The Siren Call

There is a wisdom that comes from having your heart broken more times than the number of beers you’ve downed in your lifetime.

It’s like Archimedes and the damned crown. It starts out making no sense. Then a thousand nights spent in tears and several bottles of vodka nursed to unconsciousness later, you have it nailed down to science. It is usually after your fourth ex that you start to get it. You start to understand why the ones you love never love you enough to stay. You start to find the cycle of loneliness, strange men, cheap hotels and the walk of shame more bearable. You start to reconsider monogamy. You secretly wish death on the heroes in fairytales. Why should they have what you never will?

But like Odysseus at sea, the Sirens do not stop calling you, luring you with their songs of love and doom.

*

You hear Toyosi’s voice yelling your name. You know Toyosi’s voice so well that if he whispers in the middle of a stadium where Arsenal and Barcelona were playing, you will hear every word.

“Hassan!” he screams, the hand clutching a flier and his movie ticket waving madly at you.

You leave your spot at the head of the queue, weaving through the throng of people dying to see Thor Ragnarok till you are in the arms of Toyosi, your buddy from high school, that period of raging hormones, unanswered questions and forbidden desires. It dawns then on you that ten years after high school, you are still the shy skinny kid you were the last time you saw Toyosi.

“How are you?” he enthuses.

“Fine,” you respond. Your answer is genuine, like the smile on your face. “What are you doing in Nigeria?”

“I’m here for a wedding. Remember Charles, the one with the funny shoes?”

You nod despite having no clue who Charles is.

“He’s getting married this weekend. I’m his best man.”

A man walks up to you two and hands Toyosi a bottle of Fanta and popcorn, and then holds a bottle of coke out under your nose.

“You come off as a Coke person,” he says, a smile playing on his coral lips.

You want to tell him that you prefer Fanta and that you don’t like having your drinks held under your nose, but a glance at the man causes you to reconsider. He is built like a basketballer, with features chiseled to perfection; Adonis in the garb of mortals. He has money. You can tell that the gold chain and Fendi glasses he has on are as genuine as the rising discomfort in your stomach. Something shivers inside you.

“Oh, Hassan,” Toyosi says, “this is Hamid. He’s on the grooms train too.”

Hamid shakes your hand firmly enough that you are aware of something apart from his eyes.

“As-Salam alaykum,” he murmurs, the inflection of his voice telling you he is your brother in faith. Toyosi may be straight. But this friend of his knows what you know.

The three of you make small talk as you make your way into the theatre. Hamid is seated on your left, and Toyosi your right inside the cinema. Soon, the end credits roll, and you rise from your seats, discussing the competence of the actors as you file out of the hall. And even then, you are unaware that you are the center of a cosmic conspiracy, a scheme grander than your dreams as you call out your phone number to Toyosi in the car park and say goodbye.

He calls you at midnight, pretending to be a prank caller. He doesn’t fool you but you play along. Three hours later, you have become old friends, remembering the dreams of the past but only sharing memories of the future. Much is said but much more is left to the imagination.

***

The day Hamid asks you to be more than his friend, you promise to give it some thought. It is a mere formality, one you think necessary to give your response weight. That Friday, you go to Jumah with him, and listen to the shrill voice of the Imam as he condemns your kind. The sermon is a warning that the love Hamid has to offer you is not permissible on earth nor is it allowed in Al-Janah, the glorious hereafter, where your other brothers get to have their pick of busty virgins. You steel your spine and go through the motion of Jumah with Hamid. With Hamid by your side, you feel insulated.

He is supposed to drop you off and head back to work, but you two have become a cluster. He can sense your need even when unspoken. So when you get home, he doesn’t engage the gear again. Instead he gets down with you and walks into the house behind you.

You lock the door and draw the blinds. The motions are silent and in tandem, like a well rehearsed play. You unbuckle your belt as he unbuttons his shirt. You slide your briefs down as he yanks his trousers down his legs. His thick veiny cock jerks impatiently from its confinements as you get into the bed, anticipating the pleasures Hamid has to offer for the first time since you both got to know each other. He slips into the bed with you and you reach for his throbbing cock, taking it into your mouth with an ease that causes him to moan. The cock barely fits in your mouth but you are not a quitter and keep up the pace as you choke and gag on Hamid’s thick monster.

He also wants to taste you and slithers down between your legs to work your cock. You throw your head back on the pillow and clutch the sheets with your fingers as his mouth and tongue send an avalanche of pleasure shooting through your veins. You are gasping his name when he turns you around and digs his tongue and lips into your hole, unleashing another heady spiral of bliss through you that threatens to overwhelm you.

You want him. You are ready for him. He seems to sense this, and moments later, is slamming his thick pole deep into your throbbing ass. He ravishes you with a precision and passion that sends you hurtling to heaven. You two switch it up a few times and eventually end up with you getting pummeled on your back with your legs in the air. He hits all the right spots inside your ass, and as you gasp for him to fuck you harder, you peak, your cum erupting from you in a spray that splashes all over your torso. Your harsh groans and the sight of your load oozing out of your cock makes Hamid lose control and his thrusting acquires that rapid-fire urgency that ends with him dropping on top of you, his body spasming as he cums.

By the time the sun begins its descent and the call for Maghreb prayers begin, your house reeks of dried cum and spent sexual energy. The last thing on your mind as you drift off to sleep in Hamid’s arms is that you haven’t had lunch.

That Friday, all was right with the world.

That Friday may have been the most beautiful day you will ever have with Hamid.

***

On your birthday, you are raving mad over the fact that he didn’t show up, didn’t call and didn’t even text. You move his clothes from your wardrobe into a box that you leave out in the rain. The day after, he picks up the box while you are away. He doesn’t call for a week. You cry over a bottle of Magic Moments and send him text after text apologizing for your mistake. He doesn’t acknowledge any.

Then you get home from work to find him lounging on your sofa, watching CNN. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. After three passionate rounds of make-up sex, he asks for your passport. You can’t find it. You know something is up. With a smile, he opens his briefcase and produces your passport. He tells you he has had your passports stamped with pilgrimage visas to Saudi Arabia.

“But I don’t have money to visit Mecca,” you protest, even though the idea of a getaway with your lover sounds very appealing.

“I do,” he says, before planting a kiss on your forehead.

You find yourself being happy once again.

The getaway is fantastic, even though once in Saudi Arabia, Hamid appears to maintain an emotional distance from you. He doesn’t take any pictures with you or kiss you, not even on the cheeks or forehead. You tell yourself that that is okay. It is the Holy City after all, and you are there on Umrah, to earn forgiveness for all your sins.

And then he decides to leave Mecca before you. Work emergency, he explains, as he hurriedly packs the sandalwood perfume you bought him at the duty-free shop in Jeddah. You want to come home with him, but he urges you to stay, to finish the holiday without him. You feel devastation nibbling at the corners of your heart, but you stifle it. You will after all reconnect in Nigeria. He assures you of this and you believe him. You have to believe him.

But when you get back home, it becomes impossible to reach him. Your calls and texts mostly go unanswered, and even when he does, he is very brief and impatient to get back to whatever you interrupted. The misery from your first breakup begins to rise and threaten your consciousness. And it is then you realize how much substance your relationship with Hamid lacks. There aren’t even any pictures of you together; he resisted any attempts at selfies with you. You have no proof that he had ever existed in your life. He never showed you his house or his friends, because “…all that matters to me, Hassan, is you.” All you know of him are the sweet nothings he whispered in your ears night after night.

And you aren’t blameless in this. You are the one who simply packed him into your home and your heart when he asked to be more than your friend, without pressing to know more about him.

You are startled by the fact that even Toyosi knows nothing about you two the day you call him. Toyosi does not answer your call, but he sends you a text some hours later, apologizing for not taking your call and for being a horrible friend.

‘I was in Nigeria for a wedding the week you flooded Instagram with photos of Mecca,’ the text reads. ‘You remember Hamid, Charles’ groomsman that you met at Silverbird three months ago? Well, he got married to one hot Muslim chick and as a Yoruba demon, I had to turn up. I’ll call later, but in the meantime, find me a nice girl that I can settle down with. I don dey old o.’

***

You are paying for the ice cream you’d just bought when the smell of sandalwood hits your nose. You turn around to see a fair-skinned beauty adjusting her scarf with one hand to cover her hair while her other arm held on to your Hamid.

Your eyes meet his, and you find yourself struggling with the decision to laugh or cry.

You avert your gaze from his, finish your transaction with the attendant and exit the building. Your cab is waiting outside, and within its clean leather comfort, you debate again which emotion you should give into, because surely, you cannot see the man you’ve loved for months emerge with a woman by his side and not react.

Five minutes later, a message notification pops up on your phone screen.

‘I can explain everything if you’ll let me,’ it reads. ‘I’m having a hard time living without you, Hassan. I’m still in love with you.’

You stare straight ahead at the traffic building up ahead but you don’t direct the driver to avoid it. You feel a tug in your chest as a tear slides down your cheek.

Your phone rings. The Caller ID reads Hamid. You lift the phone to your ear and say, “Hello.”

Because he is ex number three, you had not acquired the wisdom that comes with having your heart broken. And like all the sailors who listened to the song of sirens at sea, you lost your heart to Hamid again.

Written by Bigfoot