Chapter 20: Monday: Back to School Fashion

Omari woke up with a surge of energy, his heart pounding in his chest before his feet even touched the floor. The early morning sun barely peeked over the horizon, but he was already out the door, skipping breakfast entirely, too excited to even think of food. His mind was focused on one thing—Matumbo’s order. He had been entrusted with a task, one that made him feel excited just thinking about it. And now, with his new smartphone—a sleek, shiny gift from Matumbo the day before—clutched in his hand, Omari felt so happy.

The phone already held a secret, a 30-minute recording that he had watched over and over in disbelief. No one else had seen it yet. He wanted to wait for the right moment, to show it off to the right people, to receive the recognition he deserved for making such an earth-shattering discovery. The footage was gold—something that could elevate his status among Matumbo and the others. And it was all about Sylvia and Abuba. The memory of the images on the screen made his skin tingle with anticipation.

It took Omari less than ten seconds to cross the short distance between his hut and Sylvia’s. He moved silently, like a predator creeping up on its prey, every step calculated, every movement deliberate. He already knew Sylvia’s small cabin, two huts down from his own, lacked a door lock.

When he reached her door, he paused for a moment, listening to the stillness inside. His heart raced faster, his breath quickening. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly with excitement as they touched the door. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed it open, careful to avoid any creaks that might disturb the fragile silence.

As the door gave way, Omari slipped inside the lit, bright from morning Sunlight, the musty scent of the hut filling his nostrils. And then he saw it.

On the bed, just as Omari had expected, Abuba and Sylvia lay together. The sight of their bare bodies, voluptuous young white woman with her alabaster skin, and a skinny old local man with his dark, weathered skin, what a contrast. That, however, didn’t surprise him—not after what he had seen and recorded through the kitchen window the night before. He had been prepared for that much. But as he crept closer, his heart racing with excitement and disbelief, his breath hitched. He couldn’t believe what he was witnessing.

Abuba was propped up against the headboard, his wiry body resting on a pile of old, flattened pillows, his head leaning back against the wall. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of sleep. Sylvia was nestled against him in an almost childlike posture, her head resting on his lower belly, just inches from his crotch. No, not just close—right on it. Omari blinked, struggling to process the image before him.

His eyes followed the scene with increasing confusion and unease. Sylvia’s soft, alabaster skin of her face contrasted starkly against Abuba’s dark, leathery body. But that wasn’t what startled Omari the most. It was the way her lips were wrapped around Abuba’s flaccid penis, gently sucking on it as though it were a pacifier. Her expression was calm, peaceful even, her body limp with sleep, completely unaware of the obscene reality of the situation. Abuba’s penis, though long, was thin and entirely placid, laying between her lips without a hint of arousal. Yet Sylvia remained there, her lips moving softly in her sleep, as if this was somehow natural to her.

Omari was no expert when it came to these kinds of things—he had little experience with intimacy or sex—but even his instincts told him this wasn’t normal. He stepped back, his breathing shallow, his mind racing as he tried to make sense of it all. This was no ordinary situation. Omari knew instinctively that what he was seeing was far from any act of ‘normal’ intimacy—it was something darker, stranger, and far more unsettling.

Omari’s hands trembled as he lifted his smartphone, his excitement bubbling. He hurriedly unlocked the device, eager to capture this surreal moment on video, but as soon as he tried to start recording, a notification flashed on the screen. His heart sank. The memory was full. The cheap phone that Matumbo had bought him already had its memory full with almost an hour worth of video that he took.

Frustration surged through him. There was no time to clear out large files. He fumbled through the phone’s gallery, quickly deleting a few of the test pictures he had taken. Knowing he couldn’t waste more time on video, Omari settled for photos. He stepped back to capture the full scene first, framing the bed, the two naked bodies entangled in their strange, unconscious intimacy. The soft glow of the morning light filtered through the window next to the bed, casting lights on their glistening bodies that made the scene even more eerie.

Then, carefully, he moved in closer, inching toward the bed with each snap of the camera. His gaze shifted between the phone screen and the unsettling sight before him, ensuring that each image was clear, each detail sharp. He captured Abuba’s frail, old body resting against the headboard, and Sylvia, with her alabaster skin, lying beside him like a delicate doll in an obscene display.

Finally, Omari focused on what he knew would be the most shocking shot of all—the close-up. He leaned in, his breath caught in his throat as he centered the camera on Sylvia’s face. Her lips were still gently wrapped around Abuba’s flaccid penis, her expression peaceful, as if she were completely unaware of what she was doing. The contrast between her youthful, pretty face and the limp, darkened organ made his stomach twist, but he couldn’t stop. He zoomed in, focusing on the strange intimacy between them, the serene innocence in her expression, the placid, shriveled organ between her lips.

He pressed the shutter one final time, capturing the close-up he knew would shock anyone who saw it. If anyone had ever thought that what he and his friends did to this white woman with her crocodile tears, was forced, that she was some decent woman subjected to indecent acts against her will, Omari now had the proof to silence those doubters. “Think again, losers,” he thought, a wave of satisfaction washing over him as he stared at the images on his screen. Each photo was a trophy, along with his video last night, an undeniable record that, in his mind, justifying of him and his friends of bullying this woman.

Just as he was thinking of what to do next, there was movement on the bed. He saw Abuba’s eyes slowly fluttered open.

“Hey, Omari,” Abuba whispered groggily, blinking his eyes as they adjusted to the bright morning light of the room. He yawned, his voice soft but clear. “What are you doing?”

Omari opened his mouth, his mind racing for an explanation, but before he could get a word out, Abuba raised his hand and pressed a finger to his lips in a gentle gesture. “Shhhh ... Let’s not wake Sylvia up,” Abuba whispered, his tone affectionate and almost paternal. He glanced down at her, his expression softening. “She was so exhausted. We should let her rest. It’s too early.”

Abuba turned his head slightly, squinting at the small, battered clock hanging crookedly on the wall. “6:30 a.m.,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “She can sleep for another 30 minutes.”

Omari hadn’t expected Abuba to react with such calmness. His fingers twitched around the phone. Abuba acted as if nothing strange was happening, as if the scene they were part of was entirely normal.

“Hey, Mr. Abuba, what the fuck are you doing?” Omari hissed in a low, urgent tone, his mind struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. “Why is she sucking on your penis? This isn’t ... this isn’t sex, right? You guys were sleeping, and ... she’s still sleeping, sucking on your dick?” His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it trembled with a mix of confusion, and a hint of something darker.

Abuba didn’t seem fazed by Omari’s question. Instead, he looked at the African boy with a calm, almost gentle expression, as if explaining something completely ordinary. “Oh, you know,” he began softly, his voice carrying a strange warmth, “this comforts her. You have to understand, Omari, she’s all alone here. White woman, so naïve, so innocent, so young. It’s a very scary place for her.”

He paused, his eyes drifting down to Sylvia, who continued to suckle softly in her sleep, completely unaware of their conversation. “And you know,” Abuba continued, his tone almost fatherly, “the things you and your friends did to her ... I know it’s all fun and games for you boys, but she’s scared, you know? Really scared. She’s not like us, not used to this kind of life. So, I let her ... suck on my popsicle while she sleeps. It comforts her.”

Omari looked at Abuba. The old man’s words sounded almost absurd, but the sincerity in his voice made Omari hesitate. Abuba genuinely seemed to believe what he was saying, that this bizarre, twisted act was somehow an act of comfort, a way to soothe Sylvia’s fears in this terrifying place.

“Yeah, I don’t care,” Omari answered back, his voice low but seething with disgust. “This is sick. And you know what? I saw you guys last night too. I saw everything.”

Abuba looked at him, confused, but Omari didn’t stop. His eyes narrowed as he leaned in closer, his voice harsh and dripping with revulsion. “You ass-fucked her with my dildo stick. By the way, I made that,” he added with a twisted smirk, as if that small detail somehow added weight to the perversity of it all. “And she ... she was fucking herself with a cucumber, one hand shoving it inside, and then, she pulled it out to spank her own pussy with a spatula in the other hand, saying ‘bad pussy,’ ‘bad pussy.’”

He shook his head, his mind still reeling from the sight. “That’s the sickest thing—if not the sickest, definitely the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, a mixture of repulsion and perverse fascination lacing his words.

Abuba looked at him, his expression unchanging, as though none of this disturbed him.

“You know,” Omari continued, his tone shifting, a calculating edge creeping into his voice, “I’m wondering who to show, and when to show my videos and pictures. No one’s gonna believe me until they see it for themselves. I’ve got proof, man. Proof that you two aren’t just ‘friends,’ that you’re not just two wholesome people, two humanitarian aid workers—one from a rich white country, and one a local old man—united by your so-called desire to help people ... Yeah, right.”

He sneered, his eyes narrowing as he watched Abuba closely, gauging his reaction. “You two are united in a sick sexual game, that’s what this is, right? Just as twisted as what I saw last night. You think you’re comforting her?” Omari shook his head, his disgust mingled with a twisted sense of superiority. “Compared to that, the games me and my buddies play with her—man, that’s nothing. Just innocent fun, just messing around. What we do isn’t sick like what you and she do.”

Omari felt the words spill out of him with a strange kind of satisfaction. He knew Abuba wouldn’t have a defense for what he had captured. In his mind, Omari and his friends were just playing, just having their fun at Sylvia’s expense. But what he had seen between her and Abuba—that was a different level of depravity.

Abuba, in his slow, deliberate manner, responded quietly, “Whatever you think is fine, my young man. Just know, I don’t force her to do anything against her will. What I do ... comforts her. And I will continue to comfort her, just like I comforted my daughter when she needed me.”

There was a pause, and his weathered face softened as he mentioned his daughter. “You know about my daughter, don’t you? Have you ever heard of her?”

Omari didn’t know her as she died before he was even born, but had certainly heard the stories. She was a fragile, skinny woman who had been caught stealing a few times as Abuba back then didn’t have a job and drank all the time. Each time, she was stripped naked and beaten on the street by the store owners and made to run back home naked. There was a rumor that Abuba, a widower, slept with his daughter. And the tales circulated through the island like ghost stories, and everyone knew about the last time. The police had caught her stealing again and decided to make an example of her, beating her in the street. She was stripped bare in front of the crowd, her frail body exposed, and they tied her legs wide open to two trees. They whipped her relentlessly, and when that wasn’t enough, they beat her in the most humiliating way imaginable—targeting her crotch with brutal strikes.

Omari had heard that her pelvic bone had shattered from the blows. Even after it broke, the police kept hitting her there, her fragile body helpless against the onslaught. It was said that Abuba had been there, watching the entire thing unfold, powerless to intervene as his daughter was tortured in front of him. When it was finally over, Abuba had dragged her broken body home. She died before they reached their door.

Omari remembered hearing that story about this old man, Abuba had gone mad with grief and disappeared into the mountains. He came back years later, seemingly calm and composed, but whispers circulated that he had never truly recovered. People said he had gone soft in the head, that he wasn’t violent but ... strange. They said he had sex with his animals in his mountain cabin, and when he shared his thoughts, which he rarely did, but when he did, he said some of the weirdest things one can say, about still having sex with his daughter who had died decades earlier every night.

Omari stood there, finally understanding why the people of the island said Abuba was still crazy even though on the surface, he was now a respected figure hired by the Humanitarian Aid organization, had spent the last few years going around the island with white volunteers, handing out food and supplies.

Now here he was, with one of those white humanitarian aid workers; the most beautiful one ever, one who couldn’t leave the island, lying naked and sucking his flaccid penis. The irony hit Omari like a punchline to some sick joke. He almost felt sorry for the old man, but as his gaze drifted back to the white woman, he chuckled at the sight in front of him.

Sylvia’s mouth, still latched onto Abuba’s limp member, suddenly began to move faster, her lips tightening around him as she sucked harder. Omari’s eyes widened in surprise. She pulled her head back for a moment, mumbling in her sleep, “Oh daddy, daddy, please, please help me ... please come and get me, please ... Daddy, I’m here,” before hurriedly returning to sucking again, her hand lifting Abuba’s penis like it was a popsicle handle.

Omari nearly burst out laughing at the sight. This woman was so lost in her dream, she didn’t even realize what she was doing. And Abuba, with his hand gently resting on her head, whispered, “Oh, poor Sylvia. Yes, suck your daddy’s popsicle. Suck it, baby.”

Omari’s lips curled into a twisted smile. What a crazy duo, he thought. A deranged old man and a white aid worker, stuck in this bizarre, perverse situation. He was witnessing something no one would ever believe unless they saw it with their own eyes. The sickest part? It didn’t even seem forced. It was just ... twisted.

“Hey, Uncle Abuba, by the way, is it true that you have sex with animals in your mountain hut? That’s what people told me. Come on, tell me.” Omari didn’t know why it came to his mind all of a sudden but it was something he had heard while ago and had wondered if it was true or just a false rumor about this man. He waited eagerly for Abuba’s response.

Abuba didn’t answer at first, his face remaining as calm as before.

“Come on, I already know your secret,” Omari insisted, pointing to his smartphone. “Tell me, I was so curious. Just spill it.”

Abuba finally spoke, his voice still calm, unbothered by Omari’s prying. “No, I care for them. I love my animals,” he said slowly. “But you must understand ... they are not really animals. They are dragon dogs. They are different from dogs. They only live on Aprico Island. They’re smarter than some people, and they have feelings.”

Omari’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “So, you do fuck them?”

“As I said,” Abuba continued in his measured tone, “I care for them. Like I care for Sylvia. And soon ... I’m going to introduce them to each other. Maybe Sylvia and my dragon dogs can comfort each other.”

Omari’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “Wait, you mean ... you’re going to have your dogs fuck ... fuck her?” he stammered, speaking louder than he had intended.

At that moment, Sylvia stirred. Slowly, she lifted her head, still in a daze, Abuba’s long, flaccid penis still in her mouth. Her eyes blinked groggily as she registered the two men speaking above her, her lips still gently suckling out of some half-conscious habit.

As Sylvia slowly gathered her bearings, she blinked herself awake, her blurry vision clearing just enough to recognize Omari standing right in front of her bed, talking to Abuba. Her heart dropped, panic flooding her senses. She suddenly became aware of where she was—naked on her own bed—and more horrifyingly, what she was doing. She was still suckling on Abuba’s limp penis.

Her eyes shot wide open, like she had been jolted by an electric shock. She bolted upright from the bed, her body moving before her mind could even catch up. She didn’t know what to do, instinctively grabbing her shirt hanging from the kitchen table chair next to the bed. She clutched it against her chest, desperately trying to cover her large breasts, while her other hand flew down to cup her crotch in a frantic attempt to hide herself. She slouched forward, her body shrinking inward, trying to make herself as small as possible in this moment of utter humiliation.

“Oh ... oh ... Omari,” she stammered, her voice trembling with desperation and shame. “Please, this is not what you think ... This is not ... This is not how it looks, no ... oh...” She tripped over her words, each plea laced with raw panic.

Her face turned crimson, her cheeks flushed with deep embarrassment. She had been discovered in the worst, most humiliating situation imaginable. The sight of the African boy’s wide-eyed gaze, the amused smirk on his lips, and Abuba’s calm, oblivious expression only deepened her sense of disgrace. The overwhelming feeling of exposure made her knees weak, her heart pounding as she struggled to comprehend how things had spiraled so horribly out of control.

Omari leaned in, his smile stretching wider with each passing second, savoring Sylvia’s frantic, pitiful attempts to explain herself. “Well, Auntie Snow,” he began, mockingly, his voice oozing with twisted amusement. “If this isn’t what I think it is, then what was it? Why are you naked with Abuba, this old negro, and why are you sucking on his penis in your sleep?”

Sylvia’s face grew even redder, her breath quickening as she opened and closed her mouth, trying to find words that would make this nightmare go away. Omari wasn’t going to let her off that easily.

“Auntie Snow,” he pressed on, relishing the growing panic in her eyes, “please explain that. I’ve been here for the last 15 minutes watching you suck on his penis and saying, ‘oh daddy, oh daddy... ‘“ He mimicked her voice in a mocking falsetto, chuckling cruelly. “So, what were you doing, Auntie Snow?”

The cruel delight Omari found in her shame was unmistakable. The thrill of watching her crumble, the power he held over her, was intoxicating. Seeing her squirm, mortified, trying to hide her naked body while stammering useless excuses only made the moment sweeter for him. He had seen this beautiful white woman in agony and humiliation before, but this—this moment of pure, raw shame—was different. It gave him a satisfaction that almost rivaled the moments when she screamed in pain from Kumba’s rubber rod striking her vulva.

Sylvia’s mind raced, but no coherent thoughts could form. She was overwhelmed by a tumult of emotions—embarrassment, shame, and a desperate sense of hopelessness. Her lips trembled as she tried to find words, but all that came out were stammered pleas. “Please, Omari, please don’t tell anyone ... Please ... don’t tell anyone,” she begged, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face.

Her sobs filled the room, each sound a stark contrast to the cruel delight on Omari’s face. Abuba, meanwhile, got up from the bed with a slow, deliberate motion. He approached Sylvia with a strange calmness, as if the situation were perfectly normal. His hand moved to her crotch, as though that was the most appropriate place to offer comfort. His touch was disturbingly intimate, not like the comforting gestures one might expect—such as placing a hand on her shoulder or head. Instead, he cupped her hand over her own vulva, his fingers gently pushing hers aside.

When Abuba realized he couldn’t cup her vulva with her hand over it, his other hand slid from behind, between her buttocks and his fingers making direct contact with her vulva from behind. He felt Sylvia flinch. He gently cupped and squeezed her, trying to offer a sense of reassurance. “Hey, Sylvia, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said in his slow, measured tone. “You’re just sucking daddy’s popsicle for comfort. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

As he spoke, his other hand moved with an unsettling familiarity. He pushed Sylvia’s shirt aside and nudged her arm away, making room to grasp her large breasts. His fingers squeezed and released them in a slow, methodical motion. The contrast between his touch and the grotesque situation she found herself in was jarring.

Sylvia stood there, paralyzed by confusion and overwhelming shame. She was caught between her instincts to resist and the realization that she had no control over the situation. Her body felt heavy, her mind unable to process the humiliation. She didn’t know how to fight back anymore, her sense of dignity and control slipping away as the moments dragged on. The room seemed to close in on her, the weight of her helplessness and the cold, mocking gaze of Omari pushing her further into despair.

Abuba spoke in a voice that was almost soothing, his words carrying a twisted sense of calm. “Don’t you want me to comfort you?” he said gently. “No need to be embarrassed just because it’s in front of Omari. I told you, things become sexual only if you want them to be. Let’s show this boy it’s not sexual. You’re so much better than that. Drop that shirt and lift your hands over your head. Show this boy you like my comforting hand, not sexually, but as comfort because I’m your new daddy. Daddy comforting his little girl. Let’s show the boy.”

Sylvia felt a sinking sense of resignation. Abuba, despite his derangement, had been the only one who showed her any form of care, even if it was warped. He didn’t seem to understand the true nature of the situation; in his mind, his actions were a form of comfort. With trembling hands and a heart heavy with shame, she began to follow his instructions.

Slowly, she dropped her shirt, letting it fall to the floor, exposing her naked form fully. Her hands rose above her head, fingers curling slightly as she struggled to maintain her composure. Her head lowered, casting her face in shadow, trying to shield it from Omari’s gaze, as if hiding her face would somehow shield her dignity.

Abuba’s presence loomed over her, his touch a disturbing contrast to the supposed comfort he intended to provide. His right hand reached from behind, fingers sliding between her legs to grope her vulva with a slow, deliberate pressure. The touch was invasive, yet his manner was as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His left hand alternated, caressing and groping her large breasts, the movements methodical and oddly affectionate, as though he were tenderly caring for a cherished object rather than a woman in distress.

Sylvia stood there, slouching, her posture a stark contrast to the chaotic emotions roiling within her. Her hands were held high above her head, her body exposed and vulnerable. Her posture was a mix of reluctant surrender and the desperate hope to somehow appease the twisted sense of “comfort” Abuba was offering. The scene was grotesque and surreal: a naked woman caught in a moment of profound humiliation, her old protector’s hands continuing their unwelcome exploration, while her neighbor, her landlord’s boy, Omari, looked on with a cruel, amused smirk.

Omari had to bite his lip to keep from bursting into laughter. The scene before him was too absurd, too outrageous, and the twisted power dynamics thrilled him. He watched with gleeful amusement, unable to believe how easily Abuba, this old, deranged man, had manipulated Sylvia—the most naive white woman he’d ever met. She seemed so helpless, so simple, almost stupid, he thought. How could anyone let themselves be so completely controlled, by this crazy old man? But what Omari failed to realize was that it wasn’t Sylvia’s nativity. She wasn’t stupid.

The truth was far more complex than Omari’s shallow perception. Sylvia had endured hell on Aprico Island—seven days of relentless assault, rape, torture, and public humiliation. Day after day, her body was violated, her dignity stripped in front of laughing crowds. She had been left completely broken, with no support, no allies, no way out. The government’s anti-foreigner decree had trapped her here, isolating her in this nightmare with no hope of rescue. Even if by some miracle the government repealed the decree, it wouldn’t undo the pain she’d suffered, nor would it heal the deep wounds imprinted on her mind and soul. She was in survival mode, her very existence hanging by a thread, and there was nothing in her control to stop it.

Abuba, for all his madness, was the only person who hadn’t sought to inflict pain on her. Yes, he was deranged, his version of “comfort” disturbing, but he had not hurt her the way others had. He hadn’t taken joy in her suffering or tormented her for amusement. In his mind, he was helping, offering her a twisted kind of solace amidst the chaos. How could Sylvia resist that? She couldn’t. She was trapped, and rejecting the only person who acted as her friend—even if that friendship was a product of a fractured mind—was something she couldn’t afford to do. She needed him. Desperately.

Omari, with all his sadistic delight, couldn’t see any of this. He was blinded by his own cruel enjoyment, relishing in the spectacle of Sylvia’s humiliation. To him, she was just another victim to mock and torment, another target for his bullying. He didn’t feel the depth of Sylvia’s misery, didn’t see the agony she fought to suppress every waking moment. He had no clue what it meant to be truly broken, to cling to the one person who offered even the faintest semblance of safety. In that sense, it was Omari who was naive—too wrapped up in his sadism to recognize the sheer desperation it took for this beautiful white woman to survive, and how much she had already sacrificed just to make it through each day.

“Wow, we’re gonna be late for school!” Omari glanced at the clock on the wall, the smirk never leaving his face. “Okay, let me tell you why I’m here.” He turned toward Abuba. “Uncle Abuba, stop groping her, please. I know this bitch in heat, and if she gets going, she’ll hit a climax that goes on forever, and trust me, it’s unstoppable.” He chuckled darkly, as if it were some sort of inside joke.

Sylvia’s heart sank even further. Her cheeks flushed crimson, burning with humiliation. The nickname “bitch in heat” had followed her ever since the first time she had lost control in front of towns people—her body betraying her, consumed by wave after wave of explosive, uncontrollable orgasms. The way they mocked her, reduced her to nothing more than a joke, made her want to disappear, to crawl into a hole and never emerge.

What they didn’t know—what Sylvia alone knew—was that this wasn’t some twisted sexual craving or lust they accused her of having. It was a disorder. Hyper-Libido Disorder, a hormonal imbalance that drove her body to respond this way, no matter how much she tried to suppress it. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t the “bitch in heat” they so cruelly labeled her as. She was suffering, and every time they laughed or teased her for something beyond her control, it tore at her soul a little more.

Omari’s laughter echoed in her ears, another stab in an already bleeding wound. She stood there, her body still vulnerable and exposed, and she could feel their eyes on her—not with sympathy, not with kindness—but with perverse curiosity, as though she were some kind of bizarre animal in heat to be mocked and ridiculed. The shame was unbearable, but what hurt more was knowing they would never understand. They couldn’t see the pain beneath the surface, the turmoil, the battle she waged inside her own body every single day.

Abuba let go of Sylvia gently. He also knew how easily she could be triggered into losing control—he had also seen it countless times before. In his mind, he was already her sexual therapist; he believed he was helping her, training her to resist the overwhelming heat that seemed to consume her. He saw himself as her hope, the one who could calm the fire in her body and prevent her from being what they all called her—a “bitch in heat,” through his repeated training. Not that this was the time for that, as Omari had pointed out, they all needed to leave soon.