By Rehema Malemba
I close my eyes and I see my lips on his…I feel my chest pressing hard against his. His warmth and sweet scent encircling us both. His hands holding me to himself with the forever feeling of never letting go.
His fingers stroking through my hair which is already standing on its ends made worse by its kinkiness. Slightly he rubs his chin against my neck, his rough little beard pricks not a bother to me.
I feel my boiling blood crazily gushing through my veins. My heart stretching, with all its might craning to reach out to what it has been calling out for the past many hours without any positive response.
I neither want to lie down nor take a walk. I feel tormented and tortured. I feel like crying, but even as I crease my face ready to receive the tears, with the pieces of toilet paper that I placed beside me earlier when I thought maybe I wanted to go to the washroom, but no drop strolls down. No tears nor sleep.
May be a roller coaster with my best friend can help. Probably, shrugging my shoulders I reach out to her.
White well single lined pages laid before me, Tepee pens blue, black and red ready in my hands as if I’ll be sketching out the perfect picture of me and him that has stuck in my mind.
With excitement ready to paint the cold flames of my heart, flames that have frozen the better part of me while ragingly burning the other, as newlywed approach each other for the holy kiss at the altar, I firmly place the tip of my pen on the puzzled page before, expecting the sketching to start but again words are not within my reach.
My best friend too is as helpless as I am.
At the door he stops for a moment
I can’t. My ink canals are also frozen. All I can see is his figure coming through the gown of a curtain that I have on the door.
Like a king of the jungle with all commands at his feet, majestically pouring in, in his high robes of self-confidence that drew me to him from the first moment we met.
Self-confidence is his thing evident even in his walk. You may think he has not seen a pool of water in front of him and eagerly wait for his splash in it, but he safely and unshaken just goes past it. Not to mention his speech as he addresses his office counterparts or us his juniors.
At the door he stops for a moment with his seductive eye leans against the wall, gently touching his chin looking at me.
Oh God No!
What’s happening with me? Can I just maturely brush this off me? It’s clear my body calls out for this guy, these high temperatures say it all.
They are tormenting me… yes tormenting me because my outer is trying to go against what we had agreed on some time back.
So far everything has been cool yet not that coooool. We haven’t been able to meet, though inside me I’m truly dying to meet him, to see his face at least once, to look at him as the corner of his eyes fold to little creases as his cheeks widen to accommodate his cheeky smile exposing his one notorious left tooth that always seems to be calling me out.
I haven’t had SMS, nor internet bundles nor airtime to say may be I can use to converse with him…
The poor guy welcomed me so warmly
I’m bored sitting here, though it has always been my favourite way of spending my weekend, staying indoors, totally indoors with only myself to listen and talk to.
But right now I don’t want to stay in here anymore. May be I should go to Brian. What I’m going to do at his place, I don’t know, let me just go. I’ve lost commands of self for my very nerves have stood against me, saluting him; a total stranger.
Brian is a church mate and he has constantly insisted we meet and try to brush through our spiritual insights. That thought springs me out of my bed, to the floor the jiggling sound of flesh follows, of course.
Probably a chat over something else and more so a biblical inspired one will slap me back to reality, mock the weirdness in me.
The poor guy welcomed me so warmly, in no time a cup of hot white coffee is before me. As I have told you, he is so delighted to see me.
A simple question of how he has been, he is already brimming with biblical testimonials alluding them to his life with uncontained enthusiasm.
Three to five nods and forced smiling, guess what, my mind is back to its cage.
And how I lied to this guy about having an urgent idea I want to search on Google and thus asking him to set up a hotspot for me, I don’t know, but the next minute I know I’m rummaging through my keyboard finding a perfect way to ask how he is fairing on. Shameless me….
Disguising myself as a liar, only for me to ask how he is doing. Anyway I send him that.
Darkness is already spreading its cloak
I wait for at least the two grey ticks to appear, if the blue ones are close to impossible but nope, nothing comes. 2 secs, 5 mins, 20 mins, 1 hr …
“Hey do you have free SMS?” absent mindedly I ask and knowing the next statement that I would project to him after his ‘yes’ reply he hands me his phone. I type in his number, telling him to get online if it’s possible and it gets delivered.
2 secs, 5 mins, 20 mins…same same thing again and I give up.
Dejectedly I rise and walk out, probably back to my house but really I just don’t want to go back to my abode. Walking, looking here and there more like one who is looking for something they have lost but even that doesn’t add up, what could one be looking for in the faces of the passers-by?
Darkness is already spreading its cloak. The early evening with its chilliness has started creeping in drawing peoples in circles around the mutura and mahindi choma vendors, the only common places that people buzzed around like flies at these hours.
As if waiting for someone I stand close to a soft drink kiosk, swiping and unswiping my phone. I’m some blocks away from my house and just like I’ve told you I don’t feel like going back to my house despite the piles of assignments I have. All looking at me waiting upon my now dead spirits to pick them up and handle them.
Nothing to chew or do in particular my hands or my mind I’m left wondering at how these people can comfortably stand waiting to be served. Bathing in the smoke, of those long oily and coily things which keep on slithering through the bare fingers of the seller as he manhandles them.
He unwraps himself from me after a while
So digusting! and that gets me back to my strides. Cat-walking back to my now-uninteresting place. Still wondering how the ladies feel when their men come back to the house smelling like…
And, imagine what, amidst my roaming feeling of disgust least expected, in that same crowd, a red white striped jacket shows up.
Oh my God is that he? And even before I could turn and try not to see him or rather him not to see me, I hear his voice calling through,
‘Ruks!’ half chewing his last piece of mutura.
Like? Oh no! That’s not him! The hell? He is eating mutura? Like seriously? And he wants me to go there? Oh no! Let him follow me.
Fortunately a car passes between where I was standing and them, separating us and I quickly rush and by the time the choking probox which obviously was from its rounds of supplying melons, pineapples or whatever, I had made quite a few steps away. He rushes over and tightly without sending a signal he hugs me.
He unwraps himself from me after a while, looks straight into my eyes and I’m only left with a sheepish smile looking at him, puzzled and numbed. He talks but I can’t hear him, his bass mellow voice is all I can get, feeling his warm gentle hands holding me at the shoulders.
I keep nodding not really to the content but I think majorly to the mellifluous sound projection that effortlessly slips through his usual pink lips coming straight from the depths of his belly. I’m probably even dancing and humming,
‘Keep speaking my king,
Your queen has found a basking
Your voice of assurance
Her liking and stance’
I don’t know how long we have stood here talking or rather him talking to me, but his quick rush away awakens me. I rummage through my ear drums to try get his last words before it’s all drummed out through the other ear and sure enough I get something like
Wait is he coming over? That’s what he said? How is my house? Did I put away all the clothes I had unhung from the lines, more so my panties, when I was sorting out the discoloured ones, and that one little torn black bra, did I finish folding them? And that sufuria of ugali did I wash it? Probably, but my toilet did I flash well, oh gosh no!
I run past the remaining blocks and quickly burst into my house. Rewash my toilet, re-spray the room.
I start walking to the kitchen corner
Comfortable with the sweet lavender smell hanging in the air, I pick a novel I had not finished, to try escape from the reality and immerse myself into the lives of the characters something I have come to love as my hobby, especially reading the African diasporic literature texts but right where I left it’s like they want to unfold for me what I’m eagerly anticipating.
The hell, with Ike Oguine? Taking me right under the sheets where Obi is digging up all pleasure from the tender skin of Vivian!
“…I raised her fear-stricken face and kissed those drowning eyes, licking up the tears, running the tip of my tongue over her slender eyebrows. I traced the tear marks with my tongue and when I reached her neck she fought me off and then pulled me close and garbled unintelligibly; when I nibbled at her neck, she seemed unable to breathe. It was obvious no one had given her this sort of treatment before. I lingered at her neck until she began to moan, began to declare, ‘I’m going to die, I’m going to die,’ her fingers locked around my neck like a hangman’s rope. By the time I finished with her nipples, she had died and come back to life quite a few times; when I took off her panties, she was as flooded as a paddy field.
Noooo! A warm trickle between my thighs, jerked me up to my feet, throwing the book away.
I wasn’t seeing the helpless Vivian in the hands of the muscular energetic Igbo guy, but me. Surrendering myself stupidly as that, stupid because of what I’ve gone through already.
And that Vivian how can she just allow him like that, how quick of her to accept yet another man.
I start walking to the kitchen corner; probably try do something else other than moaning with the stupid romance, I hear a knock on the door…
© Rehema Malemba 2019