We were like Siamese twins from then on. I couldn’t care less about Shai’s mild sexually transmitted disease which was scaring the boldness out of her. Neither did Mimi’s political sexing for power and recruitment for a prostitution powerhouse interest me. Ntwanu took me to many beautiful places. We went to the Koklobite Beach in Accra where we could barely keep our hands off each other. We went to the National Theatre to watch movies. Although he was a man of few words, I enjoyed his quiet presence. He held my hands and thanks to the good air condition, sweat was not a problem. He, every now and then turned to look at me, peck my forehead or cheek, and laughed with me when a scene was funny. We also shopped at the Cultural Centre and proceeded to Cape Coast, from the Walkway to the Elmina Castle. He chose to do everything for me. He fed me, bathed me, selected my clothes (such good taste), styled my hair, made me up and always dressed up like a king, my king. Even I liked my transformation in the mirror. He got a classy hotel in every city we visited and we made love; sweet passionate love, quickies which were sweet like timely snacks and when I wanted it rough, words are not enough to describe it. It was the first time I was fingered and loved it. Ntwanu’s well trimmed fingernails, his neat hands went down on me as his mouth occupied my breasts driving me into senselessness. I orgasmed without lifting a finger. It was as though his fingers opened a tap of my cum and left it on for a long time. I could have been mistaken for a epileptic judging by my long jerking, squirting and loud noise. I couldn’t believe I had lived to see me so beautiful and complete in the presence of another human being. I was even beautiful in the mirrors of his eyes.
I was very shocked that a soul as cool, classy, emphatic like that was into a cruel business like armed robbery. So I asked him. He was quiet for a while. That silence led me to tell him not to tell me if it was difficult for him to. But he shocked me by taking me into his arms, kissing me and putting my head on his chest to begin the story.
“Ever heard of the Honourable Armah Ocloo?” He asked
“Yes. Was he not the Minister of Justice eight years ago? I think I was familiar with him through the news. I think he was assassinated by some unknown men”
“He was my father” He blurted out.
I asked without intending to and apologized for it.
“Don’t apologize, just keep quiet and listen. I can’t tell you everything but I will tell you all I can. I was his only bastard son. He deceived my mother into believing he was single although he was married. My poor mother became pregnant only for him to give her money for an abortion. You know how scary abortion was at the time. So she kept the money for trade and gave birth to me. I grew up hearing nice things about my father from mum but the small village’s mouth was oozing such horrible things about him.
My mother always told me to desist from gossips and I did. When I was seven years old, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. The whole Monkorono Village started shunning our company. Even my teachers asked me not to come to school again. They sacked me. Their reason, my mother was sick because she had wronged the gods and any association could be deadly. The other children told me that. To them, such sicknesses could only be punishment from the gods. The painful part, my mother’s relatives were leading the cause.
While some claimed she was a witch, others claimed the woman whose husband she stole was responsible for her plight. Even market women refused to sell us their produce and none bought anything from my mum. So we relocated to Asaaba, where nobody knew us. I sold many things, became an errand boy just to feed us and tried to buy some of her medicines but nothing worked. So she held my hands and with her little energy left, sent me to the residence of my father.
I was shocked upon seeing where and how he lived as we languished in poverty. I don’t know if I felt anger or rage. What annoyed me was my father’s insistence that I would ruin his political chances so my mother should take money and send me to wherever she pleased. Maame Asaa Esiano did not say anything to him. I was only ten years old, she shouted for his wife and told her if they sent her with her son, she would go straight to the media. That got their attention. So without heeding to my pleas for her not to leave me behind, she left.
My stepmother did not treat me badly per se. She only avoided me. She bought clothes for me, gave me weekly allowances through my driver, fed me through the maids but never so much as uttered a word to me. My father too was never home. I was enrolled into one of the best schools in Accra but was very lonely. Only my driver seemed to cheer me up. Home was prison. I hated my mother for leaving me there but was so worried about her, that I begged Ibrahim, my driver, to take me to her one Saturday. He, being the ever lovable man he was, lied about taking me to a park and took me to Asaaba.
Our neighbours wept on seeing me. They told me how my mum died for over four days before they detected. When they saw her, she was so bloated, the men in the area had to bury her that day. Since they did not know where I was, and did not know any of our relatives, they did what they could to send her off. Ibrahim was very angry as to why they told me about what had happened in plain terms. From what I was told, she died just after returning from my father’s place. I went into the room and found many letters addressed to me. Letters telling me to be a good boy and try to grow into a responsible adult for her. Letters telling me about her love for me. How I was the only good thing God blessed her with.
I did not eat for days and as such fell ill. I was sent to the Achimota Hospital where I spent more than three months on admission. The doctors finally told my father I was suffering from some sort of emotional stress. That was the first time he showed me some form of love. He stopped all his engagements and came to be with me for three weeks. Because I did not tell him about my mother, he guessed I was being tormented by his wife. Mrs. Agatha Ocloo fought him for having time for only me when he cared less about her girls. My father packed me up and sent me to his younger sister. Aunt Abena Ohewaa was very good to me but my father sent me to the United States to school there. I threw such a fit that he flew Ibrahim and Aunt Ohenewaa there to be with me until I turned 18. Then he forced me into the military.”
I was very close to him while I worked as a soldier but somehow, I ended up leading boys to take care of all his political enemies. Threatening them, assaulting some, even eliminating some. For the eliminations, I never participated but got to know about it later. When I realized what a pawn I was, I decided to leave my father to himself. I was not lucky. He was killed that week. I blamed myself and still do. I did not have time to even grieve, my stepmother and her three girls fought me, sent thugs after my life because my father willed everything he owned to me. Only things he left for them were the house they lived in and a fixed bank account for each of them.
My boys kept me alive. I don’t know how we got here, but I assure you, we do not kill unless it is completely necessary. And we only attack the greedy. Truth be told, Guru leads that, I kind of help with the planning.”
I felt pity for my man. Lots of love but pity. “So what happened to your work as a soldier?”
My question got an unusual answer. He kissed me so passionately that I forgot about it. But I pushed him onto the bed, undressed him and sucked him into tears. He begged me to stop but I didn’t. I sucked his manhood hoping to suck out every pain, every torture, every blame, everything whipping his conscience from his body. I realized I wasn’t disgusted by his sperms. I gulped them down as they came in. By the time I finished, he was weeping, I looked into his eyes, took his head onto my laps and told him “love, you did nothing wrong. You are an angel placed in a bad situation by fate. Please let everything go so we can be happy”.
We both ended up weeping in the arms of each other for over an hour, and slept in the pool of our tears, glad we found each other, hoping the moment would last.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 2017.
Photo Credit: Google pics