Coobie and The Boob Lady

I'm sitting with my mother in a lounge in the airport. We're talking, and laughing, and enjoying my last hour in Lagos, when a pack of ghetto-fab people arrive. One's face is buried beneath waist-long dreadlocks, another is in a tight muscle-top (through which a blossoming pot-belly is visible from certain angles), another has tribal marks on his face, is wearing a cheap suit, and clearly doesn't belong. All are wearing sunglasses - the airport as you know is indoors.

I can see Mother's thoughts running through her mind. In a former life, I believe her name would have been Snobby Snobberson. She later confirmed that she was indeed thinking something along the lines of - "Who the hell are these? And why on earth are they sitting so close to me?"

Five minutes later, a similarly decked out party arrives. Mother mutters "Dear God... More of them?" Luckily no one else hears. From their exchange, it is clear the new invaders are friends of the earlier party. The all-star female cast in Party 2 is glittering under the weight of bling, bling and more bling. The quiet one in their midst is obese, to say the least. She squeezes herself into the seat beside Mother with much difficulty, and her spare parts breathe a sigh of relief as they seep over the chair's wooden base. She too is in sunglasses. She too is blinging.

The 'quiet one' in Party 2 is Mo'Nique a.k.a. Miss Parker.

The member of Party 1 in the 'tight muscle-top' is Cuba Gooding Jr.

Mother has no clue who they are.

I do. But I act like I don't.

Mother and I retire to a café on the 1st floor of the building. Through its greasy windows we see the members of Party 1 and 2 mingling and chatting more freely amongst themselves.

Cuba needs to take a leak. He walks, with tribal-marked/cheap suit dude by his side, through the hall. No one gives him a second glance.

The toilet facilities in Murtala Mohammed are not to his taste.

He walks back through the hall seconds later, and returns to his seat in the lounge (which is run by a private concierge company, not an airline, for those who are confused).

Cuba is restless.

Minutes later, he's off again. The toilet is out of the question, so he goes on a jolly meander. He looks from side to side, watching and waiting, watching and waiting. He moves very slowly, deliberately so.

And then... a Lady in Pink approaches. She is well-endowed. Cuba looks pleased. She hugs him, he does not resist. They remain thus, with her heaving bosom pressed up against his 'pecs', for an indecent amount of time.

Then Lady in Pink skips merrily on her way.

Others, having observed the scene for a millisecond or two, continue their buzzing and busy-beeing.

Cuba stands, hands on hips, ignored, but patient.

He waits.

Mother and I leave the cafe. We say our goodbyes. I walk through the passport and luggage checking facility (if it deserves to be called that), emerging hot and bothered on the other side after being frisked by a neanderthal in a mouldy brown suit.

Mother makes for the exit. Sneaking a peak at the muscle-topped man whose name she believes to be "Coobie", she finds him enveloped in a crowd of six or seven admirers.

Coobie is radiating.

Mother smiles to herself and makes a mental note to tell me of Coobie's eventual triumph.