13 #2
I had to take a moment before I could respond.
“I loved it,” I confessed breathily. “I loved everything about it.” I’d been two seconds from begging him to fuck me right there, protection be damned.
“Honestly, Uzi, I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard in my life.
” Thank God he couldn’t see my blush right now.
“You’ve legit ruined me for anyone else. ”
“Ehen?” He sounded smug. “Have I, now?”
I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off.”
He laughed. “That’s good to hear. And in case you’re wondering, it’s the same for me. Goddamn, Ofure. Like you said, you’ve completely ruined me for anyone else.”
He was right; it was good to hear. And it made me feel melancholy, like I was missing something I’d never even had. I pushed the feeling aside.
“Na so? Oya, tell me more,” I purred seductively.
He laughed. “Oya, that’s enough.”
I grinned, rolling over until I was lying on my side, pressing the phone tight to my ear so I could hear his breathing.
The position I was in, and the sound of his soft breaths triggered a vivid memory of the first ever Glitch, and I found myself breathing a little faster.
Along with that came a sense of comfort and familiarity, and a low throb of longing.
“Know what this reminds me of?” I whispered.
He hummed. “What?”
“All our midnight calls back in Naija.”
He chuckled softly. “Damn. Good times. Wow. We really used to yap about anything back then, huh?”
“Mind you, I’d argue we yap even more now.”
He laughed. “Touché. When did we even stop, sef?”
“Probably when we came to the UK.”
“Right. Makes sense.”
After my family had moved from Jos to Abuja when I’d been eleven, for those first few years, while Uzezi and I had maintained our friendship, it had been a cursory thing—a call or message here and there, usually through our parents, while we saw each other physically perhaps once or twice a year during summer or Christmas.
When we’d each gotten our own phones, we’d mostly tagged each other in memes and funny videos online, and that had been the extent of our communication.
I was about fifteen, not long after we’d gotten our phones—though I couldn’t remember exactly what had triggered it—when Uzezi had called me during Easter break.
I think he’d found a picture of us in one of his family’s photo albums, and he’d called to reminisce.
Somehow, we’d found ourselves chatting all night.
Then we’d proceeded to spend nearly the entire three-week period calling each other and talking for hours every single night, recollecting lost memories and sharing new ones, and discussing anything and everything under the sun.
Most Nigerian SIM companies at the time had been running a campaign where making a call to someone with a number from the same company was entirely free from midnight to six AM.
Uzezi and I had gleefully taken advantage.
Even though I’d had to wake up at ass o’clock every day to do my chores—and take care of the house in general—I hadn’t regretted it one bit.
Then we’d come to the UK. Obviously, the midnight call promotion didn’t exist here, and besides that we were busy making new friends, settling into our courses, and enjoying a new, all-consuming social life.
It also helped that we saw each other practically every single day, so the calls soon lost their necessity.
I traced a finger over my sheets. “You asked me something ...” I swallowed like it could force down my nervousness. “... right before we had our first kiss.”
“Did I?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “You asked me if I’ve ever found you ... attractive. And I kind of avoided answering the question.”
He laughed softly. “Ah. Yes. I do remember that. I’m going to let you know now that I let you off the hook on purpose.”
I huffed out an amused breath. “I guessed as much.” Shit, why was my heart beating so fast? Uzezi had easily admitted his own first “Glitch”—the day with the orange bikini—so admitting mine shouldn’t be weird. Especially not now. Not after everything we’d done.
“Remember the night you called me after you and Hope broke up?”
“Right. Yeah. I remember.” His voice had gone low and deep, the sound making my toes curl.
That particular call had come after our final exams, when we’d gone home with prom and graduation and university applications in mind.
Uzezi and I hadn’t gone to the same Secondary School; I’d gone to Igbinedion Education Centre in Benin, while Uzezi had attended Pacesetter’s Academy after his family had moved to Abuja.
Hope had gone to visit Uzezi during the break, wanting to have sex with him.
When he’d told her point blank that he wasn’t ready, she’d taken it pretty personally.
All his explanations had gone out the window; his wanting to wait meant he just didn’t want her; she accused him of cheating, then of being impotent—all vicious manipulative tactics just to get him to give in.
The relationship died immediately after that.
Uzezi had called me the night of the breakup, understandably upset. He’d been dating Hope practically since his first year of Secondary School, and they’d stayed a couple even after he’d moved to Abuja while she’d remained in Jos. He’d genuinely thought he might marry her one day.
“Is it so bad to want my first time to be ... I don’t know.
It might sound silly or childish or whatever, but is it so bad that I want it to be special?
Like, I’m not trying to be unrealistic—I know it’s not going to literally be perfect, but why can’t it be more than something to just get over with?
Or to just do on a whim?” He let out a sigh of frustration.
“I know a lot of guys—and my girlfriend, apparently—ex-girlfriend?—think that it shouldn’t be a big deal, especially for a guy, but I call bullshit. ”
I’d agreed with him wholeheartedly. “Nah, you’re right.
I personally don’t care if it sounds unrealistic or childish or whatever.
I’m going to wait for that special moment.
And it’s not even just about the moment, is it?
It’s about the person. Sex is a very vulnerable thing.
I want to be in a place where I at least completely trust the person I’m doing it with.
Where I know it’s guaranteed to be good, no matter what. ”