Wrong number(chapter 1)

October 9, 2019   |   by Huge Store

Rrong number
Chapter One

“No, it’s nine-thirty,” Bidemi said to Mag.
Bidemi had an interview to attend that morning, although it was possible it would end like the rest, but she always gave her shot. After all it was even better to keep giving shots since living with Margaret was becoming too comfortable. Since she’d left the mainland to squat with Mag in the island of Lagos things appeared better, she got to know few new faces that possibly were connected to one company or the other and can quickly help her out if she was smart enough. Mag was what the men played with for cash and she made quite a lot of money from it. But it was not initially what had brought Mag to the island, her blissful marriage took a drastic U-turn.
It was what resembled a miracle when the handsome Timi had married her in a rush. The Internet fraudster spent two years in the comfort of his illegal wealth and was track down by EFCC. Mag was lucky she wasn’t involved in the whole story, the only thing she knew was, he was an online marketer.
The idea to send Bidemi back to Ikorodu had crossed her mind more times than she could remember, but had had no confidence to bring herself to look the pretty girl in the face on such a topic.
She cussed the day she had met the bearded Timi; he had appeared thuggish, but that was Mag’s taste, the crazy fashionista; he’s missing. The last time Mag checked, the police tagged a price to his name. She’d hand him over if she found him.
Bidemi fastened the wrist watch she wore, it was Mag’s. She had been like a liability, she’s aware of the fact, and had jumped up in excitement when the interview advertisement went on on Linkedin. She didn’t want a return visit to Ikorodu, even when she wasn’t comfortable with the immoral way Mag now survived on. Her chances with the interview were slim; the first Mercedes Benz company in Lagos wanted to recruit young Nigeria engineers, she just prayed for grace and not qualification. Falz had sang, “this is Nigeria,” and the lyrics had changed her vision towards the country from bad to worse.
“Imagine, them just take you,” Mag said, settling on a sofa. “See groove. You go first stop to wear my things, then compensate me. This your body wey don emaciate, we go work on am.” She gave a sigh of disbelief and wished it was possible Bidemi get a chance in a job interview she saw online; she believed those online stuff had done more scam and didn’t accept Bidemi’s idea of social media taking over market; not when the memories of Timi were still fresh.
And Bidemi’s mobile begun playing La fete by Falz; it was her ring tone. Mag sprang to her feet, stood on her toes, feet high, then started the shakushaku dance.
As usual, Bidemi flickered a smirk, Mag looked horrible, her body size didn’t permit the jouncing she loved. She looked to the caller, and hissed. An eyesore.
“Who’s that?” Mag asked.
“Don’t mind those cunt, looking for who to devour.” She wasn’t picking the call, and didn’t seem to be too bothered about who it was.
“Bidemi!” She called, opining it could only be a guy, “who’s devouring you?”
“One idiot that called himself Katherine not me. I’ve told him several times, it’s a wrong number, he still called.”
“You self, you could listen to him nah.” and the phone went on with la fete again, she looked at it and looked away.
The phone rang yet again, but Bidemi rather checked the freezer for anything to bite before hitting the road for the interview.
“I go answer this call oh,” Mag said, getting irritated. She picked the phone.
“Answer am abeg.” She didn’t seem like she cared.
Mag suspected it could be a perfect guy for some cash, she had hated Bidemi with the habit of rejecting guys, and had told her to stop her feministic life style and that she would send her packing to Chimamanda the next time she talked about feminism.
“Hello, who’s this?” Mag took the phone. Bidemi gave a wan smile to the emptiness of the freezer and listened to Mag.
Mag continued, “no this isn’t Katherine, I’m…” she pursed, place her left hand on her cleavage, opened her mouth to talk, but seemed the other end had a mouthful. She put it on speaker;
“Katherine, this isn’t a matter to play pranks on, it’s a company fund,” the voice was gentle and had this velvety baritone. Spoke so convincing and tender.
It took Mag’s legs up the sofa and folded them beneath her thigh, “I’m sorry, dear. This isn’t Katherine, this is Margarethe and this is my friend’s phone you’re calling, she’s Daniella.”
Bidemi rolled her eyes, she owned the phone and she wasn’t Daniella, but she sure know what Mag was up to; a fine name for a start keeps the guys, she had said. But she knew she wasn’t giving in. The time was close, 7:27. She was sure traffic won’t thwart anything.
And it came from the other end; “where do you reside?”
I have no time, Bidemi said within her teeth.
“Atlantic hall, Epe.” Mag was rubbing her fat palms on her thigh, getting too fascinated.
“The corps are coming for you.”
Bidemi heard that too clearly to ignore. She took the phone vigorously from Mag and screamed to the caller, “What part of this is a wrong number don’t you understand, ehn? Beans head.” And she ended the call.
Mag was startled into laughter. Bidemi picked her file, and turned to go out. She didn’t find anything to eat; that anger formed with that of the cunt who had swung her mood completely.
And there was a knock on the door.
Bidemi pursed, she was on her way to the door to go out. “Are you expecting anyone?” She asked Mag.
She looked to the door, wondering. The room plunged into silence and she heard her wrist watch tick like a time bomb.

“Wetin make you open your eye like thief?” Mag said, indifferently. “Na the person wey call nai don just come? Open door jareh, make you see who de there.” And relaxed into the sofa.
Bidemi, motioned her dimpled cleft chin for “anyway,” and opened the door to a six feet plus young gentle man.
She gasped.
His eyes were so clear like he’d never seen the sun, so white and only had to struggle with the instability of the brown pupil. His skin was a clear coffee colored complexion. His eyebrows seemed combed in a fine order and had dark hair that reflect too much fussing and seemed soft like the under feather closest to a chicken’s skin. He smelled so babyish and looked like a beard never sprouts his chin.
Her petite figure stood involuntarily at the door post, fighting the urge to say hi, it would be best of a good morning. He got her whisker twitching, and a smile zipped by, unbidden.
“Hello.” He sounded like a presenter—that’s to her hearing. Whatever happened to the hunger and anger that hovered some seconds ago?
“Good morning,” she looked at Mag, and rose her brows for ‘do you know him?’ And Mag motioned her lips downwards for ‘no.’ “How may we help you, sir?” the ‘sir’ escaped.
“I am Clinton Anayor, and I assume you’ll be Margarethe.” Calmly
“I am Margarethe,” Mag said, repositioning herself for a proper posture. She was smug as a fat house mouse.
“Then you must be Daniella.” He grinned sarcastically, and tried to sound more friendly.
But she isn’t Daniella and he could only be the wrong number caller. She would shout at him if he wasn’t smelling rich and handsome, plus he’s self compulsive, then spoke politely. Abi nah packaging? She thought.
“We’ve had this talked over, the number you were calling belongs to me and I am not Katherine.” She crossed her arm beneath her mushy soft breast and they bounced above like a soft sea wave.
“Maybe, the police will understand you better, maybe they’ll have you provide Katherine.” He moved backwards as two female police took over. They introduced themselves and had her follow them.
She looked at him distastefully, the administration disappeared and he looked formidable, had no butt and appeared too tall. This was really funny and dramatic. Her interview was 9:00 am and she’s on her way to the police station.
“This is crazy,” Bidemi said.
She still tried to understand all of it. Mag went in to take up something outgoing to wear and followed the car as they zoomed off.

By Ben Bioku
This story will be uploaded every wednessday and friday

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