You wanted meaningless sex, but got something else

Looking at your severely cracked full-length mirror situated adjacent your iroko-strong but old door of your equally severely tattered one-room apartment, standing as naked as your shattered soul, made you reflect upon your life. Two days ago, you came back from a failed job interview. The day before that, you were on your way to another job interview which never was because there was a riot at the venue. You are an ardent reader of job offer ads and of literary arts on national dailies and you have travelled twice to the west to answer job offers, returning back with empty promises. You feel that your creative writing career is ebbing because inspiration comes and goes like tiny ulcers. You are an English graduate of five years and counting, of Enugu State extraction. The institution of graduation is immaterial.

This was the period your girlfriend of three years chose to “ebb” as well. Ify’s parting words were: “Judas, I can no longer take care of you because you seem not to take care of yourself. It was stupid of you to eat my money so freely. I am not a charity organisation, Judas. I am still in school, trying to finish. Do not take advantage of the fact that my father is so rich. Now I can see that your braininess cannot put food on the table. I pay your rent, your water bill and your light bill. Enough is enough.” Another reason she gave for leaving you, which shocked you inwardly and stuck to your mind, is that your extra-large penis embarrasses her and causes her extreme pain. “I repent from pretending that I enjoy sex with you,” she cried out. “You are too impossible!” In spite of everything, you still ogle at her slender back and firm buttocks as she departs from your room with her things and slams your old door shut. The following day, your good pal Medua who works in the newsroom of the state Ministry of Information visits you and pulls you out of your room, out of your face-me-I-face-you compound at Umudaike quarters and drags you to a nearby eatery at Ibusa Road, close to the commercial bus washers.

A chronic bachelor like yourself, Medua just got paid, seven months into the job and still very giddy about it, and besides, a global holiday season just walked in. He has the money to burn, so you soak up five bottles of Gulder beer in order to drown your humiliation. You drank so irresponsibly. Medua grumbled aloud: “Abeg, Judas, make you forget dat girl. Me I no say I no go allow babe troway me. Na me dey troway babe. No be your situation wey cause am? Forget!” That night, both of you stagger back to your room, you the more inebriated, and collapse on your ruffled bed.

And now, you stand in front of your mirror in the nude. After taking a hot cup of ginger drink that Medua bought for you (and three Vicks Apple Plus sweets) before he left, you stand there idly combing the forest of hair on your huge, tall chest with your fingers, battling unsuccessfully with a terrible hangover which the ginger drink aggravated rather than diminished. The image of you is in pieces. You feel as ruined as your mirror. “Christmas will soon come,” you mumble. “Humph! Where is the mood?” After a while, you go down and finger yourself, the taste and smell of the spicy sweet ginger drink bringing a sly smile to your face. You remember the last part of Ify’s parting words and laugh briefly. You also remember her intoxicating vaginal spit. “Kai!” you exclaim. “She was always wet for me. How come she is saying that I ache her?” Wondering how long your penis is, you scatter your small room the more in order to find a ruler with measurement in inches. For you, inches rule the world. But instead, you find a transparent, maths-set ruler of centimetres and millimetres. Damn! How horrid!

The ruler’s highest measurement is fifteen centimetres. Disappointed but desperate, you had no choice but to use it. You return to your mirror and measure. You discover that your limp penis is fifteen centimetres complete. God, what a surprise for you! “I am a man,” you utter, almost imitating the lead man on the Favour & Camelite paint TV advert. “How can Ify make me less of a man?” Your mind went straight to her, her lissom body sweetly trapped under you when you make love. Sexual heat in you comes like an avalanche, and you get an erection. Quickly, you place that ruler on your penis again. This time, you don’t know. It is way off the mark. But it is thick and lovely, and bent.

You pant with want. You want to fuck somebody. You grab your erection. You need a woman. You feel dumped. You live in a dump. “How could Ify make me feel this way?” you say. You are angry. “Who the hell is Ify anyway?” you bark out. Suddenly, you realise that you never really knew her. The only thing that you were sure of was that you were somehow going to pay her back for all that money she spent on you. Fucking her was a sign of gratitude.

“Don’t worry. Ify will soon ache for me,” you laugh out, trying unsuccessfully to feel good. You look at yourself with moroseness. You know you can’t forge credentials. You know you can’t steal. You know you can’t kill. Your upbringing won’t let you do these things. And your people would “banish” you if, as the first son, you don’t bring back home money and a wife. Or you would be branded the biblical betrayer. And besides, you haven’t sent them a kobo since you left them. A moment later, you slowly walk towards the mirror and gently rub your erection on its badly broken surface. This brings about little bruises on your penis, but you don’t care. The sexual heat inside you is as hot as a cooking pot. Ify was the only woman you have faithfully fucked for a long time, though she was not the one who disvirgined you.

So, it is her in your warped mind as you caress your dick on your mirror till the point of ejaculation. The semen on your mirror looks like baby vomit. “Shit!” you bellow, a headache approaching. Then, you prepare to bathe by tying a wrapper to your waist and pouring ice-cold water into a huge iron bucket and your soap dish ready. You walk one and a half metres to the makeshift bathroom and toilet adjacent each other, made with ever-rotting zinc. But as you bathe, a righteous refreshment envelops you. The terrible hangover sips away. The streaks of red in your eyes are gradually no more. Sincerely, you were building plans for Ify, so convinced that what she did for you came from her heart, not knowing that she was stalling for time. You just wished she didn’t bitch about it. For a moment, you felt quite honoured that someone as blue-blooded as Ify could go for someone like you.

But as you stepped out of the bathroom, your internal inanity grew in droves. You marched back to your room and dressed into a brand new white T-shirt and brilliant sky-blue jeans trousers Ify got for you from her father’s company. Right now, nothing mattered except your loneliness. You left your room wide open as you depart from it. The thought of anyone coming to take anything from a pigsty of a room like yours, hoping to find millions, made you laugh briefly.

Stepping into Ibusa Road, you walk towards a home video rental kiosk and sit on the bench in front of it, the first person this late morning to do so. Few minutes later, the slender female attendant steps out of the kiosk and greets you musically because she knows you.

“Hi, Judas. How now? How you dey?”

“Ify don troway me.”

Becoming attentive, she sits next to you. “Na wa-o! How come?”

“I no blame am. She don try for me.”

“This is not the time to get rid of you.”

You turn and look at her. The morning sun made it impossible for you to see her face clearly. “So when do you think is the right time to get rid of me?”

“Both of you have come a long way.”

“Well, that is the sad thing about life.” You pause a little and watch one or two little groups of children dressed in their best and latest holiday wears, chatting and laughing away. “And to think that Ify dumps me before Christmas. She knows I won’t be able to get her anything for Christmas.”

Both of you laugh together, but she laughs so deliberately hard that she falls on you. That was a sign. The sun must have shifted, so you see her clearly, and then her body. She is slenderer than Ify, her face is opaque and her mouth an apology. But she shifts closer to you, batting her curvy eyelashes, her lips ajar. Another sign. A smile creeps up on your mouth, and idly you caress the small but full patch of hair just below your lower lip. You do that when you meet a woman you fancy. You did that when you met Ify. You were grateful that your bathing had washed off the tiny blood streaks on your penis. Then, it won’t be that painful if you fuck this agreeable female attendant, except maybe that sweet tightness of her pussy. But won’t she be put off by the sight of your room when you take her there?

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Last Updated ( Sunday, 01 August 2010 )

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