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Story: Tears Cannot Heal Broken Things by Chioma Ngaikedi

hqdefault 300x225 - Story: Tears Cannot Heal Broken Things by Chioma Ngaikedi

“Are you not listening, Veronica?” Pastor Jude said. A giant black vibrator dangled in his left hand. His face was a mask of pure horror.

“What are you doing with this?”

I jolted back to reality,nodding like a lizard hanging on a tree. I have never seen Pastor Jude, Matthew’s father fume like this. Matthew was pacing around the living room, sweating like a Christmas goat. Stupid idiot! Why did I even accept to enter this life of bondage anyway?

I blame my mother. She had pushed me into hell.

“Go ahead, Vero! He is a husband material. A wise girl can date a play boy but when it comes to marriage, she must choose a husband. Matthew is a husband. He graduated with first class. His father is a pastor. And he has never even demanded for sex in the six months, you two have been dating. Nne, go ahead, Matthew is every woman’s dream!”

We had this conversation in the kitchen,the mortal was between her legs . She punctuated her words with a pound. But the pestle did more than pound the cocoyam that day. It had pounded her words into my head. Two months later, I married Matthew. And that was when the nightmare began.

Wedding night, my best friend Philo had just helped me change into a revealing red lingerie.

“Girl! show him pepper” she whispered into my ears and strutted to the door. I giggled. My head was swooning with the champagne I had drank at the wedding reception. The room swung around. Heaven was at my feet. Then, Matthew entered,looking every inch a man. He has removed his black suit. His white shirt stretched over the muscles of his shoulders. The front buttons were open. Dark hair shining against brown chest,begging my fingers to run through. He raised his glass in the air in a silent toast.

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I took the first step. My red lingerie accentuated my curves. The lingerie slipped off my left shoulder, my left breast was exposed, hanging in the air like an offering in the hands of a priestess. Matthew’s eyes widened. He drained the drink in a single gulp. I walked into his arms. My lips found his lips. My hands roamed the expanse of his shoulders. My right hand snaked down pass his navel straight to his groins. I squeezed. The glass slipped from his grasp.

“Vero!” He gasped. My name sounded like a prayer on his lips. His pupils disappeared into his eyes. His hands reached for my breasts. My fingers tore the buttons of his shirt. His chest was bared in my gaze. Dark hair . Taut stomach. Damn!

He yanked my lingerie away. His hands found my bare buttocks. He squeezed hard, lifting me in his arms, he carried me to the bed. The soft blankets enveloped us in its warmth. Our mouths locked. Our moans came from our souls’ depth. He nudged my legs apart. In one quick thrust, he was within my feminine warmth. Another thrust. He screamed and his body began to convulse against mine. And after, 3 seconds, he collapsed beside me and drifted to dreamland. That night, my body burnt with need but the more I tried to wake him, the louder his snores drummed in my ears. Yes! That was my wedding night of 3 seconds s•x!

The pattern soon became a trend. Matthew would stir me up and leave me hanging, months after months. And anything, I brought up the topic, advising him to visit a doctor, he would hold my hands and tell me not to be a slave to the flesh. And when I couldn’t take anymore, I invited my mother to thrash the issue with us. Matthew looked my mother in the face and asked her if i had been circumcised? He pressed that African women should be circumcised to curb our libido. He said that it was wrong for a woman not to be satisfied with her husband, that infact I need prayers if not deliverance.

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I couldn’t believe my ears. I just sat down there, staring at our wedding picture hanging on our wall, wishing I could just use it to smash some senses into his head.

” For eight months, your wife hasn’t climaxed and you are here, talking rubbish. Hide your face in shame, you useless trunk of a man.” I yelled.
Mother tried to calm me down but water cannot douse the flames of s•xual need. I clawed at him and kicked his back. He turned and that was the first time Mathew had ever slapped me.

That night, mother and i sat behind the gipee tank in my back yard. Her hands held mine as she said,

”Vero nwa, a husband is like a wrapped gift, whatever you find inside is what you will take. Endure nwa! Endure! ”

I stared at her with shock in my eyes. Endure? Endure a lifetime of a lifetime of misery? Gosh, I didn’t sign up for this. The next week, I drove to pinky sex store and got myself, a shiny black, giant vibrator. So, one evening, several weeks later, I laid naked on our bed, an Elthon John, sacrifice, blasting on the deck, my legs apart, vibrator in hand, I was driving myself to heights that Matthew cannot take me.

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I heard a crash. I opened my eyes, there was Matthew standing at the door. His eyes were shooting daggers at me. He opened his mouth but no words came out. Tears shone in his eyes. He turned and left the room.

Two hours later, here I am, sitting in my living room with my father in law sitting opposite me, with a big bible on my laps. And the vibrator dangling in his left hand. His eyes shot accusations at me.

“Why Vero? Why would you let devil use you? According to John chapter 4 vs… It says

He was reading the passage but I was not listening. My eyes were fixated on Matthew. He was still pacing. His eyes were avoiding mine as though the very sight of me disgusted him. I felt sorry for him. I never wanted it to be like this. I once loved him truly.

“I will burn this. This is devil trying to break your home. Do you understand me, Veronica?

“Yes, I do sir. ” I replied
“Now, get up and apologize to your husband,” he ordered.

I got up and walked past the glass center table to the bar shelf where Matthew was leaning. I stopped in front of him.

“I’m sorry. ” I murmured. My eyes brimmed in tears. He looked up at me as though seeing me for the first time. He opened his arms and I walked. We cried. We cried for the expectations not reached. We cried for the those tiny little twisted things inside us.
But even as we cried, I knew I will always return to pinky s•x store because tears cannot heal broken things.

With love,
Chioma Ngaikedi.

Updated: January 30, 2018 — 8:51 pm

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