The day I set eyes on him I plunged deep into acute depression, the kind from which no mortal can be rescued or ever hope to come back. From there, things could only go southwards as he set about unravelling himself over the seven and a half years that we have been a couple. The most blissful years of my entire life, I must add not counting the inhibition I placed on myself. In hindsight, I should have just been present in every moment and enjoyed every bit of the ride. But how does one shut down an active conscience as mine has always been? How does one close a wide door in order to open a small window? I didn’t know how then and I don’t know how now.
I recall even now his deep baritone as he reached out a hand to help me off the yacht our boss had hired to ferry us to Takwa Bay for his 50th birthday celebration.
“Let me give you a hand,” he had stepped forward and said in response to me recoiling from the water. You see, to get to the bay, you must as of necessity step into the water. Why didn’t we just go to Freedom Park? I had asked myself countless times before I even stepped foot on the fancy boat. I had as yet not been to the formal colonial prison now theme park that featured in all conversations at that time. What I didn’t know then was that my day would close at the park that very night when I would step into the hallowed grounds that not only held bits of Nigeria’s history but was at that material moment writing many more chapters.
But I digress.
When he reached out to me on the boat was the first time I had heard his voice ever and I do not exaggerate when I say that it had the power to transform my physical self into liquid bliss with my blood flowing like flames within the depths of me. From when I was little and got introduced to the music of Michael Jackson, I have always associated my feelings with music. When I like a song, I would lock it up within and call it forth to commemorate the ethereal moments that add up to what is my life. And at the moment Jazzman Olofin’s ‘Sho like e’ featuring Sasha started playing in my head on repeat. I just let myself fall into his safe hands and he caught me.
“Steady now,” he said once more and I didn’t need anyone to tell me that I was home. This is where I had always wanted to be.
“By the way, my name is Kuboye,” he whispered in my ear by way of introduction before letting me down gently on the beach sand.
“I’m Teni,” I said in return, thinking then that his mum must have told him not to speak with strangers. That I liked his perfume, which name I always forget, so much.
“I’m in accounts,” he added, still whispering.
“I know, everybody knows,” I said unnecessarily. Everyone had been fawning over him since he joined our startup from one of the burgeoning second generation banks in the country only two months before, especially the ladies, who outnumbered men two to one in the hedge fund firm our boss swore would rule the world in no distant time. But Kuboye seemed to have no time for anyone but the job at hand. And suddenly, this Takwa Bay party was shaping up to be a gift from the god of love. Although he was yet to ask, I had already said yes and was waiting eagerly for that magic moment. This guy was born to love me. And D’banj’s ‘Fall in Love’ started playing in my head. This was all very right, perfect even.
But there was a problem. His presence in my life got me working day and night to device a way to get out of the conundrum that not having a mind of my own had landed me into. What made it even more daunting is the fact that he loves kids. Once he even told me he would love to have a house full of them to which I could only nod my head in response. Perhaps I could convince him but how would I handle his mum, whom he once told me named him after the Nigerian jazz great and who would definitely stay in the picture. Perhaps leaving the country and returning after a long time would help. There had to be a way!
I, too had been a young girl in the late 80s and grew up in a protected home in Offa, Kwara State where sex education must have been twice the taboo it was in Lagos where I ended up attending university and hence was left to my devices. By the time I earned my sociology degree, I had had at least two abortions. Not that I blame anyone for this. I was after all old enough to find the knowledge in the books that would have taught me all I needed to know about sex. For instance, I only read Come as You Are by Emily Nagoski last year. It may not have been published when I came of age but I am sure I would have found a book like it back then rather than allow girls like Halima and Nengi lead me to the slaughter slab that lost me my womb in one dangerous procedure too many.
These endless lonely nights when silence echoes loudest I ponder over what could have been, the bliss that the rest of my life with Kuboye would have amounted to, I know there is no one else to blame but myself. The music I hear is George Michael’s ‘Careless Whisper’.
So, the night of the Takwa Bay party, Kuboye offered to drop me off at my place after a nightcap at Freedom Park where he had parked his car before joining the love boat, as some of the girls had started to refer to it on the return journey after the jollof rice, chicken and all manner of drinks. There had even been weed for those who cared for it procured locally on the bay. I knew better than to partake. What I didn’t miss out on was the private after-party at Kuboye’s place in Surulere, far away from my own pad at Ogba. I don’t recall how the conversation veered off from dropping me off to spending the night at his place. I am sure that somewhere along the line I must have asked if his girlfriend would not mind and he must have vehemently retorted that he didn’t have one or that what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. I think I had a drink too many that day. In fact, when next I was at Freedom Park, I could not reconcile what I saw with the tour that Kuboye, who claimed he had been at the opening and knew the place inside out, gave me. But I remember the long kiss as soon as we entered his flat. I recall every bit of his well-chiselled body as it pumped away at me under him before we were completely naked. He didn’t last long but atypical of the men I had been with before he came along, he didn’t apologise. He just lifted me up, took me to his shower and held me tight while the cold water ran over us. After a few minutes, he towelled me dry, gave me a message all over with exotic oils and entered me once more. This time he was ever so gentle and didn’t stop until I reached orgasm. He didn’t care that he didn’t climax himself. It was the best lovemaking I had ever had. I cried the rest of the night knowing instinctively that this was a taste of what I could never have. And as time went by it got even better, the lovemaking that is, but my heart was never in it, particularly when he would say afterwards that one day soon, we would populate the world with miniature versions of ourselves. That always broke my heart in a way that there was never music good enough to emerge from my head. Each time he asks me what is wrong, I say nothing
Now he has asked me to marry him. I know I had said yes before he ever asked but I know I can’t put him through what is to come. But a part of me, perhaps because we have been together this long, wants to let him know. Rather than just break off our relationship with a meaningless bitchy excuse. A barrage of songs come to mind but all I hear is silence, very loud.
