A CUP OF MOONLIGHT PT.1

 

The dry desert wind from the Sahara swept across the small village of Gamji in the Argungu province in northern Nigeria like an invisible broom wielded by a frustrated housewife whose husband had impregnated her enemy.

 Dust and dirt scattered as the wind fiercely rattled the thatched windows, doors, and roofs of the village mud huts like angry spirits. The little village children clung tighter to their mothers, while the men mumbled pleas for mercy for their painstakingly woven roofs, doors, and windows. The women cursed under their breath at the dirt invading their freshly swept compounds. Despite the dusty wind that browned their eyelashes, beards, brows, and hair, life carried on as usual. Farmers went to their fields, hunters to their hunts, traders to the market, and children and maidens to the Gamji River to fetch water. 

Life was perfect and content this way, just like every other day. 

It was his mother’s call that woke him from his wonderful dream. His dreams of living in a cement building, walking on tarred roads, and speaking English were the only things that made his wooden bed precious, welcoming his tired body after a day's toil and giving him pleasant visions before and during sleep.

 

Auwal was a man of few words. By the time he was 17, he was built like an ox and towered above his peers. His jet-black skin shimmered under the scorching sun, and his handsome face featured high cheekbones adorned with tribal marks like medals. His long, thick lashes touched his bushy brows, giving him a perpetual frown, while his gentle brown eyes displayed integrity, ambition, and a sternness that commanded respect. His dark full lips hinted at a ripe pink where they met. He hadn’t woken early for his prayers today, nor the day before, or the day before that.

 

Why did God put a brain in his head?

 

Surely, it was meant for him to figure out things for himself.

 

Praying every day does not save you from anything if you don't know who you are and where you are heading.

 

Sitting up on his bed, he yawned and looked around. The same empty hut contained his wooden bed, a small radio, a lantern, a map of Nigeria he had won in a math quiz, and a few clothes hung on a big bamboo pole. His prized possessions included two exercise books and three worn-out textbooks: “Introduction to Brighter Grammar”, “Literature in English”, and “Standard Mathematics for Elementary 4”. He had crammed everything in those textbooks from cover to cover. Standing up and stretching his stiff, muscled body, he walked slowly to the door. His morning erection threatened to rip through his veins and muscles as he bowed to pass through the door of his hut, which he was much taller than.

 

As he stepped out, the dry wind embraced him, making his thin cotton kaftan hug his chiseled frame. His mother was cooking outside, and as he walked past her, she marveled at the sight of him.

 

He was perfect.

 

After all these years, she still couldn't believe he had come forth from her loins.

 

His father had left for the big cities almost immediately after paying her bride price to her hunter father. He was a soldier, and every young lady in the village swooned and desired him. She remembered it like yesterday when she was selling her father’s kills at the bush market when they met.

 

She couldn't look him in the eye. He was drinking with some friends and ordered some bush meat. He bought all her wares and paid in crisp naira notes. She didn't know if it was the alcohol or if he was truly in love with her, but that day she saw a desire in his eyes that was brand new to her. He carried her onto his lap despite her weak protests, telling her he would marry her. All the men cheered and jeered at them.

 

That night, he took her to his hotel room and fucked in a way that would remain etched in her memory forever.

 

She remembered how she wept and clung to his huge frame out of fright as he furiously thrust into her virgin vagina. Waves of unbearable pleasure mixed with raw agony made her head spin and her grip tightened. After he had emptied his desire that had ached his loins, he stood up, the sight of her gaped bleeding vagina giving him a sense of victory and satisfaction.

 

He had brought a damp towel and told her to use it to soothe her aching private parts.

 

As he lit a cigarette, he began inquiring about her family.

 

His name was Adamu and he had outrightly told her he was looking for someone to take care of his aging mother while he was away on his numerous peacekeeping missions and postings. Casually, he mentioned how he’s had his fair share of prostitutes but needed to walk in his father's footsteps by marrying an untouched woman.

Her father was overjoyed when she returned the following morning with the money from all the bush meat sales and a soldier who wanted to marry her. None of her relatives had married anyone with a profession, and this was a big honor for her family. Without much delay, the bride price was paid, and the ceremony was done.

 

Her peers escorted her to her new home with joyful noise and dancing. Adamu’s mother was his only surviving parent, his only close relative.

 

His mother welcomed her warmly, treating her like royalty, which made her adapt quickly to the new environment.

 

In no time, the morning sickness came, and without being told, she knew she was pregnant. Adamu was barely around and hadn't touched her since that night at the hotel. Not that it mattered. After all, men showed affection only when they desired what was between a woman's thighs, and a woman must never refuse to satisfy her husband.

 

Looking at her son that morning filled her with a fresh craving for just one more moment of intense passion with her husband. She was no longer a naive girl; she was now a full-grown woman. Her frequent visits to the village blacksmith had not only sharpened her cutlass but also her ability to welcome and please a man's organ in the space between her thighs. Although she knew the blacksmith was no match in agility and endowment compared to Auwal's father, Adamu.

 

Adamu’s mother had died when her grandson was just four months old, and she hadn't seen him since he returned to the city after her funeral. She had cried and worried until she decided to move on. She had never been to the city and could not find him even if she tried. She knew nothing about her husband, apart from that he was a soldier.

 

The entire village knew she was his wife. She had borne him a son. That alone had rooted and cemented her stay.

As she watched her son walk away, she knew for certain that after he had gone to the farm, she would be going to sharpen her cutlass.

 

 

Auwal held his still turgid member, his large hands unable to completely encircle its circumference, waiting for the urine to flow. Urinating while having an erection in the morning provided a sensation of sexual relief, and Auwal enjoyed what it did to him. As the first shot of liquid gushed out, he tried forcing out more and, in doing so, let out a loud fart. His stomach suddenly tightened, and he knew nature was calling. Holding the knob of his stiff member to stop further urine, he made his way to the raffia and mud pit latrine a few feet away.

As Auwal stooped over the pit, he carefully held his manhood to avoid it touching the floor. He let go of his fingers that firmly pressed the knob of his cock, and hot, clear urine rushed out, landing on the left side of the latrine where water from the bathroom flowed, creating white foam.

 

Awual was always fascinated by his penis. Despite its thickness and odd curve to the left, it stretched to a neat 12.9 inches when straightened, although this often caused him pain. His peers mocked him for the curve, but he found pleasure in their masturbation games, where the winner was the first to ejaculate or shoot his semen the farthest.

 

There was something inexplicably thrilling about watching his friends stroke themselves and seeing thick, creamy semen spew from their throbbing members. This sight alone was enough to bring Adamus to an intense orgasm. He vividly remembered one occasion when he watched Abu, the blacksmith's son, lying on his back during one of their self-pleasure sessions. From where Adamus sat, he could see Abu's rectum contracting as he wanked his slim, long, black phallus.

 

The sight of Abu's turgid manhood and pulsating rear sent tidal waves of excitement through Adamus as he stroked himself. Abu was always noisy and dramatic when he came, and one day, while he was climaxing, he had raised his legs so high that he saw the pink of Abu's opening pulsating fiercely, a vision that never left his mind even after six months.

 

Now, Auwal was slowly stroking himself, imagining rubbing his thick, fist-sized knob on Abu’s tight back opening. He wondered what it would feel like to push himself deep inside until every inch disappeared into that pulsating vacuum. Would Abu be able to take all of him? The thought alone was as good as the pleasure he was giving himself, if not sweeter.

As he tugged his swollen member, picking up the pace, he could feel his climax building. Just as his eyes rolled back and his full lips parted in a soft hoarse moan, a familiar female voice broke through his fantasy, making him freeze. His erection died instantly, and his throat went dry.