Written By: Olaleye Oladipupo
Follow on Facebook: Olaleye Azeem Oladipupo 

Instagram/ twitter: @da_diarist    

                  

                   Episode One

Their breaths clamp, unperturbed. Both tidily swooned, the tempo of their heartbeats speeds and slows from time to time to match up with the ceiling-fan’s whirl that hangs loosely over them. She kneads his belly here and there with her fingers as if the fingers are in search of some invisible object that must be lying somewhere amidst the very tiny shreds of hair that sprung across his belly. Reflections from the glittering multicolour bulb that is strategically fixed on the wall, above an array of framed artworks displayed at one corner of the room bounce off their bare skin, their waists tie up like fingers crossed. 

Prone positioned, one of her cheeks nestles out of sight down into his sparse-haired barrel-chest. Her perfect figure eight basks in the spiritless air that swamps the room. Her rich brown skin dazzle in the half light; a well carved bronze statue resting on the bed beside him or perhaps she was moulded out of melted chocolate bars. She has that kind of figure amateur artists try to paint twenty times before dropping their brushes. Bright with life, drowned in gusto, all lines and turns, squiggles and wriggles.

Toes run over toes and tie up to edges of the bed, black boots and pink heels line up against the bed corners. Ruffled white shirt, lilac shorts and a black and white polka dot gown spread out on the carpet across the room, a dull green G-string brace up the couch’s arm rested against the window closest to the bed. One of his burly forearms curl up her neck, letting the back of his fingers pluck out the glitters of her hair, same line to her back and across to her humpy buttocks. The other arm stretch out above him, his face upward, his beards shroud his entire chin and a pronounced portion of his neck like a fierce fringe of tiny thin grass blades growing on a concrete slab circles the only crack on the slab that supplies water and nutrient from the soil underneath, emphasizing the size of his lips.

The unbroken silence harmonizes with the perfume-and-gin-drenched cold air wavering about the four-corner room fancied up to fit an average monthly wage. No one has spoken a word since the first sunray peered into the room, as if words might dislodge the tranquillity of the early morning that is blossoming right in between their laid up skins.

They had met the night before, at a bar, out in the city. Not drunk at first, and then drunk. Both cannot remember how they got tangled, who picked who. It is one of those things civilization had tagged along, men who meet women at bars, clubs, motor-parks or church vigils and hit it off the same night.

The silence lingers a bit more, now as a whip cutting the air, their curiosity succumbs a little more to the gentle intimacy of the early morning. Eyes delve into the ceiling and walls, alternating and often crossing paths, lips remain stuck down until rays of the rising sun puncturing through the vibrant curtains flared the room into a flamboyant view. The words found him first, then her

And their conversation went something like:

  • Hey, I had an awesome night. 
  • Yeah? Me too. The night was electric. You kept on going and going. I enjoyed every bit of it. 

  • You are amazing, a sweet cherry.

  • Don’t flatter me. You are not bad yourself… So I am Kemi.

  • Mike. Chairman, Fins and Beck limited

  • Fins and B…  Mike? Ogundele Mike?

  • Yeah…

  • Mike… Banji’s brother?

  • Yeah? How did you know Ban…? Wait a minute! Kemi?

A fist clenches up in his heart, his heart tears down into smithereens, so does hers. Their minds dart into mindless races, thoughts flutter by, almost shattering the window panes.

Springing apart like unlike poles repel; after allowing some seconds to fly by and saturate the room with tension and ambivalence, his eyes delve into her unclothed body, as if in search of something in her dark curly hair, or the twin teardrop shaped bullocks that freely graze on her chest or the parentheses that encloses her pubes or her straight legs, something somewhere, that will suddenly give her another identity, any other person in the world that is not Kemi, the Kemi his younger brother has been singing into the ears of every person that comes his way.

  • You are Kemi? Banji’s new babe, the one he just met? The one he came home last week to tell the family about? The one we are to go meet her family in two weeks time?

His lips quiver; two large palm fronds lying on top of one another at the very peak of the tree that just got hit by a ferocious wind.

All rights reserved. This work is protected by local and International copyright laws. No part of this publication is to be reproduced through any means without express permission from Chinekubiz™ Inc. Or the writer.

©chinekubiz.

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