I’ve always heard that a kiss could literally have a girl’s head spin around, and I thought it was just a figure of speech until Sam pulled me into his arms and pressed his lips to mine. Every single cliché I’d heard from friends about fireworks, sparks, and angels singing hymns became a reality, and there was nothing silly about it. It was lust in its pure glory at a level I have never felt before. Sam was a great kisser; you could tell that he had had a lot of practice. He had the perfect tongue movement to hit every right button and stir all the right nerves.
My heart sang with the feel of his mouth, the strength of his chest against my breast, and the scent of sweat. Our tongues danced, and our moans hummed in a silky pleasure rhythm; all I wanted was for it to go on.
Sam had never kissed me with so much passion; it was packed with so much sensation. Maybe it was because we both knew our
relationship was on the verge of collapsing. He clasped my hips and pulled me against him, the firm bulge between his legs making an offer I ached to accept. He started to grind against me, driving the kiss deeper and spilling life through me simultaneously. It left me happy and senseless, and I became so powerless to do anything but sink in and enjoy the ride. He moved his mouth down my neck, nibbling to my ear where he whispered, “Let’s Get Married”. That little break helped put my senses back together. I knew we were doing the wrong thing, and the aftermath could be dangerous.
“You know that’s not possible”, I said, taking in air as I pressed my palm to his chest and nudged away. Still dizzy, I wiped the wetness from my lips and straightened my dress, backing up a couple more steps to put some distance between us. “What do you mean; are you really going to allow the years we spent building this relationship to go down the drain because of some doctor’s report?” he snarled.
“My mind is made up, and I think that’s the best thing for both of us”, I replied. “Did I hear you say “best thing”, you are an ingrate”,
he said. I walked out of the room in anger.
Alone in my apartment, I cried uncontrollably, unsure what the right word to say to him was to make him understand my point. I was upset; for the first time, he called me an ingrate, welding the word like a knife, and it came out of his mouth sharp with loathing.
Sam and I met for the first time on a transit flight; we connected so well and discussed many things but didn’t share our names or contact details. Months later, we met again at a friend’s party, and he was unchanged except for his black-framed glasses. He was tall and
easy-limbed, just as I remembered him on the flight. We got talking again, and that was it. It was as if our first meeting months ago let
us bypass several steps, ignore several unknowns and slide into an immediate intimacy. Apart from that, the way he dressed made him seem superficial to me, yet I was curious about how he would be naked in bed with me.
The sex was good the first time; I was on top of him, gliding and moaning, grasping his chest and feeling faintly and glamorously theatrical as I did so. Sam was everything I wanted in a man; he was handsome, wealthy, and all in all. He was someone who cared and stayed by my side no matter what. Sam was ready to go through everything without giving up on me. He was too sinewy with goodness.
He detested infidelity, and he stayed away from it; never stealing a glance at a pretty woman on the street because he had everything he wanted in me.
We wore our love like a heavy perfume, exuding transparent commitment now and then. For years, I had imagined us having a house in a quiet street, batiks hung on the walls, creative sculptures glowering in corners, and both of us living in a steady hymn of happiness.
Eventually, my dreams were fulfilled when he proposed to me, and we were busy with our wedding preparation when suddenly all our plans came crumbling. We had to go to the hospital due to requirements by the church, and that was when we found out we had a problem. That night, there was an unusual silence between us. It turned out that Sam and I share the same genotype — AS. We knew what the test result meant, and the doctor made it clear to us that getting married was a risk to our unborn children, yet we were both confused about what to do.
My relationship with Sam was what I wanted, a crested wave in my life, and I would have done anything to make us stay together, but the situation we were in wasn’t something I could handle. Even if we went against the doctor’s advice and got married, the aftermath would be terrible for our children. They’d never forgive us for bringing them into the world, knowing they might suffer from sickle cell anaemia.
Sam and I both took an axe and hacked into our beautiful relationship due to our negligence. We both sacrificed a lot of things to make our relationship work, including a dream job in Sweden so that I could stay in Nigeria with him. And just like that, in Sam’s words, seven years have went down the drain.’