The Whites of Her Eyes Are Bloodshot

Her smile was strained as she smiled at something her friend had said and trust me as a young lady I knew how to smile with my teeth and not my heart. The sun was beating down on her mercilessly and yet she appeared to be comfortable on the surface. Deep down I knew she could not be. She must have used concealer before the foundation that looked as if it was unevenly spread and completed the pore-sealing process with IMAN powder that costs half of my monthly allowance all in a bid to look beautiful. She only reminded me of propped up mannequins in the boutique where I shop once in a blue moon with a too red blusher on her dark skin made light by a too-light foundation and powder. Again as a lady, I knew IMAN would have her exact shade.
What made it discomfiting to sit next to her was the fact that she had attempted to ‘bleach’ her skin to white and did not quite get it right leaving her knuckles, knees and ears dark; her underarms were wet and had formed a patch as if that were the only part of her body the sun touched; she spotted a star-shaped tattoo between the thumb and fore finger of her left hand and another on her waist where the top was made to deliberately part ways from the leggings, had four piercings in each ear; spotted the longest length of fake lashes and artificial nails extremely long and dripping tomato-red lacquer! Yes the whites of her bloodshot from contact lens she must have fitted newly or slept with.
The ever tooting keke (tricycle) then came to whisk us away to our destination and I felt alien in it. it was not because the strange smelling girl had three tech-looking mobile phones or because of her incessant chatter with her friend but because I was reading a book and looked so tame as compared to the girls who looked similar in their dressing that they could pass for twins. One looked like the other except for the slight difference in the tattoo that the second girl did not make public. The tattoo was like a bad paint job as it dripped congealed paint. I felt it was more akin to deliberately scratching a vintage car like a Bentley only to repaint it with poor quality house paint! I am sure not everyone shares my opinion.
Her lace wig which she must have carefully packed to look dishevelled showed traces of hair glue that the stylist must have forgotten to remove and smelled of sweat. I did not understand how she could afford contacts that erased our Nigerian brown to a shade of blue that appeared so false when she could not buy the cheapest anti-perspirant roll-on or deodorant and hairspray. I mean the girl is really cheap. I stuck my head half out of the keke and my face in my book reading as if my life depended on it. By the time the keke finally made it to our destination, I was drained, demoralised and cranky in addition to the headache that was threatening to form behind my eyes. I was in a hurry to alight and cross the road just so that I could be far from them and their chatter.
Did I mention that she had body odour?

Advertisements

You need to say something!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s