Wednesday, November 5, 2014

African Timing

Okon puts his finger in the baby.

When he wasn't doing that, he was outside clearing the bushes. He didn't let the grasses grow 5" above the ground, he kept them trim, just the way oga liked them. He also watered the flowers, fed the dog, and on days he still had a lot of energy left, he took the dog for a walk. There was no way oga would know he didn't take the dog for a walk everyday, especially since he wasn't very diligent in feeding the dog also. He preferred the dog's meals to his own 'Boil the rice very soft' Oga would say 'then mix it with tuna and throw in a chicken thigh, that's the way Toby likes it'.

 Since Okon started serving the household 5 years ago, no one had bothered to ask him how he liked his own rice, fortunately, he liked it just same as the dog's. When he wasn't outside, Okon was in the laundry room, he did laundry for the whole family, everything except the baby's clothes, madam liked to wash those herself. Okon liked working for this particular family, they made his job so easy, a lawn mower, a washing machine, a rice cooker, a pressure cooker, he could cook beans in 10 minutes, madam loved beans for dinner.

He caught an image of himself in the laundry room mirror, and smiled his crooked smile, his tobacco stained teeth was turning white again he thought, five years of good tooth paste, oga's toothpaste, five years of balanced diet, then soft rice in Tuna, throw in a thigh, and things like that. One thing Okon never did for madam was hold the baby, madam made such a fuss over it that Okon had even stopped to try. 'Okon did you use the anti-bacterial handwash', 'Okon i have some anti-backterial wipes on the stool', 'Okon when last did you have a medical check up'. 'Its a human baby' Okon thought, 'children eat sand and still survive, I cannot kill a baby by touching her'.

Then madam had to go back to work, her maternity leave finally had to end, but madam was prepared. She employed a nanny, a qualified nanny, who came bragging of her resume and years of experience. In her words to Okon, she was not an everyday nanny. Madam arranged for the nanny to leave at 4pm, just when oga came back from work, then oga watched the baby till 5pm when madam came back from work. It was clear to Okon, feed the dog, walk the dog, trim the bushes, do the laundry and cook dinner, the baby was not Okon's Job. Then the nanny gave it to what madam called 'the disgraceful habit of African timing'. Even the most professional people you work with, madam said, still fall for this habit. She showed up to work, 10 minutes, 20 minutes late, with tales of traffic, making madam run late to work. Madam hated being late to work, 'I wont be one of those disgraceful Africans' she insisted.

So for 10-20 minutes on most week days, Okon finally had to watch the baby. Madam would wrap her up in what seemed to Okon like swaddling clothes, and lay her in a buggy, looking like the little angel that she was. 'You don't have to hold her' madam made a point of always saying to Okon. 'If she gets fussy, just push the buggy, but don't forget to first use the anti-bacterial hand wash, and there are some anti-bacterial wipes on the stool..' Okon would listen with an amused grin for a minute until madam left, then he went into the living room where he was sure to find the buggy, then he put his finger in the baby, for 10-20 minutes until the nanny came in with tales of traffic. Then he went back to his little room by the gate, and ate soft rice, with tuna, not forgetting to throw in a thigh.

Monday, November 21, 2011

the perfect husband and his superiority complex

I once heard someone preach about superiority complex and I thought then that there was really no such a thing as that, until recently I met this guy that is an embodiment of superiority. The guy is in his early thirties and has bluntly refused to believe that I am in my own early twenties too. Whenever I am having a discussion with this guy, he would always jokingly say things like 'you are crazy, or stupid girl' and I always go 'same to you'. Then he would get very angry and call me insolent and ofcourse I tell him that I have never actually insulted him, I just say 'same to you'. He has never said goodmorning to me either, because he believes that since I am the younger one, I should always be the first to say good morning. He says this is how every African girl must act. I said 'That is how your forefathers deceived their women, back then even the old women greeted the young men first'. Then he runs to the bible and says 'A man that finds a good wife has found a crown to his head' and I lose my temper and say 'How did people like you get on my friend list'.

He once told me that any girl that gets him for a husband is very lucky, but I say the girl is in big trouble. Guys like him believe they are the best thing that could happen to womanhood, he is never gonna wake up any morning and be the first to say goodmorning to his poor wife, he is gonna verbally abuse her, and any retorts from her would earn her a beating, if she let's him, he is going to demand that she kneels down while serving him, as the African tradition demands, when she starts ageing, he is gonna marry a second wife. He is gonna use logic from both the bible and from African tradition to keep her in bondage when it suits him, but he's never gonna let her remind him about what the bible says about his own behaviour because before she does, he would tell her of how a woman should be silent. This my friend represents 70% of Nigerian men, which means all Nigerian women are in trouble. However, these men are only going to do this to women who let them, women who are so desperate to get married or stay married that they have lost all their voice. I already feel very sorry for these women

I have realised that I am ok with blogging just once or twice a month. Thanks for all your comments in my previous post

Friday, October 28, 2011

Heal me Lord, from this disease

Have you ever gotten everything you ever wanted, then just felt depressed by it all?

Or wished your birthday could come only once a year instead of twice? (well really it was once, but it comes so fast jeez)

Have you ever felt that everyone talks too much and that everyone talks just for the sake of talking.

Take for instance. Dame Patience Jonathan celebrating her birthday in Australia, ofcourse before they went there, they were aware Nigerians would scream about how bad the state of Nigeria is and how government officials travel abroad to celebrate anniversaries and waste our money...

But apparently, the government officials don't really care what Nigerians say. They are obviously used to it. So they still went to Australia, and people still talked and everything went back to normal. Big deal

Have you felt happy about the fact that the government don't really care about what you say, especially over the internet. That means you can indeed say anything and get away with it. (Take for instance, the Absu rape, it happened, you talked, then...)

Have you ever felt pushed to say something not nice about someone who really hasn't done you any wrong.

Cuz when i saw Patience's birthday pictures in the news, i said some things that werent so nice.

And when i heard of Gaddafi's death and the expected protest about the part the west played in it,i thought again that Nigerians just love to talk too much about everything and its not like anybody ever listens to them so why dont they just slow down sometimes cuz they are giving me a head ache

'Did Goodluck have to take the bush woman abroad, i think she could have been equally pleased, if he took her down to Bayelsa and they ate some fresh fish together, she just strikes me as that kinda woman'

That's the 'not nice' thing i said when i saw the pictures. And that's not nice, and i shouldnt be thinking that because i used to like the woman, i used to defend her when friends made fun of her spoken English.

But maybe it's just fun dissing people in power, over the internet, and knowing that they are too busy to care about what you think. Insulting rich people and knowing that you aint gonna get into any trouble, that's fun.

I also think that this is a Nigerian disease, and I'm infected with it. i need healing.

I am such a lazy blogger but i'd get better, i promise

Saturday, October 1, 2011

This could make for a real post

Blogger has been really tough on me this week, I think she connived with my internet connection to make my life miserable.

I can read all the blogs i want, but they wouldnt let me leave a comment, so i've been reading and reading and unable to comment and that is not a nice feeling at all.

So Priscy mentioned me for the versatile blogger award, i'd be sure to do that in my next post, cuz right now, im using a friend's laptop

I dont know who sent me to fix my lashes. tears won't stop streaming down my That's exactly what happened to ugly Betty when she fixed her lashes. I dont know why the comparison.

Ok, so i'd post again, when blogger, internet connection, and my eye lashes decide to free me

Sunday, September 18, 2011


You know that pretending to be typing on your phone while conversing with someone is a terrible habit, yet you can't help doing it while conversing with some particularly boring people. After all you have just recently read somewhere that this act is called communi-faking and everyone does it

So while your companion is blabbing away, you are busy pretending to ping,hoping he would notice your distraction and atleast pause. unfortunately, your companion is one of those people who do not care if you are listening, provided you let them talk

thankfully, you finally get a real ping from bestfriend asking

'What are you up to'?

you text back 'I am on a psycho date'

psycho dating is a term you guys made up to mean going on dates with people that make you uncomfortable. He could be talking too much, like your companion was doing, he could expect you to come home with him after the first date, he could try giving you a kiss after the date when you don't even like him, he could be a blind date who turned out too short or too fat or even really blind...

'what is he doing' your friend texts back

'He is talking so much i feel like just walking into a moving vehicle'

'whats stopping you?' your friend teases

'stopping me from what'

'walking into a moving vehicle'

'well my fear is, some drivers are really good, they might jump out of the car and beat me to death, if i try walking infront of their cars'

'I trust you, you can walk better than most drivers drive, besides even if you get beaten to death, its all death as long as you die

'Lmao, you no be better person' you reply, finally sheathing your phone into your pocket.

you resign to listening to your psych date. he has brought you to the school library, a convenient place where he doesn't have to spend any money.

'Welcome to the University of Nigeria Library' he says with the air of a tourist guide, not minding that you have already spent four years in the said school, and a great part of the years in the library.

'It is the biggest library in East Africa' he says. The last statement rings a bell in your ears, and you wonder if it had been a slip of the tongue or if he really did not know that Nigeria was in West Africa.

you guys are at the library gate now, and being asked to drop your bags, there is a black van beside the gate with a clear inscription on it ANTI-BOMB SQUAD.

your date points at the van and says 'that is the anti-bomb squad, you know boko-haram, a terrorist group against western education in Nigeria has threatened to bomb 18 Nigerian universities...'

you feel like screaming. the guy is just on your nerves, who doesn't know Boko-haram, who doesnt know that they threatened to bomb Universities, who doesn't know that they just bombed the UN building in Abuja, but you could see how he could think that you don't know these things, afterall he thinks Nigeria is in East-Africa. You can't take anymore of the conversation, now you could really walk into a moving car. so you say

'it's West-Africa'
he says 'What'
and you say 'This is the biggest library in West-Africa, Nigeria is in West-Africa'

he opens his mouth, you feel pretty sure he is about to tell you that that conversation took place over ten minutes ago, he wants to ask why you just thought of it now, but you can never confirm what he wanted to say, because he is interrupted by a loud bang behind the library

for a moment everyone stood still, then the anti-bomb squad van started to move toward the source of the sound, you dont know if its your imagination but people are actually leaving the library building hurriedly. People could not seriously think that that bang was a bomb, it was barely as loud as a gunshot.

but anyone who wanted to detonate a real bomb could get past the gate now, seeing as the anti-bomb squad had moved away from the gate to investigate the source of the bang. so when your psycho-date says
'Let us go, this place is not safe...' and keeps blabbing

you follow him like a lamb to the slaughter, wondering where he was taking you now, maybe, the school bookshop. you just follow him, cuz you think it would be much better to walk into a moving vehicle than be killed by a bomb blast

Monday, September 12, 2011

Well, well

After a two year leave

cant believe i wanna start blogging again

just got through with school

wow, i just cant stop saying that

just got through with school

just got through with school

i am a graduate now

and a blogger once again

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

My love is enough for both of us.

You must have met him!

on that fateful day, when you were too depressed to wear make-up and too tired to put on a smile.

and despite the fact that you were aware how ordinary you must look, he walks up to you from nowhere, looks into your eyes, and says 'you are such a beautiful girl'. In an innocent way that doesn't let you suspect he is hitting on you.

you smile, say thank God and keep walking.

then later in the evening, when you were happier, and made-up, you strolled down to buy drinks with your girlfriend's and who do you met but him and his boyfriends.

he smiles when he sees you, asks you to come over, and says to his friends 'this is the girl i told you guys about' and you wonder, what could he have told them about you, he doesn't even know your name.

and his friends are like 'oh, the pretty girl from this morning, you weren't exaggerating'.

you take a better look at him. he is definitely handsome,he is tall, he is reserved, even shy...

and then you tell him your name, and meet his friends, and he meets your friends. he gets your number, and from then he really starts to hang around you.

you discover you like him as a person but he would do too bad as a boyfriend. First he is a good boy and you like bad boys, and secondly,he just seems to be willing to lay down his life to please you, yet you seem to value the things that play hard to get.

so from the start you know, this isn't just gonna work. but then he is too nice to ask you out too soon, so for a six whole months, he just keeps hanging around, buying you stuffs, pleasing you.

then one day, he sees you hanging out with this Micheal-the-bad guy and he realizes he has no right to stop you. he says hello to both of you and goes away.

then later that evening he comes to your room and starts to mumble some incoherent things. you know he is asking you out, but you can't just make any sense from the words he is saying.

you pretend like you don't understand, because he is too nice for you to reject him, yet you don't exactly want him.

'I don't understand what you are saying' you lie

it was painful enough for him to say the first time, so he gets angry and asks
'how can't you understand'. then stalks home.

you are relieved it is finally over, but the next morning, he is at your door with gifts, apologising for how things ended the night before. you love the gesture and wish that Micheal-the-bad-boy could learn how to pull romantic stunts like this.

you know you can't keep leading good boy on, so you reject his gifts, and tell him in plain english

'I can't date you'

'why, but i love you' he says

'I don't love you' you say, and it breaks your heart to say it, cuz those aint words you like to say to anyone, most especially to a really nice person.

but he surprises you with his reply

'it doesn't matter, my love would be enough for both of us, and one day, you would finally learn to love me'

'I can't learn it' you say 'you aint ...'you can't risk saying 'you aint just my type so you say...

'it's better to stop all these now, all the gifts and stuff, cuz we'd never be anything'

and he says
'how can you say that after everything we've been through'

everything you've been through? you wonder if there was some part you missed. what have you been through? he sees the question on your face and replies

'Have you forgotten the beginning? i remember the very first day i met you. you wore a black skirt, a yellow top, and a flat sandal. you wore no make-up, yet you looked so beautiful, and i saw you from the shop where i had gone to buy a wristwatch and i left the shop i walked up to you and said "'you look so beautiful". can you remember your reply...'?

you can't remember so he says

'you said "Thank God, then you smiled and walked away, can you remember where you were going...'

you can't remember so he says
'i followed you, you were going to...'

you are really flattered by this devotion, yet you can't stop wishing it was Micheal the bad boy who would pay attention to all these details instead.

you finally find a way of getting good boy to go home broken hearted, and once he is home, all his friends start to call you.

'how could you do this?' And all of a sudden you realise that everyone except you, had assumed you were dating goodboy. and you try to put the pieces together, hanging out with his friends, accepting his gifts, maybe that was their idea of dating. it didn't matter that he never officially asked you out, that you two didn't do or discuss anything personal together.

later that day he comes back to your room again. you don't let him in. you stand at the door to discuss
'are you still breaking up with me' he asks

you get angry

'why are you using the term breaking up, i never even dated you, how can you lie to everyone else and lie to yourself too'

and he says
'is there anything i do wrong, anything at all, tell me and i would change'

and in your mind you are like, 'you are too nice, that's your problem.

as if he reads your thought, he curses you, strings of hot angry curses

'i know girls like you, you run away from people that truly love you, and then you end up in the hands of players who would mistreat you and break your heart...'

you are surprised and glad at the same time, atleast now you know he is capable of cursing. and now you have a reason to slam the door to his face.

but long after he is gone, you lay on your bed and ponder on his last words. he had been perfect, he had everything you wanted in a guy, maybe too much of everything, he was certainly good, but yet somehow your heart lay with Micheal. Micheal the bad boy,Micheal the one who would one day break your heart, but then you don't mind

your love would be enough for you and Micheal.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Unorganized thoughts!!!

Chivalry is dead.
this is an underdeveloped country
it is a wicked world
we no longer have culture and traditions
Eze has gone to school

Chivalry is dead!
who killed him or her... no..him
who killed Chivalry??????????
did you kill him

This is an under developed country.
yet they are convinced that development is measured by the mind-set of people in the country
are we under-developed people????????????
are you under-developed

It is a wicked world
yet they sing 'we are the world'
are we the world????????????????
are you a wicked person.

we no longer have culture and traditions
we are so intent in imitating the western world
you imitate the western world?????????????
do you have traditions or Christianity? choose!

Eze has gone to school
He went since i was in primary five
he never came back
is Eze dead

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

God: the things they call me!!!

They call me a pessimist!

But you know I am not. I am just a girl who loves surprises. When I wake up in the morning, I like to think it’s going to be a very bad day, so that when it turns out good, I would be surprised! When I travel, I think I would be crushed by a trailer along the pot-holed express roads, just so that when I arrive my destination, I would be surprised I am still alive. Not a pessimist, I am just a girl so bored she likes to give herself a lot of surprises.

They call me a feminist!

Mother God, you know I am not. I love you, and you already said a man should be in control, and though I hate you for that, I still obey that order. It is just that sometimes I just wonder why you made a girl so fragile. Sometimes you make me want to learn tai chi or Tai kwon do or karate because sometimes I so want to beat up some guys. Like that guy who knew I didn’t know the way home so promised to take me home, and on the way home he stopped and started to ask me ‘what if you don’t get home tonight’. Mother, you knew exactly what that rotten boy was thinking at that moment, and mother, that is a good example of a moment when a girl is supposed to beat a guy black and blue. God! At that moment I so felt like beating him, hitting, and hitting till he disappeared into the earth. I am no feminist Mother Lord, just a girl who needs more power from you.

A girl with too much sense!

In a world where that is an insult. A girl is not supposed to have too much sense. A girl is not supposed to read too many meanings into things. A girl is not even supposed to think. Mother God, you knew this yet, you gave me too much sense. Did you just want to make the world more difficult for me or you have a reason for this sense. Because as a girl, I am supposed to be a helpless romantic who believes in blind loving, who doesn’t ask questions but follows the man who chooses to lead me. After all you said ‘A man shall find a wife…’. The woman has no say in this? Why then do you give her sense. Why? Why?
I am not a pessimist, I am not a realist, I am not a feminist, I am not a girl with too much sense. I am just a really fucked up girl who always likes to question authority. But I promised never to question God. No, I won’t question God. Rather I would just let them all know, that I am not what they think. That sometimes too I too would ask questions, and no one is there to answer.

Monday, August 24, 2009

As kids all we ever did was dream. We wanted to grow up and become pilots, Doctors, models, e.t.c. My kid sister can’t just wait to grow up and become the world’s first female photographer (To her the world has no female photographer cuz she’s never seen one).

Why do we dream so much as kids, is it joblessness, lack of worries, or is it us, still being young enough to remember the last things God whispered in our ears before sending us down here…lol.

Anyway, as we grow older, these dreams begin to fade, because we begin to learn big words like impossible, already exists, not accepted by society, too busy for that kind of stuff. I always wonder, just how much of our dreams are we supposed to adapt to society, all of them, none of them, most of them.

What would the world look like, if we all ignored some of those big words, and just followed those dreams.
When we grow old, how are we going to feel about the dreams we had not followed
‘I did what I had to do, I got busy, I had children, I needed the money, no regrets’
‘I wish I could reincarnate, and this time, be all I really wanted to be’

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

the art of imagination

I love Chimamanda Adiche’s works. Yet she says she hates Chimamanda. She claims Chimamanda does not tell you everything, that she leaves a lot to be imagined.

I love it that a lot is left to be imagined. I love the world because in the absence of no hope, there is still an option of building your hopes on imaginations.

In as much as I like to plan my life, I like to always leave the little probability that something unexpected could happen . I like to imagine. Maybe that is why I write.

I like to imagine that I would be out of the university in two years, yet they have been on strike for almost two months now.

I like to imagine I can drive a car, yet he says I am too unserious to learn to really drive.

I like to imagine I just love water but she says I am possessed.
I like to imagine that I am just a modest girl yet he says I must be a lesbian
I like to imagine I can write but sometimes, opening ms word just makes my head knock.

I like to imagine that both Bike men and policemen have been proven to collaborate with kidnappers, yet he says only bike men get banned from riding bikes.

I like to imagine that keke napep with its tiny tires, is too fragile to move side by side those big lorries but he says it is the only way to stop kidnapping.

I like to think someone lived in that beautiful house, which always has light even when Nepa has forsaken us for weeks but they say it is empty and belongs to the governor.

I like to imagine that he means it when he looks at me so lustfully and says ‘I love you’ but I say I can’t.

I like to imagine that when two elephants are fighting, the students of Nigerian universities suffer, but they say it is the grasses that suffer

I like to imagine I am not the one for bribery, but they say this is Nigeria, Nigeria, MYGERIA

I like to imagine that all these my problems are just silly little things that bothers everyone my age, but these silly little things have refused to leave my mind.

I like to imagine I would outgrow all my worries, all these things, and finally have peace but they say peace in Nigeria, is the peace of a graveyard.

They say that when you have a close shave with death, your life flashes before your eyes. Few days ago, I almost crashed while trying to reverse a car, nothing flashed before my eyes, I just felt … high. Maybe my whole life is just high
Finally, I like to imagine this was a literary blog but I say I don’t even know what it is yet

Monday, July 27, 2009

The man died

I am reading 'The man Died' by Wole Soyinka.
I cannot believe i have had that book for over a year and couldn't get beyond the first chapter because of the writers complex language.

Anyway, due to ASUU strike, and a terrifying lack of what to read, i finally attacked my copy of the man died. And it turned out to be one of the most interesting books i have read in a very long time. Not only is it the closest i have ever come to knowing the Nigerian-side of the civil war, the author is very objective and funny. And the words, i love the war of words, the plenty beating about the bush, which you get during interrogations. It reminds me of Isidore Okpewho's Last Duty (an equally excellent book) only the man died is non-fiction. About the author's experience in prison

According to the author, 'The man dies in all who submit to the daily fear of humiliation'. makes me think of the times when i am afraid to do some things i am supposed to do.

previously i saw Micheal Jackson and Professor Wole Soyinka in the same light. "too popular for my liking, and their stuff too complicated for me" But this is the second Soyinka book i am reading and enjoying and i think i am really liking the writer's style.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

I just finished reading THINGS FALL APART again.
I first read it when I must have been 8 or there about.
One thing that always struck me in that novel, was the story of Ikemefuna
I have mourned the poor inexistent boy all my life
What makes me cry for him
Is the fact that it was Okonkwo who killed him
Every year I read that story, I would think it would change
I wanted it to stop at the point where an elder struck Ikemefuna
I did not want him to scream. ‘father they have killed me’
I did not want Okonkwo to strike him down, because of some stupid fear of being thought weak.
And the most annoying fact of all, is that all my life I have loved Okonkwo and Ikemefuna
Despite all he did, I still find myself having sympathy for Okonkwo
Though when I watched the film on NTA, I hated Pete Edochie.
But Chinua Achebe just makes me so helplessly love Okonkwo.

I think Achebe did very well with things fall apart
I like to imagine that the book was inspired by W.B.YEATS
Or was it just the caption

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world

My favourite poem is written by the same person

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of light, and night and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet
But I, being poor, have only my dreams
I have spread my dreams under your feet
Thread softly because you thread on my dreams

Here’s my own romantic and lame translation of the last poem

Had I the popular wealth-giving talents
Of inventing and manufacturing
The talents everyone would scream about
Of inventing M.S WORD, and finding the cure for aids
I would gladly deliver those talents to your service
But I, having been blessed modestly, have only my ability to write
I have given you my stories to read
Critique carefully, because you criticize my dreams

Friday, March 6, 2009


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The Scent Of Lov

He handed her a pin, a crooked pin, with the round white head of super-glue pins.

Pin your shirt’ he said kindly. His voice was soft and deep, and down in his eyes was care, as if he was ready to do anything to make her smile.

She refused to look at him, to be seduced by his sweetness. She looked at every other thing in the room but him.

Whenever her eyes met his, she looked away, at the medium sized cloth wardrobe, whose doors were a mirror. On the mirror, she saw herself.

Her white shirt which had been all neat and ironed when she arrived was now a rumpled mess, her hair lay across her face, stuck with sweat, and her eyes were blood shot red. She found it humiliating.

Her image on the mirror. Yet she could not look elsewhere.
Please pin your shirt’ he said gently again, coming closer to her, starting to pull her shirt firmly together. His hand against her body was hot and scary.

She pushed his hands away, and then stood facing him, ashamed in her uncovered milk bra. She thought of that morning, when she had worn that bra.

She had fantasized about him, about him kissing her, unbuttoning her shirt, to find that sexy milk colored push up bra. Yet now, his eyes on the milk colored bra, made her burn with shame.

Pull yourself together honey, do I get you a drink’ he said to her, in a low voice filled with passionate care. His hand was on her shoulder, soothing her gently, his pretty face furrowed with worry. His request infuriated her.

It annoyed her to think that he had not thought of offering her a drink when she first arrived, it annoyed her more, that she too, had not thought of a drink then. The drink might have changed the turn of things.

She had followed him home from his office. He worked as an engineer in the country’s power holding firm. He lived in the outskirts, somewhere she had wondered if it was still a part of Lagos.

He lived in one of those rowdy compounds where everyone shared a bathroom. A house full of naked pot bellied children, who had helpless looking mothers. She noticed that no father was within sight, and decided they had gone to fend for their families.

He had introduced her to each of those children, each by their names. He touched each of them on their protruding belly buttons, and tickled them in his ever-caring way, before saying their name to her.

The children were happy to see him home, their excited eyes shone from their over-sized heads. He introduced her to the women too, who sat gossiping together at the extreme corner of the compound, they were all nothing but his neighbors, yet they called her in-law. And asked when she would be marrying their brother.

They all seemed so nice, and it worried her that they should dwell in so much poverty. She thanked God silently, for her rich lot in life. The way he cuddled the children, made her love them too. It was the reason she loved him, he seemed to have a passion, to care for everything living.

Inside his house, she had been surprised. That such beauty could be found inside such dirt. But then it was typically the house of bachelor. A neat space with just the necessary items. Sound system set on a beautiful glass tray, and a small fridge leaning against the wall.

He had a small blue light generator, the type that the sound drove you crazy. It gave her a strange satisfaction to note that even the people holding the country’s power, did not have power in their houses. There was the medium sized wardrobe too, that its doors served as a mirror. She was impressed with his room, and she said so, before sitting on the giant sized mattress that was laid on the floor.

He pulled her from the bed, and made her stand before the wardrobe mirror, with his arms around her neck so that they made a picture of a beautiful couple.

She was shy, as He remarked on how tall he was, and how she was almost the same height as him, and how beautiful their children would look, if she agreed to marry him. He whispered to her how much she loved him, how highly she was placed in his life.

She smiled to herself, as she thought how much she loved him too. But her shyness would not let her say it. She laughed at his jokes, loving the rich fragrance of his bod-man, that filled the air. He made her laugh until they both fell back on the mattress.

Then he asked her silly questions about her perfume and lipstick and in between her equally silly replies, she found herself kissing him.

He kissed her tenderly, unbuttoning her white shirt, discovering her milk bra, just as she had dreamed. He caressed her nipple, while she clawed at his back with her hands, kissing him as if her whole life depended on it.

Then he excused himself, and left her in the heat of her passion. He went to the door where the group of small children gathered, and quietly shooed them away.

Then he bolted the door. She sat up on the bed still feeling his heat, and watched as he bolted the door. Then he turned to face her, his manhood almost standing erect. The sight of his manhood, was supposed to turn her on, yet it made her fret, and for a moment, she toyed with the idea of changing her mind.

But the more reasonable part of her caught hold of her. Today was her nineteenth birthday, and she was tired of being virtuous.
She let him continue. She inhaled his bod-man scent.

The fragrance that made her feel that love had a particular smell. Love for her, smelled of bod-man. She let him slide a finger inside her, then two. To her surprise there was no pain.

She relaxed, snogging deeper, riding herself of every former believe that first time sex could be painful. He had pulled down her jean trousers, and her panties lay on the floor. Her shirt, remained unbuttoned but clung to her body, and her bra was pushed up above her breast. He too was clad in nothing now but a red boxer, from which his penis now stuck out. Their passion would not let them get complete rid of those clothing.

He touched her gently, feeling up places she never knew she had. She thought to herself, that this was all she ever wanted, the touch of a man, to make her a complete woman

Then she felt him, his penis, pricking hard against her. Like a cotton bud was being forced into her ear-drums. Something hard into something delicate. It was like she was being poked with a hard stick.

She wanted to have sex, but she was afraid of pain. So she began to shift away from him, thinking the farther she was from him, the less intense the pain would be. But each time she moved, he closed up on her, until she was half leaning on the cloth wardrobe. He kept glancing up at her, telling her she would be okay, but the sharp pain she felt each time she felt his shove made her stop.

She began to close her legs. There was no possible place in her body for that hard stick. Suddenly she felt like creeping away from him, and disappearing into the wardrobe.
His care was fast turning now to irritation, and instead of the consolation, he was snapping at her now.

Like a parent inadvertently would snap at a child who was too scared of school. He stopped kissing her, opening his eyes, and looking at her searchingly.
Stop’ she told him, she was panicked now, her body tensed up in fear.

What do you mean’ he asked, that sweet smile playing on his handsome face, as if she was telling him a joke. He was only there for a second. He talked no further, he returned to kissing her, thinking she meant she was not yet ready to have him. But she was too tensed to kiss now, and tried to keep her lips away from him, telling him to stop.
He kept kissing her, on her face, down to her breast, the tip of his tongue played with her nipple, giving so much pleasure that she toyed with the idea of going ahead. But as soon as she felt him hard, trying to enter her.

She recoiled, and began to sweat.
Please stop’ she said to him

What do you mean’ he asked, in a bedroom tone.
I don’t want to have sex’ she said.

He looked at her then, in an unserious way, as if that was what all the girls he had laid had said to him.
Don’t worry, you would enjoy me’ he said to her, his tone was so caring, so placating, that she almost believed him. But even if she did believe him, she was too tensed up to have sex now.

She was sweating, and her heart beat with fear.
He had stopped kissing her now, putting all his effort in the job that was proving difficult for him, entering her. She had stopped to kiss him too, and had put all her effort in her most difficult task, resisting him.

She started to push him off, using her two hands, but he was stronger. Using his left hand, he pinned down her right hand to her head. So that she had only her left hand to fight. From then, it became all about him, he stopped even the occasional glances he gave to see if she was having fun. He began to concentrate on having his own pleasure, as if he had sworn to have it.

She was panicked now, and desperate, so much so that she used her left hand to cover herself, so that he would not penetrate her.
Please stop’ she cried despairingly.

And he did stop. He stopped to look at her, he looked at her, and she looked at him, plea in her eyes. But the person she saw was not the one she had known. He had a new soul now, one possessed with the demons of passion. His eyes were bloodshot, like that of an often-condemned criminal.

Sweat poured down his body, to hers, as if he was involved in a serious wrestle with her. He was
Why should I stop’ he said in exasperation, a part of him she had never known
Just stop’ she told him firmly, she had a feeling no explanation she gave could ever make him stop now. He confirmed it
No’ he said

Please I beg you in the name of God’ she cried. Tears were pouring down her eyes now. But he did not seem to notice.
You don’t understand’ he said ‘even if I wanted to stop, I can’t stop now’ there was a conviction in his voice, that told her he was saying the truth. Even if he wanted to stop, he could not.

The person above her, was not him. He was possessed now.
She fought her despair. He still pinned her right arm to her head and he had hurt her left wrist so badly that the arm was almost useless to her.

She was so worn out from fighting him, she decided to let him have his way, to close her eyes, and think of something far away, to let her spirit go away from that room. But she could not ignore the sharp pain she felt, each time she felt him prod her. Rather than let her spirit move away, she began to shout.

Help me someone! Help’ it was panic, and the fear of pain that made her do it, but now she could see it angered him. Her shout for help had drawn away every care and pity that might have been left in him, because he charged at her, like a lion devouring a cat prey.

This is my house’ he muttered, with such authority, that she knew right then that no help was going to come to her.

She replayed the faces of the helpless looking women she had seen outside, wondering what they were doing then, knowing they were listening to her screams. As for the children.

She could still here them playing outside, she imagined they heard such screams every day, it was a normal part of their lives and now she wished she were one of them, any one of them. Hungry, scraggy, poor, sick, hopeless with an unsure future, anything but the victim on that bed.

He was violent now. Shoving her roughly, hitting her, and twisting her wrist, yet she fought blindly, with mad abandon. Her hands were useless, so now she closed her legs, and twisted her hips side from side, taunting all his efforts.

‘why are you suddenly so strong’ he muttered angrily. And then she knew she was never going to win. It had become a fight, feminine versus masculine power, now he longed to show her who was stronger. She went back to begging him, apart from kicking her legs, it was all she could do

Mike please stop, I beg you in the name of Jesus Christ, stop’ but she doubted if at that time he knew whom God was, or if he even recognized his own name. He was like a giant new dog, which had not learnt to answer to his own name.

I can’t stop, don’t you understand’ he repeated. Sometimes she thought she saw kindness in his eyes, but quickly it became wicked passion, and he prod her heartlessly, desperate to gain his entrance into her body.

At a time she tried to pray, but then she was distracted, by her thoughts that wondered if God answered prayers of girls who followed men home, girls who disobeyed everything their parents had thought them.

She even felt the beast on top of her was stronger than God. He was like a strange beast, possessed by demented demons. He was nothing like the loving Mike she dated. The one whom she met two months ago.

The one who had destroyed her fears of uncertainty, by saying to her
You would stop being a virgin on your nineteenth birthday, and trust me, it is going to be totally painessl’

At last she was tired. And she just turned around, while he hurt her.

You are making me hurt you, stop making me hurt you, just relax’ he said while thrusting into her. He said it like someone reciting the simple abc of sex.

She longed to tell him she did not know the abc of sex. She did not understand how she was supposed to relax when he had hurt her so much. She longed to do anything to stop the way he hurt her.

How’ she cried ‘how should I relax’ it was not a rhetorical question, it was an innocent ignorant one.
He seemed to understand

Just open your legs’ he told her, his voice was like that of a placated beast. Wickedness laced with pity.

At that moment, she finally let her spirit die. She lost every faith in humanity and in God, she had called out to both and they had failed her.

She lost every faith in herself too. For having ever wanted to have sex. She denounced her body, her bones, for having failed her, in her wrestle for survival. Now she just opened her legs for him, as wide as they could go. So that he could do whatever he wanted to do and it would not hurt her.

But it did hurt her, because he thrust so hard into her, as if he was punishing her for an unknown crime she had committed. But the pain was good for her. She felt she deserved to be punished. For ever believing in God, for ever believing in humanity, for ever believing in love.

She had been stupid, and nature was punishing her.
Now he stood before her, in the kindness she had always known him to have, apologizing so miserably, offering her a pin, because he had torn off all the buttons of her shirt.

Now he was calm and kind, and it was hard for her, to reconcile him with the man who just raped her. She felt no anger towards him, just humiliation, for herself. For how she had wrestled him stark naked on the bed, for how she had so begged him with all her failed humility.

She was humiliated for being raped. Now as she stood before him, inhaling his bod-man. She started to wonder which was the real him, the beast or this prince. Had she been raped by a saint, or deceived by his scent.

He begged her to take a shower, to brush her hair and apply some make-up. He begged her with so much remorse in him, that she was tempted to fall for his charm.

But she did not. She walked out of his room a new person, a soul without a spirit, a person who did not heed sincere heart-rending pleas, nor care what the neighbors thought. As she walked home people stared at her, her undone buttons, and her hair. But she had convinced herself in a way, that none of that mattered anymore.

At home she laid down alone, wondering why tears refused to come, at times almost believing that nothing had happened to her. She still wore her unbuttoned shirt and her hair, the same tattered way. Her wrists ached and her shoulders were broken, blood dripped in her underwear, yet she did not mind. She refused to mind. She had an urge to have a bath but she did not. she had read rape stories where the victims bathed and thought they could wash away the memory. She knew a bath would do nothing to the memory

But by midnight that day, she sleep walked into the bathroom. Her body aching all over, and stale and new blood flowed in her underwear. She put on the heater and waited till the water was hot enough to scald her. Then she poured almost a whole bottle of her giant-sized dettol into the water. She stepped into the water and her bruises welcomed the antiseptic. Then she began to scrub, not for the stale blood, or the clothed bruises. She was scrubbing for love. There was no more love for her, so she was scrubbing away the bod-man that still hung so strong on her body. The scent of love.