I no longer remember exactly how I agreed. One evening, after a particularly long day at the office, Ennemiah called me, her voice full of excitement.
“This weekend, we’re going to my aunt’s in Ambatolampy. The whole family is going for my cousin’s birthday. You’re coming with us, right?”
Ambatolampy is two and a half hours south of Tana on the RN7, a town known for its aluminium foundries and handmade pots and pans. I knew the name, like everyone here. I hesitated for two seconds, thinking about work, my wife, everything this implied at a deeper level in our relationship.
But Ennemiah’s “please”, followed by whispered promises over the phone, overcame my last resistance.
I rented a comfortable taxi for Saturday morning – a recent Toyota Corolla with air conditioning, not one of those old overcrowded taxi-brousses. The driver, a discreet man named Solo, picked us up at dawn in front of the house in Ankahistinika. Lala, Tahina and Ennemiah were already ready, bags filled with clothes, gifts and provisions for the weekend.
I loaded the luggage into the boot and greeted everyone politely.
In the car, the seating was as follows: Solo at the wheel, Tahina in the front with him to talk about the road and music (they quickly turned the salegy up loud), and in the back me, squeezed between Lala by the window and Ennemiah on the aisle side. Ennemiah was wearing a light skirt in thin fabric and a tight top that hinted at the shape of her breasts.
She smiled at me as soon as I sat down, immediately placing her hand on my thigh as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The road was beautiful at first: descent from the highlands, terraced rice fields, red-brick villages, zebus on the roadside. Lala commented on the landscape, happy to see her sister again. But very quickly, Ennemiah began her little game.
First, discreet caresses on my leg, slowly sliding up under the fabric of my cargo trousers. Then she slipped her hand higher, brushing the inside of my thigh. I shot her a stern look, murmuring a barely audible “stop”. She played innocent, shrugging with an angelic smile, but ten minutes later her hand was back, bolder.
She very slowly undid the zip of my trousers, just enough to slide her fingers inside. I stiffened immediately. Her mother, next to me, was looking out the window, humming along with the radio. Tahina and the driver were talking football. No one suspected a thing.
When her fingers wrapped around my cock through the boxer, I felt the erection arrive in seconds, brutal, uncontrollable. Ennemiah squeezed gently, making imperceptible movements to the others, but which drove me mad. I crossed my legs as best I could, placed my backpack on my knees pretending to look for something, then a bottle of water.
Anything to hide that obvious bulge straining the fabric.
She was clearly having fun. Her eyes sparkled with mischief every time I looked at her. At one point she took out her phone, showed me a photo of the two of us taken the day before – me asleep, her naked against me – and whispered “do you remember?” while increasing the pressure of her hand.
I was sweating. Not just because of the heat rising despite the air conditioning. I eventually grabbed her wrist under the bag and squeezed it to make her stop. She obeyed, but not without a final teasing pinch that made me stifle a moan.
The rest of the journey was delicious torture. Every bump in the road reminded me of my state. When we finally arrived in Ambatolampy, I waited for everyone to get out before discreetly adjusting my trousers.
The aunt, a sturdy and cheerful woman named Mirana, welcomed us with hugs and cries of joy. The house was large for the region, built of solid materials, with an inner courtyard where a zebu was already roasting for the birthday meal. I met the birthday cousin, a twenty-year-old boy named Fanantenana, and his younger sister, a shy teenager called Miarisoa.
Everyone called me “Dadabe” (grandfather, out of respect for my age and vazaha status) and warmly thanked me for paying for the taxi.
Saturday was spent in celebration: huge meal, traditional dances, children running everywhere, kabary speeches for the birthday. I played my role perfectly: polite, generous, offering gifts (fabrics, sweets, a discreet envelope for the aunt). Ennemiah was radiant, proudly introducing me as her man.
But when evening came, reality caught up with me.
The house had only three small bedrooms. The children and cousins slept in one, the aunt and other guests in another. For the four of us – Lala, Tahina, Ennemiah and me – they had laid out a large mattress on the floor in the living room, with sheets and mosquito nets. Four places side by side, separated only by pillows.
I changed in the washroom, putting on loose pyjama trousers and a T-shirt, hoping it would be enough to protect me. When I came back, everyone was already lying down: Tahina near the wall, then Lala, then Ennemiah, and finally me on the edge. Lights out, only the sounds of the Malagasy night filtered through: crickets, distant dogs, murmurs from the neighbours.
I lay down stiff as a board, eyes wide open in the darkness. Ennemiah, right next to me, her mother on the other side of her. I could hear Lala’s regular breathing, already asleep. Tahina snored lightly.
And then I felt Ennemiah’s hand.
It slid slowly under the sheet, first looking for mine, then going lower. Her fingers brushed my thigh, then the fabric of my pyjamas. I squeezed her hand to stop her, but she insisted, gently, patiently.
I knew she wasn’t going to let go.
My heart was racing at a hundred miles an hour. I was afraid she would go too far, afraid I wouldn’t be able to control myself, afraid Lala would wake up, afraid of everything.
The night was going to be long.
Very long.