LOVE AT FIRST CHAT.

It was not love at first sight, it was love at first profile view.

I was implicated by her profile picture, dimpled cheeks widened by the sweetest smiles and soft hazel-brown demure eyes, decorated by long dark eyebrows that could at once look both piercing and shy in equal measure. A lace blue gown clung to her lithe, athletic frame, accentuating the slightest curves and her long legs.  I stalked her because that was the sort of guilty pleasures that social media allowed and before  I even said ‘hi’, I already had as many of her pictures as she had in different shades and hue. At my moments of intense boredom, I amused myself with images of me and her, photo-shopped into cozy closeness with inscriptions like ‘Bae’, ‘Honey’, ‘Love’ and ‘Sweetheart.’

I also amused myself with thoughts about our future, how we would get married, give birth to three kids that would all look like her for she was the epitome of beauty and grace, how we would stop birthing at three because we had agreed that the Nigerian economy advised family planning, demanded it; how she would call me ‘Nkem’ and how I would call her ‘Honey’; how my mother would love her just by hearing the sonorous sound of her voice and how my father would call me ‘Omekannaya’ in support of the magnificent choice I had made for a spouse.

At my worst moments, I went to the market and bought her nice things on impulse; things she would never see, at least not immediately. She looked brilliant and sexy in a knee-length blue-laced gown she was wearing in her recent profile picture, so I bought her the red-coloured version of that same gown. Fair ladies often look great in red gowns and none was fairer than the beauty whose picture constituted half of the entire picture on my phone gallery. I also bought her a handmade local bead necklace because I had never seen my Honey wear a necklace in any of her uploaded pictures. I also spent time convincing anyone that cared enough to give me an ear that we are in love and are consequently in a relationship. The sort of friends I have never questioned my fantasies mostly because they pitied me.

“She is quite a beauty.” Ifechukwu told me “I can see why you are smitten with her.” He said with an ironic pat on my back on a day when I was showing him her upload. She was in a group of other three women who all wore navy blue jacket over a white shirt and her presence made the other girls around her look slightly more beautiful. Behind me, I could feel him baring his teeth in mockery. He had earlier told me that Nnenna and I would make an interesting couple if she had any idea on who the hell I was.  I could remember the boisterous laughter of the group then led by Alozie whose booming voice contrasts greatly with his very slight frame. He weighed around 65kg but at least his voice would make up over 50% of the entire weight. He was not as conscientious as Ifechukwu and would always tell me to take malaria tablets every time I started confessing an admittedly totally imaginary love I have for Nnenna.

“If you even talk to her after downloading all of her pictures and liking all of her updates and following her on Instagram and twitter, snapchat, facetime and any other social media chat that some kid in Japan would soon cook up; you will look less unfortunate and desperate you know?” Alozie would say but I paid him no mind. In my convivial mood which seldom comes around whenever the issue is about my illusory relationship with Nnenna, I would resort to pedantry correcting Alozie that indeed it is ‘chat’ and not ‘talk’.

Yet the truth is that I did not seem to know how initiate conversations with her, intuition told me that it would take more than banalities to excite her interest. I could not say ‘Hello’ and risk the conversation plunging into inane monotony where I would have to do all the conversation and she would only respond with ‘hi’; ‘fine’ and ‘cool’. I could not risk putting her off with so many questions that could get her scared. I also did not want to appear too needy or make her assume that I am up to some mischief.

Thus while it was true that I had not even initiated a conversation with her, in my defence it was because I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted the weather to be neither too hot or too cold, I wanted the phone’s battery to be fully charged, I wanted the day to be on a Sunday, the moment to be after church, having prayed the heavens to bless me with words that she would feel and grant me a favorable roll of the dice with the oft-unpredictable female mood-swings. I wanted to write our conversation down to the jokes I would share and the compliments I would quip in and her shy response, the questions I would ask about her hobbies, her family and her political philosophy if she had any.

I did not talk to her then because the perfect condition did not quite materialize. However, things changed one day when in error I sent a message intended for another male friend to her. Benson had just gotten a visa to Canada and in a country where government consider sending their citizens to represent them on an international abroad a favor, it is a big deal.

“Guy…Where I go show make you buy me beer.” I had forwarded the message before I realized what I had done. I had forwarded the message intended for Benson to Nnenna.

I flipped.

I wished I could retract the message. I do not know whether she found beer consumption irresponsible; if she considered my default recourse to Pidgin-English as a mode of communication crass. I wondered whether my Profile picture where I wore a brown fedora hat tipped upwards to reveal my forehead was captivating enough or made me look like a tout because that would be her first port of call. I was transfixed by my confusion, my hand clutching my phone tightly, squeezing it like it was a poisonous cobra. I dreaded both her response and its absence. If she responds, she must have read the conversation and was disappointed that I was a beer-drinking, pidgin-speaking boy with little class and would definitely take exceptions to those parameters. If she does not respond then she must have considered my message worthless, meddlesome and not deserving of her time.

Those moments spent waiting for her response was the most excruciating of my life. I spent the time biting my finger nails, praying to all the deity I know and calling on the spirits of my grandfather and all other benign spirits to infiltrate her phone and delete that infernal error.

“Do you drink alcohol?” Was the response I read. We had skipped past greetings and the conversation was definitely not going as I had scripted in my note-pad. Her response to my first chat should be ‘Hi’ because like all the other ladies, she would leave the onus of driving the conversation to me.

She had taken the onus.

However, I was not ready to answer that critical poser yet. Every of my answer must be well-thought-out. She may be a protestant Christian that sees all forms of alcohol as a sin punishable by death and eternal damnation or the liberal catholic who accepted that Jesus Christ may have actually converted water into wine in Canaan and that Brother Paul had later suggested in one of his letters that alcohol may have and could be taken for its medicinal value.

I wanted to tell her that I do not drink, that I am a teetotaler who does not take alcohol but my conscience advised me against building the relationship with the cornerstone of falsehood.

“Is anything wrong with alcohol?” I queried.

“Lol.” I was glad that she found me funny. ‘Lol’ was the first level humour and she had already gotten to that stage when I am yet to release my arsenal of prepared comedy and lines to her. The next level is ‘lmfao.’

On my phone, I could see that she was typing.

“I had read somewhere that Nigeria answer questions with questions. Is that true?” She messaged.

“Where did you read that?”

“Lol.” She goes again laughing as I replied to another question with a question of my own. She was easy to please and had surprisingly led the conversation leaving me scrambling to catch up with her and establish a return to the written plans and prepared strategies.

“Do you drink then?” I threw the question at her and saw that she had read it. However, she did not reply immediately. There was no update that she was typing.  I feared then that I had bored her away or that she was angry that I was avoiding her questions. I had been lying down on my bed while chatting with her on my Samsung Nexus smartphone but when I could not get any response twenty minutes after she had read my message, I stood up to do my laundry.

Nothing had gone according to plan. I had initiated the conversation on Saturday instead of Sunday, I had not even prayed that morning and things had certainly not gone according to script. I stood up, straightened the bed sheet on my mattress and started towards the bathroom. I could at least try to get things done while I waited for My Honey to forgive me and respond to my chat.

I stopped at my wardrobe, located five feet away from my bathroom to sort the dirty laundry but my gaze landed on the red female gown which I had bought for her on her birthday, just two months ago.  I could also see a pair of high-heeled brown, strapped sandals I had bought because I convinced myself that it would fit my Aunty nicely; an aunty that I had never seen. I was looking at the sandal when my phone beeped. I wheeled around immediately and started towards my bed, towards my phone. Laundry is overrated.

In three steps I had flung myself on the bed and read her message. Laughter rippled through my body and I leisurely rolled myself around the bed. My hands started flying across my phone in response but I checked myself, immediate response would rob me of my pride. It would be too needy and would present me as someone who is obsessively preoccupied with his phone or who was excessively into her. I would take five minutes and respond.

I read her message again and burst into laughter. She had written:

“I just take a little wine for my tummy as advised by Apostle Paul”

“Lwkmd” I responded after excruciating three minutes. I could not wait for five minutes “You are really funny.” I added as compliment.

“What is lwkmd?” She asked. I read it and wondered if she was ever a Nigerian or if she was trying to act posh and refined.

“Laugh wan kill me die.”

“oh…”

“So you drink then?”

“Not really…But I normally have stomach problems during the weekends.”

“Lmfao” She messaged “I am in stitches.”

It was going really well. Planning just like laundry and clean clothes is overrated.

“What is your name?”

“Nnenna.” I knew the name from her profile but wanted to ensure that it was true. There have been assorted names making the rounds on Social Media, defying identity and commonsense. I had seen an Nneka Okonkwo metamorphose into Natasha Divine on Facebook while Chioma Ike became Fortunata Powers. The guys themselves are not left out as I had seen profiles bearing names like Janded King-Odogwu names that the parents do not even know.

I was however glad that she is Igbo, it gave us another common ground; opened up yet another avenue for discussion.

“Yours?”

“Chinomso”

The conversation trailed at this point, needing a spark, I decided to go for broke. She is beautiful, she is brilliant and funny. The only thing I would lose is my self-respect. Nothing good comes easy. Easy come, Easy go.

“Nnenna…I think you are a very beautiful lady.”

“I know I am.”

I was stuck again. Compliments will not get me what I want or who I want. Honesty might. That was when I opened up, told her how many of her pictures I have on my phone, how I imagine both of us together, how I wished that she could smile at me just once, how I get lost in the hazel brown pool of her eyes, how I die a little inside whenever she called another man ‘Honey’, ‘Sweetheart’ and only called me ‘Dear’ whenever I commented on her post and how I have started building her wardrobe.

I cleared my thoughts in three very long messages and heaved a sigh of relief. I could feel an albatross lifted off my shoulder by cupid himself. Suddenly, I did not care if she said yes or no. Talking to her about my feelings for her drew me out of the quagmire of self-pity and uncertainty. I was ready to get the resounding ‘No’. My aunty can still wear those gowns and sandals and beads, she can mend them or I could drop it with my younger sister who mended clothes as her pastime.

I could also count at least a dozen and one ladies who would agree to my proposition.

“I know.” Her response jarred me. I was expecting a load of apologies and regrets but she continued.

“I have over 1300 friends but you were the only one that was consistent on all of my posts. You like and comment all the time. My friends had even asked if I knew you.”

‘Mhmmm.” I replied.

“On all the social networks, you were either my friend or you follow me, retweeting, liking and quoting. Long before now, I had started asking myself what this handsome guy was playing at.”

“Wow…You think I am handsome?”

“Certainly. You can look at a mirror.” The potential in her messages were palpable. I could be feel tingly bells ringing in my heart and my heart racing faster than Usain Bolt at the Olympic Tracks.

“Thank You.”

“So shy guy…What do you want?”

“A lot of things” I responded “Can I have your number?”

The number was definitely not Nigerian. Leading me to the next question.

“Are you in Nigeria”

“No…I am in The US.”

My last relationship had ended because she said that she could not handle the distance, Lagos was quite far from Benin City, over four hours of bus ride. Nnenna was as closer to me as she was farther. How fate could had played such cruel card on me.

I added her up on Whatsapp, said ‘Hi’ she replied and then I called her. International calls needs a budget that I do not have.

Then she rang me. I allowed it to go on for about three seconds before I picked. Pick it too fast and I would come off as inordinately excited.

“Hello…How are you.” A beautiful cheery, American-accented voice said. In her voice, I could hear the birds singing, see the sun breaking out of the darkness for a new dawn, I could smell roses, taste the syrupy-sugary sweetness of that angelic voice, I could almost touch my steely-reinforced resolve and with every sound of her voice, I could feel The US drawing closer.

Before that chat, I was obsessed and weak.

After that chat I was in love and stronger, resolved to soon start that epic journey to make her mine from across the Atlantic.

I have seen more difficult things happen. I have seen uneducated men with questionable qualifications become presidents.