Grace, …
You saw a video on Facebook where a couple made beautiful remarks about each other whilst playing ‘Truth or Dare’. The scene delighted you and brought tiny drops of tears to your eyes - you yearned to hear what Emeka thought of you and hoped they were beautiful things. Truth nighed your wish after the meal - they asked Emeka to put on his generator to entertain them. Emeka eyed them conspicuously and repeated that he had no money.
You purified the air of tension by suggesting that you play Truth or Dare. One of the guys, Toheeb, a baldy whose shortest word reeked volumes of his Yoruba descent, agreed with you. He even suggested that whoever could not tell the truth or carry out the dare would pay some amount of money. At the mention of money, the other guys declared their interest. Thus, you fixed the fine at five hundred Naira after haggling back and forth like impatient market-women.
You wanted the game to start in sitting order - where you’d come second, from behind, only before Emeka. However, they insisted that you begin. ‘Ladies first’, they pressed, encouraging you to put your first foot forward - Emeka would come last regardless. Gladly, you agreed. You twirled the empty wine bottle on the centre table and hoped it would stop facing your lover. Everyone said one prayer or the other, and your hearts pounded hard against your ribcages - no one wanted to part with his money in the ‘Sapa’ era. The bottle rotated like it’d go on forever, and the room brimmed with tension.
Finally, it stopped - bringing your wish to life. You wasted no time before asking Emeka what he loved about you. The guys grumbled. They lamented that they were not interested in love stories. ‘Hell no!’ Your choice of question was not subject to approval from anyone. Wearing an infectious smile, Emeka ate off their ears with showers of praise on you - your looks, intelligence, personality, capabilities, ending with the fact that you couldn’t tell a lie to save your life. His final words made you kinda bashful - indeed, you never lied, even jokingly, because your countenance would give you away. Your acting skills were the worst you knew - you’d have struggled to get a two-over-ten rating.
You embraced Emeka, to the dismay of the wolf pack.
“Iskanci - nonsense,” Hassan grunted his displeasure.
“Make una do fast before game cold oo,” Sarki advised, and you disengaged, teething foolishly.
Hassan stepped forward and flicked the bottle lightly, wearing a mischievous grin. The bottle rolled for less than ten seconds before stopping - it called Emeka to the altar once again.
“Ọwọ́ bà wèrè - the lunatic is in trouble!” Toheeb exclaimed, and they burst into laughter.
You understood little Yoruba, but you could tell he was up to no good.
“Dare,” Emeka announced with a straight face.
Hassan chuckled.
“All die nah die,” he nodded erratically, rubbing his palms together.
to be continued…
What do you think Hassan is up to?
How do you think the game will end?
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P.S: This work is purely fictional. Any semblance to actual persons (living or late), places, or events are merely figments of the writer’s attempt at keeping in touch with reality.
Paalam!
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