The days began to organise themselves around three poles, as if my life in Tana had suddenly restructured itself into a stable triangle, almost reassuring in its immorality.
The first pole was work. The offices near Analakely were taking shape: computers installed, first developers in training, daily meetings with Johary, Rina and Andry. I had replied to the HR email accepting the three-month extension. The raise was substantial, the new accommodation – a standalone house with a garden in the residential neighbourhood of Ivandry – would be ready in a few weeks. Professionally, everything was going smoothly. I was efficient, focused, almost more productive than in Paris. As if the guilt were giving me fresh energy.
The second pole was this new temporary accommodation, a more spacious suite in the same residence as before, with a proper kitchen and a terrace overlooking the hills. I would come back in the evenings, take long showers to erase the traces of the day, sometimes cook a simple dish – chicken yassa bought from a Malagasy caterer or an imported steak –, and call my wife almost every evening. The conversations had become shorter, more superficial. I talked about work, the weather, the landscapes. Never about Ennemiah. She, on her side, sensed that something had changed in my voice, but she put it down to fatigue and distance.
The third pole was her. Ennemiah.
She occupied the remaining space, and even more. We saw each other almost every day: sometimes a quick coffee in Isoraka between two meetings, sometimes an entire afternoon in her friend’s house, sometimes a full night when I made an excuse to Johary about a trip. She had become a habit, an addiction. Her body, her voice, her laugh, her scent of vanilla and ylang-ylang. I no longer resisted. I no longer wanted to resist.
One evening, as we lay naked on her bed after making love, she turned her head towards me and said, very naturally:
“You should come and meet my family.”
I started inwardly.
“Your family?”
“Yes. My mother and my little brother. They know I’m seeing someone. I’ve told them about you.”
I propped myself up on one elbow.
“What exactly did you tell them?”
She smiled, a little mischievously.
“That you’re a nice vazaha, an important director, that you treat me well. They want to meet you.”
I felt a lump in my throat. Meeting the family meant crossing another line. The one that turns an affair into something more serious, more dangerous. But Ennemiah had already organised everything. The following evening, dinner at her place, in the small red-brick house in the popular neighbourhood of Ankahistinika, not far from the market.
I didn’t know how to say no.
The next day, after work, I stopped by the residence to change: clean shirt, light trousers, nothing too ostentatious. I bought a bottle of French wine at the Shoprite supermarket – a vazaha gesture – and a bouquet of flowers for the mother. Ennemiah was waiting for me downstairs at the residence in a taxi, radiant in a traditional pink and white lamba.
The house was modest but clean, with a small front garden where vanilla vines and lemongrass grew. Inside, the smell of the meal was already floating: romazava, that traditional broth with brèdes and meat, accompanied by red rice and vegetable achards.
Her mother, a woman in her forties with a marked but still beautiful face, welcomed me with genuine warmth. Her name was Lala. She wore a lamba tied over her shoulder, and her eyes – the same as Ennemiah’s – studied me with curiosity and kindness.
The brother, Tahina, eighteen years old, was tall, slim, a little shy at first. A mechanics student at university, he shook my hand firmly once the ice was broken.
Ennemiah had clearly prepared the ground well. From the start of the meal, she took my hand under the table, introduced me as “my man”, the one who took care of her, who even helped her financially with her studies. I blushed, but I played along. I couldn’t contradict her in front of them.
Lala asked me polite questions: about France, about my work, about my children (Ennemiah must have told them about them too). Without bitterness, she told me that Ennemiah and Tahina’s father had died five years earlier in a taxi-brousse accident on the RN7. Since then, she had raised her two children alone, working as a seamstress and selling handicrafts at the market.
Tahina, more relaxed as the meal went on, talked to me about football – he supported the CNAPS team – and asked if I liked French rugby. I laughed, we talked about sport, work, the future. At one point, almost shyly, he said to me:
“Thank you for taking care of my sister, Mr Damien. She’s been happy since she met you.”
I nodded, my throat tight.
Ennemiah, sitting beside me, squeezed my hand harder. She played the role of the young woman in love perfectly, resting her head on my shoulder from time to time, serving me rice, looking at me with shining eyes.
When Lala brought dessert – mofo sakay and fresh fruit –, she took me aside in the kitchen while Ennemiah helped her brother clear up.
“You know, Mr Damien, Ennemiah hasn’t had an easy life. Since her father’s death, she carries a lot on her shoulders. I can see that she really cares about you. Truly. Please take care of her.”
I promised. Sincerely, at that moment.
After dinner, Tahina and Lala went to bed early – the mother worked at the market from dawn. Ennemiah walked me to the door, then, with a complicit smile, whispered: “Stay a little longer.”
We went back to her small bedroom, the one she sometimes shared with her brother when he came home late, but tonight it was ours. The door barely closed, she pushed me against the wall, kissing me with new fervour, as if the family dinner had excited her even more.
“You were perfect with them,” she breathed between kisses. “Now I want to thank you… properly.”
She made me sit on the edge of the bed, knelt between my legs. Her hands undid my belt, lowered my trousers with deliberate slowness. Already hard, I saw her smile as she took me into her mouth, warm, wet, expert as always. She started slowly, her tongue swirling around the head, sliding down the shaft, then coming back up with deep sucks that made me moan despite myself.
But tonight, she wanted to go further. Much further.
She looked up at me, a playful glint in her eyes, and gently pushed on my thighs so I would lie back, legs apart. Her lips left my cock to go lower: she licked my balls, taking them one by one into her mouth, sucking gently while her hand continued to stroke me. Then, without warning, her tongue slid even lower, brushing that forbidden, sensitive area that no one had ever touched like this.
When the hot, wet tip of her tongue caressed my anus, an electric shock ran through my entire body. I jumped, a hoarse moan escaping me despite myself.
“Ennemiah… what…”
She didn’t answer. She simply continued, first with light, timid circles, then more assured, more insistent. Her pointed tongue explored, licked, pressed gently against the tight muscle, while her hand accelerated its movement on my cock. The pleasure was unknown, intense, almost too strong – a mixture of taboo and pure sensation that made me tremble from head to toe.
I had never experienced that. Never imagined it. In twenty-five years of marriage, my wife had never dared, and neither had I ever dared ask. And here was a nineteen-year-old woman, in a small bedroom in Ankahistinika, introducing me to a pleasure I would never have thought possible.
I surrendered completely. My hands clenched in her braided hair, my hips lifted despite myself to meet her tongue. She alternated: one moment she came back to suck my cock greedily, the next she dove lower again, licking, circling, even entering me slightly with the tip of her tongue. The pleasure rose in waves, higher and higher, until I could take no more.
When the orgasm arrived, it was devastating. I cried out her name, body arched, emptying in long spurts into her hand which jerked me furiously while her tongue continued its shameless work.
Afterwards, I lay panting, short of breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She got up, curled up against me, a satisfied smile on her lips.
“Did you like it?” she murmured.
I couldn’t speak right away. I simply held her against me, very tightly, as if I were afraid she would disappear.
At that precise moment, in the silence of the Malagasy night, I fell in love.
Truly in love.
Not just with her body, her youth, her sensuality. But with her. With everything she was capable of making me feel, making me discover.
And I knew it was irreversible.
On the way back by taxi a little later, the streets of Tana almost deserted, I watched the lights go by through the window.
I was playing the game.
But now, it was no longer a game.
It was my life.