“What is this?” She screamed as I took off my boxers and my erection sprang out.
“What does it look like?” I asked bridging the gap between us.
“Good lord, this is a monster,” she said as she got on her knees and took me in her mouth.
As I shut my eyes to milk the pleasure, I remembered how I got there, to Ufoma’s bedroom and two of us making sweet love.
My washing machine broke down that Saturday morning. I had loaded it with my work clothes for my weekend laundry but it rolled for a while, sputtered and then began to emit smoke.
A friend recommended a repairman. He came. Looked at it and said something about a board getting burnt and something else about N25,000.
It was the 20th of the month and I wasn’t in the mood to spend N25,000 before pay day. So, I told him to come back later. I took out my clothes, squeezed the water off, stuffed them in a refuse sack and headed to Spar, Ilupeju.
This lady in bum shorts and a t-shirt emblazoned with – I don’t give a F—K was one step ahead of me in the queue.
I said hi as I settled behind her. She said hi and continued filing her nails.
Done with the formalities we sat down to wait.
I fiddled with my phone for a bit, got bored then went out to my car to get my current read; The Suble Art of Not Giving A Fuck. A friend of mine had sent it to me as a birthday present.
“Wow, I have been looking for a copy,” the nail-filing-lady said as she spotted my book.
She must have a thing for fucks, I thought as I let her take it and read the blurb.
“Did you buy it here?” she asked as she handed it back
“No, a friend sent it to me on my birthday. She bought it in Holland.”
“Can’t find a copy,” she said.
“I could lend you mine. I am almost done reading it,” I offered.
“Yeah, for real,” I said and laughed.
And that was how we started gisting.
“By the way, my name is Ufoma.”
“Dave,” I volunteered.
“Yeah, I saw it in the book.”
She worked in a bank and lived in Anthony Village in the same Ajao Estate as me.
“We are practically neighbours,” I said.
“I can see that.”
Her washing done, we exchanged numbers and said bye.
I finished the book that night and sent her a WhatsApp message.
“Done with the fuck book. When do you want it?”
“lol @ fuck book,” she replied and I was happy my joke travelled.
“Lol. So, when do I send it over.”
“I am having a lazy evening with a bottle of wine. Can you walk down? Too tired to come out. You have the address. I live in the BQ. Upstairs.”
“See you shortly.”
The maigaidi let me in and pointed me to the BQ. It was a cute little self-contained place with a living room, kitchenette and bedroom.
Ufoma was dressed in a robe. The sash was tied but when she sat down, it parted slightly and I could see that she had nothing underneath. The night looked promising.
“You want wine or something stronger.”
“Stronger as in?”
“Whisky will be fine,” I said and she brought me a glass and a half bottle of Glenfiddich.
“Thanks and here is the book.”
“Did you enjoy it?” She asked turning it over as if that would tell her something.
“Comme ci, comme ca. He is trying to say that all these motivational speakers are selling us bullshit. Happiness, he says, is overrated and we need to go through shit to find our way. He has a gift for the perfect turns of phrase but if you think it too deeply some of the stuff he says are either trite or don’t make too much sense.”
“So, why you wan think am too deeply?” She asked in pidgin as she set the book down and picked up the remote.
She turned on her CD player and Burna Boy’s ‘Ye’ issued out.
“You have a CD player,” I said.
“Most millennials don’t. They just Bluetooth from their phones”.
“Millennial. I no be millennial o. I look small but I don old,” she said again in her smooth sing songy pidgin. In Lagos where every girl you meet speaks with an accent, I am always glad to see a lady fluent in pidgin.
“How old you dey sef?”
“Old enough,” she said and winked
“Old enough for wetin?” I asked.
“For wetin dey your mind”.
“Haba, wetin dey my mind o, Ufoma?”
“No be today yansh dey back, bros. You dey fine babe house, you dey drink glen, dey listen to music, dey try see wetin dey under dis robe and whether you will get lucky.”
“Jesu. You are evil,” I laughed adjusting my position to hide my erection.
“Evil but correct,” she said and reached for her bottle of wine.
The sash had come undone and the robe fell open to expose the right breast.
“Wow. So, will I get lucky?” I asked and she turned to me glass in hand, robe open to now expose two lovely breasts.
“Siddon for dia dey look like lookman”.
I don’t remember setting my glass down, I don’t remember getting up, all I remember was my lips on hers, my right hand cupping one breast as we kissed like it was going out of fashion.
“Come to the bedroom, I have condoms”.
That was when I followed her into her room and stepped out of my clothes.
It was a good night.