"Joel, I don't know how to explain it," Rhika told me. "It's...it's like something that happens to me...like my emotions..." He stammered. He really didn't know how to put it. I was there to gather juice that might muse my next short story. I let Rhika do the talking. I only chipped in when necessary.
"Once I see a woman," Rhika continued, "The first thing that comes to mind is how her body looks outside her clothes, the color, and shape of her nipple, the areola around it; if stretch marks lined on it, or if her skin was as smooth as clay. And it doesn't go without me wanting to have these women physically." He paused, looking at his empty glass. "At least, mature and attractive women in their late twenties. And sometimes, women past forty. I can't tell if it is because I am a quiet person and one who don't find it hard to remain silent among others." Rhika broke off again. He raised his hand a little to signal the barman.
"I think you should slow down on the whiskey," I told him but didn't care less. From how deep the things he reeled out were, my guess was he was already drunk. If not, tethering at the edge. But I didn't mind the too much information. If anything, I appreciated it and hoped for more.
"It's fine," Rhika said, "I am not driving. Besides I need to do this." He stopped talking when the barman arrived with a tray and placed a fresh glass of whiskey on the table. No ice. And took the empty glass. He continued when the barman walked out of earshot.
"And the thing is I begin..." he stopped mid-sentence and looked straight into my eyes. He was the first Nigerian I saw with natural blue eyes. "Joel," he reached across the table for my hand. "Promise to twist everything I tell you today. Please..."
"It's alright." I covered his hand with my other hand. "I can't do that to you."
"Promise?" His blue eyes pierced mine.
"Really?"
"Just promise."
"Okay, I promise."
He left me and picked his glass of whiskey. He sipped and scrunched his face as the liquid slipped down his throat. As one who was recovering from being an alcoholic, it was a bad idea for me sit in a bar, perceiving the coffee scent in the whiskey. but I had no option. Rhika refused to meet me elsewhere if not the bar tucked in O.T street.
He dropped the glass and said, "I instantly begin to feel something like a chain gird my heart...I begin to feel in love (at least that's what I think I feel) with these women. Especially when I have the opportunity to meet them more than once. I become utterly convinced I love them and can't live without them. But once I have the opportunity to gaze their nakedness-coincidentally or consensually (which was mostly the case) -the feeling gradually fades like the setting sun, gone like it was never there. Then a cold feeling of hatred and disgust-like the moon-emerges. I basically don't have to sleep with them for this feeling to kindle. I really can't explain it." He sipped again.
Rhika owned a cosmetic shop, he explained, so he got to meet women every day. Different sizes, ages, and colors. At first, when these women meet him, they gaze, advert their gaze, then like someone not fully convinced, they return their gaze to him. Probably wondering if his blue eyes were real. Like a good salesman, he lunches into small talks with these women. The product they were about to purchase remained the bases of their conversation, at first, It always escalated.
As he spoke to them, he tried to analyze how their breast or buttocks curved in what they wore. Revealing, which was mostly the case. Scarcely were they fully clothed. They would throw their heads back and laugh in between their conversation. He wasn't a funny person. It was a sign, he explained further, that a woman was interested to talk more. Maybe over a drink or a plate of rice. He would ask for her number and when she inputs it on his Samsung, he would flash a smile and say, I will call you.
After that, the woman wouldn't have enough reason to stand before the counter any longer. Some still stall and keep the conversation rolling, but he would fake a call, jolt like something was wrong, and excuse himself to his inner office. He liked his shop to be free from traffic.
By the time the sky wore its mourning attire for the dead sun, he would have recorded the account of the day, leaving the rest to his assistant, kwame, a Ghanaian gay man.
Once he got home, he peeled off his clothes, threw them into the washing machine, and stood by until it was done. He opened the lid, took the clothes out and threw them in the drier, then rushed into the bathroom. He scrubbed his body thoroughly, then soaked in his bath for twenty minutes. Before he came out his clothes were dry. After he creamed his body, he pulled out the lower part of his chest drawer; It was where he kept his night wears; all Neatly folded as was the whole content of the other drawers. His house was neat and tidy; nothing was out of place. No book or cloths laid around. Bookshelf neatly stacked. Bed free from wrinkle. Reading desk accommodated only a lamp, and the book he was currently reading.
Now in his nightwear, he picked his clothes from the drier and took it straight to the ironing board. It was a routine. The food he ordered came before or after he was done with his routine. After he ate spaghetti from a plastic plate, he laid on his bed and went through his phone, picking out one number from the list of women he met today. Using the age-old selection song, he called the number the song ended on. Tim-Bom-Tim-Bom... He sang, moving his finger on the numbers at every syllabus.
Joana. A dark skin girl who trained her natural hair. That's all he could remember. She wasn't unattractive, but her features lacked focus. He couldn't quite picture her face. He dialed the number and pressed the phone to his ear.
"Joel," Rhika said after he downed the last content of his glass. "She asked me on a date before I hung up."
"What did you guys talk about?"
"Nothing, you know I am not a great listener."
"Then why did you call her."
"I needed to hear her voice to mentally picture a woman's body..." "her body..." he added not fully convinced.
"So just any woman's body?"
"Maybe."
They met at Jevnic restaurant. After a plate of rice and pepper soup, he learnt that she was a teacher at Catoky intl. It was his alma mata. She wasn't addressing him when he found out though.
He just arrived at Jevnic. It was drizzling, so he entered hastily to avoid getting damper than he already was. Like he said, he couldn't recognize her, so he just brushed his eyes around for the color red. Although when his eyes came in contact with her, memories of their first contact rushed in with arcane speed. She was one of the few that covered up. He inhaled deeply before he moved to her. She was concentrated on her phone, playing CandyCrush. I am sorry I am late, he apologized before he sat down. Her red gown was sleeveless, and her cleavage was more than exposed. This immediately aroused him, but the evidence was obscured beneath the table.
She kept talking about his eyes and didn't believe they were natural. They spoke about the record playing, African queen, and records that could substitute it. She spoke about everything else, but not herself. The whole time she spoke, his eyes kept brushing down her cleavage and back to her face. Today her hair was packed up in a bun. He couldn't remember how it was when they met. Do you want to leave here? He asked after she finished her rice and pepper soup. He had spicy chicken and wine, which he didn't devour as he would if he was within the confines of his home.
She was with the idea and they stood up together. It was still drizzling outside. She had explained that she came in her Mazda and couldn't leave it here. I live around, I basically just walked here, he told her with a smile. She went on to ask if this was where he brought all his girls. He ignored her like a gentleman if there was a thing as such.
About to enter her Mazda, her name rang out, and they both craned to see a man under an umbrella, walking briskly towards them. He had dreadlocks and was firmly built. They spoke for a while. The man didn't acknowledge him standing on the other side, but Rhika didn't care less. What an asshole, he didn't even extend his umbrella to cover her.
Before the man left, he asked if she still taught at Bright Star Montessori. She said, no, I teach biology at Catoky international. After that, he left, but flashed Rhika an uncomfortable look, as if to say, be careful.
It was a quiet, and quick ride to his apartment. To divert his thought and eyes from her cleavage, he focused on the windshield streaked with water drops, a ceaseless cycle of new drops replacing the old ones that was wiped by the wiper. He sat there, observing the fine transformation in the patterns on the glass. His apartment was on the second floor of the building. There was a flowerpot by the side, but it was empty. And they cleaned their shoes on foot mat that looked new.
Inside, Rhika instructed her to pull her shoes, which she did and tiptoed (fearing that her feet might stain the tiles) at least that was what he thought. Feel free, he told her.
They just ate, so it was weird to ask what she would have, but he asked anyway. Water would be fine, she replied while drying the water that had dropped on her cleavage with a white handkerchief. He stared a while before moving to get the water. He also grabbed the Voldka that he sipped from time to time and closed the fridge.
As one that didn't speak too much, he tried to make the silence less awkward by turning on his DVD player. It was rarely used, only when he had guests, but it was free from dust. He preferred reading.
Sitting side by side on a long couch, sipping vodka, their eyes were fixated on the TV. But Rhika wasn't watching. He would avert his gaze to her for a while, and back to the TV, and back to her again. She noticed this and placed her hand on his thigh. They looked at each other with intensity and their heads drew closer as if pulled by magnetic force. They kissed, switching their lips passionately, but the whole time he kept his hands to himself.
"Why?" I asked, "I thought you wanted to see her body outside her clothes?"
"Nothing," Rhika said looking at his empty glass. "I wanted to be convinced that she wanted to take it off."
"So you let her take it off by herself?"
"Exactly," Rhika nodded. "Well when she did, and I gazed her body head to toe, it was beautiful. Her dark skin was free from stretch marks. Her breasts were firm, nipples, tiny and hard. That was it. I was satisfied. I asked her to leave."
"You didn't?" it really shocked me.
"I told you, the feeling fades away like the light of the sun. She wasn't the first nor the last."
I was loss of word. I definitely needed a drink. My heart pounded furiously as I told the barman my order. When he left, I prayed for something out of the ordinary to happen that would at least stop him from bringing my order. Apart from the two gentlemen in black suit, sharing a bottle of red wine at the other corner, the bar was empty. Nothing happened. The barman arrived with my order. Vodka, with to shots of coke and ice. I watched him the whole time as he retrieved the bottle from the shelf and filled my glass. Rhika ordered the same thing. I reached for my glass with a trembling hand, fitted the rims on my lips, and sipped. I savoured the warmth spread around my throat. Oh, how I have missed you precious muse. I remained in control. I dropped the glass, the content barely reduced.
"Did you at least have sex with these women?" I asked breaking Rhika's intense stare across the room. I seemed to have drawn him from a deep thought. As though he was reliving it.
"Of course," he said casually and relaxed on his chair. "For the pleasure of physical release. Or when I think the feeling was there to stay. Only for me to cum to my senses."
"I thought you said you loved them... Or thought you did."
"Yes... I don't know."
The more I listened to Rhika, the more astound I became. "It wasn't love." I picked my glass and sipped my whiskey. "You lust over them."
He kept quiet, swirling his whiskey, appreciating the color.
"So how did it get to this?" I asked. About to sip my whiskey, but stopped mid-air.
According to what he told me, he was seated in his office when the phone rang. It was Noble, a fat potbellied man. A childhood friend that had been in and out of contact. Their friendship would tether at the edge of a cliff, suddenly a rope would appear, and it holds onto it. Then the inevitable cliff wind would billow, and the rope would strain until it cuts. But no matter how heavy the wind billowed, their friendship never fell off the cliff.
They drove to a brothel, where they had a couple of drinks and caught up. Women of different sizes, in voile dresses, walked around. This was where it all began. Noble left with a light-skinned woman, her hair was straight and black, longer than waist level. I would be back, he said, pick up one my friend, he winked and he left.
Rhika sat there, ignoring the women (dark, fair, fat, slim and all one could think of) walking up and down the bar. He concentrated on his phone. Looking up was a risk, one he was unwilling to embark on. He already had so many girls in his life and didn't want to add to them. Even if he did, definitely not a prostitute. Just as this thought passed his mind, he heard his name. The voice was strangely familiar, but he couldn't place a face to it. He looked up, and surely, he knew her. She never told him her name as he had requested that day over the counter. Seeing her here made his heart skip. He knew the question was coming, so he cooked up an alibi. Yet when the question came, what are you doing here? He couldn't bring himself to lie or had unconsciously said the truth. What friend? Where is he?
Rhika said he looked around and uttered some words he too couldn't understand.
The girl was putting on a leopard-spotted bra and an ankle-length chiffon skirt. One could just see right through. Her face was embellished, with the product she purchased from his shop, he guessed. Her blonde hair was cut low, and wisp of smoke rose from the cigarette clipped in between her fingers. She sat on the sofa Noble had just warmed. A table with two empty glasses separating them.
If there was something Rhika disliked more than dogs, it was cigarette. Please put that out if you must stay here, he said politely. But she dragged on it and puffed the smoke to her side. I can't, she replied with equal calmness. Anger kindled in him but he only clenched his fist beneath the table. Meanwhile, the girl said, my name is Ella. After that stick though, Ella didn't light a new one. She only fiddled with it carefully. Are you looking for pleasure? she asked after a long silence. She could tell that her presence made him uncomfortable, but she didn't care. He shook his head and craned to his phone. She was never interested in engaging in a conversation at his shop, but here she was.
Rhika said it was when she called his name the second time that his eyes got locked with her bellybutton; it was sunken inside like a hollow. There was a tone she used, he explained, quite sexual, yet authoritative. If you won't talk to me, I would sit here and smoke a whole pack of this thing. She was referring to the cigarette in her hand. So now you want to talk? Rhika pressed the power button and the phone clicked locked. No, she said, I want to take your money after I fuck you. Now Rhika was partially turned on. His penis was expanding inside his trouser. It was then that the chain insidiously crept around his heart and locked itself. Her body was quite revealing, but that was the more reason he wanted to see the parts that weren't.
She lead the way to her room. The entrance reminds him so much of his apartment, but there was no empty flowerpot by the side or doormat before the door. On the door, it said, room 40.
Inside was dark, but Ella flipped a switch and the room materialized, washed in a dull red light. On one side of the wall hung different colors and sizes of handbags. The colors were distorted; like his shirt that was now orange instead of yellow. The bed was well dressed with colorful beddings. Probably distorted too. While he looked around, she hopped into the bathroom and he heard the shower run. He sat at the edge of the bed, carefully looking around. Before him was a vanity, where cosmetics (all products from his shop) were neatly arranged. He looked at himself in the mirror. His beardless, puffy cheeks, and eyes which were blue, now purple. The shower stopped and he listened carefully to the silence that enveloped him. As if giving his conscience room to come alive with its seemingly noiseless voice. The whirling fan above never let that happen.
Ella came out wearing satin shorts and singlet. He could see her nipples outline on them. He couldn't wait to see them bare. Now, however, he juggled the possibilities in his head. She sat beside him and her lemon fragrance waft into his nostrils. She asked what he wanted. Full, short-time, or talk. Talk? Rhika thought. How much for full? He asked instead. Hmm, she craned up, tapping her jaw with her index. Because I don't like you, she said, and because I think you are gay for wearing blue contacts, I will charge you a hundred and fifty thousand Naira.
Rhika repeated the prize, voice, void of emotions. But inwardly he was considering paying this outrageous amount just to see her body. And maybe, have sex with it. His heart filled with hatred. It was this hatred that fueled his decision. Okay, I will pay, he slipped out his phone from his pocket. The screen came alive and he typed in his bank code, asked for her account number, and transferred the money.
They are not contacts, he said after he locked his phone, they are natural. Now take off your clothes. Ella looked at him and smiled. She stood up, peeled off her shorts to reveal a red lace pant. She played with the sleeves of her singlet, with a mischievous smile on her face. Rhika sat patiently, watching her seduce him. It was working because his genital was rock hard beneath his trouser.
I am no more interested, Ella said after a while. She wore her shorts back, picked her phone and tapped incessantly on the screen for a while. Rhika's phone beeped. That's your money, she locked her phone, you should leave.
I can double it, he said and stood up, reached for her, but she flinched. Like his hand was heated or infected with Ebola virus. Don't touch me, she yelled. She briskly moved to the switch by the door and pressed it, but no light came on or went off.
Rhika was confused. What's the problem? he asked, what did I do to offend you?
Nothing, she yelled, just leave...leave! The whole time she had a smile on her face, which tore wider as Rhika reached the door. A series of knock hit the door, accompanied by a deep voice inquiring if Ella was alright. With one stump, the door broke open, and virile men wearing black polo with security imprinted on their backs came in. What's the problem? One reached for Ella, eyes scrutinizing her body, the other two rushed to apprehend Rhika, tackling him to the ground.
Did he hurt you? They kept asking Ella, whose voice was now sober.
No, just ask him to leave.
Rhika was raised to his feet, and guided out the door, to the hallway, where heads protrude from doors. He was forcefully led down the stairs, through the bar he initially sat, out to the open air of the night, all the way out the gate. Noble must have seen the events play out because he emerged from the gate looking as perplexed as ever. What the hell happened in there? Even if Rhika wanted to explain, he didn't know what to say. He silently moved to his car and drove off, leaving Noble behind. That night he didn't sleep, lying on the cold tiles, he gazed blankly at the white ceiling.
The next day, he was in his office early, earlier than kwame, meaning his was way too early. When kwame asked him why he said nothing. In his office, Rhika was absentminded, and would for a while gaze blankly at his flowered wallpaper, seemingly lost in his thought.
"I couldn't stop thinking about her," Rhika told me, he was still swirling his whiskey. It was now more than admiring the color. "The only feeling I had toward her was hatred. But each time I think of her, I literally see her blonde low-cut hair, and face, smiling at me, seducing me, and my erection wasn't far-off, always up like that of a teenager."
"Have you tried going back there?" My glass was empty now and I was craving more.
There was silence. "I have," he said breaking the silence. "She was gone." He finished the content of his glass. "I have followed addresses given by her colleagues, I have sat in my car spying the brothel, hoping she would come back, I have called numbers and messaged Emails. No social record, nothing. She is like a ghost." He clenched his teeth so his jaw muscle would ripple out. "This hatred I feel seems to have surpassed every other feeling there is. I don't feel like seeing women's body anymore, I don't even want to touch any woman if not her, I don't...please Joel please...when you write a story about this, reunite us in your story, make my eyes a different color. Don't make me hate her the way I do. Don't..." tears clouded his eyes, he batted his lids to fight them back but they rolled down.
I nodded. We said our goodbyes after I guided him into a taxi. We went our separate ways. I guess when Rhika reads this story, he would be surprised to know that I changed nothing.
When girls flirt...its dangerous.
**End**
Right? When girls flirt, it becomes dangerous and can provoke certain behaviors. Maybe it's just Rhika. Who knows.
How was this for an opening?
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