Forbidden venture

KWENU! Our culture, our future

Forbidden venture

Crystal Omoifo

Sunday 11 February, 2007

Reading Acho Orabuchi’s article Another Nigerian Kills his wife, dated Thursday, February 8, 2007, he said this:

“Nigerian marriages in the Diaspora are steadily and surely growing out of love. Compounding the marital problem is the issue of infidelity on both sides. … Sad still, the infidelity among Nigerians has been worsened by the recent trend. The latest trend is the annual visit—pilgrimage as some call it—the men pay to Nigeria in the month of December. While in Nigeria some of these men engage in a high-risk behavior with flawed boldness and reckless and, perhaps, short-lived excitement in the face of ravaging effects of AIDS.”

Dr. Orabuchi’s take might seem to some a farfetched aberration, but there is a flip side. The following is an account from a Nigerian woman who visited home last year.

“This time was 11 am; I had wanted to leave by 8 am, but it was hard to tear myself away from my four children who had never been to Nigeria. My sister and husband assured me that they’d be fine. With a heavy heart and guilt I left them in my sister’s care at Dolphin Estate, Lagos. I had arranged to meet with an old girlfriend whose daughter was getting married. My role wasn’t really critical in the wedding preparation, but we agreed that our time together would give us an opportunity to catch up with the goings-on in our lives since we parted some twenty years ago.

I headed northbound on the Third Mainland Bridge. I was thankful that traffic hadn’t built up yet. The drive was a breeze until I reached the Ojota Junction. The rental car was getting heated; I rolled down the window, waiting patiently for the traffic to ease up. An ice-cream hawker came by. I debated briefly if I should buy an ice-cream bar. A part of me cautioned, telling me that I haven’t eaten from this source since I left Nigeria for the US twenty years earlier.

Another part of me yearned for it; it was as if I wanted to relive my childhood days when this particular ice cream was the greatest treat I ever had. My rational sense caved in; I bought the ice cream. I knew it was a mistake the minute I opened the flimsy wrap. The bar was more a slush than ice. The liquid quickly ran down my hands, and dress. I had no paper towel or tissue. I contemplated what to do, and then a boy selling water in nylon bags came to view. I hailed him. Stepping out of the car, I bought a bag. After paying, I told the boy to pour the water on my hand. He muttered something in a language I didn’t understand. I figured he didn’t want to put down his wares to pour the water. The expression on his face showed he was more stunned that I was going to waste good drinking water on my hands. I gave him a stern look, telling him to pour it. He looked left and right, probably deciding what to do. I was going to tell him I’d buy his whole ware, but someone else’s voice interjected. I looked up; he must be Taye Diggs’ double. He looked in his thirties, dark-chocolate skin, with his bright eyes gazing at me.

“I guess there’s a communication problem here,” he said, flashing white teeth. He gestured towards the young man. “He said he has other customers to sell to; he doesn’t have time to wash your hands.”

“Oh,” I muttered. “I didn’t understand him.” He looked so much like Taye that I had to remind myself that I was in Nigeria. This man in dirty clothes couldn’t be the real thing. He then surprised me; he took the water from the boy. The boy scurried off happily. Taye, that’s what I called him in my head, signaled me to bring my hands. I did as told, and he began to pour the water. I was a little clumsy because my handbag was securely tucked under my armpit. “Here, let me help you,” he offered.

He began to wash my hands. My goodness, it was the most sensual feeling I’ve received in a long time. Actually, I had forgotten how it felt to have a man’s hand touch mine so gently. After he was done, to my disappointment, he stopped, and wiped his hands on his trousers. I asked him what he was doing around there. He said he was waiting to catch a bus to his hometown. Somehow I couldn’t let the conversation end. I asked him if he was going my way. It turned out that his route was completely off my course. I then did the unthinkable; I asked him if he’d let me buy him a drink as a compensation for washing my hands. He flashed those white teeth again, and my heart throbbed. I silently prayed that he’d accept my invitation. He said yes, and I ushered him into my car. I did a turn around, went into the town of Ikeja. It wasn’t long before I found a hotel. He ordered a bottle of beer.

“I detect a foreign accent,” he said.

“Yes, I live in London,” I lied. “I came home for a visit.”

“That’s good,” he said.

“By the way, my name is …” I paused for a minute; I didn’t want to give my real name just in case he knows my family. My American girlfriends’ name popped into my head. “Aritsa.”

“Aritsa,” he repeated slowly. “That’s different and beautiful.”

“My friends call me Ari.”

“My name is Joe.”

He lifted the beer to his mouth. My eyes caught his hands and all of a sudden I wanted those hands on me, rubbing me the way he washed my hands. For one split second I knocked off the thought the minute it entered my head. But the desire had taken root. I shocked myself with my next statement. “Okay Joe, I hope you’re not in a rush. Do you mind having a private lunch with me?” He gave me a skeptical look. “You see, I arrived this morning, picked the car and jumped on the road. I haven’t had time to freshen up and eat. I didn’t eat the food they served on the plane. I was too sleepy to eat; now I’m really hungry. ..” I was blabbering. He smiled, placing his hand on me to stop my rambling.

“I’m not in a hurry,” he said.

I jumped up. “I’ll be right back.” I rushed to the hotel reception, got a room. Like a crazed woman, I ran to my car, drove it to a more secluded parking space, and grabbed my luggage. I rushed back, partly hoping he’d have disappeared and I wouldn’t have to go through what I was thinking, and partly praying that he was still there. He was sitting exactly where I left him. No words were necessary. He followed me to the room. I was nervous as hell, but I contained it. I casually tossed my luggage aside and fell on the bed, feigning fatigue. He kept his eyes on me and said nothing. Something kicked me to get moving or he might leave. I got up, withdrew my vanity bag from my suitcase, and went into the bathroom. On a second thought, I came out and pulled him along. I wasn’t going to let him touch me until he was thoroughly washed. If I thought washing my hands was sensual, washing my body was divine.

We made it to the bed, and I guided him on what to do. My husband had gained so much weight in the last few years that I had forgotten what it felt like to let my fingers rove over a man’s lean body. With my husband’s stomach having grown like a nine-monthsold pregnant woman, he himself can’t see what’s below his stomach to appreciate his God-given manhood. And I certainly don’t look below it, fearful that I might embarrass him. "Taye" was a delight; he was firm and full of energy. My very own "Taye" didn’t disappoint me. Two days and he wasn’t out of breath. A fifteen minutes romp with my husband usually left me worried because his breathing was often labored after we made love. Not this amazing guy, two days later when I dropped him off, the only thing I had the energy to do was scream an exhilarating “Whoosh!” Life is good. My body felt like it had gone through an overhaul; being fifty-two never felt better.

Now I know why so many Nigerian men have a rush when they think of going home, "Aritsa" concluded. As I look back, I didn’t feel guilty then, and I wonder when the guilt would hit me; after all, I’m a wife and a mother. Anyway, for now I’ll just revel at the pleasure this body of mine can still generate.

Good for Aritsa, one might say. One can understand why the food is no longer appetizing. While not sanctioning infidelity of any kind, it is noteworthy that the major problem in our bedrooms is not only of weight gain, but lack of communication. We come from a culture where sexual discussion is a taboo. For something that makes us smile in the morning, I wonder why we shy away from talking about it? We talk about everything else.

Some girlfriends tell me that their husbands often respond with a negative attitude when they suggest new techniques. The husbands might ask questions like, where did you learn this? Or whom have you been hanging around? To avoid unnecessary arguments, the women said they keep new information to themselves. Sex becomes so monotonous that it losses it’s allure. Both engage in it as a perfunctory act, not to give pleasure to each other. It is no wonder that when a new fling comes along as we see in the story above caution is thrown in the wind. Apart from other health risks, my Aritsa’s account is an indication that fitness plays a part in our sex life.

My take, we don’t have to go to Nigeria to get the goodies; let’s hit the gym, shed that flabbiness and enjoy nature’s sweet pleasure. We can cut down on pounded yam. If there’s ‘mama put’ on your way to work, take another route.

Ladies, tell him your fantasies, so he thinks you’re corrupt and cheap. Don’t take it personal; he’d only go somewhere else to get it. Why let the other women have all the fun. Don’t give up on expressing yourselves; he’d thank you for it when he gets over the initial shock. And the best part, you both don’t have to worry about diseases. Create your own Valentine Day, and bring the ‘whoosh’ home.

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