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Ripples: The Brute, the Bad and the Snitch

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ripples

My absence on the blog has fetched me several names in the past, but none has been more solid than the one I got some weeks ago.

He must have seen me in his dream or something. I’ll bet he woke up and decided to drag out the object of his nightmare. BBM helped him do that. I’ll call him Brutus.

Brutus: You eh? Na wah to you!

I was waiting for my garri to elevate to the benchmark at the time.

Me: Sir, what I do??

Brutus: You have backslid.

Just like that! Read the rest of this entry »

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Musings: My Top Ten

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writing-is-hard

 

 

 

 

 

Writing a new year good wishes at this time seems like something most people won’t do (seeing that the year is not so new anymore), but I guess it’s either this scribbler isn’t really like most people or something is not entirely right. I’m more comfortable with the former.

This is several weeks overdue, but I’ll go on regardless and wish readers a wonderful and fruitful new year and new month. On the bright side, I got the opportunity to wish you on the double, probably better than the “gyn-ish” double the Eritrean government supposedly has to offer.

By now, resolutions that would really stay will be in motion already, while the other resolutions―those guidelines for the first few days/weeks of the year that usually fade away with the frenzy―would have met their usual fate: total abandon, or if you like, calamitous waterloo (I miss Honorable Patrick Obahiagbon).

In my defense for my one-month long hiatus post- last post (pardon that combo), I’ve been doing a little reading on the blog, trying to figure the major glitches that caused the bad market last year. Okay, scratch that. That was me being dramatic.

So far, it’s been a long interesting read. I think I found a bit of what I was looking for, in addition to the typos and omissions of course. Some of the posts made me laugh and got me asking myself what I was thinking when I wrote them. I marveled at the experiences I never thought I could share but did. A few were products of testing new waters; attempts at new style/genre. I still can’t pinpoint the ghost readers or send them a little dose of insomnia until they comment and share, but I can do my part and see where it goes from here.

In no particular order, below are my top favorite posts I’ll like you to check:

Dear Future Bae
Sour-prano Untamed
The Judge Next Door
The Things We Share
Client X: The End of Me
Knocked Out
The Things in Your Heart
A Tale of Sevens and Perfection
Sow a Seed
Life Drama

I would love to start the year with your feedback on these posts or any other post that interests you. Perhaps this would help identify a niche or two that should get more devotion.

This is me grinning in anticipation that you’ll read and say what you think.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

photo credit: google images

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To The Faceless Woman

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faceless-woman

The day ends in a few tick-tocks

Proletariat’s period of relief

Couple of days off the routines

She must have had the smile on her face

This I know ‘cuz I had it too

Beaming, packing… beaming again

Whistling all songs and no song

The weekend is here!

 

Keep calm little mini-me, Jane

Momma is coming home

We can have our girl-time soon

 

Hold on hubby

A weather to ― ahem…

Hold the thought till I’m home, try!

 

The weekend is here Màámi

Your jokes and drama I really miss

We’ll chat and laugh like old times

 

Life and the many roles we play

 

But Momma never came

Wife lost the warmth

Daughter never showed up

 

All along was the hood-man

Lurking with a scythe and a cold mien

Trailing the wheels till the very end

A clash, a fall and a thud

A smashing sound and the gory scene

Altered feature of a once beautiful face

Abrupt end to plans and aspirations

Dreams and whims doomed to fizzle

A painful and rushed exit

 

I hope she finds home

I wish she had what it takes

To rest and have peace

Sleep on

Sleep well

Dedicated to a faceless woman who lost her life in a motorcycle accident.

photo credit: google images

I am @Jossef69 on twitter.

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Dear Diary: Dusk Before Dawn

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Dear Diary,

I found myself in a serious imbroglio recently. I’ve heard of the danger in lines and messages with multiple meanings to different people, but it never blew at my face this way before.

We all have our share of friends met during dire circumstances, who later turned out to be great pals akin to a brother―or sister―and family. In my case, John ranked high on the list of such friends, and many times I wondered how it happened.

John, like his friend, is a young man who never feels comfortable with tons of praises and felicitations. Place three beautiful seguing adjectives behind his name and you will have him tweet and retweet like a mockingbird, persuading you to stop the hype like he has a chronic allergy for it (that is still under investigation though).

You can imagine having to bench the idea of putting a well-deserved post for him on Facebook on his birthday (because it would be lots of sweet words); sticking to the limited number of characters the profile message space of a blackberry messenger has to offer. I remember typing a few words about how we got this far, bla bla bla… and a final full stop.

But the stop was far from full.

Have you ever been at that point where a person is the trigger needed to start a chain reaction? The full stop was the beginning of hours of reminiscence. He reminded me of how I almost didn’t get into the university when I did, with a heavy heart and disappointed face so wrinkled you would think I served a long sentence atop a compost pit. By the way, John was the first person to see the face.

He reminded me of my deployment to a state that seemed like a nightmare during my service year, and the dream job I didn’t get even when it was just about a meeting away.

What I later found out was that most times, disappointments and let-downs are blessings, which in retrospect would make one shine one’s not-so-white-teeth or otherwise in acknowledgement.

The fact that I almost didn’t get into the university when I did―that anyone can fail if careless―is one of the reasons I got serious and graduated when and how I did. The nightmarish location NYSC deployed me to, turned out better for me before the end of the service year―being the highest-ranked (and maybe highest-paid) corps member of one’s local government comes with respect, challenges and responsibilities that will mold rough clay to smooth vase. Erstwhile dream job would’ve been good; it just wouldn’t have aligned and added value to me quickly like what I have. I found out after failing to get the former.

Now, imagine retiring to bed later that night, and then summing up all the memories into something about “heartbreaks that were in the real sense, blessings in cloak.” I put this up as my PM after a final chat with John. This would’ve been a normal thing; just another update you put up every once in forever. Right?

Wrong!

The timing was wrong! In fact, it was way so uncanny.

I had a relationship some years back, and the lady with whom I had it got introduced (a pre-wedding event) that same day! A disgruntled ex-boyfriend could have written what I wrote as my profile message, and she pretty much came for my hides with smiles and knives. The update seemed like a fitting shoe size, but I never did the shopping for her. I tried to see the situation from her perspective (perhaps ‘heartbreak’ wasn’t the best word choice), but then Thesaurus even disagreed. Heartbreak relates to despair, grief, pain et al; and not matters of the heart alone.

She never believed me; I didn’t flog myself trying to explain either. There is no value-add clarifying issues to someone who has chosen not to be objective about it, or even believed I could go to the extent of sticking it to her in the first place.

I would’ve kept this to myself but I couldn’t suppress the yearn to let it out and move on. I owe it to myself to come clear. I owe my friends (including those that never voiced their doubts) the facts, so they can be reassured I’m not that guy!

On the bright side though, I won’t be surprised if this fiasco turns out to be another good thing; an unfortunate event that is really a blessing in disguise. 🙂

Only time will tell.

*****

It’s been three months since the last post! *I cringe* If I had cultivated maize then, I should be chilling on the sofa now with my legs crossed, devouring a well roasted corn with my eyes set on the dough cribs full of harvest would rake in.

I didn’t.

Apologies for the long period of inactivity. The past three months were about lots of travelling and engagements that required serious attention. A lot was at stake so I had to give the needed devotion (multi-tasking isn’t always the best, believe me).

Now that things are calm, I’ll make-up for the gap.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

Hustle Living

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Gingerly, he approached the figure, wrapping his hand around the neckline to loosen the little knot that held the mini-gown in place. I had no idea what a gown like that is called, but I was certain it should be something not so expensive though seemingly fancy, judging from the way it fitted around the firm curves on the feminine shape. Even as it dropped through the slightly protruding waist down to the feet that put an end to the fair long legs, revealing the pesky pair of mounds on the trimmed porcelain skin, he never seemed to be distracted for a second.

I sat, squeezed to the window side of a creaking 18-seater bus finding its way in the traffic congestion, watching the stranger undress the mannequin. It was about 30 minutes to the 20th hour; the end of the day’s work for some and the beginning for others. I belonged to the former category, the road-side cloth merchant and his mannequins gallantly occupied the latter.

The bus dragged briefly towards the 11.82km bridge. I knew it was the beginning of another 2hours–characterized by rough à la distress driving, cusses and attendant spits, honks and bashes–even before the bus came to a halt, the persistent gridlock remaining the factor.

A bucket of many bottled drinks sped by, and I looked out the window to confirm or discard the sorcery I just saw. For a person of really brief height, I didn’t expect the hawker to be so nimble-toed even with the conglomeration of drinks he balanced on his head. Others of his ilk had gala, plantain chips of countless brands, cashew nuts and several other consumables clutched to their sides; all meandering through the congestion trying to sell their wares. I shook my head in pity as I watched one of the hawkers almost get squeezed between two buses while he rushed to get payment for what he just sold a passenger.

“There is a Junior and/or a wife at home, a sister or brother in school, or a mama in the village depending on them… and so they hustle with their every fiber.” An elderly who seemed to have been watching me all the while said. I knew she wasn’t any off from the truth.

A couple of hours, countless hisses and serious body aches later, the third gear of the bus finally became useful. Perhaps from the reprieve brought about by the draught into the moving bus, the occupants of the seat behind me began to discuss what awaited them at their destination, the crux of the discuss being their grievances with the wage they get at work, and how the foreign owners of the factory they work in maltreat them like a flock of quarantined pigs.

I got home a few minutes to 11pm with a smile on my face; PHCN decided to put a little something in our bulbs. I settled in quickly and refreshed to get some sleep, for the alarm would do its job by 4:20AM the following day irrespective of how I feel. I remembered a joke a colleague made about the episode introductions of a movie I was seeing (he thought it would be cool to have the prologue in pidgin) and I decided to indulge myself briefly.

The player came to live as my then recumbent self began the pidgin prologue:

“My name na Oliver Queen

After five years for ogbonge hell

Na so I waka con’ home with only one goal…”

PHCN didn’t allow me save my city. They took the light.

Ironically, I wasn’t pained. They take power more than they give it and we all know. It’s bad, but I’m somehow used to it already. As I rolled over to sleep I flashed to a headline I saw on CNN a few days earlier:

D.C hit by power outage.

I would guess many Americans were in panic throughout the blackout. In some climes, blackout mostly precedes bad things, say terrorism, a headless horseman with a big axe roaming the streets, or simply the beginning of the apocalypse.

The same blackout an average warm-tempered Yoruba/Ibo/Hausa man (trust me, you don’t want to read the hot-tempered man’s version; I don’t want to write it too) would roll his eyes over and say “awon dìndìnrìn”/”mcheew, iti boribo!”/”kai! Shege!” became breaking news in some other place.

And then I did a conscious recap of my day.

Ours is a country of stoic and hard working people; we strive and hurdle regardless of the barriers and hardship, ironically with a smile bearing countenance. But it doesn’t mean we don’t want things to be better.

Maybe I wouldn’t have spent so much time in traffic if there were functioning alternative means of transport or route. Maybe there won’t be a horde of hawkers on the road at the risk of being crushed if power is regular to the point of making some other business ventures profitable. Maybe the factory workers would have ceased being garri-and-groundnut-driven robots in the sight of their bosses–slave masters–if there were other opportunities for them. Lots and tons of several other maybes!

Maybe I wouldn’t have had reasons to write this.

I am @jossef69 on twitter

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Duchess Of The Rings

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It’s late in the month of March in the year 2015. The weather is a little humid and Jonathan is still president. I can conveniently call myself an adult male, but I still don’t fully understand a few “basic” things. What’s the import of the situation report you ask. Chill. This will be brief.

But that’s not a promise.

There’s a difference between dog and dingo (maybe not as glaring as the difference between a cockerel and a broiler) and it doesn’t take understanding rocket science to know, but it’s never a crime if you don’t (lawyers, please cover me if I just lied).

Imagine walking down Thompson Street (go ahead and google the street, inquisitive chicken). You have no thoughts of work deadline making your heart beat rock and reggae concurrently, and your self-esteem cum confidence are really at the level that they should be —full.

Then it happened.

A beautiful daughter of Eve walked elegantly past you and you couldn’t help but to notice (you’re a handsome great grandson of Solomon after all). She walked gracefully and her gentle sashay gave you a vague idea of something you saw recently, but you couldn’t get a grip of it. She looked back at you, as if she could feel your eyes roaming her skin, especially at the area around her waist and a few staggering inches down; and then the eureka moment hit you: she reminded you of the newly married dapper wife of the handsome prince (make no mistake Challey, this is not a Ghollywood script).

Speaking of being married, you realized she could be already hooked to a fortunate Mr. Donald (Seriously? You’ll google him too?). Voices kept telling you to pursue and find out, for it would amount to letting the village witches prevail without stress if you assumed and let her go. What if she’s just so pretty but single like you? So you walked, determined steps after another, wishing it would be the last time your spontaneity in the art of pick-ups would be required.

A few inches away from her, something caught your attention. Pretty ma’am had all her fingers adorned with rings; sparkling rings that would make Frodo and Gollum scream “Our precious” at once. You’re an adult male but you still don’t fully understand a few “basic” things, like meaning of ring placement on different fingers of a lady, apart from the fourth finger of course. She didn’t stretch out her hand for your review (remember nail inspection on assemblies in secondary schools?), but you counted about two to three rings on one hand. You mouthed a subtle “Obaro Cheesox” unknowingly. How do you proceed from here?

You swallowed hard. Your cluelessness grew as the traditional Ndigbo flute started playing in your head, further increasing your confusion. The voices began to speak to you again, telling you how to proceed thence.

“She’s married… no she’s not, they’re just fashion rings,” a voice said.

“Oga you’re only single, not foolish too! Three fashion rings versus five fingers? Is she the duchess of the rings?” Another voice countered.

“You’re not seeing right. There are two rings, not three.”

“Are you drunk or just momentarily dumb? Do the Maths. Two or three fingers out of five, the probability that she’s married or engaged is high!” The educated mathematics-inclined voice finalized.

To approach, or not to approach? You asked yourself.

A fortnight ago you went after a young lady who you later found out was married with the “sharpest” tongue ever. Of course she didn’t call you a blind fool for making such move, she only shook the finger bearing her wedding ring before your face with the look-carefully-I’m-married attitude and then walked away muttering words that sounded Russian to your ears. Maybe she was in a bad mood. Maybe.

Quit the imagination and join me in reality bro. Will you advance against all odds to confirm her status, or move on and watch out for other free fingers? Ma’am, put yourself in bro’s shoes, what will you do?

I’m not sure what I’ll do, I only know it won’t be the former.

It’s in vogue; the fad as far as ladies are concerned. Question is: have we ever thought about the likely implications? I do not plan to argue in favour of a party or judge another, but I think it’s significant enough to be mentioned. Other growing trends include remaining single lady because marriage is overrated or independence is bliss; trooping to religious conventions (relax, I won’t write Shiloh here joor) for the gift, fruit or seed of a life partner; etc. I believe you can link the dots.

You want to rock the rings the way you like? That’s your prerogative. Attempting to point at the fallouts of rocking them in some ways? That’s my civic responsibility.

What do you think? Use the comment box for comments, corrections… and abuses. 🙂

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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Lost

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I saw, sought and took the shot
Heeding a strange voice that numbs control
Lending motion to emotions held at bay
A moment of no restraints
Succumbing to what thrills, yet profane

Free like a bird, I’d sing
But the hollow remains what it is:
Hollow. Sunken. Empty
Gallivanting in captivity
A flighty bird in a see-through cage
Freedom in bondage

A part of me is missing
Nay, not entirely gone
It shrinks and dwindles
A dying ember longing to be fanned
Mumbling from a place remote
Stifled and bound, seeking liberty

I miss the familiar voice
That directs against the temptress’ wiles
How did I get here?
To this brink of glaring abyss
Fleeting bliss that choked my peace
I have to find my way back

I miss HIM

I am @jossef69 on twitter

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Knocked Out

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I could open this post by giving a trite but dramatic “happy new year” followed by many good wishes, but seeing as that would be tantamount to saying opening prayer when it’s already time for benediction, I’ll save myself the disgrace and wish y’all greatness within myself. May we never run out of fishes to fry nor lose our certificate(s) to the utmost mockery of our enemies.

Of course, I’m murmuring the above within myself.

Many thanks to everyone who took time to go through my scribbles in times past despite my shortcomings and inconsistencies; it’s a great honour to have you. To ghost readers who stroll in for a peep like the biblical thief in the night (most thieves get caught eventually you know?), God is watching you. And Amadiora too. Thank you…but you must repent. 🙂

Hearty “shout salute” to avid commenters; the core to my reactor and source of immense encouragement. Leonardo Da Vinci must have really understood the importance of feedback before he wrote this: You have not farted if nobody grumbled nor contorted their face upon your gaseous release. Totally, I concur! I appreciate y’all. I hope it turns out to be a year of great and concentrated releases from SJB.

Here’s a little something I wrote late last year, featured on Elsieisy’s blog. Grab a bottle of coke or sorrel and enjoy.

*•*•*

A soft voice reached me from a distance, though not strong enough to bother me. I was in a state that felt great, but I couldn’t describe it. The voice got louder and harsher as a masculine voice chipped in an inglorious roughness, dragging me from my unknown state to what I later realised was consciousness.

“Damn! I did it again.”

Two days earlier I had slept off in a car en route to work. The driver I told my destination upon getting on-board had taken me several bus stops away from my stop, making excuses that he asked me but I didn’t answer. I believe people reason and talk in their sleep in his village.

I sat up as my tired eyes fixated on the source of my disturbance-cum-saving grace. The last time I checked, I was in a bus with five passengers. I must have dozed for so long, for the bus had filled up and almost at my destination.

“Madam, take it easy.”

A man likely in his forties said calmly in an apparent attempt to settle the ongoing vituperative exchange between a woman and another man; a well suit-ed man for that matter.

I wasn’t interested. I’d experienced a lot to last a lifetime in bus rides—from terror-voiced singing passenger to four full hours of chronic beansy farts endurance from an obvious source, to a preaching driver who paused intermittently to call for passengers, etc. Experience has taught me that such dramas are often not worth the effort of thinking them through. They are best enjoyed than understood.

I turned from them, but the Judas Iscariot ears I posses wouldn’t turn with me.

“Stupid woman! You have no respect. I wonder what you do to your husband at home…” He vented.

“I wonder what unfortunate woman married an insane man like you. Tragedy!” She parried.

I didn’t look back but I knew her counter crawled up his spine and sank into his brain. A rough scuffle ensued, but a familiar calm voice came in again.

“You two should stop this. You’re grown-ups. Woman…” he called with a bit of an elevated pitch, like he had some control over her, “…it’s time you kept quiet for good. I mean it.”

It worked like magic; I almost requested for a bit of the juju. She muted, but her fellow-in-dispute took it as the beginning of his victory. I had a feeling doom lurked in the boot for him, but he spilled more invectives like it was expedient for a promotion at work. He raved and dropped the thick one that broke the proverbial camel’s back—or nose.

“Woman, I’m not so worried about your insanity. From all you’ve been saying I’m sure you married someone like you; someone equally supercilious and condescending.” He paused, probably in admiration of his vocabulary. I wondered what the matter had to do with the husband. “Get home soon, woman, and let your irresponsible numbskull of a husband know how sick you are.”

She broke her silence and replied curtly, in an unbelievable low voice, “You can tell him yourself.”

Action flew first class.

Something cracked. It was more of a snap. It seemed as though the human nose is plastic like people say after all. Much as I tried to think otherwise, I knew it wasn’t just a crack of the calm mediator’s phalanges upon his fisty impact on someone else’s face—the face of a familiar man in suit. Something else definitely got broken.

I missed the action, but not everything it left in its wake.

Blood trickled down the nose of a corporately dressed owner even as he attempted to help his distressed organ with his hands, letting out grunts in pain. His vituperation-laden mouth contorted with confusion. I pondered as the dots connected before me.

Mediator was madam’s numbskull.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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Dear Diary: Blend Or Bend

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Stipula_fountain_penDear Diary,

It’s been a long while since I wrote to you, and yes, I know I write this line very often. It’s so bad I have run out of who and what to blame for the disappearing acts.

Here I am, pulled out from under the unknown—maybe unnamed—rock I’ve been hiding under all these while, typing out my heart content. I know you won’t be bothered about cohesion of thoughts, flow, organisation and all other stuffs critics subject writers to, because if you do I’ve got this stand-by good news: I’m not a writer.

I’m naturally very rebellious when it comes to statements like “all Ijebu people/ladies are stingy/bad wives”, “Ibadan people are very local”, “fat ladies sing well”, “flashy fair guys are Casanovas”, bla bla and bla. I was particularly against the “what you do consecutively for twenty-one (21) days becomes a part of you” statement, because I “worked-out” for more than a month to maintain what was left of my six-minus-one packs, but I skipped the routine for a few days and I didn’t revisit it again (by the way, there is a faster way to achieve that: shed a ton of weight first. Mail me for the remaining tips). I’ve got a few packs left though. Methinks.

Like I wrote above about the statement, I was against it.

Reality set in and taught me some really cogent lessons. Real life is way different from the fancy things we cook in our minds. In fact, reality is more of the old black-and-white TV and far from the 75” LCD TV one wants it to be; it’s just left for one to put on one’s multi-colour lens of choice to view the moving pictures, or throw in some modifications, if one can. Maybe I’m just rambling; perhaps this is the part where I should write “Selah” in a large font. You choose.

My piece of reality was set before me recently, but I erred by buckling to its dictates, instead of viewing it with my very own lens. I got busy with important things, but I let go of other things that make me happy; things I enjoy doing. I felt working a little harder to get things done in spite of myself would make a huge difference, and I was right; I got used to living without the fun. It-stucks-after-twenty-one-days ideology set in.

A really huge difference isn’t it?

When it comes to reacting to the sight of backlog of mails on someone’s device (say some sixty-something unread mails), I think I’m a screamer. I was a screamer. I would look the person in the eye and give the “dude! Like seriously?” face. I think karma hasn’t had my time just yet (busy packaging crash hampers of retribution for better crooks I guess); else someone should have as well looked me straight in the eye—and my nostrils down to my toes—screaming to the brink of asphyxiation at my very own one hundred and forty-two unread mails.

Yeah, it was that bad. And I hate it.

I skim through the mails and disregard the low-ranking ones on the priority list. I could dish out blames at the inadequacy of the 24 hours I’m entitled to daily—approximately 29.17% of which is embezzled by commute time (I kid not), largely Lagos traffic; but I won’t. I shouldn’t. It’s all on me for being just one-directional. Letting go of the things I love to do temporarily sounded like a good plan, but it dawned on me that there will never be enough time, except I create one.

Things should change, and the first step to achieving that is writing this. Now I’ll be reminded of the things I’ve written on the need to put balance in the picture. I will put it as a colour in the lens with which I view and handle life; the aid to my very own box of black-and-white reality.

I wish someone in my shoes—or probably wearing a larger size—would read this and do the needful. Read the mails, reply the pings, read that book, see that movie, holler at the pal, talk with Ma and Da’, hangout with the ma’am… whatever makes/will make you happy. Arrive at a potpourri that has bits of what you want; maybe not everything but most of it.

I almost forgot; I never said it would be easy. I’m not sure it would be very tough either, but I’m about to find out. I hope I stick to my own advice.

Hasta la vista D.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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Unbridled

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12-5-11-crev-Self-Control

“Ekùn! One-man battalion! The one and only Minister of women affairs of the entire Naija kingdom…”

Tunji smiled as his friends hailed him. He knew the facts behind the words, and he had tried several times to set them straight, but it has been grossly futile.

“…any other Minister of your station is counterfeit.” Mide, the very outspoken one in the group, added the popular line before inviting him to join in the feast of suya.

“Oga, this meat por ground e suweet pha! Musa I don phut am flenty flenty por me!” He mimicked the suya seller the aboki-way.

They’ve been friends since they were children. Right from the times they did the daddy-and-mummy plays as kids with girls (which always caused a fight since they all coveted the role of daddy and not son; because daddy and mummy sleep on the same bed), he has proved himself as a person with keen interest in the mechanics and physiology of the point of intersection of the female thighs.

“Oh! Me I don porget. No be this kin’ suya Tunji dey chop. Na the one wey get…”

Tunji wouldn’t let him finish the sentence before he interjected. “And how many times will I tell you guys I’m a changed person now?”

The laughter that followed was loud; it spoke lots with an undertone of sarcasm. He had said the words without thinking and he sounded like he had used them many times already. Convincing his friends that he has finally changed for good was a tough one, but he hammered it more at the time, being utterly convinced himself that it was true.

Mide coughed in his characteristic mischievous style; a gesture that always suggested that he has a trick up his sleeve. Silence ruled for a moment just before Mide’s voice filled the air.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t buckle,” he glanced at Tunji’s fly, “even if Risi swayed all the ‘real estates’ provocatively before you?” He fixated on Tunji while his hand independently moved a piece of meat into his mouth.

His reply wasn’t as quick as appropriate, but he managed to say a few words to stifle the gathering that was already buzzing with shades of chuckle and laughter.

“I won’t!” Tunji responded sharply, drawing just the right amount of attention he wanted. He furthered to bank on the situation.

“I don’t know this Risi you so hype, and I don’t care how configured… no, sorry, how impressive she looks; all I know is that I won’t falter ‘cuz of her. Besides, staying firm also takes the grace of… of er…”

He stuttered as the weight of a distraction overwhelmed him, leaving the opportunity for Mide to trace his line of sight which settled on a spot. A spot fully occupied by Risi.

“….grace of God!” Mide supplied the words to complete Tunji’s sentence and put him out of his loop.

“Exactly!” He regained focus as he moved towards the spiced meats he had mentally told earlier to get behind him.

“Maybe I’ll be needing suya after all,” he mouthed as he munched.

*****

He exploded with a surge so great he could vividly feel energy flee from him. Tunji rolled over to a side of the bed as he caught his breath. He stared at the ceilings but saw nothing, apart from the faint irregular marks that play tricks on him sometimes. It was the third round of intimate lifting, thumping and grinding with her in just one night. He lied sweaty; spent.

The kissing and sucking insect by the nomenclature Risi had made sure his life never remained the same starting from the day they had had the suya that changed everything. To her, it was another one down, many more to go.

The ceiling smudges gathered before him to form a crooked image of the all-seeing eyed Mona Lisa, which made him feel exposed and guilty altogether. He remembered reiterating “the Lord has done it again and finally” to Mide when he converted for the supposed last time. Now his hollywood movie has a pidgin subtitle:

Risi don do am again.

Whatever grace means without caution?

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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