Being Lara by Lola Jaye Page B

sound of floors being swept, rubbish being carried to the local tip, the strong odor from burning rubbish making her eyes smart. Yomi’s eyes were alert, though, desperate to feed on the sight of him again. She wanted to check if he responded favorably to her walk as did the men around her, judging by their toothy reactions. She would be happy with an impressed smile, widened eyes, anything from him she could savor, devour at leisure, and retain in her memory. Because apart from pushing her knees into the ground and begging him to notice her, Yomi was ready to try anything to see if a small girl from the “village” could impress a man like him.
    The two girls reached the main street with its reality of loud voices above noisy music, car horns, and beggars as Yomi felt a wave of disappointment. She’d yet to spot him out and about, chatting with friends or kicking that deflated football about with the local children. He’d not even seen her new walk, and it pained her to think it had been wasted on the local fools.
    Ola hailed an approaching yellow bus and as it chugged toward them, Yomi felt a sprinkling of joy at hearing her name being called from afar.
    â€œYomi!”
    Only he had ever said her name in such a way.
    â€œYomi?”
    â€œEr, yes,” she replied coyly and in a way she hoped Emma Woodhouse would approve of. She slowly turned, the way those beautiful women in those Indian movies she liked to watch sometimes turned to their suitors. She hoped she didn’t look too interested, yet hoped to look very interested. His shoulders protruded proudly from the beige caftan, trousers matching. A single bead of sweat lined the right side of his smooth face and Yomi suddenly wanted to lick it off.
    â€œHow are you, Yomi?” he asked in that perfect British Queen’s English he spoke, slightly baritoned in a way only a man could achieve. Yomi very much liked his voice. Even more than freshly fried dodo on a Sunday morning. In fact, more than anything.
    He proffered his hand to her, and Yomi forgot how to breathe. She noticed just how much more handsome he’d grown since the last time she’d seen him (yesterday) and held on to his beautiful hand a bit longer than necessary, feeling enough electricity pass through her to light up the entire street during one of the power cuts.
    She sighed resolutely as he insisted she and Ola climb onto the bus first. Hidden disappointment as she’d hoped to observe his perfectly formed idi.
    Luckily, Ola sat up front with the driver as Yomi sat by a lady with two live chickens fidgeting manically, perhaps aware of their impending fate. The conductor hanging out of the window beckoned more passengers onto an already crowded bus, and the inside temperature rose to an uncomfortable level. But Yomi feared that more than just the searing afternoon sun was to blame for her discomfort. By merely practicing how to walk sexily, Yomi had omitted any thought of what to say if she actually found herself alone with him or if she ever felt the heat from his body mingling with hers, or if she was ever close enough to notice the small hole just above his right ear as they sat side by side. It was the most intimate she’d ever been with him, and she never wanted that sweaty, bumpy, and cramped bus journey to end. Ever.
    They spoke briefly, with Yomi shyly answering his questions with quick yes and no answers. No breeze existed inside the permanently opened bus, but Yomi didn’t care. As long as she was near him, nothing really mattered that much.
    He kindly accompanied them to the market even though he had mentioned being on his way to Agege, an area in the opposite direction. And while Yomi felt appreciative of this, she feared she’d soon run out of conversation and then what would she do? Also, her nose was itching unapologetically—just as it always did when she felt nervous.
    Passing by a set of bleating goats, rams, and cows waiting to