Rot and Dumb

Charlie tapped his foot impatiently, glancing at his watch over and over again. The program had said 12:00 p.m. He had been here since 11:30 a.m. and it was now 12:50. When was the show going to start? He imagined himself sitting here just to watch a bunch of dark skinned women parade seductively down a catwalk in clothes that were completely crazy most of the time.

On his last thought, he experienced a pinch of remorse. It was unfair considering the fortune he made out of those dark skinned women.

His 'Rising Sun' magazine was one of only five magazines that independently covered and broadcasted these top class fashion shows. The time he lasted here would determine the amount of his sales of thousands of copies of the next issue of the magazine. Of course, he certainly made lots of fortune off these models. Yet, he didn't want to be there. His vexation suddenly multifaceted as he recalled the actual reason he was seated there. His senior coverage staff that usually covered such events had recently developed a depression problem on account of family issues and had showed up for work looking awkward and tattered, this morning. Kent had sent him home with an aggressive warning that if he didn't sort out himself sooner, he would have to quit the job. But that had left him with the challenging option of either sending someone else instead of that coverage man or not covering the show at all. Charlie hadn't had enough assurance in any other of his coverage staff to make a replacement. So he had decided to do it himself. But he was now regretting his decision.

"Shit," he muttered, thinking of his 2:30 p.m. meeting with his secretary. Fighting his vexation, he looked towards the left exit of the auditorium, wondering if he had just enough time as to return to office and send someone else to cover the show.

Then he saw her. She had just walked into the auditorium and was standing just inside the doors. She was a lady of about six foot two inches tall. She had what had to be the blackest of hairs he had ever seen, surrounding a curvy face. Her physique was elegant and her complexion ebony. She was slim fitted, not skinny thin like most of the models he would be looking at later today. She possessed well rounded feminine curves in the right places. All together, she was a gorgeous woman of rare beauty. The air around her made Charlie forget to breathe for a while. The way the lady seemed to appear out of nowhere and the way she walked angelically kept poor Charlie in lustful awe.

As she stood, there seemed to be a pause in time. For Charlie, it looked as if all activity had ended at her sight and yet that wasn't a reality. From his eye of eyes, at least, he could readily sense people still moving around. But he was so engrossed in what he was seeing such that for some moments it had appeared that everything had stopped. He wondered if he was the only one that saw her. He felt a sharp pain in his chest and realized he was holding his breath. He slowly released his breath, still staring at her. She barely had stood there for more than a couple of seconds, but to Charlie it seemed like an eternity before she started moving forward.

Charlie wondered who the lady was. Could she be one of the models? She had to be the most striking woman he had ever seen.

As she moved forward, Charlie noticed that that she had an easy grace, which made it appear as if she floated. In fact, he had to resist the urge to stand up and see if her feet actually trod the floor. There was also no atom of the characteristic self-awareness that would be expected of young beautiful ladies. Scores of beautiful women of his acquaintance would have stood there decked up like peacocks till the attention of more than half of the spectators and guests had been drawn. And such women wouldn't walk quietly in order not to draw more attention. They would have been clicking their high heels on the floor or worst still walking with exaggerated moves to steal themselves public notice.

Who was this lady? Charlie continued to follow her with his eyes as she made her way towards the front of the auditorium. He let his eyes freely feed on her contour and natural endowments. She took a seat on the third row to the front, the row directly in front of him. From where he sat, he could only afford a side view of her face. He took advantage of the view. He wondered again who she was. She was obviously not one of the models or she would have been behind stage. He felt it was a shame. He wouldn't have minded watching her parade the catwalk. In fact, his photographer instinct was already pondering on how many angles to capture her from. He knew only a professional photographer would be able to capture her essence through the lens of a camera.

She must have noticed his stare because she turned and caught his eyes directly. He momentarily experienced an almost mystical flash from her eyes. He couldn't see the exact color. They seemed dark and at that instant, those eyes were trying to freeze him with an icy stare. Involuntarily, he shrank aback from that cold stare, and then he collected himself and gave her a shy nod of salute, but she seemed annoyed by that. The eyes had even turned icier if that was possible. She turned away ignoring his salute.

Charlie continued to stare at her, but heard an announcement proclaiming the commencement of the show. He turned back to the front. Presently the show started, and the models filed down the catwalk. He soon forgot the ice queen in the next row, as he got himself busy with taking photographs of the models. As usual when he picked up a camera, he became engrossed in the images he saw through the lens.

His excitement with cameras and pictures had started when he was a teenager, when a warm hearted old man had allowed him spend most of his time in a camera shop and taught him how to use a camera.

After losing his both parents in a fatal domestic fire outbreak at the age of six, Charlie had been raised in a foster home. Unable to adjust to life without his biological parents, he had been a very difficult child while growing up. He had dropped out of school in grade seven and had started hanging around the neighborhood shops. Most shop owners had been wary of his likes of kid, but this old man, Mr. Amaechi had taken a liking to him, allowing him to come into his camera store whenever he felt like coming. He had loved spending most of his time in the shop and would run errands for the old man. Soon, he was getting regular wages by the weekend, like an employee. They never formally discussed it, but Charlie started working for Mr. Amaechi earning a steady income. Mr. Amaechi also taught him how to take pictures. Charlie saved some of his money and as soon as he could, he bought himself a camera.

Charlie had his camera with him wherever he went. He captured whatever caught his fantasy. He had no other plan for any of his pictures than keeping them. After loafing around for a couple of years, he went back to school and acquired his high school diploma. Then he further went to college to study journalism. After graduation, he applied as a reporter for a small newspaper, but he was too unruly for such job. He hated being instructed on what kind of news he was to cover and how to cover it. So, he left for freelancing. He would go wherever there was a story and compile reports accompanied by pictures. That was how his pictures came into recognition. His pictures undoubtedly told more stories and passed information more than any words could. Many establishments offered to pay him handsomely for his services, but he wasn't interested in getting himself tied down and told how or what to photograph, so he continued freelancing. He generated lots of money marketing his stories though. And he also won a couple of prizes.

Later, he founded the Rising Sun magazine. The magazine encompassed a wide range of subjects, from fashion to violence. The readers never knew what subject he would cover in the next issue, but they kept on buying because they knew that whatever the subjects, they would get the worth of their purchase. Charlie was an expert truly. Now aged thirty-eight, he was a very wealthy young man and Charlie Achufuiwe had become a household name in South Side Chicago.

By the time the show ended, and Charlie put his camera away, the object of his fascination hours ago had vanished. Charlie looked around the auditorium to steal a glimpse of this beauty, but she was nowhere to be found. He sighed. He would have loved to meet her or better still take photographs of her. He slowly packed up his camera and returned to his office.

Three weeks later, Genevieve Obiajuru, fashion designer, was in her 'office' – which was actually a workroom both for office use and family use. She was in the office with her personal assistant, Aisha, when one of the girls in the office brought an envelope from Rising Sun. the envelope contained layouts of photographs from the fashion show. Genevieve had to crosscheck the proofs and issue approval before the magazine went further to publish them.

Aisha was the first to have a look at the photos. She made a blunt grin after looking at them. "Madam Genevieve, I like this new layout," she said. "It really looks nice."

"What new layout?" Genevieve asked. She wasn't aware of any possible changes. "Let me take a look at that."

Genevieve examined the 'new' layouts. They were actually different. Usually, the designs were displayed in groups of catalogue, first, casuals and sportswear, then formal, before haute couture. Now, there was none of such grouping. Instead, the designs were displayed randomly on the basis of color schemes and matching backgrounds. The entire effect was one of enchanting disorderliness. It was like what a toddler would do, disregarding order, and yet it somehow ignited the total effect. It was more attractive. She frowned. "I didn't approve this," she said.

"You didn't?" asked Aisha. "Who did then?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out who did," Genevieve said. "Could you get Rising Sun on the line, please?"

While Aisha dialed, she inquired of Genevieve if she wanted to handle it herself. Genevieve started reaching for the phone, but changed her mind. She had an appointment with her beautician, and she wanted to be there before someone else took her place. "No, you handle it Aisha, I'm almost late for my appointment," Genevieve answered. "Just tell them to change the layout back to the usual format. Other than that, we're okay with the pictures."

"Alright madam," Aisha said, though she thought this layout looked really great. Aisha spoke to someone for some minutes. Genevieve was busy gathering her things getting ready to leave, when Aisha stopped her. "We have a big issue here madam," she said to Genevieve. "They're refusing to change the layout."

"What do you mean by they are refusing? Don't they understand the English? Did you tell them I said I want the layout the way we've been doing it?"

"I emphasized on that, madam. You heard me. But they're refusing to change it."

"Give me the phone," Genevieve said.

Aisha gave her the phone. Genevieve spoke to the person on the other end. Aisha watched keenly as her face turned red in anger, before she banged down the phone.

"I'm going over there right now," Genevieve said.

She was still burning in anger when she parked her car in the available parking garage of the fifteen-floor building on New Avenue that housed the offices of Rising Sun magazine. And her anger was not pacified as she took the elevator up to the 10th floor and stepped into the Rising Sun office suites. The offices of Rising Sun occupied almost that entire floor.

They recognized her immediately. After the receptionist greeted her cheerfully, she informed them she had come about some mix ups with the layouts of the fashion show. She was directed to a door set apart from the main work area. There, she was to wait in a small waiting room till she was invited into the inner office.

When Genevieve entered the room, she stopped abruptly in surprise. Her expression of surprise was centered on the face of the man sitting behind a big desk in the center of the room.

Charlie stared at the woman who had haunted his dreams since the day he saw her last floating down an aisle at the fashion show. So, they've finally meet again.

Genevieve remembered him as the man who had been uncontrollably staring at her on the day of the fashion show. He had stared so hard that she had felt the stare. And when she had finally turned around, he had had the audacity to nod a salutation. She had ignored him. What the hell was he doing here? Did he work for the magazine and as what?

Genevieve spoke first. "Hello, I'm here to for my design layouts due to be out in the next issue of Rising Sun."

"Your designs?" he asked.

"Yes, the GO designs. I'm Genevieve Obiajuru and I'm afraid there's been some mix up with the layouts which I wouldn't accept. It seems someone had mistakenly changed the usual layout without my consent..."

Charlie smiled. "So, we meet properly this time," he cut in. "I wondered who you were that day. I thought you were one of the models." He laughed briefly. "So, you're a designer."

He was trying to be friendly, but Genevieve showed extravagancy in return. Somehow this man made her uncomfortable.

"Yes, I'm a designer," Genevieve said. "What about the layouts?"

Charlie's smile vanished as he noticed her snob. "Yes, the GOs," he said. "There wasn't any mistake. I personally changed the layouts."

"You did what? Changed the layouts under whose approval?" Genevieve enquired angrily. This man's nonchalant attitude was getting the better part of him.

"I needed no approval. Anyone can clearly see that the designs look better this way," he said.

According to her expectation, the man was arrogant. He thought his idea was better, so he quickly changed something from the usual format it had been for some months now, without having any discussions with her. Well, he could think again.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I happen to like the old layout. So, if you could just consider changing it back."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, it's done already."

Now, Genevieve found out that she was just losing her patience. "What do you mean? They are my designs and whatever way I need them to be, that's the way they should be! Who are you to refuse? And who are you by the way? Where's the person in charge here?" Genevieve was staring angrily at the man who seemed unperturbed in his seat.

"Actually, you are speaking to the person in charge here," he said calmly. "Charlie Achufuiwe, Chairman and CEO of Rising Sun Magazine, at your service."

For some moments, Genevieve was speechless. This was Charlie Achufuiwe? The Charlie Achufuiwe? "Since when does the CEO take photographs at a fashion show?" she asked.

"Since this CEO is a photographer," Charlie replied.

Genevieve looked skeptical. "And you happen to cover the assignments yourself?" she asked.

"Not really, but the circumstances that day..."

Genevieve wasn't a bit interested. How he chose to get his kicks was his own business. She was here to find out why he was busy interfering with her own business. "Ok, so you're the one in charge. But I still want to have the layout changed."

"No."

Genevieve almost stamped her foot. Why was this man so die hard? "What's the problem with you?" she asked. "It is my designs we're discussing about here. I am the one to decide how they should be on display."

"They may be your designs, but they are my pictures and magazines. My reputation is at stake here."

"That's an arguable point. But what I want to know is, if you've already decided to do what you want to do anyway, why sending us the proofs then? Why didn't you go ahead and do it?"

He smiled. "I wanted your approval."

Genevieve threw up her hands in exasperation. "Anyway, thank you very much," she said sarcastically.

"You're welcome," he replied.

This time, Genevieve stamped her foot, making him burst into laughter. "You see, Miss Obiajuru, Genevieve, do you mind if I call you Genevieve?" he asked, and then, continued without waiting for an answer. "Why don't you have a seat and let's discuss about this calmly?"

Genevieve considered walking out. The last thing on her mind was to sit down and discuss anything with this annoying fellow. What was the need? She got the sharp feeling that once his mind was set for something, there was no going back.

She pulled out the seat in front of the desk and slumped into it, speaking at the same time. "It's Mrs. Obiajuru." She didn't understand why she felt she was obliged to emphasize that.

If Charlie heard her, he gave no indication. "Now, let's look at the layout," he said.

Genevieve drew out the proofs from her purse and laid them out on the desk. Charlie got up and came over to her side of the desk to stand beside her so that they could look at the pictures from the same angle.

He started outlining details to her, explaining how the new arrangement used color schemes and design enhancing backgrounds. As he explained, Genevieve noticed that he possessed nice hands. She was a hands woman. People usually had various human body parts that they get attracted to, men and women alike. For instance, some men, waist-men, usually looked at a woman's waist first; they were attracted by curvy waist on a woman. Some went for the breasts and the way the various body parts were organized, well endowed hips, round, fleshy behinds and such. Some even went for eyes. Eyes? Well, to each man his choice! Women also had their own peculiar tastes. Genevieve for her part was a hands woman. She loved beautiful hands on a man. Beautiful but not effeminate; they had to be masculine, but with slender and well-shaped fingers, and cleanly cut nails, not manicured though. It was really weird, but for her, nice hands equated being a good lover. She couldn't explain that either. She recalled that in her younger days, there had been countless times when she met a really handsome man only to be off by the sight of his hands. She so despised pudgy fingers and stubby nails. Charlie Achufuiwe, however, had nice hands. She couldn't try to imagine how those fingers would caress a woman's body. She could also catch the sharp smell of his aftershave. Suddenly it seemed to her as if he was too close. Their heads were close, almost in contact, and if she turned her head, she would be looking directly into his eyes. This thought troubled her.

Bent in his position, Charlie could smell the fragrance she wore. It was soft and mild, elusive almost. It played with his senses, reminding him of when she had appeared to float in the auditorium. Mixed with the smell of her shampoo, the tender fragrance around her was heady and so intoxicating. He had an almost sudden desire to bury his head in her bosom and satisfy himself with her air. He was speaking without being in full control of what he was saying.

As if Genevieve was aware of what was going on in his mind, she suddenly pushed back her chair and stood up. "I understand you may have a point, but the absolute fact still remains that I want you to change the layout."

Now, the once calm and friendly Charlie became tight lipped. "I'm changing nothing," he said bluntly. Then, he continued almost immediately. "Look, Genevieve, why don't we reach a compromise? Let go of this issue and let's watch the response of this new arrangement. If it doesn't get a better response than the previous one, we'll then return to the old style."

Genevieve hesitated. For some moments she wanted to argue, but decided it was a good compromise on her side. After all, what did she have to lose? If it did well, it will only be of benefit to her. And if it didn't do well, they would definitely change it back.

"Alright, I've heard you Mr. Achufuiwe. We'll do it your way," Genevieve said.

"Charlie," he said, nodding.

Genevieve didn't acknowledge. She simply stood. "Goodbye Mr. Charlie," she said, leaving the room.

Charlie watched her go. She was even breath taking up close, he thought, and her voice was so gentle. She was almost entirely perfect except for one notable fault. She was cold, the real ice maiden, and not even a maiden. She was a married woman. "Mrs. Genevieve Obiajuru," he smiled. Why did she look so cold? What could make a woman of such beauty so cold? What was her story? He was fascinated.