “You are so beautiful.”
She flashed a smile and replied, “Thank you, but beauty is in the eyes of the beerholder.”
She casually mentioned that she lived close by and that her parents were out of town for three days, leaving her home alone. I could immediately hear Phil Collins singing in my head, “Take, take me home.”
It was like she read my mind because she leaned in and said, “I’d love to take you to my place, but I have a dentist appointment.” A dentist appointment? Really? She continued, “But we could set up another day and time to meet up again. Maybe I could come over to your place next time.” As she said this, she placed her hand on my thigh, and I swear my pants went from a size 4 to a size 9 in an instant.
Lunch, or rather my entire monthly allowance, was over, and we made our way out of the restaurant. We said our goodbyes, and she gave me a kiss on the cheek. I’m telling you, that kiss was worth every last naira.
As I headed home, reality hit me—I had only a few cash left, not nearly enough for public transportation. My plan was to get as close to home as possible and walk the rest of the way, about 6km, or 4km if I took some questionable shortcuts.
Rush hour was kicking in, and getting on public transport at this time was like battling in World War II. After a minor skirmish, I managed to squeeze onto a bus, literally hanging by the door, the bus packed tighter than an Asshole. As I struggled to find footing while the bus lurched into motion, the guy in front of me elbowed me hard. I think he thought he was about to fall off the bus, and I was grabbing his clothes just to hang on. In the chaos, I lost my grip and rolled right off the bus onto the patchy pavement. I got up with a few bruises and scratches but shook it off like it was nothing. *I must be the Hulk after all, I thought, trying to console myself.
I started walking back to where I could catch another bus, but then I noticed my wallet and the last of my cash were gone. Gone. Either I lost them during the fall, or someone helped themselves to my pocket while I was busy channeling my inner superhero. I tried looking for it, but let’s be real—this is Nigeria. You lose your wallet or cash in a public place like this, you might as well kiss it goodbye.
I didn’t care too much about the lost wallet because, thankfully, I still had my prized possession—my Nokia 3310. Thank goodness for small miracles.
I tried calling Akim, but the signal was terrible. I decided to start walking before it got too dark. I took every shortcut I knew, trying to shave off as much distance as possible. But as darkness fell, my bravado started to wane. Some of these shortcuts were just narrow footpaths flanked by thick bushes that could be hiding anything—or anyone.
I tried calling Akim again, but the signal was even worse than before. I didn’t want to keep bringing my phone out anyway, not in a place like this. The last thing I needed was to get jacked and lose my Nokia 3310 on top of everything else. So, I stuffed it back in my pocket, kept my head down, and picked up the pace, hoping to make it home before anything—or anyone—jumped out of those bushes.
So, there I was, bruised, battered, and broke, with a long walk home ahead of me. But hey, at least I got that kiss, right?
The path was eerily quiet—like, horror movie quiet—with zero traffic. It felt like I was the only one out there. Suddenly, I heard something. A whistle. I stopped dead in my tracks, thinking maybe it was just my imagination messing with me. But as I continued walking, my pace slowed, almost tiptoeing like Jerry trying to sneak past Tom to get a slice of cheese. It was completely dark now, and the only light was from the moon, which, let’s be honest, wasn’t doing me any favors.
After another minute of creeping along, I heard the whistling again, and this time, I was sure I heard something rustling in the bushes to my right. That’s when it hit me—the news I’d heard on the radio that morning about a madman on the loose. Apparently, this guy was kidnapping, killing, and wait for it—eating people. And the last known sighting? Yeah, right near where I was walking at that very moment. Holy shit, I’m so fucked.
And then it happened. I saw something—or someone—emerge from the thick bushes. At first, it looked like Medusa with all those wild tendrils, but then I realized it was probably just dreadlocks. Not that I waited around to confirm. I took off running like Usain Bolt with a jetpack. I could hear footsteps behind me, but there was no way in hell I was dying tonight—not over a kiss on the cheek. No kiss is worth this, I thought, not even if I was kissed by a ROSE. So, I kept running, and as far as I’m concerned, this story never happened. My lips are SEAL-ED.
I managed to stumble onto the main road, finally surrounded by the comforting chaos of human and vehicle traffic. Whatever was chasing me wouldn’t dare show itself in the open, so I stopped to catch my breath. As I reached into my pocket to call Akim, my heart sank—I realized my Nokia 3310 and house keys were gone. Oh great, I thought, no money, no phone, and no way to get into the house. Just fantastic!
There was no way I was walking home, not after that nightmare, and I couldn’t call anyone for help. Desperate, I decided to take a motorcycle taxi and hope that when I got home, I’d find someone to lend me some cash—preferably Akim, who was probably hanging out in his usual spot beside the house, spinning one of his wild tales.
I hopped on a bike and headed home. Sure enough, Akim was right where I expected him to be. He paid for my fare and immediately noticed something was off. “Dude, what happened to you? I’ve been trying to call you all night.”
“I don’t have my phone,” I muttered.
Akim looked at me, concerned. “What happened to it? Please don’t tell me you gave it to Kate.”
“I might as well have,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Common, man, what happened? You look like a mess.”
It took me nearly six months to finally tell Akim the full story of what happened that night. What a day it was—elbowed off a moving bus, no money for the rest of the month, lost my N3310, lost my house keys, and didn’t even get laid. But hey, at least I survived, and I am alive.
Just as I was about to turn in and sleep off the madness, I heard a lady on the radio announce, “New developments in the Crazy Clifford Chase Case. He was spotted around 8:45 p.m. tonight, and although police pursued him, he managed to escape. Among his belongings found were a Nokia 3310, a bunch of keys, and…” I didn’t wait to hear the rest—I punched the radio off the table and went straight to bed.
