THE THINGS WOMEN DO- MEA CULPA

Chinwe, I hope you get to read this, it is about you, though I am not writing it for you. I am writing this confession to make a clean breast of the atrocity you have made me commit in the name of “good neighbourliness”.

I make this confession, aware of what reaction of repulsion it may evoke in my dear friends and family who have trusted me and would have put out their necks in the defence of my uprightness. It was never my intention to the steal apples from another man’s tree, but I found myself eating stolen apple, just to show kindness to a neighbour. I wasn’t just tempted or lured to take and eat, I did what I had to. I make no excuse to say that I was deceived into the heinous crime. There was deceit, I was of sound mind when I did.

Chinwe was my new neighbour, she’d moved into one of the flats in my compound. I never knew who my new neighbour was for two whole weeks, and I didn’t care. I began to care from that Saturday. It was the last Saturday in August, and it was a day set aside for Environment Sanitation- the day enforced by the Lagos State Government for the dirty job of cleaning the gutters by residents in their neighbourhoods. Cleaning the gutters was the task I have taken upon myself, independent of the other members of my residence. Usually, before sunrise I would have fully dredged the brimming gutter and gathered the debris into heaps for evacuation or incineration. That early morning, Chinwe had joined me.

“Good mornin’ o!” I heard as I was raking rubbish into separate heaps of organic and inorganic wastes. I straightened up and turned around to see who had greeted me so familiarly. I saw her: Chinwe- a young woman in her late 20s; up to my shoulder in height; her small head was wrapped in a kerchief, her forehead bared. The forelock of her hair, which was parted in the middle, perfectly framed the prettiest heart-shaped face I ever done seen- the narrow slits of her puffy-lid eyes were graced by eyelashes that I thought were artificial. I like natural eyebrows in women, and that face had two nicely shaped natural eyebrows I was very pleased with. The protruding stub of her nose can not be missed even if you were a casual ogler, I was no casual ogler; I see things when I look, and I saw the inviting fleshy lips too. I kept staring like someone seeing an apparition- Chinwe’s face had that effect on me that instant, but I never got tired of staring at that angelic face afterwards, for the short spell of our romantic affair. Except for the sensual lips, that kind of face could only be seen on masterful paintings of the Virgin Mary.

“Hallo?” She greeted again her eyebrows flicking questioningly, and I jerked out of my reverie.

“Ow! Pardon me, Miss, I couldn’t help staring… You’re very pretty… Do you live here?”

“Yes o, I live in this yard. I yam Chinwe, we are neighbours na” she said, extending a hand to me (for a handshake I guessed)

“Um…ah… call me Christ… pleased to… uh… make your… ah… acquaintance…” I stuttered keeping my soiled hands by my sides, wiping them on the seat of my camouflage work-short shorts. I knew the stench of gutter was still on them. I thought it was not macho to shake a beautiful lady’s hand with soiled hands. So I made the excuse, and her smile broadened wanly, parting her lips to reveal a gap-tooth, and a perfect set of dentition that belong in a billboard or magazine. There was that twinkle in her eyes too. The twinkle stayed there all morning. I liked looking into her eyes , when they weren’t shut away in passionate ecstasy.

“Is ok, shebi we are doing environmenta’ togetha”.

Her Ibo accent was unmistakable. Her accent had this grating sensation in the ear, it wasn’t nice though, but I forgave her because she was beautiful. Her other aspects more than compensated for her phonetic anomaly. She didn’t look the part of one who had come out for gutter-cleaning, and she was not dressed the part at all. The white bath robe she had donned barely concealed the pink, lacey nighties underneath. The cleavage was there for sure- Nighties, always reveal cleavages. The sash of her bath robe came undone one time, and what she had beneath the see-through nightie must have been a Victoria’s Secret or nothing at all. I was to find out later that it was a Thong and She looked great in a Thong. She made me peel it off with my teeth. But before I get to peel her Thong off, she’d pulled the strings aside to let me have a go at her saucy apple pie.

Well, even if I have a sort of repulsion for Mrs(?) Chinwe now, I cannot take it away from her that she is a delectable dish. Everything about her was succulent sweetness (except for the eardrums-killing accents). She has that kind of voluptuous figure a man could find heavenly comfort in, snuggling up to. Between her balloon-like breasts and butty I couldn’t tell which was greater. The sets could have been made from the same material Money-Makers are made from. I could have robbed a bank or sold myself into slavery to put a diamond ring on all that, if Chinwe was not hitched. But she is hitched, as it tuned out, to one Fine Officer and Gentleman.

That Saturday, after the cleaning up excercise, Chinwe had invited me to her apartment where I was entertained all morning-long, the stench of gutter and dirt clinging to me and all. We were there gisting and getting to know. I was sipping on the coffee she made me from a jar of Nescafe™ instant coffee. We had also shared a bottle of, Amarula™, feeding each other some peanuts and some Pringles™and McVitties™ . I was enjoying lots of views around the place. Some adult movies and some magazine that must be kept out of the reach of children. I also saw the colour of her under things, and what the mere strings attempt forlornly to cover.

She made me believe she was an independent woman. I guessed that explained why she could entertain a bachelor in her apartment, half naked and all. I respected that, and did not ask for too much. I never did, but she offered a lot. I took everything she offered, like a good neighbour, giving back in all the ways I could. She showed me her bedroom too, and how the four-poster bed works. I am not a stupid man, I know what a woman wants when she start to be too nice to you- giving and showing you things- pushing you down unto her bed, straddling you- undoing the fly of your shorts and expertly using her mouth to relieve you of the erection that threatens to bust you apart- allowing you to push her to the carpet and releasing a second cumming into her honey pot, after she’d kindly swallowed the first ejaculate- I am not so dumb not to know that her back has to bend downward to give her a great doggy- or to prop her backside with a pile of pillows for a good missionary- I also know enough to kiss like it was the last thing i will ever do before the rapture. I am not so stuck up to pretend I know how sex in the bath is sweet and not willing to learn more- I learnt and I learnt good.

I am not a stupid man to run after other men’s women if they were married. But I am not a saint who is above temptation. I am culpable. And Chinwe exploited my culpability. She lured me with all the things she knew I cannot resist- a pretty face, a great figure, alcohol and a cup of steaming coffee in the morning and an opportunity to explore and learn. How she knew my weaknesses, I don’t know.

Chinwe had hustled me out of her flat at the stroke of 1300hrs, through a back exit in the kitchen. She explained that her Soldier-Hubby was coming over for the weekend, and will be there any minute and she had to clean up the mess we’d made. She’d said to me “I will come to ya flat laita” And shoved me off through the doorway, out of her flat as her doorbell rang.

LOVE IN THE TIME OF GONORRHOEA

I like to fondle and caress, and kiss a lot, and sometimes lick thoroughly before mounting. I like to work my fingers in into the cookie jar, and get them smeared with jam real good. But she had resisted my fingers going in and dipping in her honey pot. I knew she was all ready: stark nude and spread out before me, her firm small breasts jutting upward like twin hills. My tongue had explored the nutty crests of those breasts, and the crater of her belly button. The little hill further south, had also been fully explored, and nothing anymore was hidden from me. There was practically no inch of her smooth fair skin over which my mopping tongue and caressing fingers had not raced each other. Then I mounted, but she turned me over so expertly like a Greco-Roman wrestler. That little wild cat, Nneka.

I like a woman on top. Woman on top is a most libidinal and comfy position for me, next to doggy. I waited for Nneka to get hold of my shaft and shove it into her oozy coochy, but no, there was a heedless delay. I took charge of the turgid and throbbing cock to give it the headway it was crying for, but Nneka rolled off me and onto her stomach. I rolled onto her back, smouldering her with my weight, she remained still. I ran my tongue several times up and down her spine- from the nape of her neck to the cleavage of her rounded buttocks, sending shock-waves that vibrated her entire body again and again and again. I shoved my hands under her body, found her breasts and started to gently and nicely squeeze the hardened nipples, my passion-heated and pulsating dick pressed hard and grinding against the cleavage of her buttocks. I was liking it, and she was too- I could tell from her moans. I almost couldn’t hold back my cum as the sweetness of her was killing me nicely. She was gloriously wet, and my pre-cum was smearing her bums, making the entire region very slippery. A still small voice admonished me to slot my dick in the arse hole, but I shunned that voice for I wouldn’t know if Nneka was cool with anal sex, since it was the first time we would be making love. Alternatively, I considered her already wet pussy- to take it from behind. My knees were pressing into the hard mattress at both sides of the two meaty mounds of her cute arse. I was in position, a good position.

I was just beginning to wet the tip of my dick in the fluid from her core when she sudden rose, and turned to face me. A stern look on her face.

“Uh?” I asked in my confusion. “…what is it my love? What is the matter with you…?” I probed gently, in a tremulous voice I hardly recognise as my own. But she placed a hand on my heaving chest as if to keep me calm and at arm’s length, looked me straight in the eye and said

“Christ, there’s something I want to ask you…”

I held my breath, waiting for her to come out with her request, but she was taking forever to do so. I didn’t have forever in my eagerness to get laid. She turned her eyes away as if she was embarrassed at what she was going to request from me. A little birdie whispered in my ears that “what else, in the world, would a little spoilt brat be wanting from a lover at such crucial moment but money?” But I perished that thought. Nneka: yes, was a brat, but she had never asked me for a Dime for the more than one year we’ve been seeing each other. When she wouldn’t come up with her request, I surmised that she wanted me to use condom. “Oh. Good Old condom! every players companion. Stupid Christ me, I should have figured it out that Nneka wanted safe sex”. I thought to myself. I was glad then, that condom was never lacking in my room. In those days, I had them everywhere- Under the mattress, in my wardrobe, in my desk’s drawers, in my wallet, in the inner pockets of my favourite jeans. They were never far away. They were very cheap too, but I hardly buy them. Who would waste money on condom?

As the realisation that safe sex was what the Little Vixen wanted dawned on me, Something under my chest gave and dropped into my stomach that moment. The “The Little Slut” story her friend, Pat, had regaled me with about The Prettier Nneka, came back flooding my mind. Pat was Nneka’s best friend and more mature, but I had ignored. She was more than 2 years older than Nneka, and very, very, very experienced in matters that will shock the Pope into a seizure or heart attack. She had told me to stop dating the bitch, that Nneka was always like a bitch on heat, running after boys, and opening her legs for every John, Thomas, and Dick. And that she’s had contracted an incurable Gonorrhoea. That if I had any self respect, I would steer clear of the Little Slut. I thought Pat liked me and wanted me all to herself, but when she spurned my overture to take her to bed (the first time) I began to take her words seriously. I actually observed that Nneka had far too many male friends, and that she was too popular among boys. Some of my hostel mates actually bragged to me that they have had series of hot sex romps with The Little Slut. All that story, had actually fired my imagination to fuck Nneka, but she was so vulnerable-looking and I concluded that men had taken undue advantages of her innocence, and I wasn’t gone and do that.

I became more friendly with Nneka. She followed my advice and reduced the number of her male friends, and I forgot what Pat said about Nneka’s infestation with an Incurable Gonorrhoea. I had made a mental note to never fuck her without condoms, when I would make up my mind to forget her age and take my share of the apple, though rotten it may be.

“Christ, do you care for me?” Nneka asked, startling me out of my reverie. Then I got frantic, and cast about for a condom “Yes, baby, I care a lot about you. And you know it… You know it baby, don’t you?” I replied without thinking and without looking at her. I was off the bed, ransacking the wardrobe for my stash of Gold Circle™. I found a opened pack still containing three condoms attached together in the pocket of a old suit. (I remember this pack- it has a memory that will fill pages of a great story) I was aware that those rubber-tubey-thingys had expiry dates, but little did I care in my haste to get the armour and finish my conquest.

Nneka watched me tear away the polymer covering wraps of the branded Condoms. She observed as I expertly held my stiff prick in one hand, place the flying-saucer-shaped rolled latex rubber disc on the “helmet” and roll them down to the thick hairy base one after the other. I observed her nod grimly and said further.

“there’s something I want to let you know about me, Christ”.

In my mind, I was ready for whatever she was going to say next, but what she hit me with shook me to the foundation of my being. Why my flagpole of a penis didn’t wilt that instant, still surprises me as I am telling you this factual story.

“I have never done it in my life” said Nneka.

“What?” I asked before I could articulate my scattered thoughts.

“Wha… Wha… What did you say… Nneka?”

“I have never had sex before” she reiterated.

“Oh, ah… Like… Uh… You mean… Like… You are… virgin?” I asked blurting out the almost incoherent words.

“Yes Christ, I am still a virgin” she stated shyly, but with conviction that shattered my doubts.

“But… Uh… Uh… Uh Pat… Well never mind” I blurted further.

Though my flagpole was still up, I had lost interest in sex. I didn’t want to fuck Nneka anymore. I couldn’t come to terms with what “The Little Slut” meant by she was a virgin. Virgins don’t exist, anymore more than fairies do. These days girls are born in disvirgined state. I knew because I had seen many girls. And I know what my eyes have seen. Then I asked her if there is any veneral disease she was living with. To my mind, she was shading me away from contracting her purported gonorrhoea. She said ‘yes’ that she had a disease she contracted at age 13 or 12, from the pit latrine they used in their former residence, before her father built their house and had water closet fitted, and that she had been completely cured of the disease by the herbal medications her parents had procured for her. I found it all hard to get my head around the whole story too, like you reader must be finding this story now.

I was confused and I was scratching my head. I was beginning to lose my erection. When she laid back on the bed, drew up her knees to her chest. Her vagina became very conspicuous as she spread the labia majora with her hands. Nnka showed me something she said was called “hymen”. She said the name in three other languages, but “hymen”, and “maiden head” were the only two nomenclatures that stuck in my perforated brains that time. I looked but didn’t see a thing- there was no hole in there beneath the Labias of her genitalia either. She lectured me that the presence of hymen was the evidence of virginity. But I knew, the sign and proof of virginity was a girl’s bleeding and staining the sheets with the flower of her first sexual intercourse. She guided my probing fingers around her vagina, soon I had found a hole that swallowed my forefinger halfway. She said her flower was mine for the plucking; that she loved me, and was giving her self to me.

She had started wriggling her hips as my thumb was intently rubbing her pronounced clit, as the forefinger kept poking, and deepening the little hole I had made in her honey pot. She was whimpering, moaning like some beasts in dying throes. Many times our limbs would get entangled in passionate embraces; our lips would be locked in the most sensual kisses- deep and soul-sucking kisses. I have never had such intense passionate moment with any other woman till date.

Nneka gave up her virginity to me as a birthday present on her own birthday- her 16 birthday. I had scratched my head some, and had said no, that only her true love, being her future husband, deserved such treasure . I assured her of my committed friendship, and of my willingness to help her treasure her virginity. That we shouldn’t be having penetrating sex but to be making love in this fresh new sensually-gratifying way we have discovered together. She disagreed, and challenge me to accept her flower and make her a woman. And so I did. She bled from her vagina when I forced my way past her hymen into her feminine core, ripping her maidenhead in that passage. I actually felt the rip, and the warmth of her fresh blood on my penis. She screamed out briefly in epiphany of pain at the moment of entry. A light also lit up in my own head, that must have shown as a visible halo around me. Soon she was giving me a run for it, bucking faster and faster, gyrating and wriggling her waist rhythmically to the music of my love.

After series of climaxes, Nneka laid and cried to sleep on my chest, my arms wrapped protectively around her. Her tears (joyful tears) were mingling with our profusion of musky sweats was washing my shoulders and chest and soaking the mattress beneath me. We were happy satiated and content. She looked more beautiful than she’d ever seemed to me, and I wanted us to be like that forever. It was a profound experience for me. Taking Nneka’s virginity was a sacred obligation foisted on me. With God helping me, I had performed my duty with the sacerdotal punctiliousness it required. Nneka was not a slut. And she was not diseased. She bled a little more the next day when we made love again. She just turned 16 that first day, and we made love often until she was well over 17 when she gained admission to a faraway private university leaving me behind.

Lust, just like Love, will make you do crazy things- things you will never want your mama to hear about. I did such crazy thing with Nneka. Nneka was only Fifteen when we met, and I did it on her sixteen birthday. She told me, and showed it too, that I had given her the greatest gift of her life. It wasn’t the first for me, but for Nneka it was. I have this little confession to make that for me, and it was Lust that drove me to love in the time of gonorrhoea. A risk well worth it.

MUCH I DON’T ABOUT VIRGINITY

What is virginity really? Is it one of those developmental stage of the human species? yes, it is? I think so too. The sooner you are done with your development stages- from infancy to grown-uphood, the better you are developing. Carrying forward your virginity to wedding night (and the bed unsoiled crap) is bullsh!t.

I can’t even remember when I lost mine- did I really lost a thing by losing my virginity? No sire, I didn’t. Many a woman have jumped over the broom without their infancy or adolescence or virginity and they live happily ever after- only Cinderella, Rapunzel, snow White etc. Have ever been carried over the threshold intact, and they were figment of some loon’s wayward imaginations.

Many of us real people lost our virginity to sports- depends on what sports you do. All those world record-making world records record-breaking feat of the last olympics, were they achieved by keeping the knees together? or by wearing iron pants? I guess not.

Therefore brethren, I beseech thee by the mercies of the Good Man upstairs, to not place such unwieldly burden as virginity on one another, and let us, homo sapiens, go on to the next stage of our evolution without mitigation.

OLIVER TWIST IN LAGOS

Maybe he was a scammer; and what if he was telling the truth. What if he wasn’t a Scammer, but he was lying? Well whatever he was or was not, he got my money. I am, as a matter of principle, not a alms-giver. As a matter of faith, I don’t believe in professional begging. And as a matter of preference, I abhor beggars.

I was just coming out of my gate this morning when I saw this lean-face young man: He couldn’t have been more than 12, and he stank: hair kinky and unkempt, his bare feet was thickly coated with brown dust, the threadbare jean shorts he wore could use some washing, the equally soiled T-shirt that covered his torso was practically falling off his narrow shoulders- I have never seen such design of T-Shirt- the neck of the shirt was as wide as a boubou’s, making the young man’s ostrich-like neck look more gaunt than it was- a pitiable sight- a sight. While such Charles Dickens characters are not phenomenal in the mega-city of Lagos, this young man called to my mind the image I have always conceived of Oliver Twist.

“Good morning bros” he greeted as I passed him. I turned, and look at him again and I saw need- genuine need lingering there in his hungry-looking eyes; a craving that reached out to me- then I returned his greetings as my hand dipped in My pocket. I knew that scarecrow of a young man was not a beggar, but a disadvantaged child.

There are millions of such disadvantaged children roaming the streets of Lagos. If you care look in their eyes, deep in their eyes, you just might see the nuggets buried beneath rubbles of poverty. If you care to sound them out, and listen to the echoes of their hearts, you just might hear the sound of hope and aspiration bubbling in there. You just might find out that many of these poor little people are bundles of gifts and talents.

I asked him if he lived on my street, he said “no”, that he lived on Job street. Job Street was the street next to the one I live on. He asked me if I could help him with some money. I handed him a N100 note I had fished out of my pocket. But I knew I wasn’t doing enough, not even the most I could do in that circumstance. I don’t feel cool doing below my capacity at anytime. And that is why I don’t do alms. I thought a such a young man from another street wouldn’t be standing there at my gate for nothing.

“So, what are you doing here, if you live on Job street?” I asked further, not knowing what more I could do for him. He told me his aunt with whom he was living had thrown him out of the house, “Why” I asked. He replied that his auntie had lost her money, and his auntie suspected him of having taken the money, and that he mustn’t come back to the house until he gives back the money. I asked him how much is the missing amount. He said it was Two Hundred Naira. “Two hundred Naira? What the fuck!” I said to myself. I have given my three boys a total sum of N600 this morning for church offering collection, before leaving the house. So, for a child taking N200 he or she could be victimised? In this 21st Century? Oh My God! Oh dear!

I am not rich. I never grew up in a affluent home, but the loss of a wee N200 will never make a member of my family lose his or her humanity. What is the adult world made of? Nimrods? If the story of the less privileged children in the world was to be different from the plot of social, political, economic and psychological disenfranchisement they have witnessed in the few days they have lived in this wicked world of adults, I am sure we could all have been living in a heaven, where none will be in want. We don’t need religion to get us to heaven or paradise or nirvana. We can make one for our ‘selfs’ here on earth.

Glad I had left the house with a little extra money along with my transport fare. I dipped in my pocket again and fished out a N200 Note and handed it to him. What blessedness it was to see the light come up in his eyes? He rewarded me with something I will always treasure: a honest, big, toothy smile (he Got teeth like mine- Donkey Teeth) I saw relief made his face glow, and his, rather sagging shoulders, squared out, in an instant, he looked like he could take on the world now, a sort of scrawny copy of Atlas. And I liked him that instant. He stretched out a hand to me. I took it and shook it. He was thanking me profusely. “Thank you bros! thank you bros! thank you bros!” taking bows at me as he receded backward. Almost embarrassed, I turned and walked on. I was already late for my appointment that Sunday morning.

DIGITAL NATIVES AND CYBER ALIENS: NEW SUPERMEN

I am convinced that if I should go blind or deaf now, I will still be able to navigate my way around the rowdy city of Lagos. I will know beyond reason, when the light turns green, or when it is red; I will know when I am about to be hit by a reckless Okada and jump- left or right- out of its way in time; I will know when I am about to fall into a gutter, and “jump am pass”. The thing is called INTUITION. And we all have it. I have gained plenty of it.

If mobile technology has done anything for mankind it is navigational ability. But I need no gadgetry for my own navigation; mine is innate. I have developed it. Thanks to Blackberry. My fingers are always flickering around and over the keys and buttons of my Blackberry device- either chatting, blogging, surfing the net or writing on the notepad- my eye are always locked on the screen of the thing. I barely take my mind off it, and I could be that way for hours on end. I do this even on the road or while walking along the busy streets. It has become an habit- a good one. My folks think it is a bad habit that must he broken, but nothing anyone has done to change me has worked. They think I might be possessed. I am not possesses, I am just gifted, that’s what. For many years now, doing this, I am yet to get hit by an Okada, or fall into a ditch for minding my Blackberry and not looking out.

I have become a hybrid of sheer animal instinct and human intuition. Whatever evil mobile internet has brought upon mankind, developing the human perceptiveness is not one of them. I and, indeed all gadget geeks, have become better humans. I know many of you smart ass, will pooh pooh on this, but the fact cannot be undermined that the race of Superman- the Superman Frederich Nietzsche spake about is here. And we are it. The tag is on you.

DIGITAL NATIVES AND CYBER ALIENS- POETIC JUSTICE

Since the PS3 started malfunctioning, and the TV in the kids room developed a fault, the kids have been spending more time with their books, or so I think. I was watching an Adult Movie this afternoon when they returned from school. You can imagine the alacrity with which I put off the DVD player and switched to cable TV. They met me watching Mythbuster on Discovery Channel, and they were taking positions to join in watching TV. I knew that within a minute they would have convinced me to change channel to Cartoon Networks or Boomerang.

I did a quick calculation, put on my stern face and said to them:

“Hey, You guys can’t sit down to watch TV now; go up and take your shower, change and come down for your meal before TV.”

They obeyed grudgingly, raced each other upstairs to their room, banged, and shoved, and crashed, and yelled, and splashed- doing what kids always do- turning the house into a bedlam- in a jiffy, they were back in the living room, trailing water and making tiny footprints on the marble floor. I knew I hadn’t heard the last of their expressed wish to watch TV. To deter them, I hustle them into the kitchen, served them Jollof Rice in heaps I hoped would keep them riveted till I am done with the programme on TV. But they were back in the living room almost at the same instant I got there. Belly bulging, lips shinny, and hands dripping water, they were taking vantage viewing positions on the sofa already.

“Why don’t you guys go and do your home works?”

“I have done my home work o!”
“Me too, I have done my home work too”

“So… What do you guys want to do now?

They looked at each other, turned their gaze at me like I was some specimen in a test tube and replied at once, “we want to watch cartoon”

“But there is no cartoon showing now!”
I pointed out forlornly.

In reply to that, and as if to prove a point, Junior dove for the remote control, but Chukwuteim, being the more agile one of the two, beat him to it, and suddenly Cartoon network was on the screen. And their visage was calcified in an instant into that peculiar TV-Viewing mode observable among nowadays kids- eyes as wide as Mickey Mouse’s, and mouth gapping like Elmo’s, and drooling like Sponge Bob. I like cartoons too. I grew up watching , Tom And Jerry and Donald Duck, myself, and I was a cartoon buff in those good old days and I had a dose of Sesame Street and Telly Tubies for good measure to balance things out. So what’s going on here? I have been overpowered here. But I tried again:

“I see, you guys have not been reading you books these days have you? you’ve been watching too much television lately”.

“Ahhh! No o! We have been reading o! We have been reading for three days now o!” Said Chukwuteim

“It’s true, we have read all the books finish” supported Junior.

I knew they were lying. Today’s kids are from hell or somewhere much more darker than that. How could they wield so much authority in things not concerning books? As a matter of fact, they’ve not shown much interest in the new fairytale series I bought them yesterday. The books remained unopened on the balcony where I had handed the package to them. I was getting annoyed the way they have hoodwinked me. These little imps. Are these the kind of leaders we will have tomorrow? Life is going to get nastier and more brutish than the days of the juntas. Unless perhaps something is done to re-orient the next generation of leaders, or curb the selfish nature of these little ones. Until we assert our adult authority, we are in for very big troubles.

I was killing my brain cells, going grey trying to rationalise- trying to make sense of the Generation Gap Warfare, fearing to take a rash decision in dealing with the unbecoming exuberance of these little ones. When I ran out of logic, I started a silent prayer to God for help. Then it happened as Ben 10 was just smacking his wristwatch that would transform him to a monster, the power was suddenly cut. The screen went black, And quietude returned as the screaming, screeching and chattering from the TV ceased in an instant.

The kids, as expected of Lagos Children, lamented the power outtage:

“Oooh fuck NEPA! God damn NEPA!”

They both turned to looked at me, I saw suspicion, accusation, and challenge in their young eyes. I kept my cool, their looks changed to a silent plea for help to bring the light back on, but I shrugged my shoulders and said, under my breathe,

“POETIC JUSTICE”

I quietly gloat at their plight. “Serves them right, the little imps”. I have never been grateful for a power cut, but that moment, I was grateful for the intractable problem of sudden power outtage that is besetting our dear country.

They were disgruntled, frowning and cussing away at NEPA and the power that be.

I didn’t bother to censor their use of foul language for this one time. I was too consumed in my gloatting over my point score.

The meaning of POETIC JUSTICE has never been clearer to me than that material moment in time. But how long can this cloak and dagger game between the Generation X and the Olde Worlde continue? They have become the Natives, and we grown ups have become the Aliens. We are in charge, but they seem to be taking over, somehow.

OF SLOTHFULNESS AND WHAT MAKES IT SINFUL

Evbodaghe and I were just hired labours. I was the better looking guy, thoug he was more muscular but that shouldn’t make the ladies like him better than me. Evbodaghe was my close pal, but I disliked him for his slothfulness. He wasn’t really any lazier than I was, but he was wont to forego work for play when the girls are around. There was this particular incidence that made me part ways with Evbodaghe: the ladies were paying the idiot more attention than they were paying me.

My friend and I have been assigned to the shitty task of mixing manure with top soil, along with two girls whose task was stuffing the mixture into nursery bags and planting in the oil palm seedlings. On that fateful day, Evbodaghe abandon our task of shoveling shit and was frolicking with the girls, giving them a hand with their own task of stuff the nursery bags with manure and dirt mix, poking a hole in top middle of the bagged mixture and stuffing in a palm seedling. I wouldn’t have given a fuck if they were fucking on the job, but I was peeved because Chiwendo, one of the girls who I had been secretly admiring, was paying Evbodaghe far too much attention for my convenience and peace of mind. Chiwendo was delibrately letting her skirt ride up her thighs to let my friend feed his lusty eyes on whatever she got between the thighs.

The annoying part was that Evbodaghe was not looking away as expected of a gentleman; he was ogling and sloberring. He wasn’t even doing a good job of stuffing the nursery bags with the manure and dirt I was labourously throwing their way. He was absent-mindedly poking, and poking, and forever poking his forefinger into a nursery bag half-filled nursery bag like an automaton. The other girl, Sharon, was ceaselessly talking some nonsense things that must have sounded very sweet to him that made him poked faster and faster. I was mad, red hot mad. So hot I could have blown a fuse, at all that drama unfolding in front of me.

Each time I straightened up from the back-breaking task of shovelling shit and dirt, to look their way, Sharon would stop talking, Chiwendo would let the helm of her skirt drop to her knees. Each time this occurred, and that’s very frequently, I got angrier, madder and hotter- I was murderously peeved. I could have chopped off the heads of all three of the slothful bastards with one swing of my shovel. I would’ve taken off Evbodaghe’s head first; Chiwendu, second and Sharon third and last. I would have spat down Sharon’s throat, stuffed manure down Evbodaghe’s throat and jack off on Chiwendu’s throat. In my mind I had dared Chiwendu to annoyingly drop her skirt on my view one more time and they will all three feel the heat of my wrath. I was just straightening up from the killing shitty task to try and catch a glimpse of what viewing pleasure Chiwendo was denying me and allowing my friend Evbodaghe freely, when the overseer suddenly appeared and barked at me “get to work, you fucking sluggard…”. Then I saw that the tractor had already brought in more Manure, and was already unloading them onto the unfinished heap I was mixing with dirt, and I was already neck-deep in shit.

At the end of that day, I got half the regular wage, because I did not meet my target of shoveling and mixing enough manure and dirt. Evbodaghe and the girls got full pay. I have still not forgiven my friend Evbodaghe till this day. I have forgotten about Chiwendo, because I hated her after that incidence. As for Sharon, well I don’t really care for her even though she was made my overseer.

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GOD IS WATCHING US, AND THEM

They keep pestering the brotha, these fucking ushers. They keep coming back to remind him that there are seats, more comfy seats in the front; that these back pews are reserved for children and nursing mothers. I am sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the nice-cologne-smelling, flowing agbada-clad, rich-looking dude, but no usher is bothering me, or the other young persons mostly dressed in Jeans and T-Shirts.

What they faill to see, those highfaluting, hypocrite church ushers, is that there are holes in his socks. I can see one of his socks from here and those short-sighted can’t. And I think he’s not as loaded as he looks, because the chic seated to the other side of him had given him her number but he couldn’t even flash back- he lacked credits obviously, as he turned aside (my side) to adroitly load on a N100 glo recharge card.

I took a peak at his wallet that time when he was fishing for a complimentary card for another chic who’d asked for his contact- the wallet was very thin. I saw a few Naira notes of small denominations- N50, N20, N10, N5, N5, N5, and some complimentary cards. The N5 notes could have been more, he’s already put one in the offering envelope, and another one in the Tithe Envelope, and yet another in the Church Building Collection Envelope. He has not touched The Alms For The Less Privilege Envelope yet. By the time he parts with another note he will left with just two N5, with the N10, N20, and N50. I could sum this guy’s worth on the fingers on one hand.

I think this church (which must remain anonymous) should appoint Ibo-female ushers. Only such persons as ushers will be able to do the sum of people’s net and gross worth like I just did with this broke ass brotha. I can’t even judge him, because I get broken sometimes, myself. And I don’t have to blame a brotha, so that I may not be blamed myself. God is watching us.

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SHORT LIST OF THE AKWA IBOM AT 25 POETRY CONTEST

Poetry Contest Shortlist

1.    To Akwa Ibom at 25 by    Igwe Prince Jacon

2.    The Jewel of the Niger Delta by Nsisong Bassey

3.    Great AkwaIbom by Hillary Uzomba….

4.    For Qua Iboe by Emmanuel Uweru Okoh

5.     Home-Coming Jubilee by Okiri Christopher

6.    Silver by Onyeka Omenye

7.    Idara by Bokoru Julius

8.    Akwa Ibom by Efose Ikhalo

9.    Akwa Ibom by Valentine Chukwu

10.  Voices of the Fathers by Olarenwaju Daniels Adeoye

Posted by CREATIVE WRITING NEWS ⁠ ⁠ on http://creativewritingnews.blogspot.com/2012/09/happy-bookers-international-poetry.html at 4:02 AM

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