If Amaka had been alone the day she came to my apartment I would have also tried to take her into my bedroom as I did with Ngozi, though I am sure she would have resisted the move, not because of any moral uprightness , but because of her timidity.
Instead of siting on my “football field” she went and sat down on the mat and started reading some of the things I was writing. That was impressive to me. I can tolerate anything anyone who reads what I write does. Soon we started discussing the content of those write-ups. The most prominent, I can still remember, was one pertaining to the fight I had running with Alhaji Kola Animasaun on the pages of Sunday Vanguard.
“No, you are absolutely right,” I said, flopping down to her on the mat from the bed where I sat. I grabbed her and started pulling up her skirt. She burst into laughter and tried to get away from the mat but I pinned her down. Together, we struggled like that. I tried to kiss her but she did not allow me.
But I had been all worked up with all that body contact. Ngozi was alluring. She sat down at one corner of the large bed while I sat at another corner, sober. The tone of my voice changed as hunger mounted inside me. Osa Amadi, the author of Burn Again, came to the fore. I told her that I will love her; that I had seen she was a good girl; that she should go and think deeply about the proposal I was making to her.