by Peace Nkanta
I have not any more dime than what I have spent in buying the ingredients all poured into this pot of rice. I am very hungry, and hope to treat my friend who’s with me, to a very good meal. We hadn’t seen in ages.
I stir gently hoping everything mixes, and wondering whether it’s only a myth that stirred rice quickly gets burnt.
Almost suddenly, rain starts to drizzle.
Some one, two, three minutes later, it pours in torrents. I listen to the sound it makes on the zinc; sounds like soldiers in big, hard, clean boots running swiftly across a bridge.
I’m reminded of my days in high school: the boarding houses, the freedom of naked girls in the rain each time it fell, the shivers and drugs taken thereafter.
Nostalgia comes rushing by and I desire that bliss again.
I let my friend take charge, walk through the rooms, and dash into the rain with an exotic bottle of soap. I smear myself from crown to sole, and start to wash off gently.
An imaginary lover
comes in the rain too, and wraps his muscular arms around my slim waist, from
I lean back towards him, and let him explore me with his hands.
He whispers into my ears and tickles me while at it. I’m turned on, and so is he because he ‘sporks’ me.
The rain gets heavier; our romance, more sensual. Our hearts beat very fast, and we melt into each other in intercourse. Each thrust has me whimpering and him groaning. The rain slows to a drizzle, and by this time I’m getting ready to join a chorus of angels. Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. I die with the rain. He too, with its last drops.
I wake up from my reverie. Clean. Purged of something I can’t explain. Refreshed.
I bless the rain.
It takes some minutes to walk back to the room, past my friend who is snoring, and get to the kitchen where my food is ‘over-burnt’. Then I remember where this story began.