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I have heard it too many times but I didn’t consider it true. They say, ‘if you claimed her virginity, she will keep coming back’. I wondered if it was supposed to imply some sort of renewal exercise. That first experience will birth a thirst for further intimacy, a thirst that needs to be quenched regularly. If frequency increases, it becomes an addiction. Naturally, Dila started spending more nights at my place. Initially, I enjoyed it too, but I noticed the frequency early and I decided to help her manage her urge better. There were times when we just cuddled. Other nights we let our flesh take charge and succumb to each other’s warmth.
On a certain night, she wanted to but I declined because we had already been together three times that week, each time with at least three rounds. She pleaded with me but I didn’t give in, instead I told her my cousin’s story. Bisi was the brightest girl in our extended family until sex claimed her life. My uncle told me the tales of how she lost her life; a confession she made while she lived out what was left of her miserably painful life. She lost her virginity to a boy who couldn’t satisfy her sexual urge so she resolved to getting extra cheese from outside her relationship. She went from one guy to another as a result of her sexual addiction. Her sexual adventures included trying out older men, participating in orgies, BDSM and lesbianism. Medically, Bisi died of AIDS, but psychologically, she died of sexual addiction.
Bisi’s story apparently helped ease Dila. The sex reduced. But that wasn’t just it. The intimacy reduced generally. With Dila’s withdrawal, the burden that came after my discussion with Anita gained weight. Meanwhile, between Dila and I, the intensity of the feeling lessened. I was stuck between either confronting her or leaving her. Yet, the echoes of her voice saying “I will my heart to you, do with it as you please” would not stop playing in my head. After giving it several thoughts I decided to confront her but I was too late. I received a text from her that morning stating the obvious, “Olufemi, we need to talk. You have changed. Can I come over?” Immediately sorrow took over me. I had betrayed her loyalty. “I will make up for this, I will ask her about all Anita told me” I whispered to myself after replying her to come over. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey from my fridge and poured myself a glass, a heavily tipsy man says all without holding back; I poured myself another glass and gulped it like I did with the first one. Then I waited for her arrival.
“Olufemi, have you been drinking?” she asked.
“Yes, I have”
“Hmm. Bad guy, I thought alcohol in the morning is bad” she joked then continued, “Biko tell me you feel good; with a light body and sharper mind, shey?” She pulled the bottle from me and gulped a mouthful from it. At that moment, I just knew I wasn’t ready to let go. Despite the tension in the air, she still made room for a joke. Just why I think she is of a different breed. What about all Anita said? My heart sank again. A distressed silence ensued in the room, it felt like a moment of peace for the dead. While I was still trying to form my courage into words she spoke up,
“What exactly have I done wrong Olufemi?”
“You haven’t done anything wrong Dila” I stuttered.
“Did you just call me Dila? And yet you claim you haven’t changed. What happened to ‘My Sunshine’? Or am I no longer that special girl in your life?”
“No Sunshine, not what you think”
“What I think? Can I just finish talking, please?” she rebutted,
“Okay dear” I replied calmly.
“I understand the fact that you don’t want me to be obsessed with sex. Most guys wouldn’t do that, and I love you for that Olufemi mi. I appreciate the gesture. But what happened to kissing my forehead when the sun rises and rubbing my back before I close my eyes to sleep at night? You stopped texting me about how much you love me. You’ve only called me twice this week. Am I asking for too much?” she began to sob, “I never made those demands. You did them of your own will. I never begged to be loved. You made me fall in love with you. I never asked to be pampered. You gave me your undivided attention. I think I deserve to know the reason my value has drastically depreciated. Olufemi, please tell me what the problem is. Please do not lie to me. Don’t tell me all is well either.” She took a sip from the bottle after she had spoken.
Guilt took charge of my being, I could not say anything for about two minutes and all she did was stare into my eyes. When I finally found my voice, I begged “I am sorry My Sunshine.” She burst into tears as I narrated how I met Anita and all she told me about her. She didn’t seem surprised; she just sat there and waited till I was done.
“I warned you of the scary things you’d hear about me. I begged you not to lose faith in me. Femi, why did it take you this long to bring this up?”
“I am sorry Sunshine” I pleaded remorsefully,
“There is no need to be sorry. You deserve an explanation and neither of us is leaving this room until I have given it to you.” She stood up from the rug where she had sat, locked the door and put the key in her bra, rushed down her throat what was left of the whiskey and sat down. I got worried; I remembered how Anita had described Dila, ‘being with her is as dangerous as how adorable she is.”
She began to narrate, “let us start with my father. Did Anita tell you I had a twin brother? I guess she didn’t. I loved my father dearly but I loved my brother more. We shared the same womb, but more than that. He understood me better than anyone. His only fault was that he was born Sickle Cell Anaemia. I was lucky to have escaped the same fate, I think. When mother was alive she cared for him in every possible way, even when dad was away on military duties, she always gave us her best. After she died, dad didn’t live up to certain expectations which included taking good care of Fila, who was my brother. He was too busy defending the nation against terrorism he never cared about his family. He was so engrossed with fighting Boko Haram that he asked to be redeployed to Borno one month after he was redeployed to Lagos; he was posted to the NDA (Nigerian Defense Academy) branch office as a commandant but he preferred the war front.
He was eventually redeployed to Borno. Fila was sick all the while, and all he did was send money when he had the chance. During that period I became very angry at dad. We lived with his younger brother whose best effort didn’t make up for father’s absence. Fila died three days after our fifteenth birthday. My father came home to Anita and me two weeks later. That night I went into his room before going to bed. I was wearing Fila’s pyjamas, the thick hand gloves and head warmer that he would have been wearing on a cold night like that. I hoped father will notice these. I told him how I think he has not been a good father to us, to Fila especially after mother’s death. He went ahead blabbing on how he has been trying to save Nigeria and us, “Defending Nigeria’s territory is very important Dila. God forbid those hoodlums enter the South-West, I will do all I can to protect you. I am always at the war front with your thoughts on my mind. I love my children.” What an excuse! I had turn to exit his room when he said words that triggered my stored up anger,
“So many innocent children died from bomb blasts and gunshots. Your brother died peacefully, you should be thankful for that. It is way better to rest in death than stay alive and suffer great pain.”
I was shocked to hear him make such utterances. He didn’t know of the pains Fila suffered, he wasn’t there to witness how he cringed like a baby every night. He didn’t watch him grow slim without appetite for food. He had no idea how much he complained of joint pains. No, my brother didn’t die peacefully; he died a slow and painful death. I caught the sight of his 5mm Barretta on the drawer in his room, reached for it, turned on him and shot him twice in the forehead before he could say another word. The recoil of the gunshot sent me reeling backwards but I cared less about the pain I suffered when my head hit the wall.
Just in case you are wondering why I am not rotting in a prison cell or dead, it was thirteen years old Anita who came to drag me away from the crime scene. She was the first person to arrive the crime scene. Maybe she played along because she had nursed the same anger all along and would have done the same thing. But I really still think it is because she just didn’t want to be alone. In fact, she helped hide and burn the gloves afterwards. The incidence left me in trance for weeks; I did not utter a word to anyone. Even when the police came to investigate I couldn’t find my voice and I shed no tears. Of course my fingerprint was not on the gun. Anita lied for my sake; she told them that she saw a man in black running out of our compound. She has always been there for me and I am not surprised she told you.
Despite the fact that I have seen a number of Psychiatrists I still haven’t recovered from the nightmare. Soon enough I started smoking and drinking. I wanted to be alone all the time. The memory of that night still haunts me. I am not proud of it, but I killed my father. Femi, if you were Fila I’d have done same for you, and if you were my father I wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot you.” She concluded sounding very cold-hearted.
My heart froze from the coldness she exhibited while she spoke. All I did was imagine what could go wrong, knowing the key to the door was momentarily out of my reach.
Written by Femi Fragile Tweet @fragiletimbzz
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