Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

The Beginning of our love story May 10, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 5:56 pm
Tags: , , , , ,

Today, I beat the gong of sweet itching and an all-consuming desire.
Listen.

 
 

…you…

 
 

This is the beginning of our love story.
I am watching you watch me with a smirk on your face
Because you can see me cringe whenever
My boyfriend puts his arm around my shoulders
Or presses his hand into the small of my back.
And although the hairs I decided against shaving
All bristle in indignation;
I am not able to unlock my gaze from your face.
This is the beginning of our love story.
You follow me to the tray of spring rolls
And stop my hand from selecting
That golden-brown one with some stuffing sticking out.
You brush your fingers over my hand;
As if testing for my response.
One which isn’t long in coming
Because those traitorous bastard hairs on the back of my palm,
All rise to your touch- like they’ve been waiting forever.
And this is the beginning of our love story.
The escape to the back room- and you follow.
You follow and shut the door behind you.
You lock the door behind you then stop
When I can see the tips of your shiny shoes
Opposite my black-covered toenails.
And I move forward till we are touching.
My toes against your shoes.
Your shoes against my toes
that stick too far out of my sandals.
This is the beginning of our love story.
Heavy breathing, tongue clashing;
Head rolling, back. Hands seeking, forward.
My back against the wall. Cold fingers kissing my spine.
Heart palpitations. Throat constrictions.
No words. No thoughts.
Feeling; then some more.
Lust. Wanting. Pining. Yearning.
Phone vibrating.
This is the end of our love story.
My phone vibrates and my eyes snap clear.
Clear of the riotuous emotions
That only just threatened to drown me.
This is the end of our love story- I think.
I straighten my dress and walk away from you.
You, my first love.
Because though you remain clueless,
You are the first man,
Who has made me feel.

 
 
 
 

 

Old Tom’s words April 19, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 7:01 pm
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

The seasons come and go and leave remnants of us.
AfroSays,

 

OLD TOM’S WORDS

 

... it's all gone too soon ...

 

I never took the walk back home alone.

 

Even from the first day I started mixing drinks at Tom’s, he would leave the night’s accounting to escort me.

 

Actually, it wasn’t inconvenient for him because I stayed only two short streets away from the bar; I guess that it really was therapeutic, for good old Tom never said much as we dragged our tired feet along – mine tired from tending his garden of bottles for the quarter of a day and his from welcoming all comers with a handshake and a fatherly inquiry into their affairs. Tom genuinely cared about us all. It seemed that this nightly walk of ours was a form of catharsis for him because he always kept the burdens of the small town on his mind. He’d walk by my side with his head bowed, and shoulders mellow, smiling and humming an old tune I would never recognize. The same tune every night.

 

We would avoid shallow puddles on those cold evenings and walk like father and daughter. Once or twice, he had told me about the wild days of his youth, how he met Janet, of whom he was widower-ed three years ago, how they had never had children, how life had passed so quickly. “Titi” he’d say, “It’s all gone too soon.” I would smile and squeeze his hand and he would laugh a weak one.

 

I only worked at Tom’s through the fall of 1996. I think I stopped mid winter because my degree eventually earned me a better paying job. most of that year remains a Gaussian blur to me but I’d never forget old Tom’s words.

 

I was twenty three years old, January the following year. I remember because that was the year I fell in love. The fall did not last too long and I landed on the cold hard floor; in my moments of bitter tears I remembered old Tom’s words.

 

Life skipped along and happy times found me and abandoned when I began to feel entitled. The pains of sorrow would eclipse the bright times and just when my breaking point was near, the sun would shine again. Friendships came and went just like love did, until I eventually found a lovely friendship. I am widowed of Joe now, a heart condition tore him away from my hold. Too soon.

 

My parents decided to get a divorce last year because they both decided that it would be more peaceful to die alone; they both still hope that I’d take a side. I’m too old to care.

 

I had my life planned in the beginning and I haven’t done bad for myself. I am not where I planned but I am in a beautiful place, beautiful because I choose to see all the good things around me. Although, I can afford a lot of the simple things I want but I don’t enjoy them as much as I thought I would, except maybe when it’s a new experience like my first full body massage at the inexplicably expensive Shirley Buddha.

 

I’m turning forty soon and I still have half a full life to live and to enjoy as much as I can. Sometimes I think back to those walks with old Tom and his hollow laugh brings a smile to my face. He darn sure was right, it’s all gone too soon.

 

So why not enjoy it while it lasts?

 

 

 

George April 3, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 4:35 pm
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Lazy this, lazy that.
AfroSays exactly what?


GEORGE

 

 

Quite recently, George has been unable to write stories.

 

He would sit at the four-seater dining table in his small apartment on most days and under sixty watts of bright yellow, he would stare into the white Microsoft Word canvas on his Dell machine. He used to stare into Layo’s eyes exactly the same way after he’d found out that she was cheating on him. He’d never said a word about it to her – he would just look deeply into her eyes after sex until she felt uncomfortable and turned away.

 

He’d written a book about her instead. It had been sensational.

 

George doesn’t have Layo anymore and he hasn’t had her for five years but he’s written another two bestsellers.

 

In one of the books, he wrote about a young man who writes a scandalous book that makes puts him under international spotlight with fancier clothes on his back. This book is a bestseller because the young man’s good fortune leads him into wilder circles. He starts a passionate relationship with the pretty daughter of an old statesman and she leads him into all sorts of forbidden pleasures. The book ends in tears, betrayal, and a suspicious suicide. It is a very gripping tale.

 

The next book, equally as gripping, is the tale of a young man battling old demons and new enemies. In this young man’s fight for survival, he must overcome dangerous habits that have taken him prisoner so that he can fight an even more dangerous battle that threatens to end his life for good – a dirty duel with a powerful government official. The story takes the reader through a twisting path of drug dealers, prostitutes, assassins, expensive celebrity lawyers, corrupt police men, jail time, all mixed into a massive effort to perpetuate a bitter vendetta. When the story ends, the young man’s life has been effectively paralysed and the antagonist is killed by natural causes.

 

George is yet to recover from the hell he’s been through.

 

 

 

The Truth Teller February 28, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — Betty @ 11:24 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

thatdarkBetty: Today, I beat the gong of non-absolutes.. Listen.
 
THE TRUTH TELLER

 
The problem she had with Joshua was that he told the truth.
 
She met him through her cousin and when after their first date, he had pulled her close and kissed her and said he wanted her for himself; she had come gushing to me. “He’s not like the others, no fronting whatsoever.” I was only glad she’d stopped being so finicky about men. She grinned wide and laughed a lot; her eyes glinting with hope and liquid adoration.
 
When she strode into my house and plopped down on my couch, her forehead in furrows; I had immediately assumed it to be a familiar end to a short story. But she began to speak of how he cradled both her hands in his and looked into her eyes- her soul, she corrected- and said vehemently how he could not and would not live without her. She had looked up from her storytelling and I saw tears glisten in her eyes; she seemed perplexed and when she described him as ‘desperately honest’, I had thought it was an odd combination. Desperately honest? But it was then a strange smile lit up her face. I have never seen her that happy; she practically beamed as though a light bulb had been switched on inside of her.
 
“Do you know what it’s like?” She asked me after she had relayed how he’d spent the previous night telling her all the brave and horrible things he had ever done. “To find a man who tells you the truth… About everything?” He was candid and sincere she said; he made her want to uproot her puny morals and start again.
 
So when she came back to my green couch and curled into a ball, shivering with fears that stemmed from underneath her lacey blouse. I was more than slightly taken aback. Explain it to me, I pleaded. What went wrong?
 
“Nothing,” she said.
 
And quoting her words back to her, I reminded her of his honesty; how pure and rare he was; how happy he made her. But she only flinched with each word, as though I was punching her belly. She raised a palm to stop my flow of words.
 
And then she said- “That’s the problem. When the love dies, will he hesitate to tell me he feels no more for me?” I moved to speak but she stopped me. She had never said she knew his love was eternal, she had said his honesty was. And so, she was afraid. She was scared that he wouldn’t do her the favour of being quiet when he no longer loved her so passionately. She was scared he would tell her when she was no longer attractive and when he would sleep with his secretary. And when he would take a bribe and then share all of his fears and doubts and worries and that it would overwhelm her. That his honesty would crush her with its startling clarity and piercing starkness.
 
And looking in her eyes, there was no shaking this terror. So, I poured us red wine in huge mugs and snuggled in beside her and said nothing. She took a long sip and said to me, “Don’t we all need to be lied to? A little? I think so.”

 
 

 

A chest of fruits February 22, 2012

Filed under: Poetry — afrosays @ 9:00 am
Tags: , , , ,

Metaphors are the joy of us all and they are the gifts we share with each other. Today, a friend shares a bag of metaphors for us. Shall we dig in?
 
@itz_bigboiler’s words:
 
The cool breeze of the sylph Afrosays swooped a pollen grain towards me
It was a grain like no other
she sang the coolest of melodies to my ears
Serenaded my hearts
Captured my soul
Made my spirits soar
My megalomania mellowed when I realized her suss
I took her in, and here is the fruit of my womb

 
 

 
A CHEST OF FRUITS
 

A festoon of shiny dark hairs curled like a noodle
 

Resting on an enlarged cashew
 

Two black and glowing stones dwelling between two peeled eggs
 

A schnozzle protruding like a carrot
 

Two strawberry-red slabs unleashing a radiant smile
 

An antagonistic arraignment of bleached heterogenous grains
 

A slenderized stem running into 3 tributaries
 

With the midmost bearing two juicy oranges
 

Oranges that had sprouts
 

Irrigation washed through the style all the way to the pistil
 

The desire of every spermatocyte
 

Posteriorly lies a cottony lump gapped by a straight line
 

All of which are carried by two thin trunks
 

This is the woman,the one I love.

 
 
Find the art of our @itz_bigboiler here

 

Making Conversation II February 20, 2012

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 9:00 am
Tags: , ,


Forgive us as we hone our art, as we take time to shed old skin and put on a new, shimmering guise of aptly crafted alphabets.
Do wait, it shall be worth it.


@JADENTM SAYS: You might have heard the sound before, but listen, as the beat moves your feet in a different rhythm. Let it; let it take you where it will

MAKING CONVERSATION II

...a drink perhaps?

 
Find Making Conversation I here
 
“Interesting fusion of traditional and mixed-media to portray a familiar subject. The question of course, is why we should care about yet another mother and child painting…”
 
“Excuse me? The bar is all the way over there.”
 
“I was thinking more, cocktails, Churrasco’s, tomorrow night?”
 
“Sorry I don’t talk to strangers.”
 
“What, you haven’t heard of me? I am Akilapa, local champion, beef head, jock and jester. The favourite of maidens, the original Oko Omoge…”
 
“I think you mean Ajanaku.”
 
“No, he’s my much less attractive younger brother. Don’t laugh, he’s sensitive.”
 
“But he hunts elephants!”
 
“He sings them to sleep before he kills them. Shh, it’s a secret.”
 
“Who would I tell? I don’t know who you are.”
 
“I’ll tell you everything over drinks.”
 
“I have a drink.”
 
“You might be hungry at some point in the near future…”
 
“Beep! Try again.”
 
“Have dinner with me.”
 
“And they say chivalry is dead.”
 
“I might be in a minute if you say no…”
 
“Oh, what’s that? I think I hear my name.”
 
“Come on! I solemnly swear to open all doors.”
 
“People just don’t stay as dead as they used to.”
 
“Tell me your name.”
 
“Only if it comes with a signed autograph from Ajanaku.”
 
“What, you’d turn down all this for a mere elephant slayer?”
 
“I’ve always had a thing for danger.”
 
“Tell you what, we can discuss the terms over dinner.”
 
“Mmh, I’ve never had tusk before.”
 
“Oh… sorry, we’re all out. Gave out the last piece to another one of Ajanaku’s fans. But Sky Lounge does great sushi?”
 
“I suppose I could settle.”
 
“Great, I’ll drive. Guess what, I open car doors too!”
 
“Handy trick, yes?”
 
“I am exceptionally well trained.”
 
“It’s a driver’s license. It costs five thousand naira, and actual driving know-how is not a prerequisite.”
 
“If I told you my name would you quit trying to bite my head off?”
 
“It’s a free country.”
 
“It’s Deinde.”
 
“Ooh, poor kid!”
 
“It’ll grow on you.”
 
“…Like a fungus.”
 
“What was that? Funke?”
 
“The only Funke I know is sixty and balding.”
 
“I bet she was as pretty as you are when she was … twenty one?”
 
“Cradle snatcher!”
 
“That’s way above the legal age!”
 
“I smell pee.”
 
“Hey, pretty cute Aaliyah’s got the vibe…”
 
“Not my name either.”
 
“Ah, but what is a man without hope?”
 
“Rich.”
 
“I went to school with a Rich.”
 
“Did he break up with Hope?”
 
“You’re running low on jabs, miss anonymous.”
 
“I’m trying to see how long I can keep it up.”
 
“Or you could just tell me your name.”
 
“My name? Hmm. I am the sultry abomination, psaltery like the song of Yemoja’s first heartbreak…”
 
“Oops, that was me. Hope you’re not best friends with her or anything like that?”
 
“Who, Yemoja? Bitch got hers.”
 
“I love a girl that curses.”
 
“Shit, did I?”
 
“Yes, but you were saying…”
 
“Oh yes. I am Enitan, the riddle, the desirable, the disastrous. Daughter of the deep, my eyes will subdue your weak will and bring you to your knees…”
 
“I don’t think you meant ‘eyes’ just then.”
 
“They’ve been known to have many names…”
 
“There’s a few things I like to call them.”
 
“Give me five. Ten seconds. Go.”
 
“This is a trap.”
 
“You pussy!”
 
“Er… I’m just going to keep quiet at this point.”
 
“And what am I supposed to do for entertainment?”
 
“You could tell me your name, but I may have a heart attack and die.”
 
“Or just a hard on.”
 
“Death by …disclosure?”
 
“If stiffies were wishes!”
 
“Sorry, I haven’t heard that saying.”
 
“Tell you what,”
 
“…As long as it’s not your name.”
 
“It’s Enitan.”
 
“I think my heart just stopped.”
 

Find the art of @JadenTM here
 
 

 

You make me feel November 17, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — Betty @ 7:51 pm
Tags: , ,
Of a muted gong finding it’s voice. Listen.
Betty BlackLace.
YOU MAKE ME FEEL

...

You make me feel.
Passion.
Want.
Carnal fire, burning.
Inside.
Deep down.
There.
And there.
All over.
Can’t stop.
Shivers.
Tremors.
Thrills.
Coursing down my spine.
Wet.
Gasping, need air.
No air.
Come now.
Now.
Closer.
Skin.
Sliding.
Rubbing.
Tongue.
Sweat.
Faster.
Fast-er.
Moaning.
Now.
Now.
Now.
Lights.
Flashing.
Fire burning.
Colours.
Popping.
Sightless.
Crashing.
Cra-shing.
Falling.
Bliss.
Gone.
 

Making conversation October 28, 2011

Filed under: Scenic — afrosays @ 2:30 pm
Tags: , ,


Today. It’s a song we can all sing.
Join the chorus as AfroSays:

MAKING CONVERSATION

...a drink perhaps?

Dapper is mine.
I am Akilapa, local champion, beef head, jock and jester. The favorite of maidens, Oko Omoge; my distinct Aso Oke uniform introduces me as a member of the King’s strong men. My pounded yam mounds are as high as mountains and every planting morning, I build two hundred of these. In the evening I build three hundred more. I have never returned empty-handed from a visit to the forest – soars and their offspring weep once they hear my footfalls. They must have heard my stories from their fatherless and husbandless neighbours. I am the son of the son of Sango.

Would you join me for a drink now?”
”You spun me an impressive fictional resume all because I told you that I don’t talk to strangers?”
“Tell me your name”
“Okay you’ve earned it. Listen.
The sultry abomination. Psaltry like the song of Yemoja’s first heartbreak…
”Stop giggling like a girl and listen!”
“I’m listening oh!”
I am Enitan, the riddle, the desirable, the delectable, the disastrous. Daughter of the deep. My eyes would subdue your weak will and bring you to your knees. Virgin…
“Would you pay attention?”
“Ehen! Virgin evil; pure darkness; schemer… err, all the things you should be scared of! Look! I haven’t had much practice with this abeg! Can we go for that drink?”
“Only if you tell me your real name.”
“It’s really Enitan.”
“Really? Okay, I’m Deinde. By the way, I think I’ve seen all there is to see at this exhibition, and it looked like you had the same thing in mind when you took your eyes off the walls and started studying the people. Good art by the way.”
“Yea, particularly the silhouettes.”
“I think I preferred the landscape paintings though, especially the watery scenes, very peaceful. So… just off the lobby, we can have all the fun we want. Definitely more quality stuff than the cheap champagne we’re pretending to enjoy here.”
“What do you think about the hors d’oeuvres?”
“Too oily”
“Mmmm”
“I don’t like that look. Scary.”
“I don’t like that you don’t like my catering.”
“Err… I’m sorry. Okay, I thought the shrimp thing was quite delicious”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
“Ha! I was just fucking with you. I just came for the art and it seems you’re here to pick up weak-willed women with your smooth tongue. You must do this often, Mr. Dapper?”
“I like a lady that swears”
“Now did I? Fuck! Oh Pardon me!”
“You look cute the way you do that”
“Oh? Now do I?”
“And she does it again!”
“Let’s get that drink already.”
“You’re as much the ‘teeto’ as I am, I see. Off to the lounge we go, no, off to the restaurant! I think you deserve more of my company. You’ve earned it.”
“Cocky are we? I’d order enough to make you humble. Believe me, I’m good.”
“I’d like to see you try and while you’re at it, I’d love to hear the story behind the name, Enitan”
“Be a gentleman, escort me properly you beef head!”
“You were warned.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Uh huh”
“But seriously, you don’t like my catering?”
 

Decades II – The Fourth Decade (31-40) September 22, 2011

Filed under: Decades — Betty @ 10:00 am
Tags: , , ,


The Decades project II.

Thanks for waiting. In case you missed the preview, find it here so you know what to expect. If you’re not sure what Decades is about, kindly check the preview out.

Decades II – very much like the original Decade project – explores the wholesomeness of womanhood as lived in ten-year intervals; Girls; Ladies; Women; Mothers; grand and great-grand mothers all. They live the same life we live, experience the same joys and pains unique to their decades and maybe we can learn a thing or two from them. Find the subtle connections that link their lives together and get lost in stories told. Decades II.

Please do subscribe to the blog to follow the project. (Column to the right for PC browsers or in the comment section). Also, we hope that you’d be kind enough to leave a comment. Your feedback is important to us.


The Fourth Decade (31-40) by Feyisayo Hassan (@Zaffiro)
Enjoy

...ongoing...

ENTER @Zaffiro
Her fortieth birthday was racing towards her like a NAScar with failed brakes; it would meet her rich, dejected and unmarried.
She could picture her cake: Olajumoke Peters is Forty! If the caterer had a sense of humour, she would scribble: ‘wrinkled and single’, under Forty. She laughed out loud the way one would at a cruel joke; she laughed so hard her eyes watered before the tears came rolling down. She wept for her loneliness.
She had aged well like fine wine. There were laugh lines around her eyes now but they only made her lovelier to behold. Her ebony skin still glowed from constant care and expensive creams; nature had been partial with her body, giving her the perfect figure.
Life for her had always been easy.
As the only child of a wealthy chief, she had grown up pampered and spoilt. She remembered being exempted from general punishments in high school because her father was their most generous donator. University had been a breeze, she held memories of partying wildly with her clique of hot nonchalant friends and paying her way through every semester. With the arrogance of one who was aware of her beauty, she had flaunted it, enjoying privileges from every guy that expressed interest. She discarded boyfriends as easily as she met them only slowing down in her mid-twenties. A ghastly accident returning from a soiree one night which landed her in a hospital bed and left her left leg in an ugly cast for 6months had caused her to reflect on her life. She pressured her father for a job and lost contact with most of her friends, save Ann, her best-friend since childhood.
Life, however, had become largely unkind to her. The dreams she had of wet diapers and tiny feet remained just that, dreams. Three men in ten years, passing through her and leaving her like they had found her…worse even. They were thieves, giving her hope and robbing her of her affections, attention and body.
She had never been short of suitors, where had she gone wrong?
At thirty-three, she had a marriage proposal secure, a 16-carat diamond ring on her engagement finger.
‘Toye’, she sighed.
They had met at Tracy’s wedding when she was thirty. She had been fresh from a shattered relationship, getting old by society’s standards and available. She remembered all too clearly his gait, the way he had approached her table like he owned the party. He had asked her to dance and when she’d politely declined sat down to chat with her the rest of the evening, leaving only once to grab her a drink when she’d expressed interest in the cocktails the waiters whizzed past.
They had exchanged numbers as they parted that night.
Toye had been an attentive lover, a thoughtful man, the –quintessential- ‘husband material’ it had seemed but for his skills as woman panel-beater. Adonis that he was, she still wondered how such contrasting attributes managed to coexist in his edible bod. The first time he had hit her she hurt more from the shock than the pain of the slap. It became more regular but she had stuck on. Heck! She was in her thirties and desperate to settle down. Barely a month after her thirty-third birthday when he proposed, he had beat her so much, she landed in a hospital. That was the last, painful straw that had almost literally broken her back. She ended the relationship and deleted him from her life. She had no desire to spend the rest of her days nursing injuries. The painful break-up with Toye couldn’t have come at a worse time: a week before Ann’s wedding where she would play bridesmaid. On the morning of Ann’s wedding, she wept. Could she bear this? With a plastic smile set in place, she stifled the tears that threatened to fall, determined not to ruin her friend’s day with her problems; it had to be the longest day of her life.
Thirty-four met her single and not quite searching. Her job was enough for her. Was marriage worth it? If it was for procreation, she could easily get pregnant. If it was for sex and companionship, married men lined up at her door ready to start illicit affairs with her.
This new attitude worried her parents, so much that it resulted in a blind date with dad’s client’s son.
‘Give it a try’, her mother urged. ‘You never know till you try’.
And try she did, meeting Nicholas in a crowded bar. She arrived first and selected a table not too far from the exit.
‘Blue shirt you say? Okay, I see you’, she said and dropped the phone as he approached the table.
Fine.
Man.
The two words her cerebellum registered with the new face that night; her pulse quickened.
Sparks flew. He became ‘her Nicolas’. She wanted to carry his babies, children that would have their father’s honey brown eyes and perfectly sculpted pink lips.
Her Nicolas turned out not to be hers after all when she found out he was cheating with his secretary through a friend that worked in the same organization. She ended things instantly ignoring, her mother’s protests.
They are men, it is their way of life, give it another try, she pleaded.
A try got me into this, no thanks.
Her pleading turned into anger.
Do you think you are the hot cake you used to be in your twenties? You are in your mid thirties. Settle down, time’s not ticking backwards for you.
I haven’t forgotten mother. You remind me every day.
She picked up her car-keys and drove out of the house in rage. Moving out wasn’t an option because of the Yoruba tradition that a woman had to be married out of her father’s house; her father, being the strict traditionalist that he was, would hear nothing of her living single and alone. Who came up with those things anyway? Insensitive bastards!
That was her biggest fight yet with her mother. Father had watched the proceedings with a sad resigned look on his face. He even went as far as setting up a reconciliatory meeting between her and Nicolas but it had ended on a sour note.
Nicolas and his ‘beloved’ secretary got married six months after. She wondered if she should have stuck it out; maybe they would be happily married now. After all Ann was on her second child.
Her zest for life was fading. Each day did not leave her without a reminder that she was unmarried. Was she cursed? Where had she missed it? She never thought she would be this, the old maid at her parent’s home waiting for a husband, the one her mother’s sister remembered in her prayer sessions at MFM. She couldn’t stand it any longer, this way her married friends looked on her with poorly disguised pity and quickly changed the topic from husbands and children when they caught themselves, to spare her some embarrassment. The dark circles from constant crying under her eyes became a permanent fixture.
At thirty-seven she stopped attending weddings. Was she ever going to be the one in the horrid white dress dancing towards her groom in delight. Hers was going to be unconventionally short, she had decided long ago. Nothing clichéd. The thought that she might never get to wear one chilled her insides.
When would it be her crowd sitting in the church pews in their brightly coloured geles and aso-ebis that fought for attention?
Her hopes were ebbing but Segun returned them. He turned out to be the ONE. He was a widower with one child. They had been introduced by a concerned Ann. The connection was instant; blame desperation if you like. They completed each other’s sentences and one never seemed to get enough of the other. They were together for eighteen blissful months before he proposed. Ah, finally! Their families met in a small introduction ceremony. She went about with a glint in her eye and a spring in her step. The wedding date was set, invitation cards were sent out, and her joy knew no bounds. She made plans for the cake, the hall, the events centre, the train, the church, so much to do with so little time. Her parents and Ann volunteered to help. Her dress and shoes were coming in from Paris, custom made by her best designer all paid for by her fiance. Her fiance. Fiance. Fiance. She repeated the word over and over again; it was music to her thirty-nine year old years.
Congratulations poured in. She would be Mrs Segun Kuforiji in a fortnight, before the dreadful words hit her on a cool Sunday evening.
‘Babe?’ Segun called and tenderly held her hands.
‘Yes, my love’, she answered with a smile.
Forgive me.
She looked at him, confused.
I can’t do this…
‘Do what?!’ she cut in, springing to her feet.
…get married to you, he blurted, tripping on his own words.
She saw red.
It wasn’t her, it was him.
Nigeria held too many painful memories of his late wife …
‘We can move abroad together and start a new life’, she suggested.
…and the upcoming wedding made him feel like he was trying to replace her.
There were gaping holes in his life it was unfair to ask her to fill.
His demons had caught up with him.
He was sorry.
‘Ah ahn, Segun! What is this?’ She whispered.
‘Why don’t you just pick up a knife and kill me now. Twist it through my heart and kill me!!! You evil bastard!!’ she screamed in rage.
And he moved abroad with his lone kid.
She could not- would not -be comforted. Sleep eluded her, pain spent each waking morning mocking her. She locked herself in her room for days refusing food and company. How did he expect her to stand the shame, How did he expect her to face people? She cursed him, the coward, running abroad and shattering her heart. She ate tears for breakfast, lunch and supper. Her parents were at a loss, they had tried everything.
In backward order, Segun, Nicolas, Toye; these men had destroyed her. She could never love again. Ever. At this point, she embraced her fate. She would never know the joy of having another’s last name.
Miss Olajumoke Demilade-Peters, she would remain. A lone soldier.
ENTER @maria_kesh
Let’s toast.
To my tears, to my hurt. Again.
Lets toast, to my pain..
My salty tears. My salty warm tears are what we would drink
Lets toast to me.
To only me.
SO THANKS FOR READING. STORY AND POEM. TICK-TOCK… TICK-TOCK… GOES THE BIOLOGICAL CLOCK? WHAT SAY YOU? DOES A WOMAN NEED MARRIAGE TO BE A COMPLETE PERSON? AND MEN, TOLERATE THEIR AMOROUS MISDEMEANORS OR LEAVE THEM?

A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS?

FIND THE ART OF @Zaffiro here
N.B. The project still goes on for the following four days. Tomorrow we have The Fifth Decade by @weird_oo.
Also, Our dear AFROSAYS worked on a story in The Writer’s Roundabout, a project by our very own @d3ola, one of the Decades team members. The Writer’s Roundabout is a place for the insanely creative, silly ridiculous. Naughty! I tell you! Find it here. It’s a series of silly stories written by different writers/bloggers so be sure to start from the very top and give some feedback. AfroSays wrote the last story, Jason vs Derulo
You can subscribe to the blog (at the right column or in the comments section) to follow the project.
 

Decades II – The Third Decade (21-30) September 21, 2011

Filed under: Decades — Betty @ 10:00 am
Tags: , , ,


The Decades project II.

Thanks for waiting. In case you missed the preview, find it here so you know what to expect. If you’re not sure what Decades is about, kindly check the preview out.

Decades II – very much like the original Decade project – explores the wholesomeness of womanhood as lived in ten-year intervals; Girls; Ladies; Women; Mothers; grand and great-grand mothers all. They live the same life we live, experience the same joys and pains unique to their decades and maybe we can learn a thing or two from them. Find the subtle connections that link their lives together and get lost in stories told. Decades II.

Please do subscribe to the blog to follow the project. (Column to the right for PC browsers or in the comment section). Also, we hope that you’d be kind enough to leave a comment. Your feedback is important to us.


The Third Decade (21-30) by Omotayo Adeola (@JadenTM)
Enjoy

...ongoing...

ENTER @JadenTM
Emeka was the first person to tell me I had no bum. “The hips of a white woman”, he’d said. Then he’d walked over to where I stood, kissed me, and placed his hand on my backside, squeezing my cheeks playfully. With every increasing dent I felt my self esteem pass out of me. So, at the party, I didn’t shake my booty. I raised my hands high above my head and wiggled my shoulders. I couldn’t komole so I fosoke’d, I moved my knees where I could no longer justify moving my hips, and all my friends said I danced like a white girl.
I heard he became an actor, but I don’t believe it. His eyes used to go blank when he told a lie; he wouldn’t even blink as he stared into the tear filled pupils of my eyes. He would recite his lines with decided precision and I would blink back my suspicions and smile, trusting him with my heart. Until I overheard them describing his backstroke in the ladies’ bathroom, the day after he’d looked me in the eye again and told me he loved me, only me.
I didn’t cry when I told my friends, and they eyed me in suspicion.
“You didn’t love him,” Nike said.
“Are you made of stone?” Rose said.
“She must have been cheating too,” Dami said she overheard Fatima say to Busola.
So I broke up with them, too.
Twenty one was that year; the one where you find out there’s more to life than Brazilian hair and overpriced Ankara skirts. The one where you count your losses and bless them one by one, the one where you realize your life has just begun.
They all got married. One by one they dropped like dead leaves into the forever of matrimony. Busola got pregnant and couldn’t get married in Church. Fatima married Emeka’s brother and inherited a live-in mistress. Nike got fat, and at her wedding she made all her bridesmaids wear satin boubous and stick bows in their hair. Either that or she made sure there was no one on her train who could shop outside of a plus-sized store. They shuffled around with their inflated faces as they filed into the reception. The band started to sing (Nike Peperempe! Omo Olakúnlé!), and I waited until they were all dancing around her to walk over and say hi.
“You look so good!” Rose (nee Ndubuisi) blurted. Nike jabbed her in the side with her elbow.
“Thanks for coming”, Nike said.
As I smiled and walked away, Dami ran up to me and told me that Busola told Fatima that she wanted to know who my doctor was. I gave her directions to my gym.
I told my mother I got a promotion and she wailed in agony; twenty six was the year when success was reckless. The line of pot-bellied suitors at my door shrunk the moment I bought myself a ‘big’ car and my father, strong and silent as he is, led me to his study to impress upon me the merits of marriage. I impressed upon his fading memory the amount of money he’d spent on my education.
He sent me to fetch his coffee and wished me a good day at work.
I was too busy to take my lunch break, but Tracey brought me a slice of cake anyway.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
“Oh no, Jumoke got me the cake because I’m leaving. I’m getting married! Can you keep a secret?” she gushed. “My corner office has your name all over it. Congratulations!”
She wiggled her hips and walked merrily away, even though I hadn’t said a word.
I went to the wedding. I even wore the designated office aso-ebi, posed for the pictures and stood in line to catch the bouquet. Her bridesmaids – and Jumoke – took turns holding up the train of her dress, and her mother hugged her with tears in her eyes as the DJ played ‘Sweet Mother’. Her husband held her hand and pulled her close, and every so often he would whisper something into her ear and she would burst into fits of giggles. And when they thought no one was looking, he would kiss her.
I watched them. And I let myself wonder; maybe I wanted more.
Maybe I wanted a friend.
Maybe I wanted a hand to hold, somebody to lean on; a rock to be strong for me so that I didn’t have to be strong all the time, so that I didn’t need to be strong anymore.
Twenty eight was the year I realized… maybe I wanted love.
So the second time Bamise asked me out, I said yes. I choked down my doubts, put on a dress and tried on a smile as we walked into the restaurant.
He held the door open for me, and he didn’t walk ahead of me. He pulled out my chair, but he didn’t wait for me to be seated. He ordered for me, but he asked to make sure I didn’t mind. And even though I know his eyes must have slipped downward repeatedly, I only ever caught him staring straight into my eyes. I let him kiss me after our third date.
—————————————————————————
He didn’t make me choose. When he said he wanted me, forever, it didn’t come attached with an ultimatum. Even though I knew I could, even though I knew I would if he needed me to, he didn’t make me swap my Range for his ring.
My father smiled at me as we posed for the cameras. My mother danced with her in-laws as they sang aloud to the choir’s ‘This is the day that the Lord has made’. My husband held my hand and gazed into my eyes, and when he said I love you I knew he wasn’t lying. He turned me around on the dance floor and I threw my hands up high, above my head, and around his neck.
At thirty, I still dance like a white girl.
ENTER @_Ayaba
Beauty is vain, it cloaks the pain

Smiles conceal fears conceived

Who will see behind the veil?

Who will set, the wall ablaze?

To such a man belongs the jewel.

SO THANKS FOR READING. STORY AND POEM. WHAT’S IMPORTANT IN LIFE AFTER ALL? WOULD YOU TRADE SUCCESS FOR LOVE? HOW MUCH WEIGHT DO YOU PLACE ON FRIENDSHIPS? IS LOVE IN MARRIAGE THE ULTIMATE?

WHAT IS LOVE TO YOU?

A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS?

WATCH OUT FOR THE ART OF @JadenTM LATER ON AFROSAYS AND EVERYWHERE ELSE AROUND.
N.B. The project still goes on for the following five days. Tomorrow we have The Fourth Decade by @Zaffiro.
You can subscribe to the blog (at the right column or in the comments section) to follow the project.
 

 
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

%d bloggers like this: