Rape! - A Short story by A. A. Rufai
- By A. A. Rufai
- Published March 16, 2009
- Fiction
-
Rating:
“RAPE!!!”
Sleep was intermittently nudging his eyes. He reached the topmost landing of his hostel block. One hand held on to the banister on the staircase. This posture supported his wrestler frame. The other hand clung to his load of accounting textbooks by his side.
He allowed his eyes to close, pulled in a deep breath, “God,” he sighed. “Thank you Lord.”
The weekend for him had not been an easy one. Spending six hours studying in the reading room was not a joke. He was taking this last lap of his undergraduate days very seriously. Now though, he needed all the sleep and sweet dreams he could get. At his door in the middle of the wing, he slotted in the key and unlocked it. He pushed the door ajar. Instantly he froze at the sight that welcomed him.
There, on top of his mattress, levelled on the green mat, was Cynthia. Lumumba thought he saw a woman enjoying nature in the comforts of a green African forest. Cynthia was stretched on the mattress in her white night gown looking like a white pussy cat.
“Sister Cynthia?” he said, unsure.
“Oh, Lumumba, drop that sister thing. I’ve told you before to simply call me Cynthia. Well, don’t just stand there,” her voice was soothing as a goddess'. “Won’t you like to come in?” Here was another bombshell for Lumumba - somebody was inviting him into his own room.
For a split moment, Lumumba thought he was at the wrong door. But there he was in a glass case on the wall, directly opposite the door above where Cynthia was lying, wearing his matriculation gown, posed in a black and white photograph as a bona fide student of the Collège de Kinshasa.
Lumumba was completely baffled. How in the world did Cynthia get access into his room? His wall clock was approaching 11.57 pm.
He remembered the only time Cynthia had been there was one evening. And that incident happened only because she had kindly met him after campus fellowship, and requested him to take her to his hostel room, so that they could discuss some worrying concerns happening on campus.
Lumumba prided himself on his sound memory. He was confident there was never a time he gave Cynthia (or any other girl for that matter) the spare key to his room. What for? It was not as if he was involved in any romance with her. Although, he couldn’t help noticing the mounting soft spot Cynthia was having for him. What he had done to deserve her attention he did not know. His only darling was his pack of accounting literature. Cynthia was only a student acquaintance he met often on Sundays at the place of worship.
Cynthia helped him out of his paralysis. She floated to the door and gently took him by his strong left arm. Lumumba, hypnotized, followed her meekly into his room like a lamb. Cynthia jammed the door.
He had to just form the courage to ask her what was up? Why was she there? Lumumba contemplated.
“Sister Cynthia,” he began.
Cynthia had already sailed into the hollow of the room. She turned smartly to face him. Her face was bright like a full moon. Before Lumumba could utter another word, it happened.
She had magically unfastened the strap around her waist, flicked the gown off her shoulders, and permitted it to fall freely revealing all her gems. There, Cynthia stood, before God and Lumumba, perfectly naked.
Lumumba let go his load of expensive textbooks. They landed on his green mat. It appeared he was repudiating the romance with his bookkeeping scriptures. Sleep had never been so frightened in his life, he flew away and abandoned Lumumba to his sight, the prospect of a real dream having overthrown him. But Lumumba’s mouth braved it. It opened up in want of the mouth-watering dish. He heard his heart, clasped in a fight with temptation, banging against his ribs.
Cynthia’s enticement can in no way be defined as an act of sexual harassment; it was rape; Lumumba concluded. But he knew Cynthia as a decent girl. How could she behave like this? He cautiously retraced his step in the opposite direction, away from her.
She was now standing arms akimbo, slowly prostituting her hips from left to right. She extended her left arm to him, smiling seductively, gesturing him to come. Lumumba stood still.
Cynthia was not discouraged. She returned her hand to her left hip and continued pushing the hips from left to right.
“Look, somehow I found out you’re busy preparing for a test on Marxian Economics,” said Cynthia cheerfully. “Come,” she said inviting Lumumba again with a nod of the head. “You don’t have to worry about that, give your books a break,” she advised. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves for now. I promise you,” she said with the light tone of a seductress, “tomorrow I’ll take care of eve-ry-th-ing before you write the test on Monday. Isn’t Mr. Khrushchev the lecturer in charge of the course?”
Cynthia giggled somewhat mischievously on mentioning the name Khrushchev, as if the name sounded amusingly grotesque to her ears. In a silly manner, she covered her mouth with her right hand. When she finished amusing herself, she uncovered her thin lips and said, “Relax, that Russian imbecile is after my skirt. I’m sure the old flirt will do anything for me. I can get him to award you some extra grades, you know. Of course, I’m letting you in on a little secret. Besides, aren’t you the Student Union President? Which lecturer will ever think of failing you? They should understand it is not easy championing the cause of campus politics. Tell me, which student on this campus can sacrifice his or her personal time looking out for the general welfare of other fellow students? The responsibility squarely falls on your shoulders, you see. And I’m sure any lecturer marking your script would definitely be lenient after having considered your peculiar situation. Or, don’t you think so?”
Dumbfounded, Lumumba literarily shrunk. Cynthia’s angelic shape of a Miss World, slim and above average height distracted him from paying attention to what she was saying. He tried to resist his eyes feeding on her, but he failed woefully. Her body was so smooth, so fair. She could easily have been mistaken for a flawless albino, but the glow of her skin was of God’s own creation. Lumumba wondered if she had ever been to the toilet. All the fleshy weapons that made her a woman were just curved appropriately in the right corners.
Cynthia took advantage of Lumumba’s limbo. She started performing some more seductive feats. Her pointed nose was now lifted upwards. It was facing the yellow light bulb attached to the concrete deck above her head. Her natural blonde hair fell backwards reaching the basin of her butt. It was swaying like a happy child enjoying a swing in an amusement park. Beauty was the name of her oval face. She leisurely started swallowing her right middle finger.
Lumumba was watching her, imagining Cynthia to be a princess in her birthday suit, who was trying to master the art of swallowing a full-length carrot.
Cynthia was gently bringing out the finger from the mouth she had formed into an “O”, creamy saliva covering it. In slow motion, the finger began journeying downwards. She glanced at Lumumba with her sky-blue eyes to make sure he was watching her. Then the finger disappeared somewhere deep, just below the middle of her trunk. She got the show on the road when she started moaning, “Aaah…aaahh…aaahhh….”
She stopped suddenly. Quickly turned her back to him, widening her legs. She bent in a swift athletic move from the waist down, her palms on the green mat.
Lumumba’s mind showed him steam coming out from the hottest part of hell. In his eyes Cynthia was no longer a human being. She had turned into something else – a poodle bitch, an evil one. He finally decided he had been bombarded with enough of her biological missiles.
“In the name of Jesus,” he said, “I beg of you, Cynthia, leave this room.”
Cynthia was still smiling watching her prey through her opened legs. She knew she had him. Her backside cakes were waggling in a twin ritual dance, bombarding Lumumba the more. She saw the outline of a big prisoner trapped in Lumumba’s zipper agitating desperately for his liberty.
Lumumba fumbled with the jam on the door in an attempt to take flight. But lo! The speed of light had already placed Cynthia against the door.
“Where are you going?” she growled. Lumumba was shivering while he peered down at Her Excellency. He was scared shit. He watched her metamorphose again. This time she had transformed into one of the witches of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
“Cynthia, I beg of you in the name of Jesus,” Lumumba pleaded, his black glossing skin smeared with sweat.
“Jesus what!” Cynthia flared. “You’re a fool. Idiot!” she declared. “I can now see the damage that ass, Mr. Khrushchev, had done to you. It’s a sorry case that he has succeeded in brainwashing you from enjoying a life of bliss. Damn! You’re a coward for a Student Leader. You mean you have allowed yourself to be turned into a eunuch because of Mr. Khrushchev’s crazy course? An elective course?” Lumumba was completely at her mercy.
“I’m offering myself on a platter of gold and here you are Jesusing me?” Cynthia carried on, “Hey!” The interjection was a crescendo she expressed in a raw Yankee accent. “Who do you think you are anyway? Angel Gabriel?”
She gripped the gate where Lumumba’s big prisoner was locked – unexpectedly. It was operation trouser storm as she battled at the city centre to help the ally know freedom. If Lumumba was not going to cooperate in order for them to enjoy a true democracy, then she was ready to do everything like a nymphomaniac, to deal with Lumumba, liberate her ally and together celebrate the dawn of a new era.
Lumumba arrested Cynthia’s wrists. She felt the crushing power of his hands while she tried to wriggle free. She looked him up in the face and saw his wrestler frame staging a come back. Her blue eyes could not do any magic to hide her feeling of surprise at Lumumba’s stiff resistance. Now more than ever, Lumumba was convinced that Cynthia was his enemy. Satan had sent her on this night from his kingdom on a sinister mission. She may have had her reasons for considering the detainee as a comrade. Lumumba on the other hand saw him in the image of an unpatriotic citizen. He was determined to keep the traitor incarcerated in his maximum-security prison. He was not going to take it lightly to have anybody break into his trouser jail in a bravery show to rescue the shameless conspirator.
Cynthia was not an insurgent; nevertheless Lumumba considered she was behaving like one. Her confrontation with him did not stop Lumumba from jiving into a nimble. ‘This is madness’: that was the first caller who came screaming into his brain. Who was Cynthia to have the lever to rudely violate the sovereignty of his independent room? Was she a spy or a commando? If she was either one of them or in fact doubled as a dangerous two-edged sword, then Lumumba summarily considered her too small. He thought she was going to need the miracle of getting around the President of America to send her back up from the whole of The U.S. Marine Corps. While the struggle lasted, just imagining Cynthia armed with shipments of neo-nuclear bombs screening the length of the Atlantic Ocean, Lumumba had the strongest conviction that, hard as she could try, Cynthia could never put a full stop to the ticking hand of the seconds on a clock.
Sleep was intermittently nudging his eyes. He reached the topmost landing of his hostel block. One hand held on to the banister on the staircase. This posture supported his wrestler frame. The other hand clung to his load of accounting textbooks by his side.
He allowed his eyes to close, pulled in a deep breath, “God,” he sighed. “Thank you Lord.”
The weekend for him had not been an easy one. Spending six hours studying in the reading room was not a joke. He was taking this last lap of his undergraduate days very seriously. Now though, he needed all the sleep and sweet dreams he could get. At his door in the middle of the wing, he slotted in the key and unlocked it. He pushed the door ajar. Instantly he froze at the sight that welcomed him.
There, on top of his mattress, levelled on the green mat, was Cynthia. Lumumba thought he saw a woman enjoying nature in the comforts of a green African forest. Cynthia was stretched on the mattress in her white night gown looking like a white pussy cat.
“Sister Cynthia?” he said, unsure.
“Oh, Lumumba, drop that sister thing. I’ve told you before to simply call me Cynthia. Well, don’t just stand there,” her voice was soothing as a goddess'. “Won’t you like to come in?” Here was another bombshell for Lumumba - somebody was inviting him into his own room.
For a split moment, Lumumba thought he was at the wrong door. But there he was in a glass case on the wall, directly opposite the door above where Cynthia was lying, wearing his matriculation gown, posed in a black and white photograph as a bona fide student of the Collège de Kinshasa.
Lumumba was completely baffled. How in the world did Cynthia get access into his room? His wall clock was approaching 11.57 pm.
He remembered the only time Cynthia had been there was one evening. And that incident happened only because she had kindly met him after campus fellowship, and requested him to take her to his hostel room, so that they could discuss some worrying concerns happening on campus.
Lumumba prided himself on his sound memory. He was confident there was never a time he gave Cynthia (or any other girl for that matter) the spare key to his room. What for? It was not as if he was involved in any romance with her. Although, he couldn’t help noticing the mounting soft spot Cynthia was having for him. What he had done to deserve her attention he did not know. His only darling was his pack of accounting literature. Cynthia was only a student acquaintance he met often on Sundays at the place of worship.
Cynthia helped him out of his paralysis. She floated to the door and gently took him by his strong left arm. Lumumba, hypnotized, followed her meekly into his room like a lamb. Cynthia jammed the door.
He had to just form the courage to ask her what was up? Why was she there? Lumumba contemplated.
“Sister Cynthia,” he began.
Cynthia had already sailed into the hollow of the room. She turned smartly to face him. Her face was bright like a full moon. Before Lumumba could utter another word, it happened.
She had magically unfastened the strap around her waist, flicked the gown off her shoulders, and permitted it to fall freely revealing all her gems. There, Cynthia stood, before God and Lumumba, perfectly naked.
Lumumba let go his load of expensive textbooks. They landed on his green mat. It appeared he was repudiating the romance with his bookkeeping scriptures. Sleep had never been so frightened in his life, he flew away and abandoned Lumumba to his sight, the prospect of a real dream having overthrown him. But Lumumba’s mouth braved it. It opened up in want of the mouth-watering dish. He heard his heart, clasped in a fight with temptation, banging against his ribs.
Cynthia’s enticement can in no way be defined as an act of sexual harassment; it was rape; Lumumba concluded. But he knew Cynthia as a decent girl. How could she behave like this? He cautiously retraced his step in the opposite direction, away from her.
She was now standing arms akimbo, slowly prostituting her hips from left to right. She extended her left arm to him, smiling seductively, gesturing him to come. Lumumba stood still.
Cynthia was not discouraged. She returned her hand to her left hip and continued pushing the hips from left to right.
“Look, somehow I found out you’re busy preparing for a test on Marxian Economics,” said Cynthia cheerfully. “Come,” she said inviting Lumumba again with a nod of the head. “You don’t have to worry about that, give your books a break,” she advised. “Let’s just enjoy ourselves for now. I promise you,” she said with the light tone of a seductress, “tomorrow I’ll take care of eve-ry-th-ing before you write the test on Monday. Isn’t Mr. Khrushchev the lecturer in charge of the course?”
Cynthia giggled somewhat mischievously on mentioning the name Khrushchev, as if the name sounded amusingly grotesque to her ears. In a silly manner, she covered her mouth with her right hand. When she finished amusing herself, she uncovered her thin lips and said, “Relax, that Russian imbecile is after my skirt. I’m sure the old flirt will do anything for me. I can get him to award you some extra grades, you know. Of course, I’m letting you in on a little secret. Besides, aren’t you the Student Union President? Which lecturer will ever think of failing you? They should understand it is not easy championing the cause of campus politics. Tell me, which student on this campus can sacrifice his or her personal time looking out for the general welfare of other fellow students? The responsibility squarely falls on your shoulders, you see. And I’m sure any lecturer marking your script would definitely be lenient after having considered your peculiar situation. Or, don’t you think so?”
Dumbfounded, Lumumba literarily shrunk. Cynthia’s angelic shape of a Miss World, slim and above average height distracted him from paying attention to what she was saying. He tried to resist his eyes feeding on her, but he failed woefully. Her body was so smooth, so fair. She could easily have been mistaken for a flawless albino, but the glow of her skin was of God’s own creation. Lumumba wondered if she had ever been to the toilet. All the fleshy weapons that made her a woman were just curved appropriately in the right corners.
Cynthia took advantage of Lumumba’s limbo. She started performing some more seductive feats. Her pointed nose was now lifted upwards. It was facing the yellow light bulb attached to the concrete deck above her head. Her natural blonde hair fell backwards reaching the basin of her butt. It was swaying like a happy child enjoying a swing in an amusement park. Beauty was the name of her oval face. She leisurely started swallowing her right middle finger.
Lumumba was watching her, imagining Cynthia to be a princess in her birthday suit, who was trying to master the art of swallowing a full-length carrot.
Cynthia was gently bringing out the finger from the mouth she had formed into an “O”, creamy saliva covering it. In slow motion, the finger began journeying downwards. She glanced at Lumumba with her sky-blue eyes to make sure he was watching her. Then the finger disappeared somewhere deep, just below the middle of her trunk. She got the show on the road when she started moaning, “Aaah…aaahh…aaahhh….”
She stopped suddenly. Quickly turned her back to him, widening her legs. She bent in a swift athletic move from the waist down, her palms on the green mat.
Lumumba’s mind showed him steam coming out from the hottest part of hell. In his eyes Cynthia was no longer a human being. She had turned into something else – a poodle bitch, an evil one. He finally decided he had been bombarded with enough of her biological missiles.
“In the name of Jesus,” he said, “I beg of you, Cynthia, leave this room.”
Cynthia was still smiling watching her prey through her opened legs. She knew she had him. Her backside cakes were waggling in a twin ritual dance, bombarding Lumumba the more. She saw the outline of a big prisoner trapped in Lumumba’s zipper agitating desperately for his liberty.
Lumumba fumbled with the jam on the door in an attempt to take flight. But lo! The speed of light had already placed Cynthia against the door.
“Where are you going?” she growled. Lumumba was shivering while he peered down at Her Excellency. He was scared shit. He watched her metamorphose again. This time she had transformed into one of the witches of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
“Cynthia, I beg of you in the name of Jesus,” Lumumba pleaded, his black glossing skin smeared with sweat.
“Jesus what!” Cynthia flared. “You’re a fool. Idiot!” she declared. “I can now see the damage that ass, Mr. Khrushchev, had done to you. It’s a sorry case that he has succeeded in brainwashing you from enjoying a life of bliss. Damn! You’re a coward for a Student Leader. You mean you have allowed yourself to be turned into a eunuch because of Mr. Khrushchev’s crazy course? An elective course?” Lumumba was completely at her mercy.
“I’m offering myself on a platter of gold and here you are Jesusing me?” Cynthia carried on, “Hey!” The interjection was a crescendo she expressed in a raw Yankee accent. “Who do you think you are anyway? Angel Gabriel?”
She gripped the gate where Lumumba’s big prisoner was locked – unexpectedly. It was operation trouser storm as she battled at the city centre to help the ally know freedom. If Lumumba was not going to cooperate in order for them to enjoy a true democracy, then she was ready to do everything like a nymphomaniac, to deal with Lumumba, liberate her ally and together celebrate the dawn of a new era.
Lumumba arrested Cynthia’s wrists. She felt the crushing power of his hands while she tried to wriggle free. She looked him up in the face and saw his wrestler frame staging a come back. Her blue eyes could not do any magic to hide her feeling of surprise at Lumumba’s stiff resistance. Now more than ever, Lumumba was convinced that Cynthia was his enemy. Satan had sent her on this night from his kingdom on a sinister mission. She may have had her reasons for considering the detainee as a comrade. Lumumba on the other hand saw him in the image of an unpatriotic citizen. He was determined to keep the traitor incarcerated in his maximum-security prison. He was not going to take it lightly to have anybody break into his trouser jail in a bravery show to rescue the shameless conspirator.
Cynthia was not an insurgent; nevertheless Lumumba considered she was behaving like one. Her confrontation with him did not stop Lumumba from jiving into a nimble. ‘This is madness’: that was the first caller who came screaming into his brain. Who was Cynthia to have the lever to rudely violate the sovereignty of his independent room? Was she a spy or a commando? If she was either one of them or in fact doubled as a dangerous two-edged sword, then Lumumba summarily considered her too small. He thought she was going to need the miracle of getting around the President of America to send her back up from the whole of The U.S. Marine Corps. While the struggle lasted, just imagining Cynthia armed with shipments of neo-nuclear bombs screening the length of the Atlantic Ocean, Lumumba had the strongest conviction that, hard as she could try, Cynthia could never put a full stop to the ticking hand of the seconds on a clock.