A dream can be the highest point of a life.

 

A dream can be the highest point of a life. He always talked about how my mind was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. He talked about the world he saw in my eyes, the one he wanted to be a part of. He said that again as his lips gave soft kisses to the length of my neck, hands on my ass drawing my close to feel his hardness. He smiled at me and my whole world would fall apart. I was like melting chocolate in his hands. ‘I will always love you” he promised as his lips claimed mine with a vengeful purpose. That was when I knew it was a dream. Cyril would never promise me love. I wish I was able to realize our eight months relationship was a dream too and woken up just in time to save my heart. I woke up to a new pain. Reminiscing and bleeding afresh...

“Remember there's a part of you that no pain can ever break”, Cassandra said softly holding me close. I knew deep down inside she was scared I may resolve to suicide. I was never the happy kind. I remember how I always struggled to find happy moments to keep me warm and now Cyril took all that away with him, leaving me struggling for the willpower to live. The darkness was beginning to show on me. I grew leaner. My voice began to disappear. My eyes hid from the world, retreating into the depths of my head’s dreaming. My bones became more visible. My blouse began to slip from my shoulders. It was a mirror reflecting what was inside. Somehow I wanted him to stick around so he could see what he did, behold what I had become. I wish before he took off running, he stayed to watch my heart break. Watch me bleed for him, for his lies, for the promises he didn’t keep. They would all tell you they wouldn’t hurt you, but then it just makes it more exciting for them when they let your heart fall and smash into the littlest pieces.

“Your dark days are not forever”

Thelma’s whole head was sick, her whole heart faint. From the sole of the foot to the head, there was no soundness in it. It was full of bruises, sores and bleeding wounds. Most of them unseen. She had been hurt a bit too much for her health. Her emptiness was like that of a desolate land. She sings herself to sleep each night, songs of heart break, the rhythmless song of the names of her lovers. The ones she had given her heart to. The ones that had broken it. She had known strangers, maybe a little too many in the name of looking for love. The strength of the poor is in their hunger. We are known to thirst most for the things that we are deprived of. So she tried to ignore the many strange hands that knew her body. She tried to make these people stay and grow to love her. Maybe her desperation made her ugly, maybe it made them run. But at the end of it she was cold and alone. Soon she stopped believing. It all become dreams and fairy tales till she met Bola. Love is love, I’ve come to believe. Wherever you find it, as long as it is true, hold onto it and never let it go. Bola had been a lesbian since high school. On the other hand, Thelma had known only men. But when friendship blossoms in something we cannot explain, the unexpected happens. From comforting heart-to-hearts to heated make out sessions, Thelma found happiness and knew true companionship. The dark shadows that clouded her countenance have risen and she smiles these days, smiles as bright as the sun.

Ojo had been searching for a job for forever. Maybe a bit longer than that. His face had lines that told stories of his journey of hardship, of poverty, of problems. Mama Ijesha never stopped being one of his prominent problems. His landlady had extreme ways of embarrassing those who couldn’t pay rents before the set deadlines. She had called him all sorts of names, thrown him out, and more. His fellow tenants were cold to him, always looking at him with scorn like he was the cause of their poverty as well. They would murmur behind him, some of the women hissed in contempt and snapped their fingers at his back. His mother was sick in the village, nearing her death more each day as he couldn’t afford to save her. A poor man cannot find sleep in the midst of his many problems. He had gone from church to church looking for prosperity and financial healing. He only came out poorer than before. He couldn’t even afford a wife. Laide, the girl he intended to get married to, could not bear enough to wait for him. She insulted him to his face and became another man’s wife. Poverty ate deep, deep into his small sack of garri, deep into his worn out clothes, deep into the holes in his shoes. He had given up.  People had to be poor for others to be called rich. He was beginning to embrace his fate. Till Mrs Anjola got interested in him and what he could offer. She paved a way out of his misery for pleasurable satisfaction. He got a job through keeping her warm on cold nights and working himself so hard inbetween her legs. He got new clothes and shoes, and an apartment spitting on Mama Ijesha in the face. He was able to pay the hospital bills for the treatment of his sick mother and live a comfortable life. Good life is showing on him, you could hardly see those hard lines on his now chubby face.

3 October, 2013.

I remember the days when Father would come home singing his depression a bit too loudly in his drunk state.  He would sing his poverty and bitterness in songs only him and his beer understood. Papa’s problem was refusing to accept the truth of his poverty. His wealthy days as a trader still haunted him.  He would throw parties his jobless pockets could not afford. He wore his pride like a knightly armor. An armor that couldn’t protect him from the truth that cut deeper than knives. He was his own downfall. I always pitied Mother on such nights. He made her suffer for his temporal madness. The silence of the night was naked enough for one to hear her hushed pleas to him in their bedroom. She was a strong Nigerian woman, the perfect wife, submissive and never giving her own opinion. We were silent too. We knew better than to advice father against the things he could not afford. I remember the whispers behind our backs when my sister and I went with Mother to the market. Gossips of Father’s not-so-secret lover. The world is open to all, everything has ears, and nothing can be hidden. Mother didn’t even flinch. She was devoted as a saint. I knew she had heard because I heard her prayers that night to the Virgin Mother to have her husband back from the claws of the whores that held him captive.

I remember how I grew to hate men. I bought myself a dildo and never looked back. I got obsessed with being successful and replaced a man’s love with late nights at work. I was an independent woman, strong like a brick. I worked long hours to forget my drunk father. I worked long hours to forget my abused mother. I worked long hours to forget the nights my dad’s brother crept into my room. His sweaty fat body on my fragile one, his breath reeking of kola nut and beer close to my face. I remember how I became a woman way too fast. My innocence and virtue ripped right from my tender hands. I remember crying silent prayers for him to be struck dead by lightening even as he roughly satisfied his dirty lustful desires on me. How I wondered whether his wife slept too deeply to realize her husband had left her bed. How I couldn’t tell anyhow. Fear held my mouth shut. I remembered my silent tears full of hate and spite. Somehow I was afraid of myself and what I had become. I craved to be held in the arms of a man on cold nights. I craved for love and things my heart did not believe existed. Those nights, those dreadful memories would replay and I would again bleed afresh. I knew my burden, I accepted my truth. My scars were not ones that time could heal.

30 September, 2013.

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. - Jeremiah 29:11


And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them. Romans 8:28

Bimpe had been waiting for two hours now since church closed. She needed to see Pastor Matthews. With the seriousness of her situation , she was ready to do a whole lot more than wait two hours. She was tired of whatever misfortune that followed her. She needed big men that rode big cars. Her problem was that she attracted the wrong kind. She believed the solution to her problem was to go to God. She had earlier kept vigils, crying to God in the darkness of the night to bring her some happiness in form of a young man in a big car. But somehow God hadn't heard. So she came to the church. Pastor Matthews however found her problem hilarious. "Pastor, look at me", she said desperately trying to make him understand. "I deserve better than okada riders and mechanics. I need my breakthrough. This is not the plan God has for me." Pastor Matthews was at loss of what to say. He said some comforting words and prayed with her. That night she dreamt of the life she wanted. Exotic hotels, big men boyfriends who rode range rovers. However she woke up to the reality of her misery. She found Alhaji Aminu weeks later and abandoned the church for hotel bars. She has got the blessings of the Lord now, just hugging old pot bellied men in different beds. She has got two jeeps now and apartments in the best part of town. She has got everything now. Everything but what she needs to fill that hole that keeps growing within.

25 September 2013.

I havent written because I'm too afraid to write
I'm afraid of words
I'm afraid to give them expression and meaning.
I'm afraid of the thoughts in my head.
But today I'm determined to overcome that.
Hope you enjoy today's post.

Its almost October. Simi hated the rain. She had not left the house and it was raining already. Umbrellas were useless. Frail things that couldnt even withstand the wind. It was always a tug of war to hold the umbrella right against the wind. With an umbrella, one would get wet still anyway. It rained almost everyday these days. Heavy droplets of water hitting you everywhere that hurts most. They felt like hail stones falling from the sky to her. Getting wet could be so annoying when it meant ruining your weave, getting your clothes and your shoes soaked. There were mornings when she would cry under the rain out of frustration. She screamed at the skies in her head for the fear of being considered to be mad. Not that she cared. No one cared about her to notice even if she was mad. She hated the rain the same way she hated work. Emptiness and depression made her whole. Today she's on her desk meditating over Cyril's pictures on instagram dreaming of her day of release. She was tired of crossing the road, the long walks and the bus rides. She hated the hard life. She needed her good days to come to her. Days were her fantasies would become more than what they are. She looked at Cyril's picture again. His middle fingers were thrust upwards in it. She bit her lips thinking of what those fingers could do if they were thrust up, up into her. However it was his eyes that appealed to her most. The evil glint in them like they knew she was looking. Those eyes suggested a whole lot of dirty things and she was game to each and everyone of them. She liked the way he lived. He lived in the pictures with no care for the world. She loves that. Maybe one day he would reply the Facebook message she sent a year ago, and maybe, just maybe, this fantasy would be more than what it is.

Too Thirsty to be Proper (Part 2)

I head to the airport by 11:30 for my 1 o'clock flight. The long drive to the Abuja airport is soothing, calming. One of the reasons, I wouldn’t live anywhere else in Nigeria. I like the calm. I’m trying to drift to sleep; it would be at least 45 minutes before I get to the airport. I flip open the pages of my novel, grab my phone and the text you

         Me: "Lagos soon boo", I delete the o's from boo.

         You: Safe b, expecting you *hug smiley*

                          *******************************************

 The 1 hour flight is much too long and awkward. I hate air travel. Land travelling is my niche, staring at the landscape, digesting the calm. The road could tell many stories. I would stare for hours, wondering what people took the road before me, their stories, those who ended here. It was always a sober affair. Air travel was different, the plane I’m always afraid of. All I ever think about is the gruesome past, where I opened the paper to news of many of my mates, dying, burned by fire. I say a silent prayer. I get on board chewing gum meticulously, it stops my air sickness. The elderly man in grey who sits beside me is fascinated by my Helen Oyeyemi book, Mr. Fox; I offer him a polite smile shutting the book. I'm in no mood for conversations. I put my headphones selecting my Miguel playlist; (his voice sounds like sex). I lay back, trying to relax. The seat belt is discomforting. I keep repeating in my head “it’s only an hour”.

I try to fall asleep; hopefully, I’ll sleep through the flight. I let my mind wander to some night that will never happen. We’re in your room, home alone watching some horror movie. I hate horror movies, I can’t stand them, and I detest their morbid scenarios. Yet I choose horror so I can clutch tight in fear. I just like to cling so close that I can take in your musky bvlgari scent.

You smile tilting your lips to one side, I love when you do that "this movie is torturing you why do you even attempt to watch it" You turn the tv off.

You drag my hands up to your lips and kiss it playfully. I’m smiling like an idiot, you kiss my lips, I can’t speak, and I’m too busy muzzling the sound in my throat. I kiss you back softly, rhythmically, then getting violent. Your hands are travelling up my thighs gently.

                                     *********************************************

"We will be landing in MMA 2 in 5 minutes" the pilots deep shrill voice interrupts my fantasy “Flight attendants, prepare for landing please.”

“Cabin crew, please take your seats for landing.”

I smile at the olive skinned air hostess that passes by. Packing my ipod and purse into my bag, I brace myself for landing.

                                        *******************************************

Landing was smoother than I expected. At least I’m still alive. I text you again

       Me: "b, I’m in Lagos *dancing smiley*

        You: *Many dancing smileys* I'll pick you up, I’m already on my way to school

                   You’ll wait for me?

                   Right?

I smile to myself stupidly to myself, I’m tempted to dance. I’ll wait 5 minutes to reply, can’t seem too desperate. I waited 4.

        Me: Ok I guess, it’ll will save me cab money *large smile smiley*

                Don't make me wait long

        You: lol, yes ma, give me 10 minutes

I dance a well-rehearsed azonto on the inside.

                       *********************************

You come out of your black Volkswagen car, half strutting. I renew my love for black all over again. The car is black and sleek, something you see in an advert. You blink your eyes a bit, shading your eyes from the sun. I’m not sure if you don’t see clearly or if it’s part of your cool act. Your eyes stray all around and settle on me smiling. I’m watching you walk towards me, thinking of how best to position my face. I attempt a smile before you plant a kiss on my fore head lock me in your hold

“I’ve missed you bad” you said, squeezing me too tight.

Your hug is much too tight but I feel my body relax, taking in that familiar scent, I try not to moan. In my mind my alter ego is doing something braver, kissing you passionately saying I love you.

As for me I said “you’re trying to kill me with your hug” then “I missed you too” in a lower tone.

I never want to let you go. It’s more than a hug. I feel pleasure shoot through my body and my female parts moisten. I felt your hard chest like they were directly against my nipples. I'm trying so hard to coordinate myself here.

You smile again letting me go “Lets head to school”

The journey was a blur, talking about insignificant events, avoiding any real emotions. How Lagos traffic is horrible, how Abuja clubs are boring, how awesome Lagos nightlife is. We drove towards school chatting all the way. We were happy or at least I was.

                            ************************************************

School was just as I left it the tall buildings with cream walls, carpet grass well cut. I was hoping it would change a bit, I don’t know. In honour of its loss, that I had left it, but it didn’t weep for me. Nothing changed. I buzzed round exchanging pleasantries and stories with my ex-classmates, many of us had not changed, many had changed much.

The evening went by fast, it was 9pm before I realized. My bags were in your car, I didn’t know where you were. Your girlfriend I remembered with a pang, oh well. I dialled your number

“It’s late, where are you?” I could hear the needy emotions in my own voice

“My stuff is in your car” I added quickly, I didn’t want to sound like a nagging wife

“Ohh, yeah,” he said happily, he sounded almost drunk, probably drunk on love from his girlfriend

“I’m sorry, I’m at the hotel, just beside the school gate, and I’m lodging there tonight”

I almost slap him through the phone “and my load?”

“I can’t stand their mediocre accommodation the school life offers” he continues playfully “I could bring your load over, where are you sleeping”

Awkward pause

“My room is cosy” he continues

I laugh loudly “I’m staying in the hotel too, will call you when I get there. I’ll stop at Ikeja and pick up a whore for you”

“no I want you” I can almost hear the smirk on his face

“see you in a bit” I press end

                        *******************************

The hotel is packed full, not too full to run out of rooms. I’m sighing on the inside, would have been such a perfect excuse to sleep your room. You dropped my bag and lingered. You wanted to stay, I wanted you to stay. None of us wanted to speak out, to ask, to become the more vulnerable one. You left. Saying you had to do something, I didn’t hear what, I was weeping on the inside.

                         *************************************

12:15am, I’m still up the air conditioner is set at its highest, I'm wrapped under the duvet, holding open my Mr. Fox book. I don’t want to think about you, not now. You’re with your girlfriend, having a good time. I shut the book and listen to Lana Del Rey. I resolved to be strong, I deserve better than someone’s boyfriend. I recite the whole book of lies to myself

You called, in a deep low voice said “why are you not asleep”

I listen carefully to the background, no moaning girlfriend, and no other voices. Silence.

“Your room is so quiet” I finally reply

 “I’m coming over, let’s do something fun” you’re talking fast “I’m bored” you added

“yeah of course” I said throwing off my hair net

I rushed to the mirror, checking the angles on my face. I had no makeup on. My eyes were still very dark. I put my finger through my hair, scattering it. Perfect.

My heart is beating now. I'm restless and nervous at the same time. I half want to tell you not to come. I would do something stupid, I could feel it.

You knocked twice “midnight booty call”

I opened the door laughing “I only have coins for you today”

“No worries” you said passing by into the room “I’ve worked for less”

We both giggle happily

"I brought some weed" you whisper in my ear, a bit too close. I’m uncomfortable now. I’ve always been proper, I’ve never smoked weed.

“Don’t be a bore, let’s smoke a joint” you’re still whispering, you bite my ears playfully. I ease up, at this very moment I would sniff cocaine if you wanted us to.

I nod “just this one time” and it was, I never got high, too clumsily puffing the smoke away. What did I know about weed? Whatever. I doubt you got high too, You lit it up and inhaled deeply, closing your eyes. I don’t remember clearly, it was all so funny. You rolled on the bed towards me, your breathe tickling my skin. Your lips pulled at my right ear. My heart sang warning songs, blowing sirens to leave. I ignored it. You were so close. Close enough to feel my racing heart. I wasn’t thinking. All I knew was that I wanted you.

Maybe, I was high. I'm not an expert at smoking weed. I just tried not to disappoint you. I felt reckless, a bit beyond reckless. Shameless maybe. My body shamelessly wrapped around yours. Your lips stayed on mine for a minute, and then trailed down to my neck. I was mumbling senselessly, looking for the word “stop”. You found this amusing. Smiling and kissing the nape of my neck. You tuck my weave behind my ears, looking right in my eyes. Your hazel eyes seem to pierce through me. Seeing me unhinged by need fueled you.

I could not breathe. I was gasping for air, like a drowning man. Drowning in desire. Somehow I forgot to breathe. It was just the way I saw it in my head. Even better. Maybe I'm dreaming. Maybe it’s the weed. I was moaning your name. The weed has managed to cloud my sense of reasoning.  I don’t remember to be proper. I don’t even think, your cold hands are under my shirt, the big one which says I love London, I love you more. You pull my shirt up, sucking my nipples my legs are still wrapped around you, “stop..” I managed to whisper. Not loud enough, you’re stroking my thighs. I'm holding onto you now, moaning uncontrollably, a bit too loud. I cannot remember how you managed to get my shirt off; it was all I had on. But I remember how you bit my nipple softly, that made me shiver in pleasure and my fingers dig into your back. I loved what I saw in your eyes. I wanted that moment to freeze, a permanent picture in my head of the desire in them. You wanted just me at the moment, and in that moment it was enough. You pulled me closer, The Weeknd was playing in the background.. I felt you inside of me, slowly, up and down, then gently. I bit my lips so I wouldn’t cry. You were gentle and aggressive at the same time, going in deeper and deeper till we fitted perfectly, together, tightly like hair braids. You were big. Big enough to bring that pleasure pain. You knew how to make my body dance. I whined and grinded to your rhythm with you inside me. You scream-moaned my name and rolled over beside me. We both laughed.

"Too Thirsty To Be Proper." PART 1. By @Dam_Xo and I.

It's been 3 months since we wore those long, large gowns the color of carpet grass. I still dream of  our graduation day, the way you were so happy to finally be moving out into "the real world". How you nudged me and wrapped me around in your hood for being too quiet. What was I to do? I knew I was going to miss you endlessly. I wanted to make you understand that graduating meant parting from you and I would rather die in the damned dystopia than crash with heartaches. That doesn't matter now, most of it anyway. I moved back to Abuja, you're somewhere in Lagos doing God knows what. It's been 3 months since I last held you. Months that seem to span into years. Months that don't even speak the truth, those whatsapp conversations where were too busy paying attention to flimsy details "I miss how you used to pull my hair to get my attention, no one does that anymore" the stupid smiley that rolls her eye is my favorite reply anytime you type "I miss you" I cant bear to be honest. Honesty would mean the whole truth, how I dream of you pulling my hair and moaning my name, How much I wish, I spent that last night before graduation on your bed. I didn't. You have a girlfriend. The old me cared, I don't now. I'm packing my bags we've got to be in school for our call up letters....

Call up letters meant seeing your face again. Seeing your face again meant emotional torture. I don't know which I dreaded most, I had put all that behind me. Being away from you or seeing you with her again, stealing kisses behind the pink hibiscus flower beds. I still detest the colour pink. I remember before you settled with her, how you didn’t want her, you even called her fat. “She isn’t my type” you said too easily, I wonder what changed your mind. How one day I mocked you with her name aand you simply smiled. No protest. No nothing. You were hers. You wore her proudly like your bvlgari perfume. I began to hate you. I detest her. I hate the way your instagram pictures now scream you belong to her. I'm sick of your lunch date pictures, oily fries and cold stone ice-cream. I don’t enjoy them anymore you would never call me fat. When I become your girl we wouldn’t need that account. We’ll have secret pictures of nudes and my less oily body in lingerie, meant for only your eyes. I’m letting my silly daydreams and endless fantasies torture me into sleepless nights. No. Now I'm packing to see you. My mind replaying videos of your lips on my neck, your fingers in my hair and your olive brown skin next to my dark one. I love the videos in my head, here you moan out my name and no one else's.....