Excerpt from A Meal is A Meal by Nnamdi Anyadu

You noticed her the first time she stood to present her arguments during the book club’s gathering. Rising quickly, you observed from your spot at the lounge's bar as she skillfully dismantled the opposing view of another member.

In that moment of passionate debate, you realized she was someone special. Instantly, you were smitten—gba! From that day on, your interest in the book club grew purely because of her.

The club met at the lounge twice a month, specifically on the second and last Saturdays. The men usually enjoyed beer while the women favored cocktails. The club president insisted that only a bottle of room-temperature water suffices. Nkwobi, pepper soup, and asun were common fare. Occasionally, a joint would be shared among members, but cigarettes were notably absent from the scene.

Meetings lasted no more than two hours, during which members engaged in lively discussions about poems, novels, and essays. Heated arguments often erupted over themes, only to dissipate just as quickly. Sometimes, one member would become overly passionate, while another would retaliate with humor or impressive knowledge sourced from a quick internet search. This was precisely what transpired the evening you first laid eyes on the girl.

The book club seemed appealing to you, akin to a community you wished you could be part of had your circumstances been different—perhaps if you had pursued a university education in a conventional office job, where people sold insurance or dabbled in real estate. You perceived the group as upwardly mobile, embodying a certain working-class ethos reflected in the personal anecdotes they exchanged. Their discussions on Western liberalism, gun laws in America, and criticism of public figures who abstain from political involvement resonated with this perception. They even examined the role of Pidgin in modern African literature.

However, your own views on their ardent interests felt somewhat exaggerated and misdirected. Instead, your focus remained singularly on the girl, the sole reason you continued to engage with the group. Everything else paled in significance.

You were captivated by her unique fashion sense, expressing a blend of gothic and traditional styles that felt intriguing yet indescribable. You appreciated the way she styled her hair, adorned her fingers with rings, and displayed a striking nsibidi tattoo on her forearm, often showcased through her choice of short-sleeved outfits.

Initially, it didn’t trouble you that she seemed unaware of your existence. You rationalized that how could a mere waiter like you attract the attention of someone so extraordinary? You had heard whispers that she was a tech-savvy individual, and it made perfect sense. The men who gravitated towards her appeared to be founders, CEOs, and influential executives—those who would wander into the lounge late in the evening adorned in elegant kaftans and luxurious shoes, exuding the scent of high-end fragrances and ordering aged whiskey. They rarely lifted their heads from their smartphones when conversing with staff.

Surely, it was these prominent figures who filled her direct messages, begging for her attention. Such were the suitors befitting her charm. Her skin glowed even in dim lighting, her cheekbones were spectacularly defined, and her proportionate figure drew admiration. When she laughed, it resonated above the din of chatter; her voice was melodious—a delight to hear, reminiscent of music from angelic choirs.

In your dreams, she became a constant figure, walking into your subconscious and sharing intimate thoughts. Dream after dream, she would take your hands, gaze into your eyes, wrap you in her embrace, and declare her love. It was a promise of forever, and when the morning light broke through, you awoke with the surreal knowledge that your souls were intertwined.

Ultimately, the responsibility of proving your bond now rested upon your shoulders. The love destined to blossom between you was a beautiful weight you were ready to bear.