OBIAJULU.

Obiajulu.

There are days you will never forget.

Those days are not always the grand adventures that bring rivers of adrenaline and a pounding in your ears, echoing your rapidly beating heart. Sometimes it’s a quiet day, a peaceful morning with your belly full of food.

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Heart Gone Rogue.

She had often been accused of lacking a heart. While her haters and detractors had never gone as far calling her heartless, even they had to agree that she was kind and a little selfless but they agreed that she was incapable of being straightforward in the affairs of the heart. It puzzled her that they all said the same thing of her, they didn’t even know each other, the fuckers. Continue reading →

Taking On Aretha.

We hadn’t spoken in more two weeks, it worried me slightly because while we had intervals when we wouldn’t speak, this one seemed colder than all the previous gaps. We often spoke for hours, about nothing, about everything, about God and antimatter and all the things between heaven and earth. But we could not speak of Aretha Franklin.

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Friday Fiction- It will not Kill you

My neighbour’s girlfriend is pounding yam again, the echo of the thud of the pestle on the yam slices against the mortar seeps through the concrete decking into my room, the vibrations make my windows rattle. She pounds every day, rattling my window in the mid-morning when I try to catch the second wave of sleep after losing the first round in the hours after I return from my night shift at the factory. Her pounding always delays that second round of sleep but I smile when it starts, it means I would eat baby-face smooth pounded yam in a few hours.

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Friday Fiction- The Stripper.

Lekan was dead.

There was no doubt in my mind that he was in a mortuary or his body was floating in some river or slowly rotting in the boot of an abandoned car, the possibilities of his location were endless. I had forgotten how to do probabilities and permutations, they were part of my favourite things to do at secondary school maths, along with longitude and latitude calculations. I liked Maths in secondary school and would spend hours poring over the topics. Anything that wasn’t surd and matrix. Continue reading →

Like Woman, Like God.

Like Woman, Like God.

 

“I’ll make you feel like a woman” is a promise that makes you roll your eyes, always. What feeling is this ‘woman’? You ask yourself every time and when you wear your clothes in the morning, you wonder if this huffing and puffing is what it is to be woman and if it was, how was it a thing to be wanted?

 

But he had made no promises, not even of pleasure.

 

Yet he touched you from the start as if you were a prayer and sin and atonement, reverently went for the centre and squeezed. You wanted to complain, to give one of the hundred excuses your tongue keeps in its sac but your tongue betrayed you. The little fucker lay still. The lights from the bridges and houses on the opposite shore danced in your eyes, the lagoon seemed to swell beneath the balcony you lay on, your blood hummed passion’s siren.

 

And you turned to him, your body complicit in this saga of betrayal and suspense while your mind wept. He slipped his hand into the top of your gown, cradling your left breast and your mind wiped its eyes and watched. He took you on a journey that evening, a road you had travelled a hundred times before but he stopped to show you the sunflowers hidden on that path you raced through without thinking, then he showed you the mimosa that curled spectacularly as he touched it and you gasped- it had been there all along? As he called you beautiful, you didn’t murmur an objection, you revelled in it- your beauty.

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But it was in the morning he showed you what it was to be woman, as he touched you and looked at you with eyes aflame with something you must have ignited. How did I do that? you wondered and smiled. And then you touched him, he writhed and whispered and you felt the buzz of lightning in your palm.

 

Glory, Glory, Halleluiah
You felt like a god, glorious and wanton as he moaned atop you, beneath you and behind you. With each sound he made, you shone even brighter, until you were so full of light that you exploded again and again and again and again.

 

You couldn’t stop smiling, not even after you were both dosing off entwined in each other’s bodies. Why are you smiling? he asked as he smiled too. You want to tell him how you never thought it would be him who would make you feel like you were fire and honey and electricity fused in vodka guzzling, egwusi hating brown skin. Or how you never thought of lovemaking as a glorious thing- only pleasure of the mundane kind. How could you begin to tell him that making love to him felt like worship, and for the first time ever, you were a god?

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Then you remembered why man fell, God’s fear that Eve too would become like him. You wondered if that fear hadn’t come a little too late for God, and for you.

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