- Posted by Edith Ohaja
- On June 1, 2017
- 92 Comments
PROLOGUE TO “MY BEAUTIFUL NEIGHBOUR” SHORT STORY SERIES
You are welcome! The story you’re about to read is fictional. It’s not a reflection of how I think and talk. Thankfully, the chief character-narrator is a guy (called Ebony). This should tell you that the language is not 100 per cent kosher but it’s authentic to the character.
The story is about Ebony’s strong sexual attraction for his married neighbour, Anastasia.
“OMG,” you say, “I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.” It won’t be long before you find out.
The story is also about God’s missionary activities among people through our Lord, Jesus Christ. God does not mind doing the unusual if that’s what will get someone’s attention. That explains why there’s a part where the story seems over-the-top. But it adds to the thrill of the narrative.
The story sees Ebony recounting on two occasions what happened in the preceding days. He does have a lot to tell.
So read, comment, share on your various social media platforms and be blessed.This short story is about sexual attraction and a confrontation with faith. Click To Tweet
MY BEAUTIFUL NEIGHBOUR #1 (SHORT STORY)
December 8, 2016
A KIND WELCOME
Life as a handsome bachelor is filled with fun and adventure. I get loads of attention from ladies and since many of them are desperate to “settle down” (as if they’ve been scurrying around like squirrels), I’ve had quite a few trial marriages, lol! ??
Last week (1st of December, to be precise), I moved to this flat in a respectable neighbourhood in Enugu (Trans-Ekulu). I’d made some cool cash through a Ponzi scheme and felt an upgrade in my accommodation was in order. I moved in at night as I didn’t want the prying eyes of neighbours seeing my ratty furniture, which I’d hoped to change once I got my next payment from those I was matched with in Blue Royal Helping Hands Network before public confidence in the scheme began to wane and people weren’t paying up as expected.
But you will not believe I got a knock on my door (it was almost midnight) and a lady in pj’s with a print wrapper tied around her bosom was standing there scrubbing her eyes. She squinted at me and yawned. I stepped back understandably. The woman had just woken up from sleep!
She pushed the door away from me and squeezed into the living room.
“Gosh, this place is so dusty!” she complained as she started moving further in.
“Excuse me, who are you?”
I wanted to ask if she was with the local government sanitary department, if there was such a thing. What made her think she could walk into my FLAT, in the dead of night, without introductions and start voicing her opinions on its state? This was the reason I came to live here, away from the room I occupied in a large compound at Obiagu, still here in Enugu, where everyone was in everyone else’s business.
“I’m your neighbour, Mama Chinonso. I’m the one who gave you the keys when you came around yesterday or was it two days ago” (an obvious reference to how late it was).
Right away. I saw that not only was this lady a stunner, her looks were exotic.
“I didn’t recognise you and you will recall we weren’t properly introduced.” I’m not sure I even looked at her when she handed over the keys. I was in some kind of rush.
She continued her inspection of the rooms while I restrained myself from ordering her out. When she returned to the living room, she announced, “You can’t sleep here like this. You will be sick. Wait for me.”
“Listen madam, I know you’re trying to be kind but it’s not your problem. I think you should go back to sleep.”
Just then a gust of wind blew in through the open door. It raised much dust and I sneezed repeatedly. How I hate the harmattan season!
“See what I mean? I’ll be right back.”
In a few minutes, she had returned with a broom, a mopping stick and a jerrycan of water. She had also slipped on a shift which did nothing to hide her figure. I don’t do married women, I reminded myself, before history would repeat itself here.
“You should stay at the porch. If you had been specific about when you were coming, we would have arranged to do this before the day.”
I moved out with mixed feelings. I was grateful I wouldn’t be inhaling all that dust but the last thing I wanted was a close relationship with any female in this place. By letting this woman clean my flat, I would be unable to shun her and the rest of her kind as I planned to do. I hoped the people living on the top floor of the four-flat building were not going to be as “nice” as she was. Otherwise, I may have jumped from the frying pan to the fire.
There had been six women with grownup daughters at my former place and each of them was determined to make me her son-in-law. I don’t blame them. Did I tell you before that I am handsome? Check this out: I’m 6ft tall, ebony-complexioned (like my late mum), with a pointed nose, a natural cleft in my chin, even white teeth, a killer smile and a voice to die for. Seriously, I sing and play the guitar and I’ve seen people cry and empty their purses when I perform. I was a track and field athlete during my school days and even though I don’t compete any more and won’t bare my abs in public, I still look fairly okay in that department. Oh, and you might wanna know, my name is Ikem, short for Ikemefuna, but everyone calls me Ebony.
So as I said, the ladies had good reason to vie for my attention. At first, it was amusing and I ate their food and slept with the girls who stole into my room at odd hours. But I had no plans for getting married yet. (I’m just 29 for crying out loud!) When they started borrowing money they couldn’t pay back and pressuring me to contribute to school fees and family emergencies, I calculated that the cost of their “gifts” had risen beyond what I cared to pay.
So I started bringing girls home. The hint was taken and the battles began. These women and their offspring, who formerly lived like cats and dogs, banded together to deal with me. They beat up two of the girls who came to visit me, called the police to arrest me several times on spurious charges (like smoking Indian hemp in the compound, which I swear is the preoccupation of their sons, not me), set my motorcycle ablaze by “accident” and spread word in the neighbourhood that I was a 419er* (because my hustle is online with my laptop).
The last straw was when my mum died and I bought a car shortly after. They said I’d used her for rituals. I decided to move before they kill me and to go where I can be a loner and continue my hustle in peace. I hope to use my car as backup for taxi business if the slow pace of things online worsens. I’m continuing my investments through numerous accounts in several schemes but I’m seriously planning on having my own scheme. I will call it Consolidated and Aggregated Windfall Platform. Three months of that and I’ll be set for life.
This is no time for distractions. I will hit the big time or die trying. Yeah, yeah, you may say that’s not original. Well, what you don’t know is that guys like me make a good living out of copying and fine-tuning other people’s ideas.
“I’m through.” The voice startled me. “Do you need some food?”
“Listen, madam, you’ve done enough.” I brought out my wallet from my trousers’ hip pocket and extended five hundred naira to her. I had no intention of being in her debt. That would leave my door open to her and who knows what she will be demanding further down the road. She looked at me in shock and left, shaking her head and muttering to herself.
To be continued
Ⓒ Edith Ugochi Ohaja 2017
*419er refers to someone who engages in Advance Fee Fraud. Some specialise in befriending lonely people abroad for the purpose of defrauding them.
HEY, LET’S TALK!
Would you do the sort of thing the lady in this story did for a stranger?
Would you, perhaps, do it in broad daylight, not when it’s so late and you guys are all alone?
Have you ever received an act of kindness from a total stranger? How did you react?
You may wish to check out other posts in my category, Short Stories. Here are a few samples:
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