[color=green]SUFFOCATING LUST – Episode 1[/color]
“Ikenna, please I need your help,” she pleaded with me. She was running after me with a file in hand, balancing her weight on a pair of high heeled shoes. I was just about to exit the university premises to catch a bus home. “What is it?” I asked. I knew she was my classmate, but I could not recall her name. We had met earlier that semester – several times actually. Being the class representative, I interfaced with just about everyone in my class. Having just returned from a three-month long ASUU strike, my memory was somewhat discombobulated. I remembered sitting at the same desk as her before the ASUUS strike, but her name eluded me completely.
“Sorry, I don’t recall your name,” I confessed. “It is okay, I know you deal with a lot of people. My name is Chinonye. If you don’t mind, I have something really pressing to ask of you.” “What is it?” “As you know, first semester exams start next week and…” She paused, staring into my face pleadingly. A stream of tears began to form around her eyes. “What is it?” I asked, my voice riddled with concern. “I…I don’t have my registration number yet. I can’t take any exams if I don’t have it by next week. Would you help me…please!!!”
She tilted her neck to the left. Now, I could see more tears lazily descending her face. “You…you don’t have to cry. Why haven’t you gotten your registration number yet?” I asked. It was unheard of that any student would go the full length of a semester without a registration number. “I don’t know…the man in charge refused to give me a registration number. I have been going there…every day, but he would not even look at my file.
He…he…he wants…I think he wants to sleep with me. He asked me to…to pay for a hotel room and send him the address and room number…but I refused!” I felt a rush of rage sweep violently through me. Why would a university staff do a thing like this! I thought. My thoughts were almost vocal. “Why would he do a thing like that?” I asked in anger. “I…I don’t know. I just want to be able to take my exams next week. Could you take my file to the registrar’s office and try to help me get my registration number?” I was tired having sat through several lectures, but the thought of Chinonye missing the upcoming exams would have haunted me all night. Suddenly, my fatigue faded; I was red up to right the injustice that had been meted out to Chinonye.
I grabbed her file from her, looked through it quickly to make sure she had requisite documentation. Satisfied that everything was in order, I asked her to go home after taking her address down. I hailed a commercial motorcycle (Okada) jumped on and dished out instructions to the rider. Galloping along the bumpy road that connected my faculty to the administration section, I sat behind the rider, inhaling wafts of dust. When I reached the administrative building, I hopped off the motorbike, paid the rider and dashed into the building. On reaching the registrar’s office, I found the man in charge of student registration. He sat behind his desk with his pot belly hanging over the desk. It dangled on the desk like a big plastic ball filled with water. He barely noticed my presence. “Sir, I am here on behalf of a friend and classmate. Her name is Chinonye Alunna,” I said handing him the file. With an air of impudence, he flipped open the file, holding it as though it were infected with leprosy.
Then, his face contorted into a conceited smirk. “So, she has finally sent you, right? What are you, her messenger? Boyfriend? Or toy boy?” He asked. A surge of anger crept up my throat. I felt the urge to reach across the table and smack the man across the face. Perhaps a lethal punch in your jumbo-sized potbelly will do you some good, I thought, managing a refrain over my emotions. “I am the class representative. It bothers me that she does not have her registration number up to this time. Exams start next week, so I wanted to help. I feel it is the right thing to do,” I replied as articulately as I could this time. Exams start next week, so I wanted to help. I feel it is the right thing to do, I replied as articulately as I could. “Well, if she did not insult people, especially her elders, she’d not find herself in such precarious situation,” he replied. He was still peering at Chinonye’s passport photo, which was axed on the inside of the file. “What do you mean, sir?” I asked respectfully. “That girl is very rude. She insulted me repeatedly. She has no manners…none whatsoever. Ngene!” He called to one of his colleagues.
“Ichie Uba, what is it,” Ngene replied from the adjoining office. “Do you remember that saucy, bad-mannered girl by the name, Chinonye Alunna?” “Yes, is she here?” “No, she sent an emissary…after insulting all of us.” I wished Chinonye had told me what really transpired between herself and the staff in the registrar’s office. One after the other, they narrated how rude and caustic Chinonye had been to them. Nonetheless, I pleaded with them, buying each of them a bottle of vita malt. They gladly accepted my offer of vita malt, but refused to issue Chinonye a registration number. I would not take no for an answer. I stayed back to plead the life out of them. Finally, they heeded my relentless plea and issued Chinonye a registration number. With a feeling of accomplishment sweeping through me, I hopped onto another motorbike and rode to Chinonye’s hostel.
It was an all-ladies hostel off campus. When I found her room, she was alone, perhaps waiting for me to bring her some good news. I skipped the story about her impudence to the staff at the registrar’s office and handed her what she had been waiting for – her registration number. The door to her room had been ajar and Chinonye was tying a cloth around her chest, still wearing the pair of jeans she had worn earlier when she accosted me at university. “Here is your registration number,” I said. Her eyes widened with excitement.
She took the piece of paper bearing her long-sought registration number with euphoria. “Thank you so much, Ikenna,” she said, kicking the door shot with her left heel. You would have thought she played for Chelsea or Real Madrid, given the dexterity with which she kicked the door shot. One would have thought she was Victor Moses by the way she back-heeled the door. Then, out of nowhere, she dropped the cloth that was around her chest. I was not expecting this move. Nature began to run its course. My heart began to pound viciously. My head was spinning as blood rushed through my veins like water crashing down the heights of Victoria Falls. Her bare chest stared invitingly at me. She held me momentarily and then, stepped back casually to reveal her full bodily endowments. “You are the best, Ikenna. I am very grateful,” she said, holding me tightly to herself. Then, she pulled away abruptly, walking to the desk across the room to drop the piece of paper.
[color=blue]STORY CONTINUES..[/color]
