Jumoke

PUDGY ARMS GENTLY shook me awake and my eyelids fluttered open to see Emeka on the bed with a tray containing a cup of tea and two slices of buttered bread. Moving to the window, he drew the curtains open, letting the sunlight bath the room in natural light.

"Boobae, what is it? Do you need anything?" He was troubled by my indifference towards him, at the food in front of me that remained untouched.

"No," I shook my head and almost immediately I added, "stop calling me boobae!"

He shook his head, fingers fixing the strand of hairs that escaped from my bun while I pulled the blankets up to cover my nakedness so I could sit up.

"No, Boobae. I can't. You are my boo and my bae all wrapped in one." He said with a smile, like he had just said a very funny thing.

The urge to strangle him was strong but my hands reached for the single pack of Trident chewing gum instead, popping it into my mouth to keep from speaking.

Someone pounded on the door and the head of a lady poked slightly from the half-opened doors. Ignoring the glare on my face for entering without permission, she pushed the doors wider, the click clack of her high heels scratching my eardrums.

"I told you I didn't want to be disturbed," his tone wasn't harsh nor scolding and she raised her head slowly to bestow a shy, almost innocent smile on him which he reciprocated.

Her outfit fitted like a glove, a second skin that left little or nothing to the imagination; her short flay skirt billowed from the force of the overhead fan, exposing thick thighs that many men would swiftly give up their pillows for. The black lace up top was a tad bit tight for her voluptuous breasts which bounced with every move she made.

"It's Amaka, she says it's an emergency and you are not picking your calls," she responded; Amaka was his PA, we got acquainted a few days ago, alongside his other staffs.

"Why are you dressed like this?" I was the one who asked, a sharp tone to my voice; all the maids had a uniform and this wasn't it.

"My shift is up, I was about leaving before Amaka came in," she responded with that same smile that I wanted to turn upside down.

When we made no move to question her further, she stepped out, followed by Emeka who jumped up in panic after several swipes on his phone's screen.

Welcoming the silence, I looked around our cream, coloured room: it was lush, comfortable, double the size of my parent's living room and spoke volumes of Emeka's wealth. By the window were two single seat sofas placed side by side with a small end table which held a bouquet of plastic flowers. The king-sized bed could accommodate four more people and the golden long bedroom stool at the foot of the bed only added to the intricacies of the room.

But there was still something missing, a person. The room lacked the presence of Kunle - his chiselled face and reddish lips, that aura of masculinity that exuded from him, his firm thighs and bulgy arm muscles.

Letting my thoughts drift to that cramped room of Kunle which was built in the popular face me, I face you style that was located in Owode, a less expensive part of Ibadan, I pictured him sitting near his small window, playing his guitar with his forehead furrowing when he missed a note.

Emeka returned shortly, a sorry look on his feature; his wealth had chipped off a decade from his face but had failed to do the same for his body.

"Boobae, we can't go to Obudu cattle ranch for our honeymoon. I have a business emergency . . ."

The plea rang loud and I was aware that if I said no, he would budge, he was willing to do anything to please me.

"It's fine. Some other time." I exhaled, it was a good thing because I wasn't ready to be seen with a man I didn't love, a man I was forever comparing to my Kunle.

"Are you sure?" He queried and I nodded, pleased to be spending the rest of the day alone, at the same time hoping the emergency lasted the whole of our honeymoon period.

"I'll be right back," he promised with a wink that made me feel nauseous, his buttocks jiggling as he sauntered to the walk-in closet that occupied a small portion of the masters' bedroom.

Contrary to my mother's advice, I would never grow to love this man with rings of flesh around his neck like they were trying to strangle him.

"Marry Emeka and deliver your family from poverty," my mother started, "Kunle is still young, he will find another girl. He is not yet ready."

"I cannot stand him. He looks like a doughnut and he's Igbo," I replied; the first guy before Kunle was Igbo too but she wanted nothing to do with an Igbo son-in-law. Maybe if he was as rich as Emeka, she might have liked him.

"A woman's mind is flexible, you will grow to love him. How long do you think it will take before Kunle finds his feet? That is if he ever will, this is Nigeria."

She started handpicking the particles from the beans, signifying the end of our conversation. I looked around our environment, at the roosters that went about touching their beaks to the earth; the smoke that had formed a whitish column in our kitchen, the firewood that was red hot with small yellow flames shaped like human thumbs appearing and disappearing on them. Then several thoughts gathered in my head like traffic, the laughter of my younger siblings in worn out clothes echoing as they chased each other around for a bite of the sugarcane in Sade's hands.

That was many months ago. When I tried to broach the issue to Kunle, I was disarmed by the smile that appeared on his face when I got into his room.

"You know? When you called me, I decided to go to the market. I want to cook for you," he puckered his lips and kissed me, teeth grazing on my bottom lips.

"Kunle! You can't cook." I reminded him; the last time he tried to, he had spent a week at his friend's house because of the thick smell of burnt plastic that lingered in the air afterwards.

"You will teach me," he protested.

His excitement was comparable to that of a kid with a new toy, so I could not refuse his request. He led me to his small makeshift kitchen at a corner of his room where I instructed him on how to cook and for every time he put in an additional ingredient to the steaming pot of beef broth, he made sure I tasted it.

"Here," he spooned an undercooked chunk of meat into my mouth. He did it with so much care, his face alive and beaming that it made me laugh until tears stood in my eyes.

"Tell me why you are not hungry." He demanded when I refused to eat.

"Because I have no appetite," I replied, finally chewing the spoonful of rice he had been holding close to my lips.

"What do I do to help you regain your appetite?"

"You can kiss me."

He pushed the food aside, taking my hands in his, he made me stand to my feet. Looking down at me with intimidating yet soft eyes, his lips enveloped mine.

I could taste his craving, something like liquid fire travelled through my veins. In a flash, my gown was gone, so were my underwear. His hard face lowered to my breasts and as his warm lips closed around one of my nipples, electrifying sparks shot through my skin, jabbed at my sides causing me to lose my breath.

He carried me with ease and lowered me to the bed, all this he did while looking into my eyes. There was a smile like a half-moon on his face, he kissed me briefly before lowering his head to the skin between my legs. I wriggled my waist, moaning loudly in excitement; I was too hot, my head continuously shrinking and expanding, my breathing was loud and uncontrolled as his tongue dipped in and out of me, sucked and licked until every nerve in my body tingled.

Then, he slid his member into mine, thrusting and thrashing until my nose and my mouth were no longer enough to breathe with. When it was over, he laid on top of me trembling like a hymn; his face dug into my shoulder while his weight was supported by his arms.

The sound of his breathing was gentle, like the hiss of a soft breeze that swept into the room. The sky rumbled in loud protest of our actions and rain began to fall, luring us into a peaceful slumber.

When I woke up, the sky was a berry blue and he was by the window, his shoulders wide and arms muscled. He was still naked, his long legs rearing up powerfully, his feet looked planted into the floor; if he were a god, he would be Erinsa, the Yoruba deity of healing and comfort. I knew then that I could not bring myself to tell him, not today at least, tears pressed against the back of my eyes and I turned around and sobbed quietly.

He suspected something throughout my preparation for the wedding - the distance, the sudden hostility of the members of my family.

"Bae, I know I do not have anything to give you now but all I'm asking is for you to give me time." He murmured one evening as we strolled along his street.

"Give me some time," he repeated with clenched fists. He stopped in his tracks, swivelling me to face him, "please."

His dark handsome face tightened and his gaze intensified, his emotions were on full display for me to see. I nodded and swallowed back what I should have said, unwilling to let go of the calm the time spent with him provided to the storm that was now my wedding preparations.

"Thanks," he said, hugging me tightly. His body was warm against mine and his shoulders sagged in relief.

The breeze moved around us like a circle of spectators; rain drizzle touched us as if begging me not to speak and I knew that moment I would never tell him that I was getting married.

The curtain in my matrimonial room rose and fell in response to the impact of a light breeze and I pictured his face again, the slight stubble he kept on his jaw because I liked it.

My husband was still yet to return, the best part of this morning. My phone rang and I sneaked a peek at the screen, it was Kunle's phone number and picture but I did not pick.

It stopped ringing and I deleted the number I knew off-hand, wishing I could also delete him from my heart.