They say life begins at forty. But mine was officially over by then. My name is Osaro Oghenekevbe. I used to be the campus dude who knew what’s up during my hay days – my nicky “Double O” could attest to that. I could tell the taste of a woman from the curl of her lips, or the colour of her lipstick. I knew how to turn every girl on – until I met my wife. If someone had actually told me I would get married in this life, I would have wished to swallow a bag of nails instead. But here I am, married to the woman of my nightmare – Ogene. Actually, I wouldn’t really say I married her. My mom did – when I turned forty and she felt my life was heading for the doldrums. Not only was Ogene a minus facially, she was too local to be my wife. I mean a girl from the village? The gods forbid! And not only was she also short, she was actually a midget! I thought they said thunder never struck at the same place twice. But with Ogene, it struck more than thrice. She was just bad luck, and the cause of my present predicament. I married her because my mom threatened if I didn’t, she would beat her flaccid breasts for me.
We have been married for about twenty-five years now – or thereabout. I can’t really figure our anniversary date. You wouldn’t if you were in my shoes. So you can guess my age. Yes, late sixties. Our first night together was a total disaster! One look at her nakedness and I lost my libido – FOREVER! Come on, don’t laugh. I mean it. Can you imagine making love to a midget? Ah-ha! My man became like my aged mothers breast, forever. So, for like twenty-five years, I didn’t know what it felt like to have s…
My doctors have recommended a whole lot of bullshit. Forgive my language. (It’s only an expression of my agitation.) To get my grooves back on since I turned forty, I have done things real sane people wouldn’t. I have been on therapy, gone to the church, mosque and recently, the herbalists. I have drunk concoctions in the name of natural herbs and I have starved myself to death-points in the name of dry fasts!
Today, all that is about to become history. A friend just recommended a rare treatment – a visit to a call-girl. I throttle into the brothel on three feet with a paper in hand. It was my ticket to youthfulness. Written on the paper is the name of my mistress – Ibukun. I ask everyone I see for her room and they direct me further. The hall smells of burnt tobacco and strong ale. Screams of ecstasy and mortal fulfilments ooze out of the dark, filthy rooms by my side. The sully hallway, with paraphernalia ranging from pails with dirty water to shoes of both hosts and clients, looks like a coven. Clients stand by doors waiting for their turns. The red-yellow bulb above my head blinks erratically.
I finally get to my room. Luckily for me, there is no client waiting. My aged hand shakes uncontrollably as I knock on the door. An angelic voice invites me in. I brush my hair (if only I still have a strand on) with my rough palm, dust my shirt and move into the dark room.
“Undress and close your eyes,” the sweet voice commands in the dark.
Excitedly, I obey. My imagination grows wild. I expect my miracle.
“But wait,” I say. “I like to do it with the lights on.”
“No problem, papa,” Ibukun says as she saunters to the switchboard.
*Click***Click** The lights go on as I open my eyes to see my saviour. And what?!! Standing before me is who? Ogene?!!! My Ogene?!! What? How? What prank is this? My midget wife on G-string? In a brothel?
Another look at her thick, muscular nakedness, my heart takes a long pause…and restarts. And I know I am going to have a cardiac arrest!!!
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Photo credit: Atlanta Black Star
*This is a republication of an old post.