I have been married for four years, and already with three children. Let me confess from the outset that I have cheated on my husband many times, and that two of the chiildren are not his. My husband pretends he doesn’t know. And I pretend the children are his. I am one of those people derisively call “home-girls”, the girls our men come back home to marry and bring back to America as their trophy wives. I know I am beautiful, so many men have told me that. My husband is also handsome, I guess that is why I even decided to marry him, plus he had this aura of being very rich. You ask me, what do you mean he was rich? Well, for one thing, he was driving around in a Mercedes-Benz, and he took me to the nicest hotels, where we would engage in all kinds of passionate love-making - I guess that’s how he got hooked with what was between my legs.

Look, I don’t know why people are always criticizing the so-called “home-girls.” It is not our fault that the men flock back home to marry us “virgins.” Ha! ha! ha! - virgin my foot. When they come back home, what do you expect us to do? Leave them alone with all that hard currency that they flaunt around. The whole idea is to grab as much as you can before the money runs out, and the ‘yeye’ man finds himself being asked why he was still in the country. Nobody wants to see broke blokes. They are pathetic to look at, because you see them all of a sudden spending a lot of time at business centers, I guess to ask their friends or white/Black American concubines to send them more money, after concocting one story or another of being armed-robbed. I am not saying that people don’t get armed-robbed. But I have also heard some stories.
 
Okay, when my future husband met me, I had a sugar daddy. He treated me very good and provided me with what ever I needed, he was married of course. Me, I wasn’t the jealous type because I didn’t want to be a second wife, or get all kinds of headaches trying to make some kinds of juju so that the man would leave his wife and marry me. He wasn’t my idea of a husband, to begin with. He was the daring kind of man, what am I saying, he was daring enough to find me and huff and puff all over me once in a while. He was satisfied, at least by the amount he gave me, and all the presents, I didn’t care how he got the money. He was some kind of big man in one kind of ministry. As for me, I knew what to do to satisfy myself, I read all those magazines and books about how to satisfy yourself, when your man couldn’t. Putting my fingers in there had become a way of life. Why, because I was waiting for my right to arrive.
Needless to burden you how and where I met my husband. But suffice it to say that within three weeks after me he had proposed marriage. Listen, I am not a registered nurse, I am not a lawyer nor had I finished at medical school, abi aren’t those professions that they said the men from oyiboland wanted of a wife. Well, I wasn’t one of those, but I had graduated from the university. But I knew what I possessed, the lecturers knew what I possessed, and my husband certainly knew what I possessed, my ‘thin body, firm breasts that still looked like mangoes, and a vagina tight enough to send him into the la-la land of blissfulness. I am not boasting, he told me all that, and would you want me to be a fool not to have accepted his offer for my hands in marriage. My parents were happy, and all my relatives - sisters, brothers, nephews, niences, aunts, uncles to the hundredth level because I was getting married to a ‘Yankee Dollar Man’, and we wouldn’t all be living in poverty when you get to “God’s own country, land of milk and honey.”

We got married under ‘native law and custom.’ I hardly cared, ‘get me out of this sink-hile called Nigeria.” “Bia, nwada, why you de behave like that?”, my friend started demanding of me. “Behaving like what,” I would shot back. “You remember the toitise that was sentenced to 7 days and thrown into the latrine, where he lived with all the maggots. On the sixth day, he started shouting that the place was too smelly for him.” “So,” asked. “You are 23, and you have lived all your life here, in the so-called sink-hole. Now, you can’t stand we riff-raffs anymore.”

Well, whatever he did, that my husband knew how to move fast. Within three months, he was back in Nigeria, with my passport duly stamped for me to be cruising out of Naija to Houston. “We would stop over in New York for a few days, show you around Empire State Building, mind you the lights are dimmed now, since those Arab terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center, I could take you down there, and the Statute of Liberty.” Okay, I replied, but no World Trade Center. At the Hilton Hotel on the Avenue of the Americas, mark it, that was my first abode in America, the Hilton Hotel on 54th Street and Avenue of the Americas, he pampered me and I pampered him back. He ordered room service most of the three days we were there. He didn’t want to go out and I didn’t want him to go out. For the three days, what was between my legs had become a receptacle, and I enjoyed, my husband rode me hard, and I screamed with joy at my fortune - money and ‘nkita’ sex. Well, that’s how it seemed to me, his penis seemed to have been perpetually lodged inside my vagina. The maids were allowed to come and make the bed only once.
In his well appointed apartment in one of the ritzy sections of Houston, the drama continued. Go to work, come back and I was ready. He brought home the food. By the end of the first month, I was pregnant. My husband was joyous, and I was too. He pampered me even more, but by the end of the 5th month, the pampering continued, but not in the direction I wanted it - I wanted my husband to screw the bejeesus out of me even at five months pregnant. It didn’t matter to me, if the baby wanted to stay and come out at the right time, and it was destined, I was sure it would. My husband started coming home tired, mind you I didn’t suspect him of deposting his juice somewhere elese. The continuous four-hour sex had gone, substituted with 10 minutes of abrupt ejaculation and then flaccid thing, unable to rise again. After I had the baby, it even became worse.

Well, I don’t know how it happened. But one day, my husband’s friend who is our son’s godfather came to visit. He is just as handsome as my hubby, and well built. He and my husband seem to do things together, even buy the same kinds of clothes. But this day, he seemed to look at me in some kind of way, and I felt his eyes boring at my front. Suddenly he got up to go to the rest room, and after awhile I made an excuse to go and get something from the kitchen. That’s when I found the bathroom door open and I walked right in, and his man-hood was hardened. He bent me over, pushed down the undie I was wearing and jammed it inside me. I almost screamed. It didn’t last more than two minutes, but it was ecstasy.
I have two beautiful children for him now. Some times when he comes to visit, my husband and I jokingly chide him about not getting married. Well, throughout the two pregnancies, he never let up, nothing flaccid, it continues to stand like steel and he drives me craxy. If you are trying to judge me, forget it. You have your life and I have mine. My husband is happy and our boyfriend is happy. If my husband ever asks me whether I was cheating on him, will I tell - ‘nowhere, Jose!!’ Naija men are hacking their wives to death left and right in this God’s own country. So who wan die?