R for Random

When she comes over, it’s the hope that she might finally be leaving that kills you. You watch her closely as she struts from the bathroom to the bedroom, a tiny towel wrapped delicately around her body. It’s Day 3, surely, and even she must know that if it gets to Day 4 then this is marriage. 

That she will leave you no choice but to get her pregnant, drive goats and cows to her father’s compound, and recruit a side chick as all proper husbands should. Is this what she wants?

When she emerges from the bedroom she is dressed like someone who is about to embark on a journey back to her house. You flash her a smile as you check cab prices to her place, but she instead joins you on the couch and asks, “Babe, what series should we watch?”

At this point your hopes will now shift to tomorrow. Surely, tomorrow she will leave. She must leave. Does she not miss her house? Is her house no longer her happy place? Now you are blaming yourself for having a house that’s too cosy. Buying throw pillows was the first mistake. 

The second mistake is having a comfy mattress. You could throw away your mattress, or you can also receive a call from shags announcing the death of your grandmother who has died again, and now you have to travel to shags to pay your last respects because she said she must be buried on the same day she dies.

But you see it’s better she comes over and camps rather than texting you ‘we need to talk’ then she comes over. As a man, getting that text takes you on the verge of having a heart attack. No woman ever needs to talk unless they are about to end your life. The bad omen is in the ‘need,’ because we all know women always talk, unprovoked, without letting you know that the talking is about to begin. 

Now he is trying to figure out what’s happening. Has super gonorrhea paid her a visit after the last Tiki-Taka? Has she, finally, figured out who Eunice is? And of all these possibilities, which one can he live with? That’s a man under siege, let’s pray for him. Someone is going through that as we speak.

As you are reading this, there’s someone drinking with people they just met then women will be dragged into the conversation as usually is the case when men gather. Some guy drinking Tusker Lager from a glass will take his last swallow, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and say, 

“A man who is broke and a man who is poor in bed have the same problem, eventually another man will be forced to step up and take care of his deficiency.” 

You will all laugh and steer the conversation further from this line of talk because no man ever wants to imagine another man stepping up to make his woman’s happiness complete. 

But that line will stick with you. When making love to her, after the 15 minutes mark, which is usually your limit, you will curl your knees and accelerate past this limit. She will gasp, eyes bulging in what you know is amazement. You will push past the 20 minutes mark. At this point your body will be on fire. You will be feeling your heart pulse on your neck. At 30 minutes mark it will feel as if a hot rode has been sunk in your throat all the way to your chest. 

You will then flip her over like chapo, determined to hit the one hour mark. At this point you will feel her surrender. You will go all in but at 45 minutes mark she will explode and unable to hold it in you will explode too.

You will try to breathe normally and she will ask, “Whoa, trying to kill me?” with that playfulness that says no one will be called upon to step up.

And you will say, “I am just getting started,” when all you really need is to go, flung open the fridge doors and stand there, naked, to cool your intestines.

Speaking of girls and drinking, buana, the most difficult woman to lay is that who wears this so called mum jeans. They usually wear them with sneakers the size of a small fishing boat lazing at the shores of Lake Victoria. Normally, she will have a shiny nose and a tiny backpack thrown over her back. If she will have a sweater, it will be the hand woven sweater that can easily be used as a doormat. Doesn’t matter whether she is 19 or 29. She is smart and loves poetry.

You do not approach her with, “I was wondering…” because she does not like people who keep wondering. She thinks they are wanderers. And that they should wonder and wander far away from her mum jeans.

These girls that wear mum jeans are the ones that give you that side hug. Smh.

The sideway hug, you know, the way a reserved niece hugs her uncle. Your feet are a meter apart as she leans in like a tree on a windy day. All you get to hold is her pointy shoulders and just like that she’s done. Such girls, may your heels collapse under your weight when  you’re walking down the aisle.

Conversely, there are girls who make sure there’s literally no room between you two when you hug. She lets the full weight of her bosom rest on your flat one triggering a tingly sensation. Her arms are wrapped affectionately around your neck, your arms finding comfort on her lean waist. And the moment it connects, she arches herself onto you (American height guys can relate) and now it’s like she’s standing on her toes. It’s not brief, it’s a moment.

Allowing you to smell the fragrance on her hair and you drown her in your cologne. You breathe heavily on her neck and you literally feel her heartbeat pacing. When you break the hug, it’s done in steps like Mitosis or something of that kind. You let her go partially, such that you stare at her eyes and you can’t control yourself from staring at her glossy coated lips. Before things get out of hand, you let her go. You exhale heavily only realizing in that moment that you were holding your breath.

PS;  Those girls when hugging they use their legs to measure the size of your d**k. May your phones autoconnect to the Wi-Fi in heaven without even asking for password. The rest can just stick to smoke signals.

Mbanacho The Writer

In other good news. why don’t we flood in here for other great unpublished stories from yours truly and other writers?

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