He slowly stepped down from the polished marble staircase; his feet so pale they looked like they’d never touched the ground. As his soft, delicate hand — like a white glove — held two phones, one a Samsung and the other an iPhone X. He had so much money he could hold billions of naira in his hand, because he was no small secretive man; God had blessed him with wealth beyond the imagination of the studious, a kind of wealth that made him greater than his father’s house — a king among kings. He was not an ordinary person to whom the world bowed; in fact the world did not please him. If you looked at his face every day you would see someone alive in the world, but he did not enjoy it; looking at him you would know he was undergoing life’s trials.
He wore a slightly soiled light ash-colored boiler suit, that very light kind—the suit was neat and smart, the shirt and trousers tailored in the style of elders, the stitching of great men. Around his neck was a thin, quiet black accessory—the kind worn by important people. From the look of his shiny boiler suit I was certain he must be extremely expensive. On his head he wore a black cap, styled with a modern stitched pattern; it was a handmade cap but I had never seen a cap as beautiful as his. His soft pale feet were in fine black shoes; the shoes didn’t weigh him down — he didn’t like heavy things, which is why he hardly ever wore a traditional robe (shadda) because it felt heavy to him. He was not one for fuss; he avoided noisy displays because he had a keen sensitivity. In his bedroom there were almost three large AC units; he could not sleep if an AC was not running. Wherever he went there was AC in his house — even in the corridor, kitchen and toilet. His wives could not stay long in his part of the house because of the cold; you would think you were inside a fridge or under seawater. He used one set-up and stayed with it.
He did not have a large body fat nor was he skinny; the kind of man with a full chest and striking eyes, yet he was not fat — he had a firm build. His skin tone was like milky water, smooth and with the sheen of AC-chilled skin. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un!” Oh, the beauty!! His body was dazzling, as if blood had burst forth! Everywhere on his body was soft fuzz and hair, especially on his arms and legs — a fine hair like fur. He had an extraordinary beauty that words cannot easily describe; tall and slim, with piercing, glittering eyes. His eyes were always set behind thin white medical glasses — at times he could not see clearly without them, especially at night. He had a long nose and a straight mouth; his mustache was neat, giving him additional handsome character. He was somewhat dignified but that did not strip away the pure milky quality of his beauty; beauty met wealth in him. At a glance you would think he was about 50 years old. But if no one had told you, you wouldn’t be able to tell — his age was hidden in his beauty and the smoothness that accompanied him; if you saw him you would swear he was a full Arab man, because his beauty surpassed fame — it pierced, believe me, I had never seen such a natural composition. A healthy man outwardly with full chest; on the outside you would think he was enormous. (PENIS)
He finished coming down from upstairs quietly, walking in a subtle way — though if you looked closely you’d see he walked with haste, with a warm vigor; he moved faster than ordinary people, like a man with long strides. He was spritzing himself with very expensive perfumes — he loved fragrance and spent a lot on colognes, more than many women. Simply put, he liked scent; he did not tolerate dirt or filth and was obsessively clean to the point of madness. He lowered his eyes and glanced at the hefty watch clinging to the soft roll of his wrist, full of veins. His watch read exactly ten minutes past seven in the morning. At that moment his Samsung phone began to ring with an emergency tone. He checked and saw it was his driver’s number, and his close friend — the loyal Malam Abdullahi who had been around for a long time. He picked up and put the phone to his ear without saying anything. A voice from the line spoke: “Long life to you, JAROOD — you still haven’t come out… here is the king’s aunt on the line…” (that is Jarood’s mother, called the king’s aunt). He drew a short breath, hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “I’m about to come out, God willing…” Malam Abdullahi, the loyal driver, spoke respectfully: “May God keep you in good health, long life to you, noble white-skinned tall one — your stance exceeds that of shorter men by thousands. May God prolong your life, O pure descendant of the king, the prince awaiting the throne; your presence is such that God alone has made you — you are extraordinary; seeing you is like seeing royalty…” He offered a faint smile with a thin voice, and the greeting from the loyal man pleased him. He nodded and replied “Ameen,” then hung up. Directly he headed to the door that would take him to Hajiya Zulaihat’s part of the house — his mother, who had married him off as a young man. As he walked he looked around the whole house; the house was perfectly arranged, with everything needed to enjoy life — God had granted them all worldly things. In his heart he felt a single thing could be taken from him: the one thing he lacked in life was his status and the respect due to a husband. Many times he felt ashamed of himself, but he persisted in enduring.
The House and Feelings
He stopped right in the middle of Hajiya Zulaihat’s grand sitting room. He turned and looked around, feeling everything — from the sofas to all the decorations, everything was army green and nude color; everywhere the decor reflected royalty in the sitting room. Wealth overflowed in her sitting room. He looked everywhere but his mind did not settle on what he saw; his tender heart was pensive. Suddenly he felt a small tear wash his bitterness away. Hastily he removed his glasses and wiped the tears with his hand, then composed himself, drawing a breath filled with an inner unease. Seeing that she was not in the sitting room he went toward her bedroom, for he knew it was unlikely to find her in the sitting room at that time — he knew that was her sleeping time. Gently he pushed the bedroom door handle and found it open, so he entered without the usual greeting. He went in and immediately increased the AC’s strength a little because it pleased him that way. She heard him though she pretended not to know he had entered; Hajiya Zulaihat, lying on her thick bed, answered. Everything in the room was army green and nude — green was Jarood’s favorite color, so the whole house had green.
Because there was a little light in the room, Jarood could see her lying down. “A woman, a woman…” he muttered to himself while watching her with his big, soul-stealing, faith-winning eyes. She raised her head with difficulty, looked at him once, then turned away with words in her heart: “Truly, this man is useless even in vain; a penis like a stick in kerosene…” Slowly, Jarood, with the secretive stride born of beauty, moved to the side of the bed where she lay and sat a little distance from her. He did not sit right next to a woman because when he sat close to one he felt nothing; indeed he truly felt no desire for any woman, regardless of her beauty or allure — he did not see them that way. Since his mother brought him into the world he had never held another woman’s hand except his mother’s. He gave a sharp look at Hajiya Zulaihat; his eyes drooped as if sleepy. He stared at her, but in his heart he felt pity and love for Hajiya Zulaihat; she had been courageous in his life’s battles. Hajiya Zulaihat did not hide her feelings toward him; even a glance from her would make him annoyed — yet by God He had not spared him anything, truly he had a full chest that any man would envy, he had extraordinary beauty that no one in Nigeria matched. “Did you sleep well?” he asked in a warm voice, still watching her — everywhere he looked, she had big breasts, firm and firm, black-beauty skin radiating like water splashed in fresh water. Although she appeared to be about 40 years old, she had a youthful blood in her body because she had never given birth; she had never known being a husband’s partner — she was still a virgin, still tightly shut. She wore a simple soft pajama set, soft and neat for sleep; the shape of her body was visible, her breasts seeming to talk of their size — she had shape and presence. She was on the list of women called proud women. Her breasts were large enough that they almost dominated her chest. Without headscarf or cap, I could see the veins on her neck. She had some firmness but truly did not have much facial beauty, though there was a mixed beauty of elegance and money, already polished by life. Taking no care, Hajiya Zulaihat answered in a gentle voice, “My eyes, was last night not pleasant for me? How can you say that…” she finished with a snort; you would think she would beat him, because of the anger she felt she seemed ready to give him a mad beating due to the hurt he had caused — the depth of her anger reached beyond thought. “Didn’t you see me, JAROOD? Am I not here? Am I unwell? Are you the unwell one… am I coming to your room to discipline you? Or am I just bothering you? To burden you with care? You think I am chasing something from you, that your penis is not functioning — what shall I do? I will not be easy with my desire, please, sir forgive me!” She ended with a small spit and another turn, because the torment in her heart made her fear she might do some terrible thing to calm herself.
Jarood did not feel anger at her — nothing new there; he was used to her. Hajiya Zulaihat could never hold back what was in her heart; she had no patience at all, and that’s what he always struggled with her about all these years.
Description
Appearance and Arrival
He slowly stepped down from the polished marble staircase; his feet so pale they looked like they’d never touched the ground. As his soft, delicate hand — like a white glove — held two phones, one a Samsung and the other an iPhone X. He had so much money he could hold billions of naira in his hand, because he was no small secretive man; God had blessed him with wealth beyond the imagination of the studious, a kind of wealth that made him greater than his father’s house — a king among kings. He was not an ordinary person to whom the world bowed; in fact the world did not please him. If you looked at his face every day you would see someone alive in the world, but he did not enjoy it; looking at him you would know he was undergoing life’s trials.
He wore a slightly soiled light ash-colored boiler suit, that very light kind—the suit was neat and smart, the shirt and trousers tailored in the style of elders, the stitching of great men. Around his neck was a thin, quiet black accessory—the kind worn by important people. From the look of his shiny boiler suit I was certain he must be extremely expensive. On his head he wore a black cap, styled with a modern stitched pattern; it was a handmade cap but I had never seen a cap as beautiful as his. His soft pale feet were in fine black shoes; the shoes didn’t weigh him down — he didn’t like heavy things, which is why he hardly ever wore a traditional robe (shadda) because it felt heavy to him. He was not one for fuss; he avoided noisy displays because he had a keen sensitivity. In his bedroom there were almost three large AC units; he could not sleep if an AC was not running. Wherever he went there was AC in his house — even in the corridor, kitchen and toilet. His wives could not stay long in his part of the house because of the cold; you would think you were inside a fridge or under seawater. He used one set-up and stayed with it.
He did not have a large body fat nor was he skinny; the kind of man with a full chest and striking eyes, yet he was not fat — he had a firm build. His skin tone was like milky water, smooth and with the sheen of AC-chilled skin. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un!” Oh, the beauty!! His body was dazzling, as if blood had burst forth! Everywhere on his body was soft fuzz and hair, especially on his arms and legs — a fine hair like fur. He had an extraordinary beauty that words cannot easily describe; tall and slim, with piercing, glittering eyes. His eyes were always set behind thin white medical glasses — at times he could not see clearly without them, especially at night. He had a long nose and a straight mouth; his mustache was neat, giving him additional handsome character. He was somewhat dignified but that did not strip away the pure milky quality of his beauty; beauty met wealth in him. At a glance you would think he was about 50 years old. But if no one had told you, you wouldn’t be able to tell — his age was hidden in his beauty and the smoothness that accompanied him; if you saw him you would swear he was a full Arab man, because his beauty surpassed fame — it pierced, believe me, I had never seen such a natural composition. A healthy man outwardly with full chest; on the outside you would think he was enormous. (PENIS)
He finished coming down from upstairs quietly, walking in a subtle way — though if you looked closely you’d see he walked with haste, with a warm vigor; he moved faster than ordinary people, like a man with long strides. He was spritzing himself with very expensive perfumes — he loved fragrance and spent a lot on colognes, more than many women. Simply put, he liked scent; he did not tolerate dirt or filth and was obsessively clean to the point of madness. He lowered his eyes and glanced at the hefty watch clinging to the soft roll of his wrist, full of veins. His watch read exactly ten minutes past seven in the morning. At that moment his Samsung phone began to ring with an emergency tone. He checked and saw it was his driver’s number, and his close friend — the loyal Malam Abdullahi who had been around for a long time. He picked up and put the phone to his ear without saying anything. A voice from the line spoke: “Long life to you, JAROOD — you still haven’t come out… here is the king’s aunt on the line…” (that is Jarood’s mother, called the king’s aunt). He drew a short breath, hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “I’m about to come out, God willing…” Malam Abdullahi, the loyal driver, spoke respectfully: “May God keep you in good health, long life to you, noble white-skinned tall one — your stance exceeds that of shorter men by thousands. May God prolong your life, O pure descendant of the king, the prince awaiting the throne; your presence is such that God alone has made you — you are extraordinary; seeing you is like seeing royalty…” He offered a faint smile with a thin voice, and the greeting from the loyal man pleased him. He nodded and replied “Ameen,” then hung up. Directly he headed to the door that would take him to Hajiya Zulaihat’s part of the house — his mother, who had married him off as a young man. As he walked he looked around the whole house; the house was perfectly arranged, with everything needed to enjoy life — God had granted them all worldly things. In his heart he felt a single thing could be taken from him: the one thing he lacked in life was his status and the respect due to a husband. Many times he felt ashamed of himself, but he persisted in enduring.
The House and Feelings
He stopped right in the middle of Hajiya Zulaihat’s grand sitting room. He turned and looked around, feeling everything — from the sofas to all the decorations, everything was army green and nude color; everywhere the decor reflected royalty in the sitting room. Wealth overflowed in her sitting room. He looked everywhere but his mind did not settle on what he saw; his tender heart was pensive. Suddenly he felt a small tear wash his bitterness away. Hastily he removed his glasses and wiped the tears with his hand, then composed himself, drawing a breath filled with an inner unease. Seeing that she was not in the sitting room he went toward her bedroom, for he knew it was unlikely to find her in the sitting room at that time — he knew that was her sleeping time. Gently he pushed the bedroom door handle and found it open, so he entered without the usual greeting. He went in and immediately increased the AC’s strength a little because it pleased him that way. She heard him though she pretended not to know he had entered; Hajiya Zulaihat, lying on her thick bed, answered. Everything in the room was army green and nude — green was Jarood’s favorite color, so the whole house had green.
Because there was a little light in the room, Jarood could see her lying down. “A woman, a woman…” he muttered to himself while watching her with his big, soul-stealing, faith-winning eyes. She raised her head with difficulty, looked at him once, then turned away with words in her heart: “Truly, this man is useless even in vain; a penis like a stick in kerosene…” Slowly, Jarood, with the secretive stride born of beauty, moved to the side of the bed where she lay and sat a little distance from her. He did not sit right next to a woman because when he sat close to one he felt nothing; indeed he truly felt no desire for any woman, regardless of her beauty or allure — he did not see them that way. Since his mother brought him into the world he had never held another woman’s hand except his mother’s. He gave a sharp look at Hajiya Zulaihat; his eyes drooped as if sleepy. He stared at her, but in his heart he felt pity and love for Hajiya Zulaihat; she had been courageous in his life’s battles. Hajiya Zulaihat did not hide her feelings toward him; even a glance from her would make him annoyed — yet by God He had not spared him anything, truly he had a full chest that any man would envy, he had extraordinary beauty that no one in Nigeria matched. “Did you sleep well?” he asked in a warm voice, still watching her — everywhere he looked, she had big breasts, firm and firm, black-beauty skin radiating like water splashed in fresh water. Although she appeared to be about 40 years old, she had a youthful blood in her body because she had never given birth; she had never known being a husband’s partner — she was still a virgin, still tightly shut. She wore a simple soft pajama set, soft and neat for sleep; the shape of her body was visible, her breasts seeming to talk of their size — she had shape and presence. She was on the list of women called proud women. Her breasts were large enough that they almost dominated her chest. Without headscarf or cap, I could see the veins on her neck. She had some firmness but truly did not have much facial beauty, though there was a mixed beauty of elegance and money, already polished by life. Taking no care, Hajiya Zulaihat answered in a gentle voice, “My eyes, was last night not pleasant for me? How can you say that…” she finished with a snort; you would think she would beat him, because of the anger she felt she seemed ready to give him a mad beating due to the hurt he had caused — the depth of her anger reached beyond thought. “Didn’t you see me, JAROOD? Am I not here? Am I unwell? Are you the unwell one… am I coming to your room to discipline you? Or am I just bothering you? To burden you with care? You think I am chasing something from you, that your penis is not functioning — what shall I do? I will not be easy with my desire, please, sir forgive me!” She ended with a small spit and another turn, because the torment in her heart made her fear she might do some terrible thing to calm herself.
Jarood did not feel anger at her — nothing new there; he was used to her. Hajiya Zulaihat could never hold back what was in her heart; she had no patience at all, and that’s what he always struggled with her about all these years.