Story Story
A short story: the list of how many girlfriends I’ve had.
A long story: why I’m not with any of them.
A sad story: one day, I looked in the mirror…
A funny story: one day, I looked in the mirror. While naked.
A sadder story: while staring in the mirror naked, my high wore off.
A smart story: I got dressed. Fast.
A stupid story: and what do you think you’ve been reading for the past minute or so?
A dumb story: It took you a full minute to get this far?
A war story: one day, I went to the toilet…
A crime story: you should ask the poor guy who went in after me.
A romantic story: so as I was eating a large helping of spaghetti…
A coming-of-age story: like that of King David and Uriah, I realized that my romantic story led to my war story and then my sad story.
A tragic story: so I wrote my account number and signed. Two minutes later, the lady at the desk wrote some figures she was looking at on a computer screen.
A never-ending story: so the other day, I tried to figure out women.
A fantasy story: seeing as we now have electricity 2-4-7…
A happy story: yeah. Didn’t I just say I put my clothes back on?
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Baby steps now, I’ll have more on the blog next week. Been a lazy lazy writer in 2014…
A Crash Course in Burglary Proof
Wow. 9 months since I first penned Crash Course. I’m awful at this. And yes, this is also in pidgin. And this is also raunchy
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I like my landlord. Na correct guy. Him build dis im house well well. You don see ‘Face Me I Woze You’ wey carry burglary proof for window before? Omo dem fit dey but na Island yard dey get all dat one. You nor fit see am for dis we Orile. For me to pack out of dis yard go hard. Sotey landlord build toilet reach two for backyard. Anyway sha, dat evening I just baff dey fresh dey expect person. Me and Napodia been get appointment. She suppose come yard come see Patrick. I know say una don begin dey tink who be “Patrick”. If you remove the ‘at’ inside im name, you go know say Patrick na our best friend for area. We dey pamper am and everything wey we dey reason na to benefit Patrick.
U don kana am?
My mainest man na one boy wey dem dey call Credit. Him dey sell chemist for area. After I go gist una why we call am dat name. Me and d idiot get appointment so I reason say make I call am warn him papa spirit not to near my house today as per say because babe dey come.
“Credit, how far now?”
“Crashito! How paroles na?”
“I dey. Which levels?”
“Omo, I go soon begin come your side o. Make I just free small for shop. Boys broke die. Shebi if I come you drop for me ba?” Dis fool dey always beg money but no be im make I give am dat name sha.
“Drop ke? I resemble your mama bobby?”
“Guy no dey cuss my mumsy bobby o!”
“Why I no go cuss am? Una dey buy broom? No be d tin wey una dey use sweep yard?”
“You don start o, you don start! Na wetin na?” I smile where I dey. Any small yabis dey can sabi pain Credit.
“Guy calm down. No vex. I say make I call you tell you say make you no show again o.”
“Ah ah. Make I no show? Why?”
“Napodia dey come,”
“Ahhhhhh! My chairman!” Nothing dey sweet boys pass to hear say woman dey come find man. Credit just continue to dey hail.
“Guy, she go visit Patrick side?” Which kain stupid question dis boy dey ask me sef?
“Na because of am wey she dey come na,” I no dey kuku fall hand.
“Ah. Sure boy. Tidy am well o.”
“Guy, my name no be Credit na. I be original Crash Cos!” Okay, make I tell una why we dey call am Credit. Credit na d shorten of “Hundred Naira Credit”. And I give am dat name because, according to him girlfriend, our guy “no dey tey before him finish.”
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One hour later, Napo dey my room and I wan remove her blouse.
“Crash Cos wait,” Oooooh god! Which kain wahala be dis? Why dis babe dey slow my movement?
“Wait say wetin happen?” I don dey vex where I dey sef,
“I never do dis kain tin before.” Napo come dey hide face for me.
“Which kain tin you never do before?” Napo come shame for face as she use hand point my ‘extension cable’. I shock.
“Napo, dem never take Patrick slap you before?” Napo shake head.
I don die for Lagos!
“Jisos! So you dey try tell me say as your yansh big like cinema television so, you never see Patrick?”
“Crash Course, I never see…”
“Why? Why? Patrick is good na! You must try to dey see am from time to time. Ehn. Napo give me one good reason why you never visit Patrick at this age. You nor dey see your mates? Crash Course no dey tear label o! No be me dey open shop!”
Omo na lie o. Dat day I open shop by force by force. Patrick cannot live by garage alone… e must to dey visit sardine container once once na.
When I dey with Jolomi, I fit control myself. But if Napo na sardine container, Jolomi na airport. I no know when I turn to Credit.
“Ahn ahn. Na wetin? Crash Course, you don finish?”
My eye don roll go back. E don sweet me die. I just manage get myself abuse d girl. “Common sharrap dia!”
After my eye don clear, I realize say problem dey. I forget to wear Patrick im shower cap. I no know why na me dis kain tin dey always do. I tell Napo make she relax for house. I come go meet Credit where him dey sell chemist. When I reach, customer been plenty dia. I just waka cross the counter because Credit na my guy. I first greet am so dat dose people no go know say I come buy market. As I greet Credit finish, d idiot rush ask me.
“Guy, how d waka go na?”
“Waka go well but I need sontin,” I begin talk small small. “Wetin be d name of dat drug wey dem dey use commot belle?”
“Which one? Postinor?” The volume wey d bagger use call d name vex me. Na so I near am come pinch am for belle codedly.
“You want make everybody for area know say Crash Cos carry woman?” Credit squeeze face as d tin pain am wella.
“Na im make you wan wound me?” Him don get sense begin talk small small.
“Just give me d melecine joor.” Make dis guy no make me vex o.
“E don finish.” Him dey answer me as him dey waka go pick another drug wey customer ask for.
“You say wetin?” I nearly piss for body.
“E don finish. You no know say na ashewo girls full this area? Orile girls dey drink Postinor like Vitamin C.”
“Kaiiii! How I go do na?”
“I get another one.”
“Wetin b d name?” Credit sell d market wey e dey sell finish come face me.
“Impostinor.”
“Which one be dat?”
“Na like Postinor but na different people make am.”
“E go work so?”
“E supoose work na. Trust your boy.”
I been trust the fool. My mind be say e go work.
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But after like one month na im Kajeta call me dat yeye call:
“Hello, guy how far na?”
“Guuuuy! Yawa don gaaassssss o!”
“Ahn ahn. Wetin happen again?”
“Napodia don get belle!”
“Napo-wetin?”
My prayer be say na Jolomi way wey dis one go go. Maybe she no really get belle or na another bobo plant am. But Kajeta never drop phone finish when my phone begin ring again.
“Oooooh! Kajeta na wetin again?”
“No oh. Na Credit.”
“Ah. Credit. Dis one wey you dey breathe fast fast, hope say you dey okay…”
“Ol boy no vex ehn, but somebody dey carry knife come find you for house.”
“Shooo! Who be dat?”
“I swear na force him force me to give am your address.”
“Oh. So na you give am my address?”
“How I for do na? Him been nearly make me swallow the knife first!”
“Ahn ahn… why dis person dey find me?”
“Hin dey find you kill because him say you spoil him life!”
“Whose life I spoil na? Who be dis person?” I never talk dat one finish when I hear wetin be like crase person outside my dommot.
GBA! GBA! GBA!
“OPEN DIS DOOR BEFORE I BREAK AM!!! OPEN DIS DOOR!!!!”
“Kajeta who be d person?!” Fear don dey catch me already. D person outside still dey shout:
“OPEN DIS DOOR!!! I WILL KILL YOU TODAY!!! BASTARD!” GBA! GBA! GBA! GBA! GBA!
Credit come answer me with bomb: “Crashito, na Napodia popsy o.”
Fuckuuuup…
As I dey hear the noise, I begin reason my next movement. Omo, na to fly window sure pass. I open curtain come jam thick thick burglary-proof…
Na god go punish my landlord!
Fade Away
I’m definitely making this into a song!
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For a time my whole world was but perfect
It was shiny and bright. It was gold
Never thought I’d once be broken-hearted
This is ugly and dull: yes i know
And the smile I was once had, my old twinkle
and the way that i glowed in the dark
and the knowledge that love was so simple
seems a rocketed blast from the past
Can I drink lots of wine and sleep it all off
Can I laugh at a joke and forget for a day
Can I hope that you’ll snap out and suddenly call
Can I open my eyes and not watch it all
Fade away
For a time I lived life how I dreamt it,
With no limits, a hug and a smile
But now someone is dearly departed
So I’ll shower for longer to cry
And I’ll sit and I’ll mope and I’ll never go out
I will grieve for eternity’s spring
Then I’ll weep and I’ll scream and i’ll tear my hair out
Cuz I know I’ll remain unfulfilled
Wish I could drink lots of wine and sleep it all off
Can I laugh at a joke and forget anyway
Can I hope that you’ll wake up and suddenly call
Can I open my eyes and not watch it all
Fade away
So I went through the things that you left behind
Seeking answers and comfort and hope
Do I feel better? Am i suddenly fine?
The answer is always a ‘no’
And this wholesome soul is now incomplete
This body is drained of all fight
Wish I flip change time for exorbitant fees
A small price if it makes things alright
Because I can’t drink much wine: I’ll just throw up
And you told the jokes best anyway
And no one will wake up or reach out to call
So I’ll open my arms and try to fall
As I fade away
Hey Ma II
If you don’t know what’s going on, read “Hey Ma” for further info, you may also read “Insights”. There’s pidgin below so be warned in case that’s not your thing.
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Hey Ma I wrote you, you ain’t write back,
E don bad reach so? No be like dat,
Your son write you, you suppose reply sharp-sharp,
Meanwhile, where you been dey buy those rat traps?
E get some small tins wey you need to know:
We still dey wait maga – him never show,
I don make new songs but I never still blow,
And now you fit port your MTN carry Glo!
Your husband dey: hin never change much,
E still dey wait im bad son make e change much,
But you know say your son no dey gree fear God,
E still dey job Popsy upon say you don mud.
Johnny wife fit get belle but we no know,
Your granddaughter too fine – she don dey grow,
She resemble your Vivienne wey been don first go,
Speaking of Vivi, una don reunite so?
We don vex, we don crase, sotey we face turn blue,
We wan kill d driver wey make your bus tumble,
We still dey feel d pain, we still dey cry for you,
But we dey strong small small, abi how we for do?
We still dey miss your way, we still dey find your food,
Anytime we see your pix, we dey just turn confuse,
Yellow sisi, nobody fit fine pass you,
But Bible talk say “All things work together for good…”
The last letter wey I write na so so phon-eh,
So I say make I use pidgin wey u go hear,
Hey Ma, what’s it like? How’s it up there?
Mma Dan, reply na, dis tin is not fair o!
Insights…
You’re my blog. I share all my toilet humour and wild fantasy stories of randy gentlemen who only speak pidgin with you.
I might as well share my grief.
I recently lost my mother and I’ve learnt some new things since…
1. Nothing Really Matters.
In our heads, some things do. In reality, nothing does. I would give up everything and be a different person and undo everything if it would bring her back. I would be shorter, more overweight, more dumb, less funny, anything. Just to hear that chic whine and nag me some more. To be clear, the whining got a lot less with time and age. I grew wiser, she grew tired and realized I was incorrigible. So in a way, she grew wiser too.
I really would trade in all my ambition, all my current hopes. Everything. I cannot say that enough. People say I am strong but am I really? I don’t cry a lot. I’m still nice to everybody – even though I secretly dream of punching their faces in – but does that make me strong? The only thing people say that rings true when they’re trying to console me is “I cannot imagine what you’re going through…” That much is true. Even if you’ve lost your mom, you’ve not lost MY mom. My situation is not necessarily worse or better than yours: it’s just different.
Those that genuinely annoy me are the mopes. The pity-ers. Every time you walk by, they look at you like you’re a brand new amputee because you’re bereaved. I don’t want your pity, motherfucker… Move away. (in my head I was whispering by the way. Too much Hank Moody.)
2. You’ll think you’re all better REALLY quickly. You’re not.
I hear there are stages of grief so maybe I’m going through mine.
Some mornings, I wake up and feel like nothing terrible happened on Easter Sunday. Like it was just another day. People died, nothing special. I move through the house coasting and being jolly and then I tell myself I’m a trooper. I can deal with this.
Sometimes, it takes a big thing like rummaging through her stuff or a little thing like hearing a conversation and remembering what her reaction would be. One way or another, some kind of relapse occurs. Some days are really woeful.
I can tell you for a fact that I am going to dread Fridays for a long time. A very long time. Because Fridays were our day. My brothers keep telling me to look out for my Dad and not be far from home and be strong this and be manly that. That grates on my nerves too because in their heads, my grief is somehow less. Maybe less than my Dad’s (he knew her since ’67) but mine is still profound. I say that to say this: Fridays.
We went to church every Friday. She went earlier because she always had other stuff to attend to around 5pm. I generally showed up by 8 or 9 pm.
We did that song and dance so often; it is really deeply etched in my memory. Because it was just us. My Dad was always home, my brothers didn’t have the assignment I had so they were not obliged to come. It was just us. Being the youngest, she had no reservations packing food for me when she left home by 4. No matter how grown up I tried to be, she just shrugged and doted on me some more. We always headed home together at 6.10 am or thereabouts. Early morning public transport could be problematic. Conductors are really whiny about change. All the buses we entered cost 50 bucks each so we had a mini-competition as to who could collect the most 100s before Saturday morning. I was always winning but she’d rush to pay anyway.
Yeah… those things. Little then, priceless images now.
I still have that assignment. I still have to head to church on Fridays. I still have to gather my change beforehand. Not 100s for two but 50s for one. I’d rather be gathering 100s. Every time I pass through those routes the memory is so vivid, I nearly pass out. Instead, I clamber into the next bus and ready my 50…
3. People Mean Well But…
When it first happened, I was absolutely inundated with messages from people telling me they were there for me whenever I needed to talk or blow off steam or cry profusely. Legitimate messages I must add and I do honestly appreciate every one of you that checked up on me and still check up on me from time to time. But the truth is that it’s not easy to hit someone up just to depress them or sour their day. I do it now and again but you have to forgive me for not hitting y’all up to whine EVERY TIME I’m down in the dumps.
Because sometimes you guys are so happy and I don’t want to mess with that. How depressing is this blogpost already? Imagine if I had to send you a different version 3 to 4 times a week via bbm or whatsapp! Aha! Some of my friends are either basking in a new job or a promotion, newly married life, a cool new toy or a boyfriend that FINALLY realized they got their boobs done. I can’t see those pms or status updates or tweets and then hit you up to say “oh I had to go through my mom’s stuff and I found a letter I wrote to my folks in JSS3 and it made my heart tear in two” can I? Yes, the most kind-hearted of you will say “of course you can!” and actually mean it. That will not make me any more interested in sharing things all the time. I love to be leaned on because I know how therapeutic it can be but I also know how sad it can make a person who has to listen through all that. And meeeen, trust me, grievers can ramble (I was also surprised to find that ‘griever’ is actually in the dictionary. Who knew?) We could start off gisting you about our lost one’s last moments and somehow delve into some bittersweet anecdote from way back when. I have valuable experience from losing my sister in ‘98.
Oh and I’m not bottling it in. Trust me. That is some dangerous shit right there. Writing this actually helps. Writing “Hey Ma” was therapeutic like you can’t believe. Also, there’s that corny crap you see in movies and turn your nose up at:
You know that corny thing they do where they’ll say stuff like “I’m sure your mother is up there looking down on you blabbity bla bla…” yeah? I think that crap is corny as hell but I swear to every deity in existence I feel it sometimes. Maybe it’s the grief talking maybe it’s a real thing. Sometimes I’m talking and I get the distinct feeling that she’s listening in and taking mental notes like she used to and that feeling can be so comforting. Weird eh? I hope you don’t have to go through all this sha. It’s tough stuff.
4. I’m not sure I’m that magnanimous…
My mom was in a car crash with some people from church. Ultimately, two of them died. Out of about 13. I got to see a few of the survivors recently. Varying degrees of injuries and scratches. Some have really vile wounds others have minor scratches. Seeing them, I didn’t know what to think.
One the one hand, I’m truly thankful for their lives and I thank God that more lives weren’t lost. On the other hand, I wish they’d all died too just for the heck of it. They have flesh wounds that will heal – I lost my mom. No matter how much they apologize, they are not helping much. Because they are alive and Mma Dan isn’t. Simples.
In time, they will only remember that they were in a car crash that took someone else’s life. I’ve heard people talk about acquaintances that they lost XYZ years ago. After a while, they develop this matter-of-factly tone of voice. The emotion gets less and less. As it should. They didn’t kill her (although I hear some rat-bastards were egging the driver to go faster. Unconfirmed reports but I’m buying some rat poison just in case anyway) and they didn’t lose the single most important female figure in their lives at the time. At best, I will remain wry when I speak of her down the years and I will be wistful for quite a while.
Bah… so many words. Lemme see, are there more…?
5. You fear death a whole lot less…
Because the thinking becomes “if it’s good enough for mother, it’s good enough for me.” I genuinely thought of dying just to hang with her. (Forgive the weird executioner’s pun; unintended.) Not suicide or anything stupid or dangerous. Just dying. Death doesn’t really seem like a real thing till it happens to someone you’re especially close to. Someone who is intertwined with like half of all your pleasant memories. Someone you had plans to spoil to infinity. I always imagined I’d make a kajillion bucks and force cash through my mother’s ears till her pupils did like those TV animations and became dollar signs. So much for that. She’ll have to watch me do it and hope I can sneak her a bottle of perfume when I’m coming up to meet her whenever.
Bottom line, it’s no longer such a scary proposition. Especially with me now being one of those proudly brainwashed fellows who believe in God and Jesus and eternal life. Curiously, losing her has actually strengthened my faith. In a twisted, roundabout-ey way, I now kind of understand what Jesus meant when He said “He that loveth this life shall lose it…” my mother was sooo darn careful about everything. She had health issues but had navigated and managed all of them so well. She never took any risks. She was very ‘by the book’ but still…
I have few regrets though. There really isn’t much – if anything – that I would change about my relationship with my mom. I was a pretty decent son. I wasn’t too naughty growing up and I wasn’t mean to her as an adult. What will fill me with regret though is every achievement that will come after…
Attainment of financial stability…
Marriage…
Birth of my children…
And probably every noteworthy thing in-between that I would have loved to share with her.
I’m particularly thankful that we had a relationship worth remembering; worth celebrating. Ours was special. Nothing can ever change that. Nothing will ever replace that. I just await the day when the thought doesn’t make me want to tear my hair out.
I hear it gets easier with time though.
Can’t wait for that to happen!
Nice talk people. I’ll holler again soon.
Hey Ma…
Hey Ma, what’s it like? How’s it up there?
Do you yet have skin are you still fair?
Or are you formed different than we are here?
Are you more or less fragile than you were?
Do you smile? Do you laugh? Do you make jokes?
Do you crack Jesus up? He a cool a bloke?
Do you have money there? I’m a bit broke,
Can I send you a beat? Did I hear ‘nope’?
Do you feel? Do you smell? Can you still cook?
Cuz if you could, you would leave some angels shook,
Do you still hide stuff where men can’t look?
Like in your small-print KJV Bible?
Have you learnt new skills? have you changed much?
Do you now read Latin and speak Dutch?
You were stubborn here. Do you now budge?
Nwa Chineke, you still dey go church?
Sometimes I wonder if you can be helpful
When the fam becomes too much to handle
Can I get tips on cooking some draw soup?
I don’t eat that but you know how Dad do!
So what’s the latest there? What is in vogue?
What do Seraphs wear to the high throne?
Do they wear fly kicks and rock gemstones?
Does their make-up highlight their cheekbones?
There are times when I just wanna hug you,
Wanna brag; show you off to my friends too.
“That’s my mom. She’s the best she is so cool,
She speaks slang, cooks well and chops knuckle!”
Do you think that you left at the right time?
D’you hear father’s cries in the nighttime?
Do you see how the pain made us decline?
On the plus side, I got a new waistline!
Your kids wanted to move you to Yankee,
Aurora to Phoenix then to Tennessee,
Our dreams and our plans left us hopped up;
Can you see how everything is fucked up?
Do you still give a damn, do you still care?
You still worry bout me when I’m not near?
I should be with you in some eighty years,
Hey Ma, what’s it like? How’s it up there?
Chill out eternally, Justina Chienyenwa Ogbuehi
17/04/1950 to 31/03/2013
I Was Dumbfounded…
Hello everybody… Today, I’m doing a sort of throwback thingy thing. One of the earliest times I got to know that I was any good at writing was while I was in JS2. An SS1 boy made me write his essay for him and the essay killed. Absolutely killed. I had a fairly steady stream of writing ‘jobs’ then though. The Igbo gene hadn’t kicked in by then. I could have made a 90s-style fortune from all the writing I did.
I remember what that essay-writing assignment was: “Write an essay that starts or ends with the words ‘I was dumbfounded…'”
I cannot remember what Nollywood epic I penned back then but I decided to retry that now.
To keep this going, y’all gotta suggest the words to start or end the next entry in the series.
I don’t even know what to call the series sef. Y’all can also help with that.
I’ll choose episode titles by whim (or popular demand) and we get to do it all over again. Okay? So here goes nothing.
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WARNING: a few swear words!
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Before that encounter, I thought Trudy was a phony. First of all, what Nigerian parents named their daughter ‘Trudy’? I didn’t even know what ‘Trudy’ was short for. All I knew was that I didn’t like the girl and I thought she was a fraud.
This is the story of how she proved me wrong. Well… sort of…
We were in our first year at the University and I was still a virgin. ‘Screw’ was still a word I only thought appeared in ‘Intro Tech’ textbooks, ’69’ was just like any other number and pussies only went ‘meow’. Really. I had grown up sheltered and, by Nigerian standards, fairly rich. Even when I got dressed for classes and looked in the mirror, I could tell that I looked spoiled.
I didn’t care.
I had my clique of friends back then. In hindsight, the only thing we all had in common was that we were either spoiled or got a real kick out of pretending we were. Mobile phones were like a bourgeois badge of honour in those days and we all had one. Except the pretenders who lied that though they had one, their parents seized them because either:
a) said parents were borrowing them to use;
b) said phones were too ostentatious and hence too awesome to be in the presence of other less ostentatious mobile devices; or
c) any other proper bullshit story the pretenders were smart enough to concoct and we were gullible enough to believe.
Outside my clique, I didn’t really mingle. I was pampered and spoiled but surprisingly untainted. I really didn’t think anybody else was worth having a conversation with. You tried to start one up and I’d turn my nose up at you. My way of saying “Kindly stop talking and get away from me, vermin.”
Trudy was in my class. I’d seen her around. Always smiling. She dressed really well but never tried to mix with any member of my group. I told myself that she had a complex. That she liked our crew but was jealous of our awesomeness.
Then one day, I saw Trudy exchanging heated words with one of my friends.
“You’re a prostitute!” yelled Yewande.
“Yes. So you should tell your mom that your Dad is a lousy tipper!” Trudy yelled back.
“Fuck you!”
“Like you could handle it if I gave it to you. Look at this child! Do you know me?!”
I was walking towards our lecture hall when I saw that really terrible soap opera unfolding in the parking lot. I ran towards the action.
“You’re just a bastard!” Yewande was still trying to go on the offensive.
“Yeah, I don’t know my father. But tell your mother I know yours more than she does!” Dang. Trudy hit harder with her words than you’d expect from the average first year student. Matured evil. There were already a few of our friends at the scene trying to quell the storm. I immediately helped to yank Yewande away. We rich kids stuck together. I managed to steal a glance at Trudy as we walked away. She was tall for a girl and really did look a lot more mature than most of us managed. However, I’d been raised not to feel intimidated by anyone. Quasi-amazon or no. And I’d also been taught that family and friends were everything. I considered Yewande a friend. Without asking what had actually caused the altercation, I resolved to stick up for her. This must never happen again.
I left the gang and walked back to where Trudy stood. She was still seething.
I pointed to her as I approached. “You! Don’t you ever mess with my friends again. Okay? Or else…”
She seemed taken aback.
“Or else what?”
“Or else you’ll have to answer to me!!!”
“To you???” And she broke out in wild laughter. Annoying me in the process. “Look at this stupid virgin talking to me,” she spat. My solar plexus felt that dig. Especially as it was true. But I didn’t let it show.
“Me? A virgin?”
“Yes you!”
“Let me tell you, I fuck girls all the time!” I lied with gusto while shivering inside. I’d gotten pretty good at bragging about these things. I think I also tried to act fierce. I think.
“You don’t know anything, you this boy. I’ll just end you for nothing in this school.”
“End me? Who the hell do you think you are?” I’d been reliably informed that getting around in school with minimum fuss was all about posturing. Right then, I was making a mean ass attempt.
“Look here, I’m a gangsta on these streets yo. Don’t mess with me!” I yelled. I’d recently discovered 50 Cent back then so my faux-Americana had to be utilized.
“Oh you are?” I would later realize that the expression on her face was sarcasm.
“Yeah bitch! Don’t fuck with me or my friends.”
“Ok. We’ll see.” Without waiting to hear another word from me, Trudy, a wry smile on her face, turned smartly and began walking away. I thought of hurling abuses at her departing frame.
Instead, I ended up staring at her ass.
That was at about 3pm. The sun was still in view and I still had my balls about me.
Roughly six hours later, they would recede. ***
9pm. Or thereabouts.
I was walking out of my hostel. I was supposed to meet up with the rest of my crew so we could go study. Or as we were all good at doing, pretend to.
“Heyss! Ajebutter, come here.” The voice was gruff and large and grainy. I looked in the direction the voice was coming from and saw this monstrosity of a man. His demeanor couldn’t have screamed ‘Super violent cultist’ more if he’d been dripping with blood and wearing human intestines on his neck. My legs almost gave way.
“I said come here, bloody jambite!” My name was (and still is) Edward Okon – not Bloody Jambite – but I wasn’t about to correct him. The average life expectancy in my family was roughly 60 years. He looked like he could drive that figure down by a significant margin.
As I got within two feet of him, he pointed at a car parked in the shadows. “Madam is calling you,” from up close, his voice left me even more petrified.
There was a lone figure sat in the driver’s seat. Trudy.
She saw me approaching and rolled her eyes as she flicked and tossed away a cigarette stub. Filled with trepidation, my feet slowed.
“Get in.”
I meekly obeyed, intimidated. I grabbed my crotch.
Stupid balls were nowhere in sight.
“So… big boy,” she started. “I heard you’re gangsta.” She chuckled; I swallowed audibly. I didn’t have the presence of mind to take in the model of the car but it had wood trimmings here and there plus the air-conditioning was bad-ass. Even though the windows were down, the car still felt like a small freezer especially since I was coming in from a humid evening. Then the sight of a woman smoking?! I bet she had a gun in there. What if she pulled it on me and I got shot? I’d been warned off bad eggs in school. It seemed I was about to be eaten up by a really bad chic.
“I said, I heard you’re gangsta,”
“I’m not. Really,”
“Yes you are.” She goaded.
“Me? No. Never. How do you know that guy?” I nodded in the direction of the assassin I just encountered.
She laughed. “Who? Samgun? He’s a friend. But he’s not as gangsta as you na, is he?”
“I repeat, I’m not a ggggangsta…” I stuttered. She was cracking up visibly.
“I also heard you’ve banged many girls.”
” I have?” I asked without thinking.
“Yes na. You said so yourself.” With her eyes still fixed on my face, her features contorted into a serious look as she pressed the button to bring up the windows. And once the windows were shut:
“Oya. Start banging me.”
My bladder instantly felt full. But something told me that if I emptied it on her seat, Samgun would have to shorten that life expectancy average anyway.
Then her right hand got lost in her shirt. Moments later, it emerged.
With her bra.
I gasped.
“Let me guess. You haven’t seen a bra before, have you?” My first instinct was to push the car door open and run fast. My breathing became heavier. As if on cue, I heard the door locks simultaneously click shut.
“If you’re shaking at the sight of a bra, how will you bang me senseless?” She hissed and swiftly pulled her tee-shirt over her head. Jello Monsters one and two bounced freely before my eyes. My jaw made contact with the floor.
“Come on, touch it. Touch it now!” I gulped audibly. Transfixed on the wondrous sight before my eyes, my hands stayed right where they were. I was sure I would not live to tell the tale if I touched those.
“Oh. You don see breast and you no fit talk again, abi?” They were a beautiful pair. I now know that the adjectives to describe them are ‘firm’ and ‘full’. Back then, two other contradictory words were up in lights in my head.
‘Boobs’.
‘Death’.
With her raised shirt went a decent chunk of my innocence and every discriminatory sinew in my body. I saw my first rack… while scared to death.
And I was dumbfounded.
Mrs. Cikk0, welldone o…
Letter to the future Mrs.
************************************
As I write this, we haven’t met. If we have, know that I am presently thinking of you as a proper pretender right now. You are forming. Why did you form all this while when you know you wanted to get down with the cikky icky? Anyway, some insights for thee. I’m writing them now so we can gauge how much more of a douche I have become since we wed. This allows me blame you for all my new flaws and chastise you for not helping me be rid of the shortcomings evidenced below. So here goes.
Food is essential…
Call me old school but you gotta know how to cook well. Very well. Don’t get it twisted: I can cook. At least everything that I like to eat, I can make. And I’ll always be learning to cook new stuff when I can so that you don’t ever ‘shakara’ me because of grub.
Having said that, there’s this thing: my Dad is a stubborn guy. He holds his wife in high esteem but there are some things he prides himself on being able to hold back on. There are certain things no one can goad him into doing. Not even my mom.
Unless she asks him after certain meals.
Mrs. Cikk0, I’ve seen this thing at work several times. Wallahi my mom’s food can break juju and loosen strongholds. This guy will yell at people he ordinarily wouldn’t yell at just because she made him do it after feeding him some unreal chow. Like he can’t even be mad at the person who cooked the food even if she spat in his face right after.
I want that.
I’ve said this many times to people and on prior posts on this blog: manipulate the hell outta me. I don’t mind. Only food oh! Bedroom manipulation, far as I’m concerned, is of the devil himself. Not cool. But if you cook that food right, watch me change the name on those Certificates of Occupancy. Spaghetti is my achilles heel number one. Followed by rice and beans cooked together and eaten with all those sauces that have plenty veggies. See, I’m even leaving hints! Then concotion(sp?) rice is also a fans’ favourite. Basically, all mede-mede and catering practicals are allowed. I like to experiment.
Speaking of experiments, and yes this is the sex part, we shall. Experiment that is. Nothing is barred. Except for that one thing which I’m sure I’ve told you of by now. Other than that, I’m up for some tying, gagging, role-playing, dominating, S&M sturvs. The whole works. Oh wait. Apart from that one thing, I also won’t do autoerotic asphyxiation. How did I hear about that? Google ‘David Carradine’ and stop being a learner.
If you’ve already had our first kid, this next point is moot because I should have already started practising it. If not, know that I wanna be hands on with that childcare business. I think those things are important for many reasons. I’ve heard that quite a few couples tend to grow apart when the kids are born because all some fathers do is hoist the kid in the air thrice daily, make googly eyes, and then wait till their wives are good to have sex again. Also, I’ve come to love the process. It is hell and it will drive us mad but it’s only for a while. They’ll grow up and I’ll get to knock you up again so we can repeat that song and dance.
So help me God, the plan is to own my business – whether it’s the music or whatever – and be the master of my own time. I’d rather work smart than hard. I need time to watch our kids grow. I cannot tell you how many fathers I’ve seen retire after 100 years of work only to realize that they don’t have a working relationship with their children. That money is grrrrrrreat, but I swear it’s not that important. At least not more important than family.
Speaking of money, if you’re reading this, Mrs. Cikk0, it means that I’ve sorted this conundrum one way or the other. But as of the time of writing this, I’m totally confused as to how much money I should have before gathering liver to toast/marry you. I know what I’ll tell our daughters but for the present hour, I’m working my Igbo genes and trying to stack the money as high as possible. Some believe you should have plenty dough, some say you should just have stability, others say you need not have much as long as you’re driven, dedicated and intelligent. The reality is that I’ve seen all three scenarios work well and fail miserably in almost equal measure. What shall I tell our daughters? Option three. Because that’s the only option that’s likely to stand the test of time. That’s what is likely to get him back on his feet when life happens. Who knows though… I might yet change my mind.
I will not cheat. Not because I’m super-human or gay on the side. Not because I haven’t noticed the sick curves my colleague or employee has. Not because I’m better than any of the guys who actually cheat (I probably ain’t; you of all people must by now be aware that I ain’t shii) but because I choose not to. Plain and simple. I hear all the talk of “but all men cheat… What of when I’m pregnant and bloated and raw and uninterested in gbenshin’?… What of when I let myself go?…” Bollocks to infinity. Don’t judge me with the same standards you’d use to judge those rat bastards that did you strong tin before me. The guy who gives any of those as an excuse – or any excuse for that matter – was always bound to cheat from the moment he got married: he was simply waiting for justification. However, don’t be fooled into thinking I’m any better than the next guy just because I’ve decided not to be a Nakamura. Assuredly I say unto thee, I shall find 5,000 other ways to piss you off on a daily daily. You shall annoy me as well but we shall forgive each other and make nice every time. I hope.
Also, please don’t hit me. No, I won’t hit you back. I’ll likely run and hide behind a couch and all my friends will end up calling me Pussygalore. And that’ll just be one moniker too many. But really, grown people should never hit each other. Simples. Act your age and talk to me if I’m pissing you off. Let’s talk and fight and wake the neighbours but let’s keep our hands in the air and in our pockets and folded in front of us but never on each other.
Unless the sex requires it. In that case, my safe word/phrase is “Randy Sausage” or “God of Elijah” or “Yeepa!” Kindly be informed that “Jesus”, no matter how many times I repeat it in quick succession, is NEVER a safe word. Quite the opposite. Thanks.
As for the kids? We shall beat them well please. No child abuse or scarring and only as a last resort; also not as an expression of anger or transferred aggression. But I ain’t gon’ raise no kids that talk back. Na madness? “Backhand-per-insolence” shall be the family’s motto.
Divorce is not an option but…
But don’t ever give up on us, don’t disrespect me (as I shall strive not to disrespect you) and yes… don’t naq our neighbour or their relatives or our driver or his friend. If I can’t do it, you ain’t doing it neither. If anybody other than Christopher Ikenna Ogbuehi of Umueju village, Irette, Owerri-West LGA of Imo state has consensual sexual relations with you…
It af finitch!
Unless it’s Robert Downey Jnr. In which case NOT getting pregnant shall be the equivalent crime. And the punishment shall be same.
That’s all for now. You married a correct dude, shebi you know? You laugh often don’t you? Aha. Yes, I know you’re awesome too but take a second to bask. There you go…