uch pepper in this my short life, I've finally seen the light-it's bright, and so white. By white, I mean oyibo. Yes, I'm going international and not looking back. I swear, the next ma

foolish man sneered with his fake posh British accent, "I see you're still pretending to be razz." So, I laughed, "I see you're still borrowing people's cars and pretending to be rich. Meanwhile, shebi you've forgotten you still owe me money? Onigbese, when am I getting my money?" Embarrassed, he turned, pretended not to hear me as he brisk-walked to the car and zoomed off in a huff. That was the end of my exercise and search for oyibos in Lekki. Two weekends later, I went to a restaurant in Ikoyi which Susan and Bukky swore by. Like they'd advised, I went alone and timed my visit to coincide with the oyibo crowd who came for long Sunday lunch. I found a table, settled in, but didn't order a starter immediately. Instead, I whiled away time sipping a Moscow Mule and rereading Ayobami Adebayo's Stay With Me. I caught the glances of most of the men, and after some time, it seemed I'd lucked out because a man shuffled to my table. He looked exactly my spec-stocky, limp brown hair, plain enough, flaccid belly which jiggled under his t-shirt, and thin k-legs which looked awkward in his shorts and palm slippers. I could see in his eyes that he was nervous so I smiled. He smiled back. "Hello. May I join you?" I smiled my answer, and remembered my Iya Agba used to say, sometimes men are like babies who you have to pull by the ear and show the way. He started well. "You're beautiful." "Yes." But he didn't continue well after the introductions (his name was Uwe, he was German and an engineer). Somehow, he started talking about formation evaluation and reservoir simulation while I smiled and pretended not to be bored. And honestly, I didn't mind him being boring and having no game. I'd begun to think he was perfect but the Universe had other ideas because, thirty minutes later, I noticed a white woman with stunning silver- blonde hair come in and scan the room till her eyes locked on Uwe . . . and me. As she stronged her face, I knew immediately she was his wife or girlfriend. She strode towards us, and I thought, Mogbe! Which kain wahala be this? Luckily he spotted her, jumped awkwardly to his feet, and caught up with her before she reached the table. As he herded her towards the patio and outdoor section of the restaurant to lessen the embarrassment, I heard her berating him in their language and I was pleased. I refuse to fight over a man in public or private. The embarrassment still touched me sha because other diners noticed what happened, and it killed my chances. I quickly grabbed my things, called for the bill, paid (even though I noticed the waiter had included Uwe's half-drunk beer), and left. Anyway, that's the story of how I bought a beer for a man who was trying to deceive me. Week 7 One day, the Universe threw me a curveball in the shape of The Russian. I'd met him when I was an adviser in consumer an d industrial markets for one of the Big Four audit firms, and he headed a multi-national waste and plastic-recycling company. I'd written a market intelligence report for his company through my firm, and six months later, it helped his company secure a lucrative contract with the government. To celebrate, he'd insisted on taking everyone involved to dinner but by then, I'd left the firm for a better-paying rival. He'd gotten my number from my former colleagues and called me to join them at a restaurant in V.I. but I was home in Gbagada and didn't fancy driving back to the Island. That was how I got his number, and because I only knew his surname, Mr Zherdev, I saved it as, 'The Russian'. After I'd settled in at my new firm, I wanted The Russian's company to hire us to provide audit and financial services. So, I called him and scheduled a meeting for the pitch. I went alone because I didn't want to share any bonus my firm would give for securing a new high net worth client. On the day, I got to his office at Ikoyi early. I presented myself to his secretary, a bony and thin-lipped woman with a bitter smile. "Good afternoon, Ma'am. Shike Macaulay to see Mr Zherdev. I have an appointment." "Ah, I remember you." She sized me up for a moment, then whispered, "Still Ms Macaulay?" "Is that a problem?" She half-sneered. "Don't worry. God will do it for you." As I considered telling her that God should first focus on fixing her stupidity, The Russian opened the door of his office, poked his head out, and beamed. "Shike! Shike! Come! Come!" He was grizzled, had stubble and grey eyes which crinkled when he smiled, and he smiled a lot. His handshake was firm and he held my hand for a moment and accused me in his halting English. "You help me get big contract, but you disappear before I thank you. Why?" Without missing a beat, I said, "I know how you can thank me. Give my firm some work." He chuckled. "It's not just about thanking me. It's in your company's best interests to use my new firm. Allow me to show you why." "Sit?" He pointed to a chair. We sat on opposite sides of his desk, and he listened as I delivered my carefully rehearsed spiel. When I was done, he flicked through my firm's glossy brochure. Then he drummed his fingers on his desk and furrowed his brow. "Let me think this, okay?" "Yes, sir." I said this in Russian. He looked bemused. "Why you speak Russian?" I said the truth. "I learned some Russian phrases from YouTube hoping to impress you and seal this deal." His hearty laughter threw his head back and made his shoulders dance. He wiped tears from his eyes, leaned forward, and whispered. "I'm Ukrainian." There was little I could do but laugh at myself. I was laughing when he asked, "You have boyfriend?" "What?" "Boyfriend. You have?" "No." "Good. Have dinner. With me. Please." "Erm. You're my client. Okay not yet my client, but . . . You understand what I mean? It's unprofess-" I exhaled, "I'm not sure of the word for it." "Ah, I understand. Easy solution." He used a pen to mark a big X on my firm's brochure. "I say no to proposal. So, I'm not client. No more problem." He smiled, "So, dinner?" I pointed to the brochure. "I think you should reconsider my proposal." He glanced at it and shrugged. "I have friends in other companies. I help you get them as client. I promise. Dinner?" "Wait. This is . . . unexpected. I don't know anything about you." "What you want to know? Ask." "Erm . . . your first name." He smiled, "Apostol." "Apostle? Like the title?" He chuckled as he spelled it. "Mean same thing. But is my name. Next question." "I don't know. Don't you have a wife or girlfriend or something?" "No." "Why?" His eyes smiled, "I tell you at dinner." At that moment, I remembered my Iya Agba's saying about finding what you've searched for in faraway Sokoto, right there in your shokoto. Week 12 My doorbell rang. As I walked to the door, I glanced at my watch and thought that Pastor, (as I now called Apostol), was early. He was supposed to pick me, we drive to Marina, and take a boat to a private beach near Tarkwa Bay. I opened the door. A man said, "Hello, Ohemaa." I smiled as we hugged. Kwesi, my Ghanaian friend, was the only person who called me Ohemaa. As we unclasped from the hug, he said, "You're still Ghanaian Black." "You still look like a wannabe Majid Michel." Because I was darker, and he was biracial, we always had silly running jokes about our complexions. "What?" He chuckled. "You're still crazy." "Ah! Don't swear for me abeg. I'm not crazy in Jesus name." I took a step back, and waved him in. "Come in. This is a pleasant surprise." He came in, looked around my living room. "You've done up your place. It was nice before, but it's great now. I like it. Especially how airy it is." "Thanks. It's been a while since you were here." He sat on a couch, but I knew he wasn't going to sit for long. Kwesi was naturally restless. "Yeah. The last time we saw was two years ago." "That long? Life, eh? You didn't tell me you were coming to Nigeria." "How could I? You don't take my calls." "But we text naw. You know I've been busy." "Liar. It's because of my wife." I chuckled. "Yes, that too. You know how it can be with wives and female friends. I have to respect her and keep boundaries. So, how've you been, Chale? You want something to drink? Your choices are water, Sprite, and zobo." He got off the couch and began to pace the room. "You know I don't like you calling me that. It makes me feel I'm just your friend. Like I've been friend-zoned." I smiled. "Chale, you're just my friend. And you were always friend- zoned." "I'm working on changing that, Ohemaa. Since we met, I've always been working on that." "Who sent you this hopeless work?" We'd met twelve years ago, as the only Black people in our undergraduate class at the University of Dundee. We hung out, faced the cold and culture together, ate and bantered, and eventually became friends. But we bonded when my Iya Agba died in my final year. I was born in London to Nigerian parents. My mother, who never recovered from a rare case of post-partum preeclampsia after giving birth to me, died when I was two. My father raised me as a single dad as best as he could until he died from a sudden stroke during our visit to Nigeria when I was ten. That's how his mother, my Iya Agba, a semi-literate but resourceful trader in Balogun Market, raised me. She was a fo