Americanah

She would remember this moment, sitting beside Obinze in his Range Rover, stalled in traffic, listening to “Yori Yori”—Your love dey make my heart do yori yori. Nobody can love you the way I do—beside them a shiny Honda, the latest model, and in front of them an ancient Datsun that looked a hundred years old.

After a few games of table tennis, all of which he won, all the time playfully taunting her, they had lunch in the small restaurant, where they were alone except for a woman reading newspapers at the bar. The manager, a round man who was almost bursting out of his ill-fitting black jacket, came over to their table often to say, “I hope everything is fine, sah. It is very good to see you again, sah. How is work, sah.”

Ifemelu leaned in and asked Obinze, “Is there a point at which you gag?”

“The man wouldn’t come by so often if he didn’t think I was being neglected. You’re addicted to that phone.”

“Sorry. I was just checking the blog.” She felt relaxed and happy. “You know, you should write for me.”

“Me?”

“Yes, I’ll give you an assignment. How about the perils of being young and good-looking and rich?”

“I would be happy to write on a subject with which I can personally identify.”

“How about security? I want to do something on security. Have you had any experience on Third Mainland Bridge? Somebody was telling me about leaving a club late and going back to the mainland and their car tire burst on the bridge and they just kept going, because it’s so dangerous to stop on the bridge.”

“Ifem, I live in Lekki, and I don’t go clubbing. Not anymore.”

“Okay.” She glanced at her phone again. “I just want to have new, vibrant content often.”

“You’re distracted.”

“Do you know Tunde Razaq?”

“Who doesn’t? Why?”

“I want to interview him. I want to start this weekly feature of ‘Lagos from an Insider,’ and I want to start with the most interesting people.”

“What’s interesting about him? That he is a Lagos playboy living off his father’s money, said money accumulated from a diesel importation monopoly that they have because of their contact with the president?”

“He’s also a music producer, and apparently a champion at chess. My friend Zemaye knows him and he’s just written her to say he will do the interview only if I let him buy me dinner.”

“He’s probably seen a picture of you somewhere.” Obinze stood up and pushed back his chair with a force that surprised her. “The guy is a dog.”

“Be nice,” she said, amused; his jealousy pleased her. He played “Yori Yori” again on the drive back to her flat, and she swayed and danced with her arms, much to his amusement.

“I thought your Chapman was non-alcoholic,” he said. “I want to play another song. It makes me think of you.”

Obiwon’s “Obi Mu O” started and she sat still and silent as the words filled the car: This is that feeling that I’ve never felt … and I’m not gonna let it die. When the male and female voices sang in Igbo, Obinze sang along with them, glancing away from the road to look at her, as though he was telling her that this was really their conversation, he calling her beautiful, she calling him beautiful, both calling each other their true friends. Nwanyi oma, nwoke oma, omalicha nwa, ezigbo oyi m o.

When he dropped her off, he leaned across to kiss her cheek, hesitant to come too close or to hold her, as though afraid of being defeated by their attraction. “Can I see you tomorrow?” he

asked, and she said yes. They went to a Brazilian restaurant by the lagoon, where the waiter brought skewer after skewer stacked with meat and seafood, until Ifemelu told him that she was about to be sick. The next day, he asked if she would have dinner with him, and he took her to an Italian restaurant, whose overpriced food she found bland, and the bow-tied waiters, doleful and slow-moving, filled her with faint sorrow.

They drove past Obalende on the way back, tables and stalls lining the bustling road, orange flames flickering from the hawkers’ lamps.

Ifemelu said, “Let’s stop and buy fried plantain!”

Obinze found a spot farther ahead, in front of a beer parlor, and he eased the car in. He greeted the men seated on benches drinking, his manner easy and warm, and they hailed him, “Chief! Carry go! Your car is safe!”

The fried plantain hawker tried to persuade Ifemelu to buy fried sweet potatoes as well.

“No, only plantain.”

“What about akara, aunty? I make am now. Very fresh.”

“Okay,” Ifemelu said. “Put four.”