My Tall Giant

At breakfast I wore a loose white blouse, almost like a shirt, with wide sleeves and a bodice that fell softly around me. I had chosen it deliberately, though I told myself it was only because it was comfortable. Then I chose the seat where the morning light came through the thin fabric, allowing him to see silhouettes of my nipples.

I noticed his eyes linger.

He took one sip of tea, as if he needed the time, then said with a mischievous smile, "I envy the man who will one day have you all to himself."

I looked straight at him and smiled.

"You don't need to envy anyone!"

His eyebrows lifted.

"I don't want anybody except you." I finished.

For a fraction of a second he simply stared at me. I watched the words reach him, watched them settle somewhere behind his eyes. The amusement left his face. Something warmer, more startled, took its place.

Neither of us looked away.

Then he lowered his gaze to his tea, though not before I saw the smile he was trying to hide.

But really, this had been happening from the moment I first saw him.

I had travelled to Nairobi with my father to apply for a Schengen visa, and when our bus arrived he seemed enormous to me as he waited in the crowd. He was tall, broad-shouldered and strong without looking heavy, and when he embraced my father, Dad looked almost small inside his arms.

I remember thinking, absurdly, that I wanted to know what it would feel like to be held by him.

I didn't have to wonder for long.

When my turn came, I stepped into his embrace and seemed to disappear into it. His arms closed around me with an ease that made the contact feel both natural and dangerous. For those few seconds, surrounded by the noise and movement of the bus terminus, I wanted nothing more than to stay there with my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath it.

Of course, reality intervened. People were pushing past us, luggage was being moved, and we had to make room for everyone else.

But the feeling stayed with me.

So did the memory of how quickly he had let me go.

During the four days we spent at his house, I discovered another reason I was becoming so attached to him. Every morning, the moment I woke, I wanted to see him. I decided that instead of calling him 'uncle' or using his name Timothy, I would be calling him 'T'. It sounded like a nickname.

I began to recognise the sounds of his movements before I saw him: a door opening, his voice somewhere beyond, the low murmur of conversation. I would find reasons to leave my room, pretending I had forgotten something, hoping he would be somewhere around.

Wherever we travelled, I somehow managed to arrange for us to sit together on the bus. That left Dad to find the window seat he loved, while T and I talked.

And talked.

We never seemed to run out of things to say.

Sometimes our shoulders touched when the bus turned. Neither of us moved away. Sometimes his hand brushed mine as he reached for something, and the contact lasted no longer than a second, though I carried it for the rest of the journey.

On the streets I hooked my hand over his arm, enjoying the feeling of protection which I sometimes tried with my dad, who didn't take to it wholly but didn't protest either; T seemed to enjoy me doing that.

Part of the pleasure was that I could practise my English with him. I had learnt it at school, but I knew my accent still carried traces of French and Kinyarwanda. Some of my teachers had themselves learnt most of their education in French, so there were expressions and pronunciations I knew were not quite right.

He never once made me feel self-conscious about it.

Not once.

Instead, he listened as though every word mattered. When I searched for the right expression, he waited. When I corrected myself, he smiled--not at me, but with me.

That made me like him even more.

But it wasn't only the language. He had a mind that seemed capable of travelling anywhere. We could move from politics to books, from family stories to history, from something ridiculous that had happened that morning to some serious question about life.

Talking to him never felt like practising English.

It felt like discovering someone.

And, more dangerously, like allowing him to discover me.

So when we eventually left, I felt as though I had left something important behind.

He had jokingly asked me for something of mine that he could keep as a reminder of me. I pretended to forget a small pink g-string in the bathroom.

When I went back later, it was gone.

I smiled to myself.

I never asked him whether he had found it.

He never mentioned it either.

That silence became its own kind of exchange. Whenever I thought of the missing item, I imagined him finding it, holding it, deciding not to tell me. I wondered whether he understood that I had left it there on purpose.

Instead, his WhatsApp messages became full of those gentle, teasing words that seemed always to stop just short of saying what we both knew was there. He coined a name for me: R wa. It seemed to hide something.

He would ask whether I missed him, then disguise the question as a joke. I would answer lightly, then reread his message until the screen dimmed.

We liked one another.

Perhaps more than liked.

Neither of us seemed quite ready to give the feeling a name. Naming it would make it real, and reality would demand something from us. So we kept circling it, smiling around it, letting our silences say what our words avoided.

Then came the message that changed everything.

My parents had invited him to visit us, and one morning I listened to his voice message telling me that he would be coming to our city. He wanted to combine the visit with my final days at home before I flew to Brussels.

I listened to that message again.

And again.

And again.

His voice seemed to grow more intimate with each repetition, as though he were speaking directly into the space beside my ear.

I could hardly believe that I was going to have him nearby for another day or two before leaving for Europe.

I wanted to show him the places he remembered and let him see how much they had changed. More than that, I wanted to be near him again--to hear his voice, laugh with him, feel the familiar warmth of his attention, and store away the sight of him in my mind before I left home.

These would be among my last memories of Rwanda.

I wanted him in them.

I wanted to know whether he would look at me differently now, whether the distance between us had changed anything, whether he would touch me with the same careful restraint--or forget to be careful.

So when Dad drove to Nyabugogo to meet his bus, I insisted on going too.

I stood between my parents and my little brothers as the buses arrived, trying very hard to behave like the sensible daughter I was supposed to be.

Then his bus doors opened.

For one ridiculous second I nearly ran straight towards him.

Instead I stayed where I was and watched him greet my parents, pretending that he was simply their guest.

But inside, I knew better.

He was going to be more my guest than anybody's.

And when he finally turned towards me and opened his arms, all the restraint I had been practising disappeared.

The bus station seemed to fall away the moment I stepped into his embrace.

"So good to see you again, R wa!" he murmured into my ear.

Once again I was surrounded by that familiar strength, and once again the noise of the bus station seemed to recede around us. His hands settled against my back, firm enough to hold me there, gentle enough to make me wonder whether he was holding back.

I closed my eyes for just a moment.

I had missed him terribly.

And now, at last, he was here.

Then Dad cleared his throat.

"Well," he said, with the amused patience of a father who had noticed rather more than his daughter imagined, "perhaps we should get your guest home before he thinks Nyabugogo is the destination."

I stepped back, suddenly conscious that Mum and my little brother were watching us.

T laughed and shook Dad's hand again.

"I've missed this place," he said.

"You haven't seen much of it yet," Dad replied. "Come home first. We'll talk there."

The drive through the city was noisy and familiar. Dad drove, Mum sat beside him, and my brother occupied the back seat with us. That arrangement suited me perfectly. I could talk to our guest without making it obvious that I had been waiting all morning simply to hear his voice again.

He pointed out buildings he remembered, asking questions about shops that had disappeared and roads that had changed.

I supplied answers whenever I could.

Sometimes he looked at me when I spoke, and I caught myself smiling before I had even finished a sentence.

My brother noticed.

"What are you smiling at?"

"Nothing."

"You've been smiling for ten minutes."

"Then perhaps I heard a good joke."

"What joke?"

"One you wouldn't understand."

He frowned at me while our guest laughed.

"She's been waiting all morning to say that," T said.

"I have not."

"You have."

Dad glanced at us in the mirror.

"Good. At least somebody is entertaining themselves."

By the time we reached home, the easy joking had settled everyone into a relaxed mood.

Mum had prepared far too much food, as mothers invariably do when somebody arrives from out of town. There was tea, fruit, bread, eggs and several dishes that had clearly been prepared long before we arrived.

"You must eat," she told him.

"I've just had something at Gatuna."

"That was somewhere else. This is home."

He surrendered immediately.

I watched him laugh with my mother and answer my father's questions about the journey. There was something reassuring about seeing him among people I loved.

For the first time, he wasn't simply the man whose messages I had reread late at night.

He was here.

In our house.

At our table.

And somehow that made everything feel more real.

After supper, Dad wanted to show him some old photographs.

That became the entire evening.

Every photograph produced another story. My brother interrupted half of them with corrections. Mum remembered details Dad had forgotten. I found myself sitting beside our guest on the sofa, sometimes leaning across him to point something out in an old picture.

"That's me," I said.

"I know."

"You've seen this photograph before?"

"No. But I recognised you." said T.

"From what?"

"From the expression."

"What expression?" I asked

"The one that says you're about to cause trouble."

I gave him an indignant look.

Mum laughed from across the room.

"He's already discovered you."

"She isn't as innocent as she looks," Dad added.

"Nobody here is going to defend me?"

"No," my brother said.

Everyone laughed.

I laughed too, but I noticed the way our guest looked at me afterwards.

It was only a glance.

Yet somehow it felt like a private conversation conducted in the middle of the whole family.

Later, Dad took him outside to look at something in the garden, and Mum went into the kitchen. I followed her, helping with the dishes.

"You're very happy he's here," she said casually.

I nearly dropped a plate.

"Of course. He's Dad's friend."

"Of course."

She said it in exactly the tone that meant she wasn't convinced.

I dried my hands.

"Mum."

"I'm not asking anything."

"Good." I said.

She smiled.

"I like him."

I looked towards the doorway.

"So do I."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, he's interesting." I said, in a low voice.

"I know what you mean."

I smiled despite myself.

By evening the house had become quieter. My brother disappeared into his room, Mum began preparing dinner, and Dad and our guest continued their conversation in the sitting room.

I passed through several times for no reason I could explain.

Each time, he looked up.

Each time, I found some excuse to stay for another minute.

When dinner was served, I made sure I sat where I could speak to him easily.

We talked about his journey, about the places he remembered from years ago, and about the changes he had noticed since arriving.

At one point Dad was telling a long story and I caught our guest's eye across the table.

I silently mouthed, "He tells this one every time."

He covered his smile with his glass.

I nearly laughed aloud.

It was ridiculous how much pleasure I found in those tiny exchanges.

After dinner, everyone gradually drifted away.

Dad remained in the sitting room with him for a while longer.

I told myself I was waiting because I wanted to hear the rest of their conversation.

I knew perfectly well that wasn't true.

Eventually Dad stood.

"You two can finish your tea. I'm going to bed."

Mum followed him a few minutes later.

My brother called goodnight from his room.

Suddenly the house was quiet.

I looked at our guest.

He looked back.

"Long day," he said.

"Very." I replied

"Thank you for rescuing me from your family interrogation."

"They like you." I said

"I noticed."

I smiled.

"I told you they would."

We talked for another half hour.

Then another.

There was no particular reason for either of us to remain there, but neither seemed eager to be the first to leave.

Eventually I stood.

"You should get some rest."

"I suppose I should."

I walked with him down the corridor to the room Mum had prepared.

At the doorway I stopped.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Neither of us moved.

I smiled.

"Goodnight," I repeated.

He laughed softly.

"You're still here."

"I know."

"And?"

"I don't know."

That made both of us laugh.

Finally I stepped backwards into the corridor.

"Goodnight." The third time.

This time I actually turned away.

I had taken only two steps when he called my name. "R wa!"

I turned, my heart fluttering.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for coming to meet me at the bus."

I smiled.

"I wouldn't have missed it."

I went to my room carrying that sequence with me.

And when I finally closed the door, I stood there for a moment, smiling at absolutely nothing.

**My whole body cried out to be in his arms again. I wished it were possible to spend the night in the same room. But now I didn't dare. I undressed for bed, climbed under the covers, hugging my second pillow. When that didn't quell the fires I tried putting it between my thighs.

Slowly my body relaxed enough to let me fall into a fitful sleep.

Somewhere in the dead of night something woke me. The pillow had slipped almost completely off but the ear of one corner was still in place. I pulled it back but that only helped to inflame me.

I fetched my phone from under my pillow. "Can't sleep." I messaged him. I really didn't have any reason to think he would see it.

But barely a minute passed before WhatsApp pinged a new message.

"Come, at least we can talk."

I pulled my dressing gown tight around my rebellious body and tiptoed to his door. It was just the slightest bit ajar. Without hesitation I got in and saw his body faintly outlined under the covers. He flipped them open inviting me.

"You can take off the gown. Throw it over that chair." His voice was not a whisper nor was he loud.

I slipped in beside him as he pulled me to lie on his chest, one arm under me and the other around me. Both met at my back. The feeling of him so close to me was worlds away from the pillow. But this meant that I was more inflamed. I drew my leg over his, opening my steaming hot centre for his thigh. As soon as we felt that close contact, I could no longer control myself.

I brought my mouth smartly into his lips, kissing him hungrily. His hands tightened around me, his knee reached my hot cunt, and his mouth kissed me ravenously.

"Ah, my sweet R wa!" he murmured against my lips as his knee slid over my slit repeatedly. I now felt his boneless hardness against my thigh. Reaching down with one hand, I felt about for his cock. Hot, hard and soft at the same time.

I felt his hand fumbling between my thighs. I opened them a bit wider, allowing his fingers to do a better job than the blunt knee. I nearly screamed into the night waking the whole house. I couldn't believe all that wetness was coming from inside me. When he pushed a finger or fingers inside, it was as if I floated above my body, so intense was the pleasure.

He made me climax twice. I couldn't wait any more to feel his manhood inside me. I pulled him over me and felt that thick hardness parting my lips. Soon he was in deeper than anything had ever been. He stopped.

We looked deep into each other's eyes. "We are now one!" he said.

"Even 7000km will not manage to separate us!" I reassured him, beginning to make movements with my hips.

He responded with his own, both now finding a rhythm. I closed my eyes to enjoy him more fully, but I didn't want to lose sight of his face. I opened them again only to find him looking at me with such tenderness I felt tears at the corners of my eyes. My pussy clenched with excess of pleasure, which triggered a massive orgasm to overtake me. I growled like a lioness in the wild.

My fear of pregnancy and childbirth died on that bed. I wanted him, his seed, his children. My orgasm also brought him to the boil. I felt his cock coughing authoritatively into me. My arms tightened around his neck determined never to let him out of my clutches.

**

The next morning I deliberately chose the loose white blouse.

At breakfast I took my usual place opposite him.

The morning light came through the window.

He looked up from his tea.

And I knew, before either of us said a word, that the quiet conversation between us had begun again.