Friday Before Valentine |Chapter 8|

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As I lower myself down the chair it creaks loudly. It’s a new coffee place, smelling of hot boiling water and cocoa. 

“I missed you,” you say. 

“Where is this place?” I ask as I bring out my phone from my handbag. 

“It’s called coffee place,” 

“Where precisely?” 

“Bims street.” 

“I wanna take a selfie,” I say and laugh out loud. “I have taken so many pictures since I came into America.” 

“I can help you take as many photos as you might want tomorrow, I will be on my off days for three days,” you say delightedly as you take the phone from my hands and begin to take different shots of me. The coffee arrived, and you took shots of me while I sipped it. 


“You’re so beautiful,” you say as you kissed my image on my cellphone. 

I laugh out loud again, “I am here, kiss me here,” I say. 

“If you would let me,” you say soothingly.

But I cover my lips in excitement and laugh. 

“I will take you to a restaurant on this same street. They make the best vegetables,” you say. 

“I can’t wait,” I said. 

“You love Vegetables?” you ask. 

I nodded. But it wasn’t true. I knew that you won’t like that I don’t love vegetables, they tasted like drugs. And I only took them when it’s recommended by a doctor. 

You hold my hands, as I stand to my feet and we take a stroll to the restaurant. 

I lift my eyebrows in sympathy, and bite into a piece of broccoli. It’s been cooked to a dark, soft green, and oozes water between my teeth. 

“This is my best vegan restaurant in America,” you say. 

I chew slowly. I don’t trust myself to speak. 

You lay your fork down and fold your arms, lean back in the chair. “Ikakke, be free with me okay? I am cool, just the way you see me right now, okay? “You point your index finger toward your heart, “ This heart of mine, beats for you alone baby.”


My heart quickens as I nod in silence. I stab a piece of chicken with my fork, my glass of water trembles. 

“Just prove it that you love me,” I say shyly. 

“What do you want me to do?” you ask. 

My mind had wanted me to say, “come marry me.” But it was the bad mind. The mind that wants me to fumble and be shamed. The mind that doesn’t understand a woman’s pride. So rather, I stare at your face, and everything else doesn’t matter anymore, because I think of you. 

You take a mouthful of pasta and eat it noisily, your mouth open, your head nodding. 

“Will you be busy tomorrow?” you ask. When you speak, I can see bits of food lodged between your teeth. 

“Busy doing what? I came to America to have fun,” I say. 

“Good. Glad to hear that. So you and I will have to meet tomorrow then. I will pick you up. Just look beautiful. I will take pictures of you, several of them,” you say. 
“Coffee, I need coffee!” you said loudly. 

The lady who asked us to write down the kind of coffee we needed, directed us to the counter. We take two cups of coffee, doused with milk and sugar.

Next Chapter: |Chapter 9|

Complete Chapters:

|Chapter 1||Chapter 2||Chapter 3||Chapter 4||Chapter 5||Chapter 6||Chapter 7||Chapter 8||Chapter 9||Chapter 10||Chapter 11||Chapter 12||Chapter 13||Chapter 14||Chapter 15||Chapter 16||Chapter 17||Chapter 18|