The Wilderness

Dave stood nervously the next morning around the kitchen table as they both came into the room, apprehension clear on their faces. Panic overwhelmed him as he realized the 'mood' of the night before had clearly not cooled into the embarrassed regret he'd expected of a new day.

There they were. She dressed in a gossamer translucent peignoir, her clearly aroused breasts shifting freely in the garment with each step, the dark blur of her hairy sex a shadow through the silk and lace. Beside her, his friend stood only in white cotton boxers common of that era, the obvious heft of his manhood bulging the fly open. Seeing their ease and familiarity as a statement, he was terrified that he'd lost his wife to another man.

To his enormous relief, she immediately announced that it was now over.

She loved her husband more that she could ever express. She was awed that he loved her so much that he had allowed her to have these private moments to experience life, not as his wife, or a mother, but as a woman with her own personal desires and fantasies. She couldn't think of any other man who'd be brave and companionate enough to do that. Her seeming act of betrayal had only strengthened the basis of her love and respect for her husband and their marriage. While amazing and an experience she would cherish forever, she realized her life and heart remained with Dave.

Likewise, his friend announced that he, too, could not continue. Yes, he'd been shocked the first time it happened, thinking that he'd just 'got lucky'. An erotic fantasy come true with a woman he'd always admired.

But over the ensuing encounters, he had begun to develop feelings for her that went far beyond lust and sex. His desire to impregnate her and sire his own line had caused him to take impulsive risks in the heat of the moment that, while momentarily satisfying, would have life-long ramifications for the two friends he loved and respected.

In the frenzy of their sexual encounters, he'd intentionally broken the condom or secretly removed it, ejaculating repeatedly into his best friend's wife. Once he'd even squeezed his semen from the condom and thrust his coated fingers up into her. He'd realized this was an inexcusably betrayed of the trust that she and Dave had been placed in him. The understanding had been that he would do everything in his power to prevent any unintended 'consequences' to their fleeting union.

That morning, as they fucked "one last time", he'd confessed his sins to her just as he was about to cum. Seeing the desperate struggle and fear in her eyes, she'd eventually surrendered to her own orgasm and clutched at him to keep him deep within her. It was the most amazing sexual experience of his entire life. For the first time, he felt like he'd truly 'Made Love' to a woman. For the first time it hadn't been about selfish individual sexual ratification, but a shared moment where both of them were fully aware of what their climactic conclusion might lead to. What a Man and Woman were intended to do.

Nonetheless, knowing that she would never love him as she did her husband, or ever abandon her family and life with Dave, he felt it best to end the physical part of their relationship to preserve their life-long friendship. The sex had been amazing. But their friendship was more important.

The birth of their third son later that year had caused each of them to privately wonder, but never a word was ever spoken. There had been no overt physical traits in the child to raise questions and this was long before DNA tests had been available. Dave was the "father", no matter the actual paternity.

Reassuring her husband that all her questions and fantasies had been satisfied, to the best of his knowledge she had been faithful to him for the next forty years, until her death a decade ago.

Honoring the oath the three of them had made those many years ago, Dave had never spoken of it, or 'his' name, to anyone. Before now. As I listened to his story with some shock and surprising emotion, it was clear that Dave and I were the only people still living that knew the truth. Out of respect for his family and Davey, I knew I would likewise take the story to my grave.

As was intended by his confession, I felt relieved that someone I knew and trusted had gone through a similar 'crazy complication' and had come out of it stronger, living a fulfilling and devoted life together.

So, while I faced the darkest time in my life essentially alone (both Bo and Davey were too 'close' to the situation for balanced and impartial consolation or advice), Grandpa Dave was the life-preserver that helped me stay afloat during this personal storm. I knew that no matter how selfish, libidinous, embarrassing and cruel my confessions, he would support me with tough love, but also sincere understanding.

But he was just about the only one.

CHAPTER 14

As if facing my former-husband and family about my infidelity and pregnancy wasn't nerve-wracking enough, the most terrifying moment of my life came later that month. Bo's parents and two sisters were coming to visit.

Walking into the luxurious hotel, I was frightened and nervous. But they were lovely to me. Embo was the 'baby' of the family, and his sisters were almost my age. Educated in England and the USA, one was an investment banker, married and living in New York City with three children of their own, while the other sister was a lawyer and lived in London with her long-time boyfriend. All had flown in to see Bo and meet the mother of his child.

I'd expected the worse. I imagined the many horrid things that could have said about me. To me. I trembled in fear as the woman I'd heard yelling over the phone at Bo those many months ago, walked into the room in brightly colored traditional Nigerian dress, eyes focused like a laser on my belly. Looking at me with knowledge that only women who've born children know, she embraced me with reassuring welcome. She held me tightly, unwilling to let me go, as the distinguished man standing behind her wept, his body wracked with sobbing as Bo hurried to him, kissing and embracing him in a way that I'd never seen American men do. It was the unspoken declaration of respect, pride and love that fathers and sons have shared through the ages.

Over that weekend we had endless discussions about our future and Bo's recent acceptance to the PhD program at the London School of Economics. Long and late nights had been spent in the dining room of their hotel suite, with Minister Osondu sending non-stop emails and stepping away to make frequent telephone calls to explore the various legal and administrative requirements for Bo and I to be married, have our child......

.... and adopt my soon-to-be daughter, Habibah.

As her name meant in Arabic, she was already "beloved" by families she hadn't even met yet.

Although my greatest regret in my divorce was Paul's immediate refusal to finalize the adoption, I was not surprised. I guess the love and forgiveness of What Jesus Would Do wasn't quite as clear to him now. Even though this 'uncontested adoption' eventually worked out to my benefit, I was sad that Paul wouldn't know the joy of fatherhood.

Much to my surprise I was genuinely heart-broken for the weekend to come to an end and see the Osondu family go. But promises were made to stay in touch daily, as there were many decisions to be made over the two months leading up to my delivery date.

CHAPTER - 15 EPILOGUE

In the funny and frightening way that life sometimes surprises us, in the end I'd finally found the happiness and fulfillment that I'd dreamed about.

I'd met a man I loved with an intensity that defied words. I knew, in my very bones, that he felt the same about me. And the physical manifestations of our love were both growing in my belly, and being formalized through international adoption agencies. We'd soon be parents to two children.

Eventually we decided to have a small civil marriage ceremony at City Hall as a formality. A much larger traditional Nigerian Wedding would take place the following year. The Osondu sisters were already planning.

Bo would defer his admission to the Doctoral program in London for a year, so that we could move to Lagos, the largest city and commercial center of Nigeria. Bo wanted a year or two to settle as a new family. He already had a good job waiting for him with their Ministry of Natural Resources.

One very early morning we were awoken by a Facetime call from his two sisters who had secretly flown to Lagos to find us a new home. Both Embo and I were blurry-eyed as they excitedly shrieked in both English and Hausa (a Nigerian dialect I was studying online), showing us around the gorgeous house in chaotic enthusiasm as the video bounced and shook from one room before they ran to the next. Finally hanging up, Bo and I looked at each other in the pre-dawn darkness of our bedroom in disbelief, before breaking out into hysterical laughter.

About a six-weeks later, my water broke as we ate dinner. Both Bo and Davey were panic-stricken. I calmly called Bo's sister in New York.

I gave birth to a son. He was healthy, beautiful..... and dark, just like his father. I thought I had known the very heights of human joy before. But the physical and emotional battle of bringing him into this world eclipsed all my life experiences thus far.

We named him David Dayo (meaning 'Arrival of Joy'), after Grandpa Dave, despite what Davey The 3^rd might have jokingly claimed. Our son would be forever known at Double D...or "DeeDee".

Within 48 hours Bo's entire family and various relatives from Africa and England had arrived, escorted by U.S. Secret Service - Diplomatic Security agents, following Bo's father's recent promotion to Nigerian Ambassador to Great Britain. Despite the personal nature of this trip, the United States government didn't dare risk an international incident on American soil.

None of my extended family or friends showed up, despite Bo calling them. I was OK with that. My ONLY regret was a deep sadness that my mother hadn't lived to meet her grandson or the man I loved. They were the culmination of everything she'd tried to teach me.

A couple months later, Bo and I were at Chicago O'Hare International Airport as the adoption agency escort carried our daughter Habiba off the airplane. With big, beautiful brown eyes and luxurious long dark hair, she reached for me immediately and never left my arms for the three hours of paperwork.

Driving home that afternoon with our two children sleeping safely secured in their car seats, I stared at the long, stamped, and embossed birth certificate in my hands, signifying that Habibah Rose Osondu was our daughter. Rose had been my mother's name. I wept the greatest tears of joy in my life, as Bo held my hand and drove us home.

Despite all the odds, I had a family.

A few months later, as the mover's carried the last boxes out of our apartment for shipment to Nigeria, I closed the final of seven suitcases we'd be taking on tomorrow's flight to Lagos. Hearing our daughter excitedly jabbering at Bo and her infant brother in a mix of simple English and Arabic, I looked down as I lowered the lid on the last case.

Laying on top of my neatly folded SpongeBob SquarePants t-shirt, was the pink plastic birthday Princess-on-a-Pony figurine that Davey had given me that night two long years ago.

Walking into the room, Davey smiled at me.

"Ok! Are we FINALLY ready to get this party started?!?!"

***** THE END *****