5 Things We Need to Learn.

-Don't force someone else's medicine down your throat.
Mama Bayo's husband hit her always. He gave her scars that could not be hidden. Scars that were difficult to lie about.Her friend, Mama Ibeji had a similar case. She poisoned her husband and now she lives without fear. Mama Bayo took the kitchen knife and stabbed her husband repeatedly. Her son who watched her butcher his father, shot her in the head. Bayo loved his father. He was his father's son.
-Be a good friend regardless.
Tola was a good friend to Ore. Even when Ore started trafficking drugs, she worried about him enough to report him to the police to have him arrested. Ore would come out a better man because of Tola.
-Forgive always.
Amanda's father never forgave her for letting herself be molested when she was barely 7. He lashed her repeatedly with the iron buckle of his belt. The belt cut her skin deeper than the assault she barely understood. Amanda never forgive her dad for it. She doesn't remember being molested but she remembers her father's hateful words and the belt buckle...
-Avoid bad romance.
Joseph liked Lara since first grade. He'd do the sweetest things like give her flowers and write love poems. He'd dream of her smile. After graduation, Lara began to like him back. But he was always too busy to reply her. He had moved on to his best friend Tolu, who he discovered he was in love with...
-Live light.
Carry no burdens. Learn to let go. Find happiness in the littlest things. Pamela let go of all her lovers. Even George who proposed the week before to dedicate herself to God and the church. She found the joy of the Lord in His temple. His temple was her body. She'd touch herself each night till she made herself cum.

Don't mock a pain you have not endured

Many times we hate ourselves for being alone. We blame ourselves for the many times we opened ourselves up to people who didn't understand enough to stay. Sometimes we give up and give in to defeat and silence, strengthening our pain and our shame. We live inside the corners of ourselves for the fear of being discovered for what we are. Broken. Hurt. Damaged.

A lesson I learnt; "Don't mock a pain you have not endured". Halima gave in midnight showers. Something about the way the water reassured her that she was not alone even when she still had to face her lonely cold bed. She'd curl up and cry her eyes out for the people she trusted enough to see the real her. The people she wanted to stay. The ones who didn't. She gave into songs with lyrics that cut her deeper than knives. Songs that made her remember who she was. Lonely. She belonged too deeply to herself to belong to anyone now.

Nobody could want to be with her like she did. Or understand her like she did. Yet they wondered why she didn't blossom like the other flowers, why she didn't blush foolishly like the other girls. Like Mariam who blushed and laughed in her high pitched voice to everyman's joke. Who made them feel like the men they were. They flocked around her like bees. She never knew a lonely bed. Halima believed in love enough to try to be honest. She told each man of her burden. Of how her father crept in her room every night after she turned thirteen. How her mother was to lost to want to notice. How she bore scars that wouldn't heal. No one wanted a damaged girl. Some laughed waving her tale off. All of them ran.

Tonight she's fading away to memories. She's fading away to her own darkness. Somehow she wanted the comfort her own death would give her. She slit her wrists and  laughed at her own pain in the same mocking way they all did till the red filled her bath tub

"Do you love her?"

“Do you love her?” the woman asked eying me suspiciously.

I thought of Georgina and why I got so attracted to her in the first place.

“She’s like a sister to me, really smart with a good heart” I told Mrs Adeniyi, looking her right in her eyes.

Georgina was smart above everything, smart and good. She was one of the few I found a certain peace in.

Georgina was also big boobs, nice ass, and a good kisser too. Georgina was always wet. Always wet when my finger or my tongue found her down there. Georgina got me turned on above what I thought was possible. Abandoning our friends, sneaking to dark corners, just because we couldn’t wait to get out hands on each other.

I loved Georgina high, she was always horny when high. I watched her count the Christmas lights dreamily through heavy eyes. Right then I wanted to claim her for myself. Devour her mouth with mine, kiss her breasts and suck at her nipples, part her legs and lick her wetness off, stroking her clit just to get her wetter. Hear her moan the way she does and hold on to me desperately not to fall in the gutter.

Georgina and I liked to pass the day with each other. She made me see the positive parts of life that gave me strength enough to hope. Sometimes I worried I felt something more for her, but I never dared to ask myself the question till the woman blurted it out demanding an answer..

“Women don’t drink, smoke or kiss each other on the mouth”, she was saying. I tried hard to act like I was paying attention. A memory of Georgina’s lips on mine flashed in my mind. Soft, inviting, giving. “You will not keep a man with this attitude. Women are reserved, domestic, religious…” She eying me again, “Can you cook, clean, take care of your husband?”. I hated to cook. I was one of the few that found the issue of desperately impressing your husband to keep him from cheating repulsive. “My pussy is good enough to keep any man”, I’d say. Whoever my husband would be he should learn to make sacrifices too.

  The woman was still talking. Maybe I loved Georgina, maybe I just cared so much about her. This wasn’t the first time I loved a girl. I remembered what it felt like. The confusion, all that hurt and heartbreak. I didn’t want to go back to that. Georgina was different. This was different.

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.....

12 September, 2013

What more can you give when you have given everything?

Bisola asked herself this this question. She never understood why Chief still visited her room every night. How much more was he willing to take from her emptiness.She remembers nothing now from her twenty two years of existence. She made herself forget the pain, and all that came with being sexually abused. She learnt to be numb and submissive just so he wont be rough with her anymore. So she lay each time beneath him almost lifeless as he pleasured his plump disgusting self on top of her.

Yetunde asked herself this after Bayo still refused to date her.She had done everything according to the books to prove she was woman enough to be wife material. She would stay over at his place, clean up his ever messed up house, cook him mouth-watering meals, look hot for him with money that came out of her own pocket and then let him fuck her every which way he wanted. He was still dissatisfied somehow as his crush on Pamela hadn't died yet. The cunt was even married to someone else but Yetunde had to endure watching Bayo act a fool for Pamela whenever she came around.

Tunde had given his parents everything. He had tried so hard to please them. A first position result all through primary and secondary school., and a first class degree after university. He had gotten various awards from the different competitions he went for. He was the kind of child parents prayed for. Excellent, brilliant, Godly and well behaved. He worked through burning night candles and sick days. His parents never noticed though. No award or degree could replace the space their late son, Tunde's baby brother left when he passed on.

Secondus had given Paula everything. Everything was everything. He sold his shop out last week to buy her a Samsung S4 phone. He needed that shop to open his trade business but Paula was more important. Her charming smiled scattered his young head. He needed a pretty wife to take back to his parents in the village. And Paula was the prettiest. He wanted her to himself. He wouldn't have her chasing rich old men for money so he tried to attend to her many expensive needs. Now he had nothing left to keep her interested. She broke up with him two days ago, spitting on his face for being too poor. Now he hears  her gist. She is ever in those hotels with one rich Alhaji or another.

6, September, 2013.

Happiness dwells somewhere. You just have to know where your own happiness lies. Like Pastor James who found his under the skirts of the lead singer of the church choir. It took him a while to find it though. He tried so desperately to find the "Joy of the Lord". He tried his best to act right according to the ways of the Lord and ignore all urges to privately minister to some of the females in the church. He tried to hear from the Lord. He would fast for weeks. He would sleep in church sometimes waiting to hear the voice of the Lord in the darkness like Samuel in the Bible. His life was without purpose and full of emptiness. Now he finds happiness thrusting repeatedly inside Cynthia. She knew how he liked it. Her black and white choir uniform was extra fitted to show her curves. And she knew how to move to entice him. The way she went down while dancing in church made him stare abit longer ignoring his wife of twenty two years beside him. Now  he's happy and eager to be in God's presence everyday. Cynthia comes too. And their long meetings have given his empty life the purpose it needs. He rarely feels guilty anymore. Sometimes he says a word of prayer before they begin. God is a forgiving. This is his favorite sermon every Sunday.
Or Papa Biodun, who has been jobless for three years now. Mama Bolu's work as a cook for the Jones could barely provide for their three children and now she was pregnant again for the fourth child. Another child they had brought into the world to suffer. Guilt and misery filled him up inside. Till he found his happiness in beer.At least it made him forget his problems for a while. Sometimes he would be too drunk to make it home. Mama Bolu would cry herself to sleep each night. But he was happy. He ignored the looks people gave or their loud gossip. He didn't care. He was happy.
Tunde had failed jamb three times now. Sometimes he wondered why his parents bothered paying for it. He found his happiness in cocaine. It was his escape after the horrible end to his parents marriage. His father was an unfaithful bastard. His mother was too busy with work to care about him. They were both rich. he was their only child. Till now they haven't discovered his new addiction. They are never around.
Sylvia finds happiness with men. Since she got raped at 13. She couldn't deal with the pain and the shame. She never forgot her grief. Her scars found their own way to heal. She is still healing, just in the beds of different men. Sex is her form of release. She is a big girl and lives the big life. She has got governors, ministers and oil company contractors as lovers. She wears designer clothes and drives big cars. She looks in the mirror and she is finally happy with what she sees.
Audu dropped out of school. His mother has tried on countless occassions to get him to return to school but to no avail. He finds his happiness in music. He is going to be a rapper. His happiness doesn't care if he makes money or not. His CDs never sell but his happiness is still complete everytime he goes to the studio to record.
The world is dark. But find that light. Find that happiness and let it consume you. Let it be your comfort in this dark cold world.

3, September 2013.

I felt my stomach turn in disgust. I needed to throw up. I was very afraid but I moved faster, dressing up more quickly even with shaking hands. I needed to be there for Aisha somehow. I needed to be strong for her. Funny how all I had done those past few weeks was to bitch about how Life wasn't good to me lately. But with what was going on with Aisha, I discovered I had alot to be thankful for.
Aisha had lost both of her parents now. Her dad died a year ago. Her mom on Saturday. The girl was beyond helpless as an only child.The death of her parents unfortunately was not her only problem but the satanic greed of her relatives from the both of her parents. They had moved into the house, and got busy with squabbling and fighting for the documents to the properties of her parents. They made her a prisoner in her own house and refused to feed her. Her mother's body was still in the hospital and had not been moved to the mortuary...
The selfishness of some of us many never be understood. I couldn't bring myself to write extensively on this due to the fragility of my efforts to keep myself from breaking down emotionally. This is a true story. A girl was ripped away from all she had, all her parents left her. Maybe we should begin to value the things that seem little. Life, health, loved ones. Be grateful. We complain about the things we don't have when we've got so much. So much to be grateful to God for.

2, September 2013.

"Are you a virgin?" She asks with glaring eyes filled with scorn. I could feel that scorn heat up my skin making me sweat. This was the first question she asked me that day as soon as I greeted her that morning. I wondered if my mother had mysteriously found out about my promiscuous ways the same way she found my well hidden nudes on my phone. I was too afraid to speak. Perhaps God wanted to punish me somehow. I was beginning to think it was the Holy Spirit that kept revealing these things to her. "Why do you ask?" I asked her finally. She eyed me suspiciously and went on making the moi-moi  we were to have for break fast. I always admired Mother you know, she went through alot having to deal with Papa's drinking and late nights. She somehow managed to keep the house together so no one knew that Papa was a failure as a father and as a husband. The neighbors never had to separate a fight. Mama was strong. Her job as a teacher in Sunny-ville Primary School and evening shifts as a nurse in Holy Family payed the bills and put the food on the table. She was the most devoted catholic I knew. Said her prayers every hour. Hail Marys and Grace. "It is the Lord that sustains me" she would tell anyone willing to listen. The Lord had sustained her through Papa's drinking and infidelity, through my elder brother Chukwuma's rebellion and Chisom's sickle cell wahala.
She looked at me again. "Why do you want to model then?". She ignores me and goes on pouring the concoction into the well folded moi-moi leaves. I felt my body relax relieved that she had found out nothing. This was the continuation of the argument we had last night. "Virgins would never talk about modelling." she goes on. "How many of those..those models do you see that end up having a family, a good marriage? Ehn..tell me." I didn't want  to remind mama of how she had done everything right and still didn't have a good marriage. I didn't even want to begin to tell her of my plans of not getting married at all. What is marriage if not constant endurance. To some grief and pain like Mama Junior who gets blows regularly from her husband. We hear her cries for help everyday even the neighbors are tired of intervening. "That thing is of the devil. Get your mind off it." she says, finally dismissing me. I went back to my bed and silently wept all my dreams of becoming a super model into my pillow.

Ninety "RUTHLESS" Days. By Obinna Obioma.

It seems like forever. It seems like forever since I looked into your bright white eyes, since I held you close to me, since you rested your head on my shoulder, since we stared at each other with nothing to say. How I miss that the most. How I miss just being with you, how I miss how our hands would fuse into each other, how I miss when we would sit for hours at a time. Only if I had known it would be like this, I would never have left that faithful Monday afternoon. I would never have come back to this empty city, this empty house, this empty room, filled with nothing but memories of you. The phone calls seem to do more harm than good, with each conversation it dawns on me more that you're not here, that you're miles away, that this is a bad dream I'm not going to wake up from anytime soon. I sigh at every thought of you, at every mental image of your face.
 It seems like forever since we smiled at each other. I spend hours in my room trying to picture your smile, that smile, how i never get tired of it. You always seemed to get my spirit lifted with it, how you would always make me feel better even if I was having a bad day. The nights grow longer as I patiently wait for our reunion, now much of a mirage that seems to be. My heart stays focused as my mind tries to play tricks on it, tries to sway it away from the hope of seeing you again. Passing days start and end the same with out you in them. Regardless of the fact that we talk all the time, nothing can replace your physical presence. Nothing can replace how you make me feel, nothing can replace you.
It seems like forever since we prayed together, I remember how we use to always hold hands in agreement on a matter, how you always seemed to inspire me to pray longer, how being around you fueled me even more. The Ora around you can't be explained with words, you can't be explained with words. Some days the pain of missing you so much increases with each passing hour, I try to forge on, try to block it out with other activities, but to no avail. You've become such an integral part of me, almost like a limb, you're connected to me. Saying I miss you never truly qualifies anything, never gives true meaning to the emotion behind it, I search my vocabulary for a more suitable phrase, one that would truly justify the emotions I feel without you, none seem to fit.

30 August, 2013.

Have you ever known pain? Not the physical one. Not the visible wounds that bleed. There's another kind of pain. Pain that sucks the life out of you. Pain that kills your will power. Pain that destroys you. Like Mrs Adenuga's pain when her husband took their househelp as second wife. Or Adanma when she walked in her boyfriend  making out with another boy. The hardest part was the shame they both had to deal with. Adanma couldn't tell people why she left her boyfriend. Mrs Adenuga, on the other hand, could'nt leave her husband, she had his six children and no job. Now Mrs Adenuga is a shadow of herself. She never leaves the house, she fears the shame and the gossip. She preferred to stay indoors and embrace the darkness and spite for her husband that was eating her up. Adanma never forgot the image of her boyfriend with the guy he was with. She couldn't seem to convince her heart to love again. There's always pain that comes with loving someone. Love is weakness. Funmi seems to think so, as Ayo has been in control of her "mumu button" for more than three years now. She simply cannot help herself around him. He never made her forget her irrelevance as he always flaunted his fiance in front of her. She held on stupidly still and only accepted her fate when he got married to the girl. One of the biggest weddings in Lagos. However she is still very much content still with her duties of satisfying him on nights he chose to remember her.

Old Notes.

...I see this boy holding his girl close. I see the girl smiling at him. I think of how happy they are. Then I think of you and why you are not here...
...It is in pain that our minds release the most wonderful expressions. It is when we hurt that our heart spits out creativity in disgust. It is when we are broken that our words are most alive....
...I cannot stop thinking about last night and how beautiful your eyes were in the darkness. In them I saw a desire that reflected my own. I remember how sweet your mouth tasted. How my small palms cradled your face. How despite my helplessness, I wanted to protect you....
...I was too tired to understand why bad things happen to good people. Its been a reoccurring event. In the morning I was half mad with sleep. I am rambling because I don't want to say that I was heartbroken when I didn't see you yesterday...
...Your hands were warm as they held my cold ones. I didn't want you to leave me on my lonely bed to face the cold night alone. I thought I saw something reassuring in your eyes but the darkness made me uncertain of what I saw...
...I've realized its okay not to understand sometimes. We simply cannot have the answers to everything. Half of my emotions are strangers with no names. Tormenting me to confusion. But today, I want to smile so I'm concentrating on beautiful things like love and how its brings true happiness...

Knowing Need.

I wore my loneliness on my face. I carried my grief as a stench wherever I went. I knew need like a man with a thing in between his legs. I wanted my sexy neighbor Samantha, her husband and her fast maturing daughter alike. I knew what it meant to be in need. I was like parched earth needing rain. I was always so thirsty. So I had them. All kinds of men. Even then it was never enough. Like filling a woven basket with water. Each man left me emptier than before. It left a longing I did not understand. My thirst was becoming unbearable. I was beginning to look as haggard as my feelings. One day I heard the maid tell the cook in a hushed voice. "Small madam no fit sabi how to take am easy. All this exercise go soon break her waist. She fit do pass them ashewo sef". I cried my promiscuous ways out on my pillow that night. Swearing to myself.."Never again. Never again." But here I am, shamelessly naked on my distraught bed with Ikenna who was snoring away like a pig. He was no man. The three rounds we just did barely satisfied my appetite....

27 August 2013.

Mother taught me never to be forward with a man.. Only loose girls are, and prostitutes too. I never paid attention for some reason. I found being coy about someone you really wanted stupid. So I was the go-getter kind. And funny enough, I never got what I wanted. Maybe it was my forwardness. Or maybe I loved the wrong guys. Something about the way their carefree nature and the way it fueled my eagerness. I was interested in their disinterest in me. Or maybe I was looking for something to fill the emptiness within. I was too afraid of being lonely. But that was what I was. I had only loneliness embrace me during cold nights. Men crawled in and out of my bed. Some were drunk the whole time to even remember what happened. I found a temporary solace in alcohol. I loved the way it silenced my thoughts for a little while.It was my anti-depressant drug. I loved the way it made my nerves relax and the confidence it gave me. It made me bold enough to call Alhaji up to set another date despite the fact I knew he kept calling his dead wife's name while we fucked. My life without it was suffering. Torment. I never figured the reason for the tears I shed under my blanket, in the ladies room or in dark corners. I cried when Anita got married to that guy from the United States, and when Mariam got engaged to that rich man working at Mobil, the worst was when my younger sister asked me to be her maid of honor. Being coy was stupid, but you'd always get what you want at the end.

26 August, 2013.

I sat at my usual seat at the front my eyes focused on the teacher , frequently, nodding my head in understanding. I heard nothing, I just watched her lips move. I was afraid to look at the time like the other kids. I was afraid Mrs. Ezinne would tell Mama that I was becoming rebellious. Mama visited school often to see all my teachers, asking about my attitude to school work, my general behavior and the type of friends I kept. She told them to monitor me and they were to report to her if they had any complaints. I still remember when Mr. Ladipo told Mama that I had begun to follow boys only because he saw me with Chinemelem at break time, who came to ask me to explain some Math problem to him.That night Mama came to my room in the darkness of the night and used Papa's belt to flog out the demon of whoredom from my body. Mama says that demons are weakest when you attack them in the middle of the night. So that night at two am, Mama lashed me repeatedly while speaking in tongues. After that I stayed away from everyone. Mama taught me to talk to no one. "You don't need friends Nne'm, they are distractions. I sent you to school to study and nothing else." So at break time, I sat by myself in a corner solving my assignments and staring longingly at the other children playing together. My tummy grumbled too. Mama never gave me money or food for break time.And she taught me not to collect "witchcraft" from the other kids. Even on birthday celebrations in class, I would politely decline. Because of this attitude, I had no friends. One time, I was too hungry. During Cynthia's birthday. I let myself take the cake and sweets she shared. I hurriedly ate the cake and I saved the sweets in my bag for the next day. I forgot to take the sweets from my bag so Mama discovered them when she went through my school bag as she normally did. She slapped me repeatedly on the mouth asking me who I had collected the "mami water" from.
Things became worse when I entered secondary school. When Mama noticed I had started growing breasts, she made me wear big clothes. "Your body is God's temple", she said "...respect it". When we walked to the market together. She would make disgusted noises when she saw the young ladies skimpily dressed. Her "hmm"s and "haaa"s and "Tufikwa"s would be loud enough for the person it was directed to. Some of them walked past quickly, ashamed of themselves, others would eye Mama and hiss or throw in and insult or two. During such occasions, I would be quite embarrassed and quietly pray for the ground to open up and swallow me. One night, Mama came to me while I was sleeping, feeling my legs, then my laps, her hands traveled still in between my legs. I tried hard not to cringe, and lay still. After a while, she left the room. The next morning she called me. "Adanma, you sleep like a drunk, a man can have his way with you. You must learn to sleep with one eye open always." So the next time she came to me. I held her hand to stop her and she nodded in satisfaction and kissed my forehead. "Sleep well my child" and left the room.
I began to know sadness more than before and in a new light when I entered the University. I had no friends. In fact maybe no one wanted to be my friend. I was the girl they laughed at. I was the girl who wore the worn out clothes that were several sizes bigger than her. Guys wanted nothing to do with me, girls also.I knew loneliness intimately. Mama still came around to make sure I didn't backslide from the ways of the Lord. She came to talk to anyone who would listen to her. My professors pitied me. Some advised her to let me be, that I was grown enough to make my own choices. Instead she told me to beware of those lecturers that she was sure they wanted to sleep with me. Mama would make me kneel outside when she was about to leave and she would pray for me in the open where other people on campus would see and laugh. Mama made me scream amen to the prayers. If I was not loud enough or if I did not say "Amen" when I was  supposed to, Mama would knock me hard on the head for being ashamed of Jesus. "If you are ashamed of Jesus, He will be ashamed of you too". Mama scarred me in so many ways. But I feared her too much to disobey her. Sometimes I wished her dead in my mind. The only reason why I never added that in my prayers is that I feared the thought of her dying as much as I feared her....

A Girl's Thirst.

You were finally where you belonged. In my dreams. Where my fantasies come to me. You were mine there, and it was so beautiful. So beautiful I cried. There, you knew my name. In my dream, I put a spell on you. I liked the twinkle in your eyes and the fact that you looked at me a little longer than you did in our world. You held me close and whispered promises of love and wonderful forevers. You sang lyrics of love songs to me while you kissed the nape of my neck. I still feel that tingle thinking about it. I love you anyhow. I don't care if you don't want me, I'm yours right now. Its a shame that I see you everyday and all you do is breeze past like you don't even know I'm there. I hate that. It kills me inside. I hate that you think me to be a child. Being twenty isn't being a child. Girls grow up way too fast in our world these days, at thirteen, they aren't children anymore. I started bleeding years ago. I could have your babies. Mini you's everywhere, running around if you want . Don't you notice how woman I am? I do not have the body of a girl no more. I think of how to look sexy every morning for you, just so you'd notice, its frustrating sometimes.  I feel like a filthy whore. You make me feel dirty. The way I try so much to get your attention. Bending down this way cause I know you're passing by.  I'm full of hormones for you. I'm so empty and so full of thirst. That makes me almost desperate. I cry inside when I think of all the sexy girls you may have been spending your cold nights with. But I'm smiling today because now I know all of that is going to change soon I guess. I see us together, going on dates. I see you making me laugh. Alot. You're happy too with me. You just don't know how beautiful our tomorrow is yet. So when you walked in today, I put something extra in my smile and forced myself to say more than the ceremonial "good morning" to you. You smiled back. And that was enough. Maybe it wasn't. But it's all Ive got for now.