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Love With My Mumu Lover

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By The Collector

The opening of the seminar was scheduled for 10.0am. But as typical of the Cameroonian system, the presiding administrative official arrived at noon. After the formalities, he declared the workshop open. Time was left barely for designation of groups per the various trades the participants will be trained on, according to their disabilities and abilities. Thus, we had snacks and the administrative official left.

We were very disappointed by the administrator’s late coming, but it turned out to be a blessing. It was 3.15pm. I needed to catch-up with the sleep I had lost the previous night, then get up and work on my module and we regroup for dinner at 6.00pm. Steve and Kenny shared same plight. Yolande and Mercy agreed. We also agreed to start the programme next day in earnest.

I came down to dinner with sheets of paper for my conversation with Mercy. All of us ate dinner voraciously and silently. When we were done, Steve suggested that we move across to our watering hole of yester-night.

As soon as the drinks were served, I tore a piece of paper and wrote on it, asking Mercy if she enjoyed the food. She wrote behind that she did enjoy her meal and still apologised for getting me out of bed in the morning. The conversion went forth and back until our bottles were empty. I ordered another round. I wrote to Mercy that I admired her handwriting and the quality of her English language. I told her that, in fact, everything about her was beautiful. She opened her eyes wide when she read this and looked at me. Then she replied: “But I am deaf and dumb.” I told her not to say that again, because talking was just one of the ways in communication. I then asked her if we were not having a conversation as we were doing, and if we did not understand one another.

“Thanks for your kind words,” she wrote. “You are being so nice to me and have been making me laugh since I met you.”

“It is because I like you, beautiful girl.” She read it and, for some reason, we both laughed. Our other three companions turned and looked at us.

Steve murmured something like, “I seemed to have shut myself out to the whole world and think that only Mercy and I exist. Kenny observed that I have not uttered a word to any other person since we sat down.”

“I am having fun,” I said.

Steve was saying to me: “You are taking advantage of her deafness and dumbness … … …”

“Don’t say that again. That is stigmatisation. I have never seen her as happy as this. Let her have fun,” Yolande interjected. Her phone rang and she picked it up and spoke in French.

A man soon joined us. Yolande got up and gave him a peck on his cheek. Mercy got up and gave him a hug. Yolande pulled up a chair for him and introduced him as her friend on mission from Yaounde to Bafoussam. It was rather unfortunate that Yolande left Steve and Kenny and concentrated on her ‘friend’. Steve and Kenny were left to themselves.

They had been competing in some kind of advances toward Yolande, but the coming of the man, who was introduced as Armand, made “their jaws fall” [as we put in our back-quarters parlance].

Reading their body-language, Steve and Kenny felt somewhat isolated. Armand said we should have a round on him. Yolande said she would have ended at two bottles, but she will take the third bottle since Armand is there and can take care of her if she gets drunk. Everyone laughed, but for Mercy. I wrote down what Yolande said, adding that she too could take the third drink, after all, I was around to take care of her if she got drunk. She laughed and leaned on me. The round came and, we ‘couples’ continued in our deep conversations.  I felt sorry for Steve and Kenny.

The women were still nursing half their drinks when our bottles were empty. Kenny ordered another round, just for the men. 

We were done at about 11.30pm. Steve and Kenny got up first, then Yolande and Armand. He put his arm round her waist and walked her across the street. I hesitated to put my arm around Mercy’s waist, for fear that she might push in away. I simply put it on her shoulder, she staggered in her first step and grabbed my hand and put it around her waist.

We walked across and picked our keys at the reception and climbed the steps slowly. Mercy was almost sleep-walking. On the landing, we stopped. I indicated to her that I wanted us to go to my room and I change before taking her to her room. She merely nodded.

I removed my clothes and was left only in boxers. I turned and found Mercy lying on the bed. I put on my singlet and shook her but she indicated that I should let her be and turned on her side.  I sat there, tried to read messages on Whatsapp, but could not concentrate. Was this a trap?

I lay on the bed beside her. Tried to sleep, but sleep was far-fetched. She stirred after about an hour and half. Sat up and indicated that she wished to use the rest room. She could not stand straight. I got up, held her arm and took her to the bathroom and closed it.

She came out looking more awake than she had gone in. I looked at her and she smiled gesticulating that she had taken one bottle too many. I took a piece of paper and wrote that we could stay the night together and I will take her to her room early enough for her to prepare for the workshop. She nodded in affirmation. I wrote; “You will ruffle your dresses if you sleep in them. She indicated that she would remove them and fell back on the bed.

I sat her up and started by removing her blouse. She let me and eased the process. Under her skirt she wore a ‘cyclist’ which looked as if it helped in moulding her fine and equal parts.

I laid her slowly on the bed as the suspenders of her breast-wear dropped to her arms, exposing two fleshy hills that stood tantalisingly firm and moved choreographically as she shivered. Bafoussam is a cold place. I pulled the bed sheet and cover over us and she shifted closer so that her body was touching mine. The warmth of her body caused some sort of volcanic eruption in me.

As if I wanted her to feel warmer, I used my fingers as comb through her natural hair and she reacted positively. I stroke the back of her neck and noticed some sensual movements; she was moving her head slowly from one side to the other.

The tips of my fingers stroke her from the back of the neck and ran down on her spine to her waist and back. I repeated the movement slowly several times and she seemed to breathe in and out as my fingers went up and down.

I sent my other hand down to the top of her inverted triangle. I felt her boughs part a little. My fingers explored the periphery, going round and round until she quaked. When my finger slipped into the inner chamber, it felt like she had already anointed the passage. Now, my truncheon was at the edge of explosion from the magma of the volcanic eruption. She was now also caressing my back.

I lifted my body, almost tore off her cyclist. I tore a pack of latex and pulled it on with shaky hands. She watched as if to make sure. I made her lie in the missionary position. I entered her warm wetness as gently as if to avoid bruising the walls. In the to-and fro, she groaned and shuddered each time I went my whole length to, and I experienced suction in each fro, meaning her organ still had its natural pneumatic grip. I increased velocity as she was almost tearing my back with her nails. She groaned louder and louder.  We were now at the last bend to the finish line; where everyone puts in their last strand of strength in the race. As I crossed the line, she exploded, screaming the way any ‘mumu’ would when excited. I am sure she woke up the entire hotel.

The Collector

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