Alter-neck top, black as it can be. Outdone only by her brown skin, skin so smooth with the glean of a good furniture. And if the floral pants – that hugged her narrow behind a few inches too tight – could pass for style. Well, yes she was a sight.
And just when you thought, “well, maybe this will make sense after all.” It is ruined by some sasha draped mindlessly across her shoulder. Like “what the heck?”
There was some deliberate thoughtlessness to it. An impulse to ruin
but not enough to offend.
The blatant show of it. And oh, it had a bow behind, the top. Something about it reminds me of a tumour.
The hair, that too was a sight. Somewhere between coils and straights and curls and tangles. A shock of black and mess and abandonment. A bipolar affair if you fancy such things. Hair that resisted the wind; spread wide behind her like the legs of a whore.
The hair is dated, I can tell. A black mess with hues of gold, could pass for a relic. If only she knew what she looked like from behind… I stopped short at telling her just that.
Balancing her weight on her wedge sandals. Gave a nod or two for pleasantries. But those too weren’t few or far between. I don’t know which tripped her – the nod or the wedge. All I know is she was helped up a few inches before hitting the ground.
Where was I?@$%$£|ππ™^¥°=¶¢|
Ha, yes!!! The hair.
Hair that bruised where it touched
the skin. The sheer waste of it dropped to her buttocks. Calloused by the elements. Flayed at the sides and just a little lift from the wind, as if reluctant to move the rest of its mass.
The closest description I can give the texture would be a sponge that hadn’t quite made up its mind to be used on the body yet. Again, I stopped short at telling her just that.
But our dear girl carried on like she was the prettiest thing the world has ever known.
What does she know?
For she was only a mannequin.
I wonder what life must be behind those thin aluminium-rimmed show glasses. Years of bearing the scourge of a thousand greedy hands on your cold plastic flesh. Till your parts start taking leave of you, one limb at a time. A dent on the breasts. An vacant eye socket, the other one staring blindly at the sky. The
only surviving arm pointing nowhere in particular. And since no one wants the wig, it is left half sitting on your head with the same thoughtlessness it had sat all those long years.
Life must be hard for a
dated mannequin that has passed her prime.
An Ojuelegba mannequin, no less. Fit only for night markayt.
Tales from the Streets of Lagos