How To Drown A Date

I catch a whiff of a very expensive scent that causes me to look up from my plate. My nose happens to be quite adept at picking out the exotic ones. O, and I absolutely love a good scent, courtesy of my significant other. This particular one is quite out of character with the place. Not that there is anything the matter with the diner but there are some places I classify as "for certain people" and not others.

I am just in time to see a shapely backside with a walking pair to match sashay past my table. The manner of her dress confirms what my ever-reliable nose had picked out earlier—some class. Not a single strand of what is obviously her expensive weave is out of place. In tow is a man who in my quick evaluation belongs. Tall, handsome, clad in a large blue t-shirt, baggy pants and shoes all the color of ebony. Even his skin tone matches. I smile inwardly at the pair.

I would have ignored the incongruous couple and gone on with the business of taming my hunger had Mr. T-shirt not guided Ms Shapely to the table where I sat. It is a four-seater, I was the lone diner there and three vacant chairs beckoned. Obvious choice, and why not anyway? He pulls a chair for her, waits for her to fit her shapely self into it and goes over to pull one for himself. A true gentleman.

The pair is now seated directly in front of me and I am perfectly positioned to steal appraising glances at the fairer one without appearing to stare. Fine looks, olive skin, blue-striped sleeveless blouse. I quickly size up the two, confirming my earlier take. A coupling of here and not-here. Do I read discomfort in her smile and posture? Yes, definitely. I am good at that as well. But Mr. T-shirt is right at home in this place. Now I knew who of the two had suggested the diner in the first place.

Quick as flash, a waitress materializes to attend to the couple. It is not lost on me that I had sat for the better part of 15 minutes without anyone bothering to as much as nod in my direction. I had even contemplated walking out at some point but the hunger pangs jabbing at my belly had persuaded me to stay put. But I am not one to gripe over such trivialities; after all my order had eventually been served.

But I digress.

The orders are quickly called. Mr. T-shirt: cassava, posho, rice, and luwombo of fish in groundnut sauce. Such tough carbs but I nod imperceptibly in approval, a true man of the place. Without waiting for Ms Shapely to have her say, he quickly blurts out an order for her, with the confident air of a man who is on top of things: chicken and chips.

I am already picturing three hot, crunchy, golden-brown drumsticks nestled among several long, thin, golden-yellow slivers of fried potatoes when I am rudely awakened from my culinary reverie.

Woman waiting on couple: we do not serve that food here.

Mr. T: What will you have?

Ms S: Do they have fresh fish?

Woman: Yes we do.

Bring her fish and rice, he quickly interjects.

Life’s good, obviously! I am glad the two chose to sit at my table, this is going to be one very interesting lunch.

Then the conversation starts in hushed tones but I can make out the story unfolding before me. I gather that Ms S is Mr. T’s date and he seems to be out to win her affections. He speaks fairly good English but I swear I cannot hear a single word of what Ms S is saying. Very soft spoken, and again, out of place in this loud diner where you literally have to shout to be heard. She smiles occasionally at Mr. T who keeps talking animatedly. Nice set of teeth. I am three quarters of the way through my meal by now but I make up my mind to step off the gas and draw out the remainder of my time at the table.

Their orders presently arrive and the woman-in-waiting elaborately opens the luwombo for Mr. T. His face lights up considerably. It is going to be a delicious meal. Ms S is presented with the order Mr. T made for her, a mound of steaming white rice on an over-sized, chipped porcelain platter. Accompanying this is another platter on which the fish rests, half submerged in its own soup.

What drinks will you have?

Mr. T opts for cold water. After a moment’s hesitation, Ms S decides she will have a glass of fresh juice.

Because of his chosen seating arrangement, Mr. T cannot see his companion’s face. I wonder why he inadvertently sat her facing me and chose to sit sideways from her. But that is a mundane matter right now. As a direct result, he misses to see the look on her face when she is presented with her food. Absolute bewilderment masked by a faintly lame smile.

Well manicured fingers reach out gingerly for the cutlery, specifically a spoon. The routine goes thus: scoop out some fish soup, pour it on the rice and attempt to eat. Eyes lifted slightly from my near-cleaned plate, I am taking in every movement of the fingers and the cutlery. I can even afford to look further up at her face because I know that all her attention is on the food and she will not see me. It is now all creased in consternation. Have I missed something? Maybe, maybe not but I can swear that S has seen hordes of all manner of dangerous microorganisms swimming in the fish soup and crawling all over the rice.

Every trip of the spoon to the red, luscious lips is a protracted exercise in agony. T is too lost in his heaven of luwombo to notice his companion’s troubled demeanor, let alone care. I told you, life’s gorgeous.

The drinks arrive. I would not be too bothered to give S’ juice a second look. Apparently, neither would she who ordered for it in the first place. Thin and yellowy it looks, the glass presented uncovered and sitting on another over-sized plastic tray. What is with these people and larger-than-life crockery? My eyes are now scrutinizing S’ every expression. You would be forgiven to think that I am conducting a research for my doctoral thesis.

Did I say that she occasionally steals glances at me? Well, she does. It must be the deadpan expression she finds me wearing each time she looks in my direction. He he he. She gives the juice one lo-o-o-ong, hard look, the kind a mother usually reserves for her little boy when he plays irritating pranks in front of the visitors she told he was the most adorable boy in the neighborhood.

I could be wrong but there is no way on this planet that S is going to as much as attempt to drink from that glass. T is really enjoying his luwombo, making light banter while at it, blissfully oblivious of the scenario developing right next door. S continues to carefully pick at her mound of microorganisms while I go about the mundane business of pretending to clear the scattered nibbles still resting on my plate.

I am starting to lose interest in the goings-on in front of me so I beckon to the young man who attended to me for my bill. But knowing the time it took him to process my order in the first place, I know I am in for a lengthy wait so I might as well make myself busy. My next destination is my area electricity supply office, they had earlier asked for a sketch map to my home to make some installations there. I fish a pen and paper out of my rucksack and get to work.

Half way through the sketch, I hear S let out a muffled “OMG”, like the microorganisms had suddenly developed wings and were flying off into space. Fearing the worst, I look up from the sketch but everything still looks exactly as I left it a minute earlier except that both S and T have abruptly suspended the exercise of decimating their respective meals. Two pairs of eyes are now fearfully trained on the glass of yellowy juice.

Following their gazes, I soon discover the reason for their mortified expressions. But in all honesty, T’s seems to me more amused than anything else. There in front of all three of us, plain as day, is a navy blue housefly furiously flapping its wings and paddling all three pairs of legs, frantically fighting for its life in the lake of juice.

Seemingly unbothered while furiously taking mental notes, I go back to finishing my sketch but not before glancing in the direction of S. Our eyes lock fleetingly and I mouth a pained “sorry”. She quickly drops her gaze and folds her arms in a final gesture of defiance.

Defiance of the food, the juice, the over-sized crockery and every last thing about this damned place teeming with billions of cretinous microscopic creatures.

I pick up my stuff, mumble my excuses and make for the exit. As I leave the table, I steal one last glance at T still engrossed in his meal but this time, his shoulders appear stooped in resignation. I can only hazard guesses at what is going on in his mind.

Houseflies are as commonplace in many diners as sand on beaches but unfortunately for them, they were not made for swimming and thus tend to drown in fluids. This one chose the wrong place to take his afternoon swimming lesson and had inadvertently drowned a man’s awesome date.

I wished I could stay a little longer to witness a happy ending to this misadventure but I need to deliver my sketch map to the electricity guys before they close shop for the day. Good luck Mr. T-shirt, good luck to you too Ms Shapely, you will both need it soon.

Methinks anyway.