ONE TOO LATE

Muna is a fine gentleman. I often felt like God looked at my heart and

designed him just the way I liked my men. Thick - not fat, bearded - not

bushy, refined - not razz. The contralto in his voice filled me with orgasmic

pleasure that night when he replied “Who’s there” after I rang his doorbell,

and I responded “It’s me”. The smell of lavender that embraced me, rushing

through my nostrils when he flung the door open, eclipsing me with his

broad chest with a sexy cleft that pronounced the fullness of his man boobs.

He was not one of those lazy boys strolling the streets of Port Harcourt city,

living in their parent’s apartments, eating free food at the age of 30, or

hanging out at the malls dressed like mass-produced Wizkid and Tekno

clones, chasing young naive girls and flashing abs and muscles, faking an

accent filled with too many errors and mispronunciations. Muna had a Job

as an assistant Environmental Engineer with Royal Salt, with his fully

furnished apartment in Shell Residential Area, and an Audi automobile. But

what got me about Muna was not his house, car nor money; matter of fact, I

am not an Engineer, but I am the manager of Genesis Deluxe, and I had my

own tastefully furnished flat in Agip housing estate; I did like his sense of

style and responsibility.

We had met on a very awkward situation that Thursday night when one of

my oldest staff, Rose, had slighted him with her tarty attitude. Jude, the

security boy behind the CCTV cameras had called to notify me about the

fracas downstairs as Muna was causing such a scene demanding to see the

manager. I hated meeting with these kind of angry customers, especially

these ones that must be trying to impress the young lady they had come

with, so I sent Victor to go invite him privately to my office. I quickly turned

on the music player in my office on low, walk on water by Eminem ft.

Beyonce filtered smoothly through the Sony sound system. And the light

turned dim, to create a serene enough atmosphere for both me and the

aggrieved customer. Victor ushered him in minutes later, standing by the

door. Muna walked straight to my desk, I could perceive the anger on his

being when he walked in but I decided to take the lead of events as I stood

up to shake his hands, and offered him a chair. And while he recounted his

ordeal with rose downstairs, I signalled Victor to get us refreshments while I

spoke calmly to the man who had been ushered into my office to soothe him,

but I didn’t need to do much talking as his head began to move slowly to the

tune of the music stuck on replay and the tense with which he came into my

office began to disappear.

“I like this song” he said, completely distracted from the case that had

brought him to my office in the first place.

I smiled. It was a tactics I had learnt from Aunt Cecilia who was a

Psychologist. The art of easily soothing an angry person in a serene

atmosphere.

“It is my favourite song this year”

“Eminem featuring Beyonce?” he asked, startling me. I leaned forward, out

of the shadow partially hiding my face, so he could see me clearly and I,

him.

I was not moved by his knowledge of Eminem or Rap, but I had assumed

that he was one of those straight men who could not tell Beyonce or

Rihanna apart even if they were both standing in front of him.

Victor returned with the light refreshment of Hollandia yoghurt and two

chicken pies on a tray which he set on the table before giving us room. Alone

with the stranger who was no longer as rambunctious as he had been

downstairs. I learnt his name, where he worked, and that he grew up

listening to music from a grandpa radio his father had gifted him before he

slept off every night, and he had a hobby which was mixing tapes. After he

had eased off, he politely asked that I ‘handled the rude girl’ and we

exchanged contacts, shook hands and said our goodbyes. I leered at him as

he walked away, his thick build filling up the room, his height making the

POP ceiling seem much lower than they actually were, the build of his torso

hugged by the blueish shirt with folded sleeves, and his fitted pants teasing

me with the features of his full thighs, the masculine thickness that was his

neck and the nicely chiselled face implanted into a perfect head.

That night, he chatted me up on WhatsApp to apologize for the scene he had

caused and I modestly told him that I was the one who ought to be

apologizing for the behaviour of my staff whom after my investigation was

wrong, earning her a suspension and a surcharge. Then we chatted about

music, and a lot of other mumbo-jumbo till late into the night. And the same

thing the night after and the night after, till it became a habit; lying on the

bed till late into the night texting about or talking on the phone or face-

timing.

His visits to my office on his way home became frequent. Then one night, on

one of his numerous visits to my office, we had talked about our sexuality.

Not like we had no clue, but we had to be sure. That night, he had leaned

forward to kiss me, the song When we were young ft. Passenger trailed off

into the distance, and I sat still, like I had lost my motor skills, blinking. It

had been ages since another lips had pressed against mine in pleasure. The

feeling sent my rusty hormones sputtering to life as I locked my lips against

his, throwing my slender arms above his shoulders, letting his firm hand

rest on the nape of my neck and the other on my waist, letting our bodies

glide against each other in a heated romance. I almost screamed ecstatically

when his lips reached for my nipples, as he lifted me off the ground onto my

desk. Our romance was interrupted by my intercom. We hurriedly adjusted

our clothes and said quick goodbyes. For the rest of the week, our episode

replayed in my head accompanied by a lot of mixed emotions.

I had not been emotionally attached after my relationship with Demola hit

the rocks seven years ago. He left with a large part of me under his shoes

and an emotional scar; a constant reminder of the day he leaked my secret

sex tape I had recorded to people until they got my parents. My mother had

a heart failure. Until that day, she was the only one who knew about my

sexuality, but seeing the video and the mocking comments broke her heart. I

was told she slumped on her way home from the market, and was confirmed

dead when her body arrived the hospital. My father had been bitter; he had

chased me far off into the night with a cutlass. I still remember his

bloodshot eyes as he brandished the cutlass while people struggled to

capture him and seize the weapon.

“Don’t you dare come back to my house if you want to live, you hear me?”

his hoarse voice threatened. As he struggled with the men restraining him,

trying to pry the weapon off his grip.

The thought of Demola still haunted me; that thin line between love and

hate did not seem so small as I found myself tangled in it. Each effort to free

myself seemed harder than the previous. The world seemed strangely too

large; large enough to hide the brute from Niger Republic. The apprentice

apothecary who lived few poles from my house. It began when he I had been

ill with a typhoid and had to go to his boss, a rather stoic man we had

nicknamed ‘Professor’ because of his gifted method of prescription which

was the most potent in the district. Halfway through my treatment, he had

to travel and had entrusted the rest of my injections to his apprentice, the

quiet boy with eyes the colour of pixie dust. As much needles scared the B

Jesus out of me, there was something about the way this new boy

administered his, which was calmed my tense and relaxed me. By the time I

was taking my last injection, we had become familiar enough for him to

mutter sweet rubbish to me as he delivered my shot, holding the cotton wool

to my derriere for a bit longer.

Demola would not take money for the treatment. He said he liked me. I was

fascinated by the colour of his eyes. And when he said he was from Niger

Republic I wondered how come his name was Demola. He said he was born

and raised in Ogun state, but his mother had told him that his father was a

man from Niger who didn’t wait till he was born before disappearing without

a trace. I began to frequent the pharmacy, sometimes under the pretext of

buying vitamin c, just to see him. He would text me whenever his boss was

not in to steal a kiss behind the curtains or caress bodies and get a blowjob

Then I started sneaking him into my room for sex on Sundays while my

parents were away at one meeting or the other, or every other day when I get

the opportunity.

There were many creepy sides to Demola, the deadliest being his vile temper.

The temper that drove him to share the sex tape I had made with Scott. I felt

it had to be his temper even if he had told the boy whom he showed the

video to that he felt guilty of the act that I seduced him into and he wanted

to quit doing it. I did not believe that narrative because I had seen the

revulsion on his face when he saw the sex tape on my phone.

“Who be this guy?” he had asked. It was obvious he was jealous because he

hated the idea of sharing me with someone else even though he was not my

boyfriend.

Muna had left me tons of messages and had been calling my phone off

the hook since I went silent on him. Work that day had not been too busy

and I found myself going through the pictures on Muna’s Facebook page. I

picked up my phone and texted him back. “Send me the address to your

place. Be there at seven.”

He did text me the address and block number. That evening, I left work

earlier than usual, accelerating my Kia Soul carefully through the crazy

traffic of Port Harcourt city. At sharp 7:12pm that Saturday evening, I

tapped on his door. He ushered me into his living room with beige painted

walls, lights turned on dim and the flames the LED plasma resonating the

room. I settled down into a red couch so soft, it seemed to be swallowing me.

Muna was in his boxer shorts now and a T shirt that hugged his arm. We

had candlelight dinner, after which he took me to his room, helped me

undress whilst he planted kisses here and there all over my body, saying

how much he missed me. We showered together in the bathroom, kissing

while the water ran down our bodies. I grabbed his cock, gasping at its

weight and girth while it was still semi-flaccid

“Damn. He is a senior” I thought to myself as I lowered myself to blow it,

taking him all in my mouth, making him moan like a teenage boy in

delirium. Having had enough of the sweet torture, he pulled me up, grabbed

a condom and a lube from the bathroom cabinet, as he slipped on the

condom while I lubed myself, then he slipped in, with me grabbing the toilet

seat. After that, he lifted me to his body as he penetrated, making me yelp

like an excited schoolgirl. We proceeded to the bed where we orgasmed twice

more, climaxed and came.

“Will you be my boyfriend?” he had asked while I stroked his nipples and he

rubbed my lower back.

I chuckled.

“Let me love you, care for you, be part of your life.”

“I want that too; you know,” I said frankly. “I want to share memories and a

life with you. Come home every day of my life to find love and warmth, an

arm to hold me, a body to lean on. I want all that too.”

“What is stopping you then? What is stopping you from being mine?”

“Trust issues. I did trust one person and he ruined everything for me. Cost

me my mother. Now there’s nothing left for you or anyone else.” I said coldly.

The silence that followed proved that my response was too big a pill for him

to swallow. It was for me too. His up and down movement on my waist

paused for seconds while we both stare into the dark void of the room. He

tried to make me see reasons why I had to let go, but it was like pouring

water on a duck’s back. As much as I liked Muna, my hatred for Demola

was far greater the loathing I felt for him for wrecking my life so because of

misguided jealously. I knew I would always compare them, suspect his

moves, eavesdrop on his conversations. Loving him or anybody else would

make me vulnerable again, let down my guard, forgetting how hard the

struggle was to get my life back without help from family who was so

ashamed of me that they could not reach out to know if I was still alive or at  least where I was. Loving him was not going to thaw the guilt I felt about

losing my mother, breaking her heart. It was not going to soothe my

relationship with my father and my other siblings. It was not going to quell

my bitterness at Demola, or anyone bearing that name, not fix the

detachment I felt from the real me having to live as somebody else in Port

Harcourt, making sure not to run into anybody from my past who would

bring complications to a life I have built for myself. It was not going to make

me trust anyone.

The next morning, at the crack of dawn. I had a quick cold bath, threw on

my clothes after which I kissed him goodbye. If he played his cards well, we

could fuck again



Written by Nnam J.