She is tall with keen features. The lips of a goddess, the daughter of Venus in brown skin, a soft voice that is like the singing of angels. Distinctive feminine curves that are generous but not excessive. She has the kind of beauty that is confusing. Her looks and her background just don’t add up.
Knowledge is our salvation but it can also be our enemy. Our joint quest for knowledge has brought us to this point of sinful discovery. People see me as the epitome of righteousness, carefully selected – faultless, forever pristine and always holy. But sometimes the most righteous among us lose the ability to reason when it comes to the opposite sex.
Loneliness is a solute.
I have found my solvent in her touch.
The weakness of man.
So easily achieved by the stimulation of senses. Touch being the most dominant. She gave me her body to worship and I bowed at her altar, pleased her like I was on trial and her pleasure or lack of was the verdict. Her salvation has left me imprisoned. Every time I see her, I want to dip into her well of passion. Take her to that place where our souls dance together. Where we float like dancers suspended above the rest of the world.
There is pleasure in giving pleasure, in not being selfish; but she won’t let me please her in sixty-nine ways, as this knowledge is still strange to her. My missionary to her world has left us in a position of missionary. The deliverer has become the delivered. She won’t confess to it but I know she has been trained to believe it is her prerogative to exert pleasure. And she is so good at it, she should include it in her non-existing resume.
However, the intimacy I seek is beyond my bedroom. I watch, sadly as she walks away, carrying dishes looking ever so uxorial. Her hips swaying, moving rhythmically to the sounds of an invisible orchestra.
Obianuju: She who has come in the midst of plenty.
She seems to take her ‘plenty’ away with her when she leaves, managing to transition me from common sense to insanity. Sanity however taps me on my shoulder moments later as I hear the familiar knock on my door.
Sister Esther gently pushes the door open, walks into my room and almost instinctively shouts:
In the thickest of Igbo accents.
“Obianuju! Nwelu aka gi anwa nwulu anwu bia fichaa table Father Francis.”
(Obianuju bring that your dirty hand here and come and clean Father Francis’ table.)
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