Fiction: On A Cold Day

January 7, 2016 Fiction , POETRY / FICTION


Akinpelu Yusuf




The day was very chilly; typical of Mid-December weather. Frost hung in the air relegating clear sight. Students could be seen lying on beds panicking over getting out as if there was a war outside. Cold, whitish breath oozed from mouths each time they danced. Bath? The last thing to ever think of. It’s a no go area, at least for many, obviously. Definitely, they hated water, for now. No thanks to the cold.

Lips were dry and wry showing indented strokes like contour lines on a topo map. Except for most ladies who had the cure – lipstick, or lip gloss, or lip balm.

Certainly, skins weren’t left out. Older they’ve turned due to the sham wrinkles on them like plagues. Black, fair complexioned skins have turned white. Wrinkled skins shiver under the smooth soothing cold air that rented the air for about a fortnight like it had come to stay. Has it? Of course not. Skins’ hairs lie flat on their bed like a day-old-baby in a cot. They tend to retain the heat in the body from escaping, like Jane’s biology teacher once said in one of the ever-swashbuckling biology classes back then in High School, she remembered. How fast time flies, she thought, weary of the cold. She’s getting late now, no doubt. Very unlike her, though. She has to hurry.

There is no hiding place, the cold has come to stay. And not much of a choice for anyone. Reality has to be faced – it’s the vogue thing. Protect yourself from its effects or play with the flu.

Perhaps, enough of a justifiable reason for late arrival to class. In fact, those in class couldn’t handle the pen well enough. What a cold, dry day.



He is as predictable as sunrise. Mr Richard was the most punctual of all. He arrives in class five minutes before its commencement. Today wasn’t an exception. He had defied the cold. Cool like always. He is one of the most trendy staff on campus – if not the most trendy.

He was clad in his bowler hat – which has become his hallmark in recent times. Strapped around his neck like a necklace was a to-match muffler with a blend of white and black Zebra stripes. His claret slim fitted silk shirt gave him an impeccable elegance. His yard-long legs were wrapped in crispy black chinos on which two gaiters, straight as rain, ran from start to finish. It stood confidently at attention on his dark shiny shoes. And the pair showed mutual connection with the trousers in beauty and grace. His thin teddy ran down his spotless cheeks, forming a cleanly-shaved moustache and few-inch long beard. All brimming with gel-black – belying his mid-forties age. Very young and vibrant he looked. And, tempting too, perhaps. Surely he’s handsome. And dandy – in one word. Exceptionally. Little wonder lasses have an unquenchable crush for not just his intelligence but his ever-alluring beauty.

“Latitude lines are imaginary lines on the globe. And they have their reference point as the Equator. The Equator –” He began. His voice echoed through the class sending warm waves of excellence everywhere. He stopped to catch a glimpse of a stealth movement to his left. It was Jane who was twenty minutes late.

“Stop there young lady!” he yelled taking time to scrutinize her jabulani-sized butt that danced kukere under her neck-to-thigh cotton-candy-pink gown and, her smooth as new cream straight legs. He dropped the book in his hand, and continued..

“Why are you just coming?” He stretched his hands demanding a response. Genuine one.

Jane, now facing him, stared blankly at the entrance, dumbfounded.

“The cold Sir” was all she could mumble absentmindedly.

The front view was next for scrutiny. And he did scrutinize her like an Ebola patient. His gaze was unblinking, affixed on her two fully grown breasts.

“Cold?” He pulled off his hat and dropped it beside a table, then he stepped forward as if trying to move towards her.

Still, no response came. He continued to gaze at her. This time with more covet and salivation.

“See me after the class,” he roared like a male lion defending its territory.

There was a murmur among the students. But it subsided when immediately he said “Quiet. Else…”

Jane was the next prey, they thought. And she knew too, perhaps.



“Good day Sir,” Jane said with an obeisance as she stepped into the richly furnished office. How beautiful, she mused. But that doesn’t matter now – not now, she thought aloud.

As soon as she closed the door behind her, she lowered her gaze trying to dodge his seductive look. Seductive look? Maybe she was wrong? But could she? She kept predicting a thousand and one reasons for this summon.

“I thought you would disobey, Miss?” He said with his barefooted leg crossed atop his book-studded table which stood innocently on his terrazzo floor.

“Jane Sir,” she muted shyly

“Jaaaane. Beautiful name for a beautiful damsel like you. Perfect blend.”

“T-t-t-t-thank you Sir,” she stammered not sure if it was a complement or a fact.

“Come on, have your sit.” He outstretched his hand offering her a seat. “Feel at home.”

“You called me Sir.” She tried to be as careful as she could – picking her words with much gentility.

“Yes my dear,” he paused to read her countenance, but couldn’t deduce anything, so continued “It’s for your good.” He stabbed the table with his index finger to affirm his statement.

He stood, moved closer and sat, a few inches separating them. He began to sing her praises caressing her in the process.

“Stop it Sir,” she said trying to dodge his advances furiously, but politely.

“Yell for as long as you want…It’s for your good”

“Please Sir, save me this –”

“It’s not negotiable. Saturday, 6pm at Ecstasy Hotels. Failure to show up? You need not be told.”

“B-b-b-b-but…P-p-p-please Sir,” she stutered as a pool of tears filled her eyes.

“No questions. Your choice.” He stood, turned his back, then went back to look at her more, before he picked a book to read.

She thought right. Or perhaps she was close. Very close. This particular outcome of the summon was top of her list of thoughts. What would she do? Ignore and face the consequences? Or report? To who? Helpless. And clueless. What is he going to do with her? Sex? Oh, God. At twenty she was still a virgin. A rare thing in her world. These thoughts kept circling in her head.

She left the office sweating profusely, despite the cold – looking so forlorn. Poor Jane!



To her, Saturday came rather too fast like a flip of a book’s page. It had been three days of weeping. And helplessness. Her succulent cheekbone turned so pale with whitish lines on them like tribal marks. Her granite-gray eyes had turn sunken red. She was dejected not just because her virginity was at stake but…She can’t just say it. Stigma.

His ‘No questions. Your choice’ statement drum like jazz in her ears. Choice? Oh no!

She dressed the least attractive she could. Most of all, she wore a black loose gown and baggy grey trousers. No make-up. No jewellery. Still, her beauty can’t be concealed. It has no hiding place. It was very obvious. Or perhaps, it was Mr Richard’s lustful assessment of her.

“Good girl. Your beauty is second to none,” he said as he flung the door open after her second knock on his hotel room, wearing a big smile.

He was dressed in his sparkling white singlet and mid-thigh-long shorts. Now, she has an idea of what she is in for.

He dragged her to the bed and sat her down gently to its side.

“Don’t do this Sir,” she said rudely, but, carefully. She shoved his hands aside, jumping to her feet.

“Come off it Jane.” He yanked her hand pressing it firmly. “You’re not too small for this. And you know it. Lets get down to business,” he said softly returning her to her former position.

She looked at him with contempt and scorn. But, he couldn’t care less. Afterwards, he could care.

He moved his finger around her face ignoring its dryness. She was so furious. And mad. She pushed him away, stood up and said pleadingly, “I am a Virgin Sir.”

“Great! That makes it safer. And a pride to your name,” he explained, pulling off his singlet, sending it flying in the air.

Jane knew it now, she couldn’t help it. It was going to happen – the unthinkable, the unpreventable. Not that she wanted it that way, but helplessness, haplessness was it – the best way to describe her condition. Especially now that the serpent head was dangling before her worried eyes ready to vomit its poisonous venom – running her ragged.

He pushed her violently. And she went falling like a pack of cards on the soft bed.

“Noooooo,” she screamed, trying to defend herself.

“Shhh.” Showing the universal sign of silence.

“Don’t do this. I beg of you,” she groaned yanking his skin forcefully. He gave no damn. “It’s a risk,” wriggling beneath him, she shreiked.

But then, down he went, digging, piercing through her like a hot knife through butter. Realising his white miracle fast, deep. Breaking through her hymen. Gagging her with the his voracious maleness. Relishing every second of the circus. Moaning and groaning rented the room. He chose to moan, and she was left to groan. Poetic sounds more like – onomatopoeia. Defiled. Disvirgined. And devoured. And she hated him for this.

“Wow Jane, what a moment. You mean you’ve kept this this long…” He paused, sat up, and continued “…for me,” he completed cuddling her.

“I warned you not to but…” She grimaced amidst sobs pulling her clothes to cover her bare lower temple.

“Don’t worry, you would as from now on dine with the kings”

Infuriated by his words, she felt a surge of boldness and and preparedness in her heart letting it out. A hot ball of rage raced from her staunch stomach to her dry throat. “Perhaps in your grave.” She stood pointing at the floor, not minding her insolence. “Maybe at the announcement of your demise”

“Stop it, remember I am your –”

“Lecturer, right?” She asked wearing a scornful look “But you forgot to add a title before your God-forsaken profession. Because, get it straight, your days are numbered,” she barked.

Surprised and annoyed at the same time, he frowned giving his face a million wrinkles like a predator that missed out on its prey. “I won’t take that again from you, Jane.”

“Like I care. Mr Richard.” Wearing a mocking look, she continued “You are HIV positive. Death is around the corner, Mr Lecturer.”

“You are joking,” he grinned. “You told me you are a virgin and I confirmed it,” confidently he said but doubtful on the inside.

“Very brilliant and calculative.” She clapped silently “But for the records,” she paused trying to read him. He is nervous, she thought “I was born with it.”







Akinpelu Yusuf

Akinpelu Yusuf is a prolific writer and speaker. He nurtures the ambition of becoming a forever to remember journalist of his epoch. He is a devoted Muslim by faith. He is student of statistics in the university of Ibadan and likes thing creative.


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