Lose Myself by Uche Peter Umez

Solid high heels clicked against the hardwood floor. Tall and curvy, she smelled like meatloaf, with a dash of mustard. She had just glided by. Now she stood in front of the table which displayed assorted wines, spirits, lemonades, and mineral water. Curtis, the host, had assumed the role of unofficial barman behind the table mixing drinks; his smiles seemed too generous you wondered if he was familiar with melancholia.

She was attired in a trim floral wrap-style dress. Broad-shouldered, straight back, plump backside, Chukwudi observed and then sipped his drink. The liquor was smooth, warm, tangy, and almost bittersweet. What was the name again? Tanqueray? Bacardi? He had gulped three different drinks and couldn’t remember the name. The liquor seemed to thaw his worries, particularly about finishing the first re-write of his poetry collection. His appetite was sharpened as well, though he was feeling lazy to get up from his seat and help himself to the menagerie of meals on the table. There was something dreamy about the living room. Paintings in various highly wrought frames hung on the walls. People looked more imagined than real, more like a backdrop.

It was the encased light bulb brooding in the ceiling, Chukwudi realised, which infused that effect in the room. The light glowed lilac. It cast a trace of blurriness over the walls and around the shadows of guests in the spacious and scant furnished living room. Some of the furniture had been moved to the basement, to give space for those who wanted to dance. People lounged in the stairway and sat on the steps. People leaned against the banister and hovered near the pantry. Some flitted by the doorway; others lay sprawled out on some couches. Everywhere looked like a disco party, without the kaleidoscope of lights. The air pulsed with voices. Cigarette smoke, a minty whiff, the rounded scents of drinks, all floated around him.

Chukwudi tried to distract himself, but his eyes kept darting to the brunette. He chided himself for being juvenile, and picked out Kanye West’s voice in the song issuing from one of the rooms. Popular song. The female voice he couldn’t identify: it sounded wine-laced. So intimate.

I’m liking this American Boy
American Boy...

The beat was brisk. Chukwudi liked it, but supposed the song was a cheap glorification of the westernised male. He fingered the rim of his glass, savouring the aftertaste of the liquor. He had slept with girls of all sizes and complexions except Caucasians and Asians. He didn’t need to prove a point to anybody, but he’d taken a vow. No one had forced him; his wife did not compel him. He had had enough; he did not want self-gratification to rule his life any longer.

They often regarded Chukwudi even more comical than a baboon, his male colleagues. What are you trying to demonstrate? That you’re a saint? We’re slobs? He never cared to answer them – they could burn in their excess. He had shocked them even more: every time he went out for beers with them, he gulped only three beers. That was his limit; he never drank as copiously as they did. They did try to coax him, though. Order more rounds. Threaten not to hang out with him again. He didn’t cave in. Their threats didn’t hold, either. They would never understand what it meant to be a writer, possess such fine sensibility. How could he advocate a humane society, if he lived a life of intemperance? Doesn’t change begin and emanate from within?

A phrase came into his mind: The Death of Morality. He began incubating the imageries, but hunger gnawed at him. The table still invited him. He had noticed: the more appetizing the food was, the less palatable it tasted. It ended up whisking his stomach and he farted every so often. He missed his wife’s cuisine. Thinking about his wife made him realise that, although he had made the vow as a way of being true to himself, he was committed to having a successful marriage. Not only did he want to be true, he wanted her to see that he was capable of being different. Few months after their wedding, she pleaded with him to always use a condom if he was tempted to meet someone, because she knew that “men would always be men.”

When she made that caustic statement, Chukwudi controlled himself from shushing her severely, but he let it pass. Men were men, imagine! She was downright wrong, he would show her. He was certain he just wouldn’t walk straight into an affair.

The brunette was sitting on a couch chatting with one of the writers, the bald-headed Turk who’d stated that he shared a flat with a woman he hadn’t yet married, and didn’t care whether she was “sexualmente promiscuo.” The brunette was giggling. Chukwudi wondered what Bayezit was telling the girl.

“Man, what are you doing here?” asked Cardozo, a Colombian, sounding drunk.

“I’m enjoying myself, can’t you see?” Chukwudi replied, thinking that must be the most stupid question he’d heard that night.

“By yourself, man, you’re crazy!”

“And you’re drunk.”

“I’m not, just reeking happy, you Sisyphus. Can’t tell drunk from happy, ai?” Cardozo spun around. “Where’s the blasted bin?”

“Check in the kitchen.” And, chuck yourself into the bin as well, he almost told the Colombian.

Cardozo swung round and burped. “Huh, man, that’s why I lo-o-ve you,” he drawled out. “What would I do without you, brother? Why aren’t you a girl, ai?” And he lurched off to the kitchen where a small group of girls were puffing cigarette.

Chukwudi watched the girls’ cigarette smoke moving up as a wispy pale corkscrew breaking away before it struck the ceiling, and then wondered how long he had to put up with the tiresome socials: they seemed endless. And he was fed up with replying to questions, so pedestrian. He often felt formatted, like he was built to respond by default.

Smile.

Chitchat.

Huh?

Excuse me?

Hullo.

Cardozo lumbered out of the kitchen, without the bottle. He moped around like an owl, with bleary eyes, then staggered over to the table where Curtis smiled at him and poured him some drink from a cone-shaped bottle. Chukwudi noticed the chinos sliding off his flabby waist and thought what a husband Cardozo would make.

“See you around, we’re at the terrace,” burbled Cardozo.

“Enjoy,” Chukwudi replied, almost succumbing to the idea of joining them on the terrace. The ordeal of listening to their hidebound opinions of McCain and Obama put him off completely, as though either of them could have been a direct relation.

Now and then Chukwudi didn’t mind when some of the writers made fun of him, calling him Keeper of Vows, any time they went out to get espresso or Budweiser. One evening he’d tutored them that if you were able to quit smoking then no other habit was irresistible. He had experienced the glut, all the sensual fare wanton pleasure could offer. After the heat, what more? Look at his father, he cited. He lived like a pig and was buried as a pauper. No drinks, no music, at his funeral. That was the dénouement of passion.

They didn’t order more beers that evening. Chukwudi went on still, feeling balmy with his speech, an orator. You get too muddled up when you listened to the maddening crowd. Finally, you expire miserable – no one would die with his dearest drinking buddy no matter how many rounds of beer gulped over the years. He wouldn’t dissipate himself in uninhibited addictions regardless of how much flak he drew from the world. And when Chukwudi added rather conceitedly that he had been married for over seven years, and was yet to feel another woman’s thighs, their faces fell in shame.

He didn’t tell them that since he got married girls thronged in droves, fell over him, and tried to stir him with the flare of fleshy cleavage. Beer was easier, because you could decide beforehand what quantity to drink. Still it was gratifying to know that girls misconstrued his aloofness for mystique.

Chukwudi jerked in his seat at the sound of applause. Two girls were clapping their hands while a blonde was performing a seductive kind of dance, dipping down to the floor and rolling her hips in theatrical élan. Some people hooted, cheered. Note how a great percent of American music was overly sexualised, Chukwudi mused. It seemed to be a craze. Sex inhabited everywhere, just like tattoos. America was tattooed, he grinned. Then he noticed the brunette standing in the queue behind two men whose glasses were being refilled. She had a body almost like an hourglass. Her hips fanned out in a seductive arc, like two palms were cradling them. It seemed she was about spotting him, so Chukwudi pretended to stare at a sketchy portrait above her.

Bayezit had moved away, and a dark-haired woman had sat in his place. The brunette must be a student. She looked like one, someone you could talk with for hours, without the inelegance of silence. Chukwudi tipped the glass to his lips and his tongue tasted nothing. He raised the glass and... it was empty. A slice of lime was stuck to the bottom of the glass. The lime, that was what gave the drink its piquancy. He recalled a poem Salif, the irreverent Yemeni poet, had read at the Public Library. So piquant.

Gorge yourself
Variety is flavour

Short, punchy lines.

Salif spoke that way, too, as if uttering long statements was outmoded. But the reckless manner with which the poet cussed, smoked, drank, and slept with some of the adventurous white female students – smitten by his roguish looks – was outrageous. His poetry oozed with explicit imagery. No wonder his writings were banned in his country. Salif had been long sequestered from pleasure apparently, for he carried on as a man just released after years of incarceration.

But Chukwudi liked the poet. His authenticity was as striking as it was commendable. People should stand up for what they believed in. He didn’t compliment Salif, because he saw himself as an inveterate social activist-poet whose goal was too noble to be detracted by the pornographic.

Another song had started. The melody was so soothing that Chukwudi shut his eyes and lost himself in the lyrics:

So every time you hold me
Hold me like this is the last time

For a moment the song hypnotised him. The emptiness in his stomach eased. But when he opened his eyes, his mind ricocheted with thoughts. Chukwudi couldn’t help thinking about the Conference as one big reality show: Big Brother International. Almost every of the writer discussed sex as though the discourse focused on: Transnational sex. Sex in Translation. Contextualisation of sex.

In his country, writers deliberated more on politics and hunger – not only the hunger of the belly – but also the lack of hunger for knowledge among the new (techy) generation. Even when writers were drunk they didn’t sound obscene. But here was the libidinous safari, where a girl can record her own porn video and broadcast it on YouTube. He wasn’t judgemental, but the rash frivolity made him more conscious of the degeneration man had plunged into. Made his mind whip up visions of Sodom and Gomorrah, the collapse of civilization –

Chukwudi started as a hand fell on his shoulder.

“Oops, sorry,” said the frizzy-haired girl who had almost stepped on his shoes, but had thrust out a hand to steady herself. She wobbled her way to Curtis’s table.

“Having a good time,” Guthoni said.

“Sure, man,” Chukwudi replied.

“Any catch?”

Chukwudi didn’t respond.

“That’s the girl falling over you?” asked Guthoni.

“I didn’t come here to pick up a girl,” Chukwudi said.

“You came here to gawp, I see.”

“You’re drunk. Go look for somewhere to lie down.”

“We’re at the back yard, with girls rolling over our jokes.”

“I thought you guys were out there on the terrace?”

“Move around and see the world better,” Guthoni said. “Come grab your American pie, the night is too young to spend all by yourself, chummy.” He chuckled and trundled off to the toilet.

The buffet table still tempted him, issuing assorted, spicy aromas. Chukwudi needed to refill his glass, just once, to warm his insides – but his lower lip hurt. He lifted a hand and felt the dryness of his lips. They had begun to chap.

Then it occurred to him that Curtis had deliberately intended the party as a paean to hedonism; he’d assembled friends and writers to celebrate the anniversary of Bacchus. But he didn’t dwell on that, because the lyrics came together to form pictures of his wife in his head. Their kissing was tender, always tender, not hurried, not passionate, but dainty. Even when they made love, it was slow, delicate, rhythmic. In his arms. His wife, he could feel her.

Every time you kiss me
Kiss me like you’ll never see me again

The crusty sound of someone laughing broke up his thoughts. A couple was climbing the stairs and laughing mischievously. As Chukwudi looked away, he saw another couple: on the carpeted floor next to the staircase a chunky man sat behind a slim girl massaging her shoulders. His biceps rippled like the hump of a cow munching grass. The girl sat cross-legged rolling her neck leisurely, while the man’s sturdy legs cradled her hips. Chukwudi recalled how sometimes he and his wife rolled into a ball, easy and perfect.

Just a few months before he got married, Chukwudi had initiated a gradual disconnect from his former life by taking his three girlfriends out, one by one, to hotels on the outskirts of the city. On the last rendezvous, he’d tuned up the TV volume, lain back in bed and flipped the big-bosomed girl on top of him, so she could straddle him like a cowgirl. Their lovemaking had been fierce, for Chukwudi knew he would never again sleep around.

The brunette was standing by the table now. She had stuffed her plate with food. His stomach rumbled that instant, and Chukwudi stood up and walked up to the table. She slid away to the next meal, as though avoiding contact. He scanned the table, trying to decide what he would eat, recognizing the odour of garlic. He was reaching for a plate when she exclaimed: “Sushi.”

Chukwudi turned, thinking she had spoken to him. But she’d only expressed her delight. She thrust a finger into the sushi and put it in her mouth. He saw the tattoo on her neck – a dragon coughing out fire. He did not know when he complimented her. “Nice.”

“Yes; you want to try it?” She gestured to the sushi. He followed the direction of her hand. She lifted a small roll topped with shreds of ingredients. She handed him one, and Chukwudi said, “I actually meant your tattoo.”

She touched her neck. “Oh. Thank you.”

Chukwudi wondered how he was going to eat it. She noticed his confusion. “Let me show you.” Then she used her fingertip and scooped out some into her mouth. “You see?” As he was about to imitate her, she said, “You could...” and squirted it in her mouth. “That’s easier.” And he squirted the sushi into his mouth. “You like it?” she asked.

Chukwudi made a face.

“Try another one?”

“OK.”

“It goes well with ginger or the soy over there.” She pointed at a bowl of coppery-looking liquid and a small plate covered with the pink strips of what she called pickled ginger. She took half a teaspoonful and sprinkled it on two sushi rolls and gave him one. “You’d love it.”

Chukwudi chewed, warily. “This is good.”

“It’s Japanese, you see.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s funny, you see. Sushi means sour in Japanese. This is sweet, right?” She stressed the sweet.

He nodded his head. She moved the plate to her left hand and offered her right hand to him. “I’m Selena.”

“Lovely name.” He felt ticklish as the softness of her palm caressed his.

She looked very expectant. Chukwudi knew she expected him to disclose his name, but he had since stopped introducing himself because people always never remembered his name. Either they stressed it so much it sounded hyphenated or they stressed the last syllable his name sounded like a gasp. So they both stood at the table, quiet and smiling, like a mismatched couple on their first date.

“I’m from New York,” she said. “You’re from Africa?”

“I’m from Nigeria,” Chukwudi said. He loathed it when people prejudicially presumed he was African. Did it occur to her that he could have been from Jamaica? Brazil? Surinam?

His seat was already occupied, he noticed when he turned round. A man and a woman were absorbed in conversation.

“Seats all taken.” Selena read his mind.

“Everybody likes a party,” Chukwudi said.

“There’s space upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” He regarded her dubiously.

“An uncommon living room,” she said.

The living room seemed more spacious than the one downstairs. The walls gleamed with bright wallpapers. Four sofas were laid out in different corners to form a sort of mini booths. There were doors facing each other and a corridor that led right down another stairway and a door adjacent it that looked like a toilet. The top part of the door was fitted with stained glass that glimmered and reflected the yellow light bulb. He wondered why Curtis had used a blue bulb downstairs and a normal bulb upstairs. Couples sat in two of the sofas while a lone smoker, Chinese-looking, lay on the sofa blowing smoke into the air.

They picked out a padded green bench facing a polished desk with an antique typewriter and an old chessboard on it. Just above the bench loomed a large portrait framed in glass and oak. The portrait caught his fancy. It showed a lateral view of two faceless persons trying to touch their fingers together, but for some reason distance separated them. Chukwudi grinned as he thought about the girl standing next to him. They were just a foot apart from each other, so they were close, but they weren’t close in the racial sense. They would never be close, because, even though she looked cosmopolitan enough, she appeared too white to explore a relationship with someone as cappuccino-black as he was.

“What’s that?” Selena asked.

“Don’t mind me,” Chukwudi replied, wondering how she would react if he divulged his thoughts to her. Would she take it politely? Call him racist? Or just walk away?

“Please tell me.”

Chukwudi almost told her, because she was standing too close her meatloaf fragrance fogged his senses, but then he said, “I visualise a lot.”

“That’s amazing!” She combed her long hair with her fingers. “What did you make of the painting?”

“Umm...” He racked his brain for an idea. “It’s stupid.”

“I like stupid,” she said.

“Forget it,” he said.

Selena was disappointed. “You one of the writers?”

Chukwudi sat down. “I don’t exactly see myself as a writer.” He thought he sounded drunk, because that was a stupid thing to say.

“Pardon my ignorance; what does that mean?”

“I’m more of a poet.”

“What’s the difference?” She sat down next to him.

“Anybody can be a writer,” Chukwudi said. “You too could be a writer. Get a journal and collect your thoughts. Then send it to a publisher, and...” He raised his hands “...and, well, poetry is a different vocation. Profound.”

Selena seemed more confused but said nothing. Then she asked, “What’d you like?” He stared at her. “Would you want something to drink?”

“Yeah.” He wished he hadn’t said yes. He felt e had more than enough drink for the night.

“I want Absolut. OK, with you?”

“That would be fine.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

As soon as Selena skipped down the stairs, Chukwudi yawned and dashed to the toilet. He emptied his bowels, and saw a morose reflection moping back at him. He dabbed some water on his face and gurgled some in his mouth, hoping his breath did not give off a sour odour.

The brunette appeared with two small glasses as he sat back on his seat. “Here you are.” She handed Chukwudi a glass. She brought some strawberries and green grapes in a small plate and he wondered what she wanted to do with the fruits. “Vodka and whisky are the same, do you know?” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulders.

“Vodka is Russian?”

“Yes.”

“And whisky?”

“It’s the Scots. Whisky is Celtic word for water of life.”

That’s quite interesting, Chukwudi thought as he sipped his drink; it tasted both hot and cold on his tongue. “My knowledge of liquor is very limited.”

“We all have our share of ignorance.” Selena sipped her drink, too.

Chukwudi supposed he appeared uptight with the way he was sounding stilted. The party mood was supposed to leach into him, but he hadn’t let that. In short, he’d been fighting it. He was just too-conscious of every detail around him, thinking he didn’t really belong here, because the Conference had somewhat made him a bit skeptical of boisterous people. He believed he would feel more comfortable sitting downstairs with most of the guests.

“Have some.” Selena broke the silence.

He gazed at the plate.

“Try it with the strawberry, it enriches the flavour,” she said, pointing firmly at the fruits. She was already chewing a strawberry.

Chukwudi picked a strawberry and put it in his mouth slowly, as though it was bitter. Slowly still, he chewed. His face crinkled in smiles. “Are you a connoisseur or what?”

“I like exploring,” she replied. She wasn’t wearing any make-up. She didn’t even have earrings on, just natural. He liked girls who made up lightly or didn’t put on any. It showed self-confidence, originality.

Strawberries didn’t taste as sweet like the marmalade Chukwudi often splattered on his bread. This was his first time of eating fresh strawberries, not pureed. He almost asked her if strawberries came in different varieties. Like apples...

Earlier in the day, the sun blazing primitively over the blue sky, all the writers had been chauffeured to Wilson’s Orchard. Chukwudi had been amazed to find out that there were various varieties of apples.

“Good,” he said, nodding his head vigorously.

Selena offered him some grapes. He picked two out of her palm and tossed them into his mouth. She raised her glass to her face and swirled the drink with her finger. Then she swept her tongue over her wet finger and licked it.

Chukwudi shuddered as a nasty thought rammed into his mind. He was getting whimsical, he thought. He shouldn’t have accepted the drink.

“Do you have a timepiece?” He hoped the other writers hadn’t left. The van would be picking them up shortly before midnight.

“I don’t like carrying one around,” Selena said.

“Why?”

“Makes me too mindful of things I haven’t done yet.”

Chukwudi shrugged.

“Are you OK?” She was twirling some strands of her hair around her forefingers.

“Just the atmosphere,” he said.

“Stifling, yeah?” Selena asked. “And cold?”

The remaining drink rippled gently as he dropped the glass on the table next to the typewriter. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“How personal?”

Chukwudi pointed at her tattoo. He had always found the motifs and the motives behind each individual tattoo fascinating. He didn’t think he would ever wear one, yet he wasn’t pleased with the way Westerners abused it. Tattoo was an ancient art, a visual kind of poetry, revered and numinous. The more people regarded it as a fad, the more it lost its mystery.

“Dragon, you like it?”

“Cool,” he replied, picturing her as someone with a fiery temper. Why else would she choose a dragon and not a butterfly, a flower, something more feminine?

“You know about dragons in your country?” Selena asked.

Chukwudi gave her a baffled stare, then put his arms across his chest. What kind of a question was that? Didn’t she know dragons were fabled beasts? Was his country antediluvian?

“What informed your question?”

“Dragon is a mythical creature.”

“It’s obvious!” he snapped.

Selena didn’t expect his outburst. She apologized and finished off her drink.

He reached for his drink on the table and gulped it down. The liquor singed his throat. “I don’t know what got into me.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you–”

“I overreacted,” he cut her short, scolding himself for emptying his drink.

“I only wanted to explain how we view dragon in the west,” Selena spoke very fast. “It’s very different from the way the Asians see it. The Chinese believed dragons are a symbol of gentility. Here, we regard dragons as deadly creatures.”

Chukwudi wanted to call her by her name, but he couldn’t remember it. “Tell me a little about yourself,” he said.

Selena rocked her body sideways, as if cold-stricken. “What do you wanna know?”

“Things you feel comfortable talking about.”

She stood up abruptly. “I got to pee, excuse me.” She darted off to the toilet, knocked on the door, went through it. She came out and sat down so close to him that their hips touched each other’s. She should have sat at arm’s reach, Chukwudi thought. She hugged herself and rubbed her forearms. He wanted to ask her why she didn’t put on a long sleeve, but she might take offence. He didn’t want to prompt her, so he waited for her to continue the conversation.

Everybody had sneaked away except the lone smoker snoring on the couch and a brownish-skinned girl sprawled out on the other couch humming the song. He noticed the large window behind the girl’s sofa. Outside, an oak tree waved its raspy leaves lightly. Amid the rustling wind, crickets chirped. When Chukwudi turned his head, Selena was staring at him. He smiled and clasped his hands behind his head. She stood up and held out a hand to him.

“Let’s explore,” she whispered.

“Huh?” he said.

“I can’t stand the chill, let’s find somewhere warm.”

“I think we should go downstairs.”

“I want a place we can relax without feeling frozen.” She giggled suddenly. “You’re scared?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered.

“Come on.”

His stomach tightened as Chukwudi took hold of her hand. He imagined himself as a heifer being dragged to the slaughterhouse. She pulled him along like a boy, then paused at the first door, and rapped gently. A gruffly voice replied, “Buzz off! Room’s taken.”

Selena winked. “He’s busy.”

She knocked on the opposite door, waited for a response. She rapped again, yet nobody responded. His stomach constricted some more and he realized his throat was parched. He pulled his hand from her grip and said, “I think we should just go.”

She swung round and faced him. Her breath, peppered with soy sauce and garlic, filled his nostrils. “Go where?” she asked churlishly.

“Downstairs.”

“Nobody is inside this room. Let’s just check. OK?”

“Are you crazy?”

“You’re afraid.”

His face squeezed into a scowl. Selena twisted the knob and the door squeaked. She kicked it open and orange light swamped the both of them. She poked him in the ribs. “Voila!”

The first thing Chukwudi noticed was the bed. Ornate, expansive, and king-size; its thick down with floral patterns, and large green pillows. The bed looked like it had never been slept on. As he turned to tell her they could now leave since her curiosity had been satisfied, the door slammed shut and he was squashed up against the door. Selena plastered her mouth over his, her tongue sweeping the dry corners of his mouth.

Chukwudi tried to break free but she had strung her leg around his calf like a python, while the other leg pinned his right limb to the door. Her breasts even crushed his chest, like a massive trunk and he couldn’t breathe. She clasped his hand over her rear, and flames exploded in his spine and engulfed his chest. Against his will, he felt himself swell to three times his size.

“No, stop it!” He pushed her away with his might; she tried to reach for his hands and he brushed her away. She swung round and leaned her back against the door, blocking his exit.

“I can’t do this.” Chukwudi was panting.

“Why not?”

“It’s not right.”

“Because I’m white?”

He was struck speechless.

“You think I’m a pro?” Selena frowned.

“No,” he stuttered. “What if someone walks in on us?”

She held his eyes as she sashayed up to him. “Nobody will.”

“What are you doing?” Chukwudi asked when she started to toy with his buttons. She did not answer him. She was focused. His hands shook as he tried to peel her fingers off from his shirt. But the first button had come off; now she stroked his nipple and his buttocks hardened. “Why are you doing this, doing this to me?” he whispered, looking over to the window, wishing darkness would shroud the room so he could flee.

“I’m so cold.” Her voice was thick as syrup.

“It’s not right...” He was gripping her hands “...this is crazy; stop... please. Please...”

Selena chewed on his lips.

Then suddenly her dress slid off her body. She was devastating in her nakedness, he thought. Her flesh stood out all ripe and cerise like the apple he had munched at the Orchard. And she wasn’t wearing a bra at all.

His mind blurred as she tossed herself into his arms, and Chukwudi couldn’t maintain his footing. And they both staggered on to the bed. As she tried to pull off his shirt, he slapped her hands away, and yanked the shirt off and flung it to the floor. Then she reached for his zipper while he stared unabashedly.

Her breasts grazed over his face as Selena leaned over him. The fire she had set off inside him would only peter out when he entered her, he realised.

“Wait,” Chukwudi whispered when he noticed some stickiness between his legs. In his passion, he had ejaculated prematurely. He managed to smile at her and, kicking off his trousers to the floor, the door creaked open. Both of them threw the bed sheets immediately over their bodies, as a couple stumbled drunkenly into the room.

Cold sweat washed over Chukwudi. His body went limp at once. Guthoni regarded him with a scandalised look, and then grinned an amused grin. He was a chatterbox, and would spread the “news about the keeper of vows” in the Writers’ Lodge. Guthoni slung his arm over his partner’s shoulders, a small African-American girl with afro hair threaded with cowries, and they both lurched backward out the room. Before the couple finally shut the door, he heard Guthoni chuckle and say, “Carry on, doggy dog!”

Chukwudi could not look Selena in the face as he crawled out of the bed. He eased into his clothes with trembling hands. He wanted to apologise to her, but it was all her fault! He wished she would utter a word, so he could call her vile names. She watched him in silence. How could she be so detached from the whole incident?

Selena called him back as he reached for the doorknob. He turned round with a grimace. She had climbed down from the bed. Now, she looked unruffled in her dress again. She walked over to him. But he pushed the door open. He didn’t look back as he strode out, thinking about his wife, curled up under the blanket, awaiting his return from America, and he realised he would never be able to make love to her again – without the brunette’s face hanging over his head like a sword.

"I had to lose myself
so I can love you better"
– Lose Myself, Lauryn Hill.

Lose Myself was written by Uche Peter Umez.

Copyright Uche Peter Umez 2009.

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