An oyibo man called me “my darling”; it wasn’t just once but several times as he spoke to me.
His sentences were punctuated by the endearment before he took a break to swallow saliva. It felt like he had cooked his words like a pot of okra soup and emptied a big sachet of “darling” into it.
“It’s okay, my darling, you just have to write your name at the end of the text over there, darling.”
I have never met him, never seen him. I woke up that morning and showed up at his office, and that was it.
My Nigerianess thinks it’s because of the red lipstick I splayed on my lips. I didn’t bother to layer the bottom part with a black eye pencil to tone down how bold it turned out.
My gap teeth, coupled with the shimmering red lips, must have been too conspicuous to ignore. Is he liking me in an ungodly way? I thought.
He comes again, this time wearing a smile. “Hey, darling, would you like a cup of tea or coffee? Milk or no milk, sugar or no sugar. Tell me how you like it, darling.”
I wanted to scream an Igbo exclamation, but I muttered under my breath, “Which kind of Wahala be this.” I smiled and told him I was okay and he needn’t bother.
“You sure, my love?” I smiled even more and nodded in affirmation.
I am in this office for an interview, and this man whose name I didn’t catch during our introduction seems to be the nicest person yet. He did say his name, but my ears let the word slide, and I was too anxious to ask him to repeat it. I was 20 minutes late for the interview because navigating through the new city was still a challenge.
“Darling, I have just spoken to the manager, and you will be called in shortly. Let me know if you need anything at all. Alright, my darling?” He walked away with a file carried like a Nigerian university undergraduate in his first year.
A few minutes later, I had my interview and was ready to go home. The sinner at the mischievous part of my brain thought he would ask for my number so that I could tell him that I have a man whom I am committed to, but he looks me in the eye and says something that sounds like an over-rehearsed line. “I wish you all the best, my darling. Goodbye.”
I waved him goodbye, and best believe, he is the kindest receptionist I had met. Mr. Darling.
Notes By Emmanuella 