i.) You are replying the letter Chinedu sent you a month ago. Chinedu your beautiful fiancé. Was it wrong to call a man beautiful?
You do not know, but beautiful is the first word that comes to mind everytime you think of Chinedu with his always smiling eyes, chubby cheeks and short round body. Chinedu reminds you of something soft, cuddly and sweet, like a huge dolly baby—only, you hate dolly babies.
ii.)
A month ago, Chinedu sent a parcel along with the letter from a place where your mother calls "Hungri". You often wonder what sort of place it was and why it had such a peculiar name. You asked your class teacher once about the place but he asked you to shut up and sit down because no such place existed. If this place doesn't exist, where then is Chinedu, you wonder as you write.
This is the first time you are writing a letter outside the classroom. In the past, your mother simply wrote on your behalf, but this time, she insisted you wrote back by yourself, to show appreciation for the contents of the parcel; a postcard, a bottle of gin, a wristwatch and something Mama Somto, your mother's well travelled friend called "lip glos".
iii.)
Your fingers are aching and you pause to take a break. You like to think your writing has improved but you know it hasn't. Your mother says to not worry about it; you would be getting married to Chinedu by December and you would become a "Hungri" doctor's wife and all the stars would align in your favour and your writing skills or lack thereof would be insignificant because only your wifely duties would matter. Writing was not a wifely duty.
Across the table is the brown parcel envelope. Your mother took the gin and the postcard and said you could have the other items. You think she should have taken the wrist watch too, but when you said so, she told you to keep quiet and wear it. You are wearing the one-too-many-sizes big wristwatch even now (because your mother insisted you always wore it)and if you wanted to be honest, you do not like it. You don't blame Chinedu for not knowing your wrist size. You both only met each other once, plus who memorised such things like wrist sizes?
You think you like the "lipglos" much more better. You can see it at the corner of the table peeping from the curtain the parcel envelope had become.
iv.)
You take the "lip glos" and unscrew the cap the way you saw mama Somto do and hold it to your lips.
Softly,
left,
right,
then do mmammmammma
You are making slow movements across your lips and you do not realise when you close your eyes and suddenly, it is no longer "lip glos".
You are closing your eyes and imagining Ade's tongue gliding across your lips the way they did yesterday behind your mother's shed at the market.
You are clutching the edge of your chair and imagining many other things his hands did too, to your waist, your stomach, your bossom—
You hear your mother's voice and you are back to the unwelcome reality that is your life. You have an unfinished letter to write, a Chinedu to get married to in December and the new headmaster's son whose language you did not often understand(until he interpreted them with his hands...or his tongue, on your body), the ofe mmanu boy your mother says you should stay away from to forget.
Author's note: This is my first <not-so-bad> attempt at writing something a bit thirsty. Now I'm off to do some soul cleansing or whatever hehe. Byeeeeee!
P.S Does it annoy you how tribal differences wreck romance?
P.S.S This is a lipgloss inspired story.
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