The Detached

(The following is a narration of true events that took place in the wee hours between 27th and 28th March, 2016.)

27th March, 2016.
Lagos, 10.22pm.

I kept my gaze on my smartphone, waiting for the Airtel network to convert the little spiral lines into a green tick, and send my message across hundreds of kilometres to the heart of the East. It was a late Easter message to Ugochi, with the extra gloss of “I’ve missed you a lot” and “I really want you around”. I didn’t have faith in achieving any kind of positive outcome with those words, but I had nothing to lose by typing them out either.

I did not understand why I still reached out to Ugochi that way, not sticking to the bland civility that should ordinarily characterise our interactions; we had traded goodbyes on two occasions within the last two years and a half, and that should have been enough to make me stop having silly ideas…but here I was, staring at her goggles in her display picture, wishing that it could rain on her tight-fitting white T-shirt. Maybe it was because her figure reminded me of Seyi Shay….or maybe because I was some sort of emotional masochist, living for the strange pleasure that accompanied the pain of being hurt once again. Breaking hearts for her was a sport, and I probably just wanted mine flung like a cricket ball, so i could gain inspiration for a story.


Whatever was the case, Airtel had decided to be a stubborn errand boy that night. My long message was refusing to get past my ceiling, and my eyes assumed the form of cement bags…..

“Back to you
It always comes around
Back to you
I try to forget you
I try to stay away
But it’s easier to say”

3.42am (or thereabouts),
28th March 2016.

I tossed around in bed, well acquainted with sleeping alone by now. I stretched my left arm towards the edge of the mattress, when I struck something soft beneath the sheets. I looked closely; something lay there which I had not noticed before. I pulled the sheets. It was a lady, smiling sheepishly.

“Surprise! ” She blurted out, startling me.

“Who are you? ”

“I am Felicity. Don’t you remember me, from your Facebook inbox.”

“Oh”, I grunted. I had lost count of the many inboxes I had slid into, but I did not expect her to honour my invitation like this. I had probably given her my address, and forgotten that I did.

“I figured out your address from our last chat, then sneaked into your room.”

“And how did you get in? ”

“Erm, door was unlocked….but why this cross-examination, Jerry? Thought you’d be glad to see me.”

“Don’t mind me, Felicity, I’m just curious”, I reassured me, my feet on the ground by now.

“Save your questions, let’s get down to it”, Felicity said, slowly getting off the bed and standing in front of me.

She was dressed in a night gown that barely stretched below her bum, and the amount of cleavage on display was enough to show that she had not bothered to put on a bra. My upper lip collided with her lower lip, and in a few moments I had placed her on my reading table. She shut her eyes slowly, caressing my head while i nibbled on her neck, and from there I proceeded to tease her nipples with my tongue. She could not stay still, mouthing unintelligible words, and I let my hands glide along her back down to her large, soft backside. No panties! Alleluia!

“Wait, is that it? ”

I had taken off my pair of boxers and reached for a bulletproof vest in my drawer, eager to set my work tool to ploughing the vegetation, and she seemed less than impressed with the size of the machete. No lady had ever complained, ever, and I was going to ask whether I would be navigating through a borehole, but I simply grinned and said, “I am a grower, not a shower.”

I slid my fingers down the mangrove swamp, working on the little trigger, and as she she moaned, placing her fingers in my ears, the not-so-little guy expanded in mass. Felicity took hold of it, and suddenly pushed me to the bed. She sat astride me, eager to introduce my little friend into the moist alleys. I smiled in anticipation…..


And then it happened! Just like an object placed in a tortoise’s anus, I felt my member give way from the rest of my body. I froze, staring at ‘him’ in horror, and as blood soaked the mattress, Felicity let out a long cackling laughter, similar to the ones from marine kingdom scenes in Nollywood movies. I don’t know how, but I strangely figured that I did not have to be there, and I tightly shut my eyes, placing my arm in a ‘dab’ as I did so…..

5.26am, 28th March 2016.

I was on my bed, again, soaked in sweat amidst the thick darkness. What I had just been through may not have been as frightening as the thought of Buhari remaining in office beyond 2019, but it was pretty close. I raised my briefs and peeped, just to be sure that everything was intact.

After a short but earnest prayer, I scrolled through the chats on my phone. Ugochi had received my message and replied….with a kiss smiley. A smiley! “How nice”, I mused. I had no idea who Felicity had been, but Ugochi was the last person I had thought about before I succumbed to Nature, and maybe the dream was a sign; I probably had to distance myself, add that to the fact that my ghost had long left her emotional space.

“You’re no good for me
Yet I know I want you
But why should I give another try
When all we ever do is say goodbye? “


4 responses to “The Detached

  1. Must be the weather
    Must be the steam
    Must be the absence of NEPA
    And the fuel that nobody gets
    Must be the state of the Nation
    Our young men now sleep, ensnared;
    By succubuses of the night
    While mosquitoes suck their way.
    Deeper and deeper into the night
    And the light of day is no comfort
    More heat, more heat…

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