Shaibu’s car was just like his father; an old, wobbly art of welded hardness which fumes when provoked beyond elastic limit. The 1998 Mazda was expelling thick smoke when it finally arrived at Diana’s, moving at snail’s speed, jerking off suddenly and spurting intermittently along the way. He needed to kill his worse enemy, stress; and thank God Diana’s parents had left for Men’s and Women’s Fellowship.

He combed his afro hair, tossed a mint into his mouth, rolled some deodorant under his pits and clutched the pack of fried yam and tsofi Diana had requested. He smelt fine. As he locked up, he spotted the Quran from the dashboard glaring guiltily at him. He slammed the door quickly, and slapped his back-pocket to make sure his condoms were safely stashed. A grin lit up his face.

He found Diana at the door with an outstretched arm. Guess she was used to the deafening roar of that old engine. Her outfit was inviting; a see-through blouse, with one of its straps hanging lazily down her arm, out-dooring a breasted chest. Her blue jeans shorts barely covered her flawless thighs. Shaibu gulped.

“You still keep those bears on the bed instead of me,” he joked, slapping a pair of stuffed bears positioned on the right side of Diana’s bed.
“Be glad my father is not here, Shai.” She reminded.
Shaibu inched closer. He knew he had little time till her parents arrived. He felt Diana’s lips subtly, and she responded.
“We have to talk…” she said. It felt like a stick in the spokes of Shaibu’s wheel. Not when his blood was simmering, and his members nodding.
“That can wait, dear,” he responded, and slipped an arm into her blouse, searching for whatever. She pushed him away gently. “Don’t be naughty.”

“My father does not wish I marry a Muslim!”
Shaibu sighed. “I know that man doesn’t like my kind. Why can’t I marry you?”
“Well, I will love my children to be Christians, and my husband to come to church with me,” one could realize from her tone that she had nursed this dream since childhood.
“Allah forbid,” Shaibu retorted. “I am the man. My children have to be Muslims.”
“Then I guess my father was right…maybe Christians should just marry Christians!”
The ensuing silence was long. Then Shaibu broke it, not with words, but with a dash for his shirt, and subsequent angry shuffling to the door.

Diana blocked the entrance before he could storm out. She loved him, but did not wish they will part angry at themselves. Words would just spoil the ambience at this point. She slid her straps further down, stood on her toes and offered her lips. Shaibu’s anger melted and the scene moved from the doorway unto the bed.

Before they could self-actualize, the door flung open.
“Young man!” the voice sounded like her father’s, albeit in an angrier tone. Shaibu turned to make sure.
“Walahi, trouble!”