A Touch of Spite (1)

True loves are the ones you reminisce about. The kinds you remember with a pang and an ache. They are always in past tense, because you never really know love till you are out of it. 

You also never forget the worst romantic involvements of your life. It is a well known fact; love and hate are siblings, very identical.

The other day I saw an ad for a writing competition with the theme, A Touch of Spice. They wanted a steamy love story. These writer people and their captions. They believe all experiences are to be chronicled.

 If I were to write a story about each of my relationships, the caption would be a touch of spite, or better, a handful of spite.

I ran my mind over some of my relationships, ticking them off one after the other till I got to a particular one that refused to be ticked off. That relationship was terrible.

 You see, they give you no warning in the beginning, these terrible ones. They always start up like the best thing to ever happen to a man. You keep feeling lucky and blessed until the ultimate shock.

 It is not anybody’s fault; spice and spite are so similar that if, while in the middle of the act, Spice goes to the bathroom and returns as Spite, you will not know the difference till the next morning, or the morning after.

And the girls in such relationships are always exquisite. The one in this particular relationship of mine is not like the others you have read about, or even thought about. 

You have heard people claim that someone is perfect and you have lied to your lovers that they were perfect. But I assure you, this one is no lie; she is perfect.

 I can repeat if you don’t believe. It is not a beauty one can capture on canvas or on any lens. God is the only artist that can draw her, and if He tries He might not even get her as He drew her in the beginning.

She is fair. Not screaming fair, but the creamy kind that is a blend of all light colours. Of course you know all beautiful girls are tall and slim, like mermaids and Sicklers.

 Her eyes cannot be described in words. If they fill with tears yours too will. This kind of girl you do not resist; this kind of girl you do not disagree with.

But I can really not convince you. I have only described her here like a work of art. You need to see her as she is.

I met her at a junction, the bus stop near my house. A taxi had just dropped her off. I tried very hard not to stare. She was all light and bright things, and she was walking towards me.


I have never seen a gazelle walk, and I do not know why people like to compare themselves with animals; I don’t know who started the comparisons, but I do know that as she walked towards me, a gazelle was the word that pulsated from my mind.

“Excuse me,” she said, “Good evening.”

I delayed a few seconds before I turned her way. Then I arranged my face in an uninterested, unimpressed look, as if I see her type every day. 

This is the best style, mind you. Obvious beauties expect you to be awed and impressed by their look. If you are not, or pretend not to be, you will get their attention.

I did not bother to reply her greeting; I just nodded at her, big boy fashion.

“I am looking for no 3, Abudu Street. I don’t know if you know any Lola?”

I turned, flippantly, and pointed her down the street. “The Green gate, first floor.”

“Ok, that one? …Thank you,” she said, and turned to follow my directions. My eyes turned to follow her.

Lola’s elder brother was not exactly a friend of mine, we have argued sports once or twice in the evenings with other guys in the area, and I had been to their place only once. 

But I suddenly saw no harm in trying to become friendlier, even if for just an hour. So in twenty minutes I was knocking at the green gate too.

Lola, providentially, did not retreat with her visitor to any inner chamber when I arrived. Rather, she introduced us, and her brother and I joined the conversation. 

Things happened well. By the end of the evening I had the beautiful guest’s name, number and few other friendly details.

With the details, the Player in me took pre-eminence, thanks to the Art of Seduction. (May no woman read it).
So I arranged for accidents to happen all over her and around me. I accidentally started driving past her office just when she was leaving for home; I accidentally started attending the same church service… a lot of small-small accidents like that ensured her senses were never free of me.

And thus our romance began the usual way trouble starts; like play. Do not concern yourself with the particulars of the romance; you know a writer is lying when he remembers every detail of his life.

 But I think I recall the first time she came to my place, which was also the first time I achieved the ultimate goal with her.

The first time she was in my house, for the first few minutes, we concerned ourselves with the reasons for her wonderfulness and how she was so beautiful… on the inside. If you must tell a very beautiful lady about her beauty and be unique about it, then you must talk of her beauty within. She knows how she looks on the outside.

But I did not fail to chip in my inner qualities too. From our conversation it seemed her insides were more wonderful than mine, but, of course, a gentleman would always let the lady win and outshine at the initial transactions. 

The talk had begun with me sitting opposite her, but we soon found ourselves together on the sofa. Everything went exactly the way it always did. 

 At some point we were holding hands and I was, as expected, telling her about her fingers and how they looked so dainty, and then in the normal way the talking lessened and we grew quieter and everything got to that stage they always get especially in the movies when the couples eyes would be fixed on each other’s lips, before the dive.

Dive we did, speaking only in tongues and lips now. I am not a forgetful body, especially in these matters, but, I cannot remember how we got to the room. 

Believe it; a man speaks mostly the truth when he is talking about sex. You also do not expect a man to remember at what stage and in what manner the clothes came off. Only gay people dwell on that.

 But I do remember what gave me a slight pause. Ok, well, it gave me pause and shock only later, when I was reliving the exercise in bliss, but at that moment, that day, when she said it, I did not even blink. I just obeyed her and discarded the condom. I have never again heard of anyone allergic to latex.

That day, I remember that some foolish discouraging thoughts tried to intrude and discourage the whole enterprise; thoughts of the STD’s of medicine and the STDs of Christendom.

While the STD of medicine is caused by unprotected sex, the Christian STD is caused by any kind of sex without the protection of marriage and the license of Heaven.

 These two latter requirements are very hard to come by. The Christian STD is an eternal thing, very terminal. One never recovers from a Spiritual Termination of Destiny. Pregnancy is also a disease, but it isn’t as terrible as medical STD’s or the Christian STD.

I thought of all these in the thrice my chairman was poised before the place, her place.
But I am a man, and men have no sense, and I was even manlier at that moment. STD of whatever strain and variant has stopped no man. It was not about to stop me. 

Whatever happened next is none of your business. I don’t kiss and tell, and my chairman’s motion in there is classified info. But suffice it to say that we did the do. And the chairman was well sated.

From there, our romance blossomed and picked up and flew very high and left the earth. We were very much in love. I wish I could tell you all about it, but I forget some, and others I have wisely left out, because the acts of a man in love are filled with foolishness and stupidity, something an external audience should not observe.

 But I will tell you of how she turned from a touch of spice to a touch of spite. Brace yourselves....


 This is the Part 1 of this series which should have been posted before Part 2 . We apologise for the mix up.


By Kaycee (courtesy naijastories.com)