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In Misaka, Lies Sango Mbella Sonne Dipoko 

By Azore Opio

If Chief Mbella Sonne Dipoko were living, this story would have been told differently. But he has been dead. And gone. For a full year now. But each time I pick his erotically charged "Because of Women", my heart, as romantic poets put it, beats a fast tattoo. My adrenaline rises by leaps and bounds.

Dipoko, permit me to say, in his rather ill-tempered style, offered us a sizzling sexually arousing narrative from an admiring and erotic stance. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to find a good first edition, but it is worth reading "Because of Women" if you want your blood to boil.  

Dipoko covered the saga of infidelity, loose sex and men and women of easy virtue falling in and out of love as easily as removing one underwear and putting on another. With reasonable impersonality, albeit with his personality stealthily invading the pages of "Because of Women", Mbella set the scene admirably along the Mungo River, where his Ngoso springs plenty of surprise dates, flings on the river bank, waiting for the market day.

It is difficult not to suspect a direct influence of Dipoko’s early sexual encounter(s) on his writings. The very fact that he seems to be reminded by their babysitter poaching on his immature sexual instincts makes us feel that he is thinly disguised in the character of Ngoso to deliver himself freely under the convenient fiction, "Because of Women". "And it was here in Nkame that a babysitter, in reality, a young woman who was staying with us, used to abuse me sexually whenever my mother left me in her care. I remember that perverse woman like a precocious afternoon too hot, too soon.

Too sweaty, too wet but still lovely. And one afternoon while the babysitter was holding me between her thighs and I felt like pissing and I told her, she said I should piss into her, which I did, flooding her large, very hairy vagina… ‘Do not tell anyone,’ the girl warned me and I did not tell until now. And to this day that is how I like a woman to be down there; large and soggy, with her hair dripping wet and the lips fleshy. And the rest of her ample and sweaty…"

It might then be rightly construed that Dipoko allowed himself to creep into the pages of his literary works as is seen in his unpublished typescripts here and there when, in his own words, a certain Tina seemed to remind him of what he wrote in "Because of Women": ‘Ngoso had to take to the river even though he was ill.

But he had to return to his house where he had left his pregnant woman, Njale. And one of Ngoso’s rivals, wanting to make trouble, had turned up at Ngoso’s house and he was sleeping with the pregnant Njale. And although he was ill with a very had fever, Ngoso wouldn’t have that; he wouldn’t have Ekema staying at his house and sleeping with Njale. Ekema wetting my child’s head!’ Is the way Ngoso puts it.

It was easy for Dipoko to boast of his innocent sexual expedition because it had happened only to him. And it spoke for itself. His frequent gravitation towards the uncut vulgar in the extreme, described in limpid lyrics in erotically hammered prose, often earned Dipoko chastisement, at times near estrangement. Just like the meeting of Ngoso and Ewudu at the waterfront.

"Let’s go to the waterfront. You said I should come and carry plantains."
"Yes," he agreed.
"So let’s go to your canoe. Look at the tray I brought with me. I came out because I thought you really wanted me to come and carry plantains."
"First carry me," he said, squeezing her shoulders tenderly.
"No, Ngoso, please."
"Ewudu!"
"Yes?"
"Are you playing with me?"
"No."

"Then lie down at once."
She hesitated, looking up at him; the she dropped her look, putting down the tray.
"Jengu will know," she said, taking off her underwear and sitting on the loin-cloth, having raised her dress. "Eh, Ngoso, she’ll know."

"I know," he said, raising her dress higher and lowering himself on her "So what do you want me to do?"
"Leave me," she said, parting her thighs.
"I have heard."
"Ngoso."

"What?"
"I say leave me," she said, parting her thighs a little more. "I can’t do this to Jengu. Ngoso, truly, leave me please."
He pushed her gently to make her lie on her back; but she wouldn’t, pretending, still resisting feebly, beautifully because actually she wasn’t resisting.

"Lie down," he whispered urgently, "Ewudu, quick."
"Ngoso, leave me," she gasped, leaning back and opening herself.
"Put," he said, all his life now wanting to feel her wet warmth, the depth of her womanhood. "Ewudu, wele, put. Ewudu!"
"Ngoso," she gasped, hesitating, excited, thrilled.
"Quick!" He couldn’t wait any longer. "Ewudu!"
And as if reluctantly, she put her left hand between them.

"Ngoso, please leave me," she begged, her hand closing on his thing. It was warm and she liked the feel of it in the palm of her hand.
"Ewudu," he said with love.
"Ngoso," she replied, introducing him into the lustfulness of her life. And then she wrapped her arms around him.

He sank with an effort, pushing forward, upwards.
"Ewudu," he whispered, withdrawing and then pushing in again. "Ewudu…"
"Ngoso, leave me," she groaned. "Ngoso…Ngoso…Ngoso…Ngoso. Eh?" And she was spinning and spinning her waist. "Ngoso, I say leave me," she went on telling him. "I say leave me, Ngoso." And she was shaking her waist, spinning it, withdrawing and then bearing herself towards him again…

She clawed him. Ungripped him, then clawed him again, tightened her hold about him and then she was groaning and grunting and swallowing, clawing his back and sides, crying, and he was at her, furiously loading her with pleasure and joy. "Ngoso, Ngoso," she cried. "Ngoso, na ki kwa; I am falling…I’ve fallen," she moaned feebly, sighing and her arms slumped on the lion-cloth.

But although he had made her secret ecstasy he still hadn’t poured the drops of his own pleasure into her. He was still strong and he turned her over so that they lay side by side while he waited for her to rest… Then he began to touch Ewudu’s breasts in order to excite her again and it was easy because he was still in her, strong and straight and presently he was on her again and he was saying to himself that it was because, yes, because, because of women that life was really good, yes, really good."

"Yes!" he said aloud and the he could think no more. A long time of uninterrupted rhythmic action passed, the clapping of waist against waist and Ewudu began to feel once more as if she had been pushed and pushed and pushed to the sky of all intimate dreams from which she was now falling through the clouds and thunderstorms, such an intense sensation, such incredible pleasure.

And then she felt she was on earth again under him and it occurred to her that in spite of all the pain which had preceded the pleasure he hadn’t hurt her; only that tiredness, that fine exhaustion, the feeling of having been battered and crushed by storms and the she realised that although she was still on her he too had fallen; he had fallen into her pleasure.

"O ma kwa?" "E", he said, satisfied…. For a man who came by his talent naturally, Dipoko’s works were considered too sexual, too amoral that they were banned in St. Theresa’s. But, writes Dipoko, the girls read them at night under the blanket with torchlight! He now lies in the obscure blackness of an epithetless grave in Misaka.

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