The Price Of A Meal

“Good morning, beautiful. Hope you slept well?”

I sighed.

Beautiful. I hated that word before I understood its value. I typed a short reply.

"Morning, sir. I slept well. Thank you."

Within seconds, another message came in.

"Are you free this afternoon? Let's have lunch."

Lunch. Just lunch. At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

The rest of the morning dragged on. During lectures, I barely heard a word the lecturer said. My mind was elsewhere, and Ada noticed.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"You've been saying 'I'm fine' since yesterday."

"I said I'm fine."

She raised an eyebrow but let it go.

I wasn't ready to explain something I didn't even understand myself. By noon, I was standing in front of the tiny mirror. I changed my outfit three times—the black gown looked unflattering, while the floral one made me look younger than I wanted.

I finally settled for simple fitted jeans, a cream blouse, and low heels. Nothing that screamed I was trying too hard. Still, I caught myself applying lip gloss twice…

His car was exactly where he said it would be. A metallic grey Toyota Camry parked across from a popular eatery just outside our apartment.

He stepped out before I reached the car. He seemed like he was in his early forties. An expensive-looking wristwatch, well-ironed native clothing, and a clean shave.

"Finally," he smiled.

"It's nice meeting you."

"You too, sir."

"No 'sir'," he laughed. "Call me Tunde."

I nodded. Though in my head, he remained "Sir."

The restaurant wasn't one students normally visited. The air conditioning alone blew pricey air; a waiter handed us menus while I glanced at the prices. My heart nearly skipped. One plate of rice here could feed me for almost a week at Mama Titi’s canteen.

"You can order anything," he said casually.

Anything. That word sounded dangerous.

"I'll just have jollof rice."

"Only?"

"I'm okay."

He smiled knowingly. "You students are always pretending."

Without asking again, he ordered enough food for four people. Seafood rice, chicken, small chops, fresh juice, and ice cream. I quietly watched him perform the show of a lifetime. The bill forming in my head was seriously giving me anxiety.

"So..." He leaned back. "Tell me about yourself."

I kept my answers brief—almost a finalist, one of three children, trying to graduate. Nothing more.

On the other hand, he loved talking. He talked passionately about his business, trips, properties, and his children who were schooling abroad. Every sentence reminded me that we lived in completely different worlds. Then came the question.

"So..." He smiled. "Why did you finally reply after ignoring me for months?"

I wasn't prepared for that question, so I looked down at my glass. "I've been busy."

He smiled.

"No." He took a sip of his drink. "You were being cautious." Then our eyes met. "And that's something I like."

For a second, neither of us spoke until he reached into his pocket and placed a white envelope gently on the table. 

"I know school isn't easy."

I glanced at it. "Thank you, but I didn't ask for this."

"I know. It's just something small."

The envelope appeared heavy, and my fingers refused to move. Every value I had ever claimed to possess stood on one side of the table. Every unpaid bill stood on the other.

"Go on," he said softly. "It's not a debt."

Slowly… I reached for the envelope. When my fingers first brushed it, something inside me changed, not because of the money, but because for the first time... I realized how frighteningly easy it was to put a price on desperation.