Remember the first time we spoke? You called me flower girl and I laughed. Peering closer, mesmerized you said, ‘you’re like a force of nature’ I laughed some more, thinking to myself, ‘this one is gifted’. ‘More than a force of nature. I’m a goddess’, My blushing face corrected. Weeks later you’d ask during our fourth date how to keep a goddess happy. And when your husband asked what god my parents worship to have named me Goddess. I’d smile at you seated beside him, ignoring him. You explain my caller ID on your phone is a nick name. While my shimmering brown lips delicately suck pink lemonade up a white straw. You explain meeting me during a book club meeting hosted at Flowered Pages. Flowered Pages is a cute bookstore and flower shop on Old Yaba Road. It’s filled with numerous small potted plants lining book shelves, a cozy reading area, soothing colored walls holding framed affirmations. Of course you don’t say you stopped me as I walked by to snap a picture of you and the hosted author. You both stood in black dresses against the bright yellow wall manned by tall green bamboo on either side. Instead you tell him, ‘this my friend loves pastel colors, is beautifully creative and very kind’.
I’d wonder if he knows how you prefer your left brown nipple sucked gently without my teeth grazing it. Or maybe since he knows my name. He also knows that I send you fresh flowers in small glass jars. Sometimes young cactus in tiny custom pottery to the branch you manage. When you excitedly said he began picking up Abdul from basketball practice on Saturdays. Because of my potted flowers that arrive Friday mornings I was happy. I glance away from you both in matching ankara outfits and look out the glass window beside me. Lagos swirls in yellow dannfos, light blue skies, half empty mall car park and muted vibrations. The loud drag of empty air halts my sucking. But not my fantasies of pulling you into the bathroom for a quickie. I drop the empty tumbler and slide out of the red leather seat. ‘Excuse me Ibrahim. Laide, I need you in the bathroom.’ I say softly, my doe eyes smiling at your handsome husband. He reluctantly removes his hand from around your shoulder.
Inside the bathroom, you enter the toilet with a wheelchair symbol on its door. I pause to admire the tall green leaves growing out the large brown pot. My right index finger lightly traces its jagged edge. You call my name, Flower Goddess, like a soft moan. I walk towards the light brown, wooden door we shouldn’t be using. Before I swing it close, you kiss my fair, smooth neck. Watching you already unwrapping your bright ankara top with your chubby palms, I lock the door. Then sigh, feeling desire dampen my olive green, lace thong. My light skinned, slender fingers take your palms away from the dragging tails of your wrap top. My third sigh is louder when you kiss my dimpled chin cupping my small breasts. ‘Should I sit down?’ You murmur the question, pulling your palms away from my erect nipples. This question reminds me of the first time we had sex. How you’d asked me, ‘how?’ And I’d swirled my tongue along the top of your lilac camisole above the WEMA bank lapel pin. Teasing your glistening breasts peeping out, I’d said. ‘Let me teach you how. How to ask mid thrust if you’re pleasured. To teach you to lick in-between my brown lips up my moist vestibule to my budded pink clit. How to love another girl’.
You sit on the white toilet cover. Seconds later, we giggle. My silver bangles jiggle as my left hand catches you from sliding off the plastic. You’re trying to pull off your denim trouser and I kneel in front of you. The heat between my wide hips is cooking my anticipating hot. Your breasts bounce in the black B cup bra, your right feet is free of the denim. I kiss your knee then the left one, massaging your dark calves as I spread them wider. A door nearby swings open two male voices burst into laughter as the door by the right swings closed. My mint blue finger nails part your inner labia lips, rubbing an invisible eight on your erect clit. Wisps of your kinky pubic hair look like nail art. Your eyes are glazed with passion and I smile before my side breast rub your inner thighs. A slow lick catches the clear, warm fluid from your tightening vagina. Its a curious lick followed by my wet tongue burrowing into your squeezing vestibule. My nose nuzzles your darker clit and you moan louder. I timed us but you don’t seem to notice. You gently squeeze my breasts through the army green bodicon dress. I didn’t wear a bra, my nipples love fresh air. Your left finger flicks my pierced left nipple. As my sucking lips draw out more fluids and moans. I know I’ll have to remove my soaked panties and wait some minutes before I follow you out of the stall. I feel the vibration of your pelvis first. Then hear the whosh sound of your thick thighs clamped against my flushed cheeks and swirling tongue. You silently shudder and my right hand releases your left breast it’d been kneading in slow circular motion. I feel myself squirt with immerse pleasure. Pleasure the color of white hibiscus petals floating in airy skies.
I say it first to your delicious vajayjay as your daughter, Ireti to calls it. Slowly I pull out three left fingers that had been thrusting, rubbing scented orgasms from your upper walls and Gspot. I say it again after one last kiss on your clit. You remove your black Rihanna nails from my voluminous, brown high puff afro. ‘What?’ You ask, still panting, like your multiple orgasms are still making your ears ring like mine. Those cute, stubby fingers pull thin dark green straps up my glowing narrow shoulder. My small nipples strain against the bare all fabric and I stand up slowly. I pull my dress up my slim thighs, higher across my wide hips then stop to step out of your eager reach. Slowing pulling down my panties, feeling the wet patch draw lines down my inner thighs. The overheard florescent makes them look like boiled corn. ‘I can’t keep hiding us, Laide. Its hurting me. Children squealing, splashing tap water and swinging doors fill the silence. The toilet air seems cooler making the filmy map on my thighs feel like melted ice cubes. You don’t say anything but you blink repeatedly. Its something you do when you don’t understand something. Like how you insist I leave the lemon curtains open so sunlight can illuminate the bed. So that when you kiss, lick and suck my pink nipples you can see when exactly it buds peach in between your small lips. Or how you’d blinking repeatedly when I pour steaming hot water into a yellow Ogi paste and whip the swelling pap to koko-less perfection for you to eat with Iya Mariam’s spicy Akara. After silently wearing your dark blue denim and wrapping your top, you stand waiting. I flush down squirt stained tissue paper. I’d bent to swipe clean the cream tiles underneath the toilet seat rim and seat cover. ‘Why now?’ is the only thing you ask and anger fills me like the water flowing into the toilet bowl. I spin around leaving the cool metal flusher, clutching my damp thong in my left palm. The one that smells like Zobo, orgasms and wet lace. ‘I’m not a toy Laide. You can’t just keep using me to make your husband jealous. I love you but I’m tired of all these. It isn’t okay to send me or my bookstore some millions whenever I say you should tell him how we feel’. ‘I can’t just leave my marriage..just like that!’ Your whispers stammer. Your black eyes searching mine for whatever it’s seen for the past year and seven months that I’d believed you. ‘Okay’.
I walk out calmly on you. You’re shocked because it isn’t my usual tirade. I pick up my raffia woven bag off the red leather seat. I tuck in the protruding ankara flower headbands from the Kids Entrepreneur Fair. ‘Good day Ibrahim’, I say as I hear you walk away from the swinging, wooden, toilet door. ‘Okay, Take care. Where is my wif?’ his questioning pauses as you beautifully walk towards the booth. His gaze doesn’t linger but returns to the football match on the screen. My gaze lingers a bit but drops to your nude wedges. I blink back tears as my nipples harden from being closer to you. I grab my jam jar and clear glasses case off the table. How thoughtful of you to pack a jar of Zobo jam and your husband for our Saturday brunch. My yellow suede half shoes walk-run out the partially empty restaurant. I don’t care that the last time you see your flower goddess she’ll be floating away. I never mentioned lying is a way to keep a goddess happy. With my large floral silk scarf fluttering behind my voluptuous butt, I exit the large glass doors into the sunshine. When I’m safely on my way home. I’ll share my pictures on dat_ngflowergoddess with unique stall owners at the fair. Maybe all that young creativity will cheer me up.