Boys Are Dogs by Folarin Olaniyi

Akin

Busayo, a light skinned heavily breasted lady, packed into the room next to mine at a very strange time. She was dripping wet; her two leather bags clung to her hands.

The rain of August in Ibadan is not one to be joked with. It trots and tramples on lands, causing erosion, and breaks into softly nailed roofs giving those domiciled in the uncompleted building a thorough bath.

University of Ibadan had just resumed from a long vacation and students, some of us, had resorted to face me I face you apartments scattered all over Agbowo. I was one.

‘Are you a fresher?’ I asked Busayo, as I helped her with one of her luggage. She looked at me and shook her head here and there.

‘Oh. Sorry. Thought you were fresh,’ that was how the words snailed out of my mouth.

‘I am in my second year. What about you?’ she asked, as her left hand softly wipes her face.

‘I am a finalist.’

‘Seriously? What are you doing here? You should be in the hostel. D block.’ I chuckled and sat on one of the two wooden chairs in her one wooden window room and uttered, ‘You know all those politics, now? I can’t lick the ass of somebody because of one tiny room. I am not complaining here, jare.’

Silence stood between us for some seconds. She was standing opposite where I sat, the rays of the sun that comes after the August rain glittering on the clothed mounds on her chest.

‘Why are you staring in that kind of manner?’ she said, puts on a smile, strained, and sits on my armchair.

‘What is the name?’ I asked her

‘Busayo,’ she replied and stands to take a walk around her new room.’

‘I am Akin. Are you sleeping here today?’

‘Depends. I am not even here with my mattress.’

I walked towards the window and smelt the fresh icy air. The rain has started again, this time less aggressive.

‘You may use my umbrella, when you are ready to go.’

‘Okay. Thanks. For the hospatility,’ Busayo said and sees me off to the door.

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

It was one of those evenings in November, ushering the first semester examination. Hours ago, I had left Blessing in Kenneth Dike Library.

‘Are you fucking Blessing?’ Ola, my friend since hundred levels, once challenged me.

‘Don’t be raw, Ola. I and Blessing? We are just friends, jare.’

So when Busayo, the girl next door to mine, popped up the same question after her usual looking through my window and sitting her buttocks on my armchair, I kept mute for some seconds.

‘I don’t trust you guys. A girl sleeps over in your place and goes the next day with her thighs as dry as before? Unimaginable.’

‘You know I am a seminarian?’

‘Don’t give me that bullshit, boy. A seminarian studying Economics, when Religious studies and Philosophy are next door?’

I laughed out loud, from the depth of my stomach, and drew my eyes towards her chest. She caught my glance and shook her head here and there.

‘I am going to my hole,’ she said and walks towards the door, but stops halfway and utters, ‘Are you impotent?’

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About akinbowale

Africa's most influential literary blogger

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