Afrika's Journey Read online

  Afrika’s Journey

  A. Rozelle

  ©2010 A. Rozelle

  She wondered if the water was too hot. She had a habit of not making it hot enough. But today, of all days, the temperature had to be just right. She grabbed the nozzle and directed the stream into the thick forest of locs that hung down into the shampoo bowl.

  “That’s not too hot?” She asked loudly enough for him to hear over the spray of water.

  “Not at all, sweetheart,” he answered. She felt a familiar flutter in her stomach. He always called her sweetheart. It always made her shiver.

  Get it together girl.

  She didn’t realize she had said the words out loud until he asked: “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head, mentally cursing at herself for acting like some kind of bubble-headed teenaged girl. As the steam began to rise from the basin, Afrika poured the peppermint-scented shampoo into her palm and began to work her magic, paying careful attention to each individual loc. Lathering, massaging, kneading the ebony ropes into submission. Rinsing and repeating, she was sure she’d heard at least one moan rise from the chair below her. She applied the conditioning solution; her own personal mixture of Rosemary and Lavender oils with just a hint of citrus and leaned against the bowl.

  “That has to sit 5 minutes or so,” she told him.

  “Uh-huh,” he almost purred in response. He looked so serene, head back, totally relaxed. She studied his face. His mustache and goatee were neat, but not overly-edged. His look was a little rough, just the way she liked it. He had the most flawless chocolate skin she had ever seen. His naturally arched brows were the perfect frames for his amazingly clear, brown eyes, and he had the most remarkable smile with shimmering white, perfectly straight teeth.

  And his lips…they were created for the specific purpose of kissing every inch of a woman’s body. Afrika had lost count of the number of times she had been tempted to lean down and gently place hers on top of them…gently lick them maybe nibble on them a little. She had long ago decided that he was the modern-day re-incarnation of King Solomon. Something about him said royalty and wisdom.

  She’d looked down at him many times, as she cleansed and conditioned his locs. Afrika remembered the first time she’d seen them, three years earlier. They were much shorter then, but Afrika had what her grandmamma called “growing hands”, and now they hung down to the center of his back.

  The night she met him, she was hanging with her girls, some of the stylists from her salon, throwing back Long Island Iced Teas and bitching about no-good, triflin ass men, when she turned around and saw someone gazing at her from the far side of the room. She stopped mid-sentence, to stare at the Hershey-bar-colored man looking in her direction. She panicked when she realized he was getting up from his seat and heading her way.

  “Excuse me ladies.” His voice sent a bolt of electricity surging through her. She felt warm, but it was not the drinks causing her temperature to rise. “Can I have this chair?”

  Afrika could only nod her consent, as she watched him drag the chair over to where he and his boys were sitting, making far too much noise as the Pacers kicked the Pistons asses all over the gigantic TV screen. 6’2’, about 195, she guessed as she watched the way he moved across the room. Broad shoulders, nice ass. She was truly impressed. She was also determined to get to know him, which was unusual for Afrika. She preferred being the chasee to being the chaser. She slid out of her seat and followed him to his table.

  “Your locs are gorgeous,” she said, handing him a card and using her best Tyra Banks “Cover Girl” smile.

  “Thank you sweetheart.” He looked her over, starting with her shoes, which, thank God, were shiny new, high-as-hell stilettos purchased specifically for “Waiting to Exhale Night” with her stylists.

  At 5’5”, 145 pounds, Afrika was thick in all the right places. She kept her makeup light and natural, and always wore her hair in afro-centric styles. She was rocking the Senegalese twists at the time. Her jeans fit just right, and she had the confident manner of speaking and a walk that fly sistas have when they know they got back-up; that aura that communicates very clearly that they will cuss your ass out if necessary. But all the Nubian goddess fiercity went right out the door when he said her name.

  “I’ve been looking for somebody to tighten me up.” He smiled at her and her knees gave a little. So much for the Diva ‘tude.

  “Cool”, she said, trying to sound breezy and nonchalant. “Come check me out sometime.”

  “I’ll do that Miss…Afrika?” He looked at her card. “Beautiful name. I’m Malik.”

  “Thank you. Pleased to meet you Malik,” Afrika said, extending her hand. “Hope to see you soon.”

  “Why, am I lookin that tore up?” he asked, teasing her. The humor was lost on Afrika, who was willing herself not to stare at him like an idiot.

  “No- not at all. I-“, Afrika wanted the floor to split wide open and swallow her up. She noticed his friends were grinning at them like fools.

  “I’m just playin pretty lady.” He laughed. “Naturally Creative Styles huh?” He read the name of her salon. “I’ll give you a call.”

  He called the following week, and Afrika had been his personal loctician since then. He wouldn’t let anybody else touch his hair.

  ****

  Afrika pulled herself out of her daydream and turned the knob. As she rinsed the oily reside from Malik’s hair, she realized she would have to bend down lower and lean in to make sure she got it all out. His locs had really gotten long. She was close enough to smell his scent. It was mesmerizing. Not so much a cologne or after-shave type of smell- it was more of an earthy, masculine aroma that filled all of her senses and made her close her eyes momentarily to enjoy it.

  She wasn’t entirely upset when her breast grazed his cheek. The truth was, she’d had a thing for him since they’d met. The first time he sat in her chair, she knew she was gone. He was everything she had ever wanted: thoughtful and intelligent, hard working and down-to-earth. He was also creative. When he recited one of his poems to her, she had to go in the bathroom and change her panty liner. The brotha was that good.

  Unfortunately, for the past three years, either she had a boyfriend, or he had a girlfriend. They were never both single at the same time. The thing Afrika liked about her work was the way she got to know her clients. She knew more about Malik than the women he dated. They talked about everything from politics to art, his love of East Coast music, her thing for neo-soul and their strange, but common love of country music.

  It turned out they were both PK’s (preacher’s kids)- raised in strictly Pentecostal homes. He had a little boy. Afrika had a little girl. Neither were able to make the relationships work that had left them single parents, but they were both hopeful that the right person was out there, somewhere.

  He told her how he admired her hustle, running her own business and working part time as a makeup artist to make ends meet. He said she was the kind of sista a brotha would wanna wife and encouraged her to raise her standards when some knucklehead was giving her the blues.

  He was tired of the wheel watchers, gold-diggers and tack-heads he had been running into, and he helped her understand that it’s not as easy for a man to find a good woman as women seem to think it is.

  Secretly, Afrika couldn’t blame them for trying. Malik had mad style and sex appeal. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d made love to him in her mind, while she twisted and re-twisted his locs, infusing every ounce of energy she could into every strand. When he was in her chair, he got all of her.

  She had a sudden hot flash and stood abruptly. She turned the water off and wrung the out his hair, startling him out of his relaxed state.

  “Fini
shed?” He asked, keeping his eyes closed, not moving.

  “I…” For some reason, Afrika couldn’t speak. They both knew the drill. She was supposed to wrap his locs in a towel, ease his head out of the bowl and steer him toward her station. At least, that’s what was supposed to happen. She stood over him, wanting to say something, but passion was clouding her thoughts and she forgot the next step in the process.

  He looked up at her and smiled. Without speaking, he sat up and reached for her hand. Guiding her until she stood directly in front of him, he kissed both of her palms.

  “ You’re beautiful,” he said, as he began to suck her fingertips, one at a time, “and so sweet”, he added. His hands lightly skimmed her outer thighs and came to rest on her hips. He pulled her closer. Instinctively, she straddled him and lowered her face until her lips brushed softly against his neck. She wanted to kiss him, but she knew once their lips met, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from doing whatever came next, and there was a lot at stake in this transaction.

  Not only was he a long-time (and great-tipping) client, she was a professional, and this was anything but. And then there was the fact that they had developed a quiet friendship that she valued and men tended to fade away once they had gone too far with someone they knew they couldn’t or wouldn’t commit to. She didn’t want to lose their conversations and easy way of just being when they were the only two left in the salon. He worked strange hours and she went out of her way to accommodate his schedule, often staying late into the evening, after salon hours to fit him in.

  She paused; uncertain of whether to stand and gather herself, or to give in to the low moans she could hear trying to escape from his throat. He gently stoked her cheek with his hand and she knew that eventually, he would turn her face until their lips met. When she faced him and looked into his eyes, she knew the battle was lost. She gave in.

  He kissed her slowly and so gently she forgot her own name. She melted into his kiss with all the feelings she had tried to keep hidden from him for three long years. He took his time and explored her mouth with his tongue. She was so happy that they were alone and the door was locked. And when his hands made their way under her blouse and fingers found nipples, she was extremely happy that the shampoo area was in the back of the salon.

  Before she could think or hesitate, Malik removed her smock and unbuttoned her blouse. He was unhooking her bra and tenderly stroking her curves, as he kissed her neck, and made his way down to her navel. Unable to stop him, she tangled her fingers in the warm mass of damp hair that still smelled like citrus and mint and pulled him closer. When his lips replaced his fingers and he began to suck and nibble and tease her until she thought she would explode, she exhaled deeply, thinking how Terry McMillan was right, it was worth waiting for, that love that makes you breathe in the future deeply and exhale the past because what’s happening in the present is so mind altering that you know you’ll never be the same.

  Malik stood, his hair drenching his back. Holding Afrika, her legs wrapped around his waist, he carried her into the massage room directly across from the shampoo area. He softly placed her on the table and removed her jeans. Still standing, he kissed her lips and then every inch of her skin until she was absolutely positive she would lose her mind. When he reached the center of her femininity, she shuddered and stroked his head until she could no longer contain the cataclysmic eruption that had been building since he first kissed her. Her legs parted and she made a conscientious choice not to hold back.

  She allowed him to take her to a place she had never been before and wasn’t sure she would ever find again without him.

  “ So creamy,” he whispered against her thigh. She almost lost it again. When he stood, she sat upright on the table and moved him until he stood between her legs. She kissed his chest and when her hands brushed against him, she felt him tense and then heard him sigh, as she found the courage to stroke him, bringing him to the very edge. Alternating between sucking, nibbling and licking, she tortured him until he moaned her name over and over. Motivated by his arousal, Afrika looked up at him expectantly.

  The CD changer switched and she could hear Howard Hewett singing, “Show Me” in the background. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He fished out a condom and handed it to her. She was happy to do the honors and glad he had the presence of mind to think for both of them, because at that moment, she wasn’t thinking at all. His breathing was heavy and he was almost in as much of a hurry to be inside of Afrika as she was to have him inside of her.

  She moved off of the table and motioned for him to lie down. She climbed on top and gently eased him inside her, as she lowered herself into a comfortable position.

  “You feel incredible,” he moaned. Placing her hands on either side of his head, Afrika took control of the rhythm and moved her hips to insure he hit all the necessary spots. Dripping wet and grinding furiously, she could hear that he was close and even though she wanted to slow the pace and give them both time to regroup, she could not.

  “ Right there love, don’t stop,” he whispered and although she was no virgin, Afrika had never felt what she was feeling. She completely submitted. His scent, his touch, the way he tasted. She was totally intoxicated, unable to control her actions or reactions.

  “Damn,” she could feel the familiar pulsing and throbbing and she knew she was on her way.

  “Let it go baby.” His voice took the last of her sanity and she lost all awareness of everything around her, although she was aware that he was reaching his own climax. She fell onto his chest, gasping for air and covered with sweat. They held each other without speaking until she felt his desire for her growing again and they started all over…

  ****

  “Finished?” He asked, shocking Afrika back to the present. She jumped. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on her head. She turned off the water and reached for a towel. She wrapped his locs and took a deep breath.

  He sat up and looked into her eyes. “You alright sweetheart?” He looked concerned. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

  “Uh- no,” she stammered, trying her best to get it together. “I’m good.”

  “Ok”, he said. “You just looked like you were somewhere else”.

  “No sir,” she said, regaining her composure. “I’m right here- at your service,” she added, as she led him to her chair.

 

 

  A. Rozelle, Afrika's Journey

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