Don’t move,” he whispers urgently into my ear.
Spasms shoot through me and shake me as his part twitches between my walls. It pulsates with a different beat from his heart that is pressed close to mine after he collapses on top of me. He is not as heavy but I motion him to get his lean tight body off me.
We are both out of breath and rightfully so. December is the month of weddings and we spent the evening at one ‘no-alcohol reception’. The bride is a workmate of Marcus’ and she was marrying a Born-Again Christian man. I was so bored the entire function Marcus promised he would make it up to me when we got to his place. He is a man of his word and I am a woman after his pleasure-stick.
He freshens up, picks a black shirt and throws on a leather jacket, a pair of denims and sandals. I dash for the door when he is done dressing to pull out the keys playfully so he can tickle me and wrestle them out of my hands. He grabs me mid-motion-either hand resting on my waist. He is standing behind me; head lowered such that his chin rests on my right shoulder.
“uhmmm! Look at these; they don’t want me to go”
He watches my areolas shrink into folds and my breasts fizz with Goosebumps as he lets his fingers roam.
“Marcus?” I let the name drag on the S, slowly arching my back when his finger runs the length of my spine. I turn and face him.
“Tindi?”, he says to me.
“Please don’t go” I persuade with innocence and urgency in my voice.
His nose is literally rubbing with mine as he speaks. He moves a few steps and pushes me along against the door.
“You can stay here tonight and leave in the morning.” It is 22:00 and his radio show airs in two hour. Marcus works the night shift at The Rock radio station.
The two pillows on the bed are all mine tonight. I use the thin pillow to cushion my head and the thick one lies by my side giving me the illusion of sharing a bed. There was a power cut minutes after Marcus left and it is dark in the absence of alternative light. The hostel room that Marcus rents is below a busy road on the Makerere hill. If you stood at the balcony outside, you would catch bits of the road not blocked by a neighbouring student’s dormitory.
The room is a simple square with two doors; the glass door leading to the balcony and another wooden door directly opposite it leading to the corridor. The room is self contained unlike mine and there is a combined toilet and bathroom in the right corner. The bed is tucked away in the same corner against one side of the bathroom wall.
The window is draped in a thick Curtain material provided by the hostel but none was given for the door: instead a tartan Masai sheet hangs tightly knotted to the iron bars that make for a burglar proof to the glass door. It is not thick enough to or dull out the light from headlamps of cars passing by. Each passing casts shifting shadows of the balcony rails outside. One shadows looks like a bust of an ancient god a long beard.
I lean against both pillows and watch the passing shadows. A cold breeze grips me and I pull the blanket over my naked body. I brush my own fingers lightly against my skin and spend the next few minutes familiarising myself with my body. With my index I find the fermented smell beneath the tiny flap of navel on my tummy. Fingers go further below to a moist place that will soon be wet, they linger and I mourn quietly as my body quivers in spasms of ecstasy. And Sleep whisks me away.
I wake up to the sound of a key unlocking the door. Marcus just returned and he carried along the bar in his mouth. I turn and face the wall away from his tobacco and beer breath.
I get up maybe two hours later and sit at the balcony reading Chimamanda’s ‘Americannah’ and listening on to the occasional snoring coming from the room.
Copyright © 2016-2017 by Daphine Arinda