A Case of Mental Stalking

I have an unfortunate habit of people watching whenever I find myself in a public place. It’s just my thing, some women love jewelry, some 28inch waist length Brazilian hair, yet others, anything their boyfriends love. Me? I enjoy mental stalking.

For the sake of clarity, I will set out to explain my definition of mental stalking. It is the art of watching total strangers on the street, in fast food restaurants, at the cinema, church, weddings, funerals, or any other public place and making up stories in your head about their lives; Who they are, where they are form, why they have a funny looking hat on, and so on.

Now, let me tell you, metal stalking is an art, and like all art forms, it requires a certain amount of talent, which after careful training can be fine tuned into a skill. It’s not easy coming up with anecdotes about people you never even spoken to. You have to harness your powers of creativity. It also requires a high degree of subtlety when glancing at people. You don’t want to be caught ogling red handed, else you be mistaken for a crazed, lonely weirdo who has no life; or even worse, a thief. You know how paranoid we Nigerians can get, especially those living in Lagos. Being caught staring at someone, can lead the ‘staree ‘to the illogical conclusion that the ‘starer’ must be the leader of a gang of robbers who haunt people down at social gatherings. Most especially if the ‘staree’ considers his/her self to be a person of means and high social standing.

You also don’t want to be caught staring because let’s face it, at the risk of sounding hypocritical, it’s just plain rude. I mean who really wants to be out some where having a blast, or in a state of worship, or pretending to weep at the funeral of a 99 year old great-grand mother, and look up and see someone you can swear you’ve never seen before in your life gazing intently at you. Let me tell you, no one does. Yep. Not even me. Go ahead, call me charlatan, I understand. Truth is, its just plain creepy.

One day, I went for a wedding. I had woken up that morning with absolutely no intention of attending the event. I hadn’t even known about it. I was in the kitchen trying to whip up a heart attack on a plate, i.e English fry-up breakfast of eggs, bacon, and sausage, when my mum strolled into the kitchen and casually informed me that my third cousin twice removed; or something to that effect, was getting married that morning. Good for her I thought, but what’s my own? Until I realized that that was my mother’s way of saying she expected me to go with her. Some people who know me know that I am not a huge fan of weddings. Especially weddings of people I don’t know, whose guest lists naturally comprise of their friends and family members that I have never met. I find such events to be extremely tedious and boring. So I grumbled and mumbled, whined and moaned, but my Mum was having none of it. Two hours later, I found myself walking into the church in a peach colored dress and silver heels; everyone else, including my mother was dressed in the wedding colors of green and gold, so I looked totally off. Strike one.

Then, the wedding march started and all arose for the bride as she walked in. I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the cousin I had never met. Then finally I saw her, resplendent in a strapless, blinding white dress with a heavily protruding tummy that the empire waist line cut failed to hide. Watching her walk down the aisle was quite nerve wracking, I was afraid she was going to drop at any second. Looking at the faces of the guests around me, I could see that I wasn’t the only one who was thinking the same thing that I was, which was that, it appears orthodox churches are a lot more lenient these days. Many Pentecostal churches would never have allowed it. Why, a strapless dress in church! Who’d have thought?

Anyways, an hour and a half later, we are at the reception, the bride thankfully has not yet gone into labour and the MC is trying in vain to keep the jokes flowing. Unfortunately, many of his gags come out sounding extremely awkward as they mainly revolve around the highly sensitive issue of the couples’ first night. It is quite obvious to all that they have probably already had many nights. All this after the grooms’ best friend was called out to give a speech about how the couple met, but ended up rambling for fifteen minutes about how the bride is such a good and disciplined girl, with high moral standings from a well brought up home. Strike Two.

                                            

Then, it is the lady who baked the cakes’ turn to describe the inspiration behind her design. The cake is predominantly green, everyone knows green usually symbolizes fertility; there is no need to pray about the couple’s fertility as we can all quite clearly see that the marriage is already fruitful. Another awkward five minutes is spent by the cake maker, trying to focus on the tiny splashes of gold on the cake, and how that symbolizes wealth and prosperity, and so on and so forth. Strike Three.

At this point, I am bored. I can’t help it. I start to mental stalk. My eyes move around the room searching for interesting subjects. They settle on a young adult woman with an amazing looking natural fro. Back then, I had been seriously contemplating going au naturel with my hair, so I was fascinated by any woman I saw rocking a natural do. Ironically, the few minutes I spent looking at her were not spent thinking up tales about an imaginary pot bellied boss who had a crush on her. I was actually trying to visualize my self in that hair style, and to figure out whether or not that was her natural texture, or if she’d had it texturised, when it happened. I got caught. I watched for a split second as her eyes met mine before I quickly looked away, she gave me that “are you a total psycho?!” look, then tapped her friends and pointed me out to them. I could imagine the conversation that they would be having at that moment. What on earth is wrong with that girl? Do you think she might have a few loose screws? Could she be your boyfriend’s crazy ex? I had been totally busted and I was mortified. I had to spend the next few hours seated across from them and putting up with their nasty stares until, finally, the reception was over and we could leave.

The moral of this story?

If you want to be a mental stalker, you have to make sure do it with style, grace and finesse at all times. That way, if you get caught, you can simply brush it off, ‘What? Oh no sorry, was actually looking at that piece of artwork right above your head’ for example would be a very valid excuse.

Then again, you can simply choose not to engage in it at all.

Quick Question: I hear there’s Peruvian and Chilean hair now, ethnically speaking, what’s the difference between a Chilean, a Brazilian and a Peruvian woman? Aren’t they all the same race? Just wondering.

Cheers