Player’s Diary 3 – Kingsley Alaribe

Player’s Diary 3 – Kingsley Alaribe

Maybe we were friends. Maybe we were more. Maybe it was just my imagination. I never used to know the difference. As I advanced in skirt-knowledge, I began to get a hang of it.

The first thing I did was develop sarcasm. Notice how everyone loves Gregory in the medical tv series, House? Yet, he is sarcastic to the point you could outrageously strangle him with your bare hands.

The irony is that he says just about anything and gets away with it. It’s the same gospel with women.

ALSO READ: The Player’s Diary 02

And so before I met Amber, I had an unfinished business with Eloke. The fascinating point between us is the fact she’d told me straight out she could not have a thing to do with me because she was involved with someone else. We could hang out; we could have lunch dates now and then, but no more. I didn’t push. It is common sense to always accept the terms so you can start the war peacefully.

Another irony.


However, while seeming to accept the terms verbally, I renege in action. Thus, I agreed she was not my girlfriend but constantly treated her like she was. I never interfered with her actual relationship or even talk about it.

Now here is what makes a player distinct from a guy who likes lots of girls: flirting intelligence.

I know enough to realize everything I say does not leave Eloke’s subconscious, and that it would be a matter of time before they started seeping back to her conscious mind and forcing her to miss me, even in the company of her boyfriend.

The morning after I’d been with Amber, wondering why I couldn’t get her out of my mind, I decided it was time for some active distraction.

I called Eloke.

Her voice resonated on the other end, “Where did you creep out from, you heartless deserter?”

“I was at this new foreign resort for guys like me who are too sexy for their own skin. Didn’t you notice the estate was suddenly pale in appearance?”

ALSO READ: The Player’s Diary – Kingsley Alaribe

She giggled. “You’re still full of shit, Ronny. Don’t they have remedies for that at the resort?”

“Well, they figured they couldn’t deprive you of good ol’ shit.”

“You are so gross . . .” she started laughing.

In the end, we agreed to have dinner at Jade’s Garden at eight.

Note that the conversation could have gone a million ways. But with sarcasm-the right tone of sarcasm, that is-you just set the music playing according to how you love to dance to it.

I got Eloke a bouquet of Orchids on my way down. I know you’re already thinking, ‘why, this isn’t a Hollywood moving picture. Besides, we’re in Africa.’

But to tell you the truth, whatever a woman drones about from the screen, she’d love even more in real life.

Go figure!

When I offered her the flower, she placed it beside her carefully and snorted, “Not a bad choice.”

“Yea,” I replied. “I thought you could pep up your home a bit.”

Now she was laughing again. “Don’t you ever let up?”

I looked down at my pants, “I let it up when the time is kosher.”

“Omigosh!” she exclaimed. “You are totally nuts . . .”

I leaned forward and wore a serious look on my face. “I’ll tell you something nuttier than nuts. Remember the Egyptian fool who had the temerity to go sleeping with Princess Diana in the Royal Hearts?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were expectant.

“His last comment before he died was, ’I saw the w-HOLE of England.’”

Eloke caught the joke and guffawed. Now check out what I did next. I took her hand gently, looking in her eyes and said in a low tone, “I missed watching you laugh the way you just did. It’s always so beautiful.”

She held my gaze and let her head tilt to a side. In her eyes, I saw exactly what I wanted: tolerance.

Notice how I made the transition from hilarious to warmth. No warning, whatsoever, I just swapped. I didn’t start off warm because I didn’t want to come across as a wuss. I didn’t maintain the humour forever because I wasn’t there to be her jester or BFF.

But a blend of both would always give you a winning combo.

I released my grip on her hand. “What’s wrong with your neck? Are you going to have a seizure?”

And she started laughing again.

I was back to being a jester for a bit. Do you know why?

Because the perfect rhythm is the fluctuating rhythm. Don’t ever forget that. I have shown you how it works and how one can evolve into the other. We had not even ordered yet but I knew I had the evening under wraps.

It never really matters if you are friends, or if it is your imagination. You can easily make it less . . . or more. Just keep the rhythm fluctuating.

Now let’s move on to close the deal.


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