I always thought my wife would die before me. Alas, how delusional I was! I don’t hate my wife but for some reason, I’ve always had this inkling, maybe even prayed for it, that she would be the first to say goodbye to this world. And with her demise, I could finally unleash the erotic beast inside me. Not that I haven’t been exploring the world between slim, thick, dark or fair thighs even while married though. But the relief and joy that comes with being carefree about it is all I crave. Yet my wife has refused to die. She is forty-five. And it looks like I’m going to die first, at fifty.

There are three men draped from head to toe in black here. One has a gun in his gloved hand, pointed at me. One is behind my car, with a thick rod in hand that catches the gleam of the moon whenever he taps it on his left open palm. I’m stealing glances at him through my rear view mirror. The other is directly in front, with a bat casually slug across his shoulders in the typical Fulani fashion.

I’m a professor of physics at Donna University. I have hurt a lot of people, mainly my students, in my quest for sexual satisfaction: wives, mothers, sisters, fiancées, friends; consciously and unconsciously. I don’t know who sent these armed men to kill me but I know for sure that they’ve not mistaken me for their man. They ambushed me on my way home from school.

I leave campus late on the days when I have a sexcapade (I overheard my student use the word and picked it up ever since) with a student whom I can’t take to a hotel. Today’s student was a beauty; Halima: caramel latte skin, mesmerizing brown eyes, full lips, perky breasts and a heavyweight but delightfully soft yansh. The first day she walked into my class, I knew I had to have her. It was only a matter of time. Then I found out she was married, but that didn’t deter me. If she wanted to pass my course, she knew what she needed to do.

Against my will, memories of the softness of her bum, her slippery sumptuous grove and sounds of pleasure that emitted from her mouth after staying mute for the first few minutes until I touched her in the right spots, envelops me like the thick duvet my wife covers herself with on nights when she does not want me to touch her. We ended up going two rounds. I bet her husband had never fucked her like I did. I feel my lips curving into a sly smile and my member engorging at that thought. But ultimately my heart aches at the realization that my most precious body part may never see the light at the end of the tunnel again.

A twang on the roof of my car plummets me from my office of sin back to the lonely road, the starry night and my unwanted guests. Amidst the echoes of the killer’s gun which he had hit on the car to draw my attention, I hear liquid trickling down to the carpet beneath my feet. Then I feel a warm sensation growing from my right lap to the rest of my leg. I want to take a look at it but my eyes are glued to the nuzzle of the gun that the killer has pointed back at me. I want to feel this warmth but my hands are raised, beside my head. The acidic smell of urine makes its way into my and the killer’s nostrils simultaneously and I almost retch at the shameful public display of my fear.

The killer stays put but announces to his friends that I had wet myself like a baby. “Him dick dey even rise,” he adds jeeringly in a voice that sounds artificially deep. The others burst into fits of laughter that come out muffled because of the coverings on their heads.

“What do you want from me?” My voice comes out as a whisper. I’m shaking all over but emboldened by their mockery of my situation. “Who sent you?” If I’m going to draw my last breath, I need to know who holds the power of my life in their hands.

The killer with the gun does not answer my questions although I’m sure he must have heard me. Instead, he dips his free hand into his pocket and pulls out a cellphone.