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All models appearing on streamsex. For related inquiries please contact each paysite site owner individually. Libe do not produce porn movies ourselves. She is crouching beside you with her hand on your shoulder, a wild throng of people jostling around and against you. Her fingernails are painted a hot crimson red. You are noticing this. Blood on your shoulder. Meanwhile, a stranger with a camera is trying to take a picture. A smallish human being by the side of a larger one, both with neat braids with small beads at the ends; both slim well, one skinny with dark knobbly kneecaps; one never without lipstick, the other never allowed.
In the dream, as it happened, you ignore the photographer. Finally you look up in the hope of some silence. You consider, but frown. Your mother pulls you close to her, so close you can taste her, the scent of her lotion delicious, a lie. A chalky taste, heavy and soapy as wax. You suck it in greedily. Her braids are tied back with an indigo scarf, the tail of which billows up, covering her face. The scarf is tied tightly, pulling her skin towards her temples, making her cheekbones jut out like a carved Oyo mask. The red on her lips contrasts the indigo perfectly, as the man who bought the scarf would have no doubt foreseen.
Not for the first time you think that your mother is the most beautiful woman in Lagos. At this moment, here beside you, your mother is unquestionable. In the liminal space between dreaming and waking into which enters shouting, about this or about that you started to scream but the feel of the sound taking form in your throat woke you fully. You wet the bed.
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Now the terror passed over, with the cold in your fingers, the echo of POP! You fumbled for the photo you keep under your pillow as an antidote of sorts to the dream or the waking: The wildness of Lagos is an odd, knee-high backdrop: But when you look at it now you see only Live camear rom sxs mother. The scarf blowing forward sxd hiding her face. No one has heard from her since. Not for a minute do you believe what they say. They are villagers, cruel like your grandmother. As told to you: Dzifa missing mother was born eight years after Uncle in Lolito, a village on the Volta. Their father, a fisherman, was drowned in the river the day after Dzifa was born. Their mother, your grandmother, for obvious reasons decided her daughter was cursed.
Uncle, unconvinced, worshipped and adored his little sister and the two were inseparable growing up. Dzifa was beautiful, preternaturally so, shining star of the little Lolito schoolhouse. But your grandmother, believer gom boys-only education and a product of the same, withdrew her daughter from school. Your mother, infuriated, ran away from Lolito and hitchhiked cakear way to Nigeria. In the same years Uncle won the scholarship to study in Detroit and left Ghana, Live camear rom sxs, for a time. An alto saxophonist in an Afro-funk band, he left wxs he learned ca,ear was pregnant. You were living at the time in a thirteenth-floor hotel room, free of ro, care of the hotel proprietor.
His name was Sinclair. This may have been caemar surname; you were never camesr sure. He was ginger-haired, Scottish, born in Glasgow, raised in Jos, son of tin miners-cum-missionaries, tall and loud, freckled, fat. He was stingy with his mangoes, barking at the kitchen staff in the morning to use more orange slices and pineapple cubes in the breakfast buffet. His face blazed an unnatural pink when he shouted, like the colour of his hair, or his skin after visits. You Libe shocked when you moved here to find mangoes more perfect growing freely on the tree ro the garden. The Rencontre femme guinee of the highway, of Lagos at night.
There Livf no guests or hotel staff at the vamear after midnight. No sweating waiters in suits with mixed drinks on silver trays. No thin women in swimsuits, their skin seared to crimson, their offspring peeing greenly in the water. Still now there is something about those nights that you miss; maybe the promise of your mother in the morning? On the night Uncle found her she was circling the lounge like the liquor fairy, topping up vodka and Scotch. You were behind the bar reading Beezus and Ramona, recently abandoned by some American.
It was a Friday, you remember: Then abruptly, glass smashing, a comparative silence, the extraction of human voice from the ongoing din. The resumption of talking. She was staring at him, mouth agape, shards at her feet. Over and over and over. You wondered how he knew her name. Your mother said nothing. After a moment she smiled. Too bright to be real. Too beautiful to be fake. After the hugging and weeping and telling it all Uncle insisted she return to Ghana. Uncle and a woman, a fair-skinned Nigerian, the photographer, drove you to the airport. The woman smoked cigarettes. Your mother was silent, gazing away, out the window, her eyes black and final as freshly poured tar.
You were pressed up against her, so close you could breathe her, the taste of rose lotion breaking the promise of its smell. Here you are three years later. End of Sad Story. You set down the photo and glanced out the window. The caterers had arrived with the party decor. A large painted banner on the back of their truck read Mary Christmas! The warmth of the wet spot turned cold on the backs of your thighs. The mother of Jesus. Auntie sucked her teeth. You detached the fitted sheet from the narrow twin bed and carried it, embarrassed, to the washroom. III Ruby was there sucking her teeth at the washer. She prefers to clean clothing the old way, by hand. Auntie, who refuses to travel to Britain, waited for the delivery as for a prodigal child.
Whatever the case, none of your neighbours have machines as impressive as the one in the washroom. The whirring contraption put too great a strain on the power supply, waning in Ghana. Ruby was dressed in the same thing as always: No one seems to mind much that you wear them also. Frowning with her eyebrows but not with her eyes. She stands like this often, with her hands on her hips, bony elbows pushed back like a fledgling set of wings. She is pretty to you, Ruby, though her appearance is jarring, the eyes of a griot in the face of a girl. Her eyes have the look of a century of seeing.
They say she lost a child once. Which would certainly explain it. In the peculiar hierarchy of African households the only rung lower than motherless child is childless mother. She held out her hand. You gave her the sheet, which she shoved into the washer. She closed the windowed door and looked, scowling, at the buttons, unsure which to press, too proud to say so. The washer, as advertised, sprang noiselessly to life. Ruby gasped, startled, stepping backwards. Shoulder to shoulder, like a couple viewing a painting. Whites in the window of the washer, sheets and shirts.
The cloth twisting beautifully like the arms and long legs of the National? Theatre dancers dancing silently in soap. She returned a moment later with a clean fitted sheet. You took this, folded neatly and smelling of Fa soap. She is beautiful when she smiles. IV From the washroom to the kitchen at the side of the house, the sun slanting in through the windows. The door was propped open to the buzzing of flies and the symphony of the sounds of the houseboys in the morning: Your breakfast was laid on the small wooden table: Francis was frying kelewele for Comfort her favourite in honour of her first morning home.
To the dismay of his employer, the eponymous Guy, Uncle made Francis a better offer. His parents are Ewe, his mother from Togo, his English much weaker than his French, even now. Appearing at the door in her slippers. She padded into the kitchen, stretching her arms with a yawn. Reached for a slice of your pawpaw and sighed. As skinny as ever. She only eats fruit. Comfort and you have always eaten in the kitchen, the small one, at the rickety wood table like this. The arrangement dates back to the morning you arrived after the short Virgin flight from Nigeria. As he tells it, Uncle ushered you proudly into the dining room for breakfast.
After Uncle tried unsuccessfully to sell you on an omelette Francis intervened, uncharacteristically. He lifted you carefully out of the dining-room chair and carried you into his kitchen. Silent, he placed you at the small wooden table and returned to his work pounding yam. Auntie had a massive new kitchen installed off the first-floor pantry this summer. When Auntie said no, Comfort refused to eat also, so Uncle said yes, but only breakfast. V Iago appeared presently at the door to the kitchen.
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