By Bunmi Sofola
“My dearest”, the letter said. “I will call you my lady because that is what you are. Your breasts, your thighs, the way your eyes seemed to scream across the room, bidding me to seduce you, pulling me erect, drawing me, like moth before the flame, towards fire and abandon – are all the things about you. I touched you – No. Before I’d even touched you, before I’d even seen you, 1 felt the presence of you. It was as if hands, many hands on fire and invisible, were running through my hair, across my skin, lower and lower, encircling my maleness – I turned and you were – walking towards me, smiling; your body, glowing through the confines of your dress, enfolding me in you.
“We talked, sipping our drinks and exchanging pleasantries, whilst our bodies engaged in a conversation of their own. 1 came without ‘touching you. And later, in the bed (our love nest), 1 was aware of nothing except your breath across my face, your lips upon my flesh and the feel of your body locked tight against me. I slept and in my sleep I dreamt of you … “. The letter nearly burnt holes in my hand – it was that scorching. If, for a minute you readers think I was the one being ‘seduced’ by such erotically crafted letter, then, you are wrong. What I had in my hands was a photocopy of the original letter purportedly written to a married woman by a close relation of mine. The wronged husband had phoned me about this startling discovery, threatening mayhem!
“You mean Kunle (my relation) wrote a letter to your wife” I asked incredulously as he read the letter on the phone, “and your wife brought it to your matrimonial home?” “I’ll send you a copy so you could believe,” he snapped and banged the phone. I’d hardly finished reading the letter when my phone rang again. “You tell that randy goat relation of yours that he’s had his last affair”, threatened Lateef, the wronged husband. “And I have lots more incriminating letters. I intend to start embarrassing him by sending them to some of these soft-sells. By the time I’m through with him, he would run a mile any time he comes close to another person’s wife”. I phoned Kunle, my letter-writing relative. He was quite unrepentant when I told him why I phoned. “So I wrote love letters,” he sneered, “is that such a crime?’
“But you are married and the so-called love letters, were to another man’s wife. Not only that, the silly adulterer had more or less chronicled all your escapades in her diary – the days you gave her money, the first time you made love to her and such silly nonsense! She even referred to you as her one-and-only!” “Well, doesn’t’ that tell you something?” Kunle said almost proudly. “If my letters hadn’t touched her where it mattered, she wouldn’t have kept them, not to mention her taking them to her matrimonial home! That husband of hers is a poor excuse for a husband. Instead of him to harness his energy into making enough money for his family, he goes about the house looking for evidence of his wife’s unfaithfulness. Well, if you look for something hard enough, you’ll find it! You know where he found those letters? Inside a packet of sanitary towels where his wife had hidden them! I mean, how low can you sink?
“He’s phoned me here too and you should hear the names he called me. He promised to send copies of my letters to my wife and I promised him I would embarrass him by sending copies of the letters his wife wrote to his friends. I warned him he wouldn’t like to read what his wife had to say about his sexual prowess. I also told him that if he as much as made the mistake of sending his wife out of their matrimonial home, he would never call her his wife again. That shut him up and he hung up.”
Today, writing love letters is almost a forgotten art. We prefer to convey our passions in person. Or, if our love is away, by telephone or send a card or an e-mail. And the nearest most of us get to actually writing is a few hastily scribbled endearments on the bottom of a Christmas or birthday card or funny abbreviated texts on the mobile. “Yet love letters can enrich our lives,” confesses a die-hard romantic. “They give an added dimension to our current love affairs, they help us conjure up lovers who have moved on, and if our latest flame has left us feeling bitter, we can always use them to blackmail or embarrass the bugger!” But love letter to a married lover, giving lurid details of what you’d done with each other and lots more other things you intend to do, is taking romance on a dangerous bend!
As I write, the dust has settled somewhat on the love-letter saga, but I am sure the rippling effect will soon surface. The best way to cover an affair? Get rid of the evidence: At least that’s what Tinu said she always does. A happily married legal practitioner, he told me of the day her bit-on-the-side called at her office to personally drop an item she requested his driver to bring; she told me, “I was at a loose end and just thought I would pop in myself,” he said, handing me a letter he’d already written which he intended the driver to give me. I read the note, amused at the quick jokes in it and promptly tore it to shreds in his presence. Force of habit.
Only, I should have waited for him to conveniently leave before I tore his letter. “Why are you tearing my note to pieces?” he asked, puzzled and hurt. “I’m sorry dear,” I said smoothly. “I’d been shredding some memos since I came in. I did it out of reflex!” I’m sure he didn’t buy the story, but what could he do? Ask me to put back the jig-saw puzzle?” To you philanderers reading this, the best way to conduct an affair is to always get rid of the evidence. A fling is not meant to last but documented evidence does. So, shred those letters, use those gifts if you conveniently can and give away or sell the ones you can’t. A word is sufficient for the wise!
Instant Aphrodisiac? (Humour)
An elderly man finds he’s unable to perform sexually. He goes to a witch doctor who throws powder into a fire. There’s a flash with billowing smoke.
“This is powerful healing but you can only use it once a year,” the witch doctor says. “All you have to do is say ‘one, two, three’ and it shall rise for as long as you wish”. “What happens when we’ve had enough?” the old man asks.
The witch doctor replies: “When your partner can’t take no more sex, all she has to say is ‘one, two, three, four’ and it will go down. But he warned – your willy will not rise again for another year.”
The old gent rushes home, anxious to try out his new power . That night, he slides into bed, cuddles up to his wife and says ‘one, two, three”. Then he gets the most gigantic erection. His wife turns over and asks: “What did you say ‘one, two, three’ for?”