Revolt

21. Rate Of Reaction

“All the art of living, lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.” – Havelock Ellis.

•••

The daunting task ahead, wasn’t potent enough to take Lekan’s mind off the pejorative thoughts that traversed his mind, like stubborn hunters searching for prey. He was en-route to the site of the meet, where he had agreed to convene with the hired specialists on the train implementation scheme. He had gotten their contacts from Kunle of course, who had once again commended his resourcefulness in the area—before handing over the contact info. Naade was seated beside him in the SUV, as they were being driven to the conference location which was at Excellence Hotel, Ikeja.

The stubborn, obstinate thoughts in his head were something he would have never thought could arise, a month ago. For the past two months, he had pulled the plug on his wild, licentious life so as to adjust to the demands of a relationship. It had been rewarding, as the prize of said ‘fasting’ was being the partner of someone he felt deeply for. They had tested the waters, and he had come to the conclusion that he was not only capable of profound feelings, but wasn’t beyond being spurred by said feelings to become a better man, a changed person that could stick to one woman at a time, and discipline himself not to sample other side dishes in the process.

Anjola’s father death had plunged her into a dark chasm, where she had severed virtually all communication with him, in a bid to recuperate. He understood her need for solitary, as anyone’s wellbeing would be injured greatly by a tragedy of such magnitude. But that didn’t exactly smother his ravenous desire and thirst for her—for human contact, and sensual pleasures.

Even when he was with her, he still craved for the goodies he couldn’t enjoy anymore as a result of his resolutions, but at least her company and their minimal sipping of the wild waters, had kept his thirst on a level he could manage, but now that he had no access of any kind to the stream of pleasure—he was parched to the point, that he feared he would lose his head.

He couldn’t intrude on her recovery, just to feed his appetite. That was a selfish thing to do, and it would probably end their relationship, as Anjola would find such behaviour intolerable. But he was losing his mind, in the process of desisting from his old ways, which was quite nerve-racking, because a month ago, at the hospital, when Anjola’s dad died—he remembered feeling like he could go all the way, he remembered the confidence and compulsion coursing through his veins—flooding him with the courage and conviction, that the work was done and that he had almost completed his journey, to the express of the ideal man.

How foolish I was.

Lekan didn’t doubt the fact that he loved Anjola, but the truth was that—she was the only thing he loved in the reality that came along with her. While he did love her for being the person she was, he hated everything else. He hated the fact that their relationship didn’t fully satisfy his sexual needs. He hated the fact he had to refrain from partying and other canal pleasures, just so, the probability of him succumbing to temptation, remained at a bare minimum. He hated all the numerous restraints, and impositions that this new life came along with—and for the first time, since Anjola came into the picture, he admitted to himself that he missed his old life.

He missed the rush of driving at criminally high speeds at night, with his roof wound down and the cold, air rushing at his face as if to strangle him. He missed clubbing, feeling all the giddy delights of having his body pressed up against the curvy, luscious curves of women with music blaring from the speakers in a deafening volume, that it made his ears numb with noise. He missed being in a gathering of men, who led similar lives like his—to share their most adventurous and audacious escapades with women in the past. And most of all, he missed being entangled with the body of another—in a sexual waltz to climax and orgasm.