finding happiness in a wooden canteen

It’s 8:45 in the evening on a calm and quiet night. The moon shines bright, brighter than it ever has before. I am walking down a dark and somewhat eerie street, dressed in a fitted black hoodie and dark jeans that make me look kind of cool and mysterious. My scuffed-up black sneakers are like old friends, a little dirty from all the adventures I’ve had.

After almost ten minutes of walking, I finally reach my destination: a little canteen made of wood. Why is a canteen made of wood, you may ask? Well, I don’t know, and neither did the woman behind the counter. As I step inside, I notice the chaos—the floors are so dirty that I can barely tell what color they are anymore, and my sneakers quickly pick up grime, making them look even worse.

I was about to process that creepy thought about the wooden canteen when something else struck me—something good. It was her beauty. Dear God, where do we even start? Was it her watery, seductive eyes that seemed to have a magnetic pull on me, or her lips that were so red they looked like she had rubbed someone’s blood on them? She had the face of a runway model, but something else fascinated me about her: her hair. Long, luscious, and dark.

I looked at her, and she looked at me. I was too numb to speak, but she pulled the first move. “What would you like to order?” she asked with a dangerously charming smile. Order? In this dump? I thought to myself. Oh, I forgot to add that besides the canteen being made of wood, it was an absolute mess.

“Pasta,” I answered quickly after scanning the grimy canteen. I then proceeded to shoot my shot at this beauty. “What’s your name?” I asked with a more masculine voice, pathetically praying she wouldn’t notice the sudden change in the bass of my voice.

“Happiness,” she replied, somewhat shyer than when she asked for my order. I frantically hoped she would ask for mine, but she didn’t, and sadly, that was the end of my flirtatious attempt. I just couldn’t think of anything else to say.

I headed to my table once she was done writing my order, trying to clean off the little green and brown crumbs on the chair. I took one last glance at her as she walked into the back, where the food was prepared, and all I can say is she was blessed everywhere. At that moment, reality dawned on me. I was not the James Bond kind of guy—dark and mysterious—who could sweep any girl off her feet. No, I wasn’t.

Suddenly, everything began to look normal again. It was no longer in black and white. I could finally see the beauty of the wooden canteen, painted green and beige. It wasn’t that bad, to be fair. It was all in my head. I sat there feeling sorry for myself, hoping my beautiful angel would step out so I could try that missed shot again, but sadly, it wasn’t her who came out to serve me my food. It was an old-looking woman who looked to be in her late sixties. Everything about her seemed stern and unattractive, including her thick Igbo accent. It was definitely not Happiness—it was her mother.