That First love

Yes. I remember that first Love of mine. Sauntering towards me in the finest exquisite suit I had ever seen. The smell of his after-shave and cologne linger in my memory. Six feet tall with a well-defined chiseled jaw. My first love, with his warm eyes and broad shoulders.
I had first seen him outside the church gates on that misty harmattan morning. I had climbed out of the car in my orange straw hat and flowery brown dress that had at the waist a colorful sash and flower and a Dolce and Gabanna blue ivory cotton bag. I smiled as i inhaled the sweet air and took Grandmama's hands. He was staring at me with a broad sweet smile on his face. I had first looked up and then looked away, then taken a peek to access him. Yes he was staring at me. Grandmama, who was bent over walking with the aid of a walking stick and my hand was too busy monitoring her slow steps to notice him. Gently and slowly we walked up to the pathway leading to the church, Aunt Feyi trotting slowly behind us. I kept looking at him all the way up there, where he stood at the gate and then when we reached the brown iron bars he shook my hand and handed me flowers. Flowers that i hadn't seen there before.
Grandmama looked up with a sweet smile exposing two missing teeth 'nice young man' she said and that was it.
At the front pew in church where I usually sat with the other girls in their white and brown and pink flowery dresses, all I could think of was this man. This man who wouldn't stop looking at me and who had given me flowers. This perfect gentleman who had this vintage look about him. This gentleman with perfectly white teeth and two dimples. I giggled softly at every thought of this fine man.
Then I had seen him again, walking up to the altar a few times to whisper a few words in the Pastor's ears and watched the expression of the Pastor change. Then I had known again that this man wasn't the ordinary in this sanctuary. When we stood up to say the benediction, I had told Sally who was like me visiting relatives in the village that this man had been staring at me. She had giggled and unfortunately said that I was ridiculous.
When the church service ended as I stood there helping the ushers in a natural goodness that I had to collect the leaflets that had been shared for hymns, he had walked--no sauntered towards me.
'Nire' he had called my name, my nickname, that gentle smile of his starting to appear on his lips. I could have fainted or better still sank in those brooding depth of his dark eyes. He took my hands and led it to his lips but I quickly withdrew shyly. I told myself, this man was too old to be flirting with me. I studied his black afro hair, well trimmed and neatly shaped and smiled thinking again that he couldn't be that old.
'of course' he said gesticulating slowly with his hands I'm not that old' and I had thought was it that he just read my mind or it was a natural thing to think.
But I couldn't say a thing before i was quickly drawn away by friends who wanted to take a look at my braided hair and new designer bag. I had glanced at him. It had been the first time I had seen him frown all day. His brows furrowed and where arched together. I couldn't help but feel sorry. It felt like he was going through some pain--almost like he was love sick. He stood there rubbing his palms together but he didn't move. I could feel his eyes on me even when aunt Feyi led me away to help her retie her gele some thirty minutes later.
The next time I'd seen him was at the neighbor's garden. I had seen him working with shears from the room I shared with a cousin. Without thinking much I had gone down to meet him. He was wearing suspenders and a brown shirt with a brown hat that covered most of his forehead. Nevertheless, he looked beautiful. He was tending to their garden but stood up when I came out. Almost as if he'd felt my presence. I walked towards him, letting my maxi-dress brush against the grass that covered the front of my late grandfather's house. I hugged myself not because of the breeze but because I was shy, I felt almost naked as he stared at me.
He wove at me and beckoned me to come. I did and noticed in awe that this man wasn't sweating even as he worked under the scorching sun. Not even a dot of it had broken on his face. I frowned but then ignored it. I had a bottle of water for him in hand hoping it would be a conversation starter.
Ha Yes I remember what my first love had said to me when I thrust that chilled bottle of water forward, something any man would have collected in delight. He said with a graceful smile 'No thank you. I am not thirsty' he laughed a throaty short laugh 'But if you come with me, I can give you a taste of the living water' Where had i heard this before? I had sort of raised my eyebrow but he just took me aside and we walked down to the park and there we sat on the swings talking.
He'd said he wanted to be my friend. He'd taken my hand and said 'let me be your friend' almost a plea. I had looked at his hands and thought 'whatever did the question mean exactly?'
He opened his palms and showed me a wound 'I keep hurting because I'm not your friend.' They were the words of a classical toaster. I wanted to laugh but one look at his eyes made me feel like he was saying the truth. His whole aura, his whole specimen bespoke honesty. He was this sort of man you said came down from heaven. He was a keeper.
I looked away afraid I'd give myself away, blushing. He traced his hands on my fair cheeks and indeed I did turn red and there were tears in his eyes. Actual tears.
'Let me be your friend' he said again
'but how, i live in Lagos and you live here--i mean I'm busy with school and stuff' I had a thousand excuses in my head but then he'd just been asking me to be his friend and not his lover to which the excuses might have applied.
'Let me be that friend you run to with your burden.' he'd said going on as if he hadn't heard me 'Let me be the one you tell your secrets to. Let me be the one to comfort you. Let me be the shoulder you cry on. Let me be the one to help you when you're in a fix'
'I'm with you everywhere' he said taking my jaw so that my eyes and his met in an embrace. His eyes were smiling. They danced softly as if searching me and smiled at me 'I've known you since you were a child. I've loved you since you were a child'
I was compelled to shout stalker at this point but i just kept quiet wondering how it was possible.
'I don't even know your name?'
They call me Emmanuel' he said 'Nire would you be my friend? I'm tired of watching you waste your time. Many times, I've knocked on your door but you never welcomed me. Many times--'
'You dont love me--you cant love, i'm incomplete. My past is a shame to me. I am not this beautiful innocent girl you see, i'm dirty--' I looked away breaking the lock of our tight embrace.
His eyes seemed to laugh at me but no they didn’t, they sympathized with me, they seemed to feel my pain in this mild gentle way. 'Let me help you gain a clean slate' he said 'I love you despite these inadequacies'. I really do'
'you can do that?' I asked repulsed somewhat 'who are you? You aren't like many of the men I know' i said now forgetting my 'romance' and now thinking about what i'd gotten myself into thinking i could fall in love with this man who seemed ten years older than me.


He smiled that smile that made me feel like he was reading my thoughts 'simpleton' he whispered 'let me be your friend. I can change everything. I can give you everything. All i want is that you love me as i have loved you' And then again with those words I had felt butterflies rumbling in my tummy. It wasn't the sickly feeling it was a beautiful feeling; those butterflies seemingly millions of them dancing in my tummy and fluttering high up. Yes, I had felt a beautiful sensation the moment i fell in love with my first love.
'Yes i would be your friend' i whispered as if hiding it from the world. I nodded and he had embraced me and I had felt complete for the first time in my 16 years. Subsequently, he visited me buying me chocolates and sending me poetry. He would whisper words from his Father's book in my ears and i would call him my Lord.
We would talk so much at length and into the night (me doing most of the talking.) He was the first person i spoke to when i woke up and the last when i went to bed. He watched me constantly, shielding me from those other boys or men who just wanted a taste of my body. He made my decisions for me from the simplest to the hardest.
Yes, what again could i ask of my first love.
I would give him food, sweet smelling delicacies, i would buy him clothes exquisite designer suits but he told me his joy was in my love and my worship and i would call him My Lord. There were times i betrayed this my love but he stood there with pleading eyes, ready to accept me when i came back from Vanity.
At times we spoke in codes. He'd said 'lest the enemy hear us' and i had simply smiled at this beautiful romance. Ha yes, my handsome first love who kisses me and attends to my every need, who is there unlike every being. Yes he is my first love.
Now here on my deathbed, he whispers to me that he has prepared a place for me in our home, for us to be united forever. Yes what more could I ask for in Love. .What more could I ask for from That First Love....

Photo Credit: PicsPixel

All Rights Reserved.

Silent Noises

He had just slapped her and swung her against the wall. Here we go again... Another night and he was drunk. When wasn't he drunk? Could he go a day without hitting the bar, tapping some girl's bottom, spending his savings on bets he didn’t win? His breath stank of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat- that no doubt were the product of gambling, a cheap motel and prostitute. The hate in his eyes danced as if listening to the rhythmic drumming of her heartbeat. His words were slurred but she could make out what he was trying to sing as he hiccupped 'I love my--hic-bay...that's my baby--hic, I would never do you--hic right...' He walked towards her, a bottle of Star in his hand, staggering worse than a nervous torero, bull fighting. His shirt was opened wide exposing tiny curly hair that seemed to be plastered to his chest and a belly that looked like a baby bump in its second trimester. His look seemed to suggest something. Something that had continuously crippled her and wrecked havoc in her mind on nights like this. She hoped she was wrong. Did she hope, no, she prayed.

 The children were asleep. 5 and 7 yet, there was no doubt that Lala and Simi knew what was happening. One night they had caught him in the act but unashamed, he continued while, Simi started screaming and Lala followed suit. Nursing her pain after he was done, she only went to the children's room and rocked them back and forth, crying, singing Bob Marley's, 'every little thing is gonna be alright'

He dropped the bottle on the floor and started to unbuckle his belt. No this couldn’t be happening. Not again. God please listen to me. Just look at me God, look at me. She already couldn’t walk well and was in severe pain. She was afraid to see a doctor let alone step out of their house. At least she could scream without attracting nosy neighbors. She wouldn’t be the topic that fuelled idle chattering.

She thought about their once beautiful marriage letting the fear slip away for but a moment. It wasn’t exactly beautiful anyway... He was always commanding her, treating her like she was his slave and she had felt that he loved her-- it was just the way he loved. The monster in him had only come out when he lost his job in the oil company and was unable to get a new one. But she had been understanding with his inadequacies. Her mother had said it was what a good wife did. "He just might have to hit you once or twice", She had even added while slowly and effortlessly stirring a pot of stew. "Don’t scream, you don’t shout. Just go, nurse your wounds and continue being a good wife". She had accepted the advice, she would be the broken and bruised beauty and he would be her loving beast. Once or twice my foot! Screw you mama! Screw you! She didn't have to guess he didn't love her now. She doubted if he had even ever loved her. He had probably just fallen in love with the naive bottle shaped girl. Her parents didn’t help matters. They had fallen in love with him once she announced he worked in an oil company. Couldn’t blame them. Couldn’t blame herself.

She ran her hands over her face, still hot from the slap and felt tears streaming down her face. It was dark and she was weak, she couldn't stand to run away from him, at least get to their room upstairs and lock herself up in the closet. Then she felt the blood, a cold wet substance growing like wild fire around her hair. She fixed her hands into her full tangled afro hair and felt it once--she could have convinced herself it was just water. When he'd flung her aside, her scalp had hit the rough walls and probably a small tear up there she convinced herself but the pain, the peppery feeling said otherwise. Her whole body throbbed and vibrated with pain and as he came closer she found herself shivering, pleading with her weak hands, begging with her eyes.

He held his belt in his hands, twirling it in the hair. He had a sardonic smile tugging at the edge of his lips. She was trying to summon her strength. Trying hard. But over the past few days, she had lost a lot of blood from belt lashes, punches and kicks. It was how her baby had died a few months ago. He had taken her to the hospital, crying pitifully and had said she rolled down the stairs. She eventually rolled down the stairs a few days after recuperating. She only rolled because he had pushed her and what had or hadn't she done? - "you didn’t sew in the buttons of my shirt" and how was she supposed to know "you're my wife, you're supposed to know every freaking thing"
In the past few days, her image in the mirror was one of a woman she didn’t recognize. Swollen red sclera and dark circle under her eyes, puffy cheeks, and incessant running nose--no she didn’t recognize this woman. Didn’t want to recognize her. Simi and Lala were crying. They were constantly asking her what was wrong but she kept on replying, 'everything is going to be okay.' She managed to go about her duties. She managed to take care of them. She didn’t want them to think her husband; their father was a monster not that he ever showed he was otherwise.

There had been this one time when he pressed the hot iron against her stomach. Being a nurse she knew the right thing to do, the bruise wasn't bad, but she sustained a scar. Emotionally, she was wrecked, hopelessly, hoping for help. She had known God a little. She said a prayer once or twice to him, hoping her sins wouldn't keep him from hearing her.

But she couldn't take it anymore. This beauty was going to fight back. She knew it was not in the bible but she muttered - heaven helps those who help themselves.

The belt landed on her skin and she screamed so loud, she realized she had forgotten she had a voice like that. Another one came before he pushed her on the floor. She was screaming. She was angry. She hated him. He was just about to rape her, spreading her legs like she was worthless, when she stood up, biting him first, using her nails to dig into his flesh angrily. She carried up his shoe and threw it at him. It was a good aim, it hit him right squarely on the head sending his bottle clattering in her direction. Volley ball in secondary school had paid off after all. He was swearing shouting, cursing her mother and her father. He was visibly too weak to stand so she, summing up all her strength, limped towards the bottle. She was going to kill him. She had never felt this angry in her whole life and the energy; she had no idea where it came from. Something told her to run away, just gather the little ones and hide somewhere in the large house, he'd be too drunk to start looking for her. But everything screamed that she should kill him and end this misery. The flat screen television was screaming do it. The standing fan kept saying better for you. Her picture frame on the wall said there was nothing to worry about, end his life. Her mind just kept on saying 'it’s a trick, don’t do it' As if she had a chance in the first place. She was afraid. Scared to death as she listened to him cuss and curse her at the same time, holding on to his head.

She picked half of the broken star bottle and was about to approach him when she heard a voice call for her.
'Mummy?' it was Lala.
You're a banker not a killer she whispered staring at the little children. She turned back abruptly, shocked to a fault. They were supposed to be asleep. They weren’t supposed to see this.  What did they think of her now? They probably saw a huge monster, sweating, smelling, bruised. She dropped the bottle. The two girls ran to hug her. Despite the serenity in the air, the voices still nagged, appealed, commanded that she ended his life.
'Go to sleep now girls' she said clutching her robe tightly 'mummy would be up in a bit'
they nodded, Simi taking her sister's hand. The little one withdrew and gave her mum an extra hug. By the time, they exited to the staircase, he was standing, right at her back, she could smell him even before she turned 'I'd kill you' he said 'I promise' a whisper.
There was laughter in her head this time. Loud sarcastic laughter. The laughter became infectious. She herself began to laugh. Laugh so loud, the man halted in his steps. Then the laughter ended and she was aware of herself and her surroundings. What was happening to her? She might be losing her mind. He came forward and pushed her back angrily. She fell on the chair.
'You can’t hit me and get away with it, who do you think you her.' Punches and slaps across her face. Then he took off his trouser and let her scream away into the night. It was almost midnight and the air was still when she gave out her last cry of pain. She really thought she was dead but she was breathing, loud enough for that matter.

'Didn’t you enjoy that?' he asked, more of a statement to himself than to her. She didn’t answer. He screamed again, 'I asked, didn’t you enjoy that'

She nodded, grimly.

'You’re not a lizard, answer me' He slapped her across her face

'I did' she said and swallowed hard.

'Good. We should do this another time' he said pulling up his trouser 'now I have to go to the hospital' he said rubbing his head. She lay still on the chair listening as a silent noise bubbled around her, rising above the din of the hooting owl, croaking frogs, barking dogs.

The silent noise in form of voices. Whispers. Leave me alone she wanted to scream but she just lay there, her eyes darting around in fear. The couch was talking to the side stool. The fan was talking to the television. The frame of her husband was talking to her own frame on the wall. She clutched tightly to her ears. They were using words like
'dumb, kill, knife, rape, stupid, drunk, die, death' her breathing increased. 'Stop…Stop!!!' She no longer took cognizance of the rapist even as he strolled away, whistling like some sort of champion. She just kept crying for mercy in her heart. She sat down on the floor for a moment, hugging her knees. Tears rushing out of her eyes.
'Don’t lie, you want him dead' the voice from her frame said 'just kill him. End his life. All the better for you and your children''
'No' she screamed blocking her ears 'no, no, no!!' her scream was shrill, piercing into the cold air. She pulled her hair out, trying to separate the tangled strands from her aching scalp, panting in excitement, tears pouring out. She continued to scream and shout no wishing the evil in the air would just disappear. Abruptly she stood up, an action that shot pain throughout her whole body; from between her thighs to her throbbing head. She went into the kitchen, opened the drawer were she had her gun. She had gotten it licensed a few years back when the inflow of robbers and kidnappers in their bushy estate had been much and her husband was always on a 'business trip'. Never had a chance to use it though. So this was the perfect time. She walked slowly up the stairs ignoring the pain coursing through her. She moved slowly as if moving with a rhythm. She stared at the mirror that hung on the wall in the lobby once, staring at the streaks of blood that had come from her, her swollen eyes, her fat cheeks, and her slender figure. Ugly. Yes, she agreed with the mirror. It was high time she did this. She went to her children’s room. Stared at the beauties that had slept holding each other. They were afraid. She was afraid too.
Then she moved on to the master bedroom. Her gun was steady in her hands. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do with the gun but her body knew just what to do. She couldn’t think it. For moments, she could only think of what her life had been. She remembered walking down the aisle. She remembered his proposal. Then she rememembered when he first hit her and she had known it was time for him to die.

Staggering slowly with pain, she starred at him with hatred, slumped on the unmade bed. No, could she have ever loved this man? She doubted. All she felt, moving through her was hatred. Anger. It was a powerful feeling. A feeling she had never felt. She fired the gun at the wall and broke into another fit of laughter. 'Dami, stay calm' she said to herself. The voices in her head were laughing. They were telling her to do it. A tiny voice told her not to. She decided against it as she stopped laughing wondering what was happening to her

His eyes flopped open. She wasn’t sure whether it was the gun or the laughter that had woken him up. All she knew was his eyes were opened and shone against the darkness 'What!' he said alert not like he was drunk or groggy 'what are you doing with the gun? Oh, you planned on killing me right?' he said boldly, but there was a crack in his voice and she knew he was afraid of death.
She looked away the gun still thrust out, her hands shaking. She looked outside at the bright lights and the night sky. Suddenly, she felt a jolt. He seemed to have caught on the fact that she was distracted. He was trying to pull the gun from her hand; she removed her hands from the trigger and tried to pull too. He was stronger. There was a mild combat. She ended up falling on the marble floor. He stood over her. 'You're beginning to get a lot of guts girl' he said and before she knew what was happening, she heard two gun shots and then saw nothing but darkness.

He didn’t seem to realize his action. He didn’t seem to realize he had just murdered his wife.

To be continued. 

Photo Credits: Yararena.org

The Black Maid

The church was perhaps her best place in the entire flora and fauna of the earth, in spite of the uneasiness of sitting through an oyinbo man’s sermon. Notwithstanding, she still felt mediocre there. She had known her mother but not her father. When she arrived in Ibadan, she had heard her aunt tell a friend that her siblings were ogbanje and that she was the only one, who survived, the smudge on her face was evidence. She was knocked for six on hearing the statement. Her mother had sent her to live in Ibadan due to the conflict her father’s family stirred against her mother. She didn’t miss her mother. She only felt remorseful for her. She thought of education but her aunt had ‘better’ plans for her. She would work in Lagos

It was 1905 and time seemed to be travelling at such a sluggish and sturdy stride. Years before, the England laws began to apply to every part of the city but that didn’t explain the inflow of oyinbo’s into the country. As told by iya Ibadan, the aunt she had lived with, the trade with the merchants started the inflow of the oyinbos in the mid part of the nineteenth century. She cursed the very day they ventured into her land because she had very little love for them. The household she worked for was oyinbo. When she first moved to Lagos, she was revolted. She by a hair's breadth saw oyinbo people in Ibadan. Lagos was a first-class city. There were large beautiful houses unlike in Ibadan where the populace of houses was huts and small ill-constructed buildings. There was something about the atmosphere that was murky, almost cruel but still she loved it. She loved to see the trees, colorful as they were and the healthy strong people in a hustle and bustle of life. She anticipated a better life.

She was glad however that she was no whore. The talk between her age grades was that in Lagos, black girls were given off to men to be prostitutes. She couldn’t fathom that. The sounds she heard from iya Ibadan’s tiny bedroom with whatever man she had for the night, was enough to scare her from the male gender. When she got to the house, they welcomed her with an eye she would never forget—and even on deathbed, the cruel eye still remained in memory. The tall slender mistress of the house, an oyinbo who was in her late thirties eyed her, hissed and showed her to her room. She was given a list of chores.

‘I no fit read’ she had said shaking with fright at the woman whose skin was so flawless as opposed to hers.

‘Illiterate’ the woman said in a contemptuous tone that even though she didn’t know what the word meant, she started to shriek. She wasn’t used to being screamed at and that was only the beginning. Everything she did wasn’t right and the children of the house relentlessly lampooned and snickered at her. It was disgust and odium that streamed up from the mistress and she knew it. The master of the house came into her room one night while she slept. He removed her brassier and pant and plunged into her. She had woken up that very night when her brassier was flung off brutally from her chest but she didn’t yell. She just watched as she was defiled, bloody tears streaming down her eyes. When he left, a mollified smile on his face, she saw the pool of blood on her bed and got to work washing it. She couldn’t tell the mistress even though she knew she would somehow find out and soon, she didn’t see her period. She was petrified. There was no one to talk to, nowhere to run to. She didn’t plan on telling the mistress because she was afraid the woman who was heads over hills in love with her husband wouldn’t believe her. She couldn’t abort the baby. She was panicky, forlorn and without help. The church was not help. They were all oyinbos.

She finally decided to tell the mistress on a crispy morning. The mistress hit her with a frying pan. At that point she hated herself and that she was black. The mistress told her to pack up

She left during the night. The next morning, they were all found dead. ‘No doubt’ in later years iya Ibadan said, ‘no doubt that she was ogbanje’

HER TEARS....

It wasn't the first night. It wasn't the second night. She had lost count. She sat at the corner, watching as he buckled his belt, packed his shirt and fled into the darkness. She had heard this story before. She had never dreamt she would be a victim. The tears that came down her sweaty face were all she had, all she could express in hating this uncle and then her own vulnerability. She was also afraid. She was too afraid. She didn't know who tell if she wanted to tell. She looked forward to mornings every night. She looked forward to the cockcrow screaming shrilly in her ears and an alarm clock playing its annoying tune. She looked forward to the sun, casting its brightness into her always dimly lit room. She looked forward to hearing the bustle of a new day and the hustle of the outside world. There was this assurance that came with the new day and there was this tingly feeling that made it all disappear as the evening approached.

She would talk to the gods or to herself or so it seemed, holding back the tears as the hour approached, sitting at the edge of the bed, feeling ashamed for what was yet to come. She would tell the gods to stop her uncle from coming to her room. She would ask the gods to strike him. She would ask them to make her dead parents come out of their graves—the eternal slumber. She would ask so much and command so much and if and when he didn't come, she would close her eyes and slowly drift away into an abyss of hunted dreams of the very brutality of an uncle.

It first started two months ago and she'd known that he only came when he was drunk. He wasn't even her uncle properly so called. He was just one of those people we called uncle for convenience. They shared no blood ties whatsoever and she thought, hence his brutality and wickedness.

She had thought of running away but since the death of her parents, things had been hard and he was the only one willing to take her into his home. She remembered the night he came and took her to his home. It had been just a month after her parents died in the June 2012 Lagos plane crash. No, the relatives didn't care about identifying the body or other technicalities; they came in and took the house and the beautiful things. What did she know? She couldn't defend herself, her father hadn't thought of a will and neither had he planned to die and so, she herself had to accept the inevitable.

Then, this uncle, a brother in her mother's protestant church which she dreaded going to but any which way had had to go to once or twice over the years had seen her wandering the streets after her father's brother's wife had beaten her and told her never to step foot in 'their' house. Yes, she didn't think twice before she sat down at the passenger’s seat and buckled her seat belt. She didn't think twice before she allowed him to take her to a restaurant to get good food. And she didn't mind when he's said I'd take care of you, you don’t have to worry anymore.

Because she was still vulnerable, though stupid was a much better word she had accepted it all with that blank stare lingering in her eyes. Fifteen and cursed with the best features one might say. Unaware however of the heads she caused to stare as she walked past. When in this house which she had been staying in for the past eight months--without education, she would fetch water from the neighbor's tap, a life she had never been subjected to, then the boys many of them would come out deliberately to look. They would also make passing comments like 'so round, that behind'

She would ignore. She didn't care. She and her mother had never gotten far with the 'boy-talk.' As an only child, they'd spoiled her beyond words, hence her father had once remarked 'she wouldn't be dating for a while,' he'd adjusted his reading glasses 'any boy who comes through to this gate to see her, I would kill' of course he'd been joking but she'd taken a cue and faced her books.

So, with the unfolding of events, being a quick adjuster, she'd adjusted. However this one thing, the taking of what most women value, desecrating her, making her feel dirty, she could never adjust to.

But who was she to tell? who?

Sometimes she blamed herself, other times she blamed her parents, most times, she blamed the gods if they did exist. She wondered how exactly she would run off. She wondered exactly whether she would ever heal from this pain that threatened to tear her heart opened, even if he died, even if he never came to her room again.

She always wondered about these, a harsh pain creeping up her neck and ears. It was the sort of pain that came with hatred. A newly born passion in her. She could kill him. She had killed him many times in her dreams. She had killed him many times in her thoughts. But she was too afraid to hold the kitchen knife in the physical.

Then there was the innate desire to be free even though she knew she would always be a caged bird at heart because of this experience. She was going to leave but she didn't know how. Despite all that happened--they said should make you stronger, other than hate, she was vulnerable and afraid. The fear plagued her and most times overthrew the hate.

She sat still in the corner remembering the blood that first night, remembering that she and the girls from her school had wanted to wait till they were married. They ranted on and on about how guys preferred virgins. They gossiped about non-virgins--it didn't matter if they were raped, non virgins were still sluts to them.

Grandmother before her death in that small white house overlooking the hills in a tiny town in Ogun state had gone on about the value of a girl's virginity. She told stories about the old days. How a girl who wasn't a virgin was shamed when her fiancé or husband found out. She told stories about girls who were raped in wars. She said they brought it on themselves, wearing those short skirts, using tiro, applying lipsticks--'shame on them' in her exact words.

So, she felt shameful of herself the way one felt when they had a stigma or better still, wore clear ugly clothes out in the public. It was how she felt. Like she wore only a dirty linen.

He had a girlfriend which was worse and sometimes, with that stern look when she came over for 'bedroom' prayer meetings, she was nice, as if she knew he had raped her. But she didn't know. She didn't even suspect.

After the first night she had been unable to look at him. As she swept the floor that morning she felt his eyes around her and then he'd said 'don't forget to wash the plates' as if nothing had happened. The nights were for the nights, the days for the days. He acted normally everyday but came to her room with soothing words at night like 'it wouldn't hurt, you can’t tell anyone about this, it’s because I care a lot about you' she was flabbergasted.

She was also afraid of getting pregnant or infected with an STD, even though he used a condom. She spent most of her day crying. She spent the hours in thought. She prayed for death a few times and had comforted herself with slashing her wrist.

Her face was grey, and thinning, the way a dying woman lost her color and energy. She lost her words. She lost herself. The tears were her only comfort. So where the prayers, channeled to the gods or said to herself.

Even if, she was going to leave when there were no tears and no words and the fear was weaker than the hate. Then she would run unto the streets like a bird let go to fly. She would fly away but still ask herself if her life could ever be different if that first night had been different.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Mr snake

I see the fear in your eyes

You see the fear in my eyes

You advance towards me

I travel, quickly backwards

Your weapon is a deadly bite

Mine is a kitchen knife

Evil grows in you

Hate for you, in me

I see death very near

You rejoice, prey, in your heart

I cry like a child

You’re ever still indifferent 

My eyes sing a plea

The only noise from you is zapping in the bushes

The end is near

Our time has come

A battle line is drawn

Boxing gloves are won

A winner shall come forth

I stand no chance

Snake embrace me

Kiss me till I feel no more

You’re unmerciful

You’re unkind

True that He gave me dominion over you

Yet you prance on me

Goodbye my enemy

Goodbye Mr. Snake

For today, I shall see you no more

Goodbye Mr. Snake

Winner I am

My knife feels your blood

A common kitchen knife

My hand feels victory

Truly Mr. Snake, I have dominion over you.

Leave death's wealth

He raised his hat

Picked his umbrella

Shook the dust of his feet

He smiled at the sun

And briskly walked out healthy as apples

Before him, the people watched in awe

A paper was brought out

A will was read

Yes he is gone

Dead and gone

He’s left a house with us

He’s left some cars

More unimaginable money

A fleet of sheep

Lands all over

Now, let us spend and merry

Yes he’s gone

Dead and gone

We may tear our pants

Remove our bras

Dance naked

Yet share the dead’s belongings

Only because he is dead

Dead and gone

We may argue

Hurt each other

Kill each other eventually

Remove our brains

Act senselessly

The reason being wealth from a source

The source being a dead man’s pocket

Lets now remember

We’ll die too

And yes, we shall be but dead and gone

Dead and gone without wealth

Poverty

POVERTY

A black hat

A Red shoe

All once very attractive

The question is what, how and when did all this become?

I once drank honey from a golden cup

I once passed waste in a silver WC

The question is what, how and when did all this become?

I didn’t really know what it was to hunger

I never thirst for one day

The question is what, how and when did all this become?

Yams used to be much,

Rice, a few too plenty

The question is what, how and when did all this become?

I never walked two feet from home on foot

I never crept into bed without electricity?

What is it that I see now?

How is it that I used the past and not the continuous in making sentences?

When did I start this strange act?

Now I remember

It was the day the water from my river stopped flowing

It was the day honey didn’t come from my bottomless honey jar

It was the day I stopped going to the farm

It was the day I became my own goddess

It was the day money became my god

It was the day laziness became my husband

It was the day procrastination became my in-law

It was the day I invited poverty in.

It was the day he finally moved in.