I drive a wine 2005 model Corolla. I call her Nikki because her physique brings Minaj to mind. Living at Haatso and working at Airport residential has grave traffic implications. Every morning like clockwork, I’d turn Nikki on and set off before 6:15. Over time I realized that, for every five minutes I delayed, I wasted an extra fifteen minutes in traffic, so I was as punctual as a hawker.
I drive through Westlands, GIMPA then past Fiesta Royale. My office is on the lane behind Nyaho clinic. I hardly give lifts because of a bad experience I once had; the elderly woman asked me to make three inconvenient stops en route. I figured she was a caterer because on the third annoying stop right after the Fiesta Royale traffic light, she collected a tray of rice and another of stew from a person whose gender I was too bored to notice. Minutes later, half the stew spilled onto my spotless cream upholstery! Anyways, that’s a story for another day, this is about the Pontiac girl.
I was making a right into the Westlands road one morning when right in front of me, a silver Pontiac tried to make a 3-pointer, in the T-junction! She was either a learner or a cra-azy driver. Her windows were rolled down, so I could see her face. I call it face because English restricts me. Her eyes hid behind stunning black sunglasses, but her smooth dark chocolate skin with a soft sheen, even, white teeth, delectable pink lips and Rihanna haircut deserved a better description than…face.
It was too late; at the point her gorgeousness struck me, I’d have had to reverse to give way and that’d have been some way. So I just drove on and kept looking into my rear-view mirror like a paranoid taxi driver. Modestly speaking, I’m a good driver. I once drove a faulty Ford from Accra to Kumasi in half the time it’ll normally take.
So picture the smirk that drew on my face when the Pontiac girl sped past me and got back in lane two cars ahead. I wasn’t the same man. From that point till Fiesta Royale, there were just two cars on the road; mine and hers, every other moving object was either a nuisance or a spectator.
I had a Cravers chocolate cake in my front seat. If cake-making was an art, the girls at Cravers’ would be baking Picassos, hands down! It was the only pacification my boss accepted when I goofed, and the day before, I’d e-mailed a wrong quotation to a major client, so the Cravers cake was crucial. Common sense dictated that I drove with my precious cargo in mind. But even common sense gives way to gorgeous girls who can actually drive.
It was 2 fast 2 furious, GH edition. Every time she stuck out to overtake me, my heart pumped like a horse on steroids. It was amazing because not once did we acknowledge each other, I’d speed past her with one hand holding a phone to my ear like I was on a call, then she’d speed past me yawning and dozing, all of these at speeds over 100KmH.
I got to the Fiesta traffic light first and she was right beside me. I could smell the chocolate from the Cravers cake beside me, all the excitement must have affected it. I revved my engine, smirking as it roared, then I turned casually, and she smiled at me. I willed our cars to morph so she’d end up in my front seat, where the cake was. I started to roll down, to ask for her call card or give her mine, or I could give her the Cravers cake, I wasn’t sure. Just then the light turn green. Without thinking, I sped straight on, only to see her turn right towards Achimota.
I stopped at the next bus stop, hoping, praying, believing that by some miraculous means she’d show up. I didn’t even know her name, all I had was her registration number GE 1165 -09. When it became clear that I’d let the first woman to give me a drive for my money drive off, I forgot about my pissed-off boss and let it all out on the Cravers cake. Each mouthful was like the taste of my fondest memories, right next to the girl in the Silver Pontiac. She haunts me till date
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