Inexoma and a little Patch of Bush- Chapter 1

For Griffy & Prissy; both great muses...

*The term inexoma is a product of coinage. It denotes headache, sheer disinterest or any other frivolous excuse (s)he may have given you as to why (s)he wasn't in the mood for a bang. Enjoy!

Two months in an exclusive relationship with Abigail was more than Kofi had bargained for. Abby, formerly the heartbeat that powered Kofi's existence, was now more or less a canker Kofi desperately wanted to get rid of. It was no surprise that the topic of discussion among the gang at the pub tonight, as were previous nights, was none other than Abigail.

"It was dreadful I tell y'all" Kofi said to the boys. "It's the kind that looks like Edward Scissor-hands was hiding in there ready to cut my dick off!" Everybody laughed. He was talking too loud and the liquor-courage didn't seem to help at all.

"And do you know the worst part?" he asked to no one in particular.

"No, tell us." Charles replied courtesy-wise and leaned back to enjoy the onslaught, for Kofi was somewhat the gang-jester.

"Inexoma! That's right! Bloody cock-sucking inexoma!" he paused to take a swig of beer but ended up with an overstretched buccal mass and beer drooling down his chin. "The darned bitch always had to have inexoma right before we was about to do it." All but Kofi noticed Sam's grip tighten around his root beer.

"Were." Ted corrected.

"Yes! That fucking whore!" Kofi exclaimed. 

"No not 'whore'. Ted meant you ought to say 'were'..." But Sam's conservative correction was drowned by Kofi singing into his beer.

        ...Abby krasinii,

          Today inexoma, tomorrow inexoma?

          Adɛn? W'abɔ dam anaa?

          Wo #$% pafuu, ɛso nwii sɛ Osama abɔdwe...

And with that, the gang was kicked out.

It was time to head home. Clearly the liquor was having its toll on Kofi's judgment and arguably, his sanity. At this stage he was practically a baby and it took the combined strength of Charles and Ted to hoist him onto his feet. He was a drunken waste. Sam just stared at him- somewhat disgusted. Partly because Kofi had embarrassed them all; this was a bar he frequented and he didn't think he'd be able to show his face here again after Kofi's sordid exhibition of sheer crudity. But most of all, he abhorred the drunk because Abigail was his cousin. Clearly he'd been wrong to set them up. He however took solace in the fact that Kofi hadn't slept with her yet. He giggled softly and offered to drive Bluto Blutarski home.

Twenty-four hours earlier...

Time seemed to be hardly moving today. Kofi glanced at his desk-clock yet again. Just a few more hours and he was good to go home. He'd been antsy all morning and tired of the wait by noon. Today was date night and he had something very special planned for Abigail. A super-date that would seal the deal and get Abigail into his bed. Not that sex was the premise of this amorous entanglement for Kofi, but he'd been waiting a long time for this day. He'd been dating Abigail exclusively for a month and a half now and he thought there was no better time for them to take the relationship a step further. At least he thought so.

The snack-lady brought Kofi a burger an hour after noon but he knew better than to open the bag. She always had one crude trick or the other up her sleeve. Over the past months she’d fashioned several pranks on Kofi. One time, she'd placed a tampon dipped in ketchup inside his desk drawer. The poor lad flew into a frenzy when he ran out of staples and tried searching his desk drawer. He'd never forgiven her. But today was a special day for him and not even a tornado was going to ruin tonight for him.

                                                                                           ***

After work he visited the local garage down the road. He needed a car for tonight's date and who better to hook him up than his long-time friend Kojo, the owner of the car rental service. Kojo had resorted to opening his own garage  to kick-start his car dealership when downsizing strategies by government rendered his Economics degree useless after school. Now how's that for putting stock in today's young entrepreneurs with great business acumen? Kofi was not in luck however. All Kojo had left were two estate cars and a coupe and nobody wanted those; especially not a guy planning a super date. So after catching up, he went home and planned to get an Uber instead.

With two more hours to date-night, Kofi was growing restless. Questions raced through his mind. Questions he hadn't thought about and thoughts of not knowing who Abby really was broke his composure for a moment. Now the average reader would easily deduce that per the narrative so far, Kofi's thoughts would be discernibly half-witted. But here is where the reader errs in his presumption for Kofi, although dunce-like, posed to himself questions that were definitive of a first date checklist. What if she was vegetarian? or allergic to diary? Then surely Urban Grill and Smoothy's were not the way to go. Did she have allergies? Would she find him a tad presumptuous and too forward if he carried a condom? What if he leaned in for kiss and she rejected him? Would that be so bad? He thought about all the clutter in his home. Maybe he should've done something about the mess earlier. What if the date did go well and she came back to his place? Would the clutter or his browsing-history ruin chances of him getting some? That would be sorely disconcerting wouldn't it? He rushed over to his desk and opened his computer. A midget in latex suit with limbs bound by pink cuffs seemed to smile at him from the task bar. 'Oh boy!', he thought. He opened his browser: Chrome. History. Clear browsing data. Done. He felt better already. He glanced at his watch.

"There's still time", he muttered and called the cleaning lady to come declutter his man-cave; thence proceeding to the bathroom to shave. This wasn't just any ordinary date. This was to be a super date!

...to be continued.

It's A Dog's World

I sincerely pray that you all find a moral in this seemingly nonsensical piece; 'cos I don't! 
                                                                                       -The Author.
                                                                                                                           

 

Dearest Mandy,      

Find enclosed in this envelope pages from my journal.

                                                                                     Love,

                                                                                     Jonas.

PS. Forgive me.

                                                                                                                                                                                               

NOVEMBER 13, 2015.

Today I miss home. I miss winter and the cold. I hate the cold here though. It's nothing but acrid air that cuts like daggers. I loathe the Harmattan. I don’t like Ghana right now.

As usual, work was the usual.

I miss Mandy.

NOVEMBER 16, 2015.

…It was good seeing Araba again at work today. I wish I had gone with her and my other colleagues to Takoradi on the three-day Marketing Seminar. However, I had figured I'd stay behind and enjoy some alone time. I'm glad I stayed behind. All the same, I missed Araba and as far as social conventions went, I had greeted her with a box of chocolate and a kiss. In retrospect however, I may have lingered on her cheek a bit too long. Ah! Who cared, aside us both of course. She had tugged my tie gently drawing me to her and whispered, 'Tomorrow. 8 o'clock.'

Kwame had been eyeing us all the while but he didn't see the zipper-flap of my khakis stiffen.  Casually, I'd tugged the bottom of my jacket to hide the new bulge in my pants and walked off to my cubicle in a prance. I wonder how wide I was smirking.

NOVEMBER 17, 2015.

As usual, work was the usual. All day, I kept watching the time. I'm a patient man am I not? After work I took a detour on the way home. I needed gas and I needed food. I bought a burger. I wasn’t eating anything heavy for I needed to stay in shape for tonight- literally. I bought some lube and a pack of rubber too. Maybe I was a bit antsy about tonight. In these past few days of being out of close proximity with Araba, I had had time to think about both of us. Predominately, I as quite skeptical about the morality aspect of our relationship. But Araba and I are friends are we not? We were definitely not the strictly-friendly sort of friends- we were the beneficial kind. Regardless of this assertion, I was still looking forward to 8 pm tonight…

…and Araba's home was beautiful. I guess being the only child of an political mogul had its perks. I took a breath mint and pressed the doorbell. I waited. I looked at my wrist. It was 7:59 pm by my watch and my watch was a tad faster than GMT. Maybe I was too early. I rang the doorbell again nonetheless. This time the door opened almost instantly with the sexiest version of Araba I had ever seen standing in front of me. Damn! The coast had surely done her good. She smiled softly and for a second I stood mesmerized. She embraced me with a bosom-filled hug. I couldn’t help but take in the scent of her hair. It smelled like olives. She led me inside to the living area where she had set dinner for two.

Dinner was rather unusually long. We talked and laughed and reminisced- all this forced of course, for Araba had been gone for just three days and we both knew why I was really there. The sincerity of how fond she had grown of me was outstanding however- one commensurate with true love. But Araba and I weren't in love…

After dinner we shagged on the sofa. Then in the bedroom and in the shower, and finally on the sofa again. Turns out, she hadn't the slightest need for lube.

NOVEMBER 22, 2015.

My alarm went off at 7 am. Oddly enough, I loved Sundays. Aside the prospect of playing tennis with Sena every Sunday morning, I enjoyed scrutinizing the acts of TV ministers while I drank my morning juice. This morning's session aired one of my favorites, Bishop Obinim, and he was lying on top of a woman in a bid to exorcise her I assumed. My knowledge of the Akan language was still in the most elementary of stages but I did not need a translator to realize how perverse this man was…

…Sena was my boss' secretary. After running into her one Saturday morning on my first visit to Joe Might's Gym, we had both agreed to meet every Sunday to play tennis. Although I had never stepped good in her tennis cap and sports bra. Her shorts did very little to keep her arse in place as well. She was bodacious and she knew it. She particularly seemed to enjoy it whenever my eyes lingered on the crevice of her bosom. She would flaunt her curves at me and I would acknowledge them with a stiffening in my shorts. She noticed this of course and thus led to our first indulgence in the women's lavatory. It was quite intense since we had to round up forty minutes of coitus into a five minute quickie.  I hadn't anticipated how strenuous it would be but after a minute I was well adjusted. She had somewhat climbed atop me and pushed me to the wall. Subsequently my movement was very limited yet my pelvis worked its way around her crotch like a ball-and-socket joint, thrusting up and hard. Each gasp she took was punctuated by a hard yet soft moan. She moaned like a siren drawing me closer to wreckage. It was over in a flash. We both straightened out our clothes and agreed to meet the following Sunday. I love Sundays.

NOVEMBER 23, 2015.

I took a taxi to work today. It felt good to be driven for a change. I checked my mail and came across an archived mail I hadn’t ever bothered to read. It was sent by Araba about a week week ago. It felt pleasant to read. At least it until she signed off with ‘I love you’. I was in fix. I hadn't realized it soon enough. I loved Araba enough not to hurt her but I didn’t love her…

It was hard seeing her today. Seeing Araba at work wasn’t what was uncomfortable. Being around other women and knowing Araba was close by was. But Araba and I weren’t lovers were we? Casual partners- that’s what we were and yet every time she saw me smile at Sena the secretary, her face clammed into a mix between a hateful stare and heart-broken one. I knew she had heard the office-rumor about Sena and I but I had hoped she wouldn’t be bothered. Clearly she was. At times like this, I think about Mandy then about Araba and Sena then about Mandy again. 

Maybe I will rot in hell. They say men are dogs. I guess I'm a Great Dane.

A Tale of Two Spouses

“And she's got brains enough for two, which is the exact quantity the girl who marries you will need.”

                                                                                                   -P.G. Wodehouse 

                                                                                                                  
More often than not Araba had found herself musing over the picture of her great aunt Margaret and her sixty-something year old Caucasian husband, Tony. If there was anything at all she had learned earlier from them, it was not to ever get married. But here she was five years down the road married to some bloke everyone called Eric the Barber or Drunken Eric for short, and she was very much unhappy about it.

Now don’t be hasty in judgment for Eric the Barber wasn’t at all bad from the start of their enterprise. Some four years earlier, Eric would’ve rushed over to get the door for a rather beautiful and noticeably underweight Araba. Oh how fabulous they both looked in their Sunday clothes. Eric in his checkered tweed jacket and maroon pantaloons with a hint of orange handkerchief overflowing his breast-pocket. Araba was less flamboyant in apparel but her clothes and dainty shoes always added up nonetheless. All Eric wore now however, were a pair of worn-out blue overalls turned grey from years without washing. He’d gained some pounds too and had taken to drinking as a full-time job. Araba had also undergone some transformations of her own. She too had gained a lot of weight and her hair was now a constant mess. She had fancied keeping it pretty for Eric. It didn’t matter now though. Even if she shaved it all off it still wouldn’t matter. Eric never noticed it anymore. He never noticed her.

Drunken Eric wasn’t all bad from the very start. Four years earlier he’d been the emotionally nurturing Homo erectus whose erect member kept Araba’s joy and excitement high up the vertical scale- no pun intended. Now with four children and a set of twins on the way, she couldn’t quite recall the last time they’d laid together as wife and drunk. Sure she tried to focus on the house but something about washing cucumbers and aubergines always brought her back to square one. She reckoned emptying a sack of nuts would do the trick but that didn’t help either. Araba was desperate. She had come across some very suggestive toys online and had bought a couple but didn’t enthuse about them no more since in her own words, ‘honey aint sweet like sugar’. Of course she’d had a few intimate moments with Eric. Just the other morning upon waking, Eric had stared keenly into her eyes. She’d mistaken his bland stare for a passion-ridden one and so she readied herself for a French kiss. The chap however just squeezed her left bosom, mumbled some mambo-jumbo and then went back to sleep for another hour. Darn him! She didn’t need some poncey kissing- She just wanted a good ploughing! She was glad he was in bed however since on most nights, he was just too drunk to make it up the front porch. It was so ironic because they had an inside pooch. Eric mostly slept on the porch.

Just the other day the Johnsons had called Araba to come and get Eric. The Johnsons were the shrewd couple who lived eight blocks down the road. Apparently Eric had interrupted their romantic anniversary dinner after he stomped into the living room and took a crap on their coffee table. In his defense, a drunk Eric claimed the house was a public rest room and he ridiculed the Johnsons for feasting in there. He kept on swatting flies only he could see. ‘Oh Eric’, Araba exclaimed as she struggled to get him out of the house. For a moment she stood fixated at what would surely have been an eventful dinner. There was a bottle Cristal in the ice-bucket and there were petals everywhere. Simon and Garfunkel played softly in the background. Four years earlier, she and Eric had eaten like this almost every day. Oh how wonderful it had been. They had always enjoyed some really good wine. His favorite was Merlot. He always loved a good wine and secretly tried to collect them. Now that explained a lot. ‘Oh Eric’ she sighed as she forced him into the car and drove off in embarrassment, amidst a thousand apologies to the Johnsons.

This particular car ride was the longest she’d ever driven. A lot of seemingly random thoughts about cucumbers and nuts crossed her mind but she managed to shrug them off. She thought about the events that had transpired at the Johnsons’. Clearly Eric was getting out of hand and she hadn’t the faintest clue as to how to tackle the problem. She was but a woman trying to be the man of her man and this was too much for her to bear. A tear rolled down her cheek. She hastily rubbed it off but winced as pain shot through her cheek. It still hurt from Eric’s slap from the previous night. She just couldn’t take this anymore. All Eric had been was a drunk, an abusive husband and probably homosexual. She was beginning to doubt his sexuality. A week ago whilst pruning the bougainvillea out in the front yard, she’d seen Eric’s mate, Kofi come drop him off. The two had kissed goodbye and Eric had spent five minutes watching him pull out of their driveway and speed off into the distance. Call her paranoid but she was sticking to her guns. Her husband was probably gay. She slowed down as she approached their house.

The sound of crunching gravel cut through the midnight air as she pulled up into the driveway. Whilst driving she had failed to notice Eric throw up in the truck and now she cursed him under her breath. She struggled to get him out of the truck and into the house. He weighed a ton and she could go as far as the living area so she dumped him on the sofa. She needed a drink- a very hot one. She poured herself a scotch and sat across the living room staring at her excuse for a husband. She stared long and hard and just like that, she’d come to a decision. She couldn’t take this anymore. In one gulp she finished the tumbler and went upstairs to wake the children up. Some fifteen minutes later, Araba together with her kids drove off in the middle of the night to Grandma’s. She couldn't help but think about poor Eric nonetheless but she’d just had enough. She couldn’t take it anymore.