So I’ve been asked why I question stuff so much, why I want to know the Why behind everything I’ve been taught. In fact, a few days back someone who has decided he’s now my father’s mate went as far as to ask me “So you think you are now so wise that you would question…”, I didn’t hear the rest.
Anyway, to explain the Why behind my Whys I’ll tell a story someone once told me.
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I have many memories from childhood. Some good, some I’ve modified to make good and some why-the-hell-do-I-even-remember-that?? Here is one of the latter.
It was the day I first learned to spell the word ‘Blood’. It was evening, we were in the village and I was playing around outside in blue underpants. I fear I may not have been wearing a shirt. I watched in wonder as the lady who took care of me wrote the word in the sand. No, she wasn’t a village witch, I had actually asked her how the word was spelt.
I looked on as she spelled the word and in all of my 6 year old wisdom couldn’t for the life of me comprehend why a word pronounced that way was spelled with a double O. What insanity was this? I thought, nay, I knew for a fact that double Os belonged in words pronounced like ‘hook’ and ‘cook’, you know? Well, what the hell did she know? I went in and waited patiently for Daddy to come home, he would fix this like he fixed everything else, he would return sanity to the world. Alas, when he returned he confirmed my worst fears, everything I had ever learned was a lie.
A few weeks later, back in school during inter-house sports, I needed to write the words ‘Red House’ on my badge. I froze. I had no problem with the word ‘House’, it was complicated, they didn’t mess around with complicated words. It was ‘Red’ that bothered me, it looked too easy, and after my encounter with ‘Blood’ I knew it was on the easy ones they got you. But no, they weren’t going to get me, not this time. After a period of careful contemplation I picked up a red pen, drew a house on my badge and carefully coloured it in.
“Since the hunter has learned to shoot without missing…”
It is six o’clock on the morning after our wedding. Dele is asleep beside me breathing softly, mouth slightly ajar. I’ve always been amazed at how beautiful he looks when he sleeps. He’s exhausted, as he should be; after yesterday’s hustle and bustle we had defied the popular lore of being too tired to do anything but sleep on the wedding night and made love, I had insisted on it. Twice at first, then one more time for good measure, even though I could tell that Dele was losing his enthusiasm by the third go. I had pulled out all the tricks in my arsenal to get that last one going, I needed it.
I look at him as he sleeps, tracing my finger down his beard. The beard I’d made him grow thinking it would somehow make him a new person, make me forget that I had walked in on him cheating on me with his ex barely a week after I had told him I was pregnant. I had walked out without a word and when he finally mustered the courage to come to my apartment to apologize I greeted him with a smile and a warm meal, telling him I knew she didn’t mean anything to him anymore and that it was a mistake I had already forgiven. He proposed the next day, but neither the ring not the beard had helped me forget.
But I love Dele and I know he loves me too so I married him still. I have forgiven him for his indiscretion but now we have a baby to think about so it falls on me to ensure we remain one family forever, with no room for exes and other loose women. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek, he reaches for me and mumbles an I love you. I tell him I love him too, so much, and then leave for the kitchen. I return 20 minutes later, like I will do every day from today onwards, with his healthy breakfast of oats and orange juice each with my own added labor of love, a generous sprinkling of Propecia*.
*Propecia is a hair-loss drug whose side effect is permanent impotence.
But, but, but… OK wait, let me tell you the story. Read the rest of this entry
Nkiru my love,
I know I am the last person you want to hear from but please let me explain. If the time we spent together meant anything to you just give me this minute. Don’t worry, I’m not here to plead my innocence, when I close my eyes I can still see you standing there quietly in the dusk as I left with another woman. But I had my reasons.
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Will you be my muse?
I will pin your picture to my wall and gaze at your perfection as I write. I will seduce you with my words and kiss your lips with my thoughts. I will tell you the wanton things I want to do to you and caress you brazenly with my intentions.
I will push you up against the wall of my passion and press my desire against yours. I will read your words, guide your sentences down the lines of my body. You will touch my sensitive places softly with the things you say.
I will tease you wickedly, guiding you down to feel the streams of my anticipation gushing forth. You will tease me in turn, prodding and caressing and expertly exploring my inner recesses till my knees buckle.
And when we can’t take it any more I will let you in. I will look into your eyes, ready, and gasp as you slide your soul into mine and fill me up.
Will you be my muse?
I know last year I made this girl look like an angel straight from heaven. But it wasn’t always so… Alas it wasn’t always so. Today I shall take you through the events of a certain night many, many, many, many, many, many, MANY years ago when I must have been around 6 and she 8. Or maybe we were 4 and 6? Or 5 and 7? I don’t know. The important thing is that we were still little enough to share a bed.
After dragging us kicking and screaming through the shower (it was a fun family night ritual, we weren’t dirty children at all) my Mum had just finished threatening me into my nightie and was in the process of caning Joy into hers. I left them to their struggles and went to the bedroom.
Being the considerate little sister I was I got into bed, rolled to the very edge (you know, to give my big sister enough space to sleep), made sure I took up the barest few square centimetres of blanket space and fell into blissful sleep.
Then Joy happened. Read the rest of this entry
So there I was people-watching in the canteen on my lunch break today (a) for want of anything better to do and (b) to find inspiration for a story or at the very least fodder for office gossip, when I observed the following: Read the rest of this entry
Thanks so much for nominating me, ToyinFabs, I’m happy you think I deserve it. More grease, ink, something, to your pen!
The Liebster award is given to up and coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers. What is a Liebster? The meaning: Liebster is German and means sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome
The Rules Read the rest of this entry