He was tall and muscular with extremely dark skin. A dark
skin that highlighted the whiteness of his dentition each time
he smiled. It wasn’t often that he did but none ever went
unnoticed. In those rare times he smiled, you would see just
how handsome he was.
I usually notice him peeping at me, when I’m under the
orange tree in the middle of the compound washing clothes
or at a corner of the compound chatting with Nkechi, or any
other of our neighbours.
Kwame was the neighbour that never talked to anyone. He
never talked to me, never acknowledged any of my signals,
however obvious I made them appear. One evening I came
to meet him where he was washing his car and said good
evening.
He asked how my day had gone barely with a hint of a
smile.
I said fine and then the silence dragged so long I nearly felt
stupid. I walked away wishing he would one day loosen up
and talk to people more. Me especially. I thought that if we
talked that I would learn more about him, if he was seeing
someone or even married.
I liked him. Very much. It had been very surprising to me
how you could feel so deeply into someone you’ve never
even had a meaningful conversation with.
Something interesting happened one Tuesday evening.
It had rained so heavily the outside gutters got flooded. I
returned from work that evening already wet. The bike man
that stopped me in front of the gate barely waited for me to
be fully on the ground before he turned and zoomed off.
In the wetness, I misjudged the aggression of the mud and
just as I came across the gutter and stepped on the wet red
earth around the gate, I slipped and fell.
Right there in front of the gate I struggled with the mud. My
fingers were on the ground as I tried to rise, but the
slipperiness couldn’t allow me. Anger and shame warred
inside me. If only I could just reach the gates or anything
strong enough to hold and then pull myself up.
Then suddenly the small gate swung back to open. It was
Kwame. I wilted in shame.
‘Oh my God!’ He quickly bent and helped me up. ‘Are you
hurt?’ he said, his hurt coming out more like hat in his
Ghanaian accent.
‘No, thank you,’ I said.
He guided me inside, up the stairs and then into my flat. He
asked if I needed anything and I shook my head. My shirt
and bag were stained heavily with red earth.
‘You need to have a bath,’ he said.
‘Yes, I will do that now.’
He nodded and left.
I got into the bathroom and kept thinking about him, the
way he’d aided me upstairs, his muscular arms around me
as I pretended to be really in need of his help to walk. He’d
smelt nice too, of this heady, masculine fragrance. He was
just perfect, perfect for me.
I finished my bath and changed into a short casual gown. I
wore some deodorant, threw a lump of mint into my mouth
and started toward the stairs.
Downstairs, I hesitated knocking on his door. I had raised a
fist to knock but dithered. At one time I had wanted to turn
back and leave but then I pulled myself together with foreign
energy and pounded the door.
Nothing.
I hit the door again. Nothing.
Bad idea. Maybe he is not even home again. I had turned to
walk away when I heard the sound of a door opening. I
turned back and there he was, his huge frame obstructing
the doorway. He was now shirtless, down only to his
boxers.
My legs gelled to the ground.
‘Hi,’ he called. ‘I’m sorry I was in the room, has it been long
you were knocking?’
‘Oh no.’ I tried to avoid looking at him. ‘I thought you
wanted to go out before?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘I cancelled. It’s just too wet and cold.’
‘Cold, yea,’ I echoed.
‘Come in.’ He left the door open for me.
I dragged myself in, still fighting to avoid looking at him. This
proved quite difficult, the way my curiosity and craving of
him messed with my head.
He locked the door as I came through. ‘So, first time in my
house huh,’ he said, turning to me, ‘—and we’ve been
neighbours for months now.’
I managed to smile. ‘Yes, funny.’
‘Please sit.’
I did.
‘What would you like to take? I have Guinness.’
‘Oh no, I’m fine.’
‘You sure?’
‘Very sure.’
‘Okay.’ He went and sat on the other couch, yards across
from me. His sitting room appeared wider than mine. I’ve
heard the rooms downstairs were larger though. ‘So what
do you need?’ he asked.
I momentarily blanked out. The question had come too
unexpected. It never occurred to me that he would ask that. I
didn’t know how Ghanaian men behaved. It was cold and a
pretty girl is in your house, braless and pantless, completely
vulnerable, and he was still asking questions. Bad idea, I
concluded.
Very bad idea. ‘I don’t need anything, I just came to thank
you,’ I said. ‘For helping me the other time.’
‘Oh that. It’s nothing.’
‘Can I ask you a question, Mr. Kwame?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Are you gay?’ Yes, I didn’t know what came over me.
He looked no offended. He’d smiled even. Then he stood and
came to sit beside me. ‘No, I’m not gay,’ he said. He held my
thigh. ‘Why would you even think that?’
‘I don’t know, maybe because—’
His lips cut off my speech. I felt this sudden rush of chilliness
as I felt his fleshy lips in between mine. My body nearly
spasmed.
He moved and scooped me into his arms, his big strong
Ghana arms, and carried me into his bedroom.
He lowered me gently on his bed—it was high and soft. He
came on top of me and locked his lips into mine again.
With the slow, absent way changes are made during sex, he
slipped the slender hand of my gown downwards and then
the other one. My breasts came into view. When he took
one nipple into his mouth, I felt that sandy chill again, greater
and more generalized. He moved from nipple to nipple in
quick hungry bouts. Then he did something funny. He
pressed my two oranges together so that my nipples came
together and he sucked both at the same time. I gave out a
thin shrieking sound I never heard myself make before.
Now he pulled off my gown entirely, rolled it up and threw it
away. He spread my legs and began eating me. So badly he
ate from my cookie pot that I was vibrating uncontrollably,
panting and gasping for breath. That would be the first time
someone would ever eat me like that. Segun, my last
boyfriend had only tried, once, before he said he doesn’t like
doing it, that it wasn’t healthy.
Microbiologists and their silly attitude of calling anything
damp and genital unhealthy.
I looked down and saw the top of Kwame’s shaved moving
round in between my legs. It seemed his tongue was larger
than normal—it must have, or maybe he just knew how to
use it. I went to the moon and then back.
Then he stopped. Moving on his knees on the bed he came
to my face. Before he pulled down his boxers I had seen the
protrusion and knew it was going to be a tough one. But
when the massive organ came into view, I nearly drew back
in startlement. It was the largest I’ve ever seen, both in
movies and reality.
He took my hand and placed it on it. So large was it that my
palm couldn’t go round the circumference.
‘Suck me, baby,’ he murmured, his voice cloaked with
desire.
I held him with two hands and stretched my mouth to its
widest limit. The cap was as far as I could go. But he put his
hand to the back of my head and pushed me straight into
the horse dick. I nearly choked and started to cough.
‘Is it big?’ he asked.
‘Very big.’
He used a special kind of condoms. It was that day that I
knew special condoms were made for men who were
horses.
It took quite a time to get him fully inside me. And you must
know that I was no virgin.
Thankfully he didn’t last for too long. We were on the second
position when he started to vibrate uncontrollably making
this deep, beastlike sounds. Deep inside me, I felt his jerky
deposition and a great feeling of reward flowed through me.
He pulled out from me and fell to the bed beside me. ‘Now
how gay am I?’
he asked, in between heavy breaths.
I smiled and pressed myself into him.
