DEAR GOD… (By Stephen Toochi)

Dear God,

Please don’t add this prayer to the list of my unanswered prayers. I beg you. I plead with you, father.

Dear God,

Remember the last time I asked you for something really important, the last time I cried at the altar. Though today I’m not at the altar, I need you to answer me all the same.

The last time I solicited this type of help was at my husband’s Thanksgiving service, remember? Segun, my husband, the giant of handsomeness with a mysterious kind of smile — the smile that drew me to him. That Sunday afternoon when everyone wore smiles on their faces and felicitated with us. His testimony was venturing under the knife and coming out unscathed or was he scarred?

His surgery was that of prostate cancer. And before the D-Day, I have googled and asked many questions about its aftermath. The answers were disheartening.

Baba God,

As people waved their hands to you that Sunday in appreciation of the work you had done, I was rolling on the floor, tears cascading down my face. They thought my rigmaroles were an act of gratitude. Little did they know that all I was asking you that afternoon was for Segun’s ‘Kini’ to stand again as opposed to my findings.

That Sunday night, after family members and well-wishers retired to their various homes, exhausted from the activities, I needed to check his ‘Kini’ for myself. So I had my bath and walked into the room, still wrapped in my towel. My hair was dripping wet and my scent was a turn-on for Segun.

As I sashayed into the room, Segun was sitting on the bed, bare-chested, his leg entwined with the other. His face was fixated on his laptop but as my scent reached him, he raised his head, smiled and tossed the laptop aside. The gesture was interpreted by my aroused feeling as a sign of bring-it-on.

I neared him, snapped shut his laptop and advanced to his side. He was looking straight over me.

“Honey. Help me with my necklace.” I said and turned my back to him.

I’m used to his antics. He usually acts like he doesn’t want my bearded meat. Still, seconds after feigning ignorance he’d pounce on me and give me the best orgasm I’d ever have.

As his hands rested on my neck in an attempt to unhook my necklace, I let my towel fall off and turned to face him. His eyes widened with desire but became subdued by an unknown force. Normally he’d grab me and devour but that night, he looked down to his groins and up to my face, with a sad countenance before uttering the most devastating words I’ve ever heard.

“Honey. This thing is not standing. Ko dide rara.” he motioned to his third leg and took me into a hug.

God, my father. I shed tears that night. I was just a young wife with a boy. How did you expect me to survive? I survived long enough, what his ‘Kini’ couldn’t do, his hands and mouth did. Not until Lisa my friend called me a sex-starved woman. She was teasing me, she said until one Saturday afternoon, she took me to a restaurant and introduced Osita.

Osita was the lady’s man. The ease at which he pulled at my heartstrings amazed me. I played hard to get yet his soothing words, the squishy sounds he makes when he leans to give a peck, the composure at which he asks me questions. Oh boy! He blew me away. Did I fall for him, hard? Did I? I really couldn’t tell if I did until he found his hands around my bra, unhooking it to let the oranges roam in freedom. Until his lips found mine in the urgency of desperation until his ‘Kini’ found its way to my bearded meat. Until I yearned for his touch, for his caresses, his kisses and hugs. And even compared his ‘Kini’, his thrusts with that of old-time Segun. I even found his deeper, more fast and satisfying. Poor soul Segun, he has been a shadow of himself. I think he knows about my escapades but chooses silence.

Oh, God! Please save me. My chicken has finally come home to roost. You see everything. You know that as I make this prayer. I’m naked save for my lingerie, I’m also stuffed, stuck in a wardrobe reeking of manly perfume. My eyes are open to darkness. Osita’s girlfriend came visiting unannounced and the only hiding place was here. Placing my ears to the wooden door, I hear the outburst, I think she saw my dress.

Dear God,

If you don’t rescue me. No one will. Remember the list of my unanswered prayers is piling but I beg of you, don’t add this to it.

© Stephen Toochi

How useful was this post?

Click on a star to rate it!

Average rating 0 / 5. Vote count: 0

No votes so far! Be the first to rate this post.

About the author

I'm Dav-Oz, and  I'm the Chief Editor of The Dav-Oz Blog, a graphic designer and upcoming fashion designer.

I'm just your regular young Nigerian lad with dreams and hope for a better future.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *