"When I say yes to you, I’ve agreed to kill one of my senses, the sense of sight.
But in the blindness of devoted love comes a sense more acute than sight, a sense of loathing." _Anonymous

ONE

Darkness

Love held me something fierce.

It walked into my core with an arresting face and smiley lips that captured my gaze as they hello’d and asked my name.

Love brought me him with a command to love him unhinged.

I did; gave him my all to have and mold, watched helplessly as Eros, Cupid, and the entire mythological motherfuckers tied our souls for kicks and giggles. There was nothing to prepare me, no snake oil, Dear Abby, or a mirror-mirror-on the wall. All I had was a bleeding heart running cold and a naked man too wasted to know how much he’d broken me.

When the police…coroner, or whoever kicked the door open do so, they’d find us in this house we bought with everything I owned. This hovel with gold sculpted furnishing that tried so hard to be a home but never quite made it. This six-bedroom stink hole we thought we’d fill with kids, bloodied marbled stairs that wound to my bedroom of hell, and a crispy silence marred by the hum of the air-conditioning. When that happened, one of us would leave in a gurney.

The hovel waxed silent, so silent I heard him moan, call out to me, heard him…no. Dead brain had no master. It operated in situ. It moved my legs across the living room, brushed my arm across my head, lodged sticky wetness across my forehead, and made me tell Google to turn on the radio.

Cool FM’s Ricky’s Top Forty put a smile on my face.

Ricky, bless his heart, jollied on the festive theme of Christmas. “It’s a season for miracles,” he said. “A time to relax, enjoy, and celebrate. And at Chocolate Royale, we have more than a million reasons to help you enjoy the season.”

To further ram his advertising gambit down my warped mind, he played a jolly tune of—”Have a lovey-dovey Christmas; It’s the best time of the year. If you come along with me down to Chocolate Royale, baby, everything will be O-kay!!!”

Lies. A deceitful fib I had the misfortune of believing.”

I’d stared with a heart bursting with adoration as he fed me a slice of Chocolate Royale’s Rum cake. I hummed like a purring cat as the flavor exploded in my palate and gazed hungrily as his devouring lips descended on mine.

Ayiba! My woe, the major detour of my hitherto straitlaced life. The man whose body I’d be more than happy to bury.

The knock I’d been waiting for came. It was slight, unsure, not the sort I’d imagined after the call I made. I hesitated; afraid it was just a nosy neighbor coming to ask about the scream they’d heard.

Then it came again, and again, louder with each thump.

I opened the door to a portly middle-aged man with a pockmarked face and a fit, youngish male with furrowed brows and a low fade.

Jake and the Fat Man.

“Good evening, madam,” The Fat Man said, his big belly bursting at the seams of his sweat-stained green shirt.

“Officers,” I said. “It took you long enough.”

“Traffic at Keffi,” Low Fade said, his voice surprisingly resonant for a minimum-waged police officer. I allowed my eyes to examine him, looking past his white-striped shirt, black pants, dust-stained shoes, and eyes that bore a million questions I didn’t have answers to. “I’m Inspector Kole Banks, and this is my partner, Inspector Joel Amadi.”

I moved to the side, ushering them in. “Can I get you men something to drink?”

I may have my hands covered in the blood of the man I loved so fiercely my soul reeked of him. A man I once thought resided in me as I dwelled in him, but I was never one lacking in manners.

“No, thank you,” Inspector Kole Banks replied, then turned to his partner who shook his head. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to get to why we’re here.”

“Of course,” I said, pointing them to the sofa and staying rooted on my feet. Joel Amadi motioned that I sit too. I smiled and shook my head, impatient with their need to keep up the pleasantries.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit?” Joel Amadi asked, concerned sipping off the pores on his face.

“I prefer to stand.”

Inspector Amadi nodded, pulled out a writing pad, and a tape recorder, and asked, “Mind if we record this?”

I shrugged.

He bobbed his clean-shaven head and pressed the record button. He talked about the phone call they received and asked if I was alone or if anyone else was in the house. Such a dumb question to ask given my state of appearance. Surely they didn’t think I got my hands caked in blood from cooking chicken for dinner.

“My husband is upstairs,” I said.

“Okay,” Inspector Kole Banks said, his furrowed brows reaching the hairline of his low fade. “Can you tell us what happened here?”

“What did you do to him?” Joel Amadi chipped in.

I watched both men, counting the minutes, killing time. My call was immature. I should have waited, taken out more parts of him, his eyes for instance. I should have watched him die. But men like Ayiba don’t die. Why should he? Death has no use for him.

“Madam,” Inspector Banks said, the questions in his eyes branching into puzzle pieces as he swept his gaze from the crown of my braided head to my gel-polished toes. “Tell us what happened here.”

“Officers,” I said. “If you hurry, you might save what’s left of him.”

Both men leaped off the couch.

TWO

Doe-Eyed

I was a miracle baby—the last hoorah of an aging uterus. My brothers—Ebiware, Ebitimi, Ebinimi, Ebiowei, Ebizemor—were well into their young adults and early teens when I came fist-clenched and bawling into the world.

Given my parent’s penchant for baby names beginning with E, you’d think they’d name me an Ebi-something. They chose instead to call me Preye. My brothers nicknamed me Pinkie; not for my size no. Baby of the house though I was, I grew as tall as they did. Pinkie came from my love for all things pink and my strong refusal to acknowledge any other color. My color choice was in concert with my life. I grew up soft, won my friends’ agreement of being the brattiest of them all, and, though raised a Christian, I gave up bible studies as soon as I read Socrates.

The closest I came to a church was my bus trip home after my NYSC.

It was on a Saturday morning, the day before I was to meet Ayiba of the Lowest Low.

My dad had booked my flight and almost had a cardiac arrest when I told him I missed it.

“You what?” My mom screeched into the phone.

“I overslept,” I said.

“I’ll call the airline and have them reschedule you for the next one,” Dad said. He always said stuff like that. ‘I’ll call the airline,’ ‘I’ll ask Mr. President,’ firm in his belief that his money was large enough to buy and sell other people’s time.

“No, Dad,” I said. “I’m already in a bus park.”

“A what?” Mom shrieked again.

“Are you looking to be kidnapped?” Dad asked, his voice booming off the phone’s speaker.

“You guys need to chill,” I said, rolling my eyes like only a twenty-one-year-old would. “It’s a luxury bus. It has AC and everything. They even served us breakfast.”

The truth is, I didn’t miss my flight from oversleeping. I intentionally ignored using it for two reasons: one, I hated flying. Two, I’d always wanted to travel from Jos to Lagos by bus.

My campmate mentioned enjoying watching the scenic views of different states as the bus drove past it. I wanted to experience that too. I mean, live your best life while you can, right?

“Traveling all that distance by bus is not safe, Preye,” my dad said just as the bus driver signaled that we all settled in.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, this child,” Mom said. “I’ll have to call Ebizemor to talk some sense into you.”

I scoffed. “Mom, I’m not a child anymore. Why bring Ebizemor into this.”

“At least you listen to him,” Dad said.

Ebizemor was the closest to me in age and my favorite sibling. Only he could talk me out of anything. Still, I talked my parents into keeping calm and letting me do me. They grumbled their consent and I forced myself to erase their fears of a perceived kidnap and eased into my seat.

One of the thrills I’d heard about traveling by road was the likely chance of sitting next to cute, exciting guys. That must have been a misguided statement, for my seatmate was a dozing man possibly in his sixties.

“Praise da Lawd!” A man with a dog-eared book clutched under his armpit said. He repeated his call of “Praise da Lawd,” screaming it louder than the first, as though the scattered, half-hearted response of “Allaluya” would improve with volume.

It did. Most members of the bus weighed in, including the baba seated next to me.

“Brethren…” He began, “Let us commit this trip into the hands of da Lawd.”

A woman standing next to him burst into an animated offkey tune of “Praise da Lawd.”

The passengers responded with “O sing O, O sing O, Praise da Lawd.” They clapped, whistled, and sang along to different gospel songs. Minutes later, the preacher began to call down fire on all enemies of the road.

“Any highway robber, Boko Haram, Fulani herdsmen, HOLY GHOST!” He chanted.

“FIRE!” The congregation slash passengers responded.

Feeling a little of the intense vibe rub off on me, I bowed my head and joined them in chanting FIRE!

But I soon lost my flow when the thread of HOLY GHOST chants stretched to infinity.

Listless and eager for us to begin our trip, I peeked to see if the preacher was wrapping his session soon but saw him brandishing his bible in fervor, shaking and voraciously stomping the ground.

A million eye-rolling, teeth-clenching, and wristwatch-checking minutes later, the pastor finally slowed down the tempo and resumed covering the bus with the blood of Jesus.

I scowled at him as he virtually took all the time covering every animate and inanimate object he could think of with the blood of Jesus.

His preaching partner caught my scowl and motioned that I close my eyes. I rolled my eyes at her and pulled out my iPod.

That was the last time I clocked into a church service.

All that changed when I met him. I called on God. Prayed, fasted, and fattened the purse of my religious parson.

My prayers got lost in the mail.

THREE

Stirred

Do the angels hold their breath when ill-fated lovers meet?

Reminiscing on it, I wish I stubbed my toe, got splashed with rainwater, bumped into an egg-seller, anything to keep me from being at that place and moment in time that placed Ayiba and I together.

I wish, oh I wish deeply that I overslept.

I awoke on that fateful Monday morning in December 2012 earlier than usual, way earlier than my alarm. I hurried into comfortable clothing—a turtleneck top, black pants, and matching blazer—swept my afro into a hairband and brightened my face in light makeup. I ditched my glasses for brown contact lenses and allowed my parents to dot over me during breakfast. I must have tuned out while nodding to their endless worry and complaints about me not toeing their best-laid plans for my life.

My billionaire father, Chief Wilcox, runs a food production company. His company, Agro-Wilcox Group, is home to five thousand employees and boasts of branches across the federation. If I wanted to, I could skip the workforce and live the rest of my life as a Lagos socialite, joining my mother in organizing company events and throwing charity balls. The thing is, I wasn’t interested in having my life wrapped in Gucci and dunked in champagne.

I wanted to, as the cliche goes, make my mark.

Jitech, a brick-and-mortar Tech startup had that to offer me; a chance to work my way up the food chain like everyone else. Therefore, it was with eyes brimming with naivete that I walked into the magnificent tower of Jitech’s rented office, clocked in at the lobby with a stunning receptionist, and moved my 5’11 sprite form towards the bank of elevators.

Sniffing in a breath like one smelling freedom for the first time and taking in the flowery smell of the glass-themed elevator, I was anticipating the ding of the closing door when I saw a well-manicured hand slither in and deter its closing.

The elevator, as though responding to cosmic order, chimed open.

I muttered a small gasp when my gaze locked with a pair of deep-set eyes with eyeballs as white as rice, irises as black as night, and eyelashes as long as a Giraffe’s. He ran his eyes down my form, flashed me a flitting smile, and stepped into the elevator, filling my nose with his cologne.

“Hello,” he said, just as the door dinged shut.

I nodded in response—my clogged breath constricted my vocals.

He passed a sideways glance at me and returned his attention to the scenic view of the Apapa Wharf.

I swallowed the smell of his perfume, did a once-over on my outfit, and mentally kicked myself for not taking the time to pick out a more fitting attire. Like a dress, perhaps.  A bodycon red dress and kickass heels.

“You’re new,” he stated.

“Yes,” I responded in a voice that would shame the squeak of a mouse.

“I’m Ayiba,” he said, stretching his cocoa-colored, well-manicured, sexy long-fingered hand my way.

“Preye,” I said, placing my hand in his and marveling at the firmness of the grip.

He grinned. “You’re Ijaw?”

“Yes, from Agbere.”

“Aaama,” he chuckled, “Tubra.”

“Emi,” I smiled.

Aside from the simple ‘how are you,’ ‘I’m fine’ aspect of my language, I’d never listened long enough to converse in it.

“I’m from Kiama,” he said, “But born and bred in Lagos.”

“Ditto. Born and bred in Lagos, I mean. Not from Kiama…like you.”

The elevator’s chime cut my pointless yapping short. As much as I tried, I couldn’t stop my face from heating up and my pores from leaking sweat. He must have sensed my discomfiture for his lopsided smile grew to a silent chuckle.

“Nice talking to you, beautiful Preye,” he said.

I nodded or did I curtsy? I can’t remember. But I have a feeling I did something too silly to recount.

“This is my floor,” he said, “I’m in the accounts department.”

“IT,” I said, with a bit of pride. I, in all fairness, pride myself in being a woman in tech.

“The inner room guys,” he chuckled and swept his gaze all over me. Then he raised mischievous eyes to mine, winked, and said:

“See you around, IT girl.”

After his exit, I let out a loud whoosh and allowed myself to process the sight I’d just beheld. The knee-buckling presence of a taller-than-most buff male with an angular face, neatly groomed beard, captivating eyes, and the man-of-my-dreams persona.

I knew then like I did when I held a knife to him that I wanted him.

Lord, I wanted that man so fiercely my body literally buzzed.

FOUR

The enemy within

With my stomach still rumbling with butterflies and the remains of my breakfast, I approached the desk of a plus-sized woman who identified herself as Monica.

“Hello, Monica,” I said, shaking her hand and pulling out a file from my bag, “I’m Preye Wilcox.”

“You’re the Preye Wilcox?” She asked, surprise written all over her face.

“Just Preye Wilcox will do, thanks,” I chuckled.

“Welcome, ma, please follow me,” she said, smiling tightly.

I stayed trying to understand her weird attitude toward me as I followed her into a frigid office packed with people working in small cubicles. Thinking Monica would point me to one of the cubicles, I was startled when she pulled open a glass door with my name on it and told me with tight lips that this would be my office.

“Oh,” I said, waiting for further clarification of what appeared to be a case of mistaken identity. 

“Our GM, Mr. Banji will brief you on your duties at noon,” she said. “He has assigned a personal driver and PA to you.”

“Em, Monica,” I started, then laughed to cover my confusion. “It’s like you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“You’re Preye Wilcox right?” I nodded. “Ehen. So, this is your office. Amara will come and brief you shortly. But, meanwhile, you have a meeting with Ayiba from the account’s department at eleven o’clock.”

Ayiba, as in my-body-is-still-buzzing-from-meeting-him Ayiba?

“Do you have any questions, ma?” Monica asked.

“Yes, Monica. I, um, was told I’m coming in as an intern?”

“No, ma, you’re here as the IT Manager.”

IT what?

I gaped at her. “I ah, don’t understand.”

“Ma,” Monica smiled in thinning patience.

“Please call me Preye.”

“Preye,” she reiterated with a forced smile, “Please go in and make yourself comfortable. Amara will brief you and help with your onboarding.”

“Okay.”

“Please excuse me.”

As I watched her walk away, I stared at my new office. It was a pristinely cleaned space furnished in such an eager-to-please way I couldn’t help but grimace at the lavish. What sane IT intern would want to spend their 9-to-5 lifestyle working in an office that housed a blue three-seater couch, artful sculptures, colorful wall paintings, potted plants, and a broad mahogany desk with a glossy executive chair tucked in?

“Not me, for sure.”

Just then, the telephone on my desk rang. Unsure what to do with it, I wrenched it off the hook and said, “Preye Wilcox here.”

“This is Ayiba from accounts,” he said in a husky voice that belonged on the radio. “When would be a good time for me to come over and talk about pressing issues concerning the department?”

“Um,” I covered the mouthpiece, harrumphed, took a deep breath, and spoke with a voice that exuded as much officious air as I hoped it did. “10:30 would be fine.”

“Got it, ma’am,” he said, “Welcome to Jitech.”

“Thank you.”

After he hung up, another call came in.

“I’m Amarachi Uzoma. Everyone calls me Amara,” she said. “I’m your PA.”

“Okay?”

“Can I come by your office now?”

“Sure.”

Amarachi was a petite, light-skinned girl in bright red braids. She spoke fast and precisely, was quick to write down my every utterance, asked little to no questions, and continually referred to me as mam.

“Mr. Banji will expect you in his office at noon,” Amarachi said. “There’ll be a brief staff meeting at one o’clock to introduce you to the other members of the team, and Ekot, the chef, will come by shortly to take your lunch request.”

Can someone pinch me awake already? Is this a workplace or the Four Seasons?

“Do you have any add-on to your schedule, mam?” Amarachi asked.

I cleared my throat and replied with a boisterous shake of my head. “No, ah, all looks great so far.”

“When you’re ready, mam, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.”

I smiled and shook her hand. “That’ll be great, thank you.”

Amarachi nodded and strode out the door.

“One more thing, Amara.”

She spun around. “Yes, mam?”

“Please call me Preye.”

She smiled, looked me in the eye, and nodded. “Welcome to Jitech, Preye.”

I saw her wave at a colleague and settled on a desk office right outside my door.

Interesting.

Another call from the desk phone had me hurrying towards it.

“Hey, baby girl.”

“Daddy?” I quizzed.

“Of course. Who did you think it was, President Obasanjo?”

I chuckled at his quip.

“How are you settling in?”

“I don’t know, Dad. I think they got me confused or something.”

“Why’s that?”

“I was supposed to resume as an intern, but here I am in my own office, having my very own telephone, and guess what, I have a PA.” I craned my neck to be sure I didn’t imagine Amarachi situating herself on a work desk outside my office. “Yup. I’m both confused and slightly embarrassed for them when they realize they’ve mixed up my job role.”

“What role?”

“IT manager.”

“You know computers, don’t you?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“You graduated top of your class, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’re right for the job.”

“As an IT manager?”

“Come on, baby girl,” my dad scoffed, “You didn’t think I’d allow Banji to make my only daughter a below-average employee, now did you?”

“What? Did you do this?”

“Relax, Pinkie,” Dad said, calling my nickname with his special brand pronunciation—Peenkee. “Managing a department is not a big deal, just be yourself and do what you know how to do best, converse with computers.”

I sighed.

“You’ve got this, baby girl. Now make me proud.”

The call from my dad made the office and all its fancy trimmings seem well-deserved. I even spun my chair and giggled as it whirled me around, placed my feet on the desk, and would have cackled had Ayiba’s approaching form not unsettled me.

He stopped to chat with Amarachi, laughed with her even, and wiped every trace of amusement off his face the minute his eyes met mine.

Shit. I muttered as his lashes fluttered to my feet resting languidly on the desk. I snatched them off, adjusted my blazers, and sat up straighter than my spine would normally allow.

FIVE

QUARRY

I can’t tell you why the blank look in his eyes made me feel like I’d done something I needed to apologize for. I, to this day, struggle to come up with a reason for feeling ashamed as I watched him sit across from me. All I felt and was markedly aware of was the vibrating buzz of my body, the ring in my ear, and the overwhelming need to please him. 

“Ma’am,” he said in an indolent voice. “Nice to meet you. Again.”                                         

“I may not know the culture around here yet, but seriously,” I scoffed to cover the catch in my breath. “You guys are seriously overselling this ma’am thing.”

He raised a brow in response.

“My name is Preye and as I’ve told Monica and Amarachi, I prefer to be addressed as such.”

“But you’re the boss nau. Our—he made air quotes—new madam. Don’t you think calling you Preye would count as insolence?”

“Not if I insist.”

“I don’t,” he snapped, then sucked in deep breaths and flashed me a tight smile.

“Madam Preye,” he said, “There was a system crash a while back that led to the dismissal of Chi… Mr. Chidi Nwakama.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, feeling a fast build-up of irritation at his insolence. I may be caught somewhere in the haze of whatever frisson of attraction orbits around us, but I’d be damned if I let him disrespect me. Reclining on my chair, I watched him watch me, allowing the silence to grow from solemn to discomfort as we stared each other down. He broke eye contact, grinned, raked a derisory glance at me, and slapped a file I wasn’t aware he had on the desk.

“The crash led to the company losing essential data and is currently costing us a lot of money,” he continued. “Can we talk about your plans on how to fix it?”

My brain went from battle mode to shooting blanks.

“What are the options?” I asked.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he sneered, “To provide options…steer us out of the storm.”

“While I’m eager to give out suggestions on best ways to fix and avoid a system crash,” I said in a calm tone, “I am, however, open to listening to the steps you’ve taken to fix your shit.”

“My shit?” he chuckled, raked shocked eyes at me, and laughed. “What a way to put it.”

“Listen, Mr. Ibiware,” I snapped. “It appears you don’t like me.”

“Yeah?”

“And frankly I don’t care about your feelings.’

“What else is new?”

“Excuse you?”

“It must be nice being you. Beautiful, rich, having life handed to you on a platter, and strutting around taking people’s jobs simply because you were born on the platinum side of life.”

“I don’t know what you think you know about me but—”

“Oh, I know plenty,” he flew out of his seat, ran a palm across his neatly cut high-fade, and regarded me with such pain in his eyes I could have sworn they almost shed a tear. “This shit as you so rightly called it is yours to fix, madam Preye. Fix it or run to daddy dearest with your tail squeezed between those—his gaze dropped to my chest—bewitching titties.”

With my mouth wide open, I followed his exit and flinched at what would have been a slam if the door wasn’t made solely of glass.

SIX

CROSSHAIRS

I guess it needs no mentioning that he not only went out of his way to avoid me, but he took great measures to cast wide berths between us whenever we ran into each other in the office hallway. He avoided making eye contact, gave seal-lipped responses to my hellos and good mornings, and made me more of an outlier than my inexperienced managerial job did.

“The previous IT guy was his friend,” Amara said when I, on one frustrated night told her about his behavior towards me. “He considers you responsible for that.”

Why shouldn’t he, though?

I walked into the premium package at Jitech simply because Dad made them a huge donation they couldn’t refuse. It sucks to admit, but I represented everything Ayiba hated—rich and privileged. So, I guess seeing me was a jarring reminder of who he was. The other. A large percentile of people who groveled from the bottom while nepotistic individuals like my father ran the show.

Was that why, I wonder, I fought so hard to prove myself? I worked harder than the hardest worker, stayed later than most, and prepared for every meeting just so I’d share intelligent insights. I worked hard, so hard in fact to get Ayiba to see me. The real me. The Preye without the burden of being born a Wilcox. The Preye whose thoughts revolved only around the one person she should have avoided.

The one who found his walking into my office after six weeks of making me his enemy so intoxicating that my head spun for a good minute.

“I hear we’re calling in a third party to help fix the crash,” he said.

“Yes.”

“So, you did run to Daddy after all.” He winked.

Determined not to let him get a rise out of me, I let his snide remark slide. “The crash was—”

“Beyond you shey?”

“Mr.—”

“Calm down.” he chuckled. “Relax those brows, okay. I was just joking. Anyway, what can I do to help?”

“At this point, nothing.”

Sitting across from me he said, “I may be in accounting, but I do know a thing or two about data and systems management. I helped Chidi set up some aspects of the system.”

“Really?”

“Actually, no,” he chuckled. “I’m just, ah, scouting out ways to bring myself to ask the question that has been on my mind.”

“I’m listening,” I replied as I picked up my phone to a text message from my dad. I smiled at the phone, typed a response, and returned my attention to Ayiba in time to see him masking off a livid look.

“Boyfriend?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Is that a boyfriend you’re texting?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“What do I need to do to make you my business, Preye?” The look in his eyes deepened as he leaned forward.

“And why would you want to—”

“I sense a connection between us.”

Words failed me. Not even air filled my lungs. All I did was stare at him as he got off his seat, kneeled before me, and pulled my chair closer.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking.”

“What?”

“You’re flushed.”

“I’m what?”

He pulled me closer and sucked in a breath. “I can smell your arousal, babe, and if this weren’t an office, I’d pull up your skirt right now and eat you out.”

I jumped out of my seat, took quick breaths, and thought of nothing more than to slap the annoying smirk off his face.

“God, you really do want me. Don’t you? Look at you shaking.”

I swallowed my beating heart, closed my eyes as a paralyzing sensation overtook my body, and breathed out. “Ayiba—”

“Preye,” he grinned, standing at his fullest heights. “We’re adults, honey. Let’s not play games. I want to fuck you.”

“Are you always this blunt?”

“When I see something I want? Yes.” He wrapped both arms around my waist and I let him, sighing at the sweetness of our bodies touching. There was no denying it, I did want him. With Amara gone and the office quiet, it was just us. Me, him, and the burning desire raging my soul. If he had as much as popped a button, I would have… damn I would have taken what he offered with a side of ranch.

“I’m into you, Preye.”

I was into him too. But I couldn’t speak. I only felt my heart racing in my chest and my breath turning to smoke.

“Break up with that boyfriend.”

He planted a kiss on my lips, winked and strutted out. 

SEVEN

THE UNTAMED

The symptom most common to having malaria is fever; not to add weakness and loss of will. That was Ayiba. He was my sickness. A special strain of malaria fever designed just for me. Symptoms of my affliction to him presented differently. Sometimes it was a burning fever from mere thoughts of him. Other times, it was a knee-jerk clench of my stomach whenever someone mentioned his name.

So, when I ran into him again that late, rainy night in April, it was only natural that my heart would fly out of my chest.

It happened on a rainy Monday night. The type of rain that calms Lagos, making it exhale from the sweat and hustle. It was those types of overzealous rains that flood the road, sink cars, cause massive gridlocks, and make Lagosians trapped in poorly ventilated commercial buses trek home.

As was her culture, Amara left at the strike of 6. “I need to get home before the rain starts,” she said, a bad decision for the rain started five minutes after her departure. Being one used to working till the security man called for lights out, I labored over a few files, spoke to my mother, and assured her I wasn’t going to miss dinner while walking briskly towards the elevator.

His sudden presence brought a chill to my core, then heat, and a fast race of my heart. What in the world was that feeling, though? What about his deep gaze, askew tie, and quiet observance caused me to lose my cool?

“You’re going out of your way to avoid me, Preye,” he said.

“Hi,” I replied, still barely breathing. “I’ve been busy.”

He flashed me a small smile, raked a seductive gaze down my entire form, and walked in step with me. “Got a minute?”

“No.”

“I need you to see something before you leave.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“It can’t. Besides, don’t tell me you plan on leaving in this rain.”

“I can manage.” I called the elevator, holding tightly to my purse like it held the remote control to my composure.

“This can’t wait, Preye. My job is on the line for it.”

It was the look on his face, the tone of his voice, how he drew out the last syllable of my name like it meant something. It was…. something that had no name. Whatever that thing was, it held me in place, kept me from stepping into the elevator when it came, and made me turn to look at him.

“Okay,” I said, shrugging. “I’ll spare a few minutes.”

His office, unlike mine, was designed for comfort.

“I spend the nights here sometimes,” he explained.

“It’s homey.”

He flashed a flitting smile, pulled out his computer, and went into a litany of his challenges as regards his department. While he was speaking, I detected the errors he complained about and stated them.

“Didn’t anyone tell you to organize your files?” I said. “It looks like a pigsty in here.”

He chuckled. “Oya nau, madam IT manager. Work your magic.”

He got off the desk and left me to work. He walked towards me a few minutes later, clutching a glass and handing me another.

“What’s this?” I asked distractedly, my eyes glued to the computer screen.

“Cognac”

I snorted. “Is that legal? Drinking in the office?”

“It’s after hours, Preye,” he said softly, leaning on the desk with one of his legs grazing my thigh. “Everything we do from here on out is legal.”

I rolled my eyes, took quick sips, and concentrated on my task at hand.

“There!” I announced a few minutes later. “I’ve unearthed the file you seek and arranged others in clearly labeled folders.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” he chuckled, his gaze boring into mine.

“It’s something even Monica would have figured out in seconds,” I said, waving off his gratitude and emptying my drink.

“Preye,” he said when I got off the seat to walk towards the door.

There it was again. That syllabic drawl, the huskiness in his voice, the… auditory love he made to the letters when he called my name.

“Yeah?” I said, heart racing.

“You’re in my head.”

I sucked in a nervous breath and mentally admonished myself to keep walking, make it to the door, and leave the balmy office that grew a shade darker with every blink of an eye. I felt him before he pressed his body on my rear.

“The real reason I asked you here was…” he left the sentence hanging on his hot breath fanning my nape.

“Was what?”  I asked in that annoying squeaky voice.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“It’s um, cold.” I moved a step forward, he matched it. “I need to leave, Ayiba.”

“You will,” he said, turning me around. I closed my eyes and exhaled, too afraid to open them…scared of the part of me I’d reveal. “Preye.”

“Ayiba, I—”

“Look at me.”

“I—”

“You feel this, too, baby. Admit it.”

He pressed a kiss on my forehead, took my palm, and placed it on his chest. “I feel your heart beating as fast as mine.”

“I’m—”

“Open your eyes, Preye. Look at me.” I did in time to see his lips descend on mine.

Nothing, no vaccine or intervention would have kept my body from erupting like it did just from that one kiss.

I wrapped my arms around him, my heated body breaking into sweat, my shaking legs sinking me to the ground. He lifted me, wrapped me around his strong arms, and placed me not so gently on his desk while claiming my lips and wrapping my legs around his waist. At the brush of my sex to his firmness, a sudden primitive hunger pierced sharply into my groin and left me wincing in pain.

I snatched his lips, undid his buttons with shaking hands, moaned when he yanked off my panties, and let out a loud growl when he touched me.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.”

“I am.”

“Shit.” He dropped to his knees and pressed me to his mouth. My body buzzed, thrashed around, burst into a million stars.

Ayiba.

My man.

My heaven and hell.

I was ravenous for him as he was for me.

Fuck me! Fuck me now.

He must have heard my thoughts, or perhaps I said it out loud. That singular beckon released the animal in us, made him do things to my body I never thought possible.

“You hurt me, Preye, hurt me by making me wait.”

“I’m sorry,” I cried, gritting and writhing in rapture as the sensation of his burning lips on my entrance vibrated my legs.

“I should punish you,” he whispered, ran his tongue on my clit, and sucked.

Ohhhhhh, I sighed, then shrieked in impatience when he suddenly stopped. I threw angry eyes at him, saw him regarding me in blazing intensity, and exhaled when he said:

“But I can’t. I want you so bad it’s killing me.”

Yes! I moaned as he resumed tonguing my pussy. The sparks that rippled through me at his insistent stroking let loose a primitive moan that reverberated down the office.

“Shit!” I groaned, surprised at the intensity of my orgasm.

“Can you marry a guy like me?” he asked, grazing my sex with his shaft.

“A guy like… ouch!” I winced when he suddenly thrust his cock into me.

“What the hell?” he snapped.

I pushed off him.

“You’re a virgin?”

I cringed as he stared at me in a look I couldn’t make out.

“You are!” He stated.

Then he gave a short sarcastic laugh, stood arms akimbo, and regarded me musingly. “Which tree of the Garden of Eden did you fall from?”

“The invisible tree, obviously.” I got off the desk, making a quick grab of my clothes.

“What are you doing?” he asked, grabbing the clothes from me.

“What does it look like?”

“You’ve not answered my question.”

“Your question?”

“I asked if you would marry a guy like me.”

“A guy like you?”

“A broke Nigerian guy.”

I gave him a puzzled frown.

“I know your father, Chief Wilcox. Although, why you left off sitting on Daddy’s throne for this beats me.”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you, Ayiba,” I said, pushing off him.

He scoffed, tightened his hold on me, and grinned.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Do you think you could marry me?”

“You and I don’t know each other, Ayiba.”

“We don’t?” He ran his eyes down my body.

“Sex doesn’t equate a lasting marriage.”

“Who said anything about a lasting marriage.” He pulled me into his arms. “Say yes, Preye.”

Yes. I thought.

My body wanted Ayiba, screamed out to him, why wait, then?

Seriously why do people engage in long-term courtship anyway?

“Preye,” he said, pulling me astride him. “Marry me and I promise I’d give you a sizzling marriage.”

“Why can’t we just leave it at sex?”

“Because a guy like me doesn’t come across a girl like you often.”

When Ayiba broke through my wall of resistance and began a slow rhythmic thrust, I knew there and then that I had lost not just my body to him.

But my heart, soul, and common-fucking-sense.

EIGHT

BOTCHED

They say people do crazy things when they’re in love, worse when the sex is too good. But, as the saying continues, they recover in the end, right their senses.

Not me.

I made Ayiba my center. No one, not even my beloved brother Ebizemor could talk me out of it. As far as I knew, Ayiba was the axis upon which my universe spun. After six months of satisfying sex and intoxicating lovemaking, we were pronounced husband and wife at a small ceremony in Ikoyi.

My parents hated him for sure. My dad thought it was me rebelling. My mom took it as a failure on her part; she didn’t raise me well enough. But who cared? They weren’t the ones marrying him. Besides they didn’t know him like I did. They didn’t see how his face lit up whenever I entered a room. They didn’t see how hard it was for him to hide his love for me. How he never ceased to comment on my beauty. It didn’t matter what side of the bed I woke up on, Ayiba always looked at me and made me feel like I was and always would be the most beautiful woman to ever walk the streets of Lagos.

Our dating may not have ticked the box of the ideal, but I was determined to spend the rest of my life growing into the woman he would go the long haul with. I agreed with him when he said he didn’t feel right working at Jitech with me as his boss. Cleaned out my savings to help fund his startup—an auditing firm. I bullied my father to employ his company and refer his friends our way.

I idolized Ayiba, thought him smart and hardworking when he called for weeks on end to spring the “I’m working late” tale.

I didn’t think much of it when he asked me to foot most of the bills at the house Daddy bought us in Bourdillon. I shrugged it all off as his trying to find his footing as a startup entrepreneur.

When he suggested we invest in Bade Incorporated a few months after setting up his company, I welcomed the idea with open arms.

“I’ll handle the whole process, Preye,” he said excitedly. “Just get the money.”

I frowned. “The money?”

“Yes, nau. Did you seriously think I have the type of money required to invest in Bade Inc.?”

“Um…. Yeah?”

“Ah,” he chuckled, grabbing my waist and planting a light kiss on my lips. “Your man is a billionaire in progress, babe.”

“But…but what about the businesses daddy has been swinging your way?”

Every trace of laughter melted off his face. “Don’t insult me. Why do you always look for ways to remind me of the favors your dad is doing for me. Ehn?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean what? I’m your husband, Preye. I have every right to your father’s money the same way you do.”

“I’m just saying, babe. We’re in business. We should be able to make our way financially without having to depend on Daddy.”

He hissed. “Abeg. Stop all that nonsense you’re saying. What do you know about running a business? Do you think you’d just wake up and become a billionaire overnight? Ask your father if he made his billions overnight.”

He paced, ran a hand on his head, and let out a loud exhale. “Look, if you don’t want to help me forget it. I’ll find the money somehow.” 

“I want to, Ayiba.”

“Then talk to your dad.” He took me in his arms. “I’m trying to make a better life for us, baby. I hate asking you to do this, but I need your help on this one.”

I got him the money, not from my dad, no. My pride wouldn’t let me. I raised the money, mostly from my trust fund—which I accessed upon turning 26, and the rest from a loan I got from my brothers.

The money I gave to Ayiba to invest in Bade Incorporated was $2 million.

After concluding the deal, he took me out to dinner, showered me with expensive gifts, created time to vacation in Kenya, and was always home. I soaked into the bliss, thought his ‘rake and rambling ways’ were over, and decided it was time we started a family.

When I informed Ayiba we were having a baby, he regarded me queerly and said a tepid, “Yay.” The weeks that followed his response showed me just how “Yay” he found the news. He switched my antenatal drugs with abortifacient pills.

When the bleeding started, my doctors assured me they were regular, but the spotting grew until I woke up one morning in a pool of blood.

That should have been the smell of the coffee that woke me to his bullshit. That should have made me leave.

But it didn’t.

I stayed with him; hoped we would get better, even after I found the pills he poisoned me with, and after I spent a few weeks at the hospital battling to stay alive while he went MIA on a “business trip” to South Africa.

I fucking stayed.

My life upped the velocity of its downward spiral when I returned from work some months after losing the pregnancy to find half a dozen people in the living room. The acrid smell of chemicals hung in the air. The coffee table was dusted with white powder, and strangers lay sprawled across our furniture. Ayiba laid on the couch, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

“You’re home early,” he slurred, his words barely coherent.

“It’s past nine, Ayiba,” I replied, my voice trembling. “What’s going on?”

“We’re celebrating,” he grinned, swaying as he approached me. “Closed a major deal.”

His nose twitched, and he sniffed repeatedly. In that moment, the veil of denial I had carefully constructed over two years of marriage shattered.

NINE

PREY

I turned to God. I prayed and fasted that he would restore and save my marriage.

Ayiba assured me he wasn’t an addict. He only took coke occasionally.

“You know me, babe,” he swore. “I’m not that guy.”

I wanted to believe him; I did believe him.

When Monica suggested I invite Jesus into my marriage, I jumped at it. I attended the church services she invited me to and asked about ways to pay my way into getting special favors from God. The pastors assured me I needed to have faith.

“Trust and obey, sister,” they said. “God will save your marriage.”

I trusted, obeyed, and docilely suffered fools.

My trusting and obeying days came to a rude awakening when I followed a hunch to Bade Incorporated to find out about my investment.

“What can we do for you, Preye?” A tall, bearded man named Ayo Agbaje said to me.

“My husband, Ayiba Ibiware, bought into your company a while back.”

“Okay.”

“It’s been a year, and I’m yet to hear anything concerning it.”

Ayo’s brows creased into a perfect V as he gazed at a desktop computer. “We, ah, don’t have any record of an Ayiba Ibiware. Could it be he did it under a company name?”

“Try PAI Limited. That’s our company name.”

“Nothing.”

“Please check again,” I said in a voice that came from the pit of my esophagus.

“I have, ma’am,” he said, regarding me in a look akin to pity. “We always keep our investors abreast of their investments. Even if their spouse initiated the move.”

My world tilted on its axis. This company, Bade Incorporated or whatever they called themselves, ought to have made a mistake. Two million dollars? Vanished. Just like that? Never.

“Please check again, Mr. Ayo,” I said, taking deep breaths. “I’m sure it’s there somewhere.” He did, spending hours making calls and talking to me about financial security, this, that, and steps I could take if I wanted to call their records to questions.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, standing up to leave. Ayiba made the move, he alone would know how to fix it.

I drove home with those thoughts whirling around my head. Ayiba would know what to do. He would know what to do. The festive lights of Falomo roundabout mocked me. The nativity scene, once a symbol of hope, now seemed like a cruel joke. I slowed my car to a crawl at a mild buildup of traffic and fixed my gaze on the artful arrangement of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus in a manger.

The view always cheered me up and filled me with the joys of the festive Christmas. Not today.

Ayiba would know what to do.

He would know what to do.

Two million gone just like that?

Impossible.

Ayiba would know. He’d know what to do.

 I chanted these words as I drove away from the enchanting view of the glowing Christmas lights to my home in Ikoyi.

Thank you for reading. Expect the concluding part next Friday. While waiting, please check out my other books here. XOXO