Harmattan
It’s a December morning beset with the sounds of birds and the screeches of my neighbour’s basin on his concrete verandah. Harmattan is finally here. Through my window, a dry, cold wind seeps in. I hug my duvet tighter as thoughts of her make my desire grow longer and harder against the bed.
I think of her giggle the first time I asked to kiss her. Of the kiss, wet and heady. Of her shaky voice afterwards, as she confessed to having a crush on the Igbo boy with an afro next door, the Igbo boy that had just rocked her lips.
I think of the first time I slept in her room. Of experiencing waking up with her. Of slipping my morning sturdiness into her. I think of the time I had her a day after her period. Of the after-day spotting I mistook for her mushy desire. Of her embarrassment. Of my horror at the pale-red film around the latex.
I think of my desire saluting when she entered my room after a night call at the hospital. My embarrassment, covering it with my hand. Because even though we had exchanged bodily fluids, I wanted to keep this secret from her. This secret that parts of me yearned for her. This her—clad in smudged scrubs, mouth unbrushed, after a busy night at the hospital.
I think of how I said no to her. Of her embarrassment after her pleas. I don’t usually beg for this. Of my cautiousness. But the app says you’re ovulating. Of succumbing hours later, when I hugged her goodnight (or good morning, it was one a.m.) and felt the soft folds around her waist (those same folds she was insecure about) and got hard. Forgot caution. App be damned.
I think of the pregnancy scare. Eight days late. Of the tests. First, with blood because it was definitive and later with urine because we wanted to be really sure. I think of knowing she wanted me even then, and chiding her for it: for desiring me when we had this thing hanging over us. This potential bond. This living bond.
I think of her eyes, wet, as they bade me goodbye from the neighbourhood we shared for a year. A proximity that had made my night visits possible, spontaneous.
I think of her relief. Our relief. At the blood two days later. It’s finally here.
I think of my calls, ignored and busied days later. Of her caution the few times she picked. Remember the last time? How we were so stressed. How we waited and waited.
The birds have stopped singing, and the neighbour is sweeping, brushing the concrete for future basin butts. The wind from my window has stilled. The harmattan was a false start, like my desire, shrivelled and limp.
About the Author
Obinna Emeka is a Nigerian writer, cinephile, and pharmacist. His short stories have been published in Brittle Paper, African Writer Magazine, and The Kalahari Review. Movie lovers can check out his movie page @scenomaniac on Instagram.
Feature Photo: Rémy Ajenifuja
