Booted Legs, Infatuations, and Everything in Between 

My love for Leila was the fiercest it had ever been on the first Saturday of December when the nostalgic anticipation of the month was at its peak. Cold mornings, distant excited shrills from kids in neighbouring houses, Christmas lights flickering in multiple door frames and windows. Baba had insisted that flying all the way to Abuja for the holiday was a waste of money. And so here I was, thirty miles from the university, in my uncle’s barbed-wired house, staring out the balcony and thinking about all the Abuja allure I would miss out on. 

The first time Leila caught my attention, I was standing on this same balcony that overlooked an enormous, half-opened soak-away pit and a compound with a bold inscription of ‘Beware of Dogs’ on its gate. It wasn’t the creaking and clanging and screeching of their bouldering gate as Leila opened it that kept my eyes in that direction, or the man on a ladder, installing lights on the lintel of their entrance door. It was her, her peculiar sense of style. Garbed in a frilly blouse, high-cut shorts that stood just above her mid-thighs, and her sturdy legs in chunky mid-calf boots, she swaggered up in a way I had never seen a girl from the conservative part of my world dress. It was the first time I was seeing her, the first time I was beholding the stun that she was, and the dance-like bounce with which she walked. 

The second time I saw her, it was the sound of her laughter that made me turn. I was washing the tyres of my uncle’s sleek Hyundai. And there she was, outside with her siblings, cackling and gurgling, like the sound of water trickling down a rock. Her head was thrown back and her shoulder bobbing with each hearty rumble. I did not notice the faces of her siblings, their features, their clothing, or how many they were. I only saw Leila, and I wondered, as I raised the water hose to rinse down what I had already rinsed and dried – shaking the flexible tube with gusto in the hope that the activity would flex enough muscles – what her actual voice would sound like. 

The third time I saw her, I was going for my dusk prayers at the central mosque two streets away. And I saw her, seated on a wooden bench in front of her house, her legs crossed at the knees, showing her block-heeled ankle boots. Her head was tilted at the book she was holding, shifting her attachment weave to the side. She didn’t look engrossed in what she was reading; she looked simply like she was enjoying the tale of a familiar partner. I slowed my pace to try and get a glimpse of what she was reading. Perhaps I would be able to tell a little about her by the kind of books she reads. Sidney Sheldon, I found. And somehow, it made sense – her various lengths of boots, her sitting on the chair like it was built for her alone, with one arm resting lazily on the armrest – It made sense that she would read an author who writes about complex female characters, characters who played with fire and defied norms. Then her head rose, and we locked eyes. There was a slight moment where nothing happened; the world around me came to a pause. I could not tell what transpired in the seconds that our eyes met, but my brain came back from its hiatus when she beamed at me. It was this smile, the bright openness of it, which prodded me forward, prompting me to ignore the Mu’azzin announcing the call to prayers – Hayya ‘ala salah. Hayya ‘ala falah. Hasten to prayer. Hasten to success – and instead, hasten to meet her.

The gate opened, creaking and clanging and screeching. A little girl showed her face. “Sister mi, mama is calling you,” She said and scurried back in, leaving the gate open. 

Leila did not turn her face or even acknowledge the little girl. Her eyes were on me, and a subtle look of surprised confusion was clouding her face as she watched me move towards where she was. 

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I told her with a deliberately plastered grin. 

“Um… I don’t believe I am.”

“I think the universe wants us to talk.”

“Really?” There was a glint in her eyes that emboldened me, gave me the audacity to flirt, with the certainty that she would flirt right back. 

“Absolutely! It keeps showing me your face every time I come outside the house.”

She gave a sly eyebrow raise. “Every time?”

“I mean, considering this is the third time I’m seeing you in four days, ‘every time’ seems like an appropriate phrase to use.”

The little girl was now screaming her name from inside the house. 

Leila closed her book, standing up. 

“Well,” She grinned. “Three doesn’t sound like ‘every time’ to me. Come back when it reaches five.” Then she shot a knowing look before closing the gate and disappearing into her house. 

I missed the congregation prayer that I had spent most of my adulthood keeping up with in different mosques wherever I was. I did not brood over it. And it was because of that glint in her eyes. I spent several hours replaying every movement, the twisting and pouting of her lips that followed the glint, the abandoned book, the long booted legs that arched ever so slightly as we spoke. I thought about everything, trying to decipher what they meant, what they possibly could mean. Was she flirting? Was she baiting? Did she like me? Was my boldness what she liked, or the toned, muscled abs she had gotten a glimpse of when I was washing my uncle’s car?

The fourth time I saw Leila was on the second Saturday of December, when the Harmattan dryness now burned lips and people’s feet cracked with so much flakiness, they peeled. Each person stuffed small-sized Vaseline or Shea butter in handbags and pockets with protective gentleness, to avoid the inevitable burning lips, flaky skin, and dry nostrils. Leila and I did not go out of our way to speak. Not even a hello. But when our gazes met, she was smiling that knowing smile of hers. I raised my fingers and signaled a 4. In response, she raised her hand and brought her thumbs up. And then, like old friends who had somehow lost the ability to communicate, we continued on our different, separate ways.

Like a wise philosopher once said, no worthy thing comes easy. I had expected to see Leila the following day, marking it the fifth time the universe was showing her to me – our inside joke. The day had felt auspicious, and I was looking forward to it. I had worn my best Kaftan, the one I saved for special occasions like Jumu’ah – beige coloured with a custom-made cap. I stayed on the balcony, straining my sun-glasses hooded eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. I took a stroll up and down the street, and then the next street, and the next. Then I removed my shades, thinking that maybe I had missed her when she stepped out of the house. I went back to the balcony, stayed, and stayed some more. But there was no sight of her. When I later saw her, the sky had already taken the colour of soft gray, and I had no cause to flaunt my Gucci sunglasses. My well-ironed Kaftan, too, was already creased and crumpled at the edges, at the sleeves, at the back. The only thing that stood in its place was the cap. And she was out there, casually propping the bench in front of the house up, ready to sit down for her evening read. 

“I believe this is the fifth time the universe is showing you to me,” I said to her. “Although today it’s a bit late.”

“Well, maybe the universe wanted me to wash my parents’ clothes today, because they asked me to.” She teased, and we both laughed. Hers cheery and blithe. Mine, restrained and marked with caution. An indication to the difference of both our worlds.  

“My name is Yazid.”

“I’m Leila.” It was the first time I was hearing that name for someone who was not northern or Muslim. And I liked it. It was smooth and easy on the tongue. 

***

My love for Leila began to dwindle on the third Saturday of the month, the closest Saturday to Christmas. The city was buzzing with more than enough energy. Mornings were no longer just cold, they were cold and noisy. Air did not hold the musty smell of nothing, it smelled, now, of baking and dough and vanilla and cakes.  Colourful lights strung together on tiny wires shimmered in everybody’s houses, including my uncle’s, who was Muslim and northern. I suppose the boisterousness of Lagos did that to one. Made one bend their rules, twist it, even if just a little. Some houses had Christmas tunes bellowing throughout the hours. My relationship with Leila, too, was just as colourful. There were lots of giggles and meetings and holding hands and tender kisses.  I had already been established by Leila’s siblings and cousins as “Oko Sister mi.” which as much as it elated me, left me with a slight feeling of confusion. In the world I came from, labels were not issued out so quickly. Especially not the husband title. There was a clear distinction between both. You did not call someone an oko to your sister when he was not an oko to your sister. 

Leila and I clung to each other wherever we went. Every evening I would be found outside their gate, knocking, and a sister would look through the peep hole and shout, “Oko sister mi ni.” And Leila would open the gate – creaking and clanging and screeching. And she would join me on the bench in front of their gate, or for a stroll.

Once, when I came bearing gifts of Maltina and Crisps, the littlest sibling had said, “Me, I like you very well. You don’t form seniority to us like sister mi. You make us laugh and you let us play with you.” The comment had made me feel proud, like an actual oko of their sister. I first sensed the dwindling of that love under the flickering lights in F&S Mall. We had gone to get grilled fish, and while waiting for our orders, Leila leaned to me, her head resting on my shoulder, showing me the trending topic on Twitter. It was supposed to be something we would roll our eyes at, laugh off and continue snuggling in the warmth of each other. Until Leila said, offhanded with her eyes still on the phone, “I honestly don’t understand the purpose of seeking permission from one’s husband before stepping out of the house. Why would it even cause so much ruckus online?”

“There is a reason for everything,” I said. “Taking permission from one’s husband before going out might be important. You know, for safety reasons.”

It was a simple comment. And although I believed in my remark, when I said it to her, it was with the intent of merely responding to what she said– not a retort. 

But then she laughed, raising her head from my shoulder to get a good look at me. It was a loud mocking laugh. The kind that jostled you back to the memory of bullies in primary school.

“Would the husband take permission from me too when he wants to go out?” She said, “You know, for his own safety.” And I sensed it in my heart then, the dwindling of my love for her, like a piercing spasm of disappointment. 

My love for Leila slipped from my hands three days later when kids had already begun igniting firecrackers in the area, the ricocheting gun-like noise generating triumphant jubilation from kids. In the middle of those glows and elation, Leila told me, very casually, that she had PCOS. I had seen little strands of hair above her upper lip and asked her about it. Then she said, “Oh, it’s PCOS.” As if I was supposed to know, as if only a dumb person would not know. When I asked what it meant, she said women who have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome produce excess hormones and their ovaries produce high levels of androgens, like testosterone. Seeing my further confused face, she said, “It means I produce a high level of male hormones.”

I sat there, hearing but not fully understanding her explanation. The word hormone, androgen, testosterone was new to my Humanities faculty brain. But the term ‘male hormone’ she added to her explanation gave me a hint of what she meant. How possible was it for a woman’s body to produce things that only a man’s body could, I thought.

“Facial hair growth is just one of the symptoms.” She added. 

“And what are the others?”

“Um, irregular periods, weight gain, acne, mood swings, and in some cases, fertility issues.” She listed them counting her fingers as if she was in front of a panel answering questions to an oral interview. Then suddenly, all the pieces fell into place. The boots she wore, thick and bulky in its aesthetics, the bold assertions she held about women not taking permissions from men, the instruction to me on when to come back to woo her – fifth time, she said – was all because of the male hormones coming into her body. Then I realised with a rude awakening that she had never offered to cook for me like other girls did for their boyfriends. 

“It’s one of the most common hormone conditions,” She was saying now, a comment I believed was her attempt to tone down what she had. 

By the time I got back home and laid on my bed, my love for Leila had slipped from my hand like a bar of wet soap, and I was sure there was nothing else to hold onto. 

“But guy, you are dull o,” My course mate was telling me on the phone. “Who told you hormones define personalities?”

“You won’t understand,” I said. 

“Ah!” He exclaimed, laughing, “And you are going to be a graduate in two months?”

Seeing his mockery, I turned away.

“The least you could have done was read it up,” he said. “That is if you truly loved her like you said.”

In his words, there was doubt about my love for Leila, about my moral integrity as a man. And very fleetingly, I considered that maybe, truly, I had missed out on the love of a lifetime with a wonderful lady. But then I relaxed, consoled by the fact that years from now, there would be nothing to miss about a fat infertile woman.