When I see a nosy-parker coming, I take to my heels, disappearing in the opposite direction. There are few things I detest more than people trying to suck gist out of me. It’s so irritating, makes me want to empty my stomach over their heads. I can always tell when someone asks a question out of genuine concern but when it’s for amebo (being nosy) sake, it’s a turn off. Given my aversion to amebo, I’m very careful not to delve into people’s private affairs. Over the years I’ve become so good at it that I’m now crap at fishing for information. Crap as in useless! My motto is that if someone wants to tell me something, they will….when they are ready. Till then, I mind my business.
Over the Christmas holiday, I caught up with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. She is a really good friend and I love her to bits. Anyway, when I saw her she looked great albeit a little chubbier than normal. I noticed her stomach was a little big but it may well have been the doing of a plate of eba. I spent 5 hours with her and watched her down at least six bottles of water. If I wasn’t sure before, I was sure now. We gisted about any and everything but I said nothing. When I was leaving, she walked me to the car and it was then she said, “When I told you to come I couldn’t remember whether or not I’d told you I am pregnant.”
“Foolish girl, you didn’t but trust me, I clocked it as soon as I saw you!”
We had a good laugh about it. She was surprised I hadn’t said anything and concluded I hadn’t noticed her not so visible baby bump. I mean, what kind of friend see’s her friend is pregnant and doesn’t comment?! MEE apparently.
Now there’s a certain someone who has taken it upon herself to make my love life her business. I am so ‘close’ to this person that she doesn’t have my phone number, or bb pin or skype id or email address. Yet she wants in on my business. How about asking for my phone number first schmuck! Everytime I see her, the conversation goes something like this.
“Hey you! How are you?”
“I’m good. How are the lads?”
“There are no lads o.”
“Don’t worry, God will give you your own.”
What happened to how are you? How is work? How’s your mum? Your brothers? You cats? Your goats? Your pigeons? Nothing! It’s only the lads she is interested in.
The last conversation I had with her that stoked this fire went like this.
“Hey! I haven’t seen you in ages, where have you been?”
“I’ve been around, you’re the one that’s hiding. Haven’t run into you in Moorgate for yonks.”
“I no longer work in the area, I’m now in the Docklands.”
“Are you serious?! I hear there are cute Naija guys in that Canary Wharf, have you met any yet? I’m sure you’ll soon find a man in that place. You had better tell me when you do o, don’t do under-g (underground) loving o!”
Like seriously?! How about asking why I moved out of the area? Did I get fired? Made redundant? Get a better job? Nothing! Plus, who told the schmuck that the men in Canary Wharf stand around waiting to be picked up?!
Note to schmuck: When a man finds me, you will be the last person to know. THE LAST…and that’s assuming you ever find out.