PART 1
For if the trivials of life could bound me this way; setting me on an edge of vagary thought and brooding insinuation. If the quint-essentials of life is but a fragment of abstract thought, stringed and bounded like squalors of acrid waste. If men could out- rightly proclaim that their existence is but a scam, orchestrated by their downright revetment of unsealing truth and obvious reality. If the world would sit stiff, numb and unperturbed by the dwindling and extinctive state of friendly justice, then my experience would do little or less in exposing the factual reality of a deluded teenager.
Couple of years back, I had always wondered why my life was different, Why I couldn’t muster much courage like my friends do, I would wonder why my heart pounds at the sight of certain being even when I had nothing to do with them. I would sit for hours trying to discern and decipher why I was created different, why I couldn’t do the things Johnpeter would easily do in a flicker with little or less effort; whereas on my part, to be able to do the same, I would lie philosophical on my bed learning to make real the sonorous words of Massari: “girl, girl am going outta my mind and even though I don’t really know you, I must have been running outta time, am waiting for the moment I can show you, and baby girl I want you to know, am watching you go, am watching you pass me by- its real love that we don’t know about…” I would lie on my bed and in some cases I would stand-gesticulating and demonstrating how I would express my love to the girl whose presence pounds and pierces my heart with fear; I would promise to give her everything she seeks in as much as she ascents to my love advancement. Yet, deep within me I knew I was duleded; I knew my problem and situation would only be solved by the intervention of the most experienced mental asylum in the world. I was just 15 then and you would agree with me that at this stage of my life I was yet to start, and I obviously had no rational understanding on how the world works. Probably my decisions was influenced a great deal by the scintillating and captivating stories of love I heard my friends talk about; even though I doubted some: “That day, as I just sight the puella (girl), I know say she no go hard me at all…wetin I do be say I begin follow her slow slow…as she see me dey follow her, she come begin slow her movement. When the thing clear for my eye say she like me to, na when she come turn back dey eye me small small. As she come enter green area, omo na him me leg up reach her side begin flow: “Today when I saw you alone, I knew I had to come up and approach you; because girl I really have to let you know all about the things you made me go through and now as you looking at me in the eye you make me go crazy the more. You're the one that I want and no one can take you from me.” Pisikom! I catch the girl. She no fit talk self, na tears begin comot for her eye. She tell me say she love me too.” Valentine narrated. This was one of the faint and trifle tales that irked and inspired me to master the lyrics of Massari’s song, titled real love. At this stage of my life I faced a daunting confrontation; a problem I couldn’t in my own capacity solve, yet I couldn’t run away from it. Some of you might be wondering what this intricate confrontation was? Probably filling you in on the situation would help.
It all happened at a period in my life I choose to refer as the period of transmogrification. A time when the only thing that confirms my likeness for an opposite sex was how high my heart pounds when in a glimpse confrontation with such individual. During my first visit to Portharcourt, I enrolled into a lesson to enable me be in close track with my educational morality. It was in my first day of observation as a newbie that I came in contact with who I would call, “the beautiful deluder of my life.” Her skin glistens like the Saharan sun, her lips as wide and curvy like a banana fruit, her hair as dark and curly like an Arabian princess. She was perfect; perfect in all ways only for me. Her garish body structure would quench my taste; her cascading hair would turn me a hair dresser; her slimy fresh legs and thighs would reveal how cruel I had treated my body. She wasn’t the most beautiful creature I had seen; but for me, she was the beautifulest(a word not found in the dictionary). My first glimpse of her had turned me a mad man; a madness I eventual cured two years later. On seeing her walk into the class I turned numb. I was fixated by her beauty…a thing I regarded as a blessingcurse*. I looked straight into her eyes voraciously and frantically, a repugnant attitude I had no qualms about. Two years after I was unspelled from her spell, I declared to myself that I had been under the influence of voodoism. She was calmly seated in the class only to discover that I was stealing at her body; a revelation she rewarded with a smiling wave. One would assert that her wave would make me feel fulfilled; no, that was not the case: instead it escalated my tense state. I felt a piercing surge deep within my body. The whole atmosphere around me became drowsy in my eyes that falling into an imaginative pit would have helped to ebb my situation.
I had concealed my feeling and intention to myself, for I felt I was embarking on a Sisyphean task and fighting it would help. But the outcome of my concealment was not far from death. Throughout my stay in my holidaying town, I maintained a smiling relationship with my deluder. I would always pray to get an opportunity to stand one on one with her, but when my prayer is eventually answered, her sight would turn me numb, speechless and clueless and I would end up hiing* her. When we are far apart, I would curse myself for being the most stupid fool on planet earth.
After the closure of the lesson which made it impossible for me to see her. I decide one faithful day to perambulate the whole town hoping to locate her or rather see her. I would saunter from street to street, community to community; but what would the result be? A futile journey. It was obvious and glaring to me that I was embarking on a Sisyphean journey and I was no different from Sisyphus himself; yet, I continued. I practiced this daily routine of finding my deluder, dutifully and religiously for one week-but achieved nothing. I had already concede defeat, when one day I received the fiercest electric shock of my life. I was on my way back from a phone repair store, envisaging a queer reaction from mum for my late return, when suddenly I heard a bellowed throbbing sound: “Sami Sami.” Only one person addressed me this way; could it be that I was suffering from acute malaria to claim to have heard my name? An assumption that ran within me. I turned to clear and purge my delimatic state…lo and behold it was her, “the beautiful deluder of my life”. I had walked pass this street for one week hoping to see her all to no avail. Only to be graced with her presence at a time I never bargained for. I felt sad and bitter; for when I wore my finest shoes I didn’t see her; for when I posed around the street with my newly bought wears I couldn’t find her; for when I was equipped with my finest and most romantic grandiloquence I didn’t hear her call. “Why now?” the rue phrase pounded in my heart. The ingredient in my body gave birth to concussion: a smile hung on my cheek, anger surged in my head, nervousness galvanized my body, and fear gripped my legs…what better concussion would it produce if not cluelessness? I would for the last time decide where my life would head to. If I would metamorphose to an individual who has a dream and who is driven by passion to be distinct in all I do, or an aimless young man who is fascinated about love and intimate relationship (something I term lovistic stupidity). As I walked to her with a smiling face, I knew I wasn’t as dump as I thought; I knew all I needed to express myself was to be intuitive in my thought and discussion with her. As I stringed my first sentence it came out droolishly: “helo Francisca, how are you doing?” “I am fine sami sami.” She replied. I knew that the tune of our introductory salutation made my aspiration a pliable possibility. Wavering around my head were the ruse words I needed to win her heart. But my utilization of this intuitive talent was my conspicuous short coming. “I love you talk your own?” this was the peccadillo that oozed out of my mouth. Where it had come from was something I couldn’t discern. I ransacked my brain to be sure I was the one who produced such unromantic drivel. Albeit the concession that I was guilty of unromanticism*, a crime punishable by romantic incarceration, I needed to put my intellectual ruse into use by undoing my misdemeanor. “What did you say?” Francisca asked quizzically. “ai lefuu telk ya ohwn” I replied her…”it’s a Latin sentence meaning: it’s been a while we saw.” I concluded….to be continued.
PART 2

My Fictional Reality: The Girl before my Girlfriend part 2
I was lost in my lose, for I had felt my creativity accentuated my capability. My thought was engulfed with ponders of wonders that thundered my heart with regretful blunders. In the cave of my thought I craved for spiritual exorcism to exonerate me from this exorbitant love expiate. The twitching effect of my psychological torture peregrinated around my body. I had been thrown down from the highest mountain in the world (Mountain Everest) to die; my torturer showing no form of resentment or pity-interesting as it sound the orchestrator of this emotional dastardly act was the girl I aspired to be her all and all; the girl that turned me a poet; the girl whose presence pounds my heart with fear; the girl whose physical absence from my eyes gave me sleepless night; the only girl I had truly loved (so I thought); the girl I still and would always refer to as the ‘beautiful deluder of my life.’
Like petals of feathers my heart howled with elusive pains. I was left staggering with paucity of my psychological strength. It was in the grievance of my situation that I had thought it wise to unravel the intricacies that emanates to this trivalic* state of mine. But how could I do this when my thought was clouded with pains and torture? My life had been in shambles; in a chamber that I felt would be unlocked eventually if i was able to win the heart of my deluder. But she had put me on an escalative* pain: she had made me feel like no one had done before; she had infected with me with a ruminating thought that made me suspect I was an existential vacuum. I had wondered if there was any consequentiality for one to exist when it is impossible to achieve the things his heart most aspired for. As I walked back home my heart rasped with clusters of pain and hatred. My state made me realize why some people resort to suicide when they are heart broken. My own case was far more worse than heart break; I felt heart break was a better opportunity because for one to have an encounter with heart-break he must have had possession of the heart; a fact that made me realize how far un-reaching my quest was.
I imagined within me how unfair the world was, how often people mistreat the emotional vibration of some individual. I had never felt like this throughout the fifteen years I existed on planet earth-and to be greeted with such detest and rejection at a time I felt I possessed a feeling that meant I had been initiated into the fold of another era of life was something I couldn’t take with ease. I Imagined within me all the fantasies and the castles I had built on the sky; how I brooded on the possibility of eventually winning the heart of my deluder; how I would set aside a special day to be with her only. I remember vividly ruminating on a perfect setting where I could show her how truly I loved her. After much contemplation and imagination, I found ‘under the mango tree’ a perfect atmosphere to expressively tell her how truly I loved her. In my fantasy, I usually strategized on how the evening would go: we would sit facing each other with our both legs slightly making contact, and our both hands firmly rapped together; our hands will be pinned together like a new born baby pins her mouth to her mother’s nipples. With my eyes glued to her, I will eulogize these words to her:
Like blisters of the blazing sun, furling and curling in the eccentricity of my tranquillity
So placid and lucid in my contemplative accessibility. But it deem not fit to be leapt in my left of galvanizing thought. But it be not so to be acoustic when my intuitive is soley* and purely a fictional aggrandizement of a sonority. The quint essentials of my essentials wobbling like shimmering’s of gloated udders. My emotionality drenched in bundles of my unrationality* that the setting sun had given birth to the shining goddess of my unbolted heart. I could crave soo sparingly for a time to be found in the world of the sound; and so then, I would say, to be loved is but a love I would love till I love
This was the poem I had written for the ‘beautiful deluder of my life’ a poem that must be recited under the shielding envelope of the mango tree; a poem I wrote bereft of its true meaning; a poem I wrote without ascertaining the true meaning of the poetically stringed words.
“Ai lefu teku ohwn, it is a latin sentence meaning: it’s been a while we saw” I concluded. Giving me a piercing look Francisca shook her head doubtingly. Her reaction had made me suspect she lucidly heard my previous statement but had decided not to probe the genuity* of my stupidity. I accepted this possibility without furthering to read meaning to her bodily reaction. But there was a problem: my revealed inexperience made obvious the plausibility of an ominous end. The pounding rhythm of my heart made me realise what a good sound producer I would have become if the nervous musicology that rasped from my heart was fused into a proper song. Within me I wondered if truly the stories Moses told me of approaching ten girls in a day were true. “What an arrant lie!” an affirmation that cemented within me. I found Moses an enemy for deceiving me into this quest of no return. I had assumed this quest an easy one; but here was I standing aimlessly like a clueless boy who had no direction, and who didn’t know the direction to take. I moved closer to my deluder believing the words would oust out as I had memorized them. I felt soo indignant at the flickering movement of my lips, the aching state of my head and the pounding rhythm of my heart. This day was the day I had longed for so long to come, and here is it being misused by my inability to use it properly. My problem was not a lack of words to be precise in my quest; but rather, an inability of stringing my thought as it was chronologically arranged in my subconscious. The grips of the powerful emotion called ‘love’ affected my ability to reason: my conception of rationality and positivity was far from the inculcated view I inherited from my parents. I saw love an important commodity I must acquire; a commodity if lost can only be erased from the torturing faculty of my heart by the grips of death. The words I knew not, thought not, thought unattractive and droolish* to the accomplishment of my quest flickered out lucidly from the deepest expressiveness of my heart: “You are the sugar in my tea; the tomato in my rice; the butter in my bread; the sun that illuminates my life; in shatters of torture I would rest without your confining consolement* glued jealously to my life; that life would be reasonable to me beyond contention would mean that your heart and mine would be embedded together as one…I love you Francisca and a reciprocal feeling is all I seek!” After the production of these words I was baffled at the creativeness of my words; for as I could remember I had never commanded the English language as I just did. My eulogicism* immediately generated some sort of unprecedented reaction; a reaction I had never seen or experienced before. Francisca shook her head in a demystified manner- She stirred deep into my eyes like she had never done before and served me the dish that was meant for me alone and my likes: “If you finish blab all dis nonsense wey you dey talk, carry yourself go your mama house!”
When I got home that day, I was filled with rage of disappointment; I was not disappointed with my deluder for the parcel of succinct putrid she served me, but rather I hated myself for wallowing in fumble of tumbles. There was in me this time-sudden realization that I had been tattering on the brinks of stupidity. From my within flowed out several thoughts; thoughts that were inspired out of me because of my experience. I saw vividly the futility of my quest, and I knew there were so many persons who go through what I went through. There was this great urge that erupted from my passion-able creative mind to write a letter to the people of the world letting them know the untrue conception soo many youth and teenagers hold about the word love. I wanted to let the world know how useless it is for an individual to brood about someone that doesn’t care for him or her. I wanted to let the world know that true love isn’t built in a day (something I succinctly portrayed in my earliest work ‘Love at first sight’). I wanted to let the world know that the aesthetics of life cannot be built on the cosmetics of lustful relationship; but rather, must be built on the brick of true friendship. I wanted to tell the young man whose expression of joy and sadness is always influenced by the fluctuating reaction of the spotless beautiful young girl he admires that he is only fooling himself. I wanted to echo into the ears of the young girl who cries from morning till night; Monday to Friday; From month to month because she got jilted by her boyfriend- that there is only one her, and there will be only one her, and that no one has the leverage of distorting the state of her life and her feeling. I pondered on the reason why a boy of 15 to 18 years would walk majestically to a girl of similar age; a girl he is fully aware he would not marry in future and say these words to her with impunity: ‘I love you with all my heart!’ I became quizzical to every situation of life. I was gripped with the aspiration of echoing my thought and didactic-ism to the people of the world. And this aspiration I knew can only be conspicuously portrayed through one way…I resolved to put my thought, feeling and conception into a book; a book I shall title ‘A kiss between the lips.’…to be continued. Quote: “The essence of a story is not just for the literary entertainment of its readers; but rather, an understanding of the situation should be achieved to enable the application of rational and holistic approaches in future.” A view I derived from the great works of the legend Albert Chinua-Alumogu Achebe.
Life has thought me never to doubt the existence of love;never to repel its entrance or weep its exist.

Great work. Pls continue

Thank you sir...am working on the continuation.

lol... i don laffu tire. ride on please

@ Neduzze5 lol...my bro it wasn't easy for me at all;still working on the continuation.

Ha, my guy ride on non stop

Damex333: Ha, my guy ride on non stop

ok sir, working on that.

*following*

story promises to be intresting.



but abeg sofry sofry with the english oh, unless you buy me one dictionary

luvmijeje: *following*

me too

princesa: story promises to be intresting.



but abeg sofry sofry with the english oh, unless you buy me one dictionary

lol...ok i have taken note.

Fully subscribed...

Part 2 updated...love to know your view on this one...

part 2 updated...

My dear, its nice oh

but English too much!

ahn ahn, you want kill person

princesa: My dear, its nice oh

but English too much!

ahn ahn, you want kill person

I was able to construct these sentences readiing the works of Larry sun and other writers on nairaland...sha wil take note.

some promising work here, and your grasp on english is impressive

ibkaye: some promising work here, and your grasp on english is impressive

Thanks dear.

A dig!