This Thing Called Love #1

Hi fam!

Here’s a new one from Ikenna Igwe. Please read and drop your thoughts.

It runs for the entire week!

BEFORE I BEGIN my story I’d like to say a few words about love. Yes, it’s a beautiful thing. And yes, being in love with someone who genuinely reciprocates it is nothing short of divine.

So, when you do find true love, hold it dearly, nurture it carefully, and, more importantly, treat it with the respect it deserves.

It’s true that love hurts. But let’s not forget…it also heals.

Here is my story…

I was reliable informed, by my parents, that I exited into our planet on a rainy Monday night, in the month of July, in the late 70’s. My mother had just finished eating dinner, and was about to drink a glass of water, when she felt some contractions in her womb.

Yes, that was me, poking around as hard as I could. I just couldn’t wait to get the hell out of that dark and wet place that had suddenly become too small and claustrophobic.

A few moments later my mother’s water broke.

Finally, we are getting somewhere!

My father, with the help of a neighbour, who was a taxi driver, promptly drove her to a hospital, which thankfully was close by. Thirty minutes after arriving at the medical centre – with Mother Nature still crying, profusely, as she repeatedly clawed at the night sky with lightning and belched thunder – my mother gave birth to me.

Hello, Planet Earth!

My name is Fredrick Etoa. But you, like almost everyone else does, can simply call me Fred. The only exception to this name calling is my mother. She calls me Freddie. Sounds girlish, right? But, hey, she’s my mother, okay?

I’m the last child in a family of five: my parents and two older siblings – a boy and a girl. My parents are Christians. But Mother is more devout than Father.

That’s a constant that cuts across every faith, isn’t it? Women being more devoted than men. Why is that? Is it because women are creatures of emotion…and therefore tend to be needier than men when it comes to asking for stuff from God?

Maybe.

As far as I can tell the needs of the average man can be summed up in just three words: money….money…money.   

Enough of that!

Now, since my parents pulsated along the same spiritually frequency, we, the kids, were raised with sound Christian morals. We were good kids. And I, kind of, still think we are.

My parents were traders. They owned two shops at Tejuosho Market – located at Yaba – in Lagos State, where they sold curtain materials. They were well-to-do, and this reflected in their kids being well taken care of. And by that I mean we lived in a nice neighbourhood, had nice clothes, nice toys, and ate three, sometimes four, square meals daily.

Like I said before, we were raised right – in addition to the fact that the three of us were born into a church, firmly grounded in the doctrine of holiness.

No service was complete without the pastor thundering: Holiness…without which no man shall see the Lord.

As a good kid I did my very best not to fall slave to any vice. Okay…almost any vice. Come on, I said I was a good kid. I never said I was a perfect one.   

Now, I’m the precocious type. I’ve always being that way from childhood. I like discovering new things – some of which you might find astonishing. For instance, at the age of seven, while many of my mates were still busy cuddling up to their toys I already knew a thing or two about sex. And I don’t mean Male or Female gender. I’m talking about the real deal. Thanks to Helen – the house help we had back then. I believed she really liked me. She dotted on me more than my siblings. So I guessed that was why she usually gave me full access to fondle her intimate parts anytime we were both alone together. And she was equally fond of feverishly kissing my thin lips, pushing her tongue into my small mouth, and touching my unripe male member…little balls and all. She was twenty-one at this time. Yes…yes…you can call her a paedophile…a sex offender…a child abuser. And you won’t be wrong.

I can almost hear someone cry, Oh, you poor child, she took advantage of you. Well, I was seven…but I wasn’t stupid. She took advantage of me only because I let her take advantage of me. I knew what she was doing wasn’t morally right – since she did it only when everyone else wasn’t home. But I never reported her to my parents. And she never once told me not to. I trust you can make an educated guess as to why. And you’re right: I was a willing victim.  

Anyway, Helen encouraged me, citing reasons I can’t quite remember now, to engage in sex as early and as often as possible.

I also guessed that contributed to why I had my first sexual encounter with a lady who was eleven years my senior. I was fifteen then. I won’t bore you with the details of how that went. But I can tell you, for certain, that, for me, most of the body chemistry experience turned out to be rather distasteful.

For my partner, however, it was thorough ecstasy as she wildly, like some sex-starved maniac, milked every drop of pleasure she could get from me. She was quite hell bent on solely satisfying herself – without the least regard for my physical or mental wellbeing. Talk about sexual selfishness.

I cannot tell you the various types of sexual positions she made us try out that night. She was a four-star general in the field of sex. Jeez…she nearly broke my damn pelvis!

My goodness! That girl was on sexual fire…bending this way…twisting that way…and spinning the other way…occasionally screaming at me to hit that place harder…and warning me not to come before she did.

For a moment I felt like I was the stud in some porn movie and we were being secretly filmed by a hidden camera. But I couldn’t help wondering how on earth a Christian Sister, a choir member, knew all that sex stuff – until I happened upon a copy of Kama Sutra in her bedroom drawer.

Ah…and the blind man saw.

Sadly, I soon found out, she was one of those women who are moved more by their bodies than by their brains – and definitely not my type. Our second and third sexual encounters were pretty much the same as our first: she made them all about her.

I want it like that…no…hold me like this…yes…give it to me like that…oh yes!

As a result I broke up with her – a break up that was easy since I felt no ounce of love for her to begin with.

Anyway let’s move on. Over the years, as I grew older, I had a couple of girlfriends – but no one special. And, if you must know, with the exception of the sexual fanatic I mentioned earlier, I didn’t have carnal knowledge of any of them – even though most of them wanted me to water the entire perimeter of their private gardens. Frankly, I wasn’t really interested in sex. My first, second, and third time, with Ms. Nymphomaniac, chiefly took place out of unbridled curiosity. Acting on the seed, already planted in my mind by Helen, I wanted only to know how the experience felt like. And, like I confessed, they weren’t all fun for me.

Okay – I didn’t let myself fall in love with any girl because of a promise I had made to myself, when I was just nine years old. Then, and I know it sounds silly, I stated that the only woman I would ever love – after I must have graduated from the university and secured a good job, of course – would be the one I’d marry.

This child-like promise of mine resulted from an Indian movie I watched in those days. You know a typical Indian movie is no Indian movie if it isn’t woven with some kind of love story.  

The protagonist in the movie was a ten-year-old orphan who had made his promise, before Buddha, and, after a series of highs and lows, actually kept it.  

I found the boy’s rabid resolve so entrancing that once the movie ended, I ran to my room, pulled my Bible out from under my pillow, and made my own pledge.  

However, like a coin, there are usually two sides to every promise. It’s either you keep it, or you break it. As it turned out…I broke mine.   

Sorry God…sorry Indian boy.