What! Why is he standing there staring at me with the same look that made me melt turn to a jelly in his arms many years back?
"Hi Zite !"
I just stared. How dare he call me Zite when I had warned him severally to always address me by my full name, "Chiziteudo" which means God brings peace. "Zite" is the Igbo word for bring. Imagine someone calling you "bring" - weird! Papilo is always so unafrican. I eyed the sharp brim of his hat that partially masked his dark cute bronze face. Gosh, Bébé’s father is a handsome man.
"Zite!" He called again, hiding his hands in the pocket of the carton-brown jacket he wore over a black shirt. Was he trying to hide his wedding ring so I would not know he was married? "Weirdo!" I cursed in my head.
"Whose daughter is this?"
The next question threw me off balance. His eyes were fixed on Bébé who was smacking her lips after finishing the last drop of fresh mango juice the old couple ordered for her. It is not that I don’t feed her well but I often do not give her the liberty of having all she wanted and she’s punishing me for this in public. If embarrassment was a dress, surely I would be the best dressed in the room especially in front of a man who saw himself nothing less than a demi-god.
"Do you know her, son?" The classy old woman with her slippery long grey hair, questioned Papilo.
Son? Ah ah!
Finally, I'm meeting his parents. What a coincidence! I wrote a short note in my notebook and passed it to the old woman. She smiled at my question and responded in affirmation. Papilo was their son, the one she wanted us to meet.
"Nice meeting you, Ma'am, Sir. We need to leave now." I wrote again, stood from my chair and passed the note to the couple after picking up my bag. I turned to pick Bébé's hand so we could leave but was hit by her last bullet for the day. She was sticking her index finger into the glass cup so as to have the final taste of mango juice that had stubbornly stuck to the interior of the glass.
That was it!
I gave her a tight spank on the back and everyone screamed except Papilo. He stood there with a look of disgust on his face. I could not decipher if it was for Bébé’s ill manners or for the way I treated the little girl or perhaps, for both reasons. I just did not care anymore. Bébé had had enough field day. The glass cup dropped to the floor, shattering to a million pieces.
Who gives a five year old a glass cup? I thought angrily about the waiter’s incompetence. I reached to lift Bébé away from the mess but her father was quicker.
He lifted his daughter and kept her at the other side of the table while trying to gather the shattered pieces of glass with his foot so no one would step on them. His new marriage must have taught him responsibility. His hands were out of his pocket and I struggled to see if he had a ring on but his left hand was behind the chair his father sat on. He held it firmly so he could balance himself.
A sanitation staff from the restaurant came donning her navy blue trousers and white short-sleeved shirt to clear up the mess.
"Why did you hit her like that?" His father was asking me. I was already feeling like a cat drenched in cold water. I moved to hug Bébé who was puffing up and down in stifled tears. I went too far this time. Everything is just against me today.
"Let’s all move out." Papilo said briskly putting his hand behind his mother’s shoulder and gently leading her out as his dad followed behind. This was the best time to escape, I calculated. I held Bébé’s hand but she yanked it off and went to wrap her little finger behind Papilo’s other free hand. Now I was able to see his ring finger and there was no ring on it.
He was not even responsible enough to wear the symbol of his marriage.
Philandrer!
Outside the restaurant, Papilo’s personal bodyguard took up the aftercare of Mrs Folarin. I had a full view of Papilo’s back as he instructed his bodyguard to drive his parents home. His fitted-brown-Chinox trousers hugged his behind like it would a cowboy and his black leather jacket shimmered under the sunlight. Mrs. Folarin was reluctant but her son assured her that he was going to bring Bébé to visit.
"Dreamers!" I laughed in my head. This was the last view they were getting of my baby girl.
I tried to forcefully drag Bébé from Papilo after his parents had left but he held her back and asked me a question that threw me off balance.
"Whose daughter is this?"
I shrugged.
Thank goodness I was mute but before I could play dumb with my muteness, he began to drag Bébé away. Our daughter was already becoming scared. I ran frantically after him and hit him with my velvet purse numerous times.
"Answer my question!" He barked.
My disgust for Papilo tripled as I saw his unsmiling strong features stare back at me. He didn't look cute when he showed his beast side. Slowly I pointed to him and he almost said triumphantly, " I knew it!"
Bébé looked from one parent to the other. I looked at her and thought I knew her next question but as always she shocked me.
"So Uncle Ben isn't my dad?" She questioned innocently.
Why did she have to bring Benvolio up? The francophone man had never left my side since life’s struggles started weighing me down. He was Papilo’s best friend before Papilo served me breakfast. Benvolio, a petit, fair and lightweight gentleman broke his friendship with Papilo to stand by me but Bébé has given Papilo a new reason to mess around our lives. He liked to be the attention at any point and he wouldn’t want Benvolio to take his place in his daughter’s life.
" Why didn't you tell me?" Papilo kept asking, exploding like a volcano. I knew he would have accepted the baby but taken her away too. What would have been my gain? If he didn't want me, he can't have the baby too.
"That's wrong." He intercepted my thoughts as if he could read my mind. "very wrong!"
Then he started walking away until Bébé's voice stopped his gaunty steps.
"Dad, wait!"
