You are nothing more than the little boy who mills about an old dilapidated compound wearing mostly your skin, when Mama Amaka makes from you something more than you should be. You have been hunkering on the sandy pool, famished, waiting on your mother after school over under the shade of the funny-looking mango tree beside the scullery, building a mansion by muddling the sand with rainwater scooped from a dirty pail infested with threads of porriwiggles, when you aren't staring at the feet of the rusty gate for Mother's lopsided gait.
You have always wanted to be an engineer, to build for your parents a house that does not reek the musty smell of dead rats and clothes left unscathed in ancient boxes, a house you wouldn't have to share your feed with roaches nor your mat with geckos times you aren't launching a millipede off from your body. The cubicle your family take shelter has more room for old cartons and mountains of charred pots and crooked kitchen utensils than it does for you, where your parents weary mattress doesn't spread it's flatness upon the cracked floor. And so the noon of this day, when Mama Amaka would beseech from inside her room you help her nail some plank into the wall of her room, you see in it the chance to take your engineering dream to another level.
You do not move albeit the chance, swallowed by the inertia that comes with fear of the unknown, because that morning before school when you were in 'paradise', thirteen-year-old Amaka had winced like a scalded dog from inside of the grimy walls of the bathroom, on meeting a pair of eyes peeping at her sprouting breast from the cracks on the door. A little trace of the fleeting little feet - by Mama Amaka - had led to an old wooden door with the words 'NO CONDITION IS PERMANENT' chalked on the topmost part in your mother's crooked handwriting.
You would find yourself rooted to the sand instead, juking and bobbing your head in uncertainty, woozy from thoughts that are so thick a stick can't stir them, feasting on fear, the same fear that would robe a gun-wielding man on the sight of a nearing policevan.
"Boy, I thought I called you a while ago?" Mama Amaka's voice is husky, yet reeking the confidence of a god who seeks appeasement from a soul that has erred.
You are the lost soul who has erred, and she the god who can ruin your life in many ways. Father would whip you dead, your legs probably tied to rusty the fan that had years aback lost its original job to housing spiders in their cobby webs, whilst the wiry whip would do to your frail body as it pleased. Mother would weep in shame and have more reasons to blame your friendship with Akan the more.
"That rich spoilt boy is no good for you," she would bark, "You no longer go for choir practice but spend forever playing."
If only she knew too, that on the little screen of Akan's phone is where you first caught a glimpse of what a naked breast looked like - her flappy breast not counting. In that clip, a petite woman had hopped on to her much larger man's pole, riding in her glee whilst her breast jiggled. It had ended with man and woman clutched to the other, his face abandoned beside her ears whilst his free hand spanked her bum. That was four weeks ago though. If only she knew! Then there is Aunty Chioma, who would spend the whole of Sunday school inventing new methods to purge you of your filth if word gets to her. Even the new fiery-eyed principal would have a run at your buttocks at the assembly ground the next day in school, nodding his bald head when you would wince. You have never been more scared.
Your fear festers on you the more until you rise , determined to be your own Jesus. You take slow, tentative, calculated steps towards Mama Amaka's door. You wade into the room to meet a sight you can swear is a record for a twelve-year-old . Her lappa is wrapped loosely around her waist, baring for your eyes breasts her limpid top stretch to contain - just maybe no top in the world can do the job! If gawking at Amaka's apples had been paradise, then her mother's pineapples ought to be heaven just staring at them - it felt like it!
"Good afternoon Aunty. Where is the plank?" your eyes are on your feet, trembling as much as your maffling voice.
Mama Amaka allows plenty seconds tick away before she announces, "You have everything I need with you, Boy."
You do not understand her; it is beyond you to. Some years ago, cutting through - lantern in hand - the dark sylvans of your village in search of snails with other adventurous kids, a neighbour's girl, Mfon, had frowned you were far from what a woman needed, because when she had gotten tired of having your fingers in her slit and wanted the 'leg' between your legs, that 'leg' had stayed cripple.
But it is different today, this 'leg' of yours. Turns out the sight of Mama Amaka's round fleshiness is the healing it's always needed. You feel it make an unprecedented rise in a way that reminds you of Jesus or some disciple of his getting on feet hopeless cripples with words. Funny how this 'leg' doesn't need healing words but feelings steered into you by what your eyes have met to be healed. It doesn't just rise, it is hard against the fabric of your short. The 'leg' now struggles to even stay limp between your legs. Mfon's frown at its limpness now made sense and you can't wait to visit the village a time more, to prove to her you, too, stood tall.
"You like Amaka? Or you just want her body?" her mother sniggers.
"A..unty?"
"About your little stunt in the morning, you must have some balls to have pulled that. I was thinking of telling your parents, but I have a feeling you can be a good boy."
"I..was...No Aunty...It was...Please Aunty, I would do anything, please don't Mama Amaka."
"Drop your short, Boy."
"What Aunty?"
"You heard me. Do that now!" a command you struggle to understand.
There are very many pins and needles tearing through your fleshy soles from staying rooted for too long on the spot you're stood, and tingling feelings on the tip of your fingers. In the space of a second she let's her lappa fall to her feet, her eyes buried in yours. You do not buy enough time to recover from the shock when she goes on her knees, then snakes your way. Everything is bare save for the top which is as good as useless in holding her swinging breasts.
"We have a deal boy. You would do as I say else you'd have to explain to your parents what you were doing behind the bathroom door while Amaka bathed. You are one naughty boy you know."
Her words are slur, and from between her full lips you see her tongue circle the insides of her lips, when her teeth aren't jamming in speech. If you would ever get the chance to take Aunty Chioma's place schooling churchy kids on Sunday, you vow inside to bare the truth 'heaven' isn't some blissful place in the distant sky, but that heaven is in the body of a single mother who's daughter was the object of your fantasy times her perky breasts were naked to your peeping eyes. Mama Amaka is heaven!
If seeing her breast a while ago had been a record, then gawking at the mounds of flesh jiggling from her rear - a roundness which remind you of Gran's earthen gourds in the village - must be a feat no boy your age has matched. The air inside of your head is heavy. Stars dance before your eyes. You feel your school knicker being pulled from your waist. Then some pudgy tube you can only feel takes your peen inside of its fleshiness. You shake your head clear second later, only to meet the reality of your penis lodged firmly between Mama Amaka's full lips. Your sanity, and everything else in you, go rogue!
But this newfound pleasure comes with a weighing guilt. It almost leaves you sombre. You see a little over a decade ago Mama Amaka had played wet mom times your mother took too long to return from the market, after your birth. How time flies! Life now has you switching places. You have become the feeder of a hard, throbbing flesh hanging from between your legs, and she, the fed. You try to pull back, your eyes rolled into your head.
But there's no going back no more when you feel her tongue swirl around the tip and cap of your penis. Then she circles most of you with her mouth. You almost convulse as you push everything you have deeper into her fleshy lips. Her fingers find their way to caressing your eggs, her free hand placed firmly on your bum pulling you closer. A minute does not tick away when you whisper, "I want to urinate Aunty."
"Go ahead."
She tightens her grip on you and sucks you harder into her. You feel something slimy trickle away from your 'boyhood'. Perhaps, boys too, have milk to offer you have learnt. Akan would wish to be you when you tell this tall tale. Mama Amaka is heaven!
Pleasure for you ends two minutes later, when she would lie flattened on the bare floor, and implore you eat from her gaping fleshiness. Somehow the wetness of the thing doesn't even help. In it hangs the familiar smell of onions and mashed fish that hangs in the air in the scullery. You cannot help but wonder if she does her cooking between her thighs.
"Suck it," her voice quivers, "suck me now Boy."
"I...I can't Aunty."
"Good. Everybody will know about your act this morning then. You can go. Good."
"No Aunty, please. I'm sorry, it won't happen again."
She does not say a word. Her face is worn stern. She borrows you a frown her eyes communicate can only be repaid with the sucking of her not-too-sweet-smelling coochie. You feel tears sting your eyes, tears that go on to stream your face as you quaver a weak "I will suck it Aunty." Mama Amaka's face loosens and she lends you a smile.
"That's my boy."
You hold your nose. And for the next twenty minutes your face is lost, buried between her huge thighs, on her vagina flowing of juices you detest, 'cause just maybe you're too young to have a taste. You don't understand if her muffled shrieks are of pains or pleasures she couldn't contain. The scene ends with a hand on your head nudging your mouth harder on her, whilst her free hand digs more juices out for your lips to swallow.
You rush out almost immediately sulking, late enough to hear her command, "Come back tomorrow after school Boy, else everybody would know!"
You meet a frowning Amaka walking in through the rusty gate. She would never know you got to eat from the very tract she came out from as punishment for peeping at her body. Everything suddenly smells like her mother's juices. You spit and spit until your mouth is dry, but the smell doesn't wear off. It hangs on in your nose and hands, even the air you breathe. Whoever had said hell does not exist had never had a taste of Mama Amaka's fleshiness!
When your mother finally canters through the rusty gate bearing a polythene and a sack bag in each of her hands, you do give her the usual smile nor run to help her with her load. In the stead of that you are crouched on the pool of sand, wearing a face straighter than a ruler. If only she had been home earlier you still would breathe the same air she does, not this one that nauseautes the life out of you. You do not also know if to tell her this day has ruined your life forever. You cannot fathom whether Amaka's almost flat body is even worth the punishment taken. There's something you know however, it is that for every day you would get a taste of hell after a brief stint in heaven.
You hear Amaka's mother singing out loud from the scullery overly excited, the first in a long time you realize. If only she would not grind the onions and mashed fish between her thighs, perhaps tomorrow would have her taste better.Well, boys, folks say don't cry, so you kill the tears from your fears for a mask bearing a seared grin. The world would never understand what it is for you, this ordinary boy hunkering under the shade of a funny-looking mango tree beside the scullery, building a mansion by muddling the sand with rainwater scooped from a dirty pail infested with threads of porriwiggles, who's newfound 'lunch' is plated between the thighs of a single mother.
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From @chuka