As I stepped out of the house, a fine mist descended, enveloping the world in a cloak of dampness. The rain, a persistent drizzle, whispered against the pavement, its soft patter a constant reminder of an aversion to its touch. Each droplet seemed to carry with it a chill that seeped into my bones, sending shivers down my spine. My aversion to the rain is one thing I and the voice have in common. It really hates the rain. I really have no idea why, but whenever it's really raining heavily, I always sense its weakness, almost like I control the voice. I don't know how that happens, but it does. So let's just say right now it's 50:50; I have half the control and it has half. Also, the cold weather is perfect for smoking.
The air is heavy with the scent of wet earth and anticipation, each breath filled with the promise of adventure and uncertainty. It's almost 12 a.m. right now. I have made friends with the estate security guys, so I can pretty much leave even if the estate gates are already closed for the day. I am an adult; they have no right to stop me. I thanked them, handing them a thousand naira each as I walked out of the estate.
I'm in my hoodie, my black leggings, and my comfy black crocs. As I navigate the narrow streets, the glow of streetlights casts long shadows on the slick pavement, adding to the sense of anxiety that hangs in the air. No matter how much you walk in the lonely, dark street at night, the anxiety and fear still linger.
The world seemed to shimmer with the reflection of rain-slicked surfaces, with every corner holding the potential for both danger and intrigue.
I walked a little distance, entering the narrow corner between two buildings, as I headed down to the local strip club buzzing with people.
I saw my guys and smiled at them. The rain was picking up again; it started drizzling, so I ran to meet them under the shade where they gathered. I hugged each one of them. The guy selling weed was not too far from us, and I signaled him, fist-bumping him as he handed us the usual. I gave him money, tipping him as he smiled at me, calling me a real one, and handing me a local gin, saying it's a customer bonus, as I smiled. One of my guys reached out for it, and I handed it to him. The weed we bought was already rolled out, so all we needed to do was light it up.
We talked about all kinds of things, and I was pretty much getting high. Some of the ladies that would hang around the club were already coming out as the rain had stopped, and I think I made a mental deal with the voice in my head. I looked at one of my guys and asked him if he wanted to have fun. The truth is, they never take me seriously, but I was serious. I moved close to him, taking a drag of my smoke and puffing it into his mouth as I kissed him, roaming my hands all over his chest, and I moved down to his crotch and could feel some swelling. "You see? You definitely want to have fun!"
I walked over to one of the girls, and of course, this was the monster's cut in the deal, and offered her a threesome. Her mouth was sharp as she yelled, "I don't do women, please.".
Almost like the voice in my head got angry and took over, it said something really mean to her, and a fight erupted. My guys came to stop this fight, and we proceeded to walk into the club. I was angry, but I think the voice in my head was pissed. We got to the strip club, and the strippers did their thing. I stripped on one of my guys, the same guy, and let's just say the voice was nowhere to be found that night.
Zimbabwe POV
This stupid, wimpy girl pisses me off. Maybe I'm pissed off that as she grows, she's getting less wimpy, more like she's gaining even more authority. I can't even control her as much as I used to. It's getting boring, and the fact that I had to shut out for her to do that shit—I mean, I can stay if I want to; it's my choice to always leave. I stayed one time because I was bored and wanted to be entertained, but I totally regret it.
I was seeing it in first-person POV, so it felt like I was the one being fucked by a guy, and I was very not interested in the image; it was not entertaining but more traumatic. I see things in the first person, so whatever Malaika does, it feels like I am the one doing it. I only see her through the mirror, and she has a really banging body, dark-skinned, curvy, full breasts, and a killer face. The kind of girl I would have never bagged—the kind that never paid me any attention when I lived as Zimbabwe.
Now I have the pleasure of self-fucking her in the showers, touching her boobs, and hearing her moan to my controls. I know that sounds weird, but trust me, it is satisfying. I was not the white guy that people liked; I was not the cool quarterback kind of white guy, but the type that people were afraid that they would wake up the next morning with a gun, painting the town red. I was the guy everyone automatically considered a creep, judging me with their eyes even before getting to know me. People like Malaika never really looked me in the eyes or paid any attention to me. I know that I was a good guy in my past life, and my statement about Malaika makes me appear more like the creep people judged me to be, but at first I was excited, I was in a woman's body, something I had never seen in person before, I wanted to try everything out, to see how it felt, at some point I realised how wrong it seemed, so I just assume I am her now and use her body to enjoy the company of others. I see her as myself, not as an external person, but sometimes when I get angry I use certain disturbing words. In all honesty I am just jealous that, unlike her, I'm just on lease while she owns the property.
I know it's crazy how my name is Zimbabwe, but I think the intercourse that birthed me happened when my parents visited Zimbabwe in Africa for an outreach. I think it's very stupid of them, though. Why name someone the name of a country? I guess people do it. Someone in my high school was named China; another was named India. Anyway, I'm so bored, I'm tired of being trapped, and just for a day, I want to take over.
Sometimes I think of my parents; how are they? If they are doing well without me and if they are coping fine, I've checked them on Malaika's Facebook whenever I got the chance to take over, and they looked well. I always deleted the search history, maybe because it's better if I were anonymous to Malaika. But then again, whilst worrying about my parents, I get angry, angry at them because they caused all this, they made me a wimp, they preached this love people, be good to people nonsense to me, and what did it get me? Death and reincarnation to be trapped in another wimpy 18-year-old body. I miss my freedom; at this point, I would rather be dead.