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.