RANDOM: WFT's He On About...?

Ok so I'm jobless today...well not quite jobless exactly. I have a post I'm working on but as a stop gap I have a 'lil competition for you. As everyone is doing Independence Bonanzas, giving crazy ass discounts up to 50% sef (like really...discounts? In Naija...if the business owner don't make at least cost price + 10 that discount ain't cutting it) and people are planning on extended weekends (YAY...fucking...NOT...another day wasted due to public holidays...but I digress) I said to myself ...

ME: "Dang baby...why don't you and I...also known as WE *please note this is the royal WE here o* also known as Me do something crafty to bring new users to the fold" (Shamefacedly...I admit...this conversation really did take place...and yes I talk to myself...but...isn't that normal?)

SELF: "Hmmm...sounds like a plan! How we gonna swing that?"

We thought and pondered. Well I thought and pondered, Myself just lounged like a houri in a (شيخ)‎ Shaykh's seraglio sipping Turkish coffee. Me and myself have this interesting dichotomy going on. I...that is Me...am the stronger, more dominant personality, while Myself...hmmm...X_x...*nuff said!* so basically I run the show and she...Myself...tags along for moral support...however she would readily dispute the question of whom wears the pants between us *in reality...she never wears any pants...shhhh! You didn't hear that noggin of information from moi...shhhhhush!*. Confused yet? No? Well here's guessing you're on Team Gemini (Go Gemini *fist pump*) :-D.

Anyways, me and myself and our coz "I", thanks to inspiration from twitter and all the crazies I know there *mad love for y'all...birds of a feather and all that crap* and also from all the Nigerian 'artists' who daily produce "one-" hit (?) wonders of sound that have we the listening public scratching our heads and looking Homer Simpson-ish with a priceless "What the fuck is he on about?" expression tattooed across our faces, came up with the notion to do a "WTF Does That Mean" competition. The offending word for today is 'Utunu'.

Now in my magnanimosity and in the spirit of Nigeria being 50 (and my desire to extend my fan base *devilish smiley* Muahahahahaha! >:-D) I am offering a special anniversaire gift to the reader of this post who comes up with the most interesting, funny and downright kolo definition of the target word.

Rules:

• You must be following me on twitter
• You must be be a follower of my blog *straight face*
• You must include your twitter handle so I know it's you
• You are entitled to submit a maximum of 5 separate entries. (tweets are not inclusive)
• You must be resident in Nigeria
• All entries must be posted as a comment *transparency is our motto*
• Entries after 12 Midnight 30th September 2010 are null, void and the sender shall be shipped of to Tibet and be forced to be sex slave to a Yeti.

The process of selection is open-secret balloting *there's an oxymoronic statement if ever there was one*. There are two rounds. The first round is the initial submission and then shortlisting by a panel of expert judges *namely Me, Myself and I...go figure*.

The best five *IMHO* will then be presented to the public and the best definition as judged by the readers (via polling) shall be declared the undisputed heavyweight champion of Utunu, and will be contacted so that their prize can be sent across! Voting starts 3-Oct and ends 9-Oct. The winner will be announced on the 10th. Sounds good? Good!

Okay so get creative, get mad, get whatever...and maybe you get the "GIFT"! If you haven't heard the song 'Good Lurving' yet...>> Good Lurvin' - Lynxx ft Whiz Kid (mp3).

Now who says I ain't never done nothing for ya!? ;-)

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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Randomly Random

Hello all,
Sorry I've been MIA but I've been more or less brain-dead. Nothing and I do mean NOTHING has come to mind to write about. I could claim Writer's block but this one pass that one sef. I'm thinking more like Life Block. My life is totally uninspiring as a source of material. This is therefore a random review of the nothing that has turned to my life.

• Moms has started again. The usual "When are you gonna get married?" discussion don start again. SMMFH. #isthatwhywearehere? Abeg make una help me beg her to free me jare! The joke is no longer funny. Is it by forced sef? I told her straight up I have no plans whatsoever of ever...EVER getting hitched. That shut her up sharpish. I think she has started prayer and fasting on my head. My coz has even started towing the 'when we go wear your ashebi' cart. My sister and her hubby have started sef. Na wa for poor lil me. It isn't that I don't wanna get hitched one day but must I settle?

I've always wondered why they call it settling down sef. To me settle means to manage or make do with...almost as if better no dey. Then to worsen the matter they added the word DOWN to the equation. It's bad enough you're managing the man...now you're moving DOWN into oblivion not UP to a new plateau. This is just me being random.

• I've come to the opinion that I'm just a pushover! Well only where Boyfriend is concerned. We finally broke up. For all of three weeks. Men! I just don't understand them and really I don't think I wanna anymore *there...I've said it! I finally admit defeat* Life was so much easier when I didn't give a hoot! Now I'm a goddamn owl *hoot hoot* RME. Anyways as I was saying we went to Splitsville NY. He broke up with me *or rather I made him call it quits* over a supposed ultimatum I gave him. I said "Cool. Nice knowing you. Adios." Was really patting self on the back for being a real trooper about it. No tears. No hysterics. Almost shook his hand as I walked him to his car. Fast-forward three weeks. In his new apartment *Don't ask me how I got there*

ME: Ok I have to go.
HIM: Okay. We dilly-dally at the door.
ME: Remember you broke up with me o!
HIM: Nah I didn't.
ME: Yeah you did. (*rewind and repeat 10 times*)
HIM: You know I can't do without you *I later read this same line on the TT #liesmentell...nuff said*
ME: (naked in bed) *X_x*.

So we're back on the merry-go-round and nought has changed. Like really FMFL. I'm so dick whipped I'm like a runaway slave that got caught and got splayed. I need deliverance o! This juju wey BF use hold me suppose don reach to expire sef *now calling NAFDAC*. Oh well let the pain (re-)begin.

 • I got a BB at last and I still don't understand the hype. For me it's just a very expensive way to avoid buying airtime to make calls. Well that is IM- not so -HO.

 • I had a dream about one of the peeps I ff on twitter. I shall never be able to look at him without going beetroot purple. Let's just say if it were ever turned to a skin flick they'd have to think of a whole new rating system cos XXX-rated just wouldn't cut it. Now praying I have an opportunity to get him pissed *aka legless aka shit-faced aka wasted ok you get the picture* and try out the scene concerning furry handcuffs, PVC, shower fixtures and ice-cream. However I am worried about the link between Erectile Dysfunction, premature ejaculation and alcohol so I guess I'll just have to talk the pants off of him :-). Ok too much info don't wanna scare him off in case he *by some fluke of technology* gets to read this.
PS: I've just realised that the BB doesn't recognise the words erectile and ejaculation or maybe it was the combination with the words dysfunction and premature. Hmmm!

• My two friends got hitched. I almost *almost mind you* leaked a tear. Met up with some members of my twit-fam and even recognised one of em by their avatar. Why is this surprising? Her avatar is a booty shot. Very compelling ASSets I must say *o ya feel free to groan. Even I groaned while typing that weak ASS pun :-D X_x there I go again*

• Wayne Rooney allegedly paid a hooker £1200 a night *math cap on* that's like N305,000 a session. Now re-evaluating my career choices *osho free don end from henceforth*. And na who be the maga wey talk say ashi no be work? Did I mention she sold her story for a further £400k *do your own mathematics here the zeros are giving me migraine*

• I've decided that I don't like children. Strange considering I have three of them *well my kids are cool* but really kids suck. It's my uncles and aunts that have me on this tip. Gramps died in June and they're there squabbling about a bunch of BS. Meanwhile the man was bedridden for 8 *yes EIGHT* fucking years and they never came to see him. Even till now none of them have even been to the mortuary to confirm that it is really THEIR father there. If this is the reward for giving life and raising children maybe barrenness isn't such a bum deal! Anyway I jump and pass. My children shall never cause me such grief. However...retirement plan will definitely cover such a contingency. Once again I say...kids suck.

• I'm gonna start divorce procedures soon against a lot of my friends. This random post should serve as notice to them and if they fail to receive the notice...well...tough luck cookie! *as good friends they should be stuck on my blog like a stamp to a letter innit?*

Before you complain about this post been bereft of purpose or point I did tell y'all I had nought to write about so I'm just rambling randomly with no rhyme nor rhythm to this post. And that is that.

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)


13th Sept 2010: 
ADDENDUM:
Some people complained about the use of abbreviations in this writeup so here is a brief translation of the lexicon used.


SMMFH: Shaking my muthafucking head
RME: Rolling my eye(ball)s
X_x: Eyes covered (in shame)
BB: Blackberry
TT: Trending topic; a topic of interest on Twitter
FMFL: Fuck my fucking life
BF: Boyfriend 
IMHO: In my humble opinion
NAFDAC: Please google

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Untitled Pt 2

Fourteen hours earlier

Sean 'Seun Oluseyi is a man who gets noticed. He never consciously or unconsciously sought attention but always had it thrust rather rudely upon him. A number of factors were responsible for this attention, his lineage being the key one, the son of a former President and a one-time supermodel, his face has been in the papers from almost the moment he could crawl.

His good looks were another. At six foot four, his presence was imposing. He obviously took care of his body as evidenced in the way his clothes hug from his torso, and his muscular frame. His stomach was washboard flat and his gluts well defined. His face was chiseled, his chin square and strong, his nose straight and aristocratic, and his lips were full and unusually sensual…a gift from his mother, and when he smiled his dimples added a boyish charm to his appeal and toned down his blatantly sexual magnetism. His skin clear dark chocolate, making many a woman want to nibble on him. His hair is cut low in a no nonsense fashion and his only eccentricity being a tattoo on his left bicep, a souvenir from a drunken night with his fraternity brothers while in university in the States. He was the kind of man that made a woman either want to bed him, wed him or mother him.

Today he dressed for business. Looking lean and ready to take on the largest conglomerate, he looked debonair in a charcoal grey single breasted Armani suit and brilliant white Thomas Pink shirt. The suit jacket was open and his grey Gio Franco Ferre tie showed and his cufflinks winked when he moved to view his watch. The watch was expensive, as is everything about him.

He was currently seated at a corner table in the highly fashionable and very exclusive Sushi restaurant called Arigato. In a feat impossible for mere mortals, he sat on a cushion on the ground, legs crossed yogi-style, and managed to look commanding. Sipping a warm cup of saké, he was was engaged in a conversation on the phone and was giving instructions to someone with regards a meeting with a presidential advisor scheduled for the next morning. An interested observer would have noted that his voice was a pleasantly deep baritone, and betrayed traces of a Trans-Atlantic accent, evidence of his American education.

The shoji surrounding his table was left open allowing him an unobstructed view of the restaurant floor and he again glanced at his Rolex noting that Bims was late…as usual! Bims…Abimbola Akintola, his fiancée, love of his life and childhood sweetheart. International cover girl, face of Elle, Vogue and Harper's Bazaar, and budding entrepreneur with her own couture fashion line. She was the daughter of an Army General and a Bulgarian au pair. Beautiful wasn't a word that did Bims any justice, it was too bland an adjective. Mesmerizing, enchanting, alluring, goddess, all words that had been used to try and capture her essence, all words that fell pitifully below the mark.

Sean loved her to distraction but the issue of her tardiness was always a sore point between them. The years spent in a British boarding school hadn't cured her of the 'Nigerian time' syndrome. Many a time in a lighter mood he would tease her that she'd be late for her own funeral, at which she'd wrinkle her button nose and stick out her tongue at him, reducing him to laughter.

Suddenly a loud hush fills the room and Sean smiled. Bims had arrived. She general generated that kind of effect when she stepped into a room. Hushed awe! Men, women, children were always momentarily knocked back for six when she entered any venue. She practically glowed, making one mentally double back in wonder…as if in the presence of an ephemeral being…an angel. Today she didn't look like one of God's messengers but a cross between a Victoria's Secret angel and a Hell's angel.

Her five-eleven, size six frame was encased in a pair of sprayed on leather pants that left little or nothing to the imagination, a charcoal grey lace and satin camisole that kissed her braless breasts like a lover's lips. She wore no jewelry other than large gold Gypsy hoops, a thin gold necklace, a Ladies' Rolex (the twin of Sean's) and her engagement ring. On her feet she wore 4-inch dominatrix inspired, bespoke sling-backs made of the same fabric as her camisole, one of the designs from her label. The hair style throws Sean for a moment. Mims had long, wavy, brown almost chestnut hair that falls below her shoulders, but that wasn't the case today. Her hair was short, styled in a futuristic asymmetric bob, cut razor sharp accentuating her oval face, and dyed so black that under the soft Japanese lanterns it looked practically blue and further reinforced the dominatrix look. Her makeup was equally arresting, thick long lashes done up with blue mascara and eyes thickly lined to make her eyes bigger. Her eye shadow was a mix of black and grey and she completed the look with blue-grey contacts. She definitely had the sexy vamp look down pact and he rightly assumed she must have just left a photo shoot.

She sashayed across the floor towards him with the grace of a ballerina and all eyes followed her to Sean's table. She effortlessly flopped into a lotus, reached across and kissed him passionately totally disregarding of the watchful eyes around. He puts his hand against her nape and drew her closer as a Geisha hastily closed the shoji to give them a little more privacy. His other hand cupped her breast and she moaned against his mouth.

The kiss finally ended and her hair left slightly awry. Sean brushed away strands of stray hair from her face and gently stroked her cheek in a gesture both innocent and suggestive and she inhaled sharply. The smile on her face twinkled mischievously and her nose wrinkled in a manner that turned his heart in his chest and put knots in his stomach. He was actually torn between desire and laughter, the minxish look on her face, playful and light-hearted was in complete variance to her sex kitten attire. Laughter won the day, desire would have to wait till later, well at least till after lunch and his rich baritone could be heard from across the room mingled with her pixie laugh.

"Bims, love!" he asks when their shared laughter finally subsides, mild exasperation written on his face, "Why do you constantly do this? Hmmm?"

(TBC)

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My Week, My Birthday and My Trip to Brazil

I'm back…YAY me!!! Don't act like you didn't miss me all this while. No-one to thrill you and enliven your day, nay … month, in short your total existence with meaningless banter, too much TMI and insane attacks of verbal dysentery. J It makes you a better person sef to admit it…you know that right? You did? You're such a wuss! ROTFL!!! Ok so seriously…I missed you too, I had no-one to give me instant virtual gratification. :-* So onto the business of the day, however I warn you this post was written nearly two weeks ago, but crappy internet has prevented me from posting till now so enjoy your flashback.

Ok this week's been a beehive of activity or rather forming activity I should say. This week was my birthday week…Yay I'm a day closer to being senile…LOL! Anyways it started on a slow note but read for yourself.

Monday 30^th May

Today was a public holiday so I did what people generally do on public holidays…lounged away, slept, woke up, ate and went back to sleep…yeah that kinda day and this time baby girl did not forget to raid the piggy bank *don't you just hate when a public holiday hits and you've forgotten to go to the bank the day before? And to crown it all you ATM card stops working!* so I splurged on my uber-fave feast…pizza! My hips increased by an inch, but what the heck, I'd gladly sacrifice form for food J and anyways I had no hips once. But I digress…as usual!

Tuesday 1^st June

(5:30 A.M) I woke up early cos of work but as usual I bummed around and got in late as usual. The Boyfriend called around 8 AM during a lull in his show to ask me if I wanted to go out after work. My reply…"errmmm...hell yeah!" It's not every day TuFace aka Innocent Idibia aka "Future Baby Daddy" comes to town. The day was uneventful, had the office all to myself, one engineer was in the field and the other was on casual leave, so I just watched Soundcity and CNN and twiddled my toes till close of shop.

(21:00) Evening arrives and I got my sexy on, hot ass dress and I wore makeup…shock…awe…faint…yes I know cardiac inducing news, but I do wear makeup occasionally…birthdays, funerals and anniversaries. So time to leave and I have a chick moment…what to wear? Boyfriend couldn't complain much as I'm usually set long before he arrives, and I end up waiting ages for him. The fact that I was prancing around in a pair of thongs, tights and heels trying on barely there dresses no doubt helped to keep him quite quiet, suffice to say we almost didn't make it to the show.

He did an amazing thing…he asked what I had planned for my birthday. Sounds strange right? But it was amazing to me…in all the years I've known him he's never asked me that question. Usually I get lucky if he even remembers I have one, I mean one year he spent it in the female hostel of a university campus *insert appropriate WTF symbols* :-o. Well it won him major points cos I was already planning his demise in classic Ashanti-style (you've watched her "The Way I Love You" video right? You have…well I'd planned it ju……st like that).

(22:30 – 03:30) Anyways the show was ok though at a point the crowd was close to losing patience and going home, but as 2Baba entered the stage, ladies forgot why they were bitching, and I'm surprised I didn't see panties flying on stage. That said I'd still like to know what type of fool thought it made sense to organize an all night show on a weekday, I won't ask which type of fool attends such a show cos I was there abi? J. Suffice to say I didn't get much sleep, got in by 3.30A.M (and the show was still going hard at that time) and as usual got into the office late.

Wednesday 2^nd June

After fortifying…or is that poisoning…myself with three cups of extra strength black, no sugar, no cream coffee I make it to the office by 10.30 and proceed to fight sleep, with mixed success. Heaven decides to cry as I close for the day and I get soaked to my knickers, and in the way it tends to do stops as soon as I finally get a cab. Just my frikkin' luck. I sometimes believe Murphy was my daddy and made his law to commenorate my birth. Home at last...so I strip down and enjoy our no-light day, thinking I'll shut my eyes for a few before looking for food. Fast forward 6 hours…I wake up and find it's 11.30pm of the same day…so much for food. Now I'm up and sleep has officially left the building. Minutes to midnight the flow of smses begins…Yay it's officially my birthday. And big love to my homeboy Luminus and our Iyawo, Olufunmike (my first blog follower if I recall) for launching the first salvo in B'dy warfare :-*

Thursday, 3^rd June

(4:00 A.M) So I'm still awake. My old man remembers I'm older today and even sends me a birthday text, I reply and so he calls and we talk for twenty minutes or so and agree to meet on his way to work (he lives about 5 minutes from my house and people tend to be shocked when I say I haven't seen him in 3 months. I know it sounds bad…but we get on great…he respects my right to privacy and I his, and really seeing someone everyday isn't really a sign of affection…after all I see my neighbours everyday and can't stand most of them J.

(6.30 A.M) Dad swings by with my birthday goodies. Now in my house we're quite sensible, we don't do gifts…we understand the power of good ol' currency. So for my day he gave me a gorgeous cake and 50Gs *WooHoo danced the electric slide* J…yep Daddy's my kinda guy!!! So I'm set to go to work even though it ain't my day because of the young lady on casual leave, but I get the heads up that there's no need and so I go shopping instead, and splurge on a cute dress and shoes for the day's activities. From there I headed out and went to the Home for the Physically Challenged to spread some of the love I'd been receiving all day long. It was a wonderful feeling seeing the kids there, and at the same time it made me doubly grateful for my family and my life.

(10:30A.M – 22:00) After that I took myself out for a movie and ogled over Jake Gyllenhaal for 90 minutes plus…although Broke-back Mountain kept flashing through my mind during the saliva exchange scenes…please tell me I am not alone…and then I did a solo lunch. That done I headed home and got changed for my movie date with my friends Val, Teni, Naomi (Val and Teni you guys should really get this girl on twitter joh) and DJ Tan (who's also my birthday mate) to watch the premiere of Green Zone…it was an ok film, I had a certain dé ja vu-ish feeling, as if I'd watched the movie before…but then again…it IS Matt Damon! Good enough reason to watch! J It was fun although we did get shushed a few times for talking during the movie. After that I headed down to Boyfriend's office since he was still at work, from there we headed to Protea for a drink and would've gone for the monthly Reggae jam at Liquid but I was spent, so we went home.

I've been praying that the gods would take pity on me and cure me of this verbal diarrhoea that plagues me, and I thought my birthday would be the day I'd be so blessed. Lemme explain what I mean. For some reason I am more or less incapable of keeping quiet about things that are on my mind. I feel it thus I speak it. So I ended up spewing my reservations about how I see us breaking up in the near future if he doesn't step lively. As you must have guessed ours isn't a two month affair…we've been together seven (yes seven…no typo) years and I think that's time enough to make up your mind about the direction you're heading. He says he had needed a little time to clear his head but methinks it's a clear case of "Love me or leave me the FUCK alone"

His birthday present is still pending but he assures me he got me something and it's yet to be delivered. I'm thinking maybe a car? He says no but now I'm obsessing on what it could be, especially since he had to order it and he's not giving me any clues, and trust me I've applied all my feminine charms and cunning (this includes offers of kinky sex in the office and a month worth of lap dances), but alas no dice! So I wait and exercise patience *if you know me well you know this is not one of my virtues* Anyhooo I have told him the gift better come correct and be worthy of the intrigue...otherwise...wo...I'll use whatever it may be and smack him silly with it

Friday 4^th June

(3:00-6:00) …the rest is strictly Too Much TMI. J

(9:00 – til fade) Nothing noteworthy to report for the rest of the day, slept nearly the whole day and watched movies and fooled around on Twitter till 3AM then slept off while watching a movie at around 5.

Saturday 5^th June

The day started as most Sanitation days start…me passed out. Woke up by 9, went online, did a lil laundry little did I know that I'd find myself flat on my back by 4 PM. So around 2 I leave the house to the salon to get my dreads did and suddenly a thought crosses my mind…why not get a wax? So I head to the spa and book an appointment then go back to my usual salon do my hair and get my nails done. While this is going on I begin to question the wisdom of my appointment. Do I really need to put myself through that much pain for beauty's sake? But I've already paid and I've never been known to chicken out on much. 20 minutes later I'm stripped down and have a towel round my chest in a room with five women…did I forget to mention that it wasn't my legs scheduled for the wax? Ehen! I'm moving to Brazil…or at least my bush is.

So here I am...flat on my back with my legs open (not so new) and five people staring at my vagina (very new) with clinical interest. Never has my vagina received such avid and rapt attention since my gynaecologist last peeped. I'd resigned myself to the pain, and lots of it for that matter, but after screaming silently in my mind (ómò…you know your chick too bad, damn too hood to be bawling like a bitch) an accompanying pleasure followed…Yikes!

Is my inner dominatrix becoming a submissive and masochistic in nature? I think not…I still enjoy dishing out pain a tad too much. You doubt it? Oya come let me beat you Rodney King-style just for kicks J.

Sadomasochism aside I do know that I liked the results thereafter, and I know zee Boyfriend did too ;-). Will I do it again? Yes! Will I do it again any time in the immediate future? That remains to be seen.

Sunday 6^th June

New week people… And that folks is the story of my week, my birthday and my trip to Brazil

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Untitled

A work in progress...maybe

The first thing to penetrate his subconscious was the sound of dripping, the constant tap-tap of liquid reminiscent of a leaky pipe, consistent, measured, concise and ultimately annoying.

Next came a sticky wetness, gummy, cloy and clinging. Not water but something viscous and slimy…and putrid. Actually it was the smell that hit him, a tangy, metallic odour assailing his nostrils.

Hesitantly he opens his eyes and a kaleidoscope of light and colour spirals before him, next comes pain…intense, skull splitting, gut wrenching pain. He raises his hand to his forehead, and is suddenly aware of the fact that he is laying on a cold, hard floor in an unlit room. Forcing himself on to all fours he struggles to stand on shaky legs, trying…straining vigorously to remember …where, what, how and who! Most importantly who! “Who am I?” the question screams at him in his befuddled mind. “Where am I?” he wonders out loud. To his ringing ears his voice sounds like a whisper and his larynx feels sore.

As he scrambles about in the darkened room looking for an exit or a light switch he stumbles over an inert object, with his hands he blindly searches the floor for the object and his fingers make contact with flesh…cold, rigid flesh and he knows it is a body. A wave of nausea overcomes him and he gags. His mind races, and again he asks, “Where am I?”

From his position on the ground he notices a sliver of twilight and with lightening speed for one so weakened crawls towards it and notes that it is the bottom of a door. A door leading he knows not where…freedom…captivity…death? Wherever it leads he’d rather not stay in this room, this room filled with the imposing and fetid stench of death.

As he pulls himself to his feet curiosity gets the better of him and he gropes where he believes a light switch should be. Eureka…contact. On goes the blinding glare of the overhead fluorescent bulb and a nightmare-scape unfurls.

On the floor where he tripped lays the naked body of a man. His skin ashen and blood spattered, his eyes duct taped open, his hands bound; a gaping gash where his testicles would have…should have been…and the piece de résistance…a six inch blade through his heart…a macabre work of art from the mind of a twisted sculptor. The dead man’s face is twisted in an expression of abject terror, grotesque; evocative of one of the hell-bound mortals in a rendition of Dante’s Inferno.

About ten feet away is a bed. On the bed lays the body of a woman. Her naked body is splayed suggestively across the bed and her face turned towards the opposite wall so he cannot see her face. Her skin where not splattered with blood still retains a luminous hue, rich mocha coffee avec un petit peu au lait, long, shapely legs and pert full breasts. Total perfection…even in death.

Our man can no longer keep down the bile in his throat that fights to be free and spews out the content of his stomach on the floor. Heaving and retching, he remains bent over for what seems like hours his body trembling from shock. Eventually spent his eyes are reluctantly drawn once more to the gruesome tableau on the bed and his feet of their own volition inexplicably move to the bed. He has a burning desire to see the face of this dead woman. A niggling in his mind tells him that he must.

He reaches the bed and turns her head gently towards him, and his knees buckle. A flash of déjà vu hits him and he knows that he knows this woman in every sense of the word ‘know’. Her hazel eyes are open and though glassy still radiate terror…and something else …pleading. Her mouth is open as if in a silent scream…a scream cut off for eternity…never to be heard by mortal ears. Discoloration around her neck makes it clear hers was a case of death by strangulation. Her hands are long and dainty and a fingernail is broken to the quick and her right hand bloodied, while on her left hand is an engagement ring. The man instinctively knows that he knows this ring.

Tears blinding him he runs haphazardly out of the room, not sure to where he runs but anything to get away from this madness. As he reaches the outer door and runs out on to the street he is welcomed by a blast of ice-cold rain and he keeps running like a headless chicken without direction or destination, but his feet appeared guided by his confused mind to a destination he knows not.

The moon is ebbing in the pitch-black, starless sky and the hour is neither early nor late. Thankfully he meets no one as he continues to run. Suddenly a car horn blares and the driver starts to call out.

“Sean is that you?” the car slows to a crawl “Man what are you doing running around at this ungodly hour…and in this ungodly weather no less?”

The man stares at the driver, trying to force his mind to recall whom this person is, the face is familiar and a name floats in his sub-consciousness and rests on the tip of his tongue…Peter.

The driver continues his monologue oblivious to the man’s reserve, “Get in the car for God’s sake before you freeze to death and let me drop you off”

The man, who we now know to be called Sean, hesitates for a moment, wondering how Peter could fail to see the blood that must obviously be all over him, and then he realizes the rain must have washed him clean…at least on the outside. Reluctantly he enters the car and let’s himself be taken.

“Thanks...Peter” Sean mumbles as he slips in and is encased by the familiar but strange comfort of the Mercedes and rests his still fuzzy head against the headrest. “Why are you out so late, yourself?”

Peter removes his eyes from the road momentarily and shoots Sean a quizzical look. “Don’t tell me you forgot, old boy? I came in from London this evening. I just leaving the airport,” Peter turns his head back to the windscreen and shrugs “I guess you must really have tied one on if you can’t remember we have lunch today to discuss the final details for the acquisition of semi-conductor processing plant in Surrey.”

“My bad, Pete…I’m just tired and really need some sleep” Sean says and hopes that Peter takes it as a sign that conversation isn’t welcome. Luckily Peter does and concentrates on the wet road ahead.

While they drive in silence, Seun does a brief inspection of his pockets and finds a wallet, a set of keys, and a cell phone. The wallet and mobile are both obviously expensive and obviously his. Opening the wallet he sees a Drivers’ Licence with his picture and the name Sean Oluwaseun Oluseyi and a number of complimentary cards with the same name and the designation Vice President, Mergers and Acquisitions. Several thousand Naira notes, ATM cards, and a Platinum MasterCard are in the wallet. In the course of his search he comes across a snapshot, taken on what must have been a vacation, of him and a woman.

In the picture he wears a pair of loud Bermuda shorts and flip-flops and her the clichéd yellow polka dot bikini, the cliché tourista. They face each other, seemingly oblivious to the photographer, totally intent each on the other. His arms are around her waist and his hands cup her bottom, drawing her close to him and her right hand is against his chest while her left hand rests on his shoulder and they are smiling. Her skin is rich mocha with a hint of cream, her hands slender, as is the rest of her except for her breasts. On her hand is an engagement ring, a flawlessly cut 3-carat pink diamond set in an 18-carat platinum studded with 1-carat solitaires. No two rings like it because it was made for her. It was not just any ring. It was THE ring!

An icy hand digs into his chest, clutches his heart and squeezes. The dead woman on the bed was wearing the exact same ring.

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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Death By Politically Correct Means

Death by Politically Correct Means

“The right of the one ends where that of the other begins”

SCENE 1 ACT 1

JASMINE: Mom, I’d like to introduce you to [INSERT NAME].
JASMINE’S MOM: Hello, young man, how are you?
BOO: I’m fine thank you ma’am.

…

SCENE 1 ACT 2

MOM: So Jasmine who is [INSERT NAME] to you?
JASMINE: Mama, he’s my unpaid sex worker, I hope you liked him?
Mother turns ashen, splutters and faints
…

Setting: Hospital morgue
POLICE OFFICER: So Doctor…can you narrow down the cause of death? We’re trying to rule out murder given the fact Mrs. M had no history of heart disease.
CORONER: Well Detective, I’m sorry to inform you it was murder.
POLICE OFFICER: Doctor…are you certain? You KNOW this is a high profile case in the making?
CORONER: Unfortunately Detective, it can be no other way. All forensic evidence leads us to only one conclusion…
POLICE OFFICER: What?
CORONER: Mrs. M was a victim of…
Police Officer cuts in
POLICE OFFICER: Damnit man…spit it out already!
CORONER: Mrs. M was a victim of…Death by Political Correctness…as is obvious from the shocked look on her face

SCENE 1 ACT 3

Setting funeral.
Enter left stage:
JASMINE: Bye-Bye Mommy (sobbing)
Exit left stage
Curtain falls

I’m kinda tired of bleeding heart liberals…and NO this is not an expression of my political leaning. It is a statement about Political Correctness and its stifling and strangulating grip on freedom of expression. In the course of respecting the rights of others hasn’t the right of self been trampled upon?

I miss the good ol’ days of senseless violence, gratuitous sex and nudity and gruesome decapitations interposed for the shock value and nothing more. I miss the days of self-expressionism and convoluted discordance called art. Now we have censorship of word, deed and thought.

In the bid not to step on anyone’s toes hasn’t the motion of Id and Ego been trampled and regressed by the Collective groupthink syndrome? Point in case, the use of certain words and phrases have been termed offensive, rude, downright spiteful, gender insensitive, etc etc and the use of them frowned upon. The use of everyday words like “chairman” has been substituted with “chairperson” even when it’s quite obvious the person on the dais is of determinable gender. Any word remotely gender bias is taboo, feminism and feminists must be appeased. Use of words like ‘retarded’ (remember the song by B. E. P titled ‘Let’s Get Retarded’ that had to be re-titled ‘Let’s Get it Started’ in a bid to be PC), ‘blind’, ‘deaf’ and co is the quickest route to social suicide, a real social faux pas. The correct words “special”, “visually impaired”, “audio impaired” et al. Now I can understand the need for sensitivity with these but don’t I have the right to be retarded in my speech? And even if I don’t say it out loud does that stop me from thinking it?

As much as regard for the next man…oops sorry…person is essential, my freedom to be un-PC is my God-given right, and even some of the supposedly PC terms are just plain dumb. I was listening to a radio show awhile back and PC was the topic, or rather politically correct phrases for everyday items and situations. I shudder to think how much money the morons, just to tell me that I can’t call a book a book or call my partner “my boyfriend” anymore, spent on research. Nope…no can do anymore, I must now introduce him as my “unpaid sex worker”.

Fuck PC…my boyfriend remains my boyfriend and even if I’m fifty I have no intention of actually letting my Moms know who I’m bedding if it isn’t legal sex…i.e. we aren’t married. And isn’t it even more insulting to call your lover a sex worker…even if they’re unpaid? A sex worker is a hooker plain and simple…whether for a C-note or an I. O. U! Random aside: if a boyfriend or girlfriend is an unpaid sex worker, what’s a wife? According to my Pops she’s a “Home Manager”, according to me she’s a glorified domesticated sex slave…and the bummer is she doesn’t get paid no salary…unless it’s alimony (who’m I kidding alimony and child support do not exist in Naija).

Now the censor is not reserved to just speech, it is extended to all avenues of expression…music…art…film…literature…dress. Every facet of human life has fallen prey to censorship and political correctness. A few months ago the Actors’ Guild of Nigeria’s president was talking about the removal of kissing etc from Nollywood movies and I scratched my head in wonder. Isn’t art also supposed to be a reflection of the prevailing societal reality? If a couple in the throes of new passion are together in a locked room wouldn’t they engage in some heavy petting if not the actual act of getting buck wild? Would their kisses be chaste and bland…or would it conjure up thoughts of fire and yes…raw sexual passion and get one’s blood roaring? Don’t married couples have sex? Don’t people have gratuitous sex and one night stands…without emotional entanglements and sentiment in real life…here in Naija? And who has the right to say what and whatnot I should view?

What about music? How many times have songs been placed on the NBC’s NTBB list for no apparent reason other than the fact that someone in the Commission interpreted a phrase to be suggestive? A case being a song by a Port Harcourt based artist that dealt with childhood, first love and growing up. The use of the word ‘bia-bia’ was thought by the NBC to refer to pubic hair (in their on twisted logic) when it is quite obvious to the listening public (and as explained by the artiste) that the hair referred to was facial hair (i.e. beard or moustache) which pronounces the change from a boy to a man. And what of the song “Big Boy” by El Dee the Don? For the life of me I still can’t understand the reasoning behind that one. Or how about the infamous banning of Femi Kuti’s “Bang, Bang, Bang” which although definitely sexual in nature was not as explicit as the Western music that assaulted and still assaults our ears on the daily with overtly sexual titles and lyrics like “Birthday Sex” by Jeremih and “Re-invented Sex” by Trey Songz are daily on our airwaves.

For children I can understand the need to censor and coddle…their minds are too immature to distinguish between fact and fiction, between right and wrong and shouldn’t be exposed to adult themes, but that’s why a rating system exists n’est pas? But even the prevention of undue exposure is the responsibility of the parent. I mean…really…what’s a ten year old kid doing up by 11pm watching TV?

Censorship takes away my right to decide for myself whether a thing is good for me or not. It removes my right to choice, and actually is a slap on the face because it says I’m too stupid to make a decision. If I wish to watch scenes of violence and deviant sexual acts is it not my right? I don’t really like porn and I think it is exploitative thus I don’t watch it…my right…my choice, but just because I don’t watch it doesn’t mean I’ll say everyone else shouldn’t watch it…their right…their choice. I will not impose my moral codes and beliefs on them, that would make me a dictator!

Worse still, censorship is a form of mind-control, the powers that be wish to determine, create and control the thoughts of the individual. The creation of automatons and “dolls” preconditioned to think, feel and speak no new thoughts, bring no new wisdom and most importantly brook no opposition. The imposition of the collective ideal stems and stifles the growth of radicalism and radical minds. And change is brokered by the radical…and the expressionist freethinker. Those in the position to impose norms and ethical standards are themselves not more ethically minded, or of a superior moral grade than those they would control, but tend to be more debase, but as the Pharisees of old preach the gospel of “do as I say not as I do”.

So I say death to censure, death to censor, death to groupthink that wishes to turn us all to mindless conformist drones, death to stifling repressions of expression, and death to political correctness. Viva la libertie…long live freedom. I know many will disagree with this evaluation…as is their (and your) right, but feel free to add your thoughts on this by leaving a comment.

And my parting shot…If God in His infinite wisdom gave Man the Gift of Freewill…abused as it may be…who is the man that shall dare to take it away?

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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My Neighbour’s Wedding

First off this is a highly delayed post, for those of you that follow me on twitter you’ll know I’ve been bitching for over a week that I’ve been unable to access blogger to post nada. And also I spent several tweets expressing my displeasure and dislike for the wedding thingymijig. Well today I’ve gotten lucky and I’m uploading all the junk I had in my trunk-like noggin…and will proceed to systematically inject it into your brain-stream like an intravenous…line by line, post by post. Enjoy…I think!!!
On Saturday 3rd April 2010, I witnessed a union of two bodies as one in the ceremony of holy matrimony. The bride looked stunning and the groom looked bored. Typical of most weddings I have attended, however this wedding was unusual in that the couple had already been married for years and had two kids to show for it, the eldest being five years old and the Little Bride at the ceremony. For me the ceremony was needless, after all by Nigerian law isn’t Traditional marriage as recognized and as valid as all the others? Or is what I learned during all those boring Social Studies classes null and void? Anyway the couple invested no small amount on the ceremony what with hiring of cars, paying for the dresses of the bridesmaids and their hairdos, hiring the hall for the reception, the civil ceremony and the church service. All needless expenses in my book.
A lot of people who’ve been reading my posts for awhile might think me anti-marriage but I’m not, I’m just practical about love, sex and marriage and wonder why the need to spend vast amounts on a one day event.
The money isn’t the only expense, however it is the only one that can be quantified. Time spent on wedding planning is time better spent on other things.
When my sister got hooked in 2003 I had the responsibility of almost single-handedly planning the wedding seeing as Madam and her husband were based in Lagos and the wedding was taking place in Port Harcourt. I almost had a coronary making sure the caterers arrived on time, and that the hairdresser and make-up guy got to the bridal suite on time. The printers in Lagos screwed up last minute with the wedding programmes and I was forced to find a printer to do the job in Port Harcourt in roughly 36 hours, in time for the traditional wedding. As if that wasn’t bad enough…the morning of the wedding the bouquet was MIA and I had to hop a bike and dash to get one, arriving at the venue just as the Bride was scheduled to come down from the car. Dirty and hair unmade I had 5 minutes to beautify, get dressed and mobilize ushers to serve guests because the hotel that we rented the venue from reneged on their promise to provide ushers. And to crown it all I wasn’t even on the wedding program at the end of the day. Let’s just say…if and when I do get married my sister owes me big time.
The whole attitude regarding marriages or should I say weddings is baffling (I’m such a dude when it comes to this…blank stare), why the fuss over a 1-1 ½ hour ceremony? For months…if not years…women hunch over wedding magazines scouring for THE dress, planning and purchasing even before she’s found the man to ‘ball and chain’. Almost from day one of the relationship she’s already started practicing variations of her surname…Mrs Him…Mrs Her-Him etc, and thinking wedding colours, cake designs and ashebi. The groom is totally in the dark…unaware of the trauma he will unleash on himself and his bank book when he gets down on one knee (this is still essential) and says “baby be mine!”
While at the reception venue…where we arrived way too early…sitting in the car whiling away time with my neighbour and her fiancé I started musing and wondered out loud why the need for the fanfare and not just a simple civil ceremony and be done with it. My neighbour was stunned and insisted her own wedding would be a flamboyant extravaganza…I saw her fiancé’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed saliva and mental reconsidered his proposal.
I then asked her was she planning to pay for the carnival called a wedding and she stated that she would contribute (this was said with little or no conviction). This got me marginally excited so I asked at what ratio, she said 60-40, sixty for him, forty for her. I laughed. At which I reminded her that the white wedding was a borrowed culture and therefore if it must be done it should be done properly. The expense of the white wedding and the rehearsal dinner is the responsibility of the bride’s father; the groom has absolutely nothing to do with it. Not a farthing or brass nickel should leave his pocket for the ceremony. All he has to do it rent a tux and enjoy the bachelor’s eve.
She pooh-hoo’ed this and literally put her hands over her ears so as not to hear another word on the topic. If I’d known I wouldn’t have started the discussion because a small battle started when she turned to her fiancé and asked him his opinion on my “registry then home” theory, as can be expected he supported my idea and the temperature in the car dropped to –10°C even with the blazing sun outside. If looks could kill he’d have had a cardiac, the look she gave him was enough to wither his nuts and cause them to drop off…which they did cos the next statement from his mouth was…”whatever you want baby…it’s your day after all” (men are such pussies *shaking my head vigorously*).
Now I have no problems with the fairytale wedding if you can comfortably afford it…emphasis on the words comfortably and afford (I mean…seriously… NO wedding isn’t worth soaking garri for)…but I have a problem with the double standards bit. After all the years of shouting “women’s rights” and “female emancipation” why be a kept woman now, after all it is your wedding day, the man is just a prop in the whole shindig so why don’t you put your money where your mouth is and be a ‘big girl’ and fork out your dough for your ‘dream’ wedding, ni? Why put all the years struggling for equal pay and recognition on the back burner for a fluffy white gown that you’ll most likely toss in a trunk the day after.
Now when (and if) I do get married (I can hear my mother’s shouts of hallelujah already) I’m going to KISS (Keep It Small and Simple)…a civil ceremony on an obscure day of the week with the minimum number of witnesses, then maybe a night out on the town with a few friends and family. If I’m feeling really generous we’ll book a suite in a hotel…you know the type with a massive lounge, open the buffet (sorry it’s a paid bar…y’all can get drunk on your own dime) and mingle. Or I might just do what my friend did. She and her fiancé (now husband) flew from their base in Germany to New York and brought a Justice of Peace to their hotel room, she in a black très sexy cocktail gown and a white orchid in her hair and he in a debonair smoking jacket and dress pants got hitched with no fanfare, and then hopped on the next plane to a tropical location, complete with white sands, coconut trees and blue water, for the honeymoon.
And that’s all folks, me and my rants on weddings et al signing out. That said here’s a quick question for all my single ladies (and guys) what kind of wedding day do you want and who should pay for what?

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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Why Do Fools Fall In Love?

“Why Do Fools Fall in Love?” is both the title of a song done in the 60s by a singer called Frankie Liman and a movie done in the 90s about the same singer’s rise, fall and tragic death starring Halle Berry, Vivica Fox et al. it is also a question that has undoubtedly been asked by every poor sap who has ever had the molecularly devastating experience of having fallen in love…particularly with the wrong someone…i.e. 90% of the human race.

But seriously…why do people fall in love? I used to believe it was a matter of choice, we ‘choose’ to love an individual! Plain and simple…no neuroscience involved…simple choice. For reasons best known to the ‘faller’ they fall for the ‘fallee’.

My Dad “the fountain of all relationship wisdom”, has another theory…and I kinda like this one… “Falling in love is a form of psychosis”. Well at least in the early ‘heart racing, dry mouth, tingling nerves’ stage [NB: These symptoms are nearly identical to those experienced during the onset of a stroke, so kindly see a physician before assuming it’s love…you just might save a life…your own! *tongue in cheek* K] A veritable cocktail of mental and physical ailments.

Let’s look at it…what else but love, drugs (on a very bad trip) and mental illness (pregnancy included) can have a person run a gauntlet of extreme emotions in the space of five minutes: euphoria, racing pulse, tears, dryness of throat, palpitations, constricted breathing, sweaty palms, lack of concentration, excessive perspiration, temporary loss of speech, forgetfulness, daydreaming and manic depression. Love is SO good it makes you ill J. Now that, as I said, is Dad’s view *the genesis of my cynical p. o. v with regard to relationship maybe?* and it doesn’t help the case of love that the chemicals released by the body when in love are the exact same ‘feel good’ endorphins generated by something as innocuous as eating great chocolate. If I was running an ad for a choco bar it would read….

“Wanna feel real love? Without the heartbreak? Eat *Insert product name* and NEVER fall out of LOVE”

And an added point in choco’s favour is that dark chocolate is even kind to your heart…unlike love.

Another school of thought believes we love “just because”! Just because it is our nature to love. Those of a religious incline go a step further and say because our cosmic Creator is pure love we in His image are love and gravitate towards love. Nice try…but if I reference and loosely paraphrase the Bible (or even the Q’uran, Torah etc) and use modern day “religion’ as a reference point “Man by nature is bloody EVIL and sits down all day crafting, plotting and planning MASSIVELY GREAT mischief to do” (very, very, very loosely paraphrased but you get the drift, abi?)…and so saith the Lord! Now who am I to contest the word of the Highest Authority? Then again we were made in His image (depends on your religious p. o. v) and as the saying goes in Christendom “God is LOVE” so maybe be we ARE structured emotionally and spiritually to be givers and receptacles of love.

Whatever the reason (chemistry, biology, spirituality etc) LOVE is, has been, and shall ever be the elusive El Dorado that treasure seekers have sought, seek and will continue to seek. So the question still remains…why do fools (*points* YOU…yes you…you follow too) fall in love? If you know please let us know too, thanks…ok bye!

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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Sleeping with a Broken Heart

Hi, as I said I'm really gonna try and post with greater regularity. I'm kinda blank, but a line a day keeps atrophy away, abi? Whether I post what I write is a whole other story!

I'm a music lover as you should all now if you've been doing your homework...i.e reading my rantings, and though I listen to anything that makes sense and has a beat, certain songs reach me for bone. The title of this post should be familiar especially if you like Alicia Keys...even if you don't I'm guessing you should've heard this song.

I'm currently living this song :-( :'( *don't cry for me Argentina...I set myself up for the drop anyways* I'm finally single (well I think I am...see I'm not sure...I stated my case...said my piece and left the rest to my (not so)significant other...and his reply will determine my status) and I've learned that some cliches are rooted in fact. When people say used to say "I can feel my heart breaking" or "My heart hurts" I'd be like..."uh-uh...yeah right, n doh...now moving on!" Alas now I know how possible it is to feel such emotional pain that physically your heart actually aches. It feels like someone put your heart in a vice and squeezed the life outta you! And damn...shit hurts like a muthafucker!

Maybe if I could cry I'd feel better...water therapy I call it! Shed a few tears and cleanse your soul, but unfortunately I can't. My mind's being stubborn on this but I guess I caused it when I told myself I would never waste another tear on Bobo Mi again, now I wanna weep like a baby but no dice. It could be psychological too...crying for me is almost like a burial...I cry, I mourn, I cleanse and then I move on. "Hasta la vista, Sayonara, Adios Papi...so long" with Beyonce singing "to the left" in the background. Thus my not turning on the waterworks is like a stubborn reluctance to let go, holding on to the hope that it isn't really over...maybe? Or maybe I'm just emotionally vacant!

But I ask...how does one just let go? Of 7 years of whatever it was (whether relationship or long-term booty call)? Do you suddenly wake up and it's forgotten? Even if it got to a stage that you were just sick and tired of being sick and tired of the relationship, is saying "goodbye" ever easy? Just cos your brain is sound enough to know that you were on a runaway train to nowhere and jumping is the only option, does it necessarily follow that your heart will follow the wise counsel? Even when you know you deserve better than the status quo, it doesn't make it any easier to leave. The reality is no matter how bad a relationship might be...it has its bright spots. It can't all be bad. I guess it comes to a point you have to weigh the good against the bad and judge if the situation is one worth hanging on to.

Now as I said I'm not sure if I am back on the market...however that said Imma act like I is. I've been told the best way to get over a man is to get under another one (seriously...Gospel truth...I didn't make that one up!).

Dilemma: How do I put myself back on the market? And should I really? I've been offline so long i have absolutely no idea how to log on again! And how do I get over the feeling that I'm cheating on my Boo? Even accepting a drink from another guy that likes makes me feel uber-unfaithful sef!!

Where do I go to meet new men? Church? All the guys there I know are married. The Club? I don't think so! I'm looking for substance not a booty call...and anyways I still have my booty calls in my phone-book if I need a lil' something to break me off (rummaging through chest and dusts off 2005 phone-book).

Work? That so ain't the place...we have 4 guys there, the manager's married, the two engineers don't do nothing it for me...one's even younger than my kid brother, the last is the security guard and I think he's older than my Daddy. That aside sef...the office romance kini rarely ends well and administratively I'm a senior officer...so sexual harassment just jumps to mind :-D. The gym? Not registered and it's mainly women I see there, so unless I wanna get my lesbian fantasy going on...the gym's out!

My existing social circle maybe? Even that's a no-go area in some ways. If I dug the guys I know, we'd be hitting it already and not just being friends abi? There had to be a reason we settled as friends, and with some we've already tried the "more than friends" route and in a bid to preserve individual sanity called it quits before it became lyrics of a Snoop song i.e "murder was the case that they gave me."

I'm at a loss really! Maybe I'll finally buy me that vibrator for my birthday and say "fuck you very much" and be done with men, and finally put an end to sleeping with a broken heart!

Night-time!
And an empty bed!
Heartbeat raps a discordant rhyme
Upon this altar where spirits wed

Pillow held tight
Tears threatened,
ever ready to take flight.
Tension heightened

Chest contracts
Inside..the pain
Chest expands
No tears...but the fallen rain!

Again arrives the night-time!
Once more...an empty bed!
Clock strikes the hour, 3 AM chime!
Brokenhearted,
no more wed...
my spirit bled...
upon this ice-cold bed

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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Komustaka!!!

Komustaka all...my youngest daughter is teaching me Tagalog and that simply means "hello"! I've been M. I. A for ages, so first off..."Bonne Anniversaire" and a very belated "Bon Noel". I'm still suffering from a writer's block, my mind is a blank page and I'm mentally dyslexic...the words all get jumbled up, however I still read. In my Facebook in-box I came across a poem by a young man called Rudboy Adidi c/o a poetry group I'm a member of called "WORDS NOT SWORDS". Please feel free to join if you're a poet (closet and otherwise)

I won't start yapping about what the theme is or what the poem's about...read it for yourself and THINK!!!.

What If I Did?

As I sat there in English class, I stared at the girl next to me.
She was my so-called "best friend". I stared at her long, silky hair.
I wished she were mine,
but she didn't notice me like that.
And I knew it.
After class she walked up to me and asked me for the notes she had missed the day before, and I handed them to her.
She said "thanks" and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
I wanted to tell her.
I wanted her to know that I don't want to be just friends.
I love her, but I'm just too shy.
And I don't know why...

11th Grade

The phone rang. It was her on the other end.
She was in tears, mumbling on and on about how her love had broke her heart.
She asked me to come over because she didn't want to be alone,
so I did.
As I sat next to her on the sofa, I stared at her soft eyes,
wishing she was mine.
After 2 hours, a Drew Barrymore movie, and three bags of chips, she decided to
go to sleep.
She looked at me, said "thanks,"
and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
I want to tell her.
I want her to know that I don't want to be just friends.
I love her, but I'm just too shy.
And I don't know why...

12th Grade

The day before prom she walked to my locker.
"My date is sick," she said. He's not going to go.
Well, I didn't have a date and in 7th grade we made a promise that if neither of us had dates we would go together just as "best friends."
So we did.

Prom Night

After everything was over I was standing at her front door-step.
I stared at her.
She smiled at me and stared at me with her crystal eyes.
I want her to be mine,
but she doesn't think of me like that,
and I know it.
Then she said, "I had the best time, thanks!"
and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
I want to tell her.
I want her to know that I don't want to be just friends.
I love her,
but I'm just too shy.
And I don't know why...

Graduation Day

A day passed.
A week passed.
A month passed.
Before I could blink, it was graduation day.
I watched as her perfect body floated like an angel up on stage to get her diploma.
I wanted her to be mine,
but she didn't notice me like that,
and I knew it.
Before everyone went home,
she came to me in her smock and hat, and she cried as I hugged her.
Then, she lifted her head from my shoulder and said,
"You're my best friend, thanks!"
and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
I want to tell her.
I want her to know that I don't want to be just friends.
I love her,
but I'm just too shy.
And I don't know why?

A Few Years Later

Now, I sit in the pews of the church.
She is getting married, now.
I watched her say, "I Do" and drive off to her new life,
married to another man.
I wanted her to be mine,
but she didn't see me like that,
and I knew it.
But before she drove away,
she came to me and said,
"You came!" She said, "Thanks!"
and kissed me on the cheek.
I want to tell her.
I want her to know that I don't want to be just friends.
I love her,
but I'm just too shy.
And I don't know why...

Funeral

Years passed,
and I looked down at the coffin of the girl who used to be my best friend.
At the service they read a diary entry she had wrote in her high school
years.
This is what it read:
"I stare at him wishing he were mine.
But he doesn't notice me like that,
and I know it.
I want to tell him.
I want him to know that I don't want to be just friends.
I love him, but I'm just too shy,
and I don't know why.
I wish he would tell me he loved me!"

'...I wish I did too!' I thought to myself,
and I cried

By Rudboy Adidi (via WORDS OT SWORDS)

"...and I cried" So what made "YOU" cry?

DISCLAIMER: All thoughts and opinions expressed here are all mine (crazy as they might seem). All works here are my original work (unless otherwise stated)

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