Sixty Seconds Lust

In the sweltering heat of the mid-afternoon, a teenage boy struggles with a barrow of plantain while his bare-feet burn on the hot tarmac. The traffic goes by – the happier are those sealed-off in their air-conditioned cars. An old man with a stern face sweeps used plastics from the front of a row of kiosks, selling everything from coca-cola to g-string pants – his work is endless. You could also use a few shots of locally brewed gin for almost nothing if your liver isn’t burned enough.


Deji feels stifled. He considers ripping off his 45 thousand suit, but gets another thought. If only he was self-employed, he’d simply stayed on his Adam armor and leaves the wow to the world. He hates to wait for anyone. He steps under the shed of a kiosk. He demands for a bottle of coke from a chubby girl across the counter, and then steals a glance at his watch before – his face contorted in irritation. He gropes for his breast-pocket.

Suddenly, a young lady appears. He follows her invisible trail back to a corolla parked across the road. He realizes he is not the only one gaping. His fingers graze down his lapel, then he props himself up to show his frame. The young girl in the kiosk hands him his drink but he doesn’t notice.

The lady’s eyes lock with his for a year – he is frozen in the magnetism. The next second, his eyes are down to her lips, then her chest. His testosterone transforms into gas and invades his physiology.

His eyes wander down as she walks past, reflecting back a mesmerizing behind. He feels a drop of sweat trail down his temple, percolating in his left eye. His mind returns with the blink. He automatically extracts a white hankie from the suit pocket and dabs furiously – scrubbing his face in the process.

There is a gospel preached from the temple at his crotch, he listens. Then he reaches for his wedding ring.

The lady stops over at the next kiosk, just twelve steps away. He fiddles with the wedding ring as many pick-up lines jostle for cogence.

“Is there something she has your wife doesn’t?”

He jerks around in trepidation, the ring tumbling off his fingers.

A ragged, stern-faced, old man leans on the metal wall of the kiosk, gazing expectantly. The old man smells of filth, and his skin-cut head and beard flash stump gray hairs.

Deji waves his head, “no.” He feels like child caught, hand in a soup pot.

“In the end – it’s all pleasure, then pain, and a gaping wound in the soul.” The old man concluded.

Deji stoops and picks up his wedding ring and quickly walks across the road without a second glance, all chemistry flushed.



©J.Ifeme