Imagine a warden who couldn’t find his way around his own prison.
That’s exactly how the warden looked like. He had personally decided to handle our paperwork even though the superintendent was available. And the poor man couldn’t even concentrate. He was lost in the clouds of glorious oily boobs.
Candy started squirming and exposing her already exposed breasts. I wanted to decorate her cheeks with the back of my palm, but I just eyeballed her instead. Amongst all of us she was the one with the smallest breasts yet she showed it off more often than any of us. If that girl had huge boobs she would place a headgear underneath and carry them like a trophy!!
Besides I couldn’t cut loose anyway. Thanks to two other bimbos who couldn’t wait till we were released before fighting like dogs in heat, we were all cuffed to each other. It was a pathetic sight.
There were about 12 of us. The lighting was dim so I couldn’t really see.
I had been told stories of these random arrests but I always thought I was too smart for them.
Besides I was a high-class worker and Deonne reserved us for high-profile people who prefer sophisticated venues to Deonne’s. But today, luck was clearly not on my side.
I work at Deonne’s Décor and no, we don’t decorate homes and offices; we decorate souls, literally. We rid you of all the tension in your muscles and leave you calm and satisfied. Deonne’s is a sophisticated establishment which offers comprehensive satisfactory services for clients.
At least that’s what it says on the signboard. But what it really was; was a brothel.
Deonne had scheduled a meeting with us earlier that day. She said there were new products from La Senza that she wanted to distribute. The usual was; she calls to inform you of the place, name of client and how much you’re taking and your cut. But this time we met at the brothel, in one of the rooms. Everybody was ooh-ing and aah-ing, La Senza always leaves that effect.
You want to walk around all day in nothing but bra and panties and you feel like your ass and boobs are worth a million bucks because they look so damn good in them.
Deonne shoved a small shopping bag into my hand and asked me to get ready; a client had requested for me. The other girls were tossing their panties off and slipping into the new goods. Deonne was shouting on top of her voice. I peeped into the bag. The panties were gorgeous! There was a black mesh thong with red trimmings at the edge and a bowtie on each side. I slipped my green panties off and put them on. I may have jiggled my ass in excitement.
We were just about to disperse when five (not one, not two, not three, but FIVE!!!) policemen bust into the room as is if it were a scene in NCIS. Next thing I know, we’re locked up in a smelly cell cuffed to each other.
I was sweaty and in need of a long luxurious bath. My left arm was bruised; one of the policemen grabbed and dragged me like I was Tasmanian’s club. I was greatly angered, my bra strap had come off and I looked totally ridiculous trying to strap it on. But none of this was as disturbing as the trauma my ass was going through.
The mesh thong was comfortably residing in the depth of my butt, and the edge of these new panties was tearing my skin apart. My skin was on fire. I wish I could free one finger; just one finger so I could remove this bloody thong out of my ass.
After five minutes of swinging my butt cheeks to and fro on the floor in an attempt to remove the thong, I started praying.
It was much worse. My whole butt area was on fire. The stupid thong was still comfortably ratting my ass out.
“God, I’ll go to church next Sunday, and in a decent dress. Please, just let them take these cuffs off. I promise to rock granny panties henceforth. Please”
The girl sitting next to me was staring hard at me.
If only she knew. If only….
I met him at Oxford Street, just before the bus station. He wasn’t exactly a Greek god but he was by far the first boy to hold my stare even after I was caught in the act.
We both jumped on to a bus and it wasn’t by sheer luck that we ended up on the same seat. No, not at all. I skipped four seats and 2 cute boys to go sit by him. You can’t blame me, you really can’t. There was something about him that drew me to him; it was as if he was on a permanent nonzero intrinsic magnetic moment and I was the shiny eager pin jumping on to him.
Dude was as black as a raven bathed in soot! I bet if he took a picture in the dark all you would see was his teeth and eyes. I eased into the seat so quietly it amazed my very own self, for within I was all bubbly and smiley.
After 10 and half minutes (yes! I was checking) of tossing my hair and pretending like I had some important piece of information on my phone, just so Mr. Black-is-beautiful would notice me, I finally gave up and proceeded to start the conversation myself.
“Hi, umm, have we met before? You look kinda familiar”.
I couldn’t believe myself. Really Nana Yaa, really? Is that the best you could do? Have we met before? Arrggh! I wanted the ground to open up. That was super lame! I always diverted to heavy Naija accent in an extremely loud voice whenever a guy used that on me. And here I was, asking the same bloody question!
He smiled, showing off those glorious white teeth.
“Perhaps, but even if we haven’t I’m pretty sure I’ve met you in my dreams”
Dude just redeemed me from my 30 seconds of bimboness. I couldn’t help smiling.
“I’m Joshua and you’re?”
“I’m Nana Yaa, but everybody calls me Naaya”….
And that was how I met Mr. Right
We were complete opposites. He was the shy-reserved-I’d-rather-sit-on-a-wall-and-read-than-be-out-partying type. I was the fun- exciting-thank-God-it’s-Friday-let’s-party-till-my-mum-runs-my-battery-down-with-her-constant-calling type.
He came from a struggling home; my parents were well to do.
He was a country kind of guy, I was bumping hip hop all day. We were from two very different islands.
I mean, if someone had told me I would date a guy who thought hip hop was ‘unhealthy’ music, I would’ve probably shoved my lace bra up their ass.
But he made me laugh, he made me smile, he made my insides tickle way before his fingers even touched me, he made me sleep on a mat and wake up with 7 mosquito bites the next morning and I still didn’t want to leave his embrace, he made me cry, and then melt in his arms as he kissed my pain away. I called him J, and he called me B. He was mine, just mine.
J’s mother was a bead maker. She made the most beautiful beads ever and thanks to J, I had a wonderful collection. He even named the ones on my waist after himself.
She was always looking for markets to sell in, so it was a very exciting moment for J when he found out his mother had been invited to exhibit her goods at a fair in Togo.
I was happy for him; his mother’s happiness meant a lot to him. I wasn’t excited about the idea of him going along with his mother though.
He would be gone for 7 long days, I’d miss my baby. But I didn’t really have an option.
So he left, with me crying shamefully as if he was leaving for Hawaii and I was stuck in Tuabodom. But he laughed at me and kissed me shamelessly at the bus station.
On the first day I waited anxiously for his call. On the second day I was mad that he hadn’t called. On the third day I was worried sick and couldn’t eat. On the fourth day, I was getting ready to leave the house for his place, to find out if there had been any news when my mother swept down the hall and hugged me furiously. I tried to break free but she wouldn’t let me. She was struggling to talk through her tears; there had been an accident…
It’s been nine months, four days since my baby left. I’m not mourning, I’m waiting.
His mother’s body was brought home for her burial. J’s body was never found.
My baby is not dead; he’s just finding his way back to me.
I mean if he dies I’m supposed to feel it the minute he passes away right? Just like how it happens in the movies. It’s just right that I should.
The only J I feel right now are the ones around my waist.
My baby is not dead, he’s coming home. And I’m waiting….
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