Oh? It Is Caught By My Own Wet Bedroom Floor (3)

Cameron DuodoAs I walked into our house, I caught a whiff of the strong tobacco smell that the dozing Nana Ataa had been disgorging into the night air.
Nana Ataa was seated, as always, close to the open-hearth fire in our yard. Her proximity to the fire had nothing to do with the current temperature of the evening. She was just used to sitting at the fireside at night.

In years gone by, when her kids were still young, she would have been surrounded by them  and those of us who liked stories but were nit her own children and she would have been telling us stories. But now all of us had grown up and either flown the coop or had better things to be done with our time.

No one was to be seen in the house at night, but even if anyone had been there, they would have regarded story telling as a luxury they couldn’t afford to enjoy. Night time now was for “important things”. Such as producing families. Which meant listening to “stories” told under bedsheets or lying on pillows…

It must be heart breaking to grow old and be left alone by one’s kids (I mused, as I again sniffed the offensive tobacco smell Nana Ataa had been puffing out.) I mean, even me, who could have passed for the child of one of her more grown up children, had my mind on other things   because it was night time. Ha, I’d heard it said more than once that “esum kata adier so!” (night-time hides so many things from the world)! How true that was!

I reflected rather in a sort of maximum fast rewind because I knew that Awiraa Akua was standing behind my window waiting for me to let her into my bedroom or be discovered by a passer by that it was a pity that Nana Ataa’s stories no longer had an audience. You see her stories weren’t just about the obligatory Kwaku Ananse, the clever crook who outwitted everyone else, purely for his selfish purposes. Yes, she had some very funny Ananse stories, and she possessed the voice to accompany them with very melodious songs.

But what made her stories more interesting than other old people’s stories was that they told us about life as she lived it herself before we were born: for instance,  it was like to walk all the way from Asiakwa to Ada to buy salt. And carry it back on one’s head. The fear that took hold of them when they were sleeping by the roadside at night, exposing themselves to wild animals and highwaymen.

She was also wont to regale us with stories about “Obuom”  her younger twin sister, who had died in infancy and how she had been treated with extreme delicacy because her parents hadn’t wanted to lose her too. On a happier note, she would describe how it was to go to Kade “by the Kade Train”. She talked about the rail stops at Bosuso, Nkawkaw and “Pra Leiba” (Pra River).

In fact, she often used “Kade Train” as a metaphor for modern times: when something baffled and/or irritated her, she would mumble: “But what can you expect in these days when you can go to Kade by train?” (Formerly, they had had to go through the Atewa Range of hills, past such places as Dokyi and Ampatia, and probably crossing the deep and treacherous Birem and Pra Rivers somewhere along the way.

Today, she would tell us, you “lucky young people just have to catch a train at Bosuso, change at “Pra Leiba”, and you are soon at Kade. What do you know of life?”
I liked her stories. But I didn’t like the conclusion she came to, namely, that just because our lives were different from hers, ours were unexciting or boring. I mean, what did she know about nkate-cake or scented handkerchiefs? What did she know about what was standing behind my window, outside the house, as she sat dozing by the fire?

I wondered what she’d do if she could see Awiraa Akua now! But her life had been so close to the ground that I had to fear her – I mean she was so uninhibited that she would literally let out everything that came to her mind about any situation, if allowed to!
So, I didn’t say good evening to her, knowing full well that she could detain me with a question.

Or two. Or even three. In fact, I tiptoed onto my own doorstep, opened the door very quietly, went in with lightning speed and simultaneously locked it from within.

I heaved a sigh of relief. Then, I very quickly and noiselessly opened my window and whispered into the darkness outside, “Awiraa, are you all right?”
Awiraa Akua said softly, “Yes, I am ok.”
I said, “Sorry for taking so long!”
She said, “Oh no – you didn’t take any time at all!”
I said to her, “I am lowering a chair down for you. Please stand on it and I shall pull you in. Please be– be careful! So as not to – not to f-f-f-fall.”
She laughed. “I am not a child, you know!” she said, with a little laugh.
I lowered the chair through the window.
Awiraa Akua stepped on to It. She pulled herself upwards. I caught her hands and put them around my neck.
“Are you all right?” I whispered.
“She said, “Yes, I am fine.” Her voice was trembling slightly.

I put my hands under her armpits and gently drew her upwards. I couldn’t resist extending the grip of my hands from her armpits towards the soft, mango shaped blobs of flesh that were in close proximity to her armpits. Simultaneously, I smelt her warm breath. Despite my excitement, I took care not to touch what Lord Kitchener called her “tomato” so roughly as to turn my intended caress into a touch that would pain her.

She wrapped herself around me and I pulled her safely into the room. But instead of quickly removing the chair from outside the window and closing it, lest someone walked by accidentally and caught sight of the unusual things going on, I just drew Awiraa Akua close to me and pressed her body very hard against mine.

She lifted her angelic face towards mine. Even in the dark, I could see that her eyes sparkling with desire.
I began to kiss her all over. I began with her forehead.

It tasted of a mixture of mild sweat and nku-cream a sweet-smelling pomade that young ladies rubbed on to their faces to make the skin smoother. I also tasted a bit of talcum powder. These normally mundane things suddenly tasted amazingly sexy: they mixed with the oestrogen that she must have oozed, on feeling my body pressed closely against hers, to turn everything into a sweetness that surpassed that of honey. I was set on fire by it all.

I kissed her mouth long and deep. Then I took the “mango fruits” out of her blouse and began to kiss the nipples gently, while carefully evaluating the “ripeness” of the mangoes with a gentle kneading action of my hands. I came to the enormously pleasing conclusion that her mangoes were only “semi-ripe”.

This was heavenly: it reminded me of the pure erotic attacks that suffused my loins whenever, as a growing boy, I saw young girls playing the game, “ampe” in which they jumped up and down with naked torsos, displaying their delectable, lemon shaped “breastlets”..

I’d always wished to get one of them by herself, to get the feel of the flesh. Now, I bent down to place Awiraa Akua’s mouth in mine. Unlike some girls who either resisted or remained unresponsive when you kissed them, she kissed me back with enjoyment and even thrust her tongue deep into my mouth so that I could suck on it long and hard.

We could hardly breathe and we felt each other’s breaths warm on our faces. Normally, one took time to get acquainted with what one’s partner liked to do to one, and what she liked to be done to her in return. But in this case, everything I tried with her seemed to please her. She was, quite simply, cool! (To be continued) - Cameron Duodu

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