The Story of Obidike!

by Daniel Nkado

He always stared at me whenever I passed him. And it was often that I did.

On many occasions I had caught his eyes. He would look away quickly, his features wilting in embarrassment.

It surprised me why he never approached me. Why he only stared and even showed embarrassment when I caught his eyes.

And yet he was Obidike, the tiger.

He was not afraid of anything, the stories tell. They tell of his immense capabilities and his numerous endeavours too.

How he had battled edi, the rough-toothed wild dog, with bare hands and killed it, while his mates took to their heels. Or how he singlehandedly felled an oji tree using only an axe.

You need not to look at him twice to know the stories were true. His arms were big, one blow from any of them would be enough to kill. Little wonder there were no stories of him fighting anyone. Who dares come near him in a fight?

His thighs were split with muscle, never for once allowing any space in the shorts he wore. Most times he was topless, his chest two massive mounds of muscle sleeping side by side each other. He can wiggle them and make them dance, Nenye had told me once, and my mouth watered.

The six lumps that show on his belly were magnetic to behold.

Obidike was a village wonder.

Many times I have wondered if he knew I intentionally slowed my pace when walking past him, pushing out my hips and twisting as if in a dance.

Or how I often pick a bucket to go to the stream even though all our containers were filled, or pick the machete to go to the bush pretending to fetch fodder for the goats, just because I wanted to see him. Or him to see me.

I know the time and place to find him. I always guessed right – Mama Eche’s palm wine joint in the early evening hours and the cool shade of the huge ukpaka at Iyi road in the later hours. Most times he was there with his friends; Uzonna, Okwudili and Cletus, engaged in energy-filled men’s gossip.

But that evening that he first talked to me he was alone, sitting on the stump of a cut palm tree.

‘Amaka,’ he called me as I sashayed past.

I turned. ‘I kporo m – Did you call me?’

Eh. Kedu?

Odi mma.

And then the silence dragged, sending both of us swimming in an invisible sea of awkwardness.

Now it threatened to drown us.

He kept scratching at his head while I tapped the machete in my hand on the palm of my other.

Nne, kedu kwanu?’ he said finally, only repeating himself.

But the way he’d called Nne caused a sting of excitement at the tips of my nipples. I shut my eyes briefly.

‘Amaka, I like you o,’ he said again. ‘I really do o.’

I smiled, bending away as my cheeks began to heat up.

‘Tell me, do you like me?’

I said nothing, still smiling and twisting from one side to another like an ogbanje. His presence made me feel so warm.

‘Nne, answer me na, do you?’

Finally, I nodded. My head was fully bent as if I was hiding my smile from him. But I heard the huge sigh he gave out when I nodded.

I realized then that it had been fear – the fear of my saying NO – that’s what has been keeping him from approaching me all along.

He came closer and took my hand. Slowly, he guided me to the back of the ukpaka tree.

The evening sped on. From the bush nearby, night-loving insects have started to drone and cackle.

I leaned into the tree and he stood before me, covering my front with his bulky frame.

He held my face with two hands and turned my eyes up at him.

He smiled at my soft stare. He looked even more tempting in the shadowed smile.

The evening darkened another bit and all I could see now is the black outline of his figure.

It wasn’t thickly dark though, it was the good moon days.

He bent and slipped his lips into mine. They tasted of Tom-Tom. I sucked at them as if they were edible, just in the same manner he did mine.

He was absently unbuttoning my blouse as we kissed. Soon the loose fabric dropped off to the ground.

The touch of the cool evening breeze on my hardened nipples gave me an exciting nippy sensation.

Almost at the same time, he covered one with his mouth. I whined in the wet pleasure.

The sounds continued as I breastfed him. I grabbed his head, holding him in as I quivered. The rough bark of the old ukpaka scraped at my back but I didn’t care. Pain was needed to appreciate pleasure.

He made baby-like slurping sounds as he sucked. For a tiny, fiery second I wondered if I was producing milk.

Then he stopped and I slowly settled back to order.

I waited patiently as he unzipped his shorts. It was dark so I didn’t see it till I touched it.

He’d taken my hand and placed on it. I felt suddenly faint. It was the size of a child’s leg. I had to join the other hand to hold it.

He put his hand on my shoulder and pressed me down. On my knees, I opened my mouth to its widest limit to take it. It yet didn’t enter easily.

Sucking on the meaty organ was labour, but one I strangely enjoyed. The time he held me in, pushing the entire thickness down my throat, I saw stars. He released me and I quickly opened my mouth to take in air. I was panting.

I didn’t suck on him for too long, else he would have stretched my lips beyond their limits, leaving my lower jaw hanging like a zombie.

He guided me up and turned me to face the tree. Under his direction, I held the tree trunk with both hands and pushed out my back to him. I like the sense of control he exercised.

From behind, I felt his cap playing around my partition. In the craving, my inside overflowed with honey liquid.

And then he pushed himself in.

I stifled a scream.

His first few thrusts were slow and calculated, filled with experience. Finally the acceptance was complete and began shoving in and out of me in quick hungry bouts.

I felt a mix of pleasure and pain, the pleasure dominating. He held my waist firm and still, slamming at it with energy.

I wondered if anyone passing would hear the strange tap-tap sounds coming from behind the ukpaka.

The person will bolt away and in the morning the story of how someone had encountered the gods of the tree in the night communicating in strange language would have spread wide.

It wasn’t long that he started making deep throaty sounds and I knew the time has come. I spread my legs wide to accommodate his deposition.

He shot straight deep inside me. I felt it in my belly, the satisfying feel of his creamy dump.

He pulled out and thanked me.

I pressed myself into him and he covered me with his arms.

We stayed like that for several minutes, my fingers stroking his dripping organ. It was not as strong as before, but it yet hadn’t gone down completely. I wondered if he wanted to have me again.

I would call that night my best ever.

But that title quickly reversed three months after when I became pregnant and Papa sent me out of the house.

Obidike has travelled to Onitsha to learn trade with Ezekiel, Mazi Onuegbu’s son.


Daniel Nkado is a Nigerian writer and the founder of

Get his books on DNB Store, OkadaBooks or BamBooks!
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7 Comments on “The Story of Obidike!”

  1. Thanks, Sekinat. Yes, the story was a little shorter than our previous stories. Which do you prefer, long or short?

  2. Obi dick is what she wants..mumu gal na village champion she like no condom for nice story wish it were longee

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