It is 7:10am, it is Saturday, I am lying next to an amazing man in Surulere, in his mini flat. I wake up to his arm around my waist, the warmth of his breath on my neck and I reminisce and bask in memories.
I had my first kiss under the mango tree at the corner of our house with a boy that shared his novels with me. On Valentine’s day, he bought me a novel – ‘All I Need is You’ and my friends teased and implied that the real reason he gave me that novel was to say that all he needed was me. I smiled, happy at the thought of being needed. I was 15.
After two months of being his girlfriend, I was bored. He was always in the company of other girls and was always engaging in activities I had no interest in. I broke up with him and he said he felt like a knife had been inserted into his heart, I think he over exaggerated it. We remained friends. At 18, I was in a relationship with a man who thought celibacy only mattered if one was a virgin. I had intended not to have sex, to explore being in a relationship without sex and not for the price of virginity pride. After 3 months, he was tired and could not understand why, I was holding back. I was not a virgin and I was not “SU”. So we ended it.
I went back to his waiting hands, wondering why I ever left. He said I needed to discover that he was the greatest and we laughed at his Mohammed Ali impression.
I decided I did not want to be a Pharmacist, so I quit Pharmacy to study History. With family resistance, scolding and insults, I felt unwanted, like a burden in their lives. I left home at 20 due to what I termed toxicity and negativity. As I lay next to him, with Ed Sheeran’s Thinking Out Loud playing, I understood that this is what love is – the comfort, being yourself, unafraid and free, and knowing that no matter what, someone’s got your back.
I woke up in the morning to the sweet smell of stew. He made breakfast, rice and stew. As we ate breakfast, we talked about random things, how we looked forward to the next season of Game of Thrones, if Jon Snow was a Targaryen…
The sex is mostly good, he is patient and generous and takes me to heights I never imagined I could reach. I come off with a satisfying smile – the look one gets when a nigga hits it right, he calls it. Sometimes, he does not listen when I am talking, he listens to his libido instead. Yesterday was one of those days. I was experiencing mittelschmerz – ovulation pain – and the right side of my abdomen really ached. Heck, my whole abdomen ached. I told him I was not interested and he tried to change my mind with his kisses and caresses. He reached for the spot and tried to conjure my wetness. Sex is psychological, I hear, and after a while, I felt him inside me. It was very painful.
As I try to wriggle free under him, I told him I would scream and he dares me. I do not want his friends to hear my scream and think he has done something praiseworthy. I do not want them to look at me and trade knowing smiles and whispers about how Wole makes me scream – a comment that is meant to compliment his prowess. So, I did not scream and I bore the pain silently. It was over soon. I went to the bathroom to pee and just as my urine touched me, I felt a twinge in my vagina, like salt on an open wound. I checked for blood and I saw none. I told him about it and he quickly apologized, planted a soft kiss on my lips. He told me he could not stop because I was so irresistible and it would not happen again. I forgave him, again, and he sang me a song till I fell asleep.
It is not rape because I was the one in his house. I was the one looking for love. I was the one who felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable.
That was last night.
I feel his hands move, to my belly, to my breasts. This is familiar; this is how I wake up on Saturdays. I turn around to face him and he plants his lips on mine. His hands running over my body, soft caresses on mounds, his soft kisses and his delicious mouth betray my desire to feign disinterest. I tell him I am still in pain from last night. He says he will help me massage it, and soon his fingers are on my clitoris making it impossible not to moan.
He inserts a finger and I shout and protest. It hurts. I tell him to stop; he does not listen. I keep telling him to stop. And then I feel him inside me, hard and painful. I try to cry, but the tears don’t come. I am angry and I look at him with disgust. He does not seem to notice. He rolls his eyes in pleasure and that makes me angrier. I look over at the bedside table and I see the scissors. The one I cut the fishing line with – the fishing line I used in making a bracelet for him the previous evening. I reach for it, grab it, raise it up and plunge it into his side.