A Christmas Sexual Journey to Lagos

Lagos is a thrusting, virile, wild and erotic city. And Londoners and Brooklyners are turning Lagos into a geopolitical compression of orgasm. I have watched with keen, intelligent and clinical consistency the many sexual sorties, especially during Xmas period, of vacationing Casanovas from abroad. Christmas is a time when many Nigerians abroad go on a carnal carnival to Lagos to recharge exhausted libido. Lagos is becoming a city to relight the fire and not a place for the sexually static. Who best typifies this lustful pilgrimage than Mr Ade Gbosa? Yearly he joins the hunting pack to the bemoaning chagrin of his beautiful wife, the ever amiable Busolami. What worries Busolami is not very clear. After all, Gbosa is a hulking giant of a man at 6ft 5ins. Instinctively, I decided to do an ‘amebo plus gbeborun’ on Busolami. So, one lazy weekend afternoon I drove all the way to Woolwich to commiserate with Busolami over Gbosa’s unofficial long stay in Lagos.

Busolami’s anxiety and worry over Gbosa’s self-imposed exile is becoming a standard narrative for many home alone girlfriends, fiancées and wives who fear that their spouses who overstay their welcome in Lagos, carnal Lagos, are falling into the lustful laps of cheap Lagos girls who are out to ravish Londoners and Brooklyners who just hit the town with dollars and pounds.

I must say that for most Londoners and Yankee dudes, especially when vacationing in Lagos, self-control over lust is the hardest demon to overcome. For God sake, how can they conquer clitoral temptation when even saints had difficulty with this modern demon? Aids or not, ladies and gentlemen, illicit sex is on the rampage. A short retelling of the story of Gbosa might thrill you a bit. He is a hard core Nijaphile who loves ‘going home’ a lot. Gbosa is a lecherous playboy. His moonlighting job as a barman in Soho has brought him in contact with strip teasers, cock teasers and all sort of sexually bedevilled females. Scrawny white women are his turn offs. He prefers dark meat—the voluptuous black girls.

Home, to him, is Nigeria of beer, clubs, ladies, suya beef steak and wheeling and dealing. For years, he participated in many high jinks in bustling Lagos. He knows every corner of the city. Scarlet hovels. Underground cocaine joints in Allen Avenue. Homosexual hideouts. He knows every desperate men and madams who profit by their lucrative pimp business. He knows the hardened, inveterate gamblers who derive strange ecstasy by losing money. Hard earned cash! He had crisscrossed from the smelly illegal betting den in Idi Oro to the smoky, upmarket arena of Eko Hotel casino. Gbosa has seen it, done it and even had a T-shirt to prove his veteran credential.

He went home one faithful year and got ‘jazzed up’ totally by a beautiful, petite, level 2 History student of Uniport. Lust, the prowling lion that roams around looking for Londoners and Yankee dudes to devour arrested Gbosa. Till date, he is still in its dark dungeon somewhere in Surulere. He went. He saw. He could not return.

There is a disturbing trend where, ‘ndi obodo oyibo’, on arrival on Nigerian soil, begin to demolish the local girls with such ferocious sexual aggression that leaves neighbours in paroxysms of puzzlement. In a frank, manly directness, I find it vulgar and enragingly exploitative to use our diasporic credential as passport to shag a mesmerised Ngozi into a pulp. With the luxurious air of local millionaires, Londoners and Brooklyners pack cafes, beer parlours and night clubs at weekends to hunt down naira-starved Nneka, Ekaete, Kemi and Eki as ready, sexual quarry, for their aroused libido. My more intelligent readers will understand why I direct my anger against hedonised, sexual tourists from the Bronx, Brooklyn and London. Yep, I am a sensuous and sybaritic bloke but finds going to hound out sex from Abuja, Benin City, Enugu, Ibadan, Owerri and Port Harcourt, a shatteringly tasteless and worthless lifestyle. Why Okenwa from New York would consider it a travel necessity to shag a pimple-faced old sow, called Chinyere? Any nobility in travelling to Nigeria to ravish Chioma and Bola with legs splayed in the air and arms grabbing the mattress? Let us face it, it is about time we all outgrown the yearly Christmas sexual gymnastics under tropical setting. Many homes have been destroyed for a few thrilling, mad, ecstatic minutes.

Why is lusting after a female flesh so powerful? Why is it entwining holidaying Londoners and Yankee dudes in its cruel, vice-like grip? Please, how many of you would be faithful to madam-suffering because of my children- if you were to be in Lagos and the poor wretch is in London or New York? Certainly, not many Londoners and Brooklyners will lie fallow in a burning tropical milieu of Lagos without action. Someone just whispered to me that it is becoming rare to find a faithful man in this degenerate time. Shall we then say that marriage, that great repository of ancient convention, is now facing ethical muddle from lecherous men.

What then do we call this atrocious explosion of sexual pluralism? The enthronement of lust? Like its Miami partner, can we call it Lagos Vice? Did I hear you say that with lust you are prepared to burn in an everlasting lake of hell fire?

Honestly, we are all subconsciously affirming the grubby truth of adultery that it is here to stay. Really, my own first face-to-face contact with lust had its mixed experiences. It was during my coming to London that lust first assaulted me with its full force. It was a popular subject among my friends and we used to spend long hours debating the punishment for our crime. I still have vivid memory of Chukwuma Okafor, popularly called Nwamba, for his sturdy Balzacian legs. He once denounced his pastors while proclaiming the virtues of the flesh. Nwamba believes that paradise is found in huge dangling breasts. And that without breasts, there is no paradise! Chew on that.

Now on my early life back home in Ibadan. I was chaste, pure and socially challenged in matters of women. Until, that is, one fateful night when lust struck me with the force of a tsunami and dragged me along the craggy road to damnation. After my disembarkation at Heathrow Airport, I had a rebirth. It was a salutary experience, a lesson in what old London, Sohonised London, their Charles Dickens’s London could do to an undefiled, clean skin from Africa.

All the morality tales told at home was nowhere to be seen in London-the city of Raymond revue bars! The demon of lust faced me daily. At the bars, pubs, malls, high streets, parks, train stations, bus stations, grocery stores, petrol stations, beaches and the airports. Along the cobbled streets, classrooms and even in unlikely places like the cemeteries, yes, British men kiss and fondle their women in graveyards! They can leak the flesh off the bone of a woman!

That experience, I must confess, engendered a complex emotion of both revulsion and awe. What I saw exceeded the outrageous. It was a real and disgusting public celebration of soft porn! Don’t get me wrong, I am not an angel. I respect the erotic capabilities of the human body. The contemplation of the erotic on a warm bed is a joyous exercise in life’s comic strip. But western sexual depravity gives baseness a burnished image. I was submerged in a society where sexual promiscuity has gone topsy-turvy.

The experience convinced me that lust is the prevailing cliché of our post-Obama world. And that probably in a measured dose, at least, may be beneficial to the soul. Though London and New York may be two huge, wickedly permissive cities, Lagos is another. Lagos and now Abuja are cities where everyman who considers himself loaded enough is demanding his own pound of lust. Are we revenging on our women? It is not a shock to me that the moment I left Nigeria, sex exploded on to the Nigerian scene, sweeping away our old taboos and native blushes. The moment I started watching our artistes in raunchy video clips and our female dancers dangling huge ‘Oshodi oke and isale’ to the provocative lyrics of P-Square, Dare Art-Alade and 2Face Idibia, the world to me had come to a standstill.

Lagos is embracing the permissiveness of the decadent West and we are all loving it. Young and well endowed girls are arousing our passion, with sultry and sexy jeans attire picked from the ‘bosicorner’ belt of General bus stop, along Iyana Ojokoro. Or maybe from the stalls of ‘okrika’ whizz kids of Tejuosho market! Lust to me, is the web at the centre of which sits a calculating woman ready to lure the foolish male into worldly union of the flesh. Who would not succumb to all its overpowering glitter and 10 minutes reward? Who would not want to experience the momentary explosions of pleasure and the ease of repressed tension? Even the plethora of beauty gear of the seduction age is disabling most men’s reasoning and critical self-control.

For instance, Abuja, Lagos and Port-Harcourt besides being places of disgusting corruption and excessive wealth are also places of sexual debauchery for holidaying Nigerians from abroad. These cities are streaming with women in provocative designer outfits, kissable lips, tempting cleavage, angelic hairstyles, whitened teeth, magical eyelashes, soft delicate bodies, long hot legs, irresistible ballooned boobs, football-sized tight bums and smooth, manicured fingers. Sorry, pardon my forcing you to peep into the topography of clitoral architecture. How can we run and roam free from lust either in Lagos, Abuja, London or New York? How can we salvage the shattered lives of lustful Londoners and Yankee dudes who are lost in Lagos on annual Xmas vacation? Has anyone seen Gbosa lately? Busolami is home alone and needs her husband back home to taste her Christmas ‘pudding’. Merry Xmas and happy New Year.