Part 4 Final: Coffee stains, a decade and the things we don’t say out loud

When I met Obige, I remember thinking how intelligent he was. Possibly the kindest man I’d met. Smooth talker. Generous. The kind who made soft life sound like community service.We met during my Mr Price retail era when I needed to prove that I can make a living on my own. My parents wanted an engineer. I gave them the retail version of a rapper. Eventually, I graduated to a fancier shop. Same clothes, pricier lighting.Obige was Nigerian, new in town. And I guess I was bored. He wasn’t particularly good looking. Pandu, my colleague, still called him “just a fat ball”. Still, she pushed me to give him a chance. The man once bought the whole KFC shop and had a black card. This obviously impressed Pandu, confessing that she’d f!ck anything to get out of Havana. She didn’t get that I was working there by choice.Eventually, I agreed to dinner with “the fat one,” as she lovingly called him.He was charming. Said he worked for Google, based in Ghana. Said he was so overworked they had to force him to take leave. I liked the ease of it. The meal. The banter. The feeling of being seen. I could maybe see myself liking him, maybe even as a way to scandalise my Herero parents. They’d collapse if I dated outside the tribe, let alone a Nigerian.He invited me to a party at his cousin’s place, Saturday. When I arrived, it was just him and said cousin named Michael. He cooked yams for me trying very hard to impress me about his favorite food. Two other girls eventually came. Wine was poured. Again and again.He took me to the balcony, where we talked about his next project in Libya and my rejected manuscript. He tucked my braid out of my face saying “You can do anything”. We toasted. “To making our dreams come true.”That’s the last thing I remember.Until I woke up with Obige’s tongue between my legs, before he f!cked the half unconscious me, who didn’t consent.Pax’s eyes amplify as I retell this. “To be fair I liked that he at least went down on me, I would give him a 7/10 for that”Pax feigns a smile as he shifts in his seat, the weight of what I’ve said pressing into the silence.“Damn,” he says quietly. “I hate how familiar that story is.”He hesitates. “Most women I know... have a version of that same night. Same wine. Same blackouts. Same confusion.”He looks away. “It’s like men have learned to prey in plain sight. And we don’t talk about it enough.”I nod, unsure if I’m relieved or disturbed that it’s not just me.I clear the air, “Well at least you are like part of the five good men in Namibia”. He laughs as he fake cheers with a coffee cup half wishing it was a Windhoek Lager, while edging me to change my coffee stained shirt. He adds almost softly “to healing”.*Ozon?u Chronicles; uncovers the secrets that never see daylight. Each story is fiction. Yet, asyou read, you may sense that reality has already whispered its own version. For readers 18 and older.

Part 4 Final: Coffee stains, a decade and the things we don’t say out loud

Comments

Namibian Sun 2025-11-05

Please login to leave a comment

Part 4 Final: Coffee stains, a decade and the things we don’t say out loud

Comments

Namibian Sun 2025-11-05

Please login to leave a comment

Subscription Required to Access Content ×

Login

Subscription Required to Access Content