If obsession was a person, Tolu is the obsession.
The theme song for the programme Superstory filtered into my bedroom and I stiffened, dropping my eye pencil automatically and made a mad dash to the living room where Yetunde was waiting impatiently for me to get dressed. She was seated on the couch, dressed in her owambe finery and clutching her Blackberry like a lethal weapon. I ignored her. The series had just commenced and a smile found its way to my lips as I stare at the television, anticipating the usual opening scene of idiocy from the cast on screen.
Superstory could never get old for me. From the corner of my eye, I spied Yetunde’s beautiful face, marred by a scowl of irritation as she reached for something on the nearby table. I pretended not to notice. Suddenly, the television goes off and it occurred to me that she had been reaching for the remote control. Arrrrgh! My sigh was expected, as was her accompanying accusatory whine which took a mere nanosecond to break forth. “Dense, this is what I don’t like. Shebi you see yourself now? You’re not even dressed, the party has already started.”I made my way back into the bedroom without a word.
Responding to her was only going to make my reticence at the whole idea of this party seem petty. I gave my word that I would accompany her and she was hell-bent on making sure I kept it; barring death or fatal injury.
The party in question was the 45th birthday celebration of Yetunde’s ex and a bonafide asshole! I couldn’t understand why she would want to celebrate with a man who used her for four years, made her go through six abortions AND dumped her eventually. Why would any sane woman celebrate a man like Tolu, especially if he had treated them like dirt? If I were the one, Tolu would be the celebratory meal for fishes in the Ethiope river! Then again, I am not Yetunde.
At the back seat of the red-cab beside my friend and her ginormous gele, I ‘zoned out’ and reflected on her obsession with Tolu. I couldn’t understand it. Tolu was a stumpy, rotund man with an over-bloated ego and a penchant for loud boastful rants about how he made good out of nothing. I’ll admit he does have a boyishly handsome face but I could swear his ‘plumbing equipment’ was below the average size. Yetunde had drunkenly made reference to that particular point seven years ago when they broke up but has since denied it. I often wondered what the attraction was for her.
Yetunde was a beautiful buxom Ijebu belle with the most gorgeous ‘okpolo’ eyes I had ever seen. Her eyes were framed by incredibly long lashes and her rosebud lips were just perfect for her face. She was indeed beautiful. Annoyingly, these were her least attractive features. At the very top was her ass and her love for gist, damn that girl likes gist 😂😂. Yetunde had an ass that could effortlessly put Nicki Minaj and her surgeons to shame. The fact that she had a very flat stomach was a huge bonus to her figure. She was a beauty nightmare within our small caucus of friends. Our secret consolation was that she had self-esteem issues and her ‘bulb upstairs’ was not too bright. Other than that, she was almost flawless.
I teased her often that she would make a perfect trophy wife. The entrance to The grand suits Club venue of the party was packed with the latest automobiles, causing a mini debacle at the entrance gates for the likes of us who arrived late and in taxis. We were made to walk all the way to the hall because taxis were not allowed into the venue. Yetunde and I tottered towards the hall in heels that were threatening to cripple us. My mood wasn’t bolstered by this simple exercise and I almost cursed out loud in anger when we entered the place and a potpourri of perfume threatened to choke me.
I was at a party I wasn’t freaked to be at, with people I wasn’t prepared to meet or like. Sensing that I was about to erupt, Yetunde led me to an empty table, grabbed two glasses of white wine from a passing waiter and handed them to me. Joy! I gulped in gratitude and threw her a look of a temporary truce. Surprisingly, what I presumed to be ordinary ‘party white wine’, turned out to be champagne. I had swallowed a glass and a half without decorum. Wow, they were serving champagne-on-the-go at Tolu’s party, this would definitely add to his boasting.
I made Yetunde go in search of more Champagne while I settled in and looked around. I noted the usual sea of faces. Lagos big boys, standing in small clusters, acting disinterested but scanning the scene for fresh female bait. Lagos big girls drifting by, cackling mirthlessly, blowing air kisses and acting friendly. The same Mac caked-up faces with spidery fake lashes and Brazilian/Peruvian weave-on that made them look “otherworldly”. So many “suspect” designer purses and Louboutins all around; one pound jewellery… oh and the accents. Let’s not forget the fake, indescribable
And then my usual craving for Orijin made me start to look around but I didn’t see any waiter pass with one. Where the hell was Yetunde? She has started her famzing again and she left me all alone here. “I hear his wife is really slim even after having three kids in quick succession”, Yetunde announced as she placed two glasses of Orijin before me. I tried hard not to express my thinly veiled disdain, which was threatening to jump across the threshold of my calm facade listening to her drone on about how perfect and happy she and Tolu had been before this intruder of a woman came to shatter their world.
I wondered if all the slaps and blows she received from him during their relationship, were part of their ‘perfect happy times’ together. My hands were itching to add to the slaps to knock her off her reminiscing but what can I do, she gave me Orijin. I just listened like a good friend. Who knows? She could secretly be into sadomasochism. Ooh, too much English right please no vex.
Yetunde made several trips to God-knows-where (I suspect she was trying to attract the birthday boy’s attention) and returned with more tales of Madam tolu from sources unknown. I wasn’t in the least bit interested. Having realized that she couldn’t get me on the same page, she disappeared yet again and this time didn’t return for quite a while. Great!
Stuck with strange ladies who had joined our table and whose aim at the party was not hard to detect, going by the way their eyes roved anytime an agbada-clad individual walked past. There were several agbada-clad politicians in attendance hence the out-pour of big girls. The competition for agbada was real! I was getting drunk, knowing a champagne headache would be the bitch, but it was either the booze or trying to make conversation with the ladies on my now crowded table. Guess which option I took…duh!
The party progressed into a full-fledged owambe with Princess Ayo Balogun taking the stands and belting out classic Sunny Ade tunes. Everyone was dancing; well almost everyone. I sat down all through because I couldn’t trust myself to stand straight. I bobbed my head to the music while eyeballing a guy who obviously seemed as disinterested in this whole charade as I was. We exchanged smiles and I felt warm towards him in a way only drunk single, matronly-looking women do at parties.
I was about to get my flirt on when Yetunde’s ‘oni gele’ appeared suddenly, breathing like an excited puppy. My head buzzed at the suddenness of her appearance and the fact that she had interrupted my ‘Flirt-action ’Dense, I finally met her!” she announced in glee. “Huh? Met who???” I asked in dignified confusion.
“Madam Tolu! Tolu’s wife. He actually introduced us. Sigh, she finally met the object of the obsession. I felt like slapping her about her obsession with this family as I shook my head. Finally, the song came in from the stand. Ma dele dándán oo madele dándán. It was finally time to go home. I doubt if I will be going to any party with this big head again.