How I Met Your Father

Randomly, I booked a reservation for a table at an expensive eatery. 

I was scrolling on Instagram with my last 500MB when I saw that Chike would be performing live at a crème de la crème restaurant in Lagos.

The ones where they make you pay ridiculous amounts for a single leaf, so I don’t sound uncivilized—a single vegetable, and food that can barely pass through your nose.

If you know me, you’ll know I set myself up for failure; there was no way I could afford a restaurant like that.

I made a reservation for not only myself but a table of three. I smiled while filling out the online form. My phone number and email address were also needed.

I laughed before inputting a fake phone number. On second thought, I decided to put the phone number I rarely use.

After that, I continued scrolling until my data was finished.

When I first saw Fash with my small phone, I made sure to slap his hands.

“Sister, I’m only repairing the phone.” He protested.

Fash was my younger brother; he had an affinity for electronics, gadgets included. When he was not trying to do something no one understood on someone’s laptop, he was trying to repair something.

If Fash had tried to repair ten things in this house, seven of them would have worsened after his touch. We would be lucky to have three working.

As with every time we warned him to leave something alone, Fash returned to my phone, although days later.

“Sister, your phone is ringing.” He ran to me with the phone.

I was surprised it was working, but I picked up the call.

“Hi! Miss Freda…” Who in the world was Freda?

“Are you there?” The person on the other end asked.

“Yes, I am all ears,” I replied.

“Alright. I am calling to confirm if you made a reservation at...”

I laughed and immediately hung up. I forgot I had christened myself Freda while making reservations for Chike’s show.

“Who asked you to repair the phone?” I asked Fash.

“Later, you'll say I have a gratitude problem and look at you, no thank you whatsoever.” He hissed and left.

“Who are you hissing at?” I asked without expecting a response.

I was scrolling on Instagram again when I saw an ad for the same event I had made a reservation for. It was to be held the following day. I wish I could afford it; at least, it would be an excuse to leave the house. I had had enough of my mother in this house.

I wished and kept scrolling.

Speaking of the devil, my mother came out and started screaming at the top of her voice about how I would sit and use my phone all day, doing nothing reasonable with myself.

And then we both perceived burned food.

“Ordinary rice, you're letting it burn. By the time you useless your life…”

“Mummy, at least construct proper sentences. ‘What is useless your life?’” I interjected.

She stared at me wide-eyed. “I know you are a fool.”

I walked out on her and went out to take care of the food that was burning. 

I was still at it when Fash brought my small phone because it was ringing.

Angrily, I snatched the phone from him.

“Did I ask you to burn food, sister?” Flash asked.

“You are a fool.” I said.

The naughty boy laughed and left.

"Hello, Miss Freda, We are calling to confirm your reservation for tomorrow at...”

“No.” I cut the person on the other end short. “Can I cancel?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Will you pay for me? If you were in my shoes, would you attend a Chike show, regardless of how much you love him at your overpriced restaurant? So you think if I had that money, I'd let my mother house and feed me so she can nag? Or do you think I would not have paid the company that asked us to pay them N50,000 after the training? How much is N50,000 that I cannot afford? Do you know how much my friends spend on wigs? You think if I had that money, I would...”

“Erm! I'm sorry about that, ma’am.” The person on the other end of the line was stunned.

I had lashed out at a total stranger. Thankfully, he did not know me, so I could get away with it.

“Thank you.” I said that and hung up.

I dished out the food while Fash took it to their owners when I was done cooking. My mother, on the other hand, was still nagging in the living room.

By the time Fash and I were done, my phone rang again—a different number.

"Hello, Miss Freda.”

“Is this about the reservation? I mentioned already that I'll be canceling.” I said.

“We got that already. Would you listen to me?” The voice spoke calmly.

What?! What did I just hear? I screamed. 

My mother ran into the kitchen. “What is the matter?”

As soon as she saw me smiling, she started smiling too. Someone who was angry at me now was smiling with me.

“What's going on? Talk to me.”

I explained to her that I had randomly made a reservation at a big restaurant. They not only said I could come for free, but they would be sending a car to pick me up.

She looked at me from head to toe twice before leaving the kitchen with a disappointed look on her face.

The following day, at about 3 p.m., a sleek black car picked me up, and I can bet the entire neighborhood was staring.

My mother, who had frowned the entire night, went with me that morning to shop for a dress with the money she claimed she was loaning me.

As the car drove off, she stood staring and waving.

Afterward, we went to pick up two of my friends (remember, I made a reservation for three).

The event was great; even the food was worth whatever they charged for it. My friends were very grateful to me. They had a good time, too.

After the event, we waited for the person who waited on us to tell us that the chauffeur who would take us home was ready.

For about an hour after the show had ended, there was no sign of him.

When he eventually came out, he said his boss wanted to see me. My friends stared at each other before staring at me.

I understood the look. Had I brought them to wash plates?

I gave them a pleading look and rubbed my hand downward on my chest to reassure them.

I followed the waiter to a place that seemed like the private area of the restaurant, and there was this man in jean trousers and a white polo sitting there.

We had seen him a lot during the show; he was probably the manager.

He stood up and walked towards me. “Miss Freda, lovely to meet you. I hope your mother is no longer nagging.”

I smiled a fake smile. That was none of his business.

“No thanks. She is not.”

“Do you think we could see sometime?”

“I'll be busy.” I said.

“Okay, that's fine.” He handed his card to me and asked me to call him.

Immediately I got outside, I told my friends about the manager trying to hit me; we laughed over it, and I dumped the card in my bag without a second glance.

Days later, I returned home after a day of futile job seeking. Fash brought my small phone, saying it had been ringing nonstop.

I called the only number that called.

“I can swear I saw you today.”

“Who is this?” I said, angrily.

“Are you always irritable?” The person asked and went on to introduce himself.

“Or manager?” I corrected his introduction.

He laughed.

He was the owner of a chain of restaurants, including the one where my friends and I had watched Chike’s performance.

He had paid for dinner for my friends and me, and I did not only dump his card in my bag, but my friends and I had made jokes about him trying to bite what was more than him.

What was more than him? My poor self?

“Yes. Yes.” I agreed immediately he asked to meet up the following day.

He later explained I was given that treatment because he was there when I lashed out that way, and he thought it would be okay to help a depressed woman. It might also be good publicity for the restaurant.

I am ashamed of myself, but guess who will not only be walking down the aisle with the owner of a chain of restaurants but will also be ready to tell her children this story in a few years?

You guessed right. Me.

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Day 64/100

#the100writingmarathon