As an engineer going through a divorce, I often came to this nightclub to unwind. Tonight, with R. Kelly’s “Step in the Name of Love” playing in the background, she walked into the club, smiling at me.

This was the third time we’d met in the three months since I first knew her. We were different in many ways, but the obvious age gap didn’t matter to her. She said she was a make-up artist and sometimes sang in nightclubs. When we talked, which wasn’t often, it was never about anything important.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

She shrugged and smiled. 

I’d been struggling to finish the beer I ordered over an hour ago. She had only been here for twenty minutes but had already downed three bottles of beer, smoked two cigarettes, and eaten a plate of pepper soup.

The hotel where I was staying was just a stone’s throw away. In my room, after making me feel like I got my money’s worth, she told me she’d be travelling to Abuja for a few months to make a living. She said she’d never been to Abuja before and didn’t have any friends or relatives there, but she still wanted to go.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to feel.

“Stay with me,” I whispered.

She smiled, got up slowly from the bed, and lit a cigarette.

…

We sat in the lounge at Ibadan airport, staring at the planes. I had never cared about what she did for a living, but the thought of her getting a job, any job, anywhere, sounded good to me.

I had so many questions, but since we’d never talked about anything serious, I swallowed them.

Abuja was a mix of good, bad, and ugly. It was too conservative, full of soulless people, and could be tough for someone starting from scratch.

I wanted to tell her all this, to make her change her mind. But the way she was staring at the planes as if she’d never seen one before, I could tell her soul was already in Abuja.

“You look sad,” she said.

I exhaled, wondering if this woman I’d only met three months ago meant something to me. I wanted her to mean something—something more than just physical, something that could make me truly smile, and make me forget the troubles at home.

An announcement from the speakers said the Abuja flight would be boarding in ten minutes.

She looked at me, smiled, and said, “I’ll pay you back the flight money when I make my first money in Abuja.”

I chuckled.

She stared at her shoes, then at the planes. “Will you miss me?”

“Will you miss me?” I asked back.

She hugged me.

That was when it hit me: I would never see her again.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Kingsley Alumona is a geologist, writer, poet, and journalist from Delta State, but lives in Ibadan, Oyo State, Nigeria. He has a B.Sc. in Geology from the University of Nigeria and an M.Sc. in Geophysics from the University of Ibadan.  He is a reporter with the Nigerian Tribune newspaper. His works have appeared in the 2018 African Book Club Anthology, Kalahari Review, Nthanda Review, TUCK magazine, Brittle Paper, Afritondo, Digirature, Ngiga Review, Pawners Paper, Omenana (Issue 17), Transition Magazine (Issue 131), Afrocritik Magazine, and Botsotso Literary Journal. His nonfiction story is forthcoming in Fortunate Traveller Magazine. You can reach him on Facebook: @kingsley.alumona.1