The Beginning of our love story May 10, 2012

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.

 
 
 
 

You want? So what? July 9, 2010

Onigba...

The muse lent me to Onigba, the inconspicuous time-wanderer of indigenous origins; I beat an ancient ring-tone with a mellow tempo on my gong, Afrosays:

She smiles in the bus, the grayed lady, taking a leisurely stroll, basking in the sunny moments of times past. I look at her and smile in agreement and I’m on to the next one
I’m on a journey for the good old; I’m feeling grand, and clement weather assures me that nature’s feeling likewise. I’m on a journey for the good old days.
I’m the time-wanderer, call me ‘Onigba’.
I guess we’ve had our moments, you and I. Did you recognize me?
No! I’m not that weirdo you noticed under the bridge happily calculating 9D mathematics on the sand in Latin and I’m not his buddy either. I don’t have a fancy wand or carry a moribund hour-glass (although I popularized that look in Nebuchadnezzar’s times). I’ve been around since loin-cloths and cave-cribs, when your kind measured how old they were by how many Yam planting seasons they’d participated in. I saw Socrates make up stuff he couldn’t quite figure out and Shakespeare conduct his low-budget plays. I saw Hitler, Rockefeller and I’m still seeing Babangida. I’m the Rolex and the Omega!
You did not recognize me because I’m one with time. I’m quite the conformist. I wore a suit the day we met at your office, I’ve worn all the cuts of Jeans you’ve worn and I’m still figuring out how to get out of my most recent denim adventure without employing the use of a pair of scissors. Don’t bother trying to look out for me; I look too much like you.
I’ve lived with your kind since the big bang or the big apple, I really don’t care which. I was born the same day as Adam or Australopithecus, and you’ve all come a long way… to vanity. You’ve missed the point. SMH!
Live!
Like him, he’s smiling too, smiling at the irony of it all. He’s not sure how he’s come this far on so little. He’s not sure how he’s going to make it through but he’s sure he will. He’s hanging out with the boys tonight; he knows he’s got major issues but he’d take the little joys he demands from life.
Maybe He’d pay the rent, maybe not; maybe he’d get the job, maybe not; maybe he’d love again, maybe not; but tonight, we drink to life, Guy and I.
Like her, she’s smiling too, and then she laughs at the irony of love. He’s home early today and she’s glad. He told her he was sorry for the third time and she took him in knowing his weakness would lead him on yet another tryst. She was just glad to have him for now. She hoped to have him forever.
She deserves forever, so what? Tonight, we celebrate love and life.
Who cares what you want? There’s no Persia or Babylon or King Solomon! There’s just two glasses… what’s our toast?