When I look at this stealth adventurer, treasured tales traveller, bookstagram prop, bookshelf space thief–I wonder if you see what I see.
I see me finally dropping the sword of action on many areas of my life. The sword I’ve held poised above certain insecurities and action steps the past fortnight.
Do you see the Pirate’s eye? It draws my grandmother’s single breast and left flat surgical stitched cheat to sight. My diva whose fighting breast cancer and is slowly completing the cycle of life.
When I look at the credits of this imagined short film we are read-watching. The credits! The tiny words on orange behind the minion? I think of months ago..before I was cut off from your ‘hey beautiful’ texts.
You might just gaze at this yellow adventuress and just see my humoured disinterest frozen confusingly on an orange beach of memories. Granules of crystalized pleasure and pain from past lovers calling back.
So do you see?
I read small white-biege pages on yellow danfos amidst the sunny Lagos bustle. Not even the jolts of an okada can tear my eyes away from devouring ebooks on my @okadabooks app. My fingers hold down a novel’s open spine hoping salt or palm oil won’t scar the characters while red stew boils behind me in the kitchen. When standing on a lengthy atm queue of stout, lean, brown, black bodies–I pull out and continue the day’s poetry collection from my handbag. The @rovingheights book mark protects my spoon before I launch it into the depths of a glass jar of hazelnut chocolate spread, when reading African literature. Heck, my bookstagram is filled with quirky book photos. The imaginary lives, world and adventures of unforgettable characters enclosed in a book can always be seen next to me.
Even in the shower. I can’t just leave the exposed world crafted by the tiny black words of another creative. So don’t judge. Am I the only one who carries my new books everywhere?
Hey, I’m sharing so we can
both all be better writers.
Here my caramel popping, stubby fingers were clicking links when I stumbled upon two refreshing and informative writing advice posts.
The first was from Samantha The Reader, The Best Writing Tips I Wish I Had Known From The Very Beginning!
I already appreciate how she writes. Descriptive, clear, warm and enlightening pieces of writing advice.
Second one was found through Brittle Paper links. It is an amazing post compiling Tiah Beautment’s twits about writing erotica. It is filled with writing etiquette, dispels myths, serving writing tips for erotica. I learnt a few new things. my cheeks are smiling because I hadn’t done any of the DONTs in EROTICA: Rules of engagement when asking readers to review your draft.
My lean legs walked briskly closer to the seated cluster of dusty beggars. The sun beat down harshly while the wind whipped stinging sand particles on my dark brown, oblong face. My full red lips didn’t whisper my praying thoughts. I prayed for the eternal rest of my late Grandfather, a friend’s father and another friend’s uncle. My slender fingers clutched the small black nylons filled with hot bean cakes and others with ripe mangoes. I had six small nylons in all. I spotted the recipients of my free brunch. My hands stretched out to two small boys conversing in low tones, two women staring into the air who immediately stretched out their hands murmuring thank you. I moved past their faded black hijab figures to a blind, stooped man with a tiny metal bowl and a standing homeless young man. There, on a hot Thursday mid morning, I had done the prayers for my dead.
Born into a family of seers from a young age, I had learnt the importance of my visions, prayers and charity. It was a habit now, I had a system for giving alms, sweets,clothes, fruits, books, (religious bodies) donation boxes. From charity drives, to roadside beggars, to NGOs donations, to a friend in need, just name it. I walked back to my parked car just as fast as I had walked towards the sandy, plastic littered roadside. The bright golden rays shone relentlessly. I raised my slim left wrist, stretching my palm to block the heat. I felt a bead of sweat roll down the space in between my breasts and pool at my navel. I opened the car door with my right long fingers. Driving out of the parking lot of the mall towards the hospital, my eyes felt tired. The previous night had been scary. My girlfriend had been up all night vomiting, stooling and burning up. Early hours of the morning I had been packing up and mopping orange stomach fluids, pieces of half digested yam that smelt like zobo drink off my dark tiles. Of course I took a day off work, I called in sick. Thinking of how the fear she was going to die had crept into my mind made me shudder. The rolled up windows blocked out the noisy, bright, bustling of Lagos Island. It hadn’t helped that the first song on the radio on my drive out the hospital was JCole singing about the dead.
Alone in the red Camry, I prayed she was better at the hospital. I didn’t want to see death lurking behind her weak irises. While I eat chocolate and custard filled doughnuts from the pink box on the grey passenger seat.
His fat thumb tapped the erase icon repeatedly. He looked at the snap and typed ‘Those who drank garri with me then will eat with me now’. Immediately he posted it messages rang in. Who had cooked such a feast? What type of chocolate wasn’t on that cake? The questions were followed by lustfully emojis. His chubby cheeks curved into a smile. As he started another video to capture his bestie popping champagne. She paused pouring the pink liquid and started screaming, when Hakeem opened the large red box filled with 24 novels from her Christmas book wish list. Garri for Breakfast, Selected Poems was the first on the right stack. The uploaded snap with views increasing. A dope bestfriend deserves cassava flakes of literature sprinkled on her birthday gifts.