Chronicles Of A Runs Girl - S01 E28

Story 2 years ago

Chronicles Of A Runs Girl - S01 E28

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 28

Things are happening

If I’d not been there, I’d have said it was a lie.

I saw the actual moment Ibrahim shrugged off the initial surprise and recomposed himself as if nothing happen.

Not looking at any of us in particular he said, “Ladies, please come with me.”

The third girl, still putting on a model’s pose and totally oblivious of the serious drama unravelling in her presence, was first to move. She stepped forward and sashayed over to him. Her strides were exaggerated and forceful, overdoing it due to lack of confidence no doubt. I looked at Kike, then at Ibrahim. She was practically dying while he was boning and refusing to look at her. It was as if he didn’t know her again. Something was wrong.

The boy walked up the stairs and the third girl followed. He didn’t even look back to check that we were following.

“Oya now,” I told Kike. She looked like she would be sick.

“Babes, let’s go,” I said firmly and took her hand. I led her up the stairs and towards whatever awaited us there.

We got to the landing and the boy asked us to wait. He went through a door which he closed behind him. The third girl immediately started arranging herself; shifting her skirt, touching her hair, and repositioning her breasts.

“Kike, are you alright?” I asked my cousin.

She looked up into my eyes and I felt pity for her. She slowly shook her head then she nodded then she shook her head again.

She tried to speak but her voice failed – a lump, caught in her throat. She swallowed then tried again.

“I don’t know what is happening,” she finally managed to say.

Same as me.

I wanted to ask her about him but I didn’t want the other girl to know our business.

“There’s no problem,” I said, “I’m here.”

The third girl, perhaps sensing that something was amiss, offered her unsolicited support.

“Baby girl, nothing dey happen. I’m sure he’s a senator or a minister. He will take care of us.”

A senator? A minister? That small boy? Then the penny dropped.

The door opened and Ibrahim, standing in the frame, beckoned for us to come in. We walked past him, the third girl leading the way. I waved Kike ahead of me and watched as she passed him. She looked at him but he looked away. I followed, looking straight ahead and boning hard!

A slim tall man in a white tracksuit stood from an arm chair and newspapers fell off his laps. He smiled broadly and with both his hands shook each of us in turn, welcoming us and asking how we were.

He was dark skinned, bald as can be, but he had an immaculately trimmed beard and moustache that was all but grey. Even though he looked fiftyish, he had a boyish thing about him, and when he spoke, the funeh was genuine. And his smile was something else.

“Please, ladies, sit,” he said.

We sat but Ibrahim remained standing.

“Drinks?” the older man offered. “Brandy? Champagne? Wine?”

The third girl asked for Malt and I felt like slapping her. The man smiled his sweet smile and apologised that he didn’t have any Malt.

“I have single malt, though,” he said. “Would you like that?”

“Yes. I don’t take alcohol.”

The man nodded at Ibrahim who then left to carry out the errand. He was a boy-boy! Shio.

My first instinct was to engage the man in conversation and stop the third girl from making us all look bush. But I was too worried for Kike. Her face looked like she’d been crying all night. She was silent and sullen. I hated to think how her belly must be feeling right then.

The man had also noticed Kike’s face.

“Madam,” he said to her, “Are you all right?”

“Yes sir,” Kike answered in a tiny voice I’d never heard coming out of her mouth.

“Ah! Please, don’t call me Sir. My name is Charles.”

Charles Alfonso Paraku – C.A.P.! I couldn’t believe I was in the same room with C.A.P.! He wasn’t a minister, wasn’t a senator, wasn’t even a politician, but he was one of the richest men in Nigeria, according to Johnny; one of those silent billionaires that not everybody knows about. He was into shipping, long before even the Ibrus got into shipping. His family owned interests in and outside Nigeria and he had recently acquired an oil block – through a front. When Johnny told me about him, he talked about how humble he was and how he asked everyone, young and old, to call him Charles, not Sir. Charles Alfonso Paraku. He was money personified.

I forgot about Kike.

Ibrahim returned with a servant in tow bearing the drinks on a silver tray. I didn’t even bother boning for him. I was using my eyes to smile at Charles and waiting for him to say something that would allow me demonstrate my flawless English and engaging intellect.

Charles asked for the drinks to be taken to his room then he got up and asked us to please come with him.

This time I led the way, because, let’s face it, it’s like watching Yahoo-Yahoo boys mix Dom Perignon with cranberry juice; they just don’t know the value of it.