Twisted

20: Water with Salt

Zayyad

Holding her hand, I guide her into the newly purchased house, taking off the blindfold when we're standing in the middle of the empty living room.

"Zay!" She gasps as she takes in the environs of the newly acquired house. Her eyes move from the spacious living room to the chandelier, to the spiral staircase, to the ceiling curtains, to the dusty African artifacts positioned at strategic places, and then back to me. "Babyyy!" She coos before she melts into my open arms.

"You like?" I ask with a satisfied grin.

"I love. It's so perfect!" She excitedly squeals, looking up at my face and tiptoeing for a kiss. I cup her cheeks in my hands and our lips touch for what is supposed to be a brief second, before her arms circle around my shoulders with her weight slightly pulling me down, indicating she wants me to carry her.

I effortlessly pick her up, my hands leaving her face to grab her ass whilst she wraps her legs around my torso. "I love you," She tells me in between what has now turned into an intense make-out session, and I just nod.

She's excited. I'm talking shoving her tongue down my throat, nibbling on my lips, and grinding against my torso kind of excited.

"Madam, chill, let's calm down please," I break out of the kiss with a small laugh. I look at her face and her smeared lipstick does not bother me, it is her eyes that hold me captive.

"I can't wait for you to be a father," She says but... she's different. Her face changes. It's not her anymore. Those brown orbs are now grey, her brow skin now lighter, her hair, curly... Nabila?

Soon enough everything starts to crumble. The room is gone. The walls of the house are broken, everything has vanished including the woman in my hold and now I'm left standing in the ruins of the house I had bought but never lived in.

My eyes open to the air hostess, a gorgeous dark-skinned woman, gently tapping me on the arm. "Sir, please fasten your seatbelt, we're gonna land soon."

*. •. *. •. *

As I step out of the private jet, the cool London air greets me, a stark contrast to the heat of Accra where I had just been. The chauffeur, clad in a tailored suit, awaits me by the jet's staircase, ready to whisk me away to my destination. "Welcome back, sir," He takes my luggage from me with a warm smile which I return.

"Doctor Kenneth's office," I instruct with a sense of urgency as I get in the backseat of the Maybach. He nods and shuts the door after me.

Mr Kole —who is now in his mid-50s and has been the family driver in London since I was a child— is the one who regularly fetches me from the airport, so, I do not need to give him further instructions, he knows that my therapist's office is located in Mayfair street.

The recommendation for Doctor Kenneth came through a close friend of mine nearly a year ago, and ever since, our sessions have become a regular part of my life, occurring bi-weekly for the past seven months in a carefully crafted schedule. It is a safe space for me to sometimes explore and express my deepest emotions and fears without feeling judged, and other times when I'm too confused to say how I feel in words, we both rot away in silence until my session is up.

The man has not only done a commendable job repairing my mental health to an extent but has also served as a guide on how to handle my emotions when it comes to the people in my life... especially the women. Oh, the women that I choose to love have caused me so much damage.

As we drive through the road of this grey city, I check my watch for the time, sighing and hoping not to miss the appointment like yesterday due to the impromptu visit to Accra. I need to have that session today because ever since Abuja... and her, it feels like my head has been heavy ever since with a lot of words.