Wedding eves make most men if not all, tense. I was not an exception. I woke in the claws of trepidation, another young man tying the nuptial noose. Dread and uncertainty lodged in my heart like a nub. Sprawled on the double bed I stared up at the glassy ceiling, chewing the bitter pill of doubt. Though I was very much addicted to my fiancée, one could never really say never.
It was Saturday. Tomorrow, there would be no turning back.
Whew! I exhaled.
I rubbed my hands on the other side of the bed where she should have lain, but grasped a handful of white sheets instead. I imagined her pear-shaped face, her graceful neck, and her soft and succulent body lying by my side for the rest of eternity. But at some point in that train of thought, the picture of her being became crude, a graph of rough pixels; a mottled face, wrinkled hands and flabby skin. Nah. I grimaced and shook my head in reject.
Adama—the only terrestrial constellation in a world of mere mortals would never fade into such . . . such an old ugly lady. She would with time lose a little lustre, I knew, but not even age could take away her sublime, man-enhanced gorgeousness.
She would have been here, but for our earlier agreement—which was her idea—a week ago, to stay exclusive of each other till D-day. Prior to that, we were live-in-lovers who practically knew all there was to know about ourselves, which was why I thought the idea ludicrous when she had brought it up.
It was two weeks to our wedding day. Though the day was yet unborn, the cold that breathed through the small spaces around the locked windows was very much alive, biting into my bones until I could bear it no longer. Adama must have felt same for she snuggled closer to me, expertly doling out a fat black nipple to my acceptant lips. I held her as I too needed her warmth to survive the April cold. I curled into her embrace like a little child, dumping ego and playing the baby role for a while.
Our kisses and cuddling that morning was soft and tender, almost eager. I held her in my arms, temporarily withdrawing my lips from her bloated offering, effect of the recently implanted fluid-filled silicon bag. I trailed a kiss from her forehead down her slightly modified full lips, over the small recesses of her neck, across her flat stomach and down to her hollow navel, and slowly, very slowly, I snaked a coarse tongue down through her waistline and into her throbbing thighs. Voluptuous hips gazed at me, urging me to feel the roundness of their lustrous curves, yet another thanks to Dr. Simon. Adama moaned and sighed and stretched out before me like a savoury meal, one I could hardly wait to gulp down in a bite, if it were indeed possible to do so. I wasted little time . . .
Before the cock in the neighbourhood could crow six o’ clock, we both lay panting, exhausted from moaning countless and unremembered expletives.
That was when she brought it up.
“Emeka Love,” She said softly, trailing a slender finger with a polished brown nail down my sticky chest. That was her cue whenever she wanted something she knew I would not readily grant.
“Yes,” Still breathless, I waited to hear her demands.
“I was thinking,” She fixed savvy eyes into mine, her meandering finger(s) having finally found a resting place down my thighs. Her soft massage sent intelligible messages to my mind, waking my sleeping senses to the invitation of fresh sensuality. Though exhausted, I doubted if I could keep from grabbing her up again. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no sex freak or anything like it, but if you had been opportune to lay for one minute, with my Adama, your life like mine, would have been a cache of sensual bliss plus you would have given a new meaning to many words, starting with: “pleasure”.
So she went on. I listened, though my attention was divided for her good as it were. Or was it mine? I wasn’t so sure, for her smile unlike the rest of her, as she massaged me was no surgeons genius. Her eyes misted in that alluring way that had me speechless. The almost non-existence creases on her face lit up, moving up and down like the picture of the sea waves in the painting I had up on my wall.
“I was thinking, that maybe . . .” she rolled up doll eyes and stretched long ebony legs over my hairy thighs. I did not know when my hands drew her firmly from behind to nestle her breasts once more in the enclave of my soft palate.
“Wait . . .” she mock-scolded. Pursing her lips in a smile, she placed a firm hand on my chest, expertly extricating herself from my lecherous grasp. Then she continued. “You know since we are getting married in two weeks, I think it would be a good thing if we took a little break from ourselves, to see each other again on the 15th.” She rubbed her feet against my thighs and down my legs.
I held her hands and digested what she had just said. I didn’t like the idea.
“But . . .”
“Then our honeymoon would be perfect. Imagine having me after missing me for two whole weeks. It’ll be great don’t you think?” she said, cutting me in mid-speech in that voice of hers that reminded me of the Madonna’s of the world, made me wonder why she never took up a career in music.
“Is there any need for that really?” I asked.
“Yes there is,” she purred, sitting up on the bed. Her skin glistened as daylight trickled through the thin fabric of the curtains. “Think about it. Just imagine seeing me for the first time in my wedding gown, for the first time in two weeks.” She added dreamily. Adama had always been one for theatrics. That day, as she went on and on about the good a short break will do us, I had no choice but to oblige her.
How I got through to my wedding eve without her was still a miracle to me. We had lived together every day for three whole years that I had gotten completely dependent on her—it was the time, when coupling was encouraged to promote marital longevity and bliss. Now you understand how clumsy I had become in taking care of myself. It was no fun without my Adama.
I got out of bed, slipped my feet into a pair of bathroom slippers and walked lazily into the bathroom which was a few steps away from my bedpost. The sun hurt my eyes so I drew the curtains. I did #1, a bright yellow stream of fluid that had me worried. I made a mental note to see my doctor. I brushed my teeth and walked back into the room. By now, my eyes had become accustomed to the early morning stream of light. I walked with brisk steps into the kitchen, as if expecting to see a brewing pot of coffee or my robot busy cooking a pre-programmed meal. But no, the machine sat in a heap in a small corner of the kitchen, its metallic body and silver buttons staring blankly at me. Adama had not been so kind as to leave the robot’s activation codes with me. She changed them before she left, forcing me to get used to my own kitchen—a practice that had long faded since the twenty-second century.
My empty pots shone like the top of my head, which my friends considered funny for a man my age. My father had it; I was told my grandfather too was bald from birth, so it did not come as a surprise when I started losing hair from my crown at the early age of twenty two. Not even the modern day advancements in medicine could retard aging and maybe save my falling hair—not that I lost any sleep over it.
With a little difficulty, I set alight the monolithic electric cooker, filled up a teapot with cold tea from a tea dispenser and set its white bottom on the lighted rings. It did not take five seconds before the pot hissed to be let down. I turned off the heat and poured myself a steaming cup of black tea.
Walking back to the room, I placed the hot cup on my leg rest, sat down on the bed and rubbed my hands together to ward off the cold. So much for a depleting ozone layer; Onitsha was freezing cold instead of boiling hot like the twenty-first century tomes that lined my Library wall had foretold. Unluckily for me, my Heat Regulator had broken down two to three weeks ago and all agencies concerned were too busy working with the Capital to forestall an earth bound meteorite, which was expected to hit Abba in three weeks. My calls for a technician had been ignored.
Dispelling the cold, I thought about what lay ahead for me. The prospect gave me joy, but the jitters were more.
Most thought the institute old fashioned and rather remained live-in-lovers who considered having children as absurd. I had insisted on tying the knot with Adama, seeing the vultures that circled from a distance, awaiting the right time to swoop-in for the sultry kill. Not that I wanted children—that would have been like bringing angels into hell—but Like few guys, I wanted to cling to that one person I knew, that one person I could vouch for who was free from the growing epidemic of HIV, Herpes and Candida and the many more diseases that littered the streets. And most importantly, I wanted to be with that one person I cared about. Love was a strange word, almost alien to this century.
I had no such faith that if push came to shove, my bride-to-be would remain the faithful chick, regardless of her endless promises of loyalty. Ladies were never to be trusted with such matters, I thought, for they were fickle beings, susceptible to guile and hollow deceptions of the human-man. I stood up and paced the length of my room. At some point, I walked to the window, yanked it open and looked out. I saw a couple; hands intertwined walking past the glittering macadam with a sorrowful smile on their aged faces. I looked long at them, envying, wishing I could have such bliss in my day.