“You can’t graduate from this faculty without submitting to me.”
“Sir please,” my voice quivered in mournful supplication, “please don’t make me do this; please help me.”
“Then be ready to spend eternity in this school.”
“But why are you picking on me Sir?”
“Stop asking me stupid questions,” he barked like an irascible deity, “What other reason is there for a man to go after a lady if not because he finds her attractive? What other reason? Answer me.”
“But Sir I’m young enough to be your daughter.”
“Well, you are not my daughter,” He said with a forceful finality.
“This is sexual harassment on campus,” I cried dejectedly like a child deprived of succor, but Prof paid me no heed.
That was how it went on and on and on and on, the struggle of wits between Professor Muhammad and I. Professor Muhammad was an old randy dandy lecturer and Dean of Faculty of Social Sciences. It was an open secret in school that any girl he picked on must become his sex toy or quit the school. If you stay on without submitting to him, you will end up having spill overs after spill overs in an unending circle of extra years.
I didn’t know what to do and after exhausting all options available to me, I gave in to his demand and we became lovers. Professor Muhammad though old enough to be my dad turned out not to be a bad lover in bed. He introduced me to sexual pleasures that were hitherto alien to me.
After graduation I left school with a 2.1 Cumulative Grade Point aggregate. Now, before you judge me too harshly, I didn’t get that score due to my coitus liaisons with Professor Muhammad. I was a brilliant student and actually merited the second class upper degree in economics. Approximately one year later after graduation, I went for my Youth Service. Before that, when I had gone to collect my N.Y.S.C Call-up letter after 8 months at home, I had asked about our Dean Professor Muhammad but was told he had left the school 5 months after my graduation to pursue other endeavors. I collected my call-up, left and never gave a second thought about Prof again.
In N.Y.S.C camp I met Hassan. Hassan was a dream catch for any serious-minded girl. A moderate and decent Muslim, Hassan graduated Sum-ma Cum Magma from the University of Hertfordshire Business School and returned home for his mandatory one year service to the Motherland.
Our relationship grew stronger as time went by and it became obvious that Hassan and I were destined for a lifetime together.
Four years after our N.Y.S.C days, Hassan proposed to me and told me he wanted to take me home to meet his parents for the first time. I couldn’t say yes or no to Hassan’s proposal, asking him to give me more time to think about it. Hassan was devastated. He had assumed that I will say ‘yes’ to his proposal since we have been dating strongly for four years now and practically lived together. Though I have my place and he has his, we end up spending time together either in my apartment or his.
The truth is, I would love to get married to Hassan but there is an insurmountable obstacle before me. Two years after we started dating, I and Hassan had a discussion that has made me live in dread of the day he would propose. After that discussion I had done everything possible to make him lose confidence in me but Hassan managed to forgive me of all my ills; showering me with so much love, understanding and kindness that I couldn’t help but reciprocate.
I still remember the conversation two years ago with Hassan that became a perpetual torment for me.
“You went to University of Jos right?”
“Of course you know I did?” I replied, looking up at him with a mischievous smile on my lips as I raised my head from his leg where I laid.
“You know what?”
“What?” I replied.
“I just realized that I never told you my dad was once a lecturer in your school,” Hassan said.
“Are you serious? I asked, “I thought your dad is a politician? That was what you told me,” I said giving him an accusing glare.
He laughed like an amused baby. “Don’t be ridiculous dear; of course I didn’t lie to you about that. My dad is a politician and that is how he got his position as the Executive Secretary of a federal government Agency but before that he was a lecturer in your former school.”
“Well, I did not know of any lecturer called Mallam Hussein while in school,” I replied.
“Hussein is my father’s first name and ever since he joined politics he has discarded his academic appellation. He said being from the academia is a disadvantage in the slippery pond of Nigerian politics if not for that decision, my dad should be referred to as Professor Hussein Muhammad, and he was the Dean of…”
“WHAT!!!!!!!!!” I screamed, jumping out of his laps and cutting him short, “Professor Muhammad is your dad?”
“Why are you screaming like some demented market woman?” He asked, smiling mischievously at me, “Do you know him?”
“Em…. Yes I know him; he was the Dean of my Faculty. Everyone in the faculty knew him,” I hurriedly replied.
Now Hassan is getting impatient, demanding for an answer to his proposal. He has given me a two weeks ultimatum to decide if I wanted him for a husband or not. He can’t understand why after a four years relationship I don’t seem to know if I want to be his wife or not.
Oh God what do I do? My two weeks deadline is fast running out. I love Hassan and don’t want to lose him but how can I say yes to him knowing I have slept with his dad repeatedly. If I say ‘yes’ and he introduces me to his parents, what will be his dad’s reaction? Hassan is their only son.
–END–
