(For Men Only) So There's No Good Time to Ask That Question

I am in the dog house again. Well, maybe not literarily, buy I am in trouble at home. Now that I am sober from everything that had taken place, I had spent the last few days trying to figure out what really happened. Actually, I know what happened; more like I’ve been trying to figure out the genesis of my troubles. As far as I can now make it out, it really began when I lived in New York. I was a young doctor, single, good looking, six foot four, intelligent and knowing it – in fact a bit cocky, sharp dresser, and a ladies’ killer.

As these things go, I don’t know when the idea dropped into my head about sleeping with two women at the same time. All I know is that one day at work, I found myself seriously discussing this fantasy with one of my African-American sometimes practicing lesbian co-worker, Ronnie. Ronnie offered to hook it all up but, to my annoyance, insisted on being a participant. You see, Ronnie was not the most aesthetic of women. Back then, if you didn’t know her, you’d think Ronnie was just a tall skinny boy. She had no chest to speak of, and more importantly, it appeared someone stole her butt.

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She also stubbornly wore long wet jherri curls the way a stick wears a mop. What's more, she was in the habit of wearing white shirts buttoned to the very top inside of a shiny polyester black suit. In short, Ronnie always looked like a Christmas gift to a Black Muslim. So, sadly, I turned down her offer, but the idea never went away. Now fast forward to the UK and the effervescent Nigerian Village Square (NVS). One of my tight buddies in that Village should share equal blame in my present predicament – perhaps a large proportion. A few years ago on one of my trips to Nigeria via Amsterdam, I met a very pretty lady, Amina from Kogi State. Initially, we had a good thing going but I haven’t seen Amina in over a couple of years. Anyway, me and my Village buddy would often discuss work and life and invariably, the discussion will land at that busy airport: women. Faster than you can say Plava Hut, my friend had competently goaded me like a used car salesman into re-establishing contact with Amina. Now, Amina was the exact opposite of Ronnie: Very pretty, slender, shinny black skin, formidable defence complimented by a healthy chest. Amina’s face seems to hold a perpetual sensual smile.

I would walk into a club or restaurant with Amina with her round perfect big behind and brothers would stop breathing and watch her like she was the FIFA World Cup final. If truth be said, Amina was something of a sexual goddess. In no time at all, I have contacted Amina by email and we resumed our online repartee. I let her know from jump street that I was in the mood to play again. Like a woman with a good soul, she scolded me and asked me what took me so long? She told me how it had not been the same since I slacked off on our rendezvous. She proceeded to tell me that for her, I was the best thing that ever happened since unleaded petrol. She told me that if I continue chatting and saying the things I was saying to her, Niagara was going to Fall in her bedroom any moment. That was my opportunity. I informed her about this long unfulfilled desire to be with two women at the same time. Big mistake. Niagara did not Fall. She logged-off.

I spent the next few minutes ruminating and it was beginning to dawn on me that there might not be a good time to ask that question. I gave it a few days and then called her again. Smoothen things out like a bricklayer, and she agreed to visit London the next weekend. Saturday night, I was there as arranged but arrived late. Couldn’t find a spot at the Bar so I hung back in a corner. I scanned the joint; no sign of Amina. No panic. I ordered a drink. I reached to get my mobile phone from my pocket, only to discover that I had left it at home. Instead, I had come with my work phone. No problem; I called my NVS buddy and chatted away. He continued to encourage me. Told me he’s got my back like a rumpled shirt. While chatting, a long legged lady sitting with another female friend kept checking me out and smiling invitingly. Told my buddy what was going down, and hung up. Sidled over to the two ladies and began to shoot the breeze. Turned out they were Jamaicans. The one who had been giving me the eye was tall, light skinned and exotically beautiful. Her hair was in a short perm. Her friend was darker and stockier. She was also bolder and used raunchier language.

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Again, my long held fantasy popped into my head, but I shook it off. Why? They were Jamaicans. Years of anecdotal evidence had taught me to move-on whenever I encounter a Jamaican – man or woman. Still, no Amina in sight and what was that saying about a bird in hand……? So I wiped my trepidation off on my dress trousers, adjusted my coffee stirrer, reached in my pocket and gave them my card with my contact numbers on it. Mistake number two. For about ten minutes or so, I had been half noticing that one of the females at the Bar in possession of a formidably broad back had been looking in my direction (where I had camped with the two Jamaican ladies). In between glances, she would take long sips of whatever it was she was drinking. This lady must be about 20 stones – could easily pass for an identical twin of Dr. Ndi Okereke-Onyiuke of the Nigeria Stock Exchange. After a while her glances became longer and angrier. I began to pay closer attention to her and she began to look like Amina, only bigger! I excused myself and approached the Bar. Yep, it was Amina! She must have put on an extra bovine or two! I couldn’t help myself; I asked what had happened to her in just under three years? She smiled through my inquiry but the smile did not reach her eyes. Like a mildly intoxicated Celestial Church prophet, I failed to read the message correctly. I pressed on and asked why she had let herself go in such a short time.

She countered by asking me why I was late? Where was my phone? She had called me a few times already. I informed her that I had left my mobile phone at home. As I made to answer further, she asked me who the two ladies were that I had been talking to and she quickly let me know that she saw me exchange phone numbers with them. It became a game. I didn’t answer. Instead, I asked her why she never informed me about her new body top-up since we re-established contact and were even having cyber sex. I was beginning to feel upset and feel used. She took another long sip of her drink. Though I was tempted to turn around and look at my new Jamaican acquaintances, I kept my face firmly forward – alternatively looking at my own now sweaty reflection in the Bar mirror and looking at Amina. Amina again asked me who those ladies were. In exasperation, I blurted out that I just met them and was enjoying their pleasant non-surprising, no BIG deal company. At that, Amina told me she was going to the Ladies' Room. She waddled along. I couldn’t help but catch the painful sniggers from the two Jamaican ladies.

Amina took her time coming back from the loo. She announced to my barely concealed relief that she wasn’t feeling too well and was retiring to her hotel room. I did not offer to go with her. I waited for her to amble out of the place, and then I returned to the two Jamaicans. They laughed and asked me who my fat friend was? I lied and said it was nothing. They looked at each other that way only women can and laughed out loud. Women can be so cruel. They told me to lose their numbers, downed the rest of their cocktails and sashayed out of there. I reached to the floor, picked up my dignity and moved off to the Parking Lot and into my car. I sat there a while and contemplated. Then I called the taller of the Jamaican ladies. She apologised and agreed to meet me in a short while. She did. We sat in the car and talked, etc for a while. I got home about midnight. My significant other (a pretty and patient Igbo lady) was waiting for me. Jack Frost must have visited while I was out.

The whole place was so cold. My partner’s demeanour was even colder. She asked me where I had been. I said I had spent the evening with my NVS buddy. She curtly informed me that my “NVS buddy” called Amina rang my mobile phone quite a few times. She said the phone rang so many times she was forced to pick it up. Amina dutifully and thanklessly informed her that I can be found in a Bar at the West End in the company of two women. I am sure the woman threw in an exaggeration or two. Long story short; I was asked to bring-in the clothes from the back garden. Without thinking and filled with a guilty conscience, I went into the garden. There were no clothes! I heard the locks behind me. As I looked quickly over my shoulder, the curtain was pulled closed. I was locked out. Me and the dog. Thank God for a warm summer night, I slept on the garden bench. Very early morning, I was awakened by warm raindrops on my face. I opened my eyes and tried to get up. My whole body was stiff. Also, I realised that there was something on top of me. It wasn’t raining at all! Before I wrote this article, I had already designed a “Dog Looking For A New Home” poster that I plan to put up around the neighbourhood and beyond…….

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of SaharaReporters

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