I had a date today. A lunch date. My date was a new acquaintance that I made at an event recently. She was introduced to me by an old friend and we exchanged contacts, after which we sort of hit it off chatting. Seeing that valentine’s Day was around the corner, and the presidential elections had been postponed, I thought I’d try my luck for a fun afternoon with her. I asked; she said yes!
As is my custom, I called hours ahead to confirm the date, then called as soon as I was on my way to pick her up. Finding her place wasn’t difficult, and soon we were headed out to our agreed spot.
Lunch went well. It was nothing fancy, to be honest. We ate and then proceeded to chat away like two happy bunnies. We were having our glasses of Chapman when her phone rang. She politely excused herself and took the call. It turned out that the caller was our mutual friend – my old friend who had introduced us – and after they had chatted a bit, she handed the phone to me. Our friend wanted to say hello to me as well. While we exchanged pleasantries on the phone, my date busied herself with a mirror and her lipstick. Don’t get any ideas. We hadn’t done any kissing, so it must have been the meal.
Anyway, I said goodbye on the phone and hung up, looking forward to returning to our warm discussions and a titillating view of my date’s very luscious, freshly painted lips. The lipstick colour was red. Bright red. Perhaps I would get a kiss after all. By a stroke of luck, after hanging up, the phone’s interface defaulted back to the call log menu, and there below the name of the caller, was a contact named “Lunch”. I have sharp eyes and quick reflexes, so it didn’t take but a quick glance to see what number was attached to whoever “Lunch” was.
It turned out to be my number. The world suddenly went quiet.
My date was blissfully painting those nice lips away and chatting about something that I no longer could hear. But I had seen my number on her phone, and my name was simply “Lunch”. I have been named all sorts of oddities and zoned in different ways. Daddy Mo. Grandpa Mo. Brother Jero. Alagba Yomi. Big Bros. Mister Mo. Once I was lucky and it was “Stud”. But “Lunch”? So very unflattering.
I sat there, dropped the phone and smiled at her happy, beautiful face. Behind my smiling face, my mind ground away in slow motion: Lunch. Lunch. Lunch. Lunch.
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