G. K.

Her hips sway from left to right like a tree dancing to the soothing songs cool breeze produces. She takes time to make her steps on the hard floor like she’s afraid of hurting it. Her steps are well calculated, and the way she walks, her slender back stands erect, accentuated by the tight top she’s wearing.

She’s walking into the bar to bring the order she just took from us; a bottle of Kai-kian, full small 75cl of swan water to quench the bile that’s burning in me. I’m seated, watching and observing the swaying movement. It’s actually inviting, but the bile is killing—distracting me from actually appreciating the figure.

She’s dark, slim and tall. Not the figure to find in a bar where local drinks are sold. She’s near perfect. Average boobs, perfect hips to match her tall frame. She returns with a bottle filled to the brim and two glass cups; one for me, one for my friend.

She drops them gently on the table before us and I get to have a closer look of her face. Her face is not the perfect face you see around endowed with make ups of all sorts. She has no make up on. Just old dark spots of pimples on her face. But she’s beautiful still.

I force a smile and do what I seldom do if a girl gets my attention.

“You’re beautiful.”

She must’ve heard it over and over again from poor drunkards coming to sip the hot drink. It catches her off guard. She smiles. Her dimples flaunt. My heart leaps. I love dimples. They give me butterflies.

“Thank you,” she says. It isn’t that kind of gruff thank you nor coarse voice of a girl selling local drinks in a mammy market. No. It’s alluring and well articulated. I like her voice, her phonetics; bereft of hard life. Sweet and inviting. I want more. Want to keep her talking. But my mind is occupied.

I stare at her as she goes to attend to other customers. She’s friendly and has this accommodating attribute towards her customers. Again, I like her. I like her behaviour just this short time.

The customers are much and crazy. Drunkards provoking the hell out of her, but she keeps her cool. Composed and soothingly answering their stupid questions.

“G.K., shey you go still follow me go?”

“Affa, tomorrow na my turn o! Shey you go do me well? No be like that last time o!”

She nods in affirmation. She has no choice. Maybe she sells more than hot drink that makes men slurp, she sells her pot of gold that makes men crazy. Just maybe.

A car honks. A jeep, but I’m too concerned to catch the name. It’s sleek black and sparklingly neat. Windows are wound up. A big, bold woman alights from the passenger’s side. She’s haughty. She meets G.K. and whispers to her. Her visage changes. I see fear. Pain. Frustration etched on her face as she enters the bar, grabs her purse and heads to the car.

The woman goes in and takes her position—attending to the customers while G.K. enters the jeep and it speeds off raising dust as it thunders away.

I get up, pay the woman and leave, more hurt than I’ve been.

Some are living in pain and still pulling through; managing to smile against the most painful challenges of life.

Image credit: tripsavvy.com