I looked at her brea-st like its the first time. It looked different from the last time. Her breas-ts are like the breas-ts of a breas-t feeding mother. Bulged and succulent. The blind in the room faulted her appearance. Her brown skin wears the darkness of the night. Her curves lit a spark in me. I moved to her. Went for her tit-s. Her reddened tit-s protested at every slight touch. I put it in my mouth and sU-Cked the defiance in it. I carried her to the bed. Pulled off her G-string. The face of her V appeared like a mirror but other than seeing myself, I saw Gabriel the taxi driver’s rotten mouth submerged in the hole. I shrieked angrily but in low tone. I recoiled and sat on the floor. She pulled from the bed and stared at my pitiful face.
“I can’t stop thinking, you gave that to someone else.”
“Does it matter?”
“You never knew…”
“Maybe, I should just go…”
“Don’t, I can’t afford losing you again.”
I climbed her. We made love in the dark. She locked her arms around me like a child would clutch a parent who is always leaving. I held on to her like a jewel. We enjoyed the night till the morning flashed its presence at us.
Office hours for a real estate developer ought to be fun. Atleast that was what I thought when I was about becoming an estate developer. Building from crumbs to heights fascinated me but the estate development business wasn’t just about that. I intended becoming a structural engineer but even my dad’s connection could not make that happen. I studied urban development and attended business classes. I worked for a real estate firm against my dad’s orders.
When I resigned, I was able to secure a partnership with Daramola a structural engineer. We built Turban real estate from the scratch. Though it was my dad’s money that got us our first. I did not acknowledge him as a partner. Apart from seating in the office and doing nothing but sketching fictitious places in my head, the worst part of my job is answering to contractors to construction firms and Daramola. I wanted to be a sole owner so bad, one night at a launch. I tricked Daramola to the top of the scraper.
I pushed him from the top to the ground floor . He smashed his head on the concrete.
Pieces of his brains and gushing blood painted the floor. It was an accident. He was drunk that night. I am not to be blamed.