When I was thirteen, in secondary school form two and I had to manage a tin of milo for an entire month, I made a solemn promise to myself. I decided that when I grew up, and I had my own money I will drink at least five cups of thick milo everyday, waste one full tin of ideal milk in every cup, spread planta margarine in a loaf of hot tea bread and eat my heart out.
Twenty two years on, I earn Ghc4,735 a month after taxes, I drive a 2013 Toyota Corolla, I live in a beautiful house in East Legon, I travel business class at least once every year but I hate bread. I prefer tea with one cube sugar. Black.
So this particular night I am staring at my husband and wondering what happened to all those cravings I used to have for him when we first married five years ago. Because like my lack of hunger for thick milo, bread and butter I had no sexual desires whatsoever for this guy who once gave me multiple orgasms under ten minutes in the shower.
We were having our usual Friday girl’s hang out at our favorite restaurant. Serwaa Boateng had the floor. She was on her fifth glass of red wine, had let down her long natural locks and was not nearly done spewing her guts.
Luckily we had booked the private room on Monday so we had the space to ourselves. Five girls, all in our mid thirties, gainfully employed, two mothers, two wives, one divorcee, all in thriving relationships with attractive successful African men, all sexually frustrated.
‘For the second time in a row this week I had to imagine myself being hammered by a faceless dirty looking plumber to reach org*sm whiles my husband worked his skills on top of me’ Serwaa blurted out again. She was tipsy. Anytime now she was going to trip over her shoes lying nearby and succumb to gravity. I went to her and led her back to her seat. She laughed her frustration and asked for more wine.
Before Serwaa, most of the girls in the room had vented.
Obviously there were a lot more questions than answers. We were wondering why the cravings had changed. Why Fanta didn’t taste as good anymore? Why chicken and rice was nothing special at Christmas and why the hell did Piccadilly Biscuits tasted like chalk?