By Emdee David
The problem of men is women; and the problem of women is men! But it is agreed that men’s women problem is higher than women’s problem of men.
The offloading of the computer appliances from a van to the office complex was going smoothly and unhindered until the arrival of the supplier, a light-skinned, tall, beautiful, graceful, and busty lady dressed in a gorgeous lace top that reveals the colour of her bra – red. All the workers stop as Natasha Peters prances into the office and greets the labourers with her swinging buttocks and the sound from her high heels. Only the supervisor gets a nod, and a forced smile, which he is very grateful for.
Natasha sees in his response an unnecessary excitement and a sheepish laugh. She could also feel his eyes fixed on the back of her neck as she walks past him into the Accountant’s office.
The accountant is in a bad mood. He has been waiting for her for over an hour. He doesn’t tolerate lateness. His face and look seem never to have ever experienced any pleasant expression; a dead blank and furrowed brow.
“Is my cheque ready?” Natasha goes straight to business. The man only stares.
“Madam, I don’t like…” he is trying to say but she shuts him up, motioning with her finger.
The furrows increase on his brow, and his eyes watch as Natasha pulls out a brown envelop from her hand bag and drops it on the table, pushing it towards the bulging accountant. Two furrows leave immediately.
“I also think of accountants,” she smiles, and loosens a button from her lace top. The red bra shouts and two more furrows disappear. “Not sensually though, ‘cos, most accountants are stingy in pockets as well as in bed.”
The brown envelop goes into a drawer, a N2 million cheque shows up along with a commensurate smile which obliterates all furrows on the shirt-and-trouser accountant.
“This accountant is different,” he says. “Don’t dare him.” He gives her a register and she signs to acknowledge receipt of her money.
“Ok, I won’t.” she says and saves the cheque in her bag.
“No, I mean, dare me…” he says. And she laughs. They exchange cards as a car screeches to a halt outside.
“That must be pastor,” The accountant says and quickly checks his tucked in shirt to ascertain it is straight and in order.
“Pastor? You run a church here too?”
“Not at all,” he says. “Our GM is a Pastor.”
“Jeez,” she exclaims. “What’s with me and pastors in this business, huh? I got to go. Thanks.” She turns and heads out. The accountant thanks her and promises to call her.
Outside, the man who had driven in recognizes her, but she does not.
“Adesuwa,” the man says, shocked and speechless.
“It’s you. St. Andrews Grammar school and Deeper Life…”
Those were her childhood school and church. No, this is not happening. “Sorry, who…”
“Bro. Ken, Sunday school…and …”
She freezes. It is her turn to gather furrows. But only for a moment.
“What are you doing here?” Ken asks.
Natasha starts to cry. The labourers are staring. She becomes a butt of their mockery. He comes closer, and leads her into his car and drives her away, leaving her own car behind. The labourers laugh out aloud, until the accountant comes out angrily and screams at them to round off so they could all leave.
Ken drives her to Transcorp Hotel and they sat in a VIP quiet area where they talk over Chapman which she barely touches.
She was only five; Ken himself, was about fourteen or there about, when they got fond of each other. Her father was an Elder in a Jehovah Witness Assembly. Her parents were so strict on her and her siblings. They never went out alone, or went anywhere apart from school and religious gathering. Then her father died. Five years later, her mother joined Deeper Life Bible Church and the strictness was worse, just when she thought she would begin to see the social part of God’s earth. But no, no TV, no Radio, no trousers, no friends, only JESUS and Bible. She considered that a form of bondage. But she had no choice. Ken was like a prefect in the Sunday school class, very brilliant and upright a brother, the only older male then who could be asked to escort little children home. He was a saint; innocent and pure…until…
One fateful day, he commented on her fast budding breasts. He then touched it to feel how it was, and to her surprise, she felt a sensation that was so sweet and desirable. But it didn’t happen that day. It was about a week later, and since she didn’t speak to anyone about the touching of her breasts, Ken was still a saint. It was from him that she first learnt the word hymen, and despite all he explained, she didn’t understand what it meant; only that it was a kind of iniquity that needed to be removed, so that it won’t become too thick and hinder her from having her own children. She had agreed the pain of removing her hymen would be excruciating, but she would bear it. She was so naïve, if not dumb. She must not tell mummy, because mummy would say she was carnal and hell-bound for having such thought in her mind, how much more, speak it out. He promised to use only his fingers for this noble mission, but the fingers worked more on her rotund, firm breasts than anywhere else. Moses’ rod of authority did the removal.
So, it was Saint Ken that God had sent to take away her “iniquity.” The pain was as predicted, but it was filled with that sweet sensation that followed the caressing of her breasts. But the pain was more, and it made her hate the act, herself and Ken. He’d left her to cry and clean up her blood stain alone. And that was the last she heard of him; that was twenty-five years ago.
“No man would enter that place again, ever,” she had promised herself and kept to it, until she was thirty, when she saw no use in not enjoying her sexuality, which had helped her to forget thoughts and flash back of the horrible incidence.
And since then she gets horny round the clock and she craves for the satisfaction of a sweet penetration. She desires to make up for lost years of no-sex. And now, Ken… he is here with her. Will it be pleasure or pain all over again?
To be continued next week!
Twitter: @EmdeeDavid, @Makezela