Weld-Lock: Episode 6


[…continued from WELD-LOCK(5)]

To have a most memorable wedding night was about all I dreamt and lived for, in the final few days count down to my wedding. Finally the weight of the wait of many years would be relieved. The lid would be lifted off the well, and the arrears in reserve would spring and burst forth at once. 
I wouldn’t take chances. It was worth preparing adequately for. I had gotten a few of Dr E.D Wheat’s titles and digested them. E.D Wheat was a renowned Christian sex therapist who authored the classic: ‘Intended for pleasure’.
I did make sure the time duration for the reception was well within a 2-hour frame. I had to curtail the M,C’s potential excesses . Such that my wife and I were already exiting the venue by 3pm. We of course left a number of throats behind – long and short, to help themselves to as many courses of ‘pot-bottom’ rice as possible. We had that well covered for.
After putting all in place for our ‘escape’, our car zoomed off. So that in a flash of seconds, only a fast disappearing view of our ‘Just married’ sticker behind, plus exhaust smoke were visible to onlookers.
6pm. We had checked in to our room, had a quick prayer session, freshened up and settled. We were having a stroll, holding hands down the boulevard in the resort. I had suggested it. It was  a necessary prelude I thought up to ease tension, ere we got down to the business of a night to remember. Business of the night? Sigh. Negative. 
I was already on ‘my marks’, ‘set’, ‘ready’, Funke wouldn’t just let me ‘go’. It was then she thought it right to tell me she had a terrible nightmare about ‘us’ the night before. There had been no time to have told me prior to then, she said. She had consequently called up her godfather, who happened to be a revered elder and mentor to her Dad. The man had instructed ‘in the spirit’ that we both embarked on a 3 day fasting and prayer, immediately after the wedding, to avert some calamitous event. 
It was still making sense up till this point. But then she added, that Baba specifically instructed we must strictly observe sexual abstinence the entire time.
 Abstinence?! Can a man put fire on his bosom and not be burnt?
 Well, I did. 
And my hairy chest miraculously came out unscathed.
For for three days, I watched helplessly the luscious, sleeping-beauty figure of my wife, in her lingerie-revealing silk nightie, lying right next to me in bed, while I had to ‘unlook’ and play technical impotence the whole time. It was hard, like a knotty pesky boil down there in my anus.
 But what can man do? -to play mumu and die for love of course! Through the three days therefore , we were holding hands, clapping hands, lifting hands, singing hymns, blasting tongues,  but ‘touching not’. 
Lest I forget, our wedding night of course was a vigil. Morning came, alas, there had been no night.
Day three.6pm. We broke fast. Relieved, released, I rejoiced. My primitive instincts would have me go for a ‘rush’ at her right there and then. And vent my entire libidinal energy, coupled to the inherited tested and trusted virility of my forefathers on the poor lady. But self control came in handy. I remained a ‘brother’. 
Bedtime. 9pm.Lights out. I was making ‘moves’ under the blanket. No show. She was backing me the whole time, hesitant, writhing, shoving my adventurous hands away. Those rebuffing gestures were fast driving the heater in my head red hot. Then she sat up abruptly, aborting the flow.
 She was mumbling something, something I wanted to be deaf to at that crucial hour. My face must have been something from a horror movie by then. She must have seen this, through the darkness of the room. For she hurriedly spoke up at once- “I’ve been meaning to tell you…” Pause. I ignored it, sensing she was only trying to distract my attention. 
I resumed ‘work’. I was having my way already, forcefully. Amidst the struggle and tiny scuffle, she blurted ‘I’m not a virgin!’ I froze.
 The fight in me and the man under shrunk instantaneously in cold death. Not like I cared much about the over-hyped hymen, and making undue publicity stunts out of an intact membrane. But for hiding this all the while, and her antics at making up the 3 day fast, just to play delay tactics just got me pissed me off. 
I didn’t even let her as much breathe as to explain herself. To hear her explanations of it not being from penetrative sex, but an ‘experimentation‘  gone wrong, in the early adolescent days of sexual exploration and self- stimulation . That she had on an occasion played too far with herself. And in the heat of pleasure had pierced something deep down there, and bled. 
The story was echoing annoying somewhere in my subconscious, but I had stormed out of the room. I came back much later, a couple of hours  past midnight. But slept on the cold floor. I couldn’t bear sleeping next to her, on the same bed. She stunk.
Day 4. I was still a virgin -a virile virgin, in my own home, with my own wife, on our honeymoon. Our sour honeymoon. I sulked for a couple of days more, and tried coming around. I forgave her. We made up.I had no choice. It was way too early. More so I wouldn’t want to invite attention. We had vowed never to allow a third party wade unnecessarily into our affairs. 
But things never remained the same. What died in me the other night never looked to have resurrected at all. I just lost interest and was just getting along mechanically. Just simply playing the functional ‘husband’ role.
I found out more shocking revelations about her to my chagrin. She was in the habit of piling up smelly unwashed undies of several days. Her sweeping and housekeeping were never thorough. I was highly organized to the minutest detail. But she wasn’t. She was always putting books, video cassettes, tapes and all out of place, littering the whole house. 
And she was always wasting my toothpaste, pressing the tube right on the middle, till she almost gets the entire content piped out on her toothbrush . Then was the irritating gagging noise she makes when she takes the brush too far through her throat, probably to brush her gut out. I hated the sound of it with passion.
 Her food was a tale of lumpy pounded yam, nodulated amala, stony Eba with numerous cannonballs of garri matter. My oral cavity suffered long from fiery peppery meals. Rice was most times a meal of salt sprinkled with rice. Even common toast bread with her becomes burnt offering. 
I knew she was trying her best, and she was quite teachable. It wasn’t entirely her fault. She never had much of the hands-on training and expertise my Mum exposed me to, in the kitchen and in general housekeeping. Hers was a housemaid-studded background.
 But then I was still all fed up and tired. Sex, boring sex was about the brightest thing I could glean from her. In 10 minutes maximum I was done. I would slope up there, climax and crash down to sleep almost immediately. The thing called sex was all vain after all.
Things got really bad. We were struggling. It was real hard work having to act as fine outside. Our parents or anyone mustn’t know anything of this. We were professional. They never smelt a fish.
It was only our 6th month anniversary. It looked like 6 years. My hair was graying already. I had come close to hitting my wife up to four times already. Things had gotten out of hand. I was famished. I was done… (to be continued)


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