₦airaland Forum

https://penastory.com/2017/02/21/the-name-issue-oluwakorede-akinkuolie/

So as a young Yoruba adult who has never truly lived in the south-western part of the country (I mean I did from like ages 6 to 9, might have been longer but that’s all I remember *sigh*). Anyway my dad had the brilliant idea to send me to a university in my region of origin and the culture shock was MAD! (And as I am sure the title of this column indicates I still can’t figure it out so please permit me to vent out my frustrations to you weekly, lest I make Yaba Left my new sanctuary.

My first problem was my name. My name is Oluwakorede but I make everyone call me Koreey (two e’s no exceptions). Why you ask, because I learnt in my first month of life in Yoruba land that female Koredes are rare. The first response you get is “Oh like Korede Bello?” Ummmm NO, I’m pretty sure my parents didn’t know him or his existence when I was named (no offence to him). That response is actually more bearable than the next one. Growing up in a different culture meant my name wasn’t common, and I was always had fun explaining what Oluwakorede meant (F.Y.I it means “God brings blessings” and no you cannot by that logic say my English name is blessing, so don’t go there please). Anyway I move here and go from; “Awwww your name is so unique!” to “Oh I thought that was a guy’s name!”

If I had N10 naira for every time I have heard that statement in the past four months, I would be a millionaire! Honestly, almost all Yoruba names are unisex right? So can someone please explain to me why people still have shocked expressions when I introduce myself as a Korede (if this seems like I’m exaggerating then think about every female Femi or Lanre that you know and the reaction you had when they said their name; if you are one then sweetie, I feel your pain).

So I said it was a problem right? My solution is Koreey, and I wish I could say it was full-proof and has stopped the stupid questions and annoying references but sadly it hasn’t. It has reduced them though and I don’t have to say, “Don’t say Bello” or listen to people attempt to sing Godwin as much. That’s a step up in my opinion. I am not saying it doesn’t still drive me crazy, believe me it does. I am just saying that I am now able to keep my annoyance on the inside (at least I hope so).

So to everyone out there who thinks that Yoruba names are gender specific and think that female Femis, Kolas, Obas, Kunles and the like are a myth; they aren’t. Our parents pick our names based on the meaning and often times how well it will glorify God not based on whether it sounds masculine or feminine. Please take this as a lesson to keep the shock as well as the urge to ask “Isn’t that a guy’s name?” to yourself the next time you meet someone who’s name doesn’t seem to you to fit their gender. As someone this happens to often, it’s annoying and kind of rude.

Unfortunately, that all I have time for this week but honestly people, don’t do this to anyone, please for the love of all that is good and decent. Also because if the person is like me, you could be the last straw and they could curse you out. Until next time, I have to go back to trying to figure out my own culture. *sigh*

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/02/21/the-chain-series-could-have-been-somebodys-son/

The night was unusually dark and the moon was nowhere in sight as the woman opened the door of the mud hut and stepped into the darkness. Except for the chirping of the night birds and insects, there was no other sound to disturb the silence of the night. Her bare feet made no noise as she made her way to the back of the hut and quickly untied her adire wrapper. The wrapper which was reaching just below her knees started from her chest region accentuated her full figure. The wrapper was tied in a knot at the side to hold it firmly in place but it came loose in one tug as she bent down to relieve herself at the back of the hut. She draped the wrapper around herself to cover her unclothedness even though she knew it was impossible for anyone to be about at this time of the night.


The people of Alaguntan had a dread for stepping out at night and she had only been forced to come out when she felt as if her bladder was bursting from holding back her urine. She had forgotten to bring in the chamber pot the day before hence her need to relieve herself outside. She quickly retied her wrapper when she was done and entered the hut. The hut had two rooms, one room served as the living room while the other served as a bedroom. The two rooms were separated by a bamboo door. The bedroom was dimly lit by a wick lantern and her eyes were already accustomed to the darkness. For a moment, her eyes rested on the sleeping figure of her son where he lay on his mat on the ground, just adjacent the bed she shared with her husband, Olatunde. She made for the bed where Tunde was snoring as if in competition with the chirpings of the night birds and insects but instinctively something told her to check on the sleeping boy. She went over to where he lay and touched his forehead with the back of her palm to check his temperature. Her heart stopped beating in her chest for a moment. His body was ice cold and her hand quickly moved to his chest. He wasn’t breathing. Her shrill cry rent the air, overshadowing any sound her husband, the birds or insects had been making.

“Ropo! Ropo!! Ropo!!! Please don’t do this to me. Please not again.” The fear and trepidation in Adeola’s voice was unmistakeable as she shook the lifeless body in an attempt to wake the dead child. Tunde woke up with a start, Adeola’s voice was loud enough to raise an army of dead men.

“What is it?” He didn’t wait for a reply, his eyes took in the scene and he jumped down from the bed. He took the child from her arms and any remnant of sleep that could have still been fogging his brain vanished. The boy’s cold body was an indication he had been dead for some hours.

“Ropo, why have you chosen to torment me? Has your mother and I not suffered enough?” Tunde’s eyes clouded with tears but he restrained himself from crying. It would be unmanly for him to break down completely in the presence of his wife. Her sobs were enough for the both of them.

“Who have I offended that has refused to forgive me? Who? Haven’t I done all that they asked me to do?” Adeola screamed hysterically. Her grief was palpable. It was the fourth time she was losing a child in ten years. None of the children had ever lived past fifteen months. The native doctor had said she was plagued by the curse of the abiku. That was the only explanation for the constant death of her children.

Things had been good for her and Tunde in the first year of their marriage. She had conceived less than a month after their marriage.

“Did you do all that Baba Ifaojemite told you to do when you gave birth to the child?” Tunde asked. His voice was controlled and the quietness would have fooled anyone of the turmoil he was feeling inside.

Adeola nodded her head in affirmation. “I did oh. I did. My enemies have gotten me again. The fourth child! Why can’t they just kill me? Spirit of my father, are you sleeping in heaven? Haven’t I suffered enough?” With every word, her voice rose in pitch.

“That is enough woman. You would wake the entire village with your wailing. There is nothing we can do than to accept the will of Eledumare. We would consult Baba Ifaojemite tomorrow and have him tell us what the oracle demands of us. I know we will have a child of our own. Stop crying and go to bed, the gods of the land will prevail over the evildoers.”

“Go to bed?” there was incredulity in Adeola’s voice, “how can I go to bed? My only son has just died. The fourth child in ten years and you ask me to go to bed. What will the world say? What will your family say? How can I sleep when the fruit of my womb has ceased to breathe? How can I sleep when I am cursed among women? I am nothing but a joke among women. Look at Aduke who got married just two years ago, she has a son already with another on the way. Asabi who is not even my age mate has three children. What do I have to show for the ten years I have spent in your house? Nothing! Yet you ask me to go to bed. Have the gods cursed me like the snake that crawls on the mountain and lays eggs which is doomed to crack? Will I leave this word tagged a childless woman?”

“I understand your pain and share in your sorrow. Don’t forget that the dead children were also my children too. There is nothing we can do than to make supplications to the gods once again. We would also plead with the evil ones to forgive us our sins and the sins of our lineage. We would go to Baba Ifaojemite when day breaks.”

“Why can’t we go now? Let us go now. Can a man sleep when his house is on fire? I have been burnt too many times to sleep.”

“Adeola, we shall go tomorrow. You can weep all night but it won’t bring back the boy. When day breaks, we would go to Baba Ifaojemite.” Tunde said in a firm tone.

Adeola eyed her husband with contempt. She knew he was right, there was nothing to be done but being reasonable was the farthest thing from her mind. “Fine, you can go back to sleep but I am going to Baba Ifaojemite this minute. You didn’t bear the pains and pangs of labour so how can you understand my sorrow? I have lost not one, not two but four children. We are talking about children not chickens here! I am not strong yet I am forced to bury my babies. I am tired…” she broke off in sobs.

“Adeola…” Tunde began but she picked up again.

“My husband, the crown of my head, are you not tired of being childless? I know I am tired of this grief, this unending sorrow, when will I be called a mother? Is it not a child that would bury us in our old age?” Tunde felt as if a knife was being plunged into his heart with every word. He looked down at the corpse he was holding and gently laid it back on the mat. He covered it with one of his wife’s wrappers.

Adeola watched his actions, her sobs had reduced to a silent weeping. The tiredness she had spoken of just a few minutes ago was apparent in her demeanour. Sorrow lines marred her face but despite the sadness in the depth of her eyes, she was a beauty to look it. It was this same beauty that had first drawn Tunde to her ten years back. Tunde crouched beside her on the floor where she was weeping and gently drew her up. He embraced her and together, husband and wife grieved for their loss.

There was no wink of sleep for Adisa and Tunde that night as they sat huddled together, awaiting the arrival of dawn. At the very first crow of a cock, Adeola started up like a person coming out of a trance.

“It is time, let us go to Baba Ifaojemite’s house now,” she said. One look at her determined face was enough to tell Tunde there was no reasoning with her that it was still too early. He stood up and dusted his sokoto before going over to the body of the dead boy. He looked at his dead son for a few seconds as if willing the boy to move but the body remained perfectly still. He tore his eyes away from the body and his eyes met Adeola’s across the room. She was weeping silently again and he quickly looked away so that she would not see the tears that had welled up in his eyes.

“Lead the way, Baba Ifaojemite would prepare the necessary sacrifices needed for the burial. Hopefully, his divination can let us know what we have done wrong this time around.” He wasn’t sure whether Adisa heard him because when he turned to where she had been standing, she was gone.

Baba Ifaojemite was not yet awake just as he had predicted and it took the urgency of their situation to get one of the apprentices to agree to rouse the old man. Baba Ifaojemite had been up half the night according to one of them and needed his rest but when Tunde explained why they had come, one of them agreed to rouse him for them.

Loud incantations preceded the entrance of Baba Fakunle into the room where he received visitors. The room was bare save for the white cloth that was spread throughout the length of the room. It was a mystery to all who entered this room how the white wrapper had not a single spot of dirt on it despite the different legs that threaded on it with dirty legs. Baba Ifaojemite at first glance appeared to be in his mid-seventies but a closer look showed he was closer to eighty. He had a full head of thick white hair and his face was wrinkled like old leather. In the middle of the consultation room was a large earthenware pot and tied around the midsection of the pot was a red cloth which divided the pot into two equal halves.

“The boy has departed again hasn’t he?” For a man barely above four feet, Baba Ifaojemite’s voice was deep. Neither his face nor voice showed any sign of exhaustion from lack of sleep that his apprentices had mentioned earlier.

“Yes Baba, Ropo is no more. Baba, I am not old enough to use proverbs in your presence but it is the elders that said a child lives in accordance to his name. Ropo has not lived up to his name because he hasn’t replaced our previous losses. Rather, he has only added to our grief.” The tears were pouring out of Adeola’s eyes fast as she spoke.

Baba Ifaojemite barely glanced in her direction. Turning to face Tunde, the old man said in his deep voice, “I will prepare the necessary arrangements to have him buried. What we will do is to brand the child with hot metal so that he either departs from your house or should he choose to come again, we can identify him and do the right things to make him stay. I would be in your house to attend the body when day breaks properly. You can leave.” He didn’t wait for them to react to his words, he turned his back and went back in the direction he had emerged.

The old man came when it was fully daylight as he had said he would. After chanting some incantations and sprinkling ash over the body of the boy, he requested for the metallic part of a knife to be placed in a burning fire and when the metal was red hot, he seared the dead child’s skin with the hot metal. The smell of burning flesh filled the room and when Baba Ifaojemite finally lifted the knife, there was an ugly imprint from where the knife had burned into the skin.

“I would give you some things to use and you will conceive again. This time, we would be ready should the abiku choose to return.”

“Thank you Baba. May you live long for us to always count on you.” Tunde said.

“Ase.” With that, Baba Ifaojemite and the two apprentices that had accompanied him departed the house leaving the grieving couple to attend to the visitors who had started trooping to the house to pay their condolences.

A year rolled by and just as Baba Ifaojemite had predicted, Adeola conceived and gave birth to another child. As the wails of the child filled the hut of the midwives where she had been taken to deliver, Adeola reached out her for her child, indicating she wanted to see her son. Her heart jumped to her chest when she saw the exact same scar that Baba Ifaojemite had inflicted on the body of Ropo. There was no mistaking that it was the same mark, how else could this ugly scar have found its way on her new born? She didn’t need to be told that it was her abiku son that had returned to torment her again. She began to weep softly and handed the baby to one of the midwives. Baba Ifaojemite had instructed that should the mark be seen, the baby was to be brought to him without delay so that he could do the necessary things to prevent the child from dying. It wasn’t until three days after she birthed him that she was allowed to see her son again. Tunde handed her the child with reassuring words.

“Baba said everything would be alright. We have nothing to fear. He said that he has severed the links the child has with the other world. He won’t be able to communicate with his people whom he returns to whenever he dies. This child has come to stay and Baba said he must be called Malomo.”


Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

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He played with my shiny black hair and then moved down to my earlobe and my rhinestone studded ear cuff, stroked my plum cheeks and held my chin pulling me close to his face, I could see myself in his pupil and I was conscious of every breath he took. He moved closer and I closed my eyes -he was way too close to keep my eyes open; he kissed me like it was my very first kiss and at that moment I didn’t care if we looked like Bisola and Kemen from Big Brother Naija kissing cause it felt like my lips were dancing with butterflies on cloud 10! And he went deeper, I could hardly breathe but his lips. Damn! Those lips. Don’t stop! My mind screamed. I wanted all he had to give and then he laughed. He freaking laughed and spoilt the moment for me.


I got up from my sitting position on his laps and moved to the centre of the room, “Let’s rehearse again,” and I tried to smile like nothing had happened. He replied with a grin, looking at me with those cute perverted eyes with long beautiful lashes and the dimple on his cheek. He walked towards me chest first and I wanted to melt, heart was beating at 250 beats per minute I was gonna die of tachycardia. When he got to me it felt like he had sucked up all the oxygen, I was breathing through my mouth -yup I dropped my jaw. “Are you okay? You tired or something?” His voice though. You should hear him speak, sounding like a Greek god
“I’m fine,” and so we danced. I could’ve died. If only we could dance without him touching me. Holding my waist felt like fire trailing down my spine and he kept smiling. Why was he doing this to me? Why was he smiling? Everything was spinning out of control? I dunno how I could keep up with the routine. I wanted him to touch me so bad, I literally had goosebumps but then his hands felt so warm. Hormones were running through me so fast I could almost cry. All I could think of was biceps, eyes, beard, jawline, chest. I could feel my own chest knot up. Then it was over. Phew! I survived!

“We’re sweating mehn. Lemme get water. You’re thirsty right?” I could only nod. Heart rate wasn’t exactly back to normal, not with sweating melanin popping chocolatey dark skinned goodness standing in front of me. I was thirsty alright but it wasn’t for water. He left and I could hear him talk to his mum in the kitchen and then the music started all over again so I couldn’t hear them anymore. Good because his voice was not helping me calm down. I walked to the corner of the room and picked up a faced down frame. It was a picture of his family, must have been from five years back. He was looking all nerdy with his glasses still cute as a pony though. 16 year old me would have definitely tripped for 18years old him cos dude was foiiine!
“Hey! Gimme that, here’s your water,” I smiled and collected the bottle of water.

“So I know you used to wear glasses, and you were cute,”

“Really? Thanks….”

“So where did you hide your glasses now? Huh?”

“Uhm I’ll show you. Gimme your hands though.”

“Lol. Why”

“Just bring your hands.”

“Ok”
Hands stretched out and he held them together at the wrists with one hand raised them above my head and backed me up against the wall. And I became paralysed. Looking me in the eye like he was about to devour me and breathing in my face, music still playing and piercing through my mind but they don’t really understand the masterpiece I’ve found I was helplessly breathing in his carbondioxide and my face lost all expression. Hot tears welled up in my eyes, I was breathing way too fast and I felt paralyzed. Breathing deep and hard wasn’t helping at all as my breasts moved on his chest. I totally felt helpless and I liked it. All I could do was remain calm and listen there’s no words to describe, let me look in your eyes and say. There’s beautiful and then there’s you So he took me back to cloud 10 and all I could hear was Charlie Puth singing YOU.

His other hand moved up my back and I arched my back pressing my breasts on his chest, nipples feeling tingly and sensitive in my bra. The kiss did not stop. The first tear drop rolled down my face. He pulled my waist to himself till I could feel the bulge in his trouser. He pulled one leg up around himself and trailed hot heat on the skin of my thick Namibian thigh. Something in me clicked when he grabbed my butt cheek under my skirt. Sirens and fire alarms went of in my head. I forced my hands out of his grasp and pushed him away from myself. I stood there looking at him, my cheeks wet from hot tears. My eyes probably looked like burning flames because he stepped back and didn’t touch me.

“Virgin?” was all he could say. I shook my head “no”

“Oh uhm. Ok. So what then?”

“Dont touch me! ” I was angry. It wasn’t his fault but yet I was angry. “Ever!”
He wasn’t scared any more, he took my hand and looked at me, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were like that. I promise I won’t touch you unless I’m sure I’m gonna marry you. I’m really sorry”
And the rage in me died down immediately. I was calm and then I felt weak again. I fell in love with him that day……………….. he dumped me two months later. Apparently he had a side chick and she wasn’t allergic to sex. I didn’t dance for six months. I’d associated dancing with him. I let him take my gift with him in the break up. It took a while to get back to normal and I did. This is what I get for waiting till I’m married, but I’ll wait anyway.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/02/13/letter-to-my-ex-best-friend-olumegbon-m-adenike/

“A bottle of fanta and a slice of sandwich please,” I went into Kaybeez, sat on our favourite chair and took our favourite order. I sat there reminiscing with every bite our moments.

We used to be the best of the best of friends, we did virtually everything together, I can remember we even use same d.p. I knew from the start that we won’t last but then something just kept telling me to keep pushing. We told each other things, we fought and laughed over dumb things. Hmm the late night chats, we stay up late saying nonsense and then we keep saying, “I love you” till one of us accepts defeat which we won’t without a fight. It was all I asked for, I wanted to be emotionally attached to someone without commitments and I got that.

We went on until Bimpe came, she agreed to your reconciliation and then I became your sofa- my duty is just to sit and wait for you while you go and flex and enjoy. I was just in the picture doing nothing. I felt it was high time I left the picture because I can’t keep hanging around waiting for you and Bimpe to have issues again, it won’t do either of us any good. You felt I was just being selfish and desperate, I felt you were just using me as a tool of amusement when you and Bimpe have issues. So we both decided to stop pushing and we are just memories, at least it’s a nice one.

So now I’m sitting alone. There’s me and there’s a you , the “us” is dead. RIP to our “us”. Oops, I’ve exhausted my break, I wish you were here to finish up my sandwich for me. Adios friend, I wish we crossed over to 2017 as “us ” not “me ” and “you”.

To my ex-best friend

Dayo.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/02/13/the-home-coming/

The long limbs of twilight played a slow game of police-catch-thief with the last signs of daylight. The sun had not risen when he left Lagos. A medley of bad roads which were a fixture of bloated government budgets, and needless countless checkpoints, manned by hungry looking policemen more concerned with lining their pockets with the contents of his wallet than national security, ensured that sixteen hours after he drove past the Agba Meta he was only just approaching the Ringroad axis of Benin City.

His arms were beginning to ache. He had never driven over such a long distance before. He had no complaints though. He was behind the steering wheel of a car which had papers bearing his name and passport. Mama would be proud. He had arrived Lagos with a rucksack of clothes several sizes too small, mama’s blessings and two crumpled one thousand naira notes slightly discolored from their long vacation in a knot of mama’s wrapper.


Life had been good to him but Lagos had first been cruel to him and had shoveled king-sized servings of misfortune down his throat with reckless abandon. He had spent his first night under a bridge at Ojuelegba, kept wide awake by a zealous orchestra of mosquitoes and the stench of marijuana and piss. In the morning he discovered the money he had hidden in a sock at the bottom of his bag was missing. The sock had been emptied and replaced. Lagos 1- 0 Osayuki. ‘Lagos na wa’ , he sighed. All was not lost. The previous night, he had come up with the idea of splitting the cash and the surviving one thousand naira was stashed safely in his underpants.

A lot of water had passed under the bridge of his life since that sleepless night. He had wandered the streets of Lagos in search of a job suited to his meagre qualifications during the day and washed grimy Danfo buses at night. He would never forget the number plate of the first yellow bus he washed. AG904IKJ. The bus driver was a burly Yoruba man, with hairy armpits and a hairless head, who reeked of dry gin and paid him two badly faded fifty naira notes. He had not lacked places to rest his head because if there was one thing Lagos had in abundance, it was bridges. Bridges sprouted from the ground like ripe boils and he rested under a different bridge every night. The sound of rotating tires and hooting horns overhead made sure he never had a good night’s rest.

By his second week in Lagos, his cash reserves began to run low. He took his breakfast of bread and Pepsi off the menu. Unripe bóle and groundnut washed down with two sachets of water at five o’clock had to suffice. Driven by hunger and the determination to get some form of employment, however menial, he set out earlier and walked longer distances in his search for a job. His tired feet took him to Ladipo market where he found employment as a sales boy at a spare parts shop. The years of listening to mama haggle the price of pepper, fresh tomatoes and second hand clothes came in handy. He had an eye for a bargain and his knowledge of business studies helped him balance the books. For the first time in six years the Ladipo market branch of Chimezie Ventures had tidy books and even turned a small profit. The change in fortunes did not go unnoticed. By the next year he was transferred to the head office. Everything he touched turned to gold and lots of profit.

He whistled Victor Uwaifo’s Mammy Water to drive away the tedium and take his mind off the pain building in his arms. He had been away for too long. Eight years. He hadn’t seen mama for eight years, hadn’t heard from her for the last three. The chaos of work and overseas travel had prevented his return home. This trip was long overdue. He had planned to make it last Christmas but end of year stock taking and last minute trouble at the ports held him back in Lagos.

His life had been an adventure and the memories of the years gone by were preserved in the album with the white leather cover resting on the front seat. He had formed the habit of taking pictures. There were pictures from his first trip to England. He recalled his futile struggle to grasp the words which flew out of the client’s mouth at lightning speed. There were pictures from voyages to Japan, China, Australia and New York. He never left a city without getting a souvenir for mama. Lace from England, shoes from Milan, perfume from Turkey, Indian spices. Moroccan headgear, leather bags from Kano. He felt a lot like Sinbad the sailor.

Traffic slowed to a crawl at Mission Road. Christmas was in the air. Carols blared from speakers and packs of mothers, children in tow, bustled from shop to shop in a frenzied search for the best prices. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally eased out of Ringroad and got on the homeward stretch. Airport Road went past in a blur of bright lights, ritzy hotels, loud bars and commuters.

For a place he had spent the greater part of his life in, Oko, felt unfamiliar. The cratered red roads he once roamed on barefoot had been tarred. Civilization had found its way here and had snuffed life out of the rustic scenery. Farmlands had been replaced by buildings which oozed refinement and new money. At the entrance to his street a garish signboard announced the presence of a hotel. As he made his way down the street the raucous voices of men sitting at a table lined with green and brown bottles of beer welcomed him home. A weary looking man with several gourds of palm wine dangling from the handlebars of his bicycle almost lost his balance as he gawked at the vehicle and peered intensely to see if he could recognize the occupant of the big car with tinted windows.

His heart beat a little faster. He could smell home. He saw mama in his mind’s eye. He wondered how she would react to his arrival. Would she shed tears of joy, break into dance or throw a tantrum for his failure to show up or at least send a message of some sort?

He tooted his horn at the gate he had last seen when he was little more than a teenager with no idea where his life was headed. The gates were cranked open by a boy in a dirty shirt riddled with holes. He couldn’t be more than seven. Osas guessed he was the son of the neighbours. He recalled Mrs. Ehondor being pregnant when he left for Lagos.

He could not care less about the run down look of the house. He was taking mama with him to Lagos so he could afford to be indifferent.

The glare of his headlights caused a woman seating on the verandah to shield her eyes with a palm. The figure squinted at first and then let out a squeal of delight when he came down. ‘Osas, ó ré nè o,’ she shouted. A dog barked in the distance. She held him in a warm embrace, her flabby breasts pressed into his chest. His response was less enthusiastic. She was an unwelcome distraction. He really wanted to see his mother. She was probably asleep. Mrs. Ehondor fussed over him, ran five curious through his hair and pinched both cheeks, all the while making sounds better associated with the arrival of a baby than a thirty year old man. The boy in the dirty shirt and shorts gazed on, wondering why his mother paid so much attention to the stranger with the big car.

She asked how Lagos was and then rebuked him for not remembering them. He begged her forgiveness and promised to settle her soon as he was done with mama. ‘Is mama in?’ He asked. The question brought a stop to her rabid movements . ‘Ehn, yes and no’ she replied, her voice lacked the excitement it had buzzed with a minute ago.

‘Yes and no?’ He was at sea, his forehead was furrowed with confusion.

‘Sorry, yes, she dey but she no dey inside house, she dey back’.

‘Thank you’.

He made his way to the backyard where mama maintained a small garden. He swept the garden with his eyes but mama was nowhere to be found. Mrs Ehondor must have lost her damn mind in the time he was away. He had made up his mind to give her a severe talking to when he saw it. A wooden cross standing atop a mound of red earth. He would never see his mother again.

*******

Agba Meta – the statue of three elders at the entrance of Lagos.

Bòle- roast plantain.

Ó ré nè- bini greeting acknowledging arrival of a person.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/02/08/the-earth-is-sick-and-its-your-fault/

The HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) attacks your immune cells. Hepatitis invades your liver. Helicobacter pylori disrupt the epithelial lining of your gastric mucosa (stomach) causing ulcer. All these infectious agents somehow change or disrupt the balance within your body. Ideally we have our immune system and it destroys most of these microbes, or we use drugs. That’s the human point of view.


Let’s think like the microorganism, especially the ones whose only host is man i.e. our internal environment is their habitat, our body makes up their ecosystem, their survival depends on their ability to infect us and reproduce within us. So they’re not attacking they’re surviving. Fine, their survival may depend on their ability to alter our internal milieu. So they start making changes within our organs and tissues just so they can be comfortable enough to reproduce. Some even go as far as changing their protein coats (like their skin) as often as possible just to evade our immune system. They eventually overwhelm and outsmart our immune system, and even drugs (like antiretroviral drugs used in managing HIV) by reproducing at a rate far more than the rate they arre being destroyed. But here’s where they realise “congratulations dude, you played yourself”; when the person dies. The ones who don’t have man as their only host are a bit lucky they don’t die with the human.

My point, what’s the difference between us and these microorganisms? Not much! First we alter nature, just to create our modern world, destroying the oxygen producing greens and contaminating the blues just to replace them with grey giant buildings emitting harmful gases instead of oxygen. In our defense just like the microbes we are only trying to create suitable conditions for future generations. Nature fights us though. Do you know how many of us die on a daily basis as a result of natural disasters yet we don’t seem to have population decline since we reproduce like spores? Some of these natural disasters are like immune cells (neutrophils, macrophages……. ) that are attracted to sites of infection due to the presence of these foreign bodies (microbes). What I’m saying is that some of these natural disasters are as a result of our actions; natural disasters are some sort of control mechanisms to contain human spread and virulence. We are just trying to survive too right? Won’t we protect ourselves from rain, sunshine and animals?

Since we can move why not travel the entire world and probably extend our travels to outer space? Since we are multiplying so fast we need more space right? So let’s cut down the trees and fill the rivers so we have more land to build on. Let’s create the most dangerous nuclear weapons to use against our enemies so we will rule the world. But then let us not forget the effect of all these on our ecosystem. Let us not forget that this is the only planet we can inhabit and thrive. It might take millions of years or more or less but at this rate we will destroy the earth like microbes destroys the body and I wonder what will be left of us. Would we have found another host to infect? Or would we perish with the earth? Would the earth eventually rid itself of us? Or will we learn to accept nature the way it is and stop making alterations?

At this point I think it’s time for us to realise that GLOBAL WARMING is a pathology of the earth. Yes! The earth is sick and it’s your fault.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/30/open-letter-to-mr-president-from-a-university-graduate/

Dear Sir,

I used to think that life wasn’t that hard. I used to think that all I needed was just a degree. I used to think that the degree was what would give me a job. I used to think that this job would be the antidote to all my suffering and garri whacking days. I used to think all these things until I became a university graduate in Nigeria. I got to know what it meant to be truly unhappy, broken hearted, bitter and angry. In truth, life is not a bed of roses! The things we labour for last longer than things we do not struggle for but the disappointments faced after going through the pain of schooling with the educational system in Nigeria will make you wonder why one goes through the stress in the first place.

Firstly sir, getting into school was no walk in the park as a matter of fact, I don’t know if you know that an average Nigerian secondary school graduate would wrestle ALMIGHTY JAMB for a minimum of three rounds if lucky. Some even go as much as ten rounds. We then get in thinking the struggle is over only for ASSU to strike for close to a year causing an extra year we never envisaged.

Truly, the importance of education can never be overemphasized. Nigerians have lots of expectations when it comes to graduating and making an impact in the world outside but the labor market is a different ball game that leaves graduates frustrated and depressed. Sir, my friend, Sade, currently works as a hairdresser in Shomolu axis despite finishing with a first class in Biochemistry. Emeka, the four pointers Engineer, the one we all thought would end up in an oil company now teaches Maths and Physics in a public school somewhere in Egbeda. The list is endless, I could keep going on and on sir. These were people who during their undergraduates days, we could tell how excited they were about graduating from school. They seem to have had their lives planned as they can tell you what they would be doing as soon as they graduated but the surprises they get afterwards leave them confused and devastated. The futile search for job leaves them in doubt as it dampens their spirit and allows depression to set in.
They become more worried especially when they see people who are not as educated as them making it in the same market. Sad story!

More painful Sir, is the fact that being jobless reduces their self-esteem. If their employment status does not change over time, fitting into social groups may be difficult. The other day, Rahman and Otubu called me up and told me how they had to break up with their girlfriends since year one, all because their parents claim they cannot give out their daughters to jobless and broke men. When all has failed in the labour market, finding love has become another major challenge. Sir, when would all these end? When would sanity return to this nation of ours? When would things actually change for the better? Sir, when would you finally give us the CHANGE you promised us?

The most annoying part of it all, is that one stupid small company in Lagos that can only pay you 30k a month would be asking for six years’ experience. Mtschew! Like they are not in 2017? Is it not in this same year that your senior colleague sir, Donald Trump, with no single experience in politics or government administration, won the elections as President of America, the strongest nation in the whole world?

Mr. President, please do something, there has to be a way out. we need jobs – befitting or unbefitting; we just want something, anything. We are frustrated. Sincerely, some of us are contemplating suicide. Our aged parents are losing money and resources to feeding us. They have sent us to the universities with the hope that we would one day fend for ourselves, with the hope that we would one day pay their bills, with the hope that we would one day make them proud. Mr. President, the truth is that our parents are still feeding us one, two, three, four, five years after graduation. When would the ‘one day’ come sir?

Mr. President, prove to us that you are a good man. Prove to us that we should vote you again in 2018. Give us jobs; give us life; give us hope; give us a reason to remain good citizens.

From Your Favourite Citizen,

An Unemployed Graduate

O.K.B

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/19/jerkitalia-chronicles-of-masturbation-damilare-hoseni/

Just a little more, a few tug- a heaven like feeling. More, more of my driving sweetness.

A sweet reciprocation- I touch me!

Her enormous bud enchantedly exaggerated, a glance at the wriggle of her tang. At my delight I stir myself, void of her, yet visible in me.

Shortlived of this pleasure; that rising fantasy of such sweetness. A rancid relish-oh how it disgusts? Done deed- a regretful retrospect.

A shallow affirmation. That constipated ponder; bits and pieces of such provocation. A manipulated ponder never to adhere. Yet at her ass bounce- assertion short lived.

Such odious pleasure- emotions annihilated, it haunts- thoughts and ideas shrinked. My evergreen, now acts reviled. Now, until I break loose, I touch me…

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/11/notice-me-godwayne-ogu/

She sat, smiling. My eyes often interlocking vision with hers, she didn’t know anything. That is the farthest I have ever gone; looking from a distance. I’d hold the mic, sing out my heart, speaking to her, ‘How Did She Not Know?’ it was obvious. I sang facing her directions, pointing at her face, smiling as she smiled. Every song I performed revolved around her, I built a solar system of rhythms; she was the sun.

“Notice me!! Look in my direction!! See me!!” I’d scream, so inaudibly. The school always gives me the opportunity to sing, my unbelievable range is undoubtedly the reason. Every verse, every bridge, every lyric of every song, I’d dedicate to her. Of course! She didn’t know, she probably would never; I am too much of a chicken, I’d never tell her. I’d not tell a soul. I know I have the words to touch her heart, but I keep biting my tongue, I keep swallowing my spittle, hoping she’d see through me.

Maybe if I give enough subtle signals she’d see, maybe she would look, maybe she’d notice me. I know I am feeding myself lies, but what else can I do. Walk up to her and tell her how her eyes are my brightest star? That’s something I man would do, not a chicken. I have rehearsed my first real conversation with her time and time again, every time fine tuning my words, working on my delivery, every time not delivering. It always begins with her smiling, her face shining, my body shivering and then the shivers rushing down my spine. My words escaping, disappearing, dust to the wind.

In all this she knows nothing, walking past me like I am nobody. Not even looking twice. Does she understand the effect she has on me? The struggle to keep my shaky legs from failing? The effort I put into stopping myself from grabbing her arm, looking her in the eye and then stealing a kiss? I know she doesn’t, I have never told her. She may not even know my name, she probably thinks I am from Jamaica.

I have read so many books, listened to so many people and they all seem to think love at first sight is a myth. I don’t know if it is one. I don’t completely understand what I feel but then if this isn’t love, what is? What else can be the explanation for my lack of coordination around her? Why does my heartbeat increase so drastically? Why does my blood pressure rise? Why am I consumed by this want to be in her presence and this need to see her smile? What else is this?

I know what to do, I know how to do it, I know when to say those words…I could even sing it, I just can’t. Don’t ask why, I don’t know why. I just can’t. I have waited for this feeling to go, this emotion to be faded away and now I know it has a bed already; it’s going nowhere. I can only hope, expect, lie to myself, call it whatever you like but I can only but wish that she notices me.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/10/all-the-devils-are-here-a-side-niggas-tale/

I am really not a wicked person, I’m just another person with dark fantasies although most times it could be sweet as if I were eating honey and bread. I have always believed in Shakespeare’s quote of “Hell is empty and all the devils are here”, yes all the devils in hell are here. I am a devil, you are one, the next person reading is another. Having accepted that we are all devils, let’s journey to one of my dark fantasy.

I have always had this stupid thing of crushing on girls or women I can’t have. For instance, say I should be crushing on Yemi Alade or Tiwa Savage, the hour-glass types but I end up with girls I shouldn’t have. Wait, isn’t it that’s why it’s called ‘crush’? It should be someone you can’t have but you wish and hope you have the person right? Let me tell you of this girl, her name is…will tell you when I remember. I don’t know if she was sent to me from my dreams, in my mind it’s as if I am perfect for, like we are the perfect match but in reality I don’t even know her. This is why I hate dreams because you’d always wake up, I feel so sad for the American people because they think there’s an American dream somewhere. The sad thing is that it’s a dream and when you wake up it’s all gone. But this one girl got me infatuated and I am absolutely fascinated with thoughts of what she may look like. Between fate and time I really don’t know which was procrastination, either of the two had made me wait but wasn’t sure which one it was, but I felt it was somehow right. This time I saw her negotiating a bend adjacent my street, my mind at this point was already dividing, like Moses dividing the Red Sea, one saying “I would be stalking if I follow her and it could probably creep her out, the other got defensive and said NO! It’s only curiosity and moreover trying to be a good neighbor knowing where she stays”. I started daydreaming and imagining escorting her home one day or even if I passed by and she waves to me, how glad and gracious I’d be. But sadly that never happened.

Now I am in the town mall trying to get me and the boys some liquor to go through the weekend while watching the premier league when suddenly our eyes met. I told myself if I really want her I would have to grow some balls. Already walking towards her, I can’t even afford to dull it again. Everything that makes me keep disagreeing again, my legs keep walking but my mind screams stop!!! Head facing downwards, oh boy she’s seen you coming. I have to straighten my head and put a smile or something, my hands keep shaking, heart beating fast. By now I am close and have got to say something, my mind yells say something you shy fool! I stuttered.

“Hey what’s up? Sorry to interrupt but in these streets, I have seen lots of girls and you’re new around here and I was hoping I could show you around here and we become friends and we can watch football together or some fun movies?”

She looked at me quizzically and finally said, “I’d love to but I don’t like football, besides if I watch with you, then I don’t really think my boyfriend will like that!”

The words “my boyfriend” hit me so hard. “Okay! You said you have a guy, I mean, I definitely understand and I’m happy for you, I can’t be the only admirer and fan of a girl like you and perhaps I am sure your man is a very nice guy, it’s no problem am sure we may see sometimes later, the only thing I ask if things don’t work out for you two I am on the substitute bench and please don’t act like you don’t know me after all these strategies have put up.”

I started scouting this her boyfriend, research made me understand that she doesn’t even like him, she’s just with him because her family forced her and he hasn’t been any nice to her at all. I found out his name, the time he leaves for work and when he comes back, the route he passes home, but wait why am I doing all these? We will find out.

The next evening, I saw him coming home in his ride, some yellow saloon car, I ran up to him and hit the screen, destroyed his face with blows and stabbed him without pausing. I ran as fast as I could out of the scene. In a few hours the neighborhood was coming out and wailing, but I spotted her crying and had mixed feelings. I decided to give her little time to mourn her dead boyfriend, I could only console her as she cried. Then she takes it as a divine sign from the Reverend. Finally could she be mine?

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/09/rubber-kerosene-flame-john-doe/

Chords sung out of the tiny music box to an audience of one. Notes stretched on, the single soul savoring each like it would be the last. Eyes closed, he waited as the last note faded. There was no hurry, at least not yet. With great care he reached for the music box, his small hand gently closing the lid. He ran his fingers over the engraving etched into the side, reading as he went along.

“We will always love you Ranti, our little…”

Each word came out as a whisper; barely audible even to Ranti’s ears. He could read no longer, tears blurring his vision. Turning, he faced the wall beside him. Reaching into his pocket he brought out his knife and began to carve a line. It joined twelve others, his thirteenth week since he’d found this hole. The coincidence of this week being his thirteenth year was lost on Ranti as he blew out the candle flame plunging the little room into darkness.

With a keen eye, Ranti surveyed his work. The brick wall looked seamless with a casual glance. No one would guess a small hole lay behind it. His treasure would remain safe. Thoughts of what he would do if he lost it were quickly shoved down with practiced will. Rumblings in the distance reached his ear. Ranti set off down the tunnel taking care not to touch the track to his right. Looking behind, he saw lights in the distance. They were early. Legs pumping hard, Ranti ran down the tunnel, the train steaming towards him.

Panting, his hand reached out for the knob he knew would be hanging below the softly glowing exit sign. Reaching in his pocket Ranti pulled out a bobby pin and inserted it into the lock. Twenty seconds he thought as he began to jimmy. The train horn startled him, his hand letting go of the pin. It fell and with it Ranti’s heart. With a cry he dropped to his knees, fingers frantically searching the dimly lit floor. Closer the train came, filling the tunnel, its light setting the tunnel ablaze revealing the pin. Ranti grabbed it, working on the lock like his life depended on it. He could feel the heat from the train’s engine as it closed in on him. With a click drowned out by the train the lock opened. Ranti threw himself against the door. It swung open to his little force, momentum carrying him into the safety of the small room. Behind him the train sped past, whipping dust and trash into the air around him.

Finally catching his breath Ranti picked himself up and closed the door, the lock automatically setting. A sign saying “Danger Do Not Enter” stared back at him. Dusting himself of, he turned to the opposite door in the short hallway. Turning the handle he pulled.

Dawn greeted him in all its majestic colors. Reds and oranges met his eyes, a living flame dancing to an audience of one. It engulfed Ranti’s senses, warmth washing over him, bathing his dark skin. Completely enraptured in the moment he drew in a deep breath, gagging immediately as the smells of the morning market flooded into his nostrils. Clawing at his nose did nothing to purge the odor of trash, kerosene and an open sewer system. It had been weeks and he still could not get used to it. A purr drew Ranti’s attention, scents forgotten for a time. Bending down he gently rubbed behind the ears of a black little kitten working its way around his legs. Night he had named it on their first encounter. The rubs had become their morning ritual. Back arching the kitten shook itself, pawing playfully at Ranti’s fingers before sauntering away. A simple signal, it was time to get to work.

Two steps for every one was what it took for Ranti to keep up with the well-dressed man.

“Oga money for food please…”

With fingers held together Ranti mimed shoveling a morsel of food into his mouth. He liked to imagine it was eba. Hot eba with vegetable soup that had been made with meat broth. It was the closest he got to the taste of meat. Sweat glistened on his brow, the late afternoon sun very different from the gentleness of dawn. Tattered sleeves reached to wipe the sweat replacing it with dust and grime. His stomach growled loud enough for those around to hear. Looking up he met the eyes of the well-dressed man with his hopeful ones. Ranti only saw disgust and the glimmer of a note falling to the ground. He reached out to snatch it but the wind was quicker.

With abandon Ranti tore after the note, tiny puffs of dust kicking up from where his feet touched the dirt path. Market stalls blurred past, the aroma of chicken going unnoticed. Now gasping for breath, Ranti’s heart filled with elation as the wind ended its game, depositing the note underneath the rubber boot of a man. Hands stretched out before him, Ranti reached for the note. Pain came before comprehension, boot hitting him squarely in the stomach. Doubling over he cried, agony sweeping over him. There his note lay, out of reach. Ranti could only watch through the tears as the man with the boot bent down to pick it up. It disappeared into his apron, the words Moses’s roasted chickens written boldly on it.

“Oga Moses please.” Ranti tried to say, the sounds more cough than words.

His gaze could not leave where the note had disappeared into. He could only think of the week it would keep the hunger at bay. Water hit him. As it ran down his face Ranti realized it was saliva. Slowly he struggled to his feet. Despair closing around his heart, pain dulling his mind. Around him hung whole roasted chickens on thin ropes. Ranti reached up and began to run, fingers coming away with a whole chicken. In his wake a shout followed him, carrying from stall to stall.

“Thief!”

Dusk painted the skies in dying embers. Blood covered Ranti, blows raining down. Curled in a fetal position, he could not see those around him, only feel the savagery. A hit to his head left him in a daze, shouts fading away, an incessant ringing taking over as he faded into black. Whipped into a frenzy the mob surged, a sea of living flesh feeding of itself. Individually, voices of humans but together an inhuman sound rising to the heavens. Tires found its way around Ranti’s body, kerosene coating and pooling beneath him. Night had come early, the sky black, sun refusing to witness. From a distance a torch came meeting the edge of the mob. Moses held it high and they parted, creating a path to the center, a single word emanating from each.

“Flame!”

The chant grew, reaching its peak as Moses reached the center. On a pole Ranti hung, unconscious. Night perched on the very top, only its eyes visible in the inky darkness. Moses looked around him seeking anyone else who took note of the glowing eyes in the darkness. He was only greeted by the frenzy as they urged him on. Moses took a step back, a shiver running down his spine. Hands whipping forward he threw the flame onto the tires clinging to Ranti’s body. Reds and orange came alive, the flames feeding hungrily as it blazed into life. The chant quickened, the mob reaching its peak, people struggling to get closer as the smell of burning rubber reached them. A single scream pierced the night air, the smell of burning flesh joining that of rubber. Silence fell over the mob as the scream rose into the night sky, only to be joined by another and another. To a man the mob froze. From a dream the scream woke them, hearts seeing the fire and the child who burned within.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/09/spare-the-rod/

I watched her as father looked at her with that usual face he gave when we were doing something wrong. She nevertheless had that face of innocence, one that I knew infuriated father the most. He was however oblivious of the fact that she herself didn’t know why he was angry. Scowling at her, I didn’t know if he didn’t notice how the pastor was looking at her in that lustful way. Maybe father thought it was because she didn’t cover her hair and arms that the pastor was looking at her in that way. He considered her the source of the pastor’s sin after all.

Sometimes I would wonder what went on in her mind at that period. It would be like Christ, trying to think of what he did wrong that they opted to crucify him. So also she would try to pin point what she did wrong that made father give her the angered look and make her know she should expect his heavy fists when we get home and how she would have wished that this cup pass over her when we get home and he flings his bible at her, following it with heavy blows. Mama didn’t even flinch, she was like him after all in thinking. Spare the rod and spoil the child was their favourite bible quote and they used it to assuage their convictions of physical abuse.

Why should it be only the source of sin that is blamed, what about the sinner? Why should the pastor go unpunished as my sister is beaten violently by papa? The pastor’s daughter and I usually came home from school together so I asked if I could accompany her to her house insisting I was pressed. Maybe I am possessed as papa said the day I slashed the kitchen knife against his hand as he tried to hit me. I plunged my devils tool as papa also called it into her amidst her frantic pleas. Imagining how papa beat sister after the service that day and how her father’s smile will turn wry when he finds out his daughter is raped by the son of the father of the girl he is making advances towards.

Papa began to shake as he knew he would lose his position in the church ultimately leaving the church. I knew he did not care about the girl but the religious status with which the pastor had besotted on him. He had raised his hand to hit me before I told him that if he did, I would kill him and his wife too. I didn’t care if they birthed me. He knew I would do it so all he did was shake his head as mama looked at me expecting him to hit me.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/06/a-letter-to-my-estranged-lover/

Dear ex, it’s been a while since I saw you. As I steered my steps homewards the other day, you were not within arm’s reach. Did you find the note that I wrote? I hid it in the seam of your coat. It was hard to write though, I had a lump in my throat. I’m sure you have no idea how hard it was to let you go.

It’s been six months now since I left you and I haven’t heard from you. My mind has been strewed up and I’ve been swamped; I’m also trying to efface your memories – the memories that plunges me in deep late night thoughts. I guess you have given up trying to call me. Perhaps you never did. I guess you got tired of messaging even though I received none. I know I left you without a word but I thought I’d be wise you knew why I left.

My dear ex, I miss us a lot. I keep thinking of the memories we shared together, our dreams never lacked lustre. You remember when I used to tell you that our love was doctored by God himself, limned and engrafted in our hearts to spend eternity. How we played like kids, ate like gourmands and drank ale like men in the tavern. I miss the attention we once enjoyed. You would not let a day pass by without dropping a message. It was the most adorable thing about us. But, in a flash, we lost it and then I realized it was for a moment. Did you stop loving me or you got bored? Why were you so cold to me? Tell me was it all for the thrill? I gave you everything I could but you still went for the kill. I gave you heaven on a platter baby I gave you everything you never gave me, I never lied and I never faked it, I only wanted you to love me same. And when I left you, I always thought you’d come back, tell me that all you found living without me was heartbreak and misery. It’s hard for me to say though but I’m jealous of the way you’re happy without me.

You kept telling me you love me but I wonder what love is when you left me ill for weeks without a call. You said you cared about me; it’s funny how you forgot I had health issues plaguing me. How do you explain your love when you deserted me for weeks without a bit of attention? Maybe love has its own definition for you but was it the one we agreed upon? All I now see is a charade spreading silhouetted pieces of your singsongs; Lies.

And that’s the problem with putting others first… You teach them that you come second and that got to me. Maybe now you’d realise that when I loved you, I was not weak, I was not idle, I was not foolish and even if I were, it is because you were like a shimmering pride of Barbados, a flower that I could not resist. Why then did you push me away because flowers cannot wither away or because I can’t find roses in place of Barbados?

Dear ex, there’s so much I want to say but certain things are better left unsaid. I was such a fool to think love was all that counted. Yes, I loved you but you needed more than love. You needed money, you needed the happening guy. You needed the perfect guy and even when I strove to be one, it just never worked. I went there extra mile countless times than you, me. None of these mattered. I loved you deeply and that was all I cared about. How senseless I was! Instead of blaming you for not loving me, I should blame myself for not having all it would take to garner your love; The rarity I clamoured.

Dear ex, since I couldn’t be the perfect man you desired, since you couldn’t love me as much as I loved you, I had to let go. For weeks I cried and wailed but now I’m stronger. I have realised that we waste precious time trying to get those who have no interest in us, love us. While we do this, we punish those who love us for something they know nothing about. What a vicious cycle! I had to throw in the towel. I had to stop fighting. I’ve learnt to love those who love me. I’ve learnt that it is better to be with those who appreciate you and most of all, I’ve learnt that those who we keep chasing for love will never bring the happiness we desire in the inside. I still love you dear, sometimes I still feel like I want to be with you but then, the most important decision had to be made – the decision to be happy because no matter how beautiful the love stories were, no matter how much o desired you, I have to accept that certain things will never fit, nor will certain people. I finally realised that while you are busy chasing those who do not love you, you will lose those who do and eventually lose at both ends. It’s better for me to smile in the reality of being loved than to cry over the fantasies of being loved by someone who saw no reality in my cogitations. Shakespeare said indeed, “Love sought is good, but love unsought is better”.

Dear ex, love wasn’t our problem. When we had each other, we had everything until your priorities changed. I don’t regret us for every mistake made isn’t just a wrong step, it is a lesson. I’ll stick to those who love me. Dear, life is too evanescent for me to ensnare myself in the chase for love where I can’t find it. If you had done the same, perhaps we would be together but it’s okay. Someday, you’ll realise that I had the love that would make you but just when you’d come looking for me, I’d be at arm’s length. I tried to make you see that loving someone is like falling off a cliff; you have to let go of all inhibitions and fears. Let love hurt you, Let love heal you. Perhaps you chose to love me with your head when, unlike others, I chose to love you with my heart.

Trust me babe, it wasn’t easy to let you go, it only became easy to move on when I figured out that you were gone even before I left you. I gathered you are now in love with the mogul down the next street. I’m sure you love him. I’m only shocked he loves my sister too.

With Love,

Mr. Possible.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/14/diary-of-a-lagos-housegirl-2/

Excerpt from part 1:

The clock ran at its peak and the two days arrived like I had just been told a while back. As I sat in the bus headed to Lagos, I wept bitterly for two reasons. First, I was going to miss my siblings and I only prayed our father’s only sister treat them like her own. Second, I was scared of what Lagos had in stock for me.

To read part 1: Visit profile or www.penastory.com

The journey from my hometown in Akwa Ibom to Lagos took almost eight hours. It was such a tiring one for me. I tried to feed my eyes with the people and things around me. To my left was a mother and her daughter who were fast asleep almost through the entire journey. Initially, I attempted to do same but I couldn’t take a nap as I watched excitedly as we journeyed through different towns and villages.

“Dad, are we not there yet?” a young boy seated directly behind me asked his father wearily.
“We will soon be there dear,” the old man replied. Quite truly, it wasn’t up to twenty-five minutes that my eyes struck a sign post with the inscription “WELCOME TO LAGOS”. I felt the bitterness erupt within me and immediately wished to be back in my hometown. This was definitely the first time I was ever visiting Lagos. The wind blew hard on my face to reassure me I was in Lagos and would probably not be seeing home for a long time to come. I fought back tears as the blissful memory of my late parents and siblings flashed through my mind.

As the driver drove into the garage at Ojota, I began to search frantically for the piece of paper that Mama Eno had given me. She had scribbled down a number I was to call on arrival in Lagos. I located the nearest business centre and put a call through. The woman on the other end was an old woman whom I knew only as ‘Mama’ and stayed with for four days, until her son and daughter-in-law came to collect me. They took me to their home in Lekki.

At the beginning, I remember being very afraid but after about five days, I was no longer afraid because [from] the way everybody was behaving here, [I could tell] they were not wicked. Yeah! They weren’t wicked but they actually just cared less about me. So far as I did my work well and on time, I was nonexistent to them. The only problem I had with this routine was that I was often hungry; breakfast was served late each day. Sometimes I did not eat until 1pm. My day usually began with sweeping and mopping the floor before helping my madam get ready: ironing her clothes, fetching her wigs, cleaning her shoes and serving her tea.

Oga does not like it when I prepare his food; he prefers madam to do that but I make breakfast for everyone else, including their teenage children and the security man who guards the gate. After serving everyone, I sit on a stool in the kitchen to eat my own food before continuing with the rest of the day’s chores. Most times I cannot sleep until I have completed my daily tasks. On a good day, that will be 10pm; on a bad day 2am. However, my workload lightened a little, when madam banned her children from sending me on errands for them. Now, whenever they want me to do anything for them, they have to buy me biscuit or give me money if they want me to do whatsoever without madam finding out.

Days had grown into weeks and weeks into months and eventually a year. I had gotten a accustomed to my daily routine that I did them effortlessly. Everything was going fine until this very night. It was a cold dull night unlike other nights since I arrived in Lagos, this night was different. Somehow I could tell something terrible was going to go wrong that night. Like I foretold, the expected happened. Someone sneaked into my room. In the darkness of the night, I felt fingers searching for the wetness of my young opening and when the probing fingers found it, they fingered deeply. Occasionally, the fingers ran up to handle my breasts and back down to my thighs. This went on for thirty minutes before the person sneaked back out. The lights were out and so I couldn’t make out who it was.

For weeks this act continued and every morning, I searched frantically for the culprit. I was super confused on who to suspect. Could it be Oga? But no, I doubt if someone who repels me so much can do such. Or was it Junior, my Oga’s nineteen years old son? No!!!! Junior was too much of a church boy; he never missed his midnight prayers between 12am-3am. Then who could it be? I made up my mind to at least find out who this pleasure giver was but then again something in me felt the anonymity of such person made it more adventurous.

Night had come again and I awaited the creaking sound of my room door which eventually came as my midnight sexual lover slid into my cover cloth. As always, there was no utterance of any word but I could feel I was being stared at for some seconds before being drawn close. I already knew what was wanted so I didn’t waste time in pulling my pant and positioning myself adequately. Just five minutes into pre-intimacy, I heard a nearby door gently creaked open and then I and my partner froze with fear and paused abruptly in the middle of it all.

Fingers still dipped in, the door of my room opened and someone walked in. The lights were off so everywhere was dark except for the torch the person brandished. As the torch swung to me on my bed, I heard a quick gasp by the carrier followed by the scream- Mom!!! That was Junior’s voice but couldn’t he keep a secret for his father only for me to turn to my right and scream- Madam!!!

Our noise attracted Oga and Princess to my room. I simply got up to wear my pant back as madam begged her kids and blamed her husband.

“I swear I didn’t mean to do it. It was all his fault. Look at how he’s fidgeting now like he didn’t know it would get to this level or even something worse”.

Apparently, Oga had suddenly become impotent a few years back and madam was sexually starved.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/05/burning-fire-caleb-nmeribe/

The first thing Ade remembered on the hospital bed when he woke up was the fire. Not just the colours – dark devilish red and bright yellows dancing about, conquering and consuming but the heat – deep and blinding. He felt it even now, all over his face and body. Not exactly like the previous night’s but slivers of it. Like the coolness of the droplets on your body after a bath. He heard voices, different ones, from the tearful moans to the screams of new entrants threatening to tear the Intensive Care Unit into bits. He didn’t need to ask where he was, he knew where exactly. He tried to open his eyes but the effort sent fiery hues of reds and yellows dancing into his vision. A nurse nearby heard him moan and rushed to his side. She tapped his shoulder in a slightly brusque manner – almost comfortingly but it brought a level of calm to him. A doctor came too, placing an object for several seconds on his chest and ribs and muttered to himself. He was later moved to a regular ward with patients of similar and varied ailments. They had readjusted the bandages from his eyes earlier so he saw them clearly despite his sore lids – different patients like himself; all male in different positions their ailments made them find comfortable. But where was his mother. He remembered it all clearly now, how it started. He had been reading for his term paper with the yellow light of a thin candle, praying with all his might it wouldn’t go off until he was done with the current chapter he was tearing through. He checked the time, it was a little after 10:00pm, and he continued working out some calculations, making scribbles on the oil stained piece of paper on the worn textbook. The next thing he remembered was waking up to find the desk, his clothes and the world on fire.

*******

The Intensive Care Unit of St. Maria General Hospital was cluttered and red. Doris lay still and confused on the brown mattress of the hastily made hospital bed screened off from the mess. She was alive and somehow, realized she couldn’t move the limbs on the right side of her body. On waking up the night before, she had found her room filled with smoke and the ceiling on fire. This was the room she shared with her husband before he died. How long had she been asleep? Nauseous and breathless she found her way to the door and opened it, opening a portal to hell itself. The whole house was alight but where was her son? She couldn’t enter his room, the door was on fire. It was as if the lid had become the very flames engulfing it. Like the gate way to hade’s palace itself. She had called out to him amidst gasps for air and got his screams for replies. But it was useless. She knew it was. Even in the face of the circumstances, she was a practical person and knew she couldn’t save him. Not by herself. She needed to get help or run away from this place before it came down on her and the only avenue out of the house, was the room adjacent Ade’s, which led into the shed out back where she stored the subject matter of her trade – gasoline. Her heart jumped into her mouth. What if the fire has gotten there? But the door wasn’t on fire yet. On entering the empty room, she raced to the iron door and tried to open it. But with the hiss that happens when flesh meets hot iron, she understood and jumped back in reflex almost falling due to exhaustion. Her consciousness began to escape her like liquid spilling out of an open container. She no longer thought straight. Wrapping a piece of cloth around her hand Doris tried to open it . . . the explosion took the door off its hinges and slammed it into her, tossing her against the opposite wall like a ragged doll while her universe dissolved into hell.

She had woken up later in the morning and noticed the chaos about her – the blur of whites, limping people with slings and noises. They came now and again, shining bright beams into her eyes and poking fingers at her body here and there. Calling her name over and over but she couldn’t reply even if she wanted to. She heard them repeat certain words – concussion, hemi-plegia over and over or was it concus-p…legia? Doris’ mind kept working in circles until exhaustion turned it off again.

*******

Ade spent whiles at the hospital, waiting for his burns to heal. He endured the smell of the ward; the whiff of antiseptic tinged with the odour of open wounds and vomit, the fiery tongued nurses and the inhumane way they changed the dressing of his burns. He asked them once, when he would see his mother. The nurse with her eyes heavily shadowed, told him to think about clearing the burns on his body first before talking about his mother. It hurt him. These were humans who were supposed to work with care, subtlety and tact, the core ideals of their profession. He didn’t blame them, he blamed the system. He saw patients buy everything that was employed in their care. From the drugs they ingested to the latex gloves worn by their caregivers and the scissors used in cutting up their old dressings. Why couldn’t the government provide some of these things? Why?

He was discharged first, his body still bearing pale yellow tell-tale signs of the inferno. They let her go weeks later, after their bills were settled with the last of her savings from her gasoline trade. When he slept, he still had fitful dreams of the night. Painful memories streaked with lurid colours stole into his consciousness and tormented him. He still thought about it, never forgiving himself for his foolishness. Just a few minutes of sleep and his world changed into this, this nightmare. It was sadistically funny, the games life played. When you feel it has visited you with something enough, it visits you with something else.

He remembers the time his father was alive, their alone moments when he taught him how to play soccer, how he spent time teaching him skills he wasn’t sure he would use later in life but it was fun. He remembered his mother’s face when she got news of his final exit. It comes to him sometimes, the amount of sadness that clothed her face for a very long time and his vow to make sure she remained happy for the rest of her life, even if it was what he died doing. Now, it killed him every day ten times over, to watch his mother limp and struggle to find words and meaning when she spoke. He did his best to help her.

“This is soup and that’s fufu,” he guides her left hand to the bowls on the table. “No, not that… this.” he corrects. “Here take water… gently, easy…”

He leads her; guiding the part of her body that no longer lives and on cool evenings, he takes her to the ashen veranda in front under the sky hugging its usual spray of stars. He lets her tell him stories like she used to, at her own pace and with the fire that burned in his eyes as he listened, he promised to be there for her, forever, never to abandon her. Not ever.

Epilogue
The Twist

At seven, Dorothy was a sweet little child; pretty with that sing-song voice that defined innocence. At least that was what everyone thought. What people didn’t know was that she had a long line of calamities in her wake caused by her very hands. She loved experimenting and couldn’t help it. She couldn’t help herself when the urges came, the urge to make ‘unnatural’ things happen. It gave her a sort of astral joy when wondrous things happened in her experiments, like the day she picked a piece of dark chalky matter from her father’s trap bag, and idly dropped it into a bowl of water. Her eyes went wide with surprise and elation when she discovered the reaction that occurred when carbide met water. She went back and added more to the liquid, watching it bubble and boil. She wondered what would happen if anyone drank fluid laced with carbide. Long before her father returned from work, she watched her mother carefully set his dinner on the table with a jar of freshly pressed fruit juice while she pretended to work on an assignment. Few minutes after she was sure her mother was busy in the kitchen, she went to work.

As time went on, she found a new love in setting things on fire. She had watched her widowed mother set fire to the wicks on their stove and understood where the flames drew their strength from – the fuel at the base of the stove. She was quite disappointed when she threw a lit match stick into a can of kerosene and it went out. Her mother on finding out her pastime, scolded her, warning her of the family next-door who sold gasoline in the black-market on retail. She tried to scare her by telling her gasoline was worse than the fuel that warmed their stove. She told her gasoline made things explode instantly and she was never to play with fire around the house or anywhere! Dorothy watched her mother with her bright little eyes while she spoke. She nodded in comprehension, sending smiles into her mother’s face. She understood everything now. While kerosene could aid fire but could stamp it out when the fuel was in excess, gasoline embraced it but you had to experiment from afar else it could kill you. Gasoline surely could cause explosions… but how big?

That night at about eleven o’ clock when her mother and half the town were asleep, little Dorothy picked the match box from their darkened kitchen and after struggling to pry the heavy backdoor open, she sauntered into the night.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/14/i-am-risky-a-transgenders-story/

Rick stared in longing at the gyrating bodies of the beauty pageant contestants and wished he was one of the girls on stage. Like the other students around him, he screamed in excitement every time a girl shook her buttocks at the crowd seductively, the feline grace and suppleness reeking of sexual promise. The occasion was Miss Fagunwa, one of the activities for the Hall Week of Fagunwa hostel at the University of Lagos. For an event that had promised to have beautiful girls contesting for a the coveted title, the compound of New Hall which consisted of five hostels was filled with students who had come to watch the spectacle.

“Shake that booty girl,” Rick screamed, his voice mixing with the loud music blaring from the speakers and the noise of the other spectators. He jumped up excitedly and quelled the feeling of disgust rising in him against contestant eight whom in his judgement was dancing too stiffly for a girl and not making use of her endowments. I can do it better, he thought to himself as he wished for the umpteenth time he was the one on that stage competing for the crown. I would have shown this crowd how to do a good booty dance, these girls are a disgrace to the female gender, he mused.

“Now ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, bonafides and squatters, join us in welcoming on stage, contestant number…” the announcer spoke into the microphone as the song ended and he made to introduce another contestant.

Rick turned from the stage and tuned out the voice of the host as he made his way through the sweating crowd. He couldn’t bear to watch this anymore, it was torture for someone like him. Rick had always known he was different from the regular guy for as far back as he could tell. He had a taste for feminine things – his favourite colour was pink, he liked glittery jewelry, the feel of feminine clothing and he simply worshipped the appeal of high heels. As an only child, he had a lot of free time to himself to indulge in his guilty pleasures as he grew up. At age nine, his parents had allowed him the freedom many of his mates could only dream of. His father’s job as a banker meant he had to leave the house very early and was not usually back till a little past seven p.m. while his mother worked as a lawyer in a top law firm. She was always too busy handling one high profiled case or the other to help her make partner at the firm to have much time for him. More often than not, she brought work home with her and she would lock herself in her study for hours on end, poring through law journals, case notes and other law related materials that she would barely notice when he slung her handbag on his shoulder or slipped his feet into her heels.

As Rick made his way back to his hostel room in Sodeinde, one of the hostels occupying New Hall, he walked with a sway to his hips, counting his steps in tune to the music which was slowly fading away the further he went into the hostel. His room, E302 was at the far end of the hostel in a secluded corner that was notorious for housing the hostel’s bad boys. Usually, the smell of marijuana always wafted into his room which was not too far from where the miscreants smoked their contraband away from the prying eyes of the hostel porters. He sighed in relief when he climbed the last flight of steps and saw that the hallway was empty. He didn’t usually like walking past them to get to his room because then he had to try his best to walk as masculine as possible in order not to draw their attention to him.

The empty hallway stretched before Rick like a runway and he allowed himself give in to the temptation he had been feeling when he was watching the beauty pageant downstairs a few moments ago. Strutting in a manner that would leave any supermodel green with envy, Rick sashayed in imaginary high heels, his hips swaying seductively as he flipped an imaginary long flowing hair. When he got to the end of the hallway, he turned around hands akimbo like a model striking a pose and with his chin jutting out, he stared at the closed doors of the rooms before him and smiled like a queen bestowing blessings on her subjects.

“What are you doing?” The voice came from behind him and Rick whirled around in fright as he realised he had been caught.

He turned and faced a pair of glazed eyes. The dreadlocked ruffian-looking intruder belonged to one of the school’s most famous miscreant, Scorpio. Rick suddenly remembered the dark alcove where most of the miscreants sometimes smoked due to the privacy it afforded. It was a secluded spot shielding them from the prying eyes of anybody offended by the smell or sight or people smoking while its position gave whoever was smoking in the alcove a clear view of the hallway. Scorpio had a rolled up joint in his hand, its glow seeming to wink at him accusingly.

“Nothing,” Rick said and quickly backed away retracing his footsteps so that he could use another staircase to get to his room though it was a longer route as he would have to make a full turn round the hostel. He was in a dangerous situation but then his intruder shouted in a loud voice.

“Gay! Sodeinde come and see GAY!!” Scoprio’s voice was growing louder with every word, “if you haven’t seen a gay assed MOFO before, come and see this sissy right now!!! Oloshi RoosterDrinker!” the voice traveled down the empty hallway and Rick’s hurried footsteps turned into a jog as doors to rooms began to open and people started filing out as if drawn to spectacular event at a circus.

“Homo!” another voice called out and Rick bent his head in shame as humiliation welled in him. He could feel their judgmental gazes following him and he only narrowly managed to deflect a blow as he passed by a muscular guy on his way down the hall.

“I cover my yansh with the blood of Jesus. See as he dey shake yansh like woman. Oloriburuku. Bastard child.”

“You better make sure you wear three boxers or more this night before someone burst your yansh for you in your sleep this night,” another voice joked joining in on the mockery.

Rick allowed the tears of humiliation spill down as he turned the bend that signaled safety. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath and wiped at the tears angrily, his moment of glory forgotten.

Damn them all! What did the ignorant fools know? I am not gay, he screamed to himself silently. What do they know about being born in the wrong body, about having feminine feelings without being attracted to men? The ignorant assholes. He began to make his way up the flight of stairs that would take him to his room and with each step, he became more confused.

What am I really? I don’t want to sleep with a guy, I like women yet I want to dress like a woman and feel like a woman. What does it mean to be born in a wrong skin when my biological formation tells me I am a man but my mind tells me I am a woman? Does this make me gay or a lesbian? Am I going insane or am I just a nutcase homosexual like they think? The thoughts chased themselves in Rick’s head but he had no answer for any of it. Sighing in resignation, he yanked open the door to his room and entered.

“What is wrong with you Sisi Ricky?” his roommate Talabi asked in a casual tone oblivious of the further pain he was causing he already distraught Rick.

“Aren’t you going to compete with your sisters downstairs or did they disqualify you already?” Talabi’s bunkmate, Yemi asked in a jovial tone.

Rick paused in his steps and stared at the roommates who had mocked him ever since their first day in the hostel room and realised the sanctuary he had been running to was only in his mind. They were just as bad as the onlookers from outside and would only tease him mercilessly if he chose not to respond. Turning from the room, he took the steps two at a time, unsure of where he was going but knowing he had to get as far away as possible.

The pageant was still going on and the crowd was still cheering wildly. For a second he paused and stared longing at the stage where the girls were strutting and then he began running. As he ran and the wind whipped his face, he was blinded by his tears and oblivious to the curious stares of passersby. His mind registered the sound of the horn too late and he heard the screech of tyres on gravel as the driver braked sharply and made a swerve to avoid hitting him. He watched in horror as the car veered off the road and hit a streetlamp, the force of the impact denting the bumper of the car badly as splinters of glass flew everywhere and people screamed in horror. For a second he thought of running there to make sure the occupants of the car were okay but that feeling was gone in a split second and he was running again.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/04/diary-of-a-lagos-housegirl/

I swear I didn’t mean to do it. It was all his fault. Look at how he is fidgeting now like he didn’t know it would get to this level or even something worse. Believe me, it’s not what you think…I am not pregnant and I’m not talking about my madam’s husband. Hmmnnn! My story sef! How and where do I start from? *inhales deeply*

My name is Itoro, a very quiet and hardworking girl from Akwa Ibom. All my life, I have always had a passion for children, for keeping the home tidy and for taking care of people. So when Papa and Mama died from a gas explosion leaving me alone with my younger siblings, I had a smooth switch from being a child like them to becoming a guardian. I would work tirelessly and only retire to bed when the house was sparkling. Two years down the line, I realised that caring for my siblings had gone beyond keeping them and our surroundings clean. They were hungry and about to become drop outs. How stupid could we have been? How could we have thought that Papa’s little savings from fishing and farming could last us a life time?

Life they say is in phases and people are in sizes. At this stage of my life, I knew I needed someone physically and financially big to get me out of this particular phase and behold I found that someone. It wasn’t hard finding Mama Enobong. She was the queen of our village night life and usually had the big men patronising her local bar on a daily basis. I liked her realness. She had no time for back and forth talk, she simply hit the nail on the head. “Fine girl, they talk say you dey find work?” She asked with her baz voice.

“Yes ma! I can do anything ma,” I quickly answered sheepishly.

What followed was a wild mocking laughter. “Nah so unah dey always talk, if work come now, una go dey run”. It was pointless replying again. The next thing I saw in front of me was a form in form of a contract and it had three kinds of job clearly stated there:
1) Sales girl

2) Runz girl

3) Housegirl

Number two was a no go area for me because of my Christian upbringing. Without thinking too much, I went for number three even though it meant leaving my siblings in Akwa Ibom and travelling to Lagos according to Mama E. I know you feel that was a stupid move by me but trust me, I saw the way the big men ruff handled and touched sensitive parts of the other sales girls and they dare not complain else Mama E fired on the spot. In silence and fear of losing their only means of survival, they take all the rubbish. As for me, that was a “never do”.
Filling that form changed my entire life. I was to leave for Lagos to a family in Lekki in two days which meant I had just 48 hours to figure where to keep my siblings. The pay was impressive only that I had to split it equally with Mama Eno. The clock ran at its peak and the two days arrived like I had just been told a while back. As I sat in the bus headed to Lagos, I wept bitterly for two reasons. First, I was going to miss my siblings and I only prayed our father’s only sister treat them like her own. Second, I was scared of what Lagos had in stock for me.

To be continued…

Source: PenAStory - www.Penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2017/01/03/debut-love-a-broken-first-affair-etinyene-jimmy/

Holding my breath, a nervous wreck as he slid my panties down, worried about my inexperience. Am I going to please him enough? Then he stopped. I said to myself, “This is it, he knows. He’ll leave me”. I asked with utmost fear, “What is it?” but he said nothing. He just looked at me, very deeply as though he could see through my soul and said, “I adore you Christine”. In that instant, all my fear melted away.

I woke up the next morning not sure of where I was. I looked around the bed and slowly the events of last night came flooding back. How Michael had treated me like I was royalty even while doing unspeakable things to me, he found a way to make me feel like I was the luckiest girl on earth. Oh Lord, I groaned slowly massaging my temples as though that would make me forget.

“You’re awake mi amor,” he said as he walked into the room with a tray of breakfast delight in his hands.

He knows me so well, I thought. I smiled up at him, and just as I was about to speak, he leaned in and kissed my forehead then whispered, “Thank you for last night mi amor”. Those words, what did they mean? Simple thank you but in that moment it made me feel like my work here is done. And he said it in the sweetest way possible.. Why does he call me “mi amor” anyway? I hated it. I am not one for endearing nicknames but I never found the courage to tell him because I knew it would hurt him. He went to culinary school in Spain for a year and that was the only Spanish I heard him speak.

He called everyone “mi amor” even his maid. Everyone was tired of it but no one said anything. “Thanks.. thank you?” I stuttered my voice failing as usual. His very presence weakened me. I never knew what to say. He looked at me intently and said “Yes, thanks mi amor, last night was special to me. Was it special to you?” he asked. I gently nodded. He smirked as though giving himself a pat on the back and said “Of course it was.”

I started at the croissants he’d made and realized I had lost my appetite. He must have sensed it as he slowly took the tray away from me and planted a kiss on my lips. I lay back knowing what was to come. He took off his robe and I closed my eyes thinking of how much I loved him. Hoping thoughts of how good he made me feel would numb the pain as he took me for the umpteenth time. I had lost count last night.

“Wake up, mi armor!!! Christine!!!!” I startled almost falling out of bed still wrapped in the cum-stained sheets.

“What is it Michael?” I asked and then he looked at me and said the words. The words I would never forget.. Those words that haunt my dreams till this day, “You have to leave mi armor, my wife is on her way.”

“Yo… Your.. wi… wife?” why does my voice always fail me in times I needed to show strength?

“Yes, my wife, Christine. You have to get dressed,” he said as he threw my clothes to me while looking for something very intensely on the floor. Christine? I thought to myself. We have gone from mi amor to Christine?

“My shoes are in the bathroom” I said easing his burden when I realized that’s what he was looking for.

In the four months we dated, Michael never told me he was married but in that moment even as I tried to gather the remains of my dignity, one underwear after the other, I realized I had been foolish. Of course he was married. Why else would someone so perfect want me? Someone like me: short, somewhat beautiful, naive me. I was 19 years old, 5’6 tall and very light skinned. But I never got crazy male attention maybe because I wore no makeup and I hated dresses as they showed my legs, a part of my body I wasn’t a fan of. Guys my age never looked at me twice but for some reason, older guys couldn’t seem to take their eyes off me. I had concluded that my dream of marrying a young handsome man was farfetched and I’d settle for a not so old father. But Michael had changed that. We met in a supermarket close to my school and he said he couldn’t take his eyes off me the moment I walked in. I remember that day vividly. I wore a sweatshirt with “University of Lagos” inscribed boldly across it paired with my faded denim jean. My hair was wrapped in a bun and I had smeared my sister’s lip gloss on my lips before leaving just to make her shut up about me not putting an effort to be pretty.

I walked in, got a shopping cart and started making my way across the aisles, taking just my personal effects while calculating the price before I got to the counter. This was something I always did. I passed by the provision aisle and I stood, my eyes fixed on a jar of nutella. Did I really need it? I asked myself. Deciding against it I walked to the counter, emptied my cart and waited for the cashier to attend to me.

“I saw you look at this,” the cool, deep voice said beside me. I remember hearing the voice and I thought of Yul Edochie, the Nigerian actor whose voice I loved. I turned and there he was. The most handsome man I had seen that month. He was tall, dark skinned and bearded. I didn’t pay attention to his eyes. I was stuck on his beard. I stared at it as though it was dripping of glorious sweet smelling male essence. I later realized that was just his cologne. I let my eyes wander to his fingers and when I didn’t see a ring I sighed.

“What?” I said as I snapped myself back into reality.

“I saw you look at this and I thought I’d get it for you. I hope you don’t mind,” he said and held up a jar of nutella. I wanted to refuse but then I thought of my sister, and the names she’d call me once I tell her the story and I thanked him.

“No, don’t mention. It’s my pleasure,” he said.

I forced a smile and returned my attention to the cashier who gave me a weird smile as if she was trying to communicate with me as a female. I ignored her expression and brought out my money to pay.

“Please, let me,” he said. That voice again. I was ashamed of how wobbly my knees got when he spoke but I kept it under control. He probably knows my sister and wants to ask of her I thought to myself. Why else would he be so nice?

“You really don’t have to”.. I started to say then thought of my sister again.. This girl will kill me, I thought to myself, “but thanks,” I completed. He nodded saying nothing as he handed the cashier wads of 1000 Naira note. I looked around to see what he bought that’d cost that much but all I saw was a bottle of wine and perfume. oh, I thought to myself, my sister Francine would like this guy. I carried my bag and started walking out of the supermarket. I felt him follow me and silently prayed he’d leave me alone.

“Can I give you a ride? Where are you headed?”

I turned to him and said I would walk since my hostel wasn’t that far.

“Oh” he said looking like a lost puppy. “Can I have your number then? Please? I’d really like to see you again.” I wanted to tell him no and return his money to him but there was something about the way he talked, his aura and I also thought of how happy my sister would be.

“Sure,” I said as I stretched out my hand gesturing for his phone. He dialed my number immediately and it rang in my pocket.

“Had to confirm,” he said smiling. I nodded and said I was leaving. He offered to give me a ride again and when I refused he said he’d call me later and drove off. I boarded a taxi and went back to my hostel excited about telling my sister what had happened, I went straight to her room but met her absence. Disappointed I went back to my room and lay on my bed thinking of him till I fell asleep.

I awoke to Beyonce’s love on top playing on my phone and I just lay there, too lazy to get up and answer. If it’s important, whoever it was will call again, I said as the phone stopped ringing. The phone rang again, I sat up and stretched. I picked it up and looked at the last four digits. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello,” I answered, irritated already as I assumed it would be a colleague of mine asking to borrow a note or textbook. I had prepared my answer “No, I’m sorry. I’ll be using it,” when I heard his voice.

”Hello beautiful, Its Michael, we met at the supermarket earlier. I hope you got home okay.”

Michael? I gulped. If I thought his voice had an effect on me before, the phone maximised it. It was like a hundred thousand decibels of pure greatness. His voice was the kind I felt every man worth anything should have but then again, if everyone had it, it wouldn’t be that special would it?

“Hello Michael, yes I did. Thanks for asking,” I finally managed to say.

“Don’t mention mi amor, how are you?” We spent the next two hours on the phone talking about nothing and everything. He had a good sense of humour and listened to me talk like he was genuinely interested in the things I had to say. He told me he was 28 years of age and I was disappointed not because he was way older than I was but because I was almost sure that if he found out my real age, he’d leave. I told him I was 20 not so much a lie I thought to myself. 19 and 20, who cares? We were still talking and laughing when my sister walked into my room and stood, staring in awe at me. Clearly a roommate of mine had gone to call her as they’d been grinning and making funny sounds throughout the duration of my call. I frowned, slightly angry. What did they take me for? Is answering a phone call for that long a very strange thing? Then again I thought to myself, I didn’t really blame them, I hadn’t been the most flexible person so their shock was well-founded.

“I’m sorry Michael, I have to go study now,” I said to him when I noticed my sister wasn’t planning on leaving.

”Oh, I’m sorry mi amor, I honestly forgot I was talking to a student. I’m usually more disciplined I promise…hehe…” he laughed.

“It’s fine Michael. We’ll talk later” I said. He started to say something else but I had already ended the call. I spent the next hour telling my sister all about him, surprisingly with less enthusiasm as I had earlier in the day and revealing as little information about him as I could.

”I want to meet him. Let me know the next time he calls,” Francine said.

”Sure,” I replied but I knew that was not going to happen. For some reason, I felt the need to keep him from her maybe because I was a little scared he’d see her and immediately realise how really plain looking I was.

For the next couple of weeks, Michael and I were inseparable. I don’t know what was more appealing about him: his looks or his personality. Michael was a child at heart. When he wasn’t away at Abuja for work, we went swimming, dancing, he took me on road trips and bought me gifts at every chance he got. We went to a karaoke bar one time and I laughed until I wept when he tried rapping along to Nicki Minaj’s anaconda while making weird movements with his waist. I later found out he was trying to twerk. That was my Michael. I realised I was in love with him when he finally met my sister and he shook her hand for a second then turned all his attention back to me and said “Francine, I’m in love with your sister.” That evening was the first time we kissed.

***

“I don’t want your school work to suffer because of me Christine!!!”

“Well then, maybe you should stop asking to see me every day!!!” I yelled back at him. Results for that semester had been released and I had failed two courses. He was with my phone when the text came in from Grace, a friend from school and Michael had flipped yelling at me for failing. I didn’t understand his anger because I was the one in school, not him. I made this clear to him and he called me a child. That statement aggravated me so much I left. I went back to school and cried myself to sleep. He called the next day apologising and saying he was just concerned. I apologised too and promised to pay more attention to my studies. That was our first and only fight.

Michael was a stud. Anywhere we went he had females staring at him, this was uncomfortable at first but Michael had made me feel so secure I started to enjoy the attention. The issue of sex had come up in the third month of our relationship and I had made it clear I was not ready to go that far with him yet. He said he understood and that he’d not bother me. But this was not to be as he asked for it at every opportunity he got. The next month, he proposed a weekend get-away at his house in Abuja and I knew he had gotten tired of waiting. I was ecstatic…finally, I can put Francine to shame I had thought as she had repeatedly expressed concern as to why my boyfriend never invited me to his house. I immediately agreed to follow Michael to Abuja. I talked to Francine about it and she was so excited for me, I genuinely felt bad for thinking ill of her earlier. She took me shopping and bought me a pink and red lingerie and a very sexy night wear. She stocked my bag with a packet of durex condoms muttering “You should never rely on a man for protection” under her breath.

That was it, I was set for a weekend of bliss. I got to Abuja that morning and Michael was at the airport waiting to pick me. I ran into his arms and he said, “Welcome mi Amor. I’ve missed you” I grinned and followed him home. His house was all I imagined, beautiful. I noticed there were no pictures or paintings on the wall and he dismissed the question saying he wants to re-decorate. He bought me my favourite chocolates and we stayed watching TV until it was late.

The pink or red? I kept asking myself in the bathroom. I couldn’t pick which lingerie to wear so I called Francine…”

“The red!” she said almost immediately, ”is there a robe in the bathroom?”

I looked around and surely there was a robe. How did Francine know these things?

“Yes, there is,” I replied.

“Okay, wear it over the lingerie and tie it loosely. Christine?”

“Yes? I’m still here”

“Be careful, make sure he uses protection, don’t listen to any excuses.”

“Ok, thanks. Goodnight” I said as I hung up. Would I be able to make Michael use protection? I dismissed the thought and said a silent prayer that he’d use it without my asking.

***

What were you thinking Christine? He was too good to be true, you knew that. How could such a beautiful man be yours? I lay in the dark thinking to myself. It was just 8pm but I had shut the door of the hotel room and switched the lights off, trying to force myself to sleep just to escape my new reality. The car ride after I left his house had been silent. Michael hadn’t bothered to explain his failure to tell me he was married and I had been too afraid to ask. As we got to a hotel, he pulled over, brought out a bundle of cash and gave it all to me. I stared at him in disbelief, holding his gaze, he took his eyes away from mine.

“I’ll call you Christine,” he said as I stepped out of the car. He drove off almost immediately and I stood there watching the tires of his Benz screech as he tried to leave as fast as he could and I knew in that moment that he would not call.

I picked up my phone and called Francine. She listened to me tell her everything that had happened amidst tears. When I was done she said, “Do you have enough money in your account for a flight home?”

“Yes, I do.” I told her.

“Okay Chris, I’m sorry for what happened but you have to forget about him. Don’t answer his calls or give him any opportunity to talk things over. He’s married. You don’t interfere with another woman’s marriage. I just checked online, there’s a flight from Abuja to Lagos by 2pm tomorrow, book it now, stop crying, we’ll talk about it when you get back tomorrow. I love you. I have a test tomorrow. Goodnight,” She hung up.

I dropped my phone. I was used to Francine’s tough love, she hated tears and I remembered all the time I had to stop myself from crying around her even when mum died. I was mortified. I cried every day for weeks but Francine hadn’t shed a tear. At least I never saw it. I cried some more, now thinking of my mother till I fell asleep.

I woke up to 15 missed calls and 3 text messages from Michael which I ignored. I was never going to speak to him again. It was hard but it was the right thing to do. I had fallen in love with someone’s husband without knowing it and I was going to do everything possible to move on. I ordered room service and paid with the money he gave me. I ate while watching television and when it was 12pm I left for the airport. I arrived in Lagos and went straight to school. While in my room I thought about the last three months and all the signs I had ignored stood out clearly. How he always answered calls with me out of earshot, how I’d found implicating text messages in his phone and he’d said there were from a crazy stalker in Abuja or how I had called him once and a lady picked up the phone. I immediately dropped my phone and he called back hours later saying she was his personal assistant. How was I so blind? No, I thought to myself, I realised I wasn’t blind, I just refused to pick at the multiple sores in our relationship because I was afraid of how much the wounds might hurt.

Francine and I never talked about Michael again and I knew better than to bring it up. It was her way. “Ignore the pain until it doesn’t hurt anymore,” was one her favourite lines. So that is exactly what I did and after a while, I realised it still hurts but not as much and I was going to be fine.

Source: PenASory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/29/iba-the-scourge-solomon-uhiara/

I had returned to my residence that notable evening – one which had in its grasps the retrospect of the unbecoming adventures I had earlier set out to excavate behind the borders of my village in the early morning. My entourage of personal files enclosed in a brown paper envelope and the clumsy looking wares I wore on both feet were somewhat a piece of thrash when the dusty streets of Umuahia town had devilishly caned and perused the leather and the sole to nothing other than the obscure loads of dusts well laid out on each pair.

We Africans acknowledge a proverbial saying which says that the earth is very hard and whatever that demands to walk on it should have feet that can debate comfortably with the ground. My dilapidated shoes were mine and I must say they’ve walked through Umuahia. The compound where I called home was like the very ones littering the ghettos of Lagos. The landlords built each room so that it faced the other in the little compound and the others so on in the exact sequence. The neighborhood was solemnly filled with vast emptiness which at the very least was not surprisingly undeniable.

I had barely reached the door when the fragile thoughts of my beloved Kivi arose from within my mind as I once again pondered and reflected on the lewd reasons behind my want for her lingering presence. We hadn’t set eyes on each other in a week and I was craving her touch like ants pursue the scent of sugar cubes in wooden cupboards. That was how I thought of it at the time.

As soon as my legs hit the threshold of my door, I looked around to see nobody was watching. I thrust my finger under the mat in front of my doorstep for that was where I hid my keys so Kivi could easily open up without much stress. The splattering sound of the key chain trampling and slinging the cemented floor beneath the foot mat was minutely audible.

You must by now be wondering who Kivi is. I’ll tell you in no plenty haste. She was the damsel I had met on my way back from camp a few years aback when I had concluded, to applause, the very thing my father had sent me to acquire – my university education. We met in a bus- I know it should be the last place to meet a lover – enroute the village market which they called Ahia-ukwu. That was where we began our journey of romance and the longevity had been indeed overwhelming to say the very least.

I went into my room and dropped my life’s work on the mattress which lay on the other side of the room. The carpeted floor bloomed forth softness and mild coldness as it was somewhat dampy under my feet. It made me recall the last time Kivi came to this place. She had arrived wearing a blue scarf on her brownish unmade hair and a short gown that had flowers which their names seemed mysterious to my very self. But that didn’t matter – I loved the shortness and admired the way the pad on her shoulders shrugged with each pace. She had watered my lips with hers and she had covered me with her naked body – all these things I missed of present.

The neighbors outside were still not back and the available light in the room made my eyes weary and blurry as I strained to see through the half empty room. I looked around – my only reasonable belongings were the mattress, the VCR player which I had smuggled from my father’s sitting room and the stationary fan – it never blew and the cassette player never played – as there was zero power supply at the time. The year was 1997 and the then National Electricity Power Authority had embarked on a very lengthy and abrupt strike – without prior notice to its consumers – to our very natural dismay.

I made for the cupboard on which stood the ‘Npanaka’ which I remembered still had some oil left in it. Goodness gracious! exploded from my mouth as I shook it and felt the remaining oil still there. I had purchased it on my way home during my journey back from another village down the valley that served the crossroad leading to Amaoji and Amaukwe twin villages. I was at the spot when white and black construction men came in their yellow machines and destroyed the erosion menacing the road, pouring black stones on it and steaming oil (in fact half the entire village was present that very week; no one missed an episode) as we young ones aspired to grave our names on the side of the road when they had concluded. I had bought it as soon as I heard the progression of the imminent strike which we all knew was going to be fruitless without cease. I purchased it for nothing more than a few coins at Ahia ukwu market. I remember the old woman who was selling lanterns and stoves and other cooking equipment in her little kiosk instructing me on how the little thing worked.

“Open the lid carefully,” she had said “then pour this oil into it and grease this thread up and down so that it will easily ignite. It is just as easy as peeling egusi,” she had told me that very evening. I paid her five naira in silver coins and walked out caressing it with my hands and saying the country wouldn’t kill us all. That was how I did it when I returned home to hear that the strike was still going to linger till infinity.

I lit it with a match and positioned it methodically so that it ignited without much fuss. It served me ostensibly pretty well. I stared once more at my watch – that very costly piece or so I thought which had been gifted to me by the debate club in my university days. Those good jolly days. I smiled, remembering my vibrant days of service. I apparently checked the time- not with reason but as a very marked habit of mine. It was 7:00pm and to my dismay my love still remained unavailable to my reach. Was she waiting for me to travel all the way to see her at her place- to see her broad chested father at the wooden gate of their wide compound at Amaimo. I couldn’t bear the sight of the man and his glittering machete and those vehement questions he threw to me whenever I drove my father’s white horse to see Kivi. I disliked the man and he too hated my guts. I had visited way too plenty – often during several weekends when I felt unimportant, yet she never ceased her frivolous expectancy of my ‘ never to arrive visits’.

One particular Saturday, I rode the white Horse in style through the primary school where I had schooled to Umuwara to greet my people then finally at Amaimo. Spectators had watched me, these things were still undoubtedly very unpopular at the time and this particular bicycle was pale white as my father had purchased it from an old relative in Ministry of Transportation. On reaching the place, I had rung the stainless steel bell on the right side of the bicycle head – it throbbed out chimes of soft rings. Kivi had come out in haste as she had expected me that day. She came and sat on my laps admiring the bicycle and admiring me to my amusement – not that I wasn’t handsome as an African man should be but she surprised me too many times the way she glanced at me with her head askew and her eyes punctuating the softness of the words she said to me outside her father’s gate. I dared not enter for fright of the man and his machete. I remember the other young men passing by the gaiety entrance and flabby gate of sincere affection. Their eyes bore envy and my shoulders rose above my head like the agama lizard who fell from the tree top amidst the eyes of his foes and thundered his red head on the surface of the soil in approval of his morale.

To be continued

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/20/my-last-ninih-anita/

I laid helplessly, in the pool of my own blood, on my bed. I felt weak, I was losing my strength. I had so many things to say but there was no voice. I saw my brother beside me with tears running down his cheeks. His eyes were filled with shock-pain. If he had the power to save me, he would do it without thinking twice. I felt pity for him. I am dying and there’s nothing anyone could do. I was his mother and friend, apart from being his sister. A tear ran down from my left eye not because I was in pains but because I could not save myself for him.

Standing in front of me was my father and my lover, Dede. Dede is a very close friend to my father. The fact is, they are best friends – my father just didn’t accept that fact. I fell in love with Dede five months ago, when my ex, broke up with me. It was like a dream when we fell in love. It was planned and I never and would ever regret it. Dede loved me like no other. He never puts anything above me, not even his family and I loved him the way he was. Age was not a barrier. Yeah, call me crazy. I would forever cherish those moments with him. Talking of moments, I just had the most memorable one before my death.

My father was still holding the gun that shot me, well I am not dead yet but I will be, soon. I prayed deep within, to God, to give me strength, the last I would ever have. I opened my eyes and raised my right hand. It was staggering in the air but I still managed. I placed it on my brother’s head that was buried in my side. He raised his head up with ease and looked at me. A smile lit my face, but it was mixed with pain. “I love you, so much. Bell, please be strong,” I said, almost in a whisper.

“You can’t go now. I lost mum, I don’t want to lose you too. How would I survive?” he tried to explain.

“My darling, you would always survive. I can’t help it…” my voice was beginning to go faint again. “I…I… would look after you and pray for you…wherever I go from here. Please, please be strong for me…” my voice seized. I felt cold. I couldn’t feel myself anymore. My eyes gently closed.

“Edem please…please don’t do this. Wake up…” I could hear Bell scream my name as he begged me to wake up. His voice began to go faint, till I heard it no more.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/15/prayerlogy-303-i-dey-find-husband-blessing-ajagbe/

Baba God na me again, your daughter, Adesuwa. E get one thing wey dey worry me sote I no fit sleep. I even dey get serious headache for the matta. The thing wey dey worry me be say I dey find husband. I dey find husband bad bad. How e be say my friends go dey marry wey me I no come marry? Yesterday, one of my friend again, Salewa, seal the deal with her bobo. Salewa, Salewa, that girl wey be say broom stick fat pass her. Salewa wey go dey talk to anybody anyhow because say her papa be senator na she too don find husband. Salewa wey I fine pass, Salewa no fine na moni dey make her look like say she fine, she too don get correct bobo. Me say I fine, I come set die, na me still dey single. Wetin happen?

Baba God, if to say you wan answer me give me husband, make sure say you no come give me just any guy. I no want guy wey no get shingbin. For this life, I no fit suffer. As in, suffering is not allowed. I no say I no come from family wey too rich but if you won give me husband, he must get the thing wey we dey call moni, ego. He must to get car too. That one too dey very important cause I no fit they waka with am. No be just any kin car he must get o, but the one way be say people go break when dey see the car. You get na. If he no get correct car, I no want. I fit accept doctor, doctors too dey try sha. But if you wan make I happy very well, you fit give me husband wey dey work for oil company or maybe he get him company. Wetin dem they call those people again? Entrepreneur, yeah, na the word be that. But the thing be say, entrepreneur get grade. Even Mechanics dey call themselves entrepreneur. I no wan that kin guy, but the one wey be say he dey get like 500k every month. We go dey go abroad like say we dey go Abuja. E go dey spend moni on me like say I use jazz for him. If I ask for one, he go give me three. No be say I get ant eye o, but level must to change.

Baba God, if you wan give me husband wey get money, make sure sey he come fine join. I no wan the guy wey be say shame go catch me when I won introduce am to my friends. I wan the guy wey tall, he must reach 6ft nothing less, he must fine die, know how to dress wella, he go come get six packs. I no wan guy wey look like say he dey carry four months baby, e no fit work, or guy wey be say the nose dey too big or the ear dey stretch like antenna. That one no fit work for me. I fit manage guy wey dey use glasses sha as long as he fine and sabi fashion very well. I no too dey like guys wey dey use glasses, them dey look too serious for my liking but if he fine and sabi dress well, I fit manage him like that. Na manage I talk o.

Baba God, you know say I be your personal pesin. Me and you don dey tete. We be like 5&6. I know say you fit do this for me. No be you talk say, “ask and it shall be given unto you?” I know even ask for something wey dey too extraordinary like that. Na just this small thing wey I ask. You be sure persin and I no sey the matter don settle. Em…baba God, you fit answer me before this year run finish? I go happy well well if you answer me before the year run finish.

OK, the thing be say instead wey you go come dey stress yourself look for persin wey get all these qualities, e get one bobo wey they live three blocks from my house wey be the perfect persin. Im name na Shola. I know sey he be Yoruba boy but I no too dey mind all that culture stuff. All the qualities wey I tell you say I wan for my husband, he get am. Infact, he over get am sef. The thing be say, he no too dey notice persin, chai! He no even get my time at all. Maybe you fit touch him heart make him even look my way. Na help I won give you sha so you no go too stress yourself. But if you think sey you know need my help, no p. Na you be God and you know better pass me.

Baba God, I hail you. For in your name I don pray finish, amen.

#Justforlaugh

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/14/serenity-alabi-ayomide/

“Just a little more of your love is all I need,” Ezinne said as she went to sleep.

I kept on pondering and thinking to myself, “What more does she mean? Where’s her mind going to? Does she want us to have sex?” It was 7.30 am the next morning, Ezinne was still fast as sleep and even though it was cloudy, I got out of bed, brushed my teeth in order to prevent the usual early morning bad breath disaster and breakfast. I woke her up with kisses on her forehead, I held her gently and spoke softly into her ears as she opened her eyes.

“Good morning baby,” I whispered. Of course I knew what she loved but suddenly there was a loud thunder and a heavy rainfall that changed everything, we totally forgot about the food as I grabbed Ezinne’s right hand and pulled her continuously till we were outside.
“Hold me tight and never let go,” Ezinne said as she planted a heavy kiss on me in the pouring rain.

I tried to lift her up but I slipped and we both fell, we laughed so hard we forgot why we were laughing then another kiss was shared as we both held hands and laid on the floor with the rain pouring heavily. We stared into each other’s eyes and it was safe to say we found love right where we were.

I pulled Ezinne up and lifted her up for real this time. “I will never let you go regardless,” I whispered as I carried her inside. I was about to drop her on the longest couch to get towels since we were soaked but she wouldn’t let go, we kept bouncing from walls to walls kissing each other till we got to the bedroom. I moved down slowly to her waist and put my cold hands on her left bosom, down to her belly button, Ezinne gasped softly. I felt the need to stop because I didn’t want to make things awkward since this was our first time together but I couldn’t. Before she could realise it we both had no clothes on; we were skin on skin, and there it was, a very slow yet cold feeling. It was exactly like I imagined. She moaned heavily with shivers rippling through her body, tears rolled down her cheeks and goosebumps appeared on her hands.

I felt the shiver and looked at her face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my first time,” she replied.

Just to ease up the awkwardness of the situation, I kissed her quickly as she held on to me tightly. Without hesitation, I went on, this time stronger and more passionately, breathing heavily I murmured her name, We got tired, I stopped kissing her and pulled back breathing heavily, She laid next to me, we cuddled with our naked bodies under a blue silky cloth I had used to cover us up. Just when she thought I had finished, my tongue rolled down her tummy sensitively. Freedom she shouted. We laid back on the floor breathing heavily.

“Do you regret it?” she asked

I knew questions like this were bound to come up but I never knew it was going to come up so soon. I nodded my head in the negative just because I knew the repercussion of us not using protection was going to be confusingly painful didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy what had happened.

Two months passed, my phone rang and behold it was Ezinne, I had a big smile on my face. “Hey baby, I said what’s going on?”

“Mide, I am pregnant,” she responded.

“Wait, what!! How’s that possible?” I asked.

“We didn’t use protection remember?” she answered

“Oh shit!!” I exclaimed, my heart beating faster than the speed of light. I was sweating profusely. I was completely lost. I paused for a minute thinking of the next line of action but before I could utter a word she continued.

“Mide, don’t worry I know you are not ready for this and neither am I, I’d figure it out,” Ezinne said then hung up.

I called her severally to tell her not to do anything stupid and keep the baby that we’d take it step by step but her phone was disconnected. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, I never saw or spoke to Ezinne again. All I heard was she got pregnant for a dumb guy who advised her to go abort the pregnancy and she lost her life in the process.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com

https://penastory.com/2016/12/14/serenity-alabi-ayomide/

“Just a little more of your love is all I need,” Ezinne said as she went to sleep.

I kept on pondering and thinking to myself, “What more does she mean? Where’s her mind going to? Does she want us to have sex?” It was 7.30 am the next morning, Ezinne was still fast as sleep and even though it was cloudy, I got out of bed, brushed my teeth in order to prevent the usual early morning bad breath disaster and breakfast. I woke her up with kisses on her forehead, I held her gently and spoke softly into her ears as she opened her eyes.

“Good morning baby,” I whispered. Of course I knew what she loved but suddenly there was a loud thunder and a heavy rainfall that changed everything, we totally forgot about the food as I grabbed Ezinne’s right hand and pulled her continuously till we were outside.
“Hold me tight and never let go,” Ezinne said as she planted a heavy kiss on me in the pouring rain.

I tried to lift her up but I slipped and we both fell, we laughed so hard we forgot why we were laughing then another kiss was shared as we both held hands and laid on the floor with the rain pouring heavily. We stared into each other’s eyes and it was safe to say we found love right where we were.

I pulled Ezinne up and lifted her up for real this time. “I will never let you go regardless,” I whispered as I carried her inside. I was about to drop her on the longest couch to get towels since we were soaked but she wouldn’t let go, we kept bouncing from walls to walls kissing each other till we got to the bedroom. I moved down slowly to her waist and put my cold hands on her left bosom, down to her belly button, Ezinne gasped softly. I felt the need to stop because I didn’t want to make things awkward since this was our first time together but I couldn’t. Before she could realise it we both had no clothes on; we were skin on skin, and there it was, a very slow yet cold feeling. It was exactly like I imagined. She moaned heavily with shivers rippling through her body, tears rolled down her cheeks and goosebumps appeared on her hands.

I felt the shiver and looked at her face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my first time,” she replied.

Just to ease up the awkwardness of the situation, I kissed her quickly as she held on to me tightly. Without hesitation, I went on, this time stronger and more passionately, breathing heavily I murmured her name, We got tired, I stopped kissing her and pulled back breathing heavily, She laid next to me, we cuddled with our naked bodies under a blue silky cloth I had used to cover us up. Just when she thought I had finished, my tongue rolled down her tummy sensitively. Freedom she shouted. We laid back on the floor breathing heavily.

“Do you regret it?” she asked

I knew questions like this were bound to come up but I never knew it was going to come up so soon. I nodded my head in the negative just because I knew the repercussion of us not using protection was going to be confusingly painful didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy what had happened.

Two months passed, my phone rang and behold it was Ezinne, I had a big smile on my face. “Hey baby, I said what’s going on?”

“Mide, I am pregnant,” she responded.

“Wait, what!! How’s that possible?” I asked.

“We didn’t use protection remember?” she answered

“Oh shit!!” I exclaimed, my heart beating faster than the speed of light. I was sweating profusely. I was completely lost. I paused for a minute thinking of the next line of action but before I could utter a word she continued.

“Mide, don’t worry I know you are not ready for this and neither am I, I’d figure it out,” Ezinne said then hung up.

I called her severally to tell her not to do anything stupid and keep the baby that we’d take it step by step but her phone was disconnected. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, I never saw or spoke to Ezinne again. All I heard was she got pregnant for a dumb guy who advised her to go abort the pregnancy and she lost her life in the process.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com