Love Like No Other | by Kesiena | An African Story

As I walk past the crowd, with the police men shielding me from angry onlookers, I overhear my mother talking to the press;

“No comment please. I am not her mother!” she hissed.

I smile. Mum can be such a drama queen! An old whore whose philandering ways not only killed papa but also made papa’s relatives kick us out of his house penniless.

I enter the court room head held high. Today, I would know my fate. The press would have a field day with my story.

Whatever happened, I would not beg.

Never!

I look around the court room searching for him. He’s seated at the exact corner of the room where he’s been sitting for the past months since my trial.

He looks really different with his bleached hair under his panama cap. Sadly, he has had to cut his beautiful dread locks. His beautiful brown eyes now hidden under black contacts and geek shades and though I have never really liked the nerdy look on guys, he still looks as handsome as I remember him.

He winks at me.

I smile and give him a nod. A wink back could be misunderstood.

I sit through the whole trial, speaking only when spoken to.

You’re lost?

Then it’s best I bring you up to speed.

***

When mum came home with Tuoyo, I was studying for JAMB exam for the 3rd time (and before you talk anyhow, I sabi book. Even sef, while I was in Vivian Fowler, when papa was alive, I used to be top in my class before mum placed me in a public school so razz, we wouldn’t even send our maid there. That was when we had money).

Looking up from my book, I was shocked and angry because I couldn’t understand how mum had snagged such a hottie!

He looked every inch the sinful fantasy I had been having.

Tall? Check.

Dark? Check.

Handsome? Check. (Too handsome to be a school bus driver if you ask me)

Kind of like Idris Elba meets *insert your own fantasy here*? Yup! That was Tuoyo.

From the way mum treated him, I knew she really liked him and was determined to make it work. The only problem was that I liked him too and wanted him for myself.

So when I woke up in the middle of the night because someone’s fingers had found its way under my nightie, I stayed still, knowing who it was and relishing every moment of it.

I experienced everything…the tingling in my toes, the butterflies in my stomach, the rush of blood between my thighs and the thumping of my heart which I could clearly hear reverberating in my ears.

My knees? Jelly!

Soon Tuoyo and I were in a whirlwind relationship characterized by constant BDSM sexcapades…and no it was nothing Grey or kinky. Just brutally Tuoyo.

In the kitchen? Check! He used the hot boiling ring on me, and I loved it.

On top of Mama Dimeji’s freezer in the dingy passage? Check! We both got electrocuted four times as we went at it.

In the shalanga we shared with 32 other neighbors? Check! I grazed my cheek as he roughly pressed my face against the rough spirogyra infested walls.

I learnt everything about sex from him and soon I saw him as a god. I lived on his every word and my 19 year old inexperienced self did practically anything he asked of me.

Soon enough, mum got to know about our affair and kicked me out of her bacha. She didn’t raise me to be a man snatcher, she said as she threw my clothes out on the potopoto street in Fafunwa.

I moved in with Tuoyo in his run down crib in Agege and we lived blissfully like a married couple for three years until I started to notice a few things.

For starters, our sex life began to dwindle. Though we still tried out strange and exciting things, I could see the discontent on his face after each romp. And every time I asked him what I could do to make him satisfied, he would simply tell me that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. This infuriated me so much because he knew I was ready to do anything to please him.

But that didn’t bother me as much as the fact that Tuoyo loved children. In fact, children swarmed around him like he was the pied piper of freaking Hamelin fondly calling him Uncle T. I hated this so much because I didn’t like children.

But for Tuoyo I could tolerate anything.

Of course, it only seemed natural considering he was a school bus driver however, I noticed there was always a child in the house whenever I returned from the salon where I worked. I also noticed the kids seemed to be between the ages 9 to 12—never older, never younger.

One fateful day, I returned to see a small mob protesting in front of my house. Being a sharp Lagos girl, I quickly hid in a corner as I called out to a passer-by to ask what had happened.

“You never hear?” the bleached yellow pawpaw woman replied. “One pikin tell him mama say that bus driver, uncle T, abi wetin dem dey call am sef, dey chook hand inside their nyash for bus come bribe them with buns when him finish.”

I stood still in utter disbelief and anger as the woman ran to quickly join the growing crowd. Now it all made sense and for some strange reason, I wasn’t mad at Tuoyo for being a paedophile. On the contrary, I was mad because I knew this was what he was referring to when he said I couldn’t handle it.

I jolted out of my reverie as I began to smell smoke. I peeked out of my hiding place to see our house going up in flames. It hurt a great deal watching people destroy all we had worked so hard to acquire but at least the miserly landlord would suffer too.

Quickly, I called Tuoyo and warned him against going home.

“Meet me for baba ijebu side near my mama place,” I told him. “If you go house, na die dey wait you,” I said with the full intention of making him angry. He hated it when I spoke in pidgin.

Coming to terms with the thought of starting from the scratch was very difficult for us both. We knew we could no longer stay in Lagos so we gathered our savings and took a night bus to Umutu, Delta state. Tuoyo’s half blind mum was happy to receive us and was thrilled to have her son and his “wife” back home.

After a week of barely saying anything to each other — I was still mad — Tuoyo finally spoke up.

“If you’re angry with me, it just confirms what I’ve always told you. You can’t deal with what I like,” he started.

“So na small small children thing you prefer to my own abi?”

“Mimi, I’ve told you to stop speaking pidgin!” he replied angrily.

Then in a calmer voice he said, “Oya I like both. Your own is special but helpless children excite me better. If you can’t handle it, you’re free to go but it will make sense if we could do it together.”

Finally!

I smiled. He had said what I wanted to hear.

I looked up at him. “Na wetin…sorry…that’s all I needed you to say to me. To trust me to support you. See ehn, my love, so far you will be satisfied, I’m ready”

And that was how it all started.

***

After three long hours, the Judge finally spoke as I stood waiting to hear the verdict.

“Having presided over your trial I am sure of the following facts.

That you, Temisan were the brain behind the sexual assault of nine children — six males and three females. Also, that you were the master mind of the gruesome death of eight of these children, which from all indications you carried out enthusiastically as you cut them up in pieces simply to hide your sick obsession.

Having observed at length, I am sure that you, Temisan lack any real insight into the enormity of what you did, or have any genuine remorse for it either. I can only be relieved that you did not succeed in killing Master Oghenekaro who would have been your last victim if he didn’t pretend to be dead.

I am convinced that you had an accomplice but for the lack of evidence, my convictions shall remain only that — mere convictions.

Temisan Dickson, I sentence you to life imprisonment”

My mum screams at the back. More drama.

Parents of my victims seem vexed. They want me dead. Mschew! To die na beans?

I look at the man at the corner of the court room.

I smile at him.

Tuoyo smiles back.

*************

Post image by FED x via Flickr

About the Author:

Kesiena loves Dodo, Chocolate and Rock music (In that order). She hates cockroaches, the colour Yellow and Romantic movies. Kesiena believes in God and love. Because of her style of writing, she also writes under the moniker “Twisted.” Read on to know why…