A dark-skinned young man walked along the roadside. A sad story lingered behind every step he took. He had the worst luck with women—rejected by ninety-nine ladies.
Wandering through downtown, he caught sight of a foreign girl—young, probably around sixteen. He, himself, was twenty.
She stopped him, a bit lost.
"Please… how can I get back to Lagos Airport?" she asked softly. Then added with a slight bow,
"Oh, sorry for not introducing myself—my name is Lyla."
The young man was stunned by this. He looked around, scanning the street. Seeing no one else nearby, he asked hesitantly,
"Pardon… are you talking to me?"
The young lady blinked in surprise.
"Of course, it's you. Do you see anyone else around?"
It was then the young man realized—she truly was speaking to him. It wasn't his fault he hesitated; no lady had ever taken the initiative to speak to him before. And this one—this girl standing before him—was a beauty.
