The Marriage Counsellor

My hands were sweaty in anticipation as I sat behind the mahogany desk that vested me with authority. It didn’t happen always, I didn’t get nervous over counseling sections often. I had been a marriage counselor in the church for seven years. The way it went in my church; you applied for the position, with reasons why you wanted to serve in that department of the church.
I still remembered the day I sent in my application. One moment I was cuddled up in bed with my favourite blanket and favorite Gary Chapman book, feeling floozy and lovey, the next I was considering how beautiful it would be to make a side career from being a marriage counselor. A Christian marriage counselor. I sent in an application on that whim however I would later refer to it as the spirit of God in me, conveniently forgetting a lot of things that had happened in my life that led to that flashlight moment.
My application went through and my interview was smooth; I was exactly the kind of person they needed on the team; dynamic, not-too-old, knowledgeable, zealous and passionate about relationships and God.
“I think the church has gotten to an extent where we are slack about the relationships we keep. There’s no seeing eye, no one fears God anymore to think about what they do in their relationships. God is invisible to them, we are the god they see. We are the ones to censor whatever goes on when they leave the church premises and go back to their lives out there. I am willing to give my all to make sure that there is no unequal yoking going on in church and there are no games being played behind our backs.” That was the speech that won over the Pastors who interviewed me. A speech that whenever I recalled, I always smiled, giving myself a mental high-five.
I liked to think that it was that same memorable speech that got me steadily climbing the ladder till I was made second-in-command on the Marriage Committee. Deputy Head Counselor, a title I wore with…pride. The good kind of pride, as expected. I was a Christian and pride was not a part of the fruit of the spirit.
I shuffled the papers before me, trying to look important, trying to not show how nervous I was to start this session.
“Sister Jumoke, are you okay?” it was Mrs Nike speaking. She had wide teeth I thought looked like a rabbit’s. Her makeup was always bland, a dash of talcum powder, no doubt and then lip gloss as light as vaseline applied on her thick lips. And yet she was married. It beat me how God worked. I knew I wasn’t exactly Miss World, but then again I wasn’t Miss Ugly, I didn’t have rabbit teeth and didn’t use makeup like a morgue attendant. So, what was wrong with me? I often wondered when I looked at her.
“I’m fine,” I replied, trying to pretend I appreciated her kindness. Another reason I wasn’t really comfortable with her was because she had been passed over for The Deputy Head position and it had been handed to me.
It was no secret that the position was the most envied position after the Head Counselor; the Deputy Head was powerful enough to determine if a wedding would hold in church or not. Sometimes desperate couples bombarded the Head Counselor and Deputy Counselor with ‘gifts’ while hinting on what they actually wanted from them.
Once, in my short tenure as Deputy, a sister who’d been undergoing counseling with us had approached me and offered to ‘take me shopping’ and ‘spoil’ me as ‘directed by the Holy Spirit’. The reason for this she later confessed to me was that she had discovered she was pregnant and needed my help to cover it up for her wedding to go on.
“So you’re telling me the Holy Spirit directed you to commit fornication then bribe me to help you cover up the consequences?” I asked.
“No ma…erm…please…”
“Don’t ‘ma’ me!” I yelled more annoyed at being called ma than anything. Did the position come with such salty respect or did I look that old? “It is people like you that are desecrating the house of God, tarnishing the image of Christianity.”
“No, please! I beg you…in the name of God, just help me. if we don’t get married soon, it will…the pregnancy would start showing and…my father will…please ma, just help me for God’s sake.” she was almost kneeling, her lips quivering.
“Was I there when you were doing the deed?” I asked, my voice tinged with contempt. “You dare bribe a servant of God and blame it on the Holy Spirit? Jesus Christ!”
“No…it was the…devil. Yes, the work of the devil.”
I didn’t tell her I envied her. That the real reason for my self-righteousness was because she had what I didn’t. A man to love her, to want her, to touch her. She had a baby growing inside her!
I was thirty-six, never been touched by a man, never experienced an orgasm in my lifetime. The closest I’d come to pleasure were those moments in my bathtub at home, imagining Bro Terence with my fingers groping.
Bro. Terence who was due to arrive any moment for his marriage classes to begin.
Bro. Terence, tall and good-looking whom I had wanted from the first time I heard him sing, yet he never noticed me. Whenever our paths crossed, he greeted me with a slight head bow and a ‘ma’ attached.
The first day he called me ‘ma’, I had gone home and cried myself to sleep. Was I that old, that unappealing? I wondered. Did he now see me as his mother instead of as a woman?
I wasn’t much older than him for Chrissakes! And looking at his file before me now, I saw he was even a year older than I was. How. Dare. He. Ma. Me!
“Ahem.” the sound snapped me out of my semi-trance.
I looked up. The couple was just entering.
My eyes drank in Bro. Terence, dressed in a white U.S.A T-shirt and jeans with blue sneakers, giving him a casual but ‘hot’ look. His haircut was the same; adult punk. He had well-shaped fingers that I often imagined in my lonely nights, dancing across my thighs, squeezing my nipples.
Fingers I wanted to kiss.
Sighing, I shifted my gaze to the lady. Sister Angela was her name in the file but when I saw her, something in me snapped.
****
More than a decade ago, I had been in love with a wonderful man. Or so I thought.
Tunji was my first and so far, only love. I was a new convert, a babe in the faith when he’d approached me. He was the Brothers Coordinator of the fellowship, the crush of every sister. Tall, handsome, Holy Ghost filled and tongue-tongueing.
I was no exception. I fell hard when he came to me.
“I see you in my future,” he’d said as we sat in the school’s Love Garden one evening.
My heart raced. I knew God had promised me a husband if I followed Him diligently but I didn’t know it would happen so fast…I was barely six months in the faith.
“You’ re special Jummy,” he continued, his fingers entwining mine. “You and I together, can fulfill purpose.”
The word ‘purpose ‘ rang in my head. We’d been talking a lot about that in church recently, how we had to find the purpose we were on earth. We were studying Rick Warren’s The Purpose -Driven Life at the time.
“What do you think?” he asked, turning his dreamy eyes on me.
“I…I’ll think about it.” I replied.
“Think, but not too much. Praying is more important.”
I blushed then. Could life get any better?
I did neither praying nor thinking, instead I fantasized. Whenever we were in church, I would stare at the back of his head thinking :
“He chose me! Out of all these sisters, he came to me!”

We started dating a month later and it wasn’t difficult to imagine him in my future. A future we spent every second planning for, we would sit on his bed in his room, leaning against each other, talking, naming kids we didn’t have, discussing in-laws we hadn’t met.
The crown of it all was he never made a move towards sex. When we first began, he had held my hands, looked me in the eye and said;
“I will not touch you inappropriately Jummy. I respect you and would want to see where God takes us with this relationship.”
I knew how many sisters in the fellowship lamented about their boyfriends and how they demanded for sex, I remembered the many nights I thanked God for the man I had.
We were three years into our relationship when Toke joined the fellowship. Toke, who looked good in mini skirts or Mary-Amakas. She didn’t have to wear mini skirts to be every brother’s fantasy, all she had to do was just be her. And then she had the charisma of Margaret Thatcher. She was outspoken, the kind who could stand up in church and give a word of prophecy without balking.
I didn’t think much of her at first, until she was made the sister’s coordinator few months after she joined. Tunji had just graduated then but was called back as an alumni to give a three day seminar to incoming excos.
Perhaps I should have seen it coming, but I did not. Soon, Tunji was spending less time with me and more time elsewhere.
It wasn’t long before he told me it wasn’t working between us.
“What do you mean it’s not working?” I asked, almost hysterical. I had given him my all, for the future he promised.
“I mean, I think God is leading me elsewhere. I don’t want to hurt you, Jummy,” he had the good grace to look contrite.
“The same God who led you to me, made a mistake before? Or did you just see someone with wider hips and decide you’d fulfill purpose better with her?” Even then, I knew somehow that there was someone else.
I didn’t know it was Toke until three months after we broke up. I was still depressed, dressing like a homeless person. I saw them leaving the cinema together, laughing and holding each other.
I turned and walked away, not wanting to be seen.

Toke’s face was forever etched in my memory.
And now I’m looking in a face; Angela’s face, and I see it’s none other than Toke. Toke, the one who’d taken Tunji from me, had done same to Terrence.
How had Terrence found her? Of all the women in our church, why had he gone outside and picked this relationship wrecker?
I stared at her, checking to see if she recognized me. I didn’t expect her to anyway, I was faceless to her. She had never bothered to know whose man she was stealing when she did.
Looking at her now, she hadn’t changed much. Yes, she was older, but she still had that slutty-sisterly quality about her. I could see why men would be attracted to her.
I zoned out as I listened to the remaining counselors ask them questions. I looked at Bro Terrence and saw Tunji. Tunji, who I gave three years of my life to and suddenly couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. Tunji who had made me become obsessed with relationships and what went wrong with them. Tunji who made me take up this position as marriage counselor, because the only way I could see myself being a part of any marriage was by doing what I did. Being an outsider looking in. Years had gone by, I was thirty-six; an old maid and the best I had done was masturbate myself to sleep.
And then it occurred to me at that moment; who was I keeping myself for? It had stopped being about God a long time ago, everything about my life was no longer about God. It was fake, God was the facade I used to hide my flaws.
The reason I had wanted to become a counselor was not because of God, the reason I obstructed weddings and refused to budge when bribed was not because I was noble; it was because I was powerful. I loved the power, I loved knowing that I had the fate of a couple in my hands. Like now.
It was time to crush Toke and Terence.
I looked up, smiling in my heart;
“Are you a virgin?” I asked, directing the question at Toke, who sat cross-legged in her knee-length skirt.
She blinked, then glanced at Terrence.
I could feel the eyes of my colleagues on me. This was not part of the script.
“Please answer the question, sister.” I prodded.
“I…I don’t see how that’s relevant,” she said, mild irritation showing in her voice.
“Do you want to marry this man or not?” I asked, unfazed.
“Yes.”
“Then answer.”
“No, I’m not,” she mumbled.
“Have you ever been pregnant?”
This time there was an audible sound from my colleagues. Toke was looking at me, frozen.
“Why are you asking her that?” Mrs Adejumo passed a note to me.
“As the spirit leads.” I replied.
Infact, it was no spirit. When Tunji had jilted me for Toke years ago, I had made it a mission to keep tabs on their lives, especially Toke.
I knew she had gotten pregnant at some point in their relationship; that she had gotten rid of the baby was a tidbit that I had happened upon by chance. The doctor who had performed the abortion was a friend of my sister’s.
“Angie, please answer,” I saw Terence nudge her.
“You want to marry this man, don’t you? ” I asked again. “The key to a happy marriage is communication. It is getting rid of all secrets before you walk down the aisle.”
There was a pleading look in her eyes as she looked at me. Her lips quivered as she said;
“Yes, I have.”
From the look on Terence’s face, I knew he had no idea. Strike one.
“What happened to the baby?” I continued.
Terrence was staring at her, like he was seeing her for the first time.
“I…I don’t have to answer that. It’s…private,” she stuttered.
By now, everyone was curious, waiting in hushed silence.
“Let me help you answer it then. You had an abortion, yes? During which your womb was damaged. Sister Toke, you can’t have children, can you?” I didn’t blink as I let the words leave my mouth.
There was a gasp from somewhere in the room.
Terrence stood abruptly, his face a mirror of the pain I felt years ago. Strike two.
“Is that true?” he bellowed, turning to her.
“Terry, please. Just…just hear me out…please…” she stood too, a hand on his arm. Tears streaming down her face.
“And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t tell me! God! I can’t handle this right now!” With that Terence stormed out of the room.
Toke glanced at me once, pain and anger written all over her face.
“You think I don’t remember you? You exposed yourself the moment you called me Toke. No wonder Tunji left you! No wonder you’re still alone after all these years! Your heart is wicked!” with that she rushed out after Terence.
Her words sank into me like water into a sponge.
Strike three and…out.

Mimi. A.

Unholy

Here folks, a short story to compensate for the long break from our beloved Genesis.

Ada shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the Pastor spoke. She wondered why the man kept punctuating his sentences with fornication.
Forni-cation. Funny-cassion. Foni-cashun.
The word turned around in her head. This was her fourth Sunday attending the church and the man’s sermons seemed to revolve around that topic. Like it was the only sin that riddled the ‘body of Christ’.
“When you go to a brother’s house at night, don’t you know you’re inviting sin? Inviting forni-cation?” the Pastor yelled.
Ada wanted to tell him that even when you went in the afternoon, when the sun was at its peak, fornication was always invited. Sometimes it came uninvited, unbidden, unannounced.
She could testify to that. She let her eyes stray to the choir stand, it was somewhere she’d been avoiding since the Pastor started screaming funny-cassion. But now as she dared look, she moistened her lips as the memories bombarded her.
It was supposed to be an interview, an opportunity to know more about the choir, to know how well she could sing, to know how motivated she was to join the choir.
It was her friend Nene, who was in the choir who had suggested that she join. She had even introduced her to the Music Director.
“It would help you develop your voice and work for God,” Nene said with excitement.
Nene was very good at convincing people so she had stood no chance when the girl had embarked on a join-the-choir crusade.
He had invited her to his house;
“I normally interview prospective choir members,” he said with an easy smile which made his face look better.
He had told her to come by 2pm on Saturday because he had rehearsals by 5pm that evening.
As she looked at him now, sitting in the front row, eyes fixed intently on the Pastor, she wondered how someone could be so ugly and yet so beautiful.
She recalled the hardness; of his chest and in his groin and she felt her body tingle.
She had gone to his house that day with all intentions to join the choir. She’d met him fully clothed and welcoming and she remembered thinking how his eyes were too close together. How he was too lanky with a tiny waist. She remembered thinking that God had probably compensated him for his looks by giving him the voice of a nightingale.

He had offered her a drink- Coke, if you please. Just to relax, before we get into business.
One hour went by and they had still not ventured into talking ‘business ‘, the more Ada tried to steer the conversation towards the choir, the more he pretended not to notice.
“Tell me about your family. How many siblings do you have?”
She wondered what her family had to do with her singing capacity.
And then he had gotten up at a point and turned on the stereo.
“Music, good for the soul.” he said.
He forgot to add for the body too.
It had happened in a flash, like she saw in the movies; one moment they had been sitting on the rugged floor, talking about mundane things, non-sexual or romantic things, and then the next his mouth had covered hers. Abruptly silencing her.
That was what thrilled her, the fact that he didn’t ask permission, that he took without asking.
The Pastor was right; stolen bread was indeed sweet.
At first she didn’t think, she couldn’t. He was kissing her senseless. His tongue playing with hers in a way she had never, never imagined.
And when she eventually began to gather her wits, he stopped.
She was breathless. His kiss had done that to her. She shut her eyes like a virgin, unsure and ashamed of herself. Ashamed that she had let him. And yet not wanting the moment to end.
And like he’d read her thoughts, he leaned in for another kiss. This time she welcomed him.
By the time his hands strolled to her green blouse and fumbled with her buttons, she knew she had no willpower to stop him.
And when he entered her, she screamed Jesus first, then his name, all in one breath.
Odogwu!
Thankfully the stereo was loudly blasting Frank Edwards ‘Thank God I Made It’.
Ada remembered thinking how ironic it was that they’d made love with that song playing in the background.
By the time they lay spent on the red rug, Ada imagined that the rug smelled of sex, of sin.
The next time she really looked at him, she saw not his ugliness, but a certain beauty. A beauty that came from giving pleasure.
And she wondered again, whether this was how the Spirit led people.
After having mind-blowing sex with the man and screaming his name in ecstasy, they would conclude that they were being led to marry him.
It had to be blasphemy; it had to be sin to get such fulfilment from sex. No wonder God had restricted it to marriage.

“So, did I pass the interview?” she turned to him, hoping he had enjoyed it as much as she had. She wasn’t an expert, not like him anyway considering that the number of lovers she’d had could be counted on just one hand.
He nuzzled her earlobe, tickling her.
By the time they went for the second round, Ada was convinced she would marry him. After all, a good marriage was sustained by a great sex life. If only she could have this for the rest of her life; she knew she would worship him. Worship at the altar of his little god- which was actually quite big.
And every night – and day maybe – he would take her to heaven.

“So what are we now?” she whispered, her feet curling into his.

“One,” he replied, kissing her again.
She chuckled to herself as she looked at him with his bushy eyebrows, looking so prim, proper and holy in his white plaid shirt.
She planned to visit him after service today, later this evening. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since their encounter a week ago.
She had to convince him that they were just right together.
Her attention was jerked back to the service as the Pastor said he had an announcement to make.
“There’s a wedding in our church. Pra-ise da Lord!”

She joined in the resounding hallelujah.
“Two of our members are tying the knot in a few months. They just informed me. Let us rejoice with Brother Odogwu, our able Music director, a man after my heart. He will be getting married to Sister Mariam. Please step forward both of you.”

As both parties approached the altar, Brother Odogwu beaming with pride and Sister Mariam, a shy petite woman clad in a sweeping skirt; there was a commotion at the back of the church.
It seemed a sister had just fainted or fallen under the anointing; no one could tell for sure.

THE END

Mimi. A ( C) 2014

My Spring

Hey dear readers, you know how I love to keep y’all entertained, so I’m trying out this new idea to see if it works. The story is written by Dike Nsoedo, a friend and an excellent writer whom I’ve featured here before. His works have appeared on Naijastories, The Nukan Niche and The Naked Convos, to name a few. To read his story,please click on the image above and return to give your feedback here. Trust me, you’d enjoy it.

Thank you all!

Toxic Power

 

 

It was a Friday night and like all Friday nights in Abuja, partying was going on. The night club opposite the hotel was blasting Dorobucci and Tinuke couldn’t help nodding to the rhythm from where she lay in the room.

She reclined in bed feeling lazy, feeling rich, clad in the night robe the hotel provided. A glass of Chardonnay balanced on the bed stand beside her.

Life was good. Ordinarily she would have been out there with the others, bodies grinding on the dance floor, sweat dripping like water from their bodies as they boogeyed. In a way she missed not being where the action was happening.
On nights like these she’d be sure to meet some rich Abuja guy, a politician or some company man with pockets so large that he wouldn’t mind giving her a treat. Most times she didn’t even need to sleep with them to go home with a wad of cash; all she needed was give them her famous blowjob, the one that had made Chris call her a goddess two weeks ago and also led the Chinese man from the pool party to start stalking her.

As much as she liked the action, the teasing and the knowledge of what her body did to the men around her, she preferred being here; in the hotel room of Chief Adenuga. The man literally reeked of money and she’d followed that smell today in Transcorp. She had a keen eye for money; heck she’d been raised in money and even though her father had disinherited her because of her blatant refusal to study medicine, she’d been determined to continue her life of luxury.
She didn’t intend on living off anybody, least of all her siblings. So she had come to Abuja; the city of dreams.
She didn’t have the brains to take on something as tough as medicine but she certainly had the body and the beauty; all she had to do was flash some cleavage and thighs and the men were goners.

Whoever said women weren’t powerful hadn’t met Tinuke Afolabi.

She was studying Theatre Arts in the University of Abuja, acting was what she did best and that was something daddy didn’t want to hear.
My daughter in Nollywood? Over my dead body!

Daddy could be vehement about some things sometimes. He was stubborn, as stubborn as she was.

She had gone ahead to apply for Theatre Arts and when she’d gotten it, daddy withdrew his support, which meant he refused to pay her fees or even acknowledge she was in school.
It was Mummy who sent her some money, then Mosun her elder sister did her best too.
Still Tinuke knew it wasn’t enough, she knew the kind of life she was cut out for and it was one where she ought to live big. She wanted to go to Shoprite anytime she felt she needed new stuff, she wanted to eat out as many times as she could, she didn’t plan on living a life where she cooked with a rickety stove and got black soot all over.
That wasn’t how daddy had raised her. And even if daddy’s money was no longer keeping her comfortable, she wasn’t going to drop her standard of living for anything.

The first time she went out on a Friday night, it had been her roommate who’d persuaded her.
Have a little fun Tinu. We’ll just get some drinks and you know, dance. Rachel said.

Tinuke hadn’t needed much convincing, she was bored. So she’d gone and met an elderly man who’d promised to reward her beautifully if only she graced his legs with her glorious behind. Those had been his exact words.

Just to sit on your laps? She’d asked, intrigued.
And anything you can think of that will make me comfortable. He winked.

She spent the rest of the evening giving him a lap dance and had walked out by three a.m with fifty thousand naira cash and the man’s card.

Her eyes spun as she stared at the money. It wasn’t the magnitude of it that stunned her, it was how little she had to do to get it.
Why did women have to become prostitutes if they could make twice as much just letting a man feel you up?
Like seriously, why did they have to risk the real thing when men drooled at the mere sight of a heavy bum and full chest?

Tinu knew there was no turning back after that night, she’d seen an easy way to make some cool cash and also give her daddy a mental kick in the gut.
Money was power and then some. Daddy knew that and that was why he had cut her off when she didn’t do his bidding.
She was back in the club the next week, dressed in a red gown that left little to imagination, barely stretching below her thighs, her voluptuous ass jutting out with all provocation.
This time, the men were all over her as soon as she stepped onto the dance floor.
She knew she couldn’t be a sex worker. She couldn’t see how those women did it; having cold meaningless sex with different faceless, nameless men for a meager sum. She had class, standards; she was a woman trying to maintain her status quo of the good life and not some desperate chica.

Now look where she was three years later; a semi-graduate and a fairly wealthy woman.
She could count on both hands how many men she had actually slept with to get where she was.
Daddy had been wrong after all, she was smart. In her own way.
She had conned many-a-men out of large wads of money. Next to money, woman was power.
No, not the vagina; it was all of woman that was power.
If not how could you explain the willingness of the men to give out money for little things like blowjobs and sometimes a little bedroom ‘kinkiness’?

As her bank account swelled, she’d reduced her night club hangouts. Today she’d met Chief Adenuga at an end of year party held at Transcorp.
She’d noticed his eyes on her halfway through the party and when she had gotten close, his sleek Armani suit tugged at her money-sensor. He had a slight paunch that she decided she could forgive because of the Swatch that dangled on his wrist. Moreso he was clean-shaven in a way that made him look ten years younger than his fifty something years.

She had been at this long enough to know when words weren’t needed. Just one look, a flick of the thumb and Tinu knew he was in. By midnight Tinu was back in his hotel room.
There was something enigmatic about him that she couldn’t quite place her hands on, his eyes followed her in a way that spotted her skin with goosebumps. When she did her famous lap dance for him, he hadn’t seemed affected. He had not fawned over her like the other men did. She had gone a step further to strip to her lingerie then tease him, and still he did not seem moved.

And then he had left abruptly.
Order whatever you want, he said before leaving. It’s on me. I’ll be back.

She had only been too glad to soak in the tub and order herself Chardonnay.
Daddy’s favorite drink.

She was almost drifting to sleep when she heard the noise at the door.
He was back.

Come, he beckoned to her as she sat up in the soft bed.
He was not a man of many words, she noticed so she didn’t say anything as she moved towards him.
It was dark, she had switched off the light minutes ago.
She stood, facing him, wondering what he wanted, what she’d have to do to please him tonight.
You are a brave girl, he said. She noticed the coarseness in his voice then and felt her pulse quicken.
I like brave men, she rejoined.

Then he pulled her to him with a force she had not reckoned and began to ravish her lips with his.
Her response was quick, unplanned, like something programmed to happen. She kissed him back with equal fervor.
His hands travelled up her back to her neck and Tinu sighed in expectation, unconsciously.
This man, was good.

She leaned into him, wanting more of his cold fingers curling around her neck.

Ah, he likes kinky, she thought. A little dominatrix.

When his fingers began to squeeze, pressing against her throat, panic set in.

Her eyes widened, their lips detached.
The struggle began. Her hands clawed, fighting for freedom.
Nothing.
He was strong, his hand never loosing grip.
Please stop, she begged. No words came out.
She knew she was dying. And she thought about daddy and his money.

She was going to die like a dog with no one to witness it. No stage lights, no cheering, just the snuffing out of her life like a light bulb.
Her eyes pooled with tears as she felt her vision darken.
She had been mistaken. Neither money nor women was power; death was power because it could take everything away from you with one swoop.
It respected no one.
END

Mimi A.

Higher Bidder

Hey guys, it’s been a while. Been quite busy but hey, I missed y’all plenty. So this is a story that was written based on a picture on a friend’s blog. It’s a flash fiction and I hope you enjoy it.

If you do, don’t forget to drop those lovely comments of yours and if you don’t enjoy it, well, still drop me some comments. Would love to hear your feedback.

Gracias.

********

 

His eyes widened at the computer screen.
It couldn’t be.
He smiled, something sinister. He wanted to stand on his chair and dance a jig or something, he wanted to whoop as loud as he could and punch the air with his fist. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, after all he was still within the office premises and even though everywhere was empty, the cameras might pick his movement and suspect something.
He had just struck gold, the information on his screen was worth…what? Well, he knew his story was about to change.
What should he do about this info? Turn it in? Or sell to the highest bidder?
Mark pretended to think about it, even though he knew that beneath it all, his greed was larger than life.
It wasn’t a question of whether he should sell, it was who would be the higher bidder? NPP or APP?
Which political party was willing to grease his palms with just enough cash?
In all his years of being an investigative journalist, it dawned on him that he had made more money from the ‘investigative’ part than the actual journalism.
He had promised Izzy something sweet this year, she had been nagging him to resign his job. She said he didn’t make enough money at it. Now was the opportunity to prove her wrong. He would sell this information and maybe retire on the proceeds, for now. Then he would keep a low profile, because with what he knew, his life was worth something too.
Thankfully, he had contacts at both political parties ; one of the perks of being a journalist was that you knew people. And they knew you.
Quickly his fingers moved over the keyboard and he typed the message and sent simultaneously.
He waited, eyes skimming the pop-up on his screen. This was a freaking gold mine and naturally he was supposed to take it to his boss or take it public, do something heroic for the nation, but was the information worth anything when publicized? Would anyone thank him? Would they give him a medal or money?
He shook his head to clear it. This was the best thing to do. Maybe not the right thing but the best. For himself and his future.

He waited for the reply.
“What info?” came from his contact at NPP.
“Something you’d really like to get your hands on. Something the public shouldn’t know. Something regarding oil. Something big.”
He didn’t want to give away much and yet he wanted the info to sound juicy, he wanted to dangle it in front of them so they would bite.
“Confirm info.” the message was from APP
He frowned. These ones were usually harder to bait.
Immediately he made a decision. He took a screenshot of the information and sent. That was safe. They would not doubt him now and besides APP was the richer party, he would absolutely love to do this business with them.

He didn’t count the minutes that passed as he sat glued to his system. His hands shook with excitement, anticipation of wealth. He also did not notice the blinking light on his phone.
The last thing he heard was the rasping sound as the bullet tore through the netting and buried itself in his ear.

 

He fell face flat on the keyboard, his eyes lolled back in his head.
He did not live to see the black-clad intruder enter, pull off her mask and kiss him lightly on the temple before carting his computer away.
“You should have listened to me Mark. I’m sorry.” Izzy whispered before leaving.

Mimi. A. ©

HaPpY New YeAr: Unapproachable LiNDa

2015! Yaaay! Hey people. So, a friend and I played around with New Year stories and this is what I came up with. And as kind and generous as I am, I decided to share with you lovely readers.

Here’s to the first Hourglass post of the year. A little som’thin som’thin to keep you chuckling.
Cheers!

Don’t forget to drop your thoughts, they would be much appreciated. Enjoy!

*****

The night smelled of burning rubber. He clenched his hand to allay the nervousness that was eating away steadily at his gut.
Woman wrapper was the word that did it. That Timothy, of all people could call him that tore at his pride.
He; who had dared ask unapproachable Linda in her high heels and short skirts, out.
It was ironic that he was doing this now for her. She had promised that next year would be different, that she would not stop him from being with her- as long as he could prove himself.
Prove how? He asked, a puppy seeking approval from its master.
She had looked at him with those brown eyes and said; for New Year, I want a life chicken.
What? His twenty year old brain could not comprehend what a life chicken had to do with their romance.
Show me how much you love me. I love you, I love you no be by mouth.
She was right. Linda was an expensive girl, it showed in her rainbow makeup and her Ghana-must-go type of handbags. If he wanted to keep her interested, he had to buckle up.
And so he had found himself here. About to rob a church.

The idea had come as a joke at first, three jobless youths talking about how to make quick money this period. He had laughed it off when big-eye Timothy had suggested it.
But Ayo had bought the idea; had even offered to get the toy guns for the operation.
Why use guns if they’re toys? He wondered.
To scare them.
He had refused at first, thinking of his resolution to turn a new leaf this New Year. Then he had thought of Linda’s life chicken and Timothy’s taunting.
Just this once. And it must be over before 12:01am. He believed in resolutions.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and Timothy nodded at him. It was time. They slipped on their masks and waited as Ayo made his way to the back of the church.
The plan was simple; intimidate an usher to get the message across to the Pastor that service was being interrupted. Enter and make everyone surrender their valuables. Easy. The church was one of those average churches that had zero security.
As he stepped into the church behind Timothy, he saw that Ayo had done his job; everyone was lying face down.
Ayo handed him an offering bag.
Armed with bag in one hand, gun in another, he began his rounds.
Everybody submit your valuables before I shoot. Timothy growled.
Ike’s hands shook as he passed the bag around, his eyes glancing at the big clock intermittently.
11:50pm.
Ike! A harsh whisper in a familiar voice.
It was Linda, kneeling, her hands dangling over the offering bag he held.
He opened his mouth to explain then stopped as she raised her right thumb discreetly before lowering her head.
His confidence returned as he realised she had just given him the go-ahead.

Mimi A (C) 2015

Tales Of A Couple (2)

THE HUSBAND

When you’ve been married six years and counting, there are some things you learn. Like the appropriate time to pretend you’re asleep.
She thinks I don’t know that she is avoiding our bed, she tries to be polite about it; pretending to have other things to attend to in other parts of the house just to avoid my touch.
What she doesn’t know is that whenever she enters our bedroom, tiptoeing across the carpeted ground; I’m not usually asleep. I only pretend to be, so she can have the peace of mind she so desires.
She doesn’t want me touching her but she’s too sophisticated to play the kind of games other women play;
I’m too tired.
I’m on my period.
I’m this, I’m that.

She does hers in a way she can easily get away with. And I let her think she does.
A part of me admires her for sharing my bed these past years. For bearing my kisses, for letting me inside her. I remember our wedding night; dark and devoid of passion. In the years when we were still friends, I had often pictured her arched on her back beneath me, her head thrown back and lips parted in ecstasy. I often fantasized about those lips of hers, full and taunting, crushed under mine. It wasn’t hard getting a mental photo of her in her unguarded moments, those times when she asked me over just to vent.
She’d be clad in modest shorts that showed off a generous amount of thighs; thighs I’d often envisioned would fit my head so perfectly.
I’m not sure what she thought as she hung around me dressed that way, that I wouldn’t look? That I was so fond of her that I wouldn’t get a hard-on?
Sad as it may sound those moments were some of my most cherished, times when we could actually talk and be comfortable around each other even though I was pining for her.
I would give anything to go back in time. To have her beckon to me just to hold her. To have her let down her guard and let me in again.
To have her not look at me with such faintly disguised hate.
I would give anything to have Ema my friend back. Was friendship worth giving up for this? I had always wanted her and I didn’t hide it from her in our four years of friendship.

Every time I proclaimed my love for her, she would dash my hopes. She would tell me in that condescending voice ;
I love you very much John. But as a friend.

It was those four words that killed me.

But as a friend.

Why spoil everything by adding that?

I promised myself I would leave her. I would stop asking. I would move on and love someone else that didn’t hurt this much.

Boy did I try!

I met Lara, Susan and Deborah. Girls that I dated for a little over one month each.

And then I stopped when I noticed they all had something in common: Ema.
It dawned on me that no matter where I went, no matter how far I ran, Ema was my curse.
Two weeks after she turned thirty-seven, she came to my house; drunk.
I was surprised. Ema never drank, she was the calm, composed woman. The steady ship in the midst of the billowing storm.
Does your proposal still stand Johnny boy? She slurred, swaying on her feet.
By that time I had asked her to marry me ten times, at least.

What proposal? My heart was racing and even though I tried to calm it, to tell it to stop being silly; it didn’t.

Yes I will marry you, Johnny.

I knew I should have sent her away or at least put her to sleep because she was obviously drunk but I didn’t. My heart pounded against my chest and it didn’t matter that she was saying yes to me in such a state, what mattered was that she said it.

Yes, yes, yes. Let’s get married! She sang again before throwing up on my living room floor.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat and watched over her, wishing the night never to end.

I thought by the time she woke up the next day, she would have changed her mind. I dreaded that she wouldn’t remember what she had said.

When she opened her eyes the next day, the first thing she said was:
You will still marry me, right?

I hugged her then, like my life depended on it. I was a forty year old man who was like a child that’d just been told that Santa Claus was real.

I knew that if I married her, if she was eventually mine, I would never give her up. Nothing in this world would make me walk away from her. I was confident that I could get her to love me. And not just as a friend.

Six years and a few sad orgasms later, I am losing my confidence. This woman is no longer the one I fell in love with. She is now a gloomy, reserved workaholic. The only thing I know puts a smile on her face is our baby. Steph.
I watched her with our daughter one day and saw her smile the way she used to before, before she married me. And I wished I was Steph.

Sometimes I wonder if talking would help our situation but I know this runs deeper than just communication. She is unhappy. She hates me. She plays dutiful wife when need be, around friends and family. But that’s it.
Her scorn is baring it’s teeth in more ways than one these days and perhaps that’s why I seek comfort in Philomena.

Philomena who is the same height as my wife and is also light-skinned like Ema, let’s me call her darling. Philomena who agrees to wear the perfume that’s Ema’s favorite just to excite me. Philomena who doesn’t get mad or ask questions when I call out Ema’s name as we embark on our journey of pleasure. Philomena who I pretend is Ema as we make love; is the reason why I don’t bother with the games my wife is playing these days.
I won’t leave her. I can’t leave Ema. I know that’s what she wants but I’m in too deep to let her go.
Ema is my curse, my cross I will bear.

END

Mimi. A 2014 (C)

Tales Of A Couple (1)

THE WIFE

When you’ve been married six years and counting; there are some things you learn, some things you become master of. Like the appropriate time to go to bed.
You would know that if you get to bed earlier than ten pm, your husband would still be awake. He might be reading the paper or using his laptop but as soon as you get to bed, he’d abandon it all and start groping.
He would coo his favorite words;
You’re irresistible my darling.
Words that you tire of hearing. You hate the way he calls you darling. Like he’s replaced your name with it. Sometimes you wish he’d call your name.
Ema.
Maybe if he called your name instead of that silly darling, then you would remember why you married him.
Recently, you have started retiring late. You’d find every excuse to get into bed later than ten pm.
You would hover over Stephanie, kiss her goodnight almost a dozen times. Only last week you asked if you could read her a story in bed. You hadn’t done that since she was four and Steph was too excited to notice.
And when she dozed off, you had crawled into bed with her and fallen asleep too.
You know you should be happy, content. You have the life some women would want to have. At least, you have a husband.
That’s what Chinwe told you when you complained about your marriage.
You have a husband. Some do not. You have a daughter. Do you know how lucky you are?
Yes, Chinwe had a point. Being married somehow completed everything about your life. During your years of singlehood; you walked around feeling like someone with a death wish. It wasn’t about what society wanted. You wanted to be married, have someone to have and hold, someone who you could go to at night and lay your head against his bosom. You craved it especially when you saw people like Mercy getting married; throwing her ring in your face.

You and Mercy who used to hangout until she got married and declared that her husband didn’t want her spending time with single women anymore.
They could corrupt you, he said.

And once again you felt that fist in your heart, that feeling of incompleteness. You were thirty-five, you had a good job and when you bought your car, your pastor said it would chase the men away.
Women with cars are threats to men, he said somberly, touching his bearded chin.
So I should be using public transport because I want a husband? You asked.
No, no. That’s not what I’m saying. Listen Sister Ema, sometimes we don’t understand the ways of God.

Or man for that matter, you wanted to retort.

When you clocked thirty-six you stopped going to the village to see your parents. You could no longer bear the way your cousins paraded their husbands around like some trophy.

Ehen Emmanuella this is Ikechukwu my husband. He works in NNPC. Cousin Josephine would say, her eyes glazed with pride like her husband was another point on her CV.
And then you would wonder if it was your envy and bitterness that made you think such nasty thoughts.

My sister, this is Nkem. He is the brother to the secretary of Defense. Cousin Chioma would take the cue.
Women who had transformed from wearing jeans and t-shirts to wearing intricately patterned Ankara dresses.
It was the unspoken rule about how married women should dress. Tie wrappers, wear traditional every day you possibly can; it is the trademark that you belong to somebody.

Even as you thought those rules were stupid; a part of you craved to have the opportunity to choose whether to be like those conceited shallow women. At least you could choose to be different.
A husband would make you equal in their eyes. It would make them stop whispering that you used your virtue to make money.
They would stop gossiping that the car you drove had been financed by a male friend.
They would stop saying that the apartment you lived was sponsored by your sugar daddy.
And then maybe you would stop caring what they thought or what they said. Just maybe.

And so when you said yes to John, you tried so hard to pretend to be happy.
You were finally going to tie the knot. Wasn’t that what you wanted?

Yes, that’s what you told yourself as you slid into your wedding gown. It was a dream come true; you, in white. And as you walked down the aisle, you convinced yourself that you were doing the right thing.

John was no new suitor. He had been around; a true friend like his name. John. So solid and constant.
He had been there while you dated other men, the friend you talked to when your other relationships went down the drain.
You knew he was head over heels for you but you had told him off over and over again.
It won’t work, John. You’re my friend and I love you. But as a friend.
You knew he’d cried over you. More than a dozen times you had rejected him saying to yourself that he wasn’t your ideal man. John wasn’t the exotic dude you wanted. Yes, he wasn’t bad looking and he absolutely adored you but no, that wasn’t enough.

You knew what you wanted in a man and John wasn’t it.

Which is why as you walked down the aisle that day and through your veil saw him grinning from ear to ear; you wanted to turn back and run far away because you knew the reason you had said yes to him wasn’t because you loved him.
It was because at thirty-seven you were afraid you would end up alone. No husband, no children. Nothing. You believed in biological clocks and you knew yours was ticking.

You may now kiss the bride.

Your first kiss with John was inside the chapel and as you felt his warm lips on yours; tears began to roll down your cheeks.

He loves me. Was all you sang to yourself as the years passed by. He adores me and that’s enough.

Even though your body didn’t tingle when he touched you, nor did your nipples spring to attention as his lips nuzzled them.
He loves me. You repeated like a mantra while his body melded with yours and he put Stephanie in you.

It was only when you held Stephanie in your arms for the first time that you knew that it wasn’t enough to be loved; you wanted to love too.
You wanted to love with a fervency that could make you go nuts. You wanted passion, to feel it. To hold it, if possible.
And Steph became your passion. She was the reason you lived, she was the reason you were glad you had endured those nights in bed with John.

But now, six years later, you are repulsed by your husband’s touch. By the suffocating way he loves you.
No matter how much you lash out and hurt him, John always forgives. He loves you even when you’ve given him every reason not to.
And the more he loves you, the more you hate him.
You want him to hate you and maybe if he does you can squeeze this guilt away that is eating you to death.
Maybe if he hates you, you can finally find the courage to leave him.

END.

MIMI A. (C)

I Hope She Means More To You

Emeka lay there naked, watching his wife’s skinny body rise and fall on him. Her blond straight hair covered her face so he couldn’t read her emotions and he wondered how they had gotten to this point. When did having sex with his wife become more of a chore than a fulfilment of desire? When did her trying not to scream as she came start reminding him about his lover? His lover he had been with for the past six months

His lover never tried to suppress her screams, instead she let out a barrage of explicits that made Emeka know exactly that she was coming and who was making it happen.

‘Wow. Darling, that was really good. I really needed that.’ Lisa said as she fell on him all her energy spent 

‘Did you come darling?’ She raised her head just above Emeka’s hairy chest. Her eyes staring into his suggestively. 

‘Yes, yes I did babes. Thanks for asking.’ Emeka hated this; the need to ask, the please and thank you-s they said before, during and after, but he knew he would rather be polite than go through it again.

Lisa’s head fell back on his chest, her hands played with its hair, her light skin contrasting with his dark one. Emeka thought he should be grateful. This would be the first time they’d had sex in three months. She said it was a treat, he had been a good boy; patient and understanding. So they had pencilled it in the week before, and true to her word it had happened. Not that Emeka cared anymore. There was a time he would have eagerly waited for today, but since his lover he didn’t care anymore.

His lover was the realisation of every thing he thought he was missing being married to Lisa. It wasn’t even the sex that made him think of his lover all the time. He knew it was a cliché, people always said it. He even said it about Lisa once upon a time, but his lover really completed him. They would sit over a glass of wine and talk about everything, the effects of Ebola on a continent they both loved, the fact that Ed Miliband had no charisma but they still believed labour would win the elections, the next position they should try in their book on tantric sex. The one they were both looking for on the day it started.

He was looking for it because Lisa wanted it. Her best friend had told her she needed to read it, told her that reading it with Emeka would take their relationship to the next level. So in a way it was Lisa’s fault that he started the affair. At least that’s what he told himself every time he made love to his lover.

‘I love you Emeka, no matter what happens today I want you to know I love you.’ Emeka didn’t respond to this declaration of love. There was no need for him to, Lisa always did it before she got on a plane. He knew it wasn’t a sudden rush of emotion that overcame her, emotions that would need assurance or validity by him responding.

‘There’s something I need to tell you Emeka, something I planned to do but after what we just did maybe I’m going about it the wrong way. Maybe I should just tackle it head on. Running never solved anyone’s problems. Maybe after I tell you, we’ll be able to resolve…’ 

Emeka would not hear the rest of her sentence and if the truth had to be told he didn’t hear the beginning either. He hardly listened to Lisa anymore, not since he knew listening always resulted in him ending up with him spending money or another errand.  

‘Mummy, daddy, wake up lets go, its holiday time.’ The door to their bedroom suddenly burst open and two excited ten year olds ran towards them, climbed their beds and soon they were jumping on it. 

Emeka saw that look he knew too well on Lisa’s face. That look that said I can never trust you to get anything right. He wondered what he had done to deserve it, then he remembered she told him to lock their door just before they started having sex.
He caught and pulled his twin children Tobi and Tasha to him, kissing them while Lisa got out of bed careful not to expose her naked body. Soon a mad frenzy would take over their house and the fact that Lisa and him had sex that morning would seem an eternity away. Then Emeka’s phone buzzed alerting him to a text message

Lover: Can’t you steal a moment away before you leave? I really need to feel you inside me.

Emeka: I don’t know if it would be possible, I thought you were happy last night.

Lover: I was, darling, but that was until I woke up this morning. Knowing I wouldn’t have you again not for the next two weeks and suddenly I just knew I had to have you again.

Emeka: I don’t know babes, I really don’t know. I’ll try.

Lover: Don’t try, make it happen.

Make it happen! How does she expect him to do it? Emeka thought. He knew he wanted her too. He knew immediately Lisa asked him that morning if he had come, but going to meet her was like looking trouble in the eyes and then opening your hands out to embrace it.

‘Hey darling, I need you to do me a big favour.’ Lisa interrupted Emeka’s thoughts.

‘It’s Yemisi, her car broke down yesterday, so you have to go pick her up and bring her to the house.’ Emeka couldn’t believe what he just heard. Going to pick up Yemisi, Lisa’s best friend was the answer to his prayers. Now he had the perfect excuse to go see his lover.

‘Come on Lisa, we only have four hours to get ready and get to the airport, can’t she take a taxi?’ Emeka knew he couldn’t act eager to leave.

‘I’m not going to ask my best friend to take a taxi after she has gone out of her way to agree to house sit for us. You should be grateful to her, you know if she didn’t volunteer we wouldn’t be going on this holiday in the first place.’ Emeka smiled, he heard every bit of annoyance from Lisa as she said this. Good. He thought, at least when he got back late she wouldn’t be able to accuse him.

On his drive to go pick Yemisi, Emeka thought of that day in the bookshop when he met his lover. He knew who she was, knew her well but they had never gotten along. She invited him for coffee; an offer he accepted reluctantly. As they sat down and talked, they both realised they had a lot in common. Then there was that moment that made Emeka realise his feelings towards her had changed.

‘Do you want my last slice of cake?’ Another cliché Emeka thought, but it’s true what they say, it’s the little things that count. Lisa had never offered him the last of anything, in fact she constantly ate hers and then his.

Then, when their hands touched as he helped her out of his car on her drive way, something kindled in them and soon they were kissing. Kissing like they had been kissing each other forever, kissing as if their lips were carved out for each other. As if, his was always meant to be the lips destined to worship hers. When they had sex later that day, Emeka didn’t feel any guilt, he just felt awakened to the happiness he knew he had been missing out on.

Yemisi opened the door wearing a bright yellow top that along with her jeans, snugly fitted her perfectly shaped ample body. This was something he missed being married to Lisa. Lisa was too skinny for his liking, he had always had a thing for curvier women, women who didn’t feel like they would break while making love.

‘Hi,’ Emeka said trying not to show any feelings, not that it mattered if he did, her back side wouldn’t have known if he was smiling or frowning.

Emeka walked into her apartment. What first hit him was the perfume from the lighted candle — lavender he thought. Then he noticed how clean and tidy the house was. He wasn’t one to claim he loved a clean house but living with two children had a way of changing a man’s needs.

Yemisi turned and handed him a drink, JD and coke, his poison. He took it, but drinking wasn’t on his mind. He grabbed Yemisi by the waist and pulled her into him. Soon their lips found each other and their hands eagerly started to pull at belts, buttons, hooks, anything that was obstructing their skins from being with each other.

‘I just had to have you baby. I just couldn’t bear the thought of you and her having sex for two weeks while I house sit your home. My mind filled with thoughts of you.’

Emeka covered her lips once again as a response and soon he was taking her on a journey that meant so much more to him than the one he had taken earlier with Lisa. When Yemisi came minutes later, he swore he had never heard her come so loud and that made him happy.

‘When will you tell her about us?’ Yemisi asked as they drove to Emeka’s house. They had made love one more time before they left and he had started to panic. He prayed for no traffic or else Lisa would kill him.

‘Yemisi we’ve talked about this before.’

Emeka knew he loved her but he knew he also loved Lisa. She was the mother of his children and he adored his twins. He knew he would never leave them. So he’d planned to tell Lisa everything while they were on holiday. He knew she would get upset. She might throw things at him, probably not talk to him for a while, but he knew she would eventually forgive him and they would work together to rebuild their lives. Maybe, if he played his cards right she might realise it was her fault that he had the affair.

‘I’m home.’ Emeka screamed as he walked through the door.

‘I hope everyone is ready, we’ve got thirty minutes.’ That was when it dawned on Emeka. The silence. The house was quiet, apart from the noise of the faulty fridge, the one he had been meaning to fix for the past three months, there was no other noise in the house.

‘Maybe they’ve gone to the airport already.’ Yemisi said and Emeka thought it could be possible. It was the sort of sensible thing Lisa did, but then he didn’t receive any text or calls from her to say as much. He remembered thinking it was strange all the time he was with Yemisi and on the drive back home, that she hadn’t called.

Emeka called Lisa’s phone and it went straight to voicemail. He left a message, asking where she was and she should call him back. Then he ran up the flight of steps to their bedroom. When he opened the door he couldn’t believe what he saw lying on his bed.

Emeka’s cry rent the air and as Yemisi ran up the stairs as fast as her heels would let her; the screams grew louder.

‘No, nooo. This can’t be happening. Who would do such a thing?

When Yemisi got to the room Emeka was in, Emeka was lying on the floor, his normal calm soft eyes had a mad look of despair in them. He was kneeling down, his eyes staring at what lay on the bed, in his hands he held a piece of paper.

Yemisi walked closely to him and that was when she saw it — the pictures. There were two sets. One set had pictures of Emeka and Lisa’s life together. When they were dating, their wedding, the day the twins were born, dinner and birthday parties and their family christmas picture from last year, the one that had Yemisi in it. She remembered how awkward she felt being in it. There must have been hundreds of pictures of them together.

The other set had three pictures. One with Yemisi and Emeka holding hands, one were they were kissing and the last one of them making love.

Yemisi took the piece of paper from Emeka’s hand as he continued to scream, a smile happily displayed on her face. There was only one sentence written on it;

“I hope she means more to you”

 
By Dike Nsoedo

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dike Nsoedo is an IT Project manager soon to become Property developer. His writing is heavily influenced by the world he sees around him and his writing style has been described as “a continuous flowing streams of consciousness.”
His stories have been published on various e-zines, like the Nukan Niche, the Naked Convos and Naijastories.
He loves nothing more than romantic stories that touch the heart. His one inspiration is God and he is driven to make his pretty daughter proud of him.

Dreams Of A Wannabe

The nightmare began with the blinking red light on my phone.
Or maybe I was wrong and the nightmare actually began four years ago when I left my wife in Nigeria to come to Russia. And for what?
Well, it was supposed to be for greener pastures. Somewhere other than Nigeria. I was supposed to come here, get a job then start my Masters. I would make enough money to send to Naomi and my family at home. I would make my Father proud. I would finally be the kind of son he always wanted. He would stop comparing me to Paul, my younger brother who was in Owerri running his own business.
Leaving Nigeria to Russia was enough. It was a dream come true for Mama. It created the illusion that I was in a better place. I was the obodo oyibo son. Even Paul was a bit envious, I could tell from the way he quieted when my visa was approved.
When Mama rained blessings on me, she made sure to add that God blesses me enough to send money home. That God keeps me from those oyibo women who would want to snatch me from my wife.
It was a bittersweet experience for me; my eighteen month old marriage was still on the cusp of fruition.
Should we turn down such an opportunity? I asked.
No, take it. It’s what we have been praying for, abi?
I pulled her to me, her head tucked against my shoulder and I wondered when I would see her again, hold her like this. This woman that was my light in this dark world. This woman that saw the darkness in me and still embraced me.
And yet, I needed this. We needed this. Greener pastures awaited me in Russia, that was the song I kept singing to myself till I set foot in Moscow.
When the cold air tore through me at the Domodedovo Airport, I wanted to hurry back into the plane and return to Nigeria; to the warm bosom of my wife.

But then I remembered the huge smile on my father’s face when I was leaving, the beam of pride in his eyes as he looked at me. And I knew I would do anything, everything to hold that look in place. Forever.

I came to Russia with big dreams and a small suitcase. My belongings were as sparse as my knowledge of the place.
Why Russia? My mother asked when I told her. Why not Amelica or the United States?
Mama, America is the same as the United States. I responded patiently.
Ehen, the other United place then. Why Russia, Shey they don’t speak English there?
Mama, I told you that Nwankwo my friend from school knows someone in Russia who will help us out with accommodation and job connections there. That’s why.

And that was the truth. Nwankwo’s friend was waiting for us at the airport, almost choking in his woolly clothes.
The prospect of Nwankwo’s friend being connected enough to get us a job in Russia was overwhelming. It was like a miracle.

Until he took us to his work place the next day.

A hotel.

Wow. You manage a hotel? I was awed.
He laughed, a grating sound that irritated me.

No, not yet. But my job here is better than most. Some people will kill to have my job.

I was excited now. What? Tell me!

And he did.
Nwankwo’s friend Odimegwu, who had boasted about his life in Russia, was only a busboy in a hotel.
I peered into his face to be sure he wasn’t joking. Then I looked at Nwankwo, to convince me that this was one of his stunts.
You’re serious? I asked.
What did you expect? An office job? You think if I had an office job I will be living above a shop? I don’t even have a residence card yet!

And yes, Odimegwu’s apartment, if it could be called that was located at the top of a shop in Simprefol. It was a ramshackle one room apartment that was sparsely furnished.
It reeked of tobacco.
So erm…what job can we get? I asked, there had to be a silver lining somewhere.
Now you’re talking. Well, recently two of the cleaners quit and the manager has been looking for new ones. So you’re in luck. The pay is not much but it will at least put food on your table.

The pay was a little above 4000 ruble which was a measly fifteen thousand naira in Nigerian currency. I was stumped. This could not be happening to me. Not with my dreams and my promises. Not with my wife expecting a child.

There is another job opportunity, if you are interested. Odimegwu whispered.

Anything. Anything but this.

Well, there are some women who employ men as…escorts. The pay I hear, is very attractive. You will party hard and drink Stolichnaya all night long.

Isn’t that prost…

Ssshhh! Don’t say it! Escorts, that’s all you are. We don’t know what happens after that.

I wasn’t stupid. However, Nwankwo my friend was. He readily gobbled up the opportunity to be an escort.
After all, he said, I have no wife.
I took to cleaning toilets. Whenever I called home with the little kopecks I had, I would tell them I was an administrator.
It was a word that sounded good to the ears of my father. I was too ashamed to say I cleaned like a maid daily. I had two jobs. And both involved cleaning. But I didn’t tell anyone that, not even Naomi.

I wept at night in the corner of the room where I slept. My hands were decorated with blisters. And when Naomi sent me a picture of our new born son, I felt a dam open up in me and I wept like a child.
I had failed.
I had set out to be something to my family. A provider, a good husband. Something better than a cleaner by day and a sweeper by night.

Naomi emailed me whenever she could, telling me of the progress of our son who she had named Jeffery.
‘I couldn’t do a proper naming ceremony because you’re not here. But I’m sure we will when you get back ‘ one mail said.
‘He looks like you, so bright and hopeful. I miss you. ‘ another said.
At first, I had to dredge up some form of optimism while replying her mails. I didn’t want her to know I was sinking into despair, that the ten thousand naira I sent to them in Nigeria every three months was like cutting a part of my skin.

‘Send me pictures of you. I want to see whether you look like a true white boy now’ another mail said.

I was white all right, white from the cold that gnawed at my fingers, my chest; white from the lack of good food.
I didn’t send a picture, I couldn’t find the will to. It was easier lying through mails, pictures would tell better truths.

Three years passed slowly, my body adjusted to the rough living conditions, I developed a racking cough that tore through me like an enemy. It became a constant companion. Nwankwo who now went by the Russian name Alexei was doing a lot better than me.
He had moved out of Odimegwu’s room and could at least afford good food.

Sometimes I slept at night and wondered if I could ever go home. Could I face the ridicule of a wannabe? My brother Paul would revel in the fact that I had failed. Again.
And what about my wife and son?
Naomi’s mails became scarce by the time I was in my fourth year in Russia. She sent me pictures of my son once or twice a month with a kiss-kiss smiley attached.
But that was it.

She didn’t tell me she missed me anymore. She didn’t ask to see pictures of me.
I should have known something was up but I was too busy rejoicing at the fact that I didn’t have to lie to her again. The more scanty the mails, the less lies to tell.

Until that blinking light.

I woke up in the middle of the night to pee when I saw the red light. It signaled a message of some sort.
The mail was from Naomi.

‘I can’t do this anymore Matthew. I’m sorry. I know you’ve found a life in Russia that doesn’t include me so I decided to find a life for myself here too.
I want a divorce.
I’m pregnant.
I’m sorry Matthew, I failed you.
I hope whoever she is, makes you happier. Jeff says hi.

Naomi.’

I couldn’t cry. I was numb. I had lost the only thing that kept me sane. I didn’t reply her mail. I couldn’t.
The next day I visited Nwankwo née Alexei and told him I wanted to be an escort too.

END

Mimi A.(C) 2014