YOU ARE MY DREAM BY GLORY ABAH MOGBO (KISS THE RAIN ANTHOLOGY)

BLURB

Rosita is weird, loud, colourful, bad, and all what-not. That’s who she is, and she makes no apologies. No man has ever really caught her fancy until she attends a speed/blind dating event and meets Femi. 

Torn apart before they can exchange phone numbers, Rosita vows to find him. And she does, months later. But he’s dating her best friend. And they get engaged.

But with a rainy week and bad vibes threatening the wedding, Rosita has a choice to make. And she’ll make no apologies for it.

PROLOGUE

It’s the morning after your best friend cancels her wedding and goes on her honeymoon trip alone. 

By all that is right and holy, you are supposed to wake up in your own bed after a night spent consoling your best friend on the phone.

You don’t expect to wake up with a dry mouth and a hangover, in a room you have never seen before, with a man beside you. 

The man your best friend was supposed to marry. 

The man you have been in love with for two years.

But before you judge me, let’s start from the beginning. The very beginning.

ONE

Rosita

Two Years Ago

It’s either I was exchanged at the hospital at birth or my mother cheated on my father because there is no way that I, Rosita Chioma Madueke, am a product of the very boring and very conservative Deacon Nnamdi and Deaconess Mrs. Keziah Josiah Madueke. 

“Chioma, did you hear me? Your father said he wanted okpa, and you prepared oyibo maggot for him. You know he doesn’t like…” 

“Mummy, for the umpteenth time, my name is Rosita. Ro-si-ta.”

“Are you the one that gave birth to yourself, or am I the one that carried you in my womb for nine good months and labored for three long days to give birth to you? Eh, Chioma? Why do you hate your name so much? Eh?”

I take the phone away from my ear, mute my microphone and apply orange and blue eyeshadow, completely unconcerned about the screaming woman on the phone. I know this play. I have been cast in it for so long that I have grown numb. She is going to talk for a long time, and if I were younger, she would take me for another deliverance session because if there’s one thing Deaconess Madueke loves more than the air she breathes, it’s deliverance. Deliverance is the cure for everything. Got malaria? Deliverance. Failed an exam? Deliverance. Had a quarrel with your sibling? Deliverance. 

It does not help that she is the head of the Prayer Warriors department in her church, The Rain of Fire Global Mission, also known as Jesus Commando Centre. At just fifteen, I had been to twenty-seven deliverance sessions. Twenty-seven. Trauma, right there.

But I am lucky. It could have been worse for me, like my friend, Deola, whose parents attend those white garment churches where their deliverance sessions include flogging. No matter how clueless my mum may feel about me, she would never subject me to flogging or physical violence. One time, she called a popular pastor for a deliverance session at home. When the man started and landed one hot slap on my face, my mother was the one that screamed ‘Jesus’ and held her cheeks in shock. Tears filled her eyes, and she looked at me with so much apology and regret on her face that I immediately forgave her. 

You see, my parents are weird and quirky, but they love us fiercely. Which is why despite all my ‘strong-headedness’ and ‘bad habits’ they have not disowned me or stopped me from coming home.

One time, I went on a date with Rowland, ‘the neighbourhood bad boy,’ and things turned sour when he wanted to slip his hands up my shirt to feel my breasts. He got a resounding slap for his efforts. I was shoved aside violently and left to foot a hefty bill at a bar close to midnight. I called my father, and twenty minutes later, the man stormed the bar, yelled at the manager not only for serving teenagers but also for letting them stay out so late at night. Then he drove me home, and the only punishment I received was a long lecture on what boys were after and that no matter how bad a situation was, I should never be afraid to call home. 

I am loved at home, even though half the time they don’t know what the fudge to do with me. 

 So even if my father still considers spaghetti as ‘oyibo maggot’ and my mother yells at me over the phone for three straight hours, I take it all with a smile because I know my parents love me. 

A little blush here, powder, setting spray and my make-up is done. My outfit for the night is laid out on the bed. For tonight, I have chosen white vacation shorts, a white tank top, a breezy, blue open-button shirt to match my blue hair, heeled sandals and a brown fedora hat. My nails are blood-red, my favourite colour, and I am ready. 

A call comes in just in time and I cut off my mother. “Mummy, I have to go. See ya. Love ya.”

The typical Abagana woman mumbles, “love ya too” before cutting the call, and I laugh out loud. When I started saying ‘love ya’ to my parents, they responded with embarrassed chuckles and wicked banter. But now they say it back and my wicked sister, Somto, has joined us. 

I pick the incoming call and head out.

“Hello everyone and welcome to the first ever Blind Speed Date event in Port Harcourt.” Stella’s voice booms in the room. “As you know, this is blind and speed dating combined. Each of you has been given a tag number and blindfolded. There are ten ladies and ten guys. The ladies will be seated while the guys will move around to sit and chat with every lady for only seven minutes. If you click with anybody and you are interested in knowing them after this event, simply give a thumbs up or thumbs down after the seven-minute timer goes off. Each table is assigned a server who will note down all the yesses and the nos. If a guy and a lady say yes to each other, your phone number will be shared with each other. Are we following?” 

There is a general murmur of ‘yes’ echoing across the hall. We should be about twenty blindfolded people present, barring the organisers and the attendants who will be supervising each table. There should be Chuks, my friend from university and one of the organisers of the event. Belema, the second co-organiser and former friend from university, was nowhere in sight when I arrived, and I know he’s up to no good. Chuks already mentioned that he caught him smoking by the generator shed. Whatever! If I never set my eyes on Belema ever again, it would be no loss to me. 

Then there’s me, the third co-organiser. The blind/speed date thing is my idea. Belema is the money-bag, Chuks is the manager, and I’m the idea fountain and currently here as a participant. 

 Stella continues. “The rules are simple. At no point are you allowed to remove your blindfolds. You are not allowed to peek at anybody or steal a look in any way. Once the timer goes off, all the men will be guided to the next table. No matter how interesting the conversation is going, you must not exceed seven minutes. You will not share your real names or exchange any personal or private information. Understood?” 

There is a general murmur of excitement and anticipation, and then we are off. 

I follow the gentle hands that lead us out of the waiting room into the Date Room. I sit on my chair and wait as the chairs rattle and people sit. Then a start sound comes on, and a man is led to my table. Game on!

“Good evening.”

Nice voice, polite greeting. “Good evening,” I respond. 

“Lovely event, right?”

“Sure.” 

“Umm, so I work in the finance sector and…” 

“No personal info.” I cut him off. 

“Right. What do you…? I mean how do you…?”

His voice trails off, and that’s my cue to take charge of this conversation. “What is your favourite movie?” I ask.

“Movie? Uh… I don’t really watch or have any favourite movie.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Fun? Eh…”

I resist the urge to sigh. “What do you do after work?”

“Watch the news. Eat and sleep.”

“What’s your favourite animal?”

“Eh… I don’t really have a…”

I take a breath and ponder. Time to switch to more Nigerian questions. “If your wife gives birth, who is coming for the omugwo? Your mother or your wife’s mother?”

“Anyone.”

“If your wife slaps your mother, what would you do?”

“Slap? Why would she slap her?”

“Hypothetical situation.”

“I don’t understand what…”

“Who should sit in the front seat of your car, wife or mother?” I cut him off.

“My mother.” He responds quickly to this one.

“Do you think girlfriends should be given a monthly allowance?”

“Ummm…”

When the timer goes off, I have learned that this man works in finance, watches the news for fun, has nothing interesting about him, and zero opinion on anything. An empty cardboard grinding to pay the bills and marry the next unlucky woman who happens to cross his path when he has ‘made money.’

A few rumbles and the next man sits. The timer goes off.

“Hi,” he starts.

“Hello.”

“So, you must be an adventurous girl to come for this.” 

The voice is confident with a hint of arrogance. “You think this is adventurous?” I ask, applying a bored effect to my voice. 

“Well, it is more than the usual dating scene out there, right?”

I lean forward, a bit interested now. “What do you do for fun?”

He gives off a small chuckle. “Look for cool and fun digs like this.”

“What’s the most interesting thing about you?” I ask.

“My body count.”

Of course. Lewd men and their weird obsession with bringing up sex in every conversation. I’ll play along. “What’s your body count?”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Sure.”

“Twenty-seven.” Pride in his voice.

“First sex at what age?”

“No, no. I told you mine, so tell me yours,” he insists.

“Zero.”

“Zero, as in you don’t want to tell me or what?”

“Zero, as in zero body count.”

A small silence, then he releases a disbelieving chuckle. “Common, I told you mine so you can tell me yours.”

“And I just told you mine.”

“But you’re lying,” he states baldly.

“Why do you think I’m lying?”

“Cos it’s a lie.” His tone is one of disbelief.

“Cos you don’t think it’s possible?”

“How old are you?” 

“None of your business.”

“You dey whine me, abi?”

This fool has me riled up. Time to put a needle on his arrogance. “Why is the most interesting thing about you your body count?” I ask.

“Because I know how to make women scream. In bed.”

“And you think that’s the most interesting thing about you and the first thing a woman should know about you?”

“Yup!”

“Was your first sexual experience by any chance at the hands of a maid, a neighbour or a distant relative right under the nose of your parents or guardians?”

A long silence. “What do you…?”

“Because I find that in many situations, men like you who like to sexualise everything, and never take time to know women on a personal level were likely sexually molested and their introduction to sex at an early age which should be regarded as abuse is often described by these men as sexual conquests.”

A stunned silence as he processes my words. Then, “Fuck you.”

“And fuck you too.”

The timer goes off, and I give a thumbs down to the attendant assigned to my table. 

There is a general hum of movement as the attendants lead the men to their next table. I hear a shuffle on my table as the next man sits, and I wait with a smile. The timer dings and we’re off. 

“Hello,” the new guy starts.

“Hi,” I respond. 

“My name is Mi…”

“We’re not supposed to share personal details.”

“Oh.”

Silence. I roll my eyes behind my mask and ask, “So, what do you do?”

“I work.”

“Me too.”

A brief silence. Time to take charge. “Do you watch movies?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Who’s your favourite actor?”

“Jason Statham,” he replies easily.

“Female?”

“Halle Berry.”

“Her best movie?”

“Catwoman.”

Of course. “What do you love about Catwoman?”

“Her costume.”

“Anything else?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks.

“I’m asking the questions here.”

“I have my own questions. And I’m the man.”

“You’re the man and so?”

“So, I should be the one asking the questions.”

“Because asking questions is a skill that only the male gender can do effectively?”

“You talk a lot. For a woman.”

“You’re kind of retarded. For a man.”

“Retarded? Me?”

I don’t dignify him with a response.

The chair squeaks and I know he’s leaned backward in his seat. “Hmm. I see you have a mouth on you,” he says.

“I see you have a penis on you.”

“Who hurt you?”

“Your mama.”

“Don’t bring my mother into this.”

“Why? Obviously, she didn’t raise you right.”

“You go chop slap, oh!”

“Try it!”

“Come, watch yourself. This is a date kinda thing. Are you not here to look for a husband?”

“I’m here to look for a wife.”

“You be mumu.”

“Ode!”

The timer goes off. A thumbs down. So far, nothing out of the ordinary. I crack my knuckles and lean forward as the next man sits.

“This is me laying down my weapons and asking that you do the same.” 

The voice is gentle, calm, and a bit amused. I’m slightly taken aback, but I recover quickly. “What weapons?  I’m completely unarmed.”

A small chuckle. “Your table is causing quite a stir.”

“I’m quite bored, and when I’m bored, bad things happen.”

“Are you always this interesting?”

“Why? Are you often boring?”

“Some people would describe me as boring.”

“But you wouldn’t?” I ask, a bit intrigued.

“If you enjoy activities that others do not generally think are fun, are you boring or are they just close-minded?”

“Depends on the activity. What kind of activity are we talking about here?”

“Reading. Maths. Etc.”

Typically regarded as boring activities. But that’s for close-minded people. Not me. “What kind of reading?”

“Discovering new ideas and concepts.”

“Last discovery?”

“Snails have teeth.”

“And you consider that interesting.”

“Considering that they are vile creatures that I never let come near me, yes.”

“Because your fears are valid?”

“Yes. Those things are scary, and now they also have teeth? Cancelled.”

I chuckle. “You’re somewhat interesting.”

“What I am is interested. In you.”

“Why? Because I’m rude, and you want to tame me?”

“You intrigue me. You make me uncomfortable, but you also make me curious. I like that.”

I lose the ability to speak.

A chuckle. “Did I stun you?”

I clear my throat. “Nope!”

“I was too forward.”

“No.” I pause. “I like it.” What I mean to say is my heart has never pounded so hard over a man. 

“You like forward men.”

“I like honest men.”

A rumble and his breath fans my face, the heat of his body sending my heartbeat tripling. 

“Do you think that there is a chance we…?”

A shrill sound suddenly erupts, loud and glaring. Like an emergency alarm. What’s going on? 

The next second we hear the words “fire” coming from somewhere outside the Date Room. 

Chaos. 

In the rush and panic to leave the room, I try to hold on to this man but by the time I pull my blindfold away, the small crowd of bodies trying to push their way out of the exit door have separated us. But I catch a glimpse of a tall, lithe man in a white corporate shirt and black slacks. 

“Yo, snail man! What’s your name?” I call out, heart thumping.

The few people beside me give me a quick glance, then continue their rush to the exit. 

“Snail man. Your name.” I know there’s an emergency, but I can’t miss this man.

“Femi.”

The voice is coming from the man in the white corporate shirt being pulled along by the rush. He turns backward slightly, and I catch a brief glimpse of his face.

The alarm blares louder, and I push and shove my way through until we are in the Waiting Room. While others try to make their escape, I rush over to the registration table, searching frantically for the registration book. The table has been shifted by the rush of people and the book is nowhere on top. 

Scrambling to the floor in the dimly lit room, I scan through till I find the book tossed carelessly to one end of the wall. On my knees, I crawl, bypassing running feet and harried grips. Then an arm pulls me up roughly. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Chuks.

“The registration book. I need it.”

He swears, then guides me to lean against the wall, so I don’t get shoved. “Wait here.” He wades through the crowd, shoulders poised forward to shove them off. Then he bends and disappears from my sight.

TWO

Femi

“I just need the name and number of the fourth girl I spoke with that night at…”

“Sir, like I have told you the last twenty times you called, the records were kept confidential and the registration book went missing during the fire evacuation. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Was there no digital record of…?”

“Everything was analog because it was supposed to be an anonymous event. I’m sorry.”

THREE

Rosita

Three Months Later

“Belema caused the fire,” Chuks says.

“Woah!” Stella exclaims.

In my seat with my legs draped on the centre table, I am unmoved and unfazed, my dark sunshades hiding the deadness and disinterest in my eyes. In my hand is the lifeline I have been hanging on to since that night. The scrap of paper is frayed to near disintegration. But no worries. I took a picture of it the night after. 

“He went to vape close to the generator house.”

“Is that boy a retard?” 

“Na spoiled mama’s boy.” 

A kick in my legs. “Yo, Rosita, are you here with us? Abi you don go la la land?”

I turn my neck to give him a quick glance, and sigh. “I’m here. Just not surprised by anything Belema does again. Shebi his mother will pay for the damages?”

“Exactly,” Stella says.

I shrug. “No one died, so no harm, no foul.”

Chuks stares at me for a moment. “Do you even care about Belema? He’s been our friend since Uni.”

“I should care because he’s been our friend or because his rich ass bankrolled most of our movements back in school?”

“I’m just saying stop with the bad bitch thing right now. The guy is in real trouble. The owner of the hotel does not want to settle.”

“Okay. I care now,” I reply in my perfected sarcastic monotone.

Stella prods Chuks with her shoulders. “Leave her.”

“Why? She’s…”

“Don’t you know what Belema did to her?”

And I get right up and leave the room to the balcony. Five digits. That’s what’s missing from connecting me to Femi. Just five digits. You know how many numbers you have to mix in order to get five digits right? Ninety thousand. I’m on the thirty thousandth try, and even though my bones are exhausted, even though I have spoken to more Hausa and Yoruba Nigerians than I ever thought I would in this life, I will keep trying till I get to ninety thousand. I will find Snail Man.

From the balcony upstairs, I watch as a young boy approaches a teenage girl selling okpa, and my mind is thrown back to Somto, my sister, popularly called the Okpa Thief. When she was seven, she crept into the kitchen and consumed one custard bucket of okpa that our mum bought from a local vendor. Me, I have no feelings for okpa, but that one did taste pretty special. The next morning, we were wondering who ate all the okpa and Somto vehemently denied it until her stomach betrayed her. Babe spent three days hugging the toilet, hence, her honorary title.

The balcony door opens and Chuks wanders in, his face contrite.

Yikes. My body breaks out in hives. I don’t want to have this conversation. I look away, gaze focused on the drama with the okpa seller and the wannabe playboy. 

“I didn’t know,” Chuks says quietly.

“No biggie.” I shrug.

Chuks places a hand on my shoulder and turns me around. “Stop it. He tried to force himself on you. It’s a big deal.”

I look away. “It’s not. I fought him off and broke his head with the blender.”

“I know you’re strong but…”

“If I call it a big deal, it will break me and I will never look at any of my guy friends the same again. Okay? So, when I say it’s no biggie, just agree with me. Please.” My voice cracks and I look away again.

Chuks stands quietly beside me—the brother I never had. “He will pay for what he did.”

I chuckle, despite the pain lodged in my chest. 

“Have you placed a curse on him?”

“Hexed him straight away. His penis will never work again.”

Chuks chuckles, and I hide a smile. 

We stare at the passers-by in the cool evening breeze in companionable silence.

“Have you gotten the phone number right?” he asks. An escape from this painful conversation.

I take it gratefully. “Nope! Tomorrow is Number Day.”

“No! No way, Rosita. You can’t keep dragging me into your shenanigans. Thirty thousand phone numbers is no joke.”

“Do you want my help with Doris or not?”

He groans, and I smile. Chuks has been going on and on about Doris, my former coursemate, and I promised to help him land her as a girlfriend.

One thing friends are good for is conscription into your personal army to hunt down the number of the first man to ever capture your heart. My phone rings and I check the caller.

Shit!

Sarima. My roommate back in the university and best friend till date. I was supposed to meet Sarima at the restaurant thirty minutes ago. “I’m on my way,” I lie.

“Madam, just take a cab and start coming.”

“Gotta go,” I say to Chuks.

Thirty minutes later, I’m at Golden Tulip hotel and find Sarima seated in the restaurant. I’m walking forward, armed with ten thousand questions for the man who is trying to woo my closed-off friend, when I spot the man seated beside her.

In a white corporate shirt. 

Femi.

As in Femi.

The Femi I met three months ago and Sarima’s Femi are one and the same.

Game over!

FOUR

Rosita

Present

Chin up, Rosita. You’re going to attend your best friend’s wedding tomorrow, and you are going to be genuinely happy for her. You will be the perfect chief bridesmaid, and at no time will you cry or get emotional over the fact that your best girl is marrying the man you’ve secretly been in love with for two years.

Have I spent the last two years trying to find some dirt on the guy, so I can vehemently hate him? Yes. 

The only thing I found is that the guy is too perfect, too put together, and never has a hair out of place. Which maddens me because if he were mine, I would make sure I get him all rumpled and out of place.

In bed. 

On the couch.

In the car.

I would drag my hand over his hair and kiss him till he loses all reasoning. To get a man like Femi to lose all composure and steeze? That would be a glorious sight to behold.

If he were mine. 

If.

He.

Were.

Mine.

But he’s not. Doesn’t even remember me. Acts all composed and gives off the vibe that he dislikes me. Well, mister, I dislike you too. In fact, I hate you, you heart-thieving monster.

Three months. 

Barely three months after the speed/blind dating thing, and he was already dating someone else. Not just anybody else, but my best friend. Sarima, the girl who refused to date after one disastrous romance in Uni. Sarima, who deserves all the happiness in the world.

And he loves her. I have a front row seat to the view of how he takes care of her. 

But I am Rosita Madueke for a reason. Even though I have no interest in acting, I have pulled off the perfect performance these two years, and it’s almost over. 

I have given my heart a deadline. Once they say ‘I do’ on the altar, every last drop of feeling left for Femi must disappear. No more longing, no more of my heart lurching whenever he turns his eyes to look at me. No more.

Find a man and move on. 

My bags are packed, and I’ll be leaving for the hotel in an hour’s time. I’ve just stepped out of the shower when I realize I have a missed call from Oronne, Sarima’s younger sister, who threw a tantrum until we made her co-chief bridesmaid. I dial her number. “I’m almost ready. Have you confirmed from the Omachi Decor guy that the cake presentation table will be at the reception hall before 7am?”

A weary, defeated sigh. “No need. She’s called it off.”

At first, the words make no sense. Called what off? Then it registers, and my eyes pop wide open in shock. 

“Did you hear me? I said she called it off. Segun won.”

Segun, the pro basketballer from Dallas who broke Sarima’s heart many years ago, suddenly resurfaced, all determined to win her back. I really thought she was putting up a good fight. I really thought that no matter what, she wouldn’t hurt Femi. No matter what. Femi is gold. Perfect. Everything I want in a man. Has my heart in his hands. Literally.

Who would have Femi and let him go? 

“Rosita!”

Oronne’s voice pulls me back. “Ummm, I heard you. Where is she now?” More importantly, where is Femi now? But I dare not ask. 

“She’s with our dad. Seems she wants to leave the country till things quiet down a bit.”

Shit! Shit! Shit!

“Is she okay?” Is Femi okay?

Oronne gives a shaky laugh that hints she’s close to tears. “I dunno. She seems happy. She hasn’t said if she’ll go back to Segun.”

“Can I talk to her? I need to know that she’s okay.”

“Hold on.”

I reach for my hair and scrape my fingers on my scalp, practising cool, even breaths, not daring to peek into my heart and find out what’s happening there. All I know is that I’m angry at Sarima. For hurting Femi. All for that heartless basketballer that left her twelve years ago. Twelve years. How could you, Sarima? How?

“Rosita,” Sarima’s voice comes on the phone. She’s been crying. Hard.

My anger dissolves. “Babe, are you okay?”

A sniffle. “I’m fine. Please understand, Rosita. I just couldn’t… I really can’t…” she breaks down.

I am an idiot. I know Sarima. She would never knowingly hurt someone this bad. If she’s calling off her wedding, it wasn’t a flippant decision. I know she cares about Femi. “Hush. You don’t have to explain it to me. I know. I understand. I have your back. Always.”

“I have to leave. I have hurt so many people so much that…”

“It’s okay, babe. I’ll handle things from here.” I pause. “Will you be okay on your own? Do you need me to come with you?” 

Sarima gives a shaky laugh and my heart twists. Back in school, when Segun just broke her heart, I held her for so many nights as she sobbed. Can’t believe we are back here. 

“I’ll be fine. I just need some time on my own. My dad will take me to the airport.”

I nod. “Cool. I’ll take care of everything.”

The call drops and for five minutes, I’m frozen, sitting on my bed as thoughts drop and fly and swing like a kaleidoscope. I dare not examine why my heart is flapping like a bird in a cage. 

Quiet down.

Then I swing into action.

I dig out my vendor list and get to work. 

Cancelling a wedding is hard work. After thousands of phone calls and facing down loud, irate vendors, I’m left alone with my thoughts. 

Where is he? How is he taking this? 

My fingers itch. My pulse races. I shove my phone into the dresser and turn on the T.V. Stare at the screen unseeing for thirty minutes. Head to the kitchen and fill up the electric kettle. Leave it on the counter, and I’m back in the room. 

Is he devastated? Alone? 

I stare at the dresser. It stares right back.

Fuck it!

I grab my phone, keys, and I’m out.

FIVE

Rosita

I drop off the Uber and stare at his front door. Many times, I came here with Sarima, but every time, I found an excuse to never walk past his front door and enter his home. It would be too much. To see where he lives. How he lives. I would spend nights dreaming of him. Of us. 

It seemed somewhat too intimate, like I would be crossing a boundary and I would lose that last hold of sanity.

The apartment is dark, every light turned off. It’s deliberate because every other house in the estate is bathed in the glow of security lights. Except his.

Why didn’t you wait for me? 

None of this would have happened if you had just waited. 

I want to yell at him, to shake him, to curse him for not recognising me. For forgetting. For falling for my best friend and loving her so deeply. For being the perfect fiancé. 

I hate that he’s hurting. I hate that I’m forced to pretend like I’m a stranger. 

A rumble in the sky causes me to look up. Thick, dark clouds, lightning flashes, a strong blast of cold wind rippling through the trees. It’s about to rain. Hard.

Taking a deep breath, I walk past his car to his front door and knock. Once, twice, thrice. 

No answer. 

Is he out? Hanging with his best man and crying into his beer?

I walk around to the back, peering through the windows. No sign of movement.

Back to the front door, I lean on the doorbell so it gives off a continuous shrill ring, knocking incessantly at the same time. His car is parked, and that emboldens me.

“Femi. Open up.”

I knock again. Harder. 

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

A curtain moves in the front window. 

Ah! He’s in. “Open up. I know you’re in there.” I pound on the door. “If you don’t open up, I’ll…”

The door opens so abruptly, my words are cut off. 

Femi. A rumpled Femi. Gone is the starched, neatly pressed white shirt and slacks. He’s holding a bottle of beer in his hands and swaying slightly on his feet. 

“Sarima?” He squints at me.

Disappointment hits my chest. “No. Rosita.” Stepping forward, I shove my way into his house and shut the door. 

Darkness. Every light turned off, every window shut and curtains drawn. I pull out my phone from my pocket and turn on the flashlight. 

“She sent you to check on me?”

I ignore his question, eyes sweeping across his living room like a greedy, thirsty woman. So, this is how you live. Black leather couches, a black glass centre table, plasma TV with a dark wooden panel, white walls, beige curtains. A few pictures on the wall. An intricately carved wall clock. Warm. Cosy. A bachelor’s pad. No touch of a woman. 

It was glaring, the fact that this wedding would not hold. Should not hold. How could he be so blind? How could they be so blind?

I take in the beer bottles lined up in an orderly fashion on the table and chuckle. Straitlaced Femi doesn’t even know how to get drunk properly. “Let’s get drunk.”

I grab the bottle from his hands and finish off the drink in one gulp. Then I fall on the couch and grab another bottle, searching for the opener.

“Did she send you to check on me?”

Do you even remember that night at all? 

“Did Sarima send you to check on me?” His voice is a growl, dark and edgy. 

My pussy tightens. That voice against my ear as he pounds me so hard the bed breaks. I shake my head to dispel the thought. Spotting the bottle opener, I grab it off the table and open two bottles. 

“Answer me.”

I hold out one bottle to him. “Cheers.” With my other hand, keeping my eyes on him, I take a deep drink.

“I don’t need a babysitter. You can tell her that I’m fine.”

I smile, my eyes not leaving his. I hold up the bottle higher.

“I don’t need a…”

“Shut up and drink,” I cut him off. 

He stands, looming over me, a dangerous air about him. Grab me by the hand. Touch me. Just one touch. Shit! I’m going insane, and I’m not even drunk yet. I finish off my bottle and reach for another.

“You need to leave,” he growls.

“You need to drink.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I need a drinking buddy.”

He stares, eyes hard and dark, sleeves rolled up, showing off his muscular underarms. 

I gulp. 

What is it about you that makes me so thirsty?

With a resigned sigh, he takes the offered bottle of beer and plops into the single settee, taking a long gulp of the beer. 

We sit in silence, drinking. 

Lightning flashes outside the window, casting the room in an eerie glow. A heavy bolt of thunder and loud drops of rain hit the roof. “It’s better this way,” I say.

He says nothing.

I hand him another beer. Our fingers graze and he pulls away immediately, looking away. Just one touch, I’m on fire. And his teeth are clenched, his eyes tightly shut. 

I lean closer.

He shifts his body away. Like he can’t stand the sight of me. Like I bear an offensive odour.

“Do I repulse you that much?”

“What?”

I stare into the darkness. “You always… forget it.” I take a sip, mind going back to those moments where he acted like he could barely stand my presence, and hurt rises. “You know what? I won’t forget it. What is it? Why do you act like you can’t stand the sight of me?”

He flushes guiltily and takes a sip of his beer.

I sit up straight, leaning closer. “Everytime I come close, you act like I am a diseased patient out to infect you.”

He looks away, teeth grinding.

“Tell me. Am I too loud for you? Too colourful?” My voice goes higher, and I stand up now, edging towards him, closer and closer. “Too unrefined for the Almighty Femi? Huh? Is that it? Do I stink?” I’m in his face now, our bodies so close, his heat practically burns me. “You can’t stand the sight of me?”

He shuts his eyes, hands gripping the bottle so hard I fear it will break. 

“What? Tell me. I can take it.”

He grunts and mumbles something.

I scoff. “If you’re going to say something, say it to my face.”

“I would rather not…”

Laughter bubbles up inside, and I’m clutching my sides, laughing like a mad woman. “You would rather not,” I mimic. “You’re such a headache.” The warm buzz in my stomach and head tells me the alcohol is taking a hold. And I’m reckless now. “You’re such a headache.”

His eyes burn into mime, and I whimper in need. Even in my inebriated state, shame coils down my spine. Up until a few hours ago, this man belonged to your best friend. Cool it, Rosita. He doesn’t even like you.

I scramble away from him, nursing my beer to my chest like a treasure.

“I don’t hate you. It’s not that.” His voice is rough, like he’s admitting to something that would never escape from his thoughts.

I swivel to face him, my eyes level with his knees. “Then what?”

He looks away, taking a long sip of his beer.

“Don’t be a coward. Just say it.”

One leg shoots out as he reclines in his seat. “I just… You….”

“I what?”

“You confuse me. You make me feel…some way that I can’t really describe.”

I muse over his words. “Like I’m too much for you to handle?”

He chuckles, the darkness in his throat grazing my skin and setting me on fire. “Like fire.”

His voice is so soft I almost miss it. “What?”

“Fire. You’re like fire. Hot, beguiling, wicked, and yet, alluring.”

Shit! My heart is beating so wildly now, it’s about to take off.

His head swivels down, and he stares at me directly. “Satisfied now?”

I can do this. I can look into his eyes without melting. The magic in his eyes means nothing. Five seconds, ten, twenty. We’re playing the staring game. And I’m drowning. 

Then his tongue grazes his lips. 

I don’t know when I move. Or when he moves.

But his lips are on mine and the world ends.

******

Rosita

I wake slowly, the sound of the pounding rain on the roof, the softness of the bed and the warm, cosy blanket drawing me in deeper into a snuggle. My body feels soft, muscles aching in the most delicious way. A smile on my face and a song in my heart.

Then my leg connects with warm flesh. 

A man’s muscled legs.

A groan and the person sleeping beside me turns, his face now facing mine, and everything comes rushing back.

Everything!

Desperate kisses.

Clothes torn off our bodies, buttons and zippers flying open.

Grabbing and sucking and squeezing.

And pounding.

A little pain, but greedy little me paid no mind.

I screamed. So hard, his neighbours must have heard everything.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I sit up on the bed, horrified. Ashamed. Repulsed by my own wantonness. 

The loop plays on in my mind. Hard but gentle hands caressing every inch of my skin, worshiping me like I am a goddess and he, a devoted servant. Tearing my legs open and sucking the life out of me. Not stopping till I screamed, my voice hoarse. Welcoming him inside me as he moved so powerfully, I screamed again and again. A little moment to catch my breath, then the ride of my life.

Strong, hard thrusts.

It went on and on.

I whimpered and screamed and begged for more.

Shit!

I slept with my best friend’s ex-fiancé. 

The man beside me groans, and his arm reaches for my side of the bed, searching. Did he think it was Sarima? Did he do all that to me, thinking he was doing it to Sarima? 

You’re the kind of girl men fuck, not marry. 

The words come rushing into my mind. Horrified, I leap off the bed and start searching for my clothing. Pant on the floor beside the bed, bra hung at the top of the door. How did it get there? Shirt on the stairwell, trousers on the couch. 

I grab my phone with the torch still on off the centre table and scroll to the Uber app, desperate to leave. I have to leave before he wakes. I have to leave and move to the end of the earth because there is no way on God’s green earth I can face this man ever again. 

I threw myself at him. My thirsty-ass self. Was I hoping for this? Praying for this? What will he even think of me now?

You’re just a cheap girl.

Get out of my head, you idiot. The app is searching for a driver and my eyes are on the stairs. I’m praying hard that he’s still sleeping. 

Damn it, what’s taking so long? 

No driver. No driver. 

I refresh the app. No driver.

I switch to the Bolt app. 

Searching for a driver.

Five minutes. Ten. 

Due to bad weather, I can’t connect. 

Bad weather? 

I take cognizance of the heavy, pounding rain on the roof, and comprehension dawns. 

“ROSITA!!!”

The roar comes from upstairs. He’s woken up and he’s pissed. 

Shit!

I grab my bag, sprint to the front door, step out and shut it behind me. My sigh of relief is cut short by the deluge of rain, the flooded road, the empty street. Not even an ant is in sight. It’s raining as if the world is about to end. 

Behind me, the door opens. And an angry Femi grabs my hand and drags me back inside. He places me by the wall and pins me down, placing both hands to cage me in.

I gulp. I’m in trouble.

The fire in his eyes clue me in. 

“What is that upstairs?” His voice is hard. Clipped. This is one pissed off dude. 

I look away, flushing with guilt. I took advantage of him. I was so thirsty, so obsessed, so consumed that I took advantage of him in his weak moment. I am worse than the scum of the earth. I knew Sarima had insisted on a celibate relationship for two years. He must have been waiting to share the special night with her. 

“Answer me!” His hand pounds the wall beside my head.

I close my eyes, body caved in as I wait. For anything. Angry swear words. A slap. A kick. Anything. I deserve it. I’ll take it without a fight. 

“Talk, Rosita. Since I’ve known you, you have never had a problem speaking. So, open your mouth and answer me, damn it! What is that upstairs?”

“I’m sorry.”

Silence. His gaze burns into me.

I open one eye and take a peek. 

He’s staring at me like I’m an alien who just dropped from the sky into his home. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again.

He keeps staring, then he takes a deep, barely controlled breath. His fists are clenched, and his jaw is tight. “What exactly are you sorry about?” 

“Everything.” Tears are dropping now and god, the shame is killing me. Belema was right. What did I think? That Femi would wake up and suddenly like me? That he would be happy to find me in his bed. Me? Rosita? 

You’re the girl men fuck, not marry.

Get out of my head, you jerk. 

“I was drunk. We had a little too much and…”

“Just stop.” He steps away and paces up and down, regret etched in his face.

I crumple to the floor, crying so hard I can barely breathe. 

“Why are you—?” He comes over and bends down, pulling me into his arms. 

I stiffen, trying to get away, but he’s having none of it. He settles into the floor and pulls me on his lap, holding me tight, one arm on my head, the other wrapped around me. I clutch his shirt and cry. I cry because I know he’s only being kind to the needy girl who practically seduced him. I cry because I just betrayed my best friend. I cry because I can never have this man. I cry until I’m spent.

All the while, he’s stroking my hair and keeps saying, “I’m sorry I yelled. I’m sorry.”

Could you be any more perfect, Femi? 

The tears dissolve into hiccups and I’m feeling safe and warm in his arms. He gently stands up, still cradling me like a baby and walks us to the couch. Then he sits and pulls me back into his body. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I was just so surprised.”

“I’m sorry. I took advantage of you. I know it wasn’t…”

He pulls me to stare at me with a frown. “Took advantage of whom?”

“You were drunk. Your wedding just got cancelled. I shouldn’t have…”

He places a hand over my mouth. “Shut up, Rosita Madueke. You didn’t… What the hell? Is that what you were thinking?”

I frown, confused. “Yes, I…”

“I’m talking about the blood on the sheets. Now, unless I was too rough with you last night, I am assuming that the blood is because you were a virgin. Am I right?”

Oh! 

I look away. 

He places his hand on my chin and turns my face towards his. “Were you?”

How do I tell him that even though I practically know everything there is to know about sex, I never came around to actually having sex? 

He shakes his head, shock written clearly on his face. “But how is it possible? You’re a virgin?”

“Was a virgin,” I say dryly.

“I can’t believe it.”

Something about his tone pisses me off. I shove him off and stand. “What? Why is it so hard to believe? Oh, because it’s Rosita Madueke with the tinted hair and the zero fucks given, so she should have a high body count?”

“Ah. I didn’t mean it that way. I was just…”

“Shocked? Surprised? Yes, I am a virgin…was a virgin. But it’s not a big deal. It’s not like I was saving myself for anything.” I just never found a man worth the trouble. 

Until Femi.

He nods, his face taking on a serious expression. “Did I hurt you? If I had known, I would have been gentle. I wouldn’t…”

“Please, don’t.” Don’t ruin last night. I know you regret it, but please don’t say the words. Don’t shatter me. I move to the single settee and sit, folding my arms and staring at the blank TV screen like it has all the answers.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend…” he starts.

“I am not offended,” I cut him off.

A beat passes. Then, “we didn’t use protection.”

The blood drains out of me. I hadn’t even considered that. My head swivels and my eyes meet his. There is a little panic in them, even though he is trying to hide it well.

“I’m clean, I swear. I haven’t had…” he says.

“I know.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “You and Sarima share everything?”

“I just know. After everything with Segun…it was a no-brainer.”

He takes a deep breath and relaxes his back on the settee, rubbing his eyes with his hands wearily. Then he laughs. “This wasn’t how I imagined today would go.”

He was supposed to be getting married to Sarima today. The elephant sits in the room, staring at us in the face. 

“I’m a bad host. I haven’t even offered you something to eat. You must be hungry.” He stands up and makes his way into the kitchen.

I spring up from my seat and head to the front door, pulling the handle. It’s shut. Tight. I pull and tug and push. Nothing. What gives?

I turn to face him. 

“I locked it,” he says simply and walks back into the kitchen. I follow him, ready to ask why he locked the door, but he adds, “The key is on the coffee table. But I know you don’t want to leave.”

SIX

Rosita

As usual, when it rains like this, the decoder goes to shit, so I’m left with nothing but my thoughts to munch on. 

God forbid. 

I pull out my phone to a barrage of calls and messages. There is a frenzy from the cancelled wedding. I sigh and get to work, responding to calls and messages from frantic guests and vendors, calming rumpled feathers, politely asking for refund policies. The food and drinks vendors are the toughest to deal with. What do you do with all that half-prepared food? 

I shoot a text to Oronne. How’s S?

She replies. Moved her flight earlier and on her way out. TTYL.

It’s really not happening. 

The thought settles into my soul and a little calm fills me. The wedding is really cancelled. It doesn’t excuse my actions, but it makes me feel somewhat better. 

A few minutes later, Femi opens the kitchen door, a tray in hand. “Breakfast is served.” He drops the tray on the dining table and sits.

I eye him warily as I walk over to the meal of scrambled eggs, bread, and tea. I sit and prepare my tea, then start eating slowly. “I don’t think I’m pregnant, but if I am, I’ll get rid of it.” 

He sputters and drops his tea cup so suddenly it cracks. “What are you…?” he stops and takes a deep breath. “Rosita, are you determined to end my life?”

“Why?”

“‘Cause everything you say and do kill me. Every fucking time.”

The curse word is so sudden and strange that I am taken aback. 

He frowns. “What?”

“That’s the first time I’m hearing you say fuck.”

He cocks his head to one side. “You think it’s reserved for bad girls like you?”

There is a teasing light in his eyes and I smile, despite the upside-down world I’m currently living in. “You just always seem so…”

“So what?”

“Composed. Put together. Never a hair out of place. It maddens me.”

A chuckle. “You did not hide that very well.”

“I wasn’t hiding it.”

“I know.”

I eat, oddly comforted by his presence. At ease. “How about your parents? How are they taking it?”

His face sobers. “My mum is sad to miss a good party. But they’ll survive.” 

He’s an only child. And Sarima mentioned they were excited to see him married. 

He spots my crestfallen look. “Don’t worry, I spoke to them already. They’re fine. They would be here if not for the rain and flood.”

Ah, yes! The flood.

I nod, taking the last sip of my tea. “I’m full. Thanks.”

I watch as he clears the dishes away, and I wonder once again how Sarima could let go of this man. 

The moment his figure disappears into the kitchen, I vault to my feet, sprint to the living room and pluck my phone off the centre table, trying the Uber and Bolt app in a hurried frenzy. Same thing. No available drivers.

I pull open the window, praying for a miracle. 

The rain is thundering on, the street flooded with brown rain water so high that the gutters have disappeared. Not even a car in sight.

I’m stuck here.

SEVEN

Rosita

“Would you like to take a shower?” 

I’m seated in the three-seater settee. Sarima’s WhatsApp is offline, but she sent a message to let me know she arrived in the Maldives and will contact me when she can. 

The message is like a douse of cold water, and the warmth I felt earlier from the way Femi held and comforted me has disappeared. There’s no hiding behind any facade now. I am literally the scum of the earth.

I betrayed my best friend. 

“Would you like to take a shower?” Femi asks again. He’s walking down the stairs in a yellow t-shirt and black shorts, feet encased in black crocs. 

My heart does that familiar flip and the sight of his handsome, well-rested face stirs anger in me. What is he so happy and glib about? “Are you even a little bit sad that your wedding got called off?”

He pauses mid-stride on the last step of the stairwell, taking in my countenance. 

“Shouldn’t you be crying, or at the very least angry? Your fiancé called off your wedding just one day before. Why are you chipper? Huh? Did you even love Sarima at all?” I’m yelling, my voice at its highest, fuelled by guilt and fear. How do I even tell Sarima I boned Femi? 

I cradle my head in my hands, overwhelmed by a myriad of emotions. Everything has gone to shit. Everything. And I was handling it so well. I thought I had it all under control. Attend their wedding, be the best chief bridesmaid ever, get home and cry all night, wake up completely over the groom. Instead, I spent the night with the groom. 

His footsteps pad towards me until he’s looming above me, my eyes on his feet. I lean back and stare at him. “What?”

“You’re feeling guilty.”

That’s a no-brainer.

“You feel you betrayed your friend.”

I did. 

A deep breath, then he sits beside me and relaxes into the chair. “There are a lot of things I feel towards Sarima. She was not just my fiancée, but she was a good friend. When I met her, I knew we would have a good life together, and I looked forward to it.”

The knife in my chest digs deeper. 

“I wanted it, that quiet, peaceful life with a good woman, raising our kids together and building a happy home.”

Then came Segun. And me. The homewreckers.

Femi swivels his body to face me directly, his gaze burning into mine. “But do you think what we felt for each other was a great, all-consuming love? Answer me honestly.”

“You loved her,” I state baldly.

“Of course.”

“I know you loved her.”

He nods again. 

I sigh, looking away. Yes, I was never fully convinced that they were in love, in love. It always seemed more like a marriage of convenience between two friends who cared for each other. There was no passion, no fire. But there was commitment, grace, and friendship. “So, what you’re saying is you’re not exactly heartbroken.”

He sighs wearily.

“That doesn’t excuse what…happened last night.”

A beat passes.

He grabs my feet, pulls them to his lap, and starts massaging. I make a small resistance, but the sensation, the heat of his palms, the hardness on my feet leave me holding back a moan. 

We sit there, man and woman, a thousand words unspoken.

His hands start drifting to my legs, a little higher, a little more daring, and my body heats up. I moan, and I catch his eyes trained on my lips with rapt attention. A small whimper escapes my throat and his hand soars higher, now on my thighs. I’m edging towards him.

You’re the kind of girl men fuck, not marry. You’re a cheap girl. What? You thought you were something special? That you and I had a special connection? 

Femi and Sarima may not have shared an all-consuming, passionate love together. But what does he share with me? Lust. A body to assuage two years of held-back lust. Freely offered without any demands for commitment. 

Shame! 

Belema was right, after all. That evening, when he cornered me in his kitchen and tried to force himself on me, when he said those ugly words as I fought him off, I should have known. What more am I except a shameful secret? I’m betraying my best friend, and he’s getting a warm body to help ease the disappointment of a failed wedding. 

Belema was right. 

I throw Femi’s hands off and stand up abruptly, grabbing my phone and bag off the centre table. I grab the key, turn it in the lock, throw the door open, step out, and shut it behind me. The rain is falling heavily, as if the sky is angry that a sacrilege has been committed. I step into the rain, the water on the ground reaching my knees. 

Undeterred, I plunge on, eyes almost blinded by tears and rain, pushing one foot after the other against the direction of the rain. I’m out of his car park now, heading into the street, when my foot slips, and I’m falling. 

Falling.

Until a hand grabs me.

Pulls me up and cradles me into his arms. Like a damsel in distress saved by a knight in shining armour.

I go limp in his body, heedless of the rain and blinded by my tears. 

My heart is shattered. My soul scattered. I was not keeping myself for any man specifically, but I did not plan to have my first sex on a bed of betrayal. What is the point of trying to keep any dignity? I have none. 

He carries me back into his house and shuts the door firmly with his foot. Then he trudges up the stairs, our bodies dripping water on the tiled floor. Back in his room, he takes me into the bathroom, drops me carefully into the tub, and turns on the tap. Warm water reaches my skin and I sink into the tub, staring into nothing. 

He fills the tub with water, looks at me with knowing, pitiful eyes, then leaves the bathroom.

I plunge down until the water covers my head. I stay there until my chest burns before lifting my head from the water. There’s a bar of soap right there. I peel off my clothes and wash. Then grab the towel from the rack and wipe down. Tying the towel around my chest, I step into the now empty room. There’s a stack of clothes on the bed. A t-shirt and clean boxers. Beside them is a tub of Nivea body cream and deodorant. With body spray and perfume. 

I dress up slowly, trying to control my breath and my thoughts. Wearing Femi’s clothes feels oddly intimate. Like we’re connected. Together. A man and his woman. 

I throw the thought away and take the cream and body spray back to the vanity. The dresser is half-open and something catches my eye. A black silk material. Familiar.

I pull open the dresser and take it out. The black silk. Carefully ironed and placed with some sort of reverence. 

A blindfold. 

I turn it to the side. The thin strap. I took delivery of them from the tailor. I know these blindfolds. I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. I’m not aware when the door opens or when he walks in. 

I hear a curse, and then a hand snatches the blindfold from my hand. “What are you doing?” he asks, gives me a warning stare, then places the blindfold back into the dresser, carefully and reverently.

Two years.

He kept the blindfold for two whole years?

I’m crying again, a complete mess. 

He never forgot. He didn’t forget. I gasp and fall on the bed. The realisation is so big it feels like my heart is about to burst.

“Why are you crying now?” 

I can barely speak. “That…that blindfold. Where did you…?”

He snaps the dresser shut. “I bought it.” 

A flush creeps up his neck, and now I’m smiling through my tears. “You bought it? Where?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Why not?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Why did you have sex with me?”

His gaze swivels to me. “I… Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know.”

He goes silent. Pads over to the other side of the bed and sits.

“Because we were drunk. I threw myself at you…right?” I ask.

“Stop saying that.”

“Why? Does it offend you?”

“It insults you, therefore it offends me.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I… I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”

“Because you care.”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m Sarima’s best friend?”

Silence.

“Have you always been attracted to me?”

A shocked cough. “What?”

“The truth, Femi.”

A stare, then a sigh. “You’re crazy, Rosita.”

“Is that why you tried your best to stay away from me?”

A forced chuckle. “Wow! You have a pretty vivid imagination.”

“Then why did you sleep with me?”

Silence. 

“Because I was available? I threw myself at you?”

“Stop saying that about yourself!” An angry tone.

“Then tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“How you truly feel.” I take a deep breath. “Tell me.”

He looks down at the floor. Then says quietly, “I don’t think this is a conversation we should have.”

“Then at least tell me where you got the blindfold from.”

“Why do you care so much about that blindfold?”

“I just wanna know. Is it bad if you tell me?”

“Because it’s nothing. It’s just a blindfold.”

“Then tell me how you really feel about me.”

Silence.

“If you don’t speak, I’m going to…I’ll trash that blindfold.”

He swings his gaze to meet my eyes.

I raise a brow. 

“Leave it alone, Rosita.”

“Just tell me.”

“Why?”

“Cos I wanna know?”

“Know what?”

“How you feel?”

A curse. “That I like you? That I’m attracted to you? Is that what you want to know?”

I nod. 

“That I’m a dirty scumbag so insanely crazy over his fiancée’s best friend, it took every self-control within me to act normal when you were around.”

A tear and a shocked laugh escape. “Yes, I want to know.”

“That I became obsessed and bought your perfume, so I could breathe in your scent?”

Oh! 

He changes his body angle, so he’s facing me directly. “That day Sarima sent me to pick you up, and we were alone in my car, I could hardly stop myself from touching you. From kissing you. That your scent was making me so crazy I had to hold my breath throughout the ride?”

Oh! Sarima’s big event when she had Femi pick me up. That was why he was so uptight and weird that day. I thought he was offended by my newspaper dress. 

“That no matter how hard I tried, I could not get you out of my head. And I hated myself for it.”

How could I have been so blind? How did I never notice? Was my head somehow stuck in my ass? I reach for him, and he shifts from my touch.

“Do you know how much I loathed myself?”

“I thought you hated my orange hair. And my red nails. And how loud I was.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Rosita? Why would you think that?”

Because Sarima and I are as different as night and day. And you loved her. And you wanted to marry her. And you avoided me so assiduously. 

He pads over to me and squats, taking my hands into his and staring at me reverently. “Rosita, I’m going to say this now, and I’m going to keep saying this till you get it into your head. You are colourful, and loud, and wicked, and a trash talker. You are great. You are perfect. You are special. And I like everything about you.”

He squeezes my hand. “Do you understand me?”

I nod, sniffling as the tears rain down. This man who has loyalty deep in his bones. 

“Yes, I do. Snail man.”

He frowns. “Snail man.”

“Snails have teeth. And you’re deadly afraid of them.”

His eyes go even bigger, his grip on my hand tighter. “How do you…? What are you…?”

“Ow! My hand.”

“Sorry.” He releases my hand, then looks at me, desperation in his eyes. “How do you know I detest snails?”

“I know you found out they have teeth. And that you love reading. And maths. And…”

“It was you.” His voice carries notes of awe and wonder. “That night. It was you… it’s always been you?”

“Yes!” 

“I looked everywhere. I tried so hard.”

“The registration book was torn in the chaos. I only got a few digits of your number. I called so many numbers trying to reach you.”

“You were always…” He pulls me into his arms and hugs me so tight I feel like my bones will break. I hold him even tighter, my heart full of laughter and happiness and joy.

Femi! 

My Femi! 

He was always mine, even when he belonged to someone else. He was always mine.

“I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it’s you.” He mutters the words against my neck, his hold still so strong. 

“Don’t let go. Don’t ever let go,” I whisper feverishly.

“Never.”

EIGHT

Rosita

It’s day four. 

It’s still raining buckets. On the news, they said it would rain for seven straight days. Not that I’m complaining or anything. 

We’re on the couch, snuggled together. He’s muzzling my neck and playing with my scalp. I’m locked in his arms, seated on his lap, breathing in his scent. I can’t get enough of him. 

It’s been torture. Pure torture. With no condoms in his house, we’ve had to be pretty creative in using our hands and lips, and anything else we can find.

I’m not complaining, but I want his body on top of me.

A ding emanates from the kitchen. The rice in the microwave is ready. 

“By the way, how come your kitchen is all stocked?”

“You mean for a man?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I like food. I like cooking.”

“And I like eating. So, it’s a win-win for me.”

“For us. I’m going to feed you till you become too fat to pass that door.”

He stands up to go get our food from the microwave and I admire his tight ass when a WhatsApp video call comes in. 

Somto, my sister. “Sup?” 

“Sister, I…”

“Wait oh! Somto! What did you do to your hair?” The girl’s hair is now low cut. Like mine. Somto who has the longest natural hair ever. Our mum brags about her hair a lot. 

Somto, the witch, just shrugs. “I figured it was time for a change.”

There’s a wicked glint in her eyes, and even though I am flattered, I hide it with a frown. I’m still her big sister. “Why do you like to copy my style?”

“Copy gini?” She smirks. “Please, I was tired of the hair.” 

“And of all the hairstyles in the world, you decided to copy mine.”

“Are you the originator of low cut? Eh?”

I can’t hold back the grin anymore. I trained her well. “And how did mummy take it?”

“We’re going to see Pastor Sunny next tomorrow. She said, the demon that possessed you is now after me.”

A laugh bursts out of me. My mum will never change. 

“Mummy said I should tell you to bring Sarima for deliverance. She said during their prayer meeting, Brother Abel got a revelation from God that the altars in Sarima’s father’s house is after her and if she does not do deliverance in the next…”

“Uh-huh. Tell her I’ve heard.”

“Okay.”

I cut the call, shaking my head at my mother’s antics, warmth filling my chest. There’s a man in the kitchen making dinner for me. I have a family that loves me. You know what, Belema? You may think that I am the kind of girl that’s only good for sex, but guess what? That’s your opinion and in my world, your opinion is shit. 

I take a deep breath, a wide smile on my face. It feels like the weight lodged in my heart since that disastrous evening in Belema’s kitchen has been lifted. I turn on my camera, record myself giving the finger, and send the ‘fuck you’ video to Belema. Then I block him. 

Another call comes in through WhatsApp.

Sarima.

Shit!

The grin dies off my face. I’m with her ex-fiancé. In his house. There is no way she wouldn’t recognise his living room.

Don’t hide, Rosita. You’re not that kind of girl.

I pick the call, my heart lodged in my throat. “Hi, babe.”

My best friend is sleek, toned, and seems to be lying in a hotel room. I search for signs of prolonged tears and pain. Instead, her face has a glow. And she’s smiling. “Hey. How’s everything?”

I give her a wobbly smile. “Babe, you left a mess back here, but I’ve handled most of it. Good news, the DJ and MC agreed to do a twenty percent refund. The rest of the vendors are not so inclined.”

She shrugs. “I didn’t expect them to.” She stops. “How’s Femi?”

Moment of truth. “Actually, I…um… I am actually in his house right now.”

She frowns. “His house?” Her gaze windens. “Did something happen to him? Is he okay?”

Why do you care? Do you still have feelings for him?

I take a deep breath. “The thing is… I came over that Friday night. And I’ve been there since.” I shut my eyes, gathering courage. “We slept together, and I’m sorry.”

Silence.

Complete and total silence. I have shocked and disappointed my friend to speechlessness. 

I open one eye to peek at her, ready for the scream and the tears and the end of our friendship. Why did it have to happen like this? 

My babe is just staring at the screen, unmoving. Is the screen broken? “Are you still there? Sarima?”

She blinks. “Yes. I’m just…”

“I know I’ve hurt and betrayed you, and I’m so sorry. You know, I would never dream of doing something like this, but the thing is that we actually met years ago on a…”

“Segun is here.”

I pause, completely taken aback. “Segun is where?” 

“Here. In the Maldives.”

I blink. “You travelled to the Maldives with Segun after cancelling your wedding with Femi?” I am outraged, even though I know I have no right to be. I don’t want them back together, but the thought that she was cheating on Femi leaves me so pissed.

“I didn’t travel with him. He found out where I was somehow and came all the way here. He’s apologised, and I know it’s somewhat wrong, but I want to give him another chance.” 

Her voice is a whisper, like it’s something she desperately wants but is ashamed to say out loud. Her eyes are big, pleading. She needs my support. She wants me to tell her it was okay to ‘break’ Femi’s heart to be with Segun. Sarima is a loyal person, and I know making the decision to end things must not have been easy.

Oh! 

“Okay. Ummm, that’s…” And words leave me. I don’t know what else to say, so I stare anywhere but the screen.

“About you and Femi…” Sarima begins.

I bend my head. 

“It’s not a hundred percent surprise or shocking. To be honest, I always wondered why he seemed to be so uncomfortable around you. So, it was this.”

“I’m sorry, babes.”

“You owe me. Big time.”

“I know.”

“Take care of him, Rosita. He’s one of the good ones. We just weren’t meant to be.” Her eyes are filled with tears. And relief. 

The same expression must be reflected in mine, cos now we are crying together, and I’m amazed at this miracle. Somehow, it all worked out? How? 

The kitchen door opens just as the call ends. Femi walks in carrying a tray which he lowers to the dining table gently. “Dinner is ready.” He walks into the living room. “Jollof rice and grilled fish.” His face drops as he sees my face. “What’s wrong? You’re crying.”

“I just spoke with Sarima.”

His shoulders drop, and he immediately sits beside me, taking my hand in his. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. She’s your best friend. She’ll forgive you. Maybe not now, but in—”

“We’re still friends. Segun went to the Maldives to see her, and she wants to take him back. So, she gave us her blessing.” I look into his eyes, not knowing what to expect. His ex-fiancé who dumped him a day before their wedding not only went to their honeymoon destination, but the man who is responsible for ruining their wedding is there with her. 

He simply takes a deep breath. “I wish her all the best.”

“Are you sure?”

He cocks his head to one side. “You think I still have some sort of feelings for her, or that I’m hurt?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

He lets go of my hand and leans back, head on the edge of the couch as he faces the POP. “Sarima is my friend. Do I wish that she had done this before the whole wedding shenanigan? Yes. Do I blame her for everything? No. She saved us from a miserable marriage. I knew there was trouble the moment Segun came back into the picture.”

“So, you were really going to marry her? Despite the feelings you had for me? Despite that night?”

He turns his head to look at me. “I was operating on the assumption that all I felt for you was lust. That it was simply me acting out or an early midlife crisis.”

No. It’s because you are loyal to a fault, and you would not justify hurting Sarima to be with her best friend. 

I smile and crawl into his arms. “You’re an idiot. But you’re my idiot.”

He pulls me closer and squeezes my shoulder. “The dinner this idiot painstakingly made for you is getting cold.” 

“Let’s go eat.” 

We hold hands and head to the dining room together. 

A Note from the Author

I recently released a novel titled ‘Getting Over You’ which is Nigeria’s first sports romance. The couple in that story are Sarima and Segun. It’s a second-chance sports romance novel where Sarima has to choose between Femi, her fiancé and Segun, the boy who’s come back for her. 

Many of my readers fell in love with Femi and demanded that Femi get his own happy ending. Thus, ‘You Are My Dream’ was born. I truly hope you enjoyed reading this. If you would like to read Sarima and Segun’s story, check out ‘Getting Over You’ available on all major platforms.

Author Bio

Glory Abah Mogbo is a die-hard fan of romantic stories and has been living her dream of writing romance for several years. With several bestselling novels under her belt, she’s always looking out for the next great read and enjoys hearing from her readers. You can reach her on all social media platforms.

Other books from the Author 

Getting Over You

Husband Hunting 101

Husband Hunting 202

Husband Hunting 303

Delight: A Twin Bliss Resort novel

Dating Mr. Famous

Diary of a Wallflower

Available here and in all major platforms.