A Collection of Short Stories

The Indomie Man
Michael Ogah
I have a boyfriend, but he does not know that. He does not need to know. I love my
boyfriend. I sincerely do. He is the perfect boyfriend; a lover and good listener. He never
forgets our anniversaries or my birthday and we have really great times when together. What
I find and do with the indomie man I simply can not explain.
How is it possible to be in love with that one special someone yet find such consuming
desire with another? What currency can buy a seared conscience back? One does not
have to be doing it for money to be a prostitute, I reckon. I am a prostitute. I get paid in
power. I am a dictator. He will never be free.
The next day I take a taxi to his house to make things right. I go in the day time because my
mother once told me the night belongs to the Devil.
He is seated outside, wearing those tight, fitting underpants that carve out his beautiful,
manly legs like a soldier from ancient Greece. On sighting me from a short mile he stands
up, smiles, approaches and embraces me from behind. I am lost for a moment in the
security of his embrace, how his hands encircle me entirely. I can feel my breasts squeeze
together and touch from how tightly he takes me in. Grateful I will not have to look in his
eyes when I speak, I make a go for it.
“I have someone.” I spit out the words. “It is not right for me to want you, or have you believe
you may have me. I’m sorry. I should have told you about him. Forgive me.”
It has been two months. I still think of him; his delicious curried indomie, his ease, his
mannerisms, his quiet strength. I still think about the smell of him. Someday I’ will be over
him. Some day, I won’t feel so ashamed to have felt things, unutterable things for him. God
94
Tales from the Other Side