You’re in high school, but you’re not like the rest of us. The rest of us who are shipped off to some remote boarding school in the middle of nowhere and the only communication we get from boys is once in a while letters drenched in second grade perfume. No, you’re well off, your parents are people in society so you attend a hoity-toity high school. Something that rolls out the tongue nicely, like Strathmore, Braeburn, the works.
You’re sixteen, call that sweet sixteen. You have thick flowing hair, the kind that doesn’t need salon every other weekend to glow. Your breasts have started checking in and it looks like they’ve been travelling business class. You’ve noticed how your nipples pierce your blouse dangerously when you’re aroused. You’ve noticed how full your hips have gotten. They’ve become tourist attractions of sort’s, carelessly breaking men’s neck with no apologies. And even though you live under your parent’s roof with nothing to your name you’ve started feeling yourself. You feel grown, you feel like a woman and nothing confirms this more than Ebale.
Ebale is a working class man. It starts as harmless flirting on Facebook, he tells you he is single so you arrange a meet up. He is tall and impressive and could pass as an underwear model any day of the week. You don’t know what gets you smitten, his good looks or his BMW X5.
You’ve always wanted to be a lawyer, there’s something about law that intrigues you. Having a man’s fate in your hands, making the world a little better by wielding justice in your very loins. But not today, studies can take a back seat, after all you’re whatsapping with Ebale. He invites you for dinner,
“Hey you, how does eating out tonight sound?”
“Its past 8, I’m already in bed,” you chime.
“Come on sleepy head the night is still young, I’ll send you a taxi.”
And because money usually comes with a busy schedule you’re used to nanny parenting, the same nanny who can’t tell you shit and that’s how you find yourself at a yuppie hotel having a candle lit dinner with someone you barely know.
The next thing you remember is waking up in one of the hotel rooms with Ebale beside you with a raw, uncomfortable feeling between your inner thighs. “You were awesome last night.” Ebale whispers. You grin, a scared grin and run frantically around the room picking up your clothes which are scattered everywhere.
…It soon becomes routine…Ebale develops a taste for you and you also develop a taste for him. “Let’s use a condom this time babe?” You stammer, unsure. You’re on your wits end, the only thing that encourages your confidence is Ebale’s masculinity. “Come on sweetie it’s not sweet with rubber…”
…Three months later you’re vomiting and panting. Is it food poisoning? ‘It must be that Chinese food we ate at that shady joint in Yaya.’ You think to yourself as your nanny rushes you to hospital…. You’re pregnant… The first person you think of calling is Ebale, the phone is picked up on the 3rd ring… It’s a woman’s voice on the other end. “This is Ebales wife how can I help you?” You drop your phone shaken and shuttered. You fall on the uncomfortable hospital bed with clenched teeth wondering how far your law ambitions will be set back.
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I like to think of myself as a reader who writes, a Pan-African who thinks with the tips of his fingers, but when I’m not molesting the keyboard I’m usually destroying yogurt (not Frusion) or staring into the vastness of space.