Let me set the scene: it was a hot Saturday afternoon, the kind of heat that makes your armpits feel like boiling kettles. I had just finished ironing the only shirt I owned without a suspicious mystery stain. I was about to embark on the most important adventure of my adult life: my very first date with a girl from East Legon.
Now, if you’re not familiar with East Legon, let me break it down for you. East Legon is like the Beverly Hills of Accra. It’s the land of Instagram influencers, Range Rovers, and people who pronounce "brunch" with a British accent. I, on the other hand, was a humble guy from Kasoa. And let’s just say my bank account was allergic to East Legon prices.
But none of that mattered because I had met this beautiful girl online. Let’s call her Vanessa. She had skin smoother than a fresh jar of peanut butter, eyes like roasted plantains at night, and a smile that could make ECG keep the lights on. She agreed to go on a date with me — and not just any date. A lunch date in East Legon.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything. Everything could go wrong.
I arrived early, sweating like a stolen goat. I had borrowed my cousin’s cologne, which smelled like expired bubble gum mixed with petrol. My trousers were so tight they could’ve qualified for a job with the FDA.
Vanessa arrived 20 minutes late — fashionably late, as they say — looking like she’d just walked off a music video set. Hair laid, makeup glowing, and eyelashes long enough to create their own breeze.
She gave me a quick hug. I think. It might have been a polite lean forward while dodging contact.
We entered the restaurant, which looked like it had been designed by people who had never seen poverty. The chairs were see-through. The menu had no prices. The waiter looked like he judged people based on their shoes — and I was wearing slippers disguised as loafers.
Vanessa smiled and said, "Order anything you like."
Big mistake. Huge.
Because when I opened the menu, I realized I was in trouble. Nothing made sense. There was something called "deconstructed jollof with foam of goat essence." Foam of goat essence? Is that soap? Is that even legal?
I pretended to study the menu like I was a food critic.
"Hmm... the confit of chicken with yam puree looks... promising," I lied.
Vanessa ordered confidently. "I'll have the seafood tower, extra prawns, the passionfruit mojito, and the jollof croquettes."
I said a silent prayer and asked for a bottle of water. "Tap water is fine," I added.
She looked at me like I had suggested eating directly from a public trash can.
As the food arrived, I realized I was in a live episode of "The Rich and the Famished." The portions were small, the plates were big, and the prices — oh, the prices.
The waiter brought the bill before I could suggest going Dutch.
I opened it slowly, like I was diffusing a bomb.
And there it was. GHS 842.50.
Eight. Hundred. And. Forty. Two. Ghana. Cedis.
I had GHS 250 in my account. Two hundred and fifty. That was after transferring all my momo savings and the coins from under my mattress.
"Is everything okay?" Vanessa asked sweetly.
"Absolutely," I lied, smiling like a man sentenced to thirty years in a cold cell.
I excused myself to the bathroom and called everyone I knew.
My best friend? Unreachable. My cousin? Said he was in church. My mum?
Blocked me when I asked her to sell one of the goats.
I even called Spicy Kevin. Remember him? The mysterious caller from a previous story? He answered.
"Bro, this is not a good time," I whispered.
"You owe me money."
"Forget that. Lend me 600 cedis and I’ll name my first child after you."
He hung up.
I looked in the mirror. A man stared back — a broke, desperate man with cologne burning his armpits and trousers holding on for dear life.
I returned to the table with Plan B: pretend I lost my wallet.
"You won’t believe this," I began. "My wallet… it’s… it’s gone."
Vanessa raised an eyebrow. "Really? That’s funny, because I saw it in your back pocket earlier."
She had seen it? What was she, Batman?
"That was... my other wallet. My... pocket wallet. This one had all my... real money."
She sighed. Long. Deep.
Then she reached into her designer purse and paid the bill.
I wanted to cry. Not just out of shame, but because she didn’t even flinch. She paid like she was buying plantain by the roadside.
As we walked out, she smiled and said, "Next time, pick a place more within your budget."
There was going to be a next time?
"Really?" I asked, my voice full of broke hope.
"Of course," she said. "I like you. You’re funny. And brave. Most guys wouldn’t even try."
I blushed so hard I nearly caught fire.
Then she added, "Also, you still owe me GHS 842.50."
And that’s how I went on my first date with a girl from East Legon… and ran completely, unapologetically broke.
But hey, silver linings — I got a second date, and this time I made sure the menu had combo deals!
…At KFC.
THE END.
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