What Do Women Want?

The first time this question crossed my mind was in February of 1997. I was sitting on my famous desk in a Laundromat owned by a family member in Norfolk, Virginia when Shavanda walked in. She had this heavy face of somebody burdened with the duty of lifting the world off an endless pit. I asked her if she was all right to which she said yes. Yet, her face betrayed something on the contrary. Then I asked if she was hungry. First, she paused, then she said yes.

Instead of ordering pizza as I normally do, I reached out to a microwave beside me and brought out Chinese food that was delivered minutes ago and offered it to her. She took it very reluctantly. I watched as she placed it on the counter, a few inches from me and slowly opened it. She picked out the raw onions and threw them into the trash can. She did the same with the tomatoes. Afterwards, she lifted the spare ribs and advanced towards her mouth. Few inches to her mouth, she suddenly stopped.

“You want to kill me”, she shouted.

“What?” I queried.

“You want to poison me. I can see it in your eyes. You Nigerians. Bad people.” She continued.

I had known Shavanda to be erratic, outlandish and capricious, but I never knew her to be paranoid. I never knew her to be psychotic.

“Why should I want to kill you?” I asked in utter amazement.

“I know that you know.”

“Know what?”