24th March 2014.

The shrink was unenthusiastic about your next meeting.

You remember your first, she smiled alot when she discovered you were only 21, her warm forced smile met your cold unmoving face. You thought psychiatrists had a general grave look, maybe she kept the serious looks for her older clients or maybe it was your story. She asked alot of direct questions you didn't want to answer.

Now she looked at her watch too frequently, allowing the awkward silence engulf the both of you.

You lay on her leather couch staring blankly at the white ceiling as you thought of how you allowed all those men wound your human with their horns. How you felt yourself disappear as each man spread you open and ransacked you.  When you mistook your nights for lonely because your bed had so much space despite your many pillows, nights when you saw your own life, clear enough to recognize it as the driest desert of lonely, nights when the silence allowed your own mind to judge you. You  looked for a reason to forget so you let strangers hold you a little too tight.

Your father did not understand how his daughter's name was on the lips of all of his friends, how they had touched her most intimate places. How you watched your father crumble in front of you in unbelieving tears, how his grief told you you didn't love yourself.

“Sometimes love means letting go when you want to hold on tighter.” - Melissa Marr.

I thought about all the men in my life that had let me go.

Fredrick let me go in front of the hundred people we invited to witness our marriage. I was in my beautiful white wedding dress, looking at him with my hopeful eyes, full of love when he said he couldn't get married, that he wasn't ready. He walked out and got married to some other girl a month later.

John let me go in his alcohol reeking apartment, with careless words, in between rough kisses full of indifference, with his hands grabbing my ass so I could feel his hardness. The following months were full of pain and emptiness.

My dad let me and my mom go when he left for that dancer at his regular nightclub, who was way younger than she looked in her over exposed bleached worn out skin in the black skimpy dress she wore, she chewed her gum aggressively as she watched my dad throw my mom out of the house sneering in satisfaction.

Baantu.

Last night I went to bed happy. I woke up in the past. Purple seats. I held her. The whole world was shit, for all of us, but more so for her at this particular moment. I kissed her head. She broke down some more, but with a warning and a smile on her face. I knew she felt it too. We didn't need to say it. We were ours, and nothing was going to change that.

We always took long walks. Holding hands, misbehaving, she always called me a market woman and I called her a fish monger which always infuriated her.


She cried when everything was down and she cried when all we had were smiles. She would hold your hand tight and tug at it firmly but gently while she laughed, before  tilting her head and staring you straight in the eyes. Her eyes held promise back then, and even more so now. Behind that oval face, behind round inviting eyes, behind that fragile slender frame covered warm ebony skin, therein lies my strength, there in lies my future, there in lies my everything.
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I look at my life and I remember tears, lots of tears, lots of pain. I had a dream last night, I was on a train, I cant remember where it was going, but it didn't stop, like it kept moving till forever. He was there, I was holding his hand. We were laughing and talking about our lives, telling stories like they never really happened, like we were invincible, maybe we were. I felt different, light, like everything was over and I could smile now and I did.
Its the most wonderful feeling to have someone, someone that is not just a best friend but a part of you. Someone who understands regardless, someone who knows you inside out, someone you can be foolish with, someone who you feel safe enough with to expose yourself to in the most endearing and dangerous way, and I had him, and he was mine and we were on our road to our forever.



I was happy he was there and that my hand was in his, the same way we went through every other thing, together. This was what we promised ourselves for so long, to get through so much. Maybe we were dead, maybe we were on the road to the other side, maybe it was, only what it was a dream.

2nd March 2014.

Its was too silent today
Too silent for her to worry about her parents failing marriage
The way they always screamed at each other with hateful glaring eyes
Too silent for her to remember the doctors were killing her brother in the hospital
Malaria is always the problem, till the person dies
Too silent for her to grieve about her loneliness
The way she held her pillow to sleep on her lonely bed
and wondered why no one cared enough to stay
Too silent for her to ponder about her sexuality
why she found the glow in Claire's hair so fascinating
why she wanted to plunder her soft mouth
to bury her head and deeply inhale her fruity smell
Too silent to worry about her growing emptiness and lack of ambition
Her inability to dream impossible fantasies
Her fate was stiff and uncompromising
Her reality mirrored her future too clearly
She could see herself,
a single mother of five kids she could hardly cater for
she could see a life of hardship and pain
She couldn't dream for better
This is the only way she could see life
The only life she knew.

22 February 2014.

Drew was in my house again, I keep telling him to go away. He’s determined to help. He can’t help me; I’m fading away, losing pieces of myself every passing day.

“How do you feel, what do you feel?” he wants to understand.

I feel love. Her love. I still feel it. It’s why I hurt so much.

It makes me remember.

How I found love.

I fell in love with her husky voice over the phone.

I fell in love with her mind. How she could dream, how she was so excited about the world. I loved to hear her talk of all the things she wanted to do, all what she wanted to be, all the things she wanted to see, all the places she wanted to go.

“The world is so beautiful”, she would always say.

The world was beautiful to me through her eyes. She was the beauty in which I saw the world. She was where my world existed. The kind of life I wanted to live.

I loved to hear her talk excessively, about the most random things. I loved her small talk, how she would babble and laugh at her own silliness. She was simple, she was refreshing, and she was a free spirit.

I hated the days she was sad, how she hated seeing the children on the streets begging, I would see the pictures through her words. Children, naked with protruding bellies, rough hair, dirty skinned with hungry yellow pleading eyes. She wanted to do so much to help them.

“You can’t just save everyone”, I used to tell her.

But she was stubborn. I loved that. We argued a lot, and then laughed. It felt so good to know I couldn’t control her, that she was not like the other girls who never had their own minds and agreed to anything.

I fell in love with her distress when she confessed finally about having feelings for me. I found her confusion adorable, she was never confused. This was her first relationship.

I felt accomplished. She was mine and I didn’t deserve her. I mean she was endlessly fascinating and I was hopelessly boring.

I remember how I used to rant about how I hated love, how it was not for me, how I understood how the world worked and how having those feelings for another person was unnecessary and stressful.

I’m smiling now. I don’t think the same way anymore.

She was my nothing and my everything.

I still listen to her voice notes just to drown in her voice.

“So you’re in love?” Drew says answering his own question with another question.

He tries you know. I pity him sometimes. How he has to deal with my silence. He comes over to make conversations with himself and leaves. He gets me food that I don’t eat. I’m here waiting for him to give up on me like she did.

I just wanted her to try, fight, to show me that our love was worth something. She says I don’t understand. Maybe I don’t. What did I know, I am a French man living in Barbados and she is an Ibo girl living in Nigeria.

And her wedding was yesterday.

THE JOYFUL HORRORS OF MARRIAGE.

1. It takes patience to endure, to understand, and to contain whatever that happens in a marriage.
2. “One thing I’ve discovered in this marriage thing is that blood is thicker than love. Maintain a good relationship with your siblings; they would have your back no matter what. If I want a straight forward advice I go to Vickie or Helen, not my husband. I mean, you can marry a man today, give him your life, your devotion, your everything, and one day he wakes up to leave, and you’ll be alone, with his kids to cater for”.
3. A marriage that has God as its foundation will never fail.
4. Marriage, for some girls is the highest accomplishment, bearing your man children makes you a complete woman, keeping your home and your marriage together, is another ball game.
5. You cannot depend on love to sustain a marriage.

THE ADEWUYIS.

They were in love when they had gotten married. They had been in love since they were in the university. The kind of love that convinces you to get married. They were both yorubas, so it was not a problem, their parents had known each other. It was a blessed union. I think their love died the moment Mrs. Adewuji transformed from the slender figure she once was when they had gotten married into an enormous being, with extra-large hips and folds everywhere. Having five kids does that to you I guess. Her husband felt pain, that what he paid bride price for years ago was gone. He thought about it every night when she came to bed and occupied most of the space or how their bed sank in when she lay on it. She never stopped eating though. She fried chicken and consumed two wings while just making the food. So he chose to work longer hours to make it bearable to deal with a marriage he no longer wanted. That was when he began to notice his secretary, Anita who was slender and light skinned, her skin glowed under the florescent of the office. Anita was nice; she wore tight shorts skirts and dresses to show off her good legs, she let him have a good view of her cleavage and bent down a lot till he felt he could almost see his target. He would never cheat on his unattractive wife still but Anita came on to him that night and he found himself slamming into her while she was bent on his table. It was the most amazing thing that had happened to him in a long time. They went on like this, he would have her on his desk the way he wanted, they would have drinks and laugh about everything, he would organize business trips to have them go away together till he wanted to have the life he had with her permanently. He left his wife and five kids to move in with Anita and never looked back. He blames his wife to this day for the failure of their marriage.

              THE OKAFORS.

Mr. Okafor was a wealthy man and an elder in the church. The early morning and night devotions in his house were compulsory. He didn’t joke with matters concerning the spiritual life of his family. Like the time he stripped his daughter naked and lashed her repeatedly in the front of the rest of the family for bringing shame to his name because she was texting in church and was told by an usher to put away her phone.  Mrs. Okafor was the head of the women’s union in the church, she encouraged women devote more time to God and He would take care of their marriages, her marriage being a wonderful example. Their new maid Ndidi was a catholic always praying her rosary even in her sleep. Her voice was the loudest whenever they had devotions, singing almost aggressively and dancing till she was sweating profusely. She sang in the same way, but a different song when Mr. Okafor was fucking her. For a Christian girl she knew how well God commanded a woman to please a man, whining provocatively on Mr. Okafor. She had the most wonderful body beneath her big clothes and skirts, the first time Mr. Okafor instructed her to take her clothes off, his mouth went dry as he watched her unveil the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. So during Mrs. Okafor’s women’s’ church meetings, her husband helped himself with their sizzling maid till she got pregnant with his child. The expression on Mrs. Okafor’s face was second to none when the maid confessed that it was her husband, not some area boy, not the driver or the gate man that had impregnated her.

THE OGAHS.

Getting married at 35 was perceived to be different sorts of wrong. A girl at that point would be seen as a failure. It had taken her so long to find love, to get married. Her mother had said all sorts of things to her back then and somehow, Mrs. Ogah wanted to go back to that time just so she would never have gotten married. A woman is blamed for so many things, topping the list is when she cannot bear children.  She had gone to every church, drank all sorts of potions to make her womb fertile for her husband’s seed. She thought about whether she ever really wanted a child or she just wanted to disappoint everyone and prove she was woman enough to have her own child. She knew there was the emptiness in her marriage, the number of words her husband spoke to her reduced daily.  He wouldn’t even touch her, there was no use wasting his semen on a barren woman. Her in-laws stormed into her home occasionally to ridicule her and call her names.  She couldn’t dare to return home, her mother would have a fit. So she stayed and endured. He started drinking. Maybe to forget he was married to her, she couldn’t tell. She tried to please him. She prepared the most delicious meals for him, meals he didn’t bother eating.  He just ignored her, went about the house like she was not even there. The silence drove her to madness. The kind of madness that gave her the courage to confront him. And that was when he released everything he had stored up inside on her. The hatred, resentment and anger.  She tried feebly to protect herself from his blow. He left her unconscious on the ground in the pool of her own blood.  He chased her out of his house that week and brought in the village girl his mother married for him.

7 February 2014.

I felt just as the apple tree behind the house that my dad had cut down for refusing to bear any fruit or the dying flowers after Baba Ojo, our gardener got fired for impregnating the house girl.

Love makes you blossom like a flower, the way I blossomed for you that night when I gave you everything.

I loved the idea of us together, so whenever my eyes caught yours, I tried to make you see our love through my eyes, show you how beautiful we could be.

We never got there but that was okay, because I was ready to understand. I settled for the love that brought loneliness with it.

Now I'm staring into nothing, replaying the images that live in my mind.

A child, our child, blood everywhere, the hanger in my hands. I was in the pool of my baby's blood. Its very existence. I was screaming. I still hear my baby cry in my head. Love makes us kill. And the blood never goes away.

The other girl. The pretty one. She didn't know about us, I hated the way she held you like you were hers. Her eyes called me names. You waved me off and called me a nobody. Her high-pitched laughter, I remember the annoying sound of it.

The pills my mom had in her drawer. Pain killers. The doctor had thought they'd take away mother's pain after daddy left her for a girl of my age. They never did. Mom was gone now. The pain took her.
I swallowed all the pills left in the tiny bottle and hoped they would be enough.

They weren't. I survived.