“Oh my God, yes there. Oh my God, yes there!” She prayed repeatedly. Her eyes closed, her head thrown backwards.Her prayer was not like my mum’s. I’ve watched and listened to my mother pray all my life. This woman prayed differently.She sat on the water closet toilet, her long legs wide apart like a pregnant woman ready for a push, her mouth open like an asthmatic patient in need of urgent oxygen, and her breath fast, so fast like she was going to drop dead any minute.
The bathroom was a little dark, partly illuminated by the light coming from the small window.
Who prays naked in a dark bathroom? I wondered.
I first met Aunty Ebi when we moved to a new neighborhood, after my dad died in a car crash. I was six.
She is was a tall, dark muscular woman with eyes like that of the Kungfu Panda. She lived alone in a small apartment in the compound adjacent our house. She was my mum’s friend and was very kind and jovial.
She came to our own apartment every Saturday to help mum with kitchen chores. And she never came without a gift for me. I beam with great joy every Saturday as I busy myself unwrapping the cake, or lollipop, or bar of chocolate candy from Aunty Ebi.
One Saturday, she called me into her bathroom to come help scrub her back because, according to her, she had a painful strained muscle and couldn’t lift anything. Mum had gone to the salon to make her hair.
But no, I didn’t end up scrubbing Aunty Ebi’s back that day. My little right hand, held tight by her strong hand, ended up between her fat thighs. I could feel something raw and wet. It was like touching the raw meat in my mummy’s kitchen.I felt my peepee growing harder and harder in my short and my body temperature skyrocketing as she continued pushing my hand in and out slowly and almost rhythmically.
“Yesssss, yessssss, yesssssss!” she repeated loudly. She was aggressive this time, her right leg thrown up on the tiled wall.
I cried out in pain, my hand hurting terribly. But Aunty Ebi held it tight, so tight, like she was going to break it off if I don’t shut up and behave.
Few minutes later, she fainted, no, she died. She just inhaled deeply and then she stopped breathing.
I panicked, touched her hand and called her name, and then she woke up again. But she wasn’t the jovial and kind Aunty Ebi I knew anymore. Her eyes turned dark, cold and scary, and she had tears in them.
She held my peepee so tight I cried out in pain.
“I will cut off this little thing of yours if you tell your mum or anyone what just happened. Did you hear me?”
she said, looking straight into my eyes.
I shook my heard in agreement, and then she smiled and let me go.
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
It’s my twenty-fifth birthday today. I have long beards, deep baritone voice and a few girlfriends. It’s been almost fifteen years since I last saw Aunty Ebi. But every time I walk into the bathroom, I see her sitting on the water closet toilet, praying “Oh my God, yes there. Oh my God, yes there.”
Okey Anya currently lives in Port Harcourt, where he spends his time reading, writing, tweeting and doing other boring stuffs.
He tweets @realOkeyAnya