AMID SECRETS - CHAPTER 20
*Maduka’s POV*
“Gladly,” I say before drawing her closer, deliberately taking my time–against all urges– so she has time to change her mind.
What the hell are fireworks? I wonder when my lips move over hers. She tastes of Coke and the smokey, spicy sweetness of suya, moist and warm and intoxicating in ways that I can’t explain. Her breath tickles my face, her hands grip the front of my shirt when I deepen the kiss and she Mõ@?s.
And trust me, it is not a sound I’d want to hear in public.
She’s going to ki|| me, I think, my head spinning. Nwanyieze raises a hand to my cheek, runs it over my facial hair and down the side of my neck, making me groan in pleasure.
Stop. Just stop.
Reluctantly, I withdraw and she leans backwards, looks up at the sky sprinkled with a few stars, and says nothing.
Equally speechless, I look up at the sky too, trying to regain the control I’ve always been praised for. It isn’t easy, though, because just a taste of her left me wanting more, and it amuses me how ready I am to kiss her all night long (that is, if she doesn’t get pissed and slap me or something).
“Well, it’s certain, then,” she finally speaks.
“What is?”
“Our bodies like each other.”
“Our minds liked each other way before all this.”
She giggles. “What if I’m just pretending? Acting?”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“I have no experience in all of this, Maduka. It’s all new to me. I-” she stops abruptly and says nothing more, and I desperately wish she’d continue.
“You what?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you upset?”
“No.”
“Maybe I should’ve said no. But the truth is, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a long time now.”
“I know. Me too.”
The statement makes me laugh out loud and she joins me, falling back on the blanket and shaking. Suddenly everything becomes funny. When she points out a little boy rolling his hips to Cynthia Morgan’s SimantiNiya where the crowd dances, I roar in laughter. When I tell her that Shakira has nothing on the child, she laughs harder. And the fact that we are laughing at things that are not meant to be funny, makes us laugh till tears roll down our cheeks.
“Let’s dance,” she suggested.
Now it is totally dark, but the lights from the poles dimly illuminate the shoreline and Mr Eazi’s trademark “Zagathat!” booms from the speakers before Skin tight begins to play. I rise up and stretch a hand to her, which she takes and I pull her to her feet.
“Perfect song,” she said, and I know there is a cynical grin on her face.
“Tell me about it,” I agree.
“Will our stuff be safe here? The food and all?”
“Of course.”
She takes dance to a whole new level. Her movements are coordinated, hips rolling, shoulders and arms moving in fluid motion. We’re barely on the floor for five minutes before other interested males move in and try to grind against her. So to avoid them, she comes to put her back against me instead.
“Sorry, just help me out,” she whispers into my ear, barely giving me time to adjust.
You see, there is something about having a woman place her back against you. Not just because she has her behind against you, but also because there’s an intimacy to it, the way she fits nicely against you.
Her scent, that earthy, natural, coconut-spiced scent and the warmth of her body against me make me look skywards again, hoping I had worn my tightest briefs today because Lord knows, I’m pretty sure Nwanyieze won’t ever want to see my face again if she feels something odd against her rear.
What the hell, Maduka? I query myself.
Yes, it must be the kiss. That is the reason for the sudden malfunction of my body; it has made my blood levels of testosterone go way beyond the usual.
Are you still a teenager?
Suddenly P-Square’s Busy Body comes on. The song is a decade old, but that doesn’t stop us from yelling in surprise and pleasure with the crowd.
The choice of song makes me smile wryly. This loss of control didn’t start today; it started the moment I met Nwanyieze.
I make her face me, halfway through the song. I’m grateful for the dim lights, not entirely allowing darkness because I can see her smile, and not too bright either because I fear she’s going to take one long look at me and know how I feel.
She’s having so much fun, occasionally making funny dance moves and laughing. This is how I want to see her all the time, laughing instead of being so serious and silent.
We dance to so many songs, never once leaving each other to mingle with the crowd.
“I think I’ve had enough,” she pants after a while, as Wizkid’s BabaNla plays. Because we’re out in the open, the music isn’t too loud and we don’t need to yell to be heard. Sweat shines on her forehead, and I take a mental note to get her some chilled water immediately.
“Yes, let’s rest,” I agree. I take her hand, loving how mine almost covers it. It pleases me that she doesn’t protest, too.
“I haven’t danced in a while.”
“Seems you love it.”
“When I was little, I wanted to be a professional dancer. My Daddy always said-”
The way she pauses makes me stop walking and turn to face her. The look on her face is one of shock.
“What is it, Nwanyieze?” I asked, alarmed.
“Our stuff, they’ve taken them!”
I follow the direction of her gaze and my brows $h00t up in surprise.
The spot we had occupied is empty. Our food and blanket are nowhere to be found.
“Are you with your purse?” I asked.
“Yes, I wore it all along.”
My phone and wallet are in my pocket, so I don’t feel so bad. Instead, I burst into laughter and she joins me.
“We’ve just been robbed,” I joke, settling on the sand.
She settles beside me, her shoulder brushing my arm as she leans back just like I do. “Not everyone on this beach has what they need.”
“I concur.”
Suddenly Timaya and Don Jazzy’s song start playing from the dance floor and Nwanyieze and I stare at each other for a few moments before falling apart in another fit of laughter.
“What is happening today?” I asked rhetorically.
“I know!” she exclaims, sitting up straight and dusting her hands.
When the laughter dies down, I asked her, “Can I kiss you again?”
“Yes,” she breathes, turning her head and tipping her face up towards me, eyes half-closed, lips slightly parted.
This time we go slower than before, savouring the moment. It’s one of the most natural feelings in the world, being with her, having my lips on hers, and I tell myself I’m not ever letting her slip away from me.
____
*Nwanyieze’s POV*
Am I being stupid because I’d let myself surrender to the feelings I harbour for Maduka?
His lips on mine make me feel oddly at peace, yet in need of more. My body begins to ache, delicious tingles run all over my skin. He kisses me so slowly, so expertly, I wonder if he’s done a course on it and has a certificate tucked somewhere in a folder in his house. This thought makes me giggle, and I feel his lips move into a smile against mine.
“What’s funny?” he asked, pulling away a few inches.
“Do you have a kissing certificate?”
“Maybe,” Maduka replied before rubbing his nose against mine.
I notice that although I’m straddling him (I have no idea how I got there in the first place), his hands are at his sides, on the sand. They’re not groping me, not pushing back my gown for access to my skin, not caressing and pinching as I expected. What makes it all the more amusing is the fact that underneath me, this man is hard as a rock and he’s perfectly okay with having me sit right there and doing nothing.
Instead, this man dusts a hand against the front of his shirt, raises it, and gently pulls at the weakened rubber band that holds back my sagging bun. My braids cascade over my shoulders and down my back and he says, “There. Much more comfortable.”
“Did I tell you I wasn’t comfortable with that?” I query.
“Baby girl, you didn’t have to tell me.”
The sagging bun was getting uncomfortable; I’d simply ignored it.
“If only I’d met you earlier,” I blurt.
“What would’ve happened, then?”
“I’m beginning to feel cold,” is the diversion I come up with.
He dusts his hands again and runs them up and down my bare arms quickly.
“I should’ve brought along a jacket for you. Come, let’s get into the car. I’ll turn on the heater for a while.”
I’m pleased that he takes my hands firmly in his again while we walk towards where his car is parked.
“Your jacket would be a gown for me. Like that night after Quilox.”
“You know, I liked it on you. I sat there admiring you and hoping that one day you’d wear my shirt, too.”
A jolt in my stomach makes me breathe in sharply as the image comes to mind: me, wearing one of his shirts, surrounded by that masculine scent of his. It’s so intimate, so…personal.
“What are your hobbies, nne?” he asked when we are in his car, heaters slowly warming the interior.
I don’t know which one gets me: the fact that he’s asking about what I love doing, or that he has called me nne, the Igbo word meaning Mother, but used intimately when one is referring to a woman he or she deeply cares about. It takes me a few moments to compose myself. I swallow.
“Ah, I love sewing. And writing. And sleeping. And eating.”
Maduka stares at me for a few moments before laughing.
“Are you suddenly shy?”
The kisses, yes the damned, feel-so-good, deep kisses we had shared were rewiring my brain, displacing circuits, connecting the green wires to the yellow ports and the red ones to the green ports and the yellow wires to the red ports.
“Go away, Maduka,” I said and turned away from him.
“Would you like to show me your writings, some day?”
I whip my head back to gape at him.
He wants to read my writings.
I feel a mixture of pride, happiness, and horror. If anyone ever read what I wrote- him especially – I would disappear off the face of the earth. All my secrets, my fears, the events that had led to where I am today? Describing each episode of rape I’d had to go through in the hands of the man I’d called my father?
Hell no.
“I write for myself alone,” is my clipped reply. The thought of his extreme disappointment in me if he ever found out what I am, dampens my mood and I find myself slipping back into the comforting darkness of mood swings.
“It’s alright,” he says with a smile. “By the way, you’ve got sand on your-”
He freezes when I draw back from his touch as he tries to brush off sand from my cheek. We stare at each other for some seconds, eyes connected, his full of confusion. I don’t blame him, though; who wouldn’t be confused by someone like me?
“Did I do anything wrong, Nwanyieze?”
“No. It’s all my fault.”
As Mummy had said.
“Would you like us to talk about it?”
“I’m feeling sleepy all of a sudden,” I reply, although I’m pretty sure my eyes are shining brighter than those metal torches powered by Flash batteries that every household owned back when I was a little girl. I turn away from him and fix my eyes on the dashboard, wondering how far his patience with me will last.
“Sure, I’ll get you home now,” he replies, obviously trying to sound cheerful. He turns on the CD player and Michael Jackson’s Childhood starts to play.
I fold my legs underneath by body, turn my face away, and lean back into the seat.
Well, here’s to romance and happiness. Now you’ve totally ruined it.
“We’re here,” he says, knowing I was never asleep during the drive, although I’d been still and silent as a rock with my eyes shut. At the gate, a few of my neighbours are sitting on stools, talking loudly and eating roasted plantains and groundnuts.
“Thank you,” I murmur before literally flying out of the car and slamming the door. I can’t help the way I feel now, anger directed at myself, trapped inside and unable to flow out. A sob escapes my throat and I abruptly turn to make sure he hadn’t heard.
Wrong.
He is coming out of the car and hurrying towards me.
“I’m fine!” I yell at him. “I’m very okay!”
He scoffs. “Of course, you are.”
“Go home.”
Maduka pulls me into a hug and I just stand there, enjoying it but knowing, knowing that I have to end it all, right here and right now before things get out of hand and-
But he feels so good, so sturdy, like a constant I’m used to all of a sudden. My arms are rising to wrap themselves around his torso, my lungs are expanding with each intake of breath, full of his scent. The tension in my shoulders are fading, and my ears want to hear him speak and tell me that I’ll be fine.
Stupid, stupid girl. Ode. Dolo.
“What’s the problem?”
“Must be my period,” I lie.
“I’m not in secondary school, you know.”
“Ovulation, then.”
“Come on, nne.”
I shiver.
“Well, I’m out of lies and so if you don’t want more, don’t ask.”
He sighs deeply. I squirm and he reluctantly releases me. “I don’t see how I can care about you so much and you push me away each time I try to come closer.”
I look down at my feet and swallow. “I’m sorry. But we really have to-”
“Stop seeing each other?”
I’m surprised. He chuckles. “Quite impossible, if I’d say so.”
“Why?”
“Because everything was preordained. From the start.”
“What-”
“Go on inside, baby girl. It’s cold outside.”
And then he walks away, leaving me standing there, perplexed.
.
.