I SCAN THE OUTDOOR RESTAURANT SETTING. A whiff from expensive cigars being smoked teases my nostril as we navigate the path. It’s quite private, with potted palm plants demarcating each section. Orange lights in the plant pots illuminate the surrounding, casting a warm glow that sends a relaxing vibe to the senses. Each section slash private cove has two low wooden round tables, two single-armed raffia-like chairs and a two-seater raffia-like couch. Standing, you can see who’s in which section, but when seated, you hardly know whose section is next to you.

“That’s him over there,” Zoya says, beaming with a smile.

Over there, where? Where?

“Looking cute, like a silver fox,” she adds.

That’s when my gaze lands on the lone figure who looks relaxed and, in his element, lost in his thoughts and a solemn “Yeah…” is all I can get out as I place one foot before the other like a robot. Silver fox is an understatement. He is the Ultimate Silver Fox.

White men are not my thing. Like never rang my bell, but this… This white man is hot!

Sizzling!

From Zoya’s explanation and descriptions, I was expecting an old haggard white guy with an ego the size of the American map, but the unsuspecting silver-gray haired man with pink shirt sleeves neatly rolled up, his light blue jacket skillfully hanging on the couch and a leather office bag by his feet looks like a classy kempt A-list Hollywood actor, oozing all the things I love at once—wealth, power and sex.

Zoya’s eyes sparkle with adoration when we arrive at his table. “Good evening, Uncle George.” She says with the familiarity of a spoilt niece.

George? Sounds too sweet for this man who, change his pink shirt to black will look like an Italian mafia. It won’t surprise me if Silhouette is a front for an underground gun and ammunition crime ring.

Zoya’s greeting slightly startles a calm Uncle George who looks up to find her and a warm smile envelope his face—face dusted with neatly groomed silver-gray beard. He gets to his feet, and I am not disappointed when I notice he’s slightly taller—okay not slightly. I am five-eleven, he looks six-four. It’s so cool because most men fall short beside me.

“Mijn lieve.” His deep, cultured voice has a vague British accent to it. Hmm… “You’re looking well.” Cheek kissing Zoya thrice.

With him looking this fresh and cute, I hope he doesn’t fall prey to the rampant kidnapping going on in the country. Worse is him falling prey to Lagos babes using juju to tie men down.

Zoya gestures to me when he withdraws. “My friend Chiluba, Luba.”

When his affectionate, smiling eyes land on me, I want to melt into a puddle. His eyes… they’re a penetrating sea green duo, set to bewitch anyone who—

“Chiluba,” he says with a curious gaze, causing a tremor to run through me, my train of thought lost, and I release a faintly nervous smile. “Lovely dress,” he states.

A confused smile is the best I can afford as a strange tingling sensation grips my body like a vise.

Lovely dress—Was that for me or Zoya?

Chee-loo bah. He’d called me by my full name. Didn’t opt for the straightforward, simple nickname Luba. And I think he noticed it, the tremor.

It takes a nudge from Zoya for me to stretch my hand for a handshake when he was going for a cheek kiss or hug. I don’t know which. But all the same, his compelling woodsy scent hit me, and I know it’s something from Tom Ford. You can never go wrong with Tom Ford. If I had let him go through with the cheek kiss or hug he’d intended, Zoya will denounce me as her friend here. And now.

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