Dear Future Husband; A Letter

Photo by LivluvCreate

Dear Future Husband,

Believe me I will not be writing this letter to you if it were not so important. I have pondered on it many times and have decided it is important I communicate this with you before you approach me.

There is one thing you will need if you want to marry me. Forget the cars, the duplexes, the 9-5 bank job or the fat wallet, this thing is more important than all those. In fact, if used well, this thing will get you all those.

I am sure you are dying to know what it is that will be your ticket to marrying me. Let me tell you, it is something seemly insignificant but I tell you it is a case of the pen being mightier than the sword. And please do not laugh because if you do it will just convey to me that you are not the kind of man who understands the deep things of this life.

Okay here it is, my dear future hubby, you need dimples.
And no, I am not some dumb blond. I will not tell you what I have not researched about. I have seen the power of dimples first hand. In fact, the other day I went to the bank to do a transaction and while at the counter waiting my turn, a lady brushed by me and marched to the front like she owned the place.

I opened my mouth to tell her it was my turn next and she turned to me and the moment she smiled I knew that the battle was lost. This lady had the freshest dimples you could imagine. I almost died and went to heaven.

She now spoke in one tiny voice like that and said things I cannot remember because I was too busy basking in the glory of those two deep holes in her cheeks.
Now, I am not gay(how could I be, when I’m rooting for you?) but dimples have this effect on me that it doesn’t matter who has them; man, woman, animal, alien. I do not mind. They drive me crazy, in a good way.
You should know how the rest of the story goes.
So, future hubby; you don’t have to be tall, dark and handsome. Don’t worry dimples would take care of that. They have a way of wiping off any sort of ugliness in anybody. When you show them, everybody forgets about whatever inadequacies you have. With dimples, you are beauty in the eyes of every beholder.
And by dimples I don’t mean those semi-dots, those wannabes that appear by mistake on people’s faces. Like mine. Do you know how many times I have stood in front of the mirror and folded my mouth in just to produce actual dimples? I can’t count, I tell you. I mean real dimples, the deep ones that your finger can fit in.
Let me tell you why dimples are important again, for us. You see, dimples are like boobs. I have boobs so I can tell the effect they have on men alone, this time. They open up closed doors; they are powerful in an inconspicuous way. And with dimples you and I will never have to fight. Because I am very sure that by the time you bestow me with a glorious dimpled smile, my anger will evaporate and I would forget what I had been angry about in the first place. That way, we get to have lots of make-up sex even when there is nothing to make up for.
But that is good, right? After all, the key to a successful marriage is sex. And from what I hear make-up sex is the most beautiful kind; spontaneous and passionate. If we keep doing that, our marriage is sure to succeed. Do you know why?
Dimples.
Do you now see why it is paramount for you to have them?
With dimples, even if you don’t have a car or a good job when you come to marry me, my mother would convince my father to hire you and then marry me. You see, mother is a sucker for dimples too.
I am concerned about this because I am dimpleless and it has been a source of worry for me all these years. I have however made up my mind that when I have become a millionaire like some of these celebrities, I will fly abroad and have plastic surgery done. The kind where they only put dimples in my face. I hope that kind of surgery exists because I am thinking, if they could change a black man to white with plastic surgery, why not put dimples where there were none? Faces are like pasta, no?

photo by drahanorov

But I digress; I was saying that I am sure that if I marry you, dimples would automatically be in our children’s jeans…I’m sorry, genes. That has been my earnest prayer all these years.

Lord, what I have never been able to get, my children shall have in hundred fold. Amen.
So you see, you are paramount to the answering of this prayer.
Now, I know you will read this and I am telling you now, please, biko, mbok, ejooo drill a hole in your cheeks if you want me to ever recognise you because I have asked God to blind my eyes to any man whose cheeks are naked.
And my God answers prayers.
I will wait for you.

Your Dimpleless Future Wife.

Photo by Hitarek.net

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.

Trials of an Almost Wife

Dear readers, it’s been more than a while I blogged. Whew. Forgive me please, really. I got caught up in, well…life et al. Here’s a little something I wrote a while ago and decided to share on here. I hope you enjoy it and please don’t forget to let me know what you think. I’d love your feedback. Thank you.

******

 

I’m looking at a woman I don’t seem to recognise. She stares right back at me, looking so familiar and yet so strange.

She is almost out of shape; her hips are overlapping and seem to be falling out of her body. Her ample bosom spills out from beneath the gown she’s wearing. Her make-up is otherworldly and even the layers of foundation cannot hide the lapse in her facial skin. There was a time this woman was regarded as beautiful. A time when the men had scrambled upon each other just to get a piece of her.

A time when she’d not needed nearly half of the make-up she has on now, to look pretty. A time when she would have drawn a second and even third look from a man; now all she draws are whistles from drunken men ogling her large behind.

I am staring at the woman and cannot hide the look of disgust on my face. When did she become this person? When had she lost her appeal?

I know the answer yet I am afraid to say it. To accept the truth; that the woman is me.

I turn away from the mirror and sit with a heavy plop on the bed. Nicodemus has just told me that he has found another wife. The man had the nerve to tell me that his useless Pastor has prescribed a new wife for him!

And what about me? I asked.

He said we are living in sin; that it is against God’s will.

I began to laugh. After six children kwa? You must be mad.

Nicodemus looked at me like I was the mad one. I don’t blame him. He is still handsome with his fair dimpled face and I am the one looking like his mother after having six children for him.

Who is that your pastor? I asked. Who is the man that wants to tear a family apart? Is that the work God sent him to do?

Emily, family? But I did not pay dowry on your head nah.

Idiot. So it’s now you know? When you were disturbing my bed at night and eating the forbidden fruit, you did not know e kwaa?

I am born again now ooh. Emily, don’t make me commit sin.

Born again? Better born again and go and see my father.

When he saw the argument was going nowhere, he’d left; muttering something about women.

I am waiting for him now. After nine years of living with him, playing faithful wife, opening my leg him to deliver his children all in the name of ‘I will marry you’, he has now decided to change his mind? God forbid!

I will not go back to my father’s house with six children and no husband.

Shebi when I was young and beautiful he couldn’t keep his hands off me? It was always, Emily, let me touch your breast now or Emily, give me a kiss now.

I let him touch more than my breast, I let him drink from the fountain sef, and now he wants to abandon me because I am no longer slim shady. Okay now. We will see.

If only I had listened to my mother.

Emily, don’t let that boy give you belle ooh. She said over and over again but I was too beautiful to listen. Now, he touched me and got me pregnant and my story finished. My father dumped me in his house and since then it has been baby after baby after baby.

Nicodemus! You want to make a fool of me? Oya, bring that chinch into my house and you will see all hell will break loose.

 

 

 

Mimi A.