“My phone is ringing, please get it,” Tunde hollered from the bathroom.
I was lying in his bed, tingling from our after shag glow. We had just had mind blowing sex that morning for the first time in about a week because I had been away in Port Harcourt.
I was content to just lie there, legs together and buzzing from head to toe but for the pesky phone ringing.
I reached under the bed to pick it up. It had stopped ringing and a message had come in, a WhatsApp message and instinctively, even though I usually never read his messages, I clicked and it opened.
It was a picture of a woman, legs open, her clean-shaven vagina staring at me.
“4gotten abt dis honey pot so soon?”
“Who is this bitch?” I screamed as I rushed to the bathroom, semen dribbling down my thigh.
“What bitch?” Tunde said, taking the phone from me as he towelled himself dry.
He looked at the picture, mouthed the words and dropped his head.
I watched him, looking at his well chiselled body, the trail of black hair that rose from his navel and spread like a full branched tree all across his chest.
God, he was beautiful and I would have forgiven him that picture if he hadn’t opened that his mouth and said “Tina, this is what happens when you read people’s messages.”
I opened my mouth to say something but no words would come. I reached for the can of shaving foam on his cupboard and flung it with all my might.
I heard Tunde scream then stagger and fall from the force of the can hitting him but I was past caring.
I ran back to his room, pulled on my pants, my jeans trousers and tee shirt.
I was searching for my sandals under his bed when he came into the room bleeding from a cut just above his head.
“Tina, what’s come over you? See what you’ve done,” he said holding up his blood stained towel.
I still can’t remember how I got home; all I remember is his father, who lives in the next flat calling me as I ran past him and I am thankful it was a Saturday and that we didn’t live too far away from each other.
I spent a miserable weekend hoping that Tunde would call and say something, anything, offer a window for us to talk and maybe fix things but he did not and I was too proud to initiate it.
And that was how two weeks crept by and then one evening I got a text.
“Come move your stuff from my place. I changed the locks. My dad or the guard will let you in.”
It took me two days and about a hundred unanswered calls to Tunde before I realised that indeed, it was over and so finally that Wednesday night, I drove to his place knowing that he wouldn’t be home since he always hung out with his brothers on Wednesday nights.
The guard didn’t give me the key.
“Daddy say make I tell am when you come.”
His father was drinking his favourite single malt scotch when I entered.
“My son is a fool,” he said the moment I walked in.
He rose, enfolded me in a gaze and let me cry against his chest.
“Who lets a good woman go, eh? Your woman catches you, you apologise. Their mother caught me all the time but I always told her I was sorry. That’s the secret. Say sorry when you are wrong. Come, you must drink something to steady your nerves.”
“I don’t think I will stay sir. I don’t want Tunde to meet me here,” I said shaking my head.
“Tunde is not in town. He went off to Abuja yesterday. So, sit and drink with an old man,” he said patting the settee beside him.
So, I sat and drank with him and talked to him.
And, as always, he made me laugh with his crazy and ribald stories and songs. I had always gotten along with him and I found it easy to talk to him.
I must have been going at it so hard because I suddenly felt faint as I got up to get some water.
Tunde’s dad was up in a jiffy, one hand at my back, the other on my shoulder.
“Easy now,” he said and I am not sure what happened but his hand was suddenly on my breast and the next minute my nipple was in his mouth and our clothes were flying every which way and I was screaming out Tunde’s name.
I was too ashamed afterwards to even pick up the things I had come for.
I picked up my keys and my bag and went home but as I showered later on, I kept remembering how good and strong he was, how big and firm he felt inside me as he tore in and out until I was screaming and calling out his son’s name.
Tunde called me the next week and spent over an hour on the phone talking and apologising and asking me to come back.
“I hurt you and you deserved to be pissed off. My Dad has told me I was an ass to let you go so please come back.”
A week earlier, I would have gone running back but now, having slept with father and son, I am so confused. What would you do if you were in my shoes?