Flower Goddess

Remember the first time we spoke? You called me flower girl and I laughed. Peering closer, mesmerized you said, ‘you’re like a force of nature’ I laughed some more, thinking to myself, ‘this one is gifted’. ‘More than a force of nature. I’m a goddess’, My blushing face corrected. Weeks later you’d ask during our fourth date how to keep a goddess happy. And when your husband asked what god my parents worship to have named me Goddess. I’d smile at you seated beside him, ignoring him. You explain my caller ID on your phone is a nick name. While my shimmering brown lips delicately suck pink lemonade up a white straw. You explain meeting me during a book club meeting hosted  at Flowered Pages. Flowered Pages is a cute bookstore and flower shop on Old Yaba Road. It’s filled with numerous small potted plants lining book shelves, a cozy reading area, soothing colored walls holding framed affirmations. Of course you don’t say you stopped me as I walked by to snap a picture of you and the hosted author. You both stood in black dresses against the bright yellow wall manned by tall green bamboo on either side. Instead you tell him, ‘this my friend loves pastel colors, is beautifully creative and very kind’.

I’d wonder if he knows how you prefer your left brown nipple sucked gently without my teeth grazing it. Or maybe since he knows my name. He also knows that I send you fresh flowers in small glass jars. Sometimes young cactus in tiny custom pottery to the branch you manage. When you excitedly said he began picking up Abdul from basketball practice on Saturdays. Because of my potted flowers that arrive Friday mornings I was happy.  I glance away from you both in matching ankara outfits and look out the glass window beside me. Lagos swirls in yellow dannfos, light blue skies, half empty mall car park and muted vibrations. The loud drag of empty air halts my sucking. But not my fantasies of pulling you into the bathroom for a quickie. I drop the empty tumbler and slide out of the red leather seat. ‘Excuse me Ibrahim. Laide, I need you in the bathroom.’ I say softly, my doe eyes smiling at your handsome husband. He reluctantly removes his hand from around your shoulder.

Inside the bathroom, you enter the toilet with a wheelchair symbol on its door. I pause to admire the tall green leaves growing out the large brown pot. My right index finger lightly traces its jagged edge. You call my name, Flower Goddess, like a soft moan. I walk towards the light brown, wooden door we shouldn’t be using. Before I swing it close, you kiss my fair, smooth neck. Watching you already unwrapping your bright ankara top with your chubby palms, I lock the door. Then sigh, feeling desire dampen my olive green, lace thong. My light skinned, slender fingers take your palms away from the dragging tails of your wrap top. My third sigh is louder when you kiss my dimpled chin cupping my small breasts. ‘Should I sit down?’ You murmur the question, pulling your palms away from my erect nipples.  This question reminds me of the first time we had sex. How you’d asked me, ‘how?’ And I’d swirled my tongue along the top of your lilac camisole above the WEMA bank lapel pin. Teasing your glistening breasts peeping out, I’d said. ‘Let me teach you how. How to ask mid thrust if you’re pleasured. To teach you to lick in-between my brown lips up my moist vestibule to my budded pink clit. How to love another girl’.

You sit on the white toilet cover. Seconds later, we giggle. My silver bangles jiggle as my left hand catches you from sliding off the plastic. You’re trying to pull off your denim trouser and I kneel in front of you. The heat between my wide hips is cooking my anticipating hot. Your breasts bounce in the black B cup bra, your right feet is free of the denim. I kiss your knee then the left one, massaging your dark calves as I spread them wider. A door nearby swings open two male voices burst into laughter as the door by the right swings closed. My mint blue finger nails part your inner labia lips, rubbing an invisible eight on your erect clit. Wisps of your kinky pubic hair look like nail art. Your eyes are glazed with passion and I smile before my side breast rub your inner thighs. A slow lick catches the clear, warm fluid from your tightening vagina. Its a curious lick followed by my wet tongue burrowing into your squeezing vestibule. My nose nuzzles your darker clit and you moan louder. I timed us but you don’t seem to notice. You gently squeeze my breasts through the army green bodicon dress. I didn’t wear a bra, my nipples love fresh air. Your left finger flicks my pierced left nipple. As my sucking lips draw out more fluids and moans. I know I’ll have to remove my soaked panties and wait some minutes before I follow you out of the stall. I feel the vibration of your pelvis first. Then hear the whosh sound of your thick thighs clamped against my flushed cheeks and swirling tongue. You silently shudder and my right hand releases your left breast it’d been kneading in slow circular motion. I feel myself squirt with immerse pleasure. Pleasure the color of white hibiscus petals floating in airy skies.

I say it first to your delicious vajayjay as your daughter, Ireti to calls it. Slowly I pull out three left fingers that had been thrusting, rubbing scented orgasms from your upper walls and Gspot. I say it again after one last kiss on your clit. You remove your black Rihanna nails from my voluminous, brown high puff afro. ‘What?’ You ask, still panting, like your multiple orgasms are still making your ears ring like mine. Those cute, stubby fingers pull thin dark green straps up my glowing narrow shoulder. My small nipples strain against the bare all fabric and I stand up slowly. I pull my dress up my slim thighs, higher across my wide hips then stop to step out of your eager reach. Slowing pulling down my panties, feeling the wet patch draw lines down my inner thighs. The overheard florescent makes them look like boiled corn. ‘I can’t keep hiding us, Laide. Its hurting me. Children squealing, splashing tap water and swinging doors fill the silence. The toilet air seems cooler making the filmy map on my thighs feel like melted ice cubes. You don’t say anything but you blink repeatedly. Its something you do when you don’t understand something. Like how you insist I leave the lemon curtains open so sunlight can illuminate the bed. So that when you kiss, lick and suck my pink nipples you can see when exactly it buds peach in between your small lips. Or how you’d blinking repeatedly when I pour steaming hot water into a yellow Ogi paste and whip the swelling pap to koko-less perfection for you to eat with Iya Mariam’s spicy Akara. After silently wearing your dark blue denim and wrapping your top, you stand waiting. I flush down squirt stained tissue paper. I’d bent to swipe clean the cream tiles underneath the toilet seat rim and seat cover. ‘Why now?’ is the only thing you ask and anger fills me like the water flowing into the toilet bowl. I spin around leaving the cool metal flusher, clutching my damp thong in my left palm. The one that smells like Zobo, orgasms and wet lace. ‘I’m not a toy Laide. You can’t just keep using me to make your husband jealous. I love you but I’m tired of all these. It isn’t okay to send me or my bookstore some millions whenever I say you should tell him how we feel’. ‘I can’t just leave my marriage..just like that!’ Your whispers stammer. Your black eyes searching mine for whatever it’s seen for the past year and seven months that I’d believed you. ‘Okay’.

I walk out calmly on you. You’re shocked because it isn’t my usual tirade. I pick up my raffia woven bag off the red leather seat. I tuck in the protruding ankara flower headbands from the Kids Entrepreneur Fair. ‘Good day Ibrahim’, I say as I hear you walk away from the swinging, wooden, toilet door. ‘Okay, Take care. Where is my wif?’ his questioning pauses as you beautifully walk towards the booth. His gaze doesn’t linger but returns to the football match on the screen. My gaze lingers a bit but drops to your nude wedges. I blink back tears as my nipples harden from being closer to you. I grab my jam jar and clear glasses case off the table. How thoughtful of you to pack a jar of Zobo jam and your husband for our Saturday brunch. My yellow suede half shoes walk-run out the partially empty restaurant. I don’t care that the last time you see your flower goddess she’ll be floating away. I never mentioned lying is a way to keep a goddess happy. With my large floral silk scarf fluttering behind my voluptuous butt, I exit the large glass doors into the sunshine. When I’m safely on my way home. I’ll share my pictures on dat_ngflowergoddess with unique stall owners at the fair. Maybe all that young creativity will cheer me up.


Swallowed Moans


Staring into beautiful, slender, oval face we’d talked about anal sex as a gay person. I’d explained how the gripping pleasure makes it a worthwhile adventure. My opinions may have debunked myths of spontaneous poo, torn butts and disgusting homophobia. After all attraction and the desire for intimacy aren’t gendered phenomenon. His listening face agreed with a nod.  As the swing rocked back and forth I’d asked how did I begin talking all that? I think back to Friday morning when I’d been so sure of my weekend plans. The buzz of spoken Yoruba, microphone announcements by calm Matrons and bustle of quick, slow feet over the neat floors of General hospital was mixed with the breezy sun illuminating the green, pink and blue dotted shrubs around. That’s until I’d carefully climbed up and down three storeys of wheel chair ramp for a stamp at the Admin Office in the glassy, looming, Maternity Building.  The light blue, pale yellow highlighted skies darkened to grey changing my plans to hop buses to Ikeja for a pick-up. Tomorrow, I promised in text messages to my mother and baby mama.


A few minutes to 5pm I wasn’t navigating winding, port-hole dotted Lagos roads in a cab enroute to Victoria Island. I sat on plastic chair at one of my favorite peppersoup joints. Merry Men movie ticket safely zipped away at the side of my nude handbag. I said a quiet thank you as a tall bottle of orange juice and a short tumbler were dropped in front of my opened novel on the plastic table. Melodic chatter in Igbo from a table of elderly men at my right was like Jazz. Occasionally my focus was interrupted by zooming cars, danfos and trucks speeding towards Igando. Yet again I lived an unexpected variation of Sunday. My eyes scan the pages of ‘explain love’ as my right fingers guide a orange tumbler to my red glossed lips. I’d admit I enjoyed the peaceful evening while Blythe, Cecillie, Jacques dealt with the catastrophic highlight of Luc’s art exhibition. How could it be Bryony who tells on Fred! Her accidental, harmless joke breaks Jacques’s heart and jaw. Like a joke I’d told an hour ago. Laughing As They Chased Us has offered me a very foreign glimpse into the daily lives of three couples living in South of France. An engaging debut novel by Sarah Jackman. I’d made a joke about stripping out of my hang-out clothes to settle back in bed with its captivating characters. A joke a handsome man didn’t appreciate. He lost his excitement and I understood him canceling our meet-up. I’d been distracted while he clearly stated these words to me. I didn’t look away from the tiny black words running across the pages. Where is Jacques? My eyes kept asking the narrator. I didn’t dwell on my caller’s upset tone. On a prior call I’d laughed as he called me out on my teasing threat, ‘Of course I wanted to see him’. ‘No, I don’t usually threaten people’. ‘Hello, hello?’ ‘Yes, threats are rude. I’m waiting’. I found that call intriguing, admirable but unusual. Many men hardly have a personally developed sense of self. Imagine how I felt when I finished that chapter then realize I wouldn’t watch the sunset with him. Cab apps are infuriating. They and my gasket-less car made me upset this week. Mid week when we’d planned to see I didn’t have cash. I’d declined the hang-out on that basis. He offered to cover tfare so plans stayed on track. But Fridays are my bank account’s faithful lover. I made a call to my partner. My unnerved voice explained he didn’t have to worry about late night traffic. I walked out of the spacious compound, kimono billowing in the wind, to catch my own sunset.

Stepping out of the white tiled bathroom I could see the dumpsites in my mind. My brown eyes scan the vanity table for a green bottle of rosewater. My fingers and bottles began my night tie skincare routine.  After refilling the tumbler with orange liquid twice I looked past the top of my book. The skyline was marked by refuse dumps piled high opposite Marturion Cinemas. These piles looked like brown, multi-colored waves crashing against the blue, late afternoon, sky. The sunset was as beautiful as the cow tail chopped in small bits in the steamy bowl. Each bite of the succulent ponmo, tasty beef and swallow of spicy soup made me moan. I couldn’t help but think if the orange, peach and purple sky would look different at Fiki Marine. Clouds, skies and sunshine at Ojo are the most beautiful in Lagos. A crisp one thousand naira note passed to the hands of my short server five minutes to the start of my movie. In the end I learnt how disconcerting it can be speaking your truth. For both the relieved speaker and stunned listener. I’d ended a relationship because a partner had joked about beating me during a tussle. It’s odd that the elements of nature connived with my unsettled intuition to prevent me leaving Ojo this weekend. My thoughts concluded as I wrapped a dark silk scarf around my bantu-knots.


Love Reminders

When he randomly calls you while you’re working to say he loves you. You’re distracted so what would have been a heartwarming gesture is a mild irritant.  That is until you recall his words, depth of his breathing, silky tone and account credit notification you missed.  It almost mind numbs you…how sweet he is.

Yet you can’t squeal in happiness because—one, work stress wrapped itself around your throat. Two, she who is lying naked beside you will ask. Three, you remember that he’s still not sleeping with you. Four, you are too pleased so you smile inspite of your perched throat. Easing your sticker covered laptop on the baby pink duvet; you get up from the bed. You walk to the water dispenser while transferring sums of money to various savings, utility bills and family members accounts.

•Love Reminders is a ZAZA entry. ZAZA is a heartfelt queer memoir of self love, sensuality, erotic sex and romance. 

Reasons Why

Realizing I needed a memoir to document my queer experiences wasn’t instantaneous. I’ll say it’s born from a hunger for diversity in the African queer narrative I read. Being bisexual is not a survival lifestyle for me. Neither is it a freaky Friday escapade with a boyfriend and olosho. Nor is it a way of getting comfortable with being a lesbian. Although the available narratives don’t ascribe to these annoying, societal assumptions. But my stories are mine.

I feel it’s a further reflection of how I, myself am a blend of complimentary, unsuspecting differences. Many bold queer women are inspiring love, acceptance and diversity across the African continent. I just want to share my thoughts, erotic adventures and experiences. If it informs, inspires or arouses you. Then that’s a plus.
Oh! Did you think this would be an essay on why I’m queer? I’m so much more than illicit texts and online comments. Zaza is my life memoir and I’d love you to enjoy m|

The click-click-tap of my typing pauses. My left fingers leave the black keyboard. They wrap around my ringing phone. The plain, black, thumb ring, gem encrusted index and pinkie fingers knuckle rings musically tap it’s Eko-bridge, my plate number, yellow tricycle artistically drawn case, raising it. The blinking screen shows Chi Richards and below it; Emergency Contact, Food Entrepreneur. Seeing this makes me smile then swipe left, forgiving the interruption.

‘Hey Boo?’ my soft voice inquires.
‘Heyy you! Quick one, what do you rub on your vajayjay tears?’ Chi asks in a usual breezy tone. The question stuns me for a nanosecond. You’d think it’s an inquiry into the weather at Opebi.
‘Vajayjay tears?’ I repeat to get clarification as I lean back onto the cylindrical rungs of the clear, plastic chair that looks like an ice sculpture.
‘Yeah, you told me once. Shea butter, coconut or olive oil, I’m unsure. Tears from rigorous sex Zaza.’ the breezy tone sounds silky. Warming my cheeks with a blush.
‘Chi, who calls someone in the middle of the day while they’re sorting their lives out to ask such questions!’
‘Someone who is a BEST FRIEND’, a sweet response sings in my small ear.
‘Probable! probable Bestie.’
‘Look Shea butter is slow. Coconut or olive oil? Which oil heals tears faster o?’ his silky Nigerian accent has a hint of impatience so I stop teasing.
‘Actually olive oil, just rub it on the tear and it works. But shea butter works fast for me. Coconut oil is a natural lubricant.’ I say while pulling a clomp of brown kinky coils from my nape bun. If Chi was here my right matte lemon finger nails would get smacked. Hand-in-hair syndrome has been my 6 years long, naturalista struggle. Continuing I inquire, ‘I’m curious,who tore something?’ Then wiggle my filled-in eyebrows.
‘Uhn, I did. Before you start preaching. It was that new guy. He was so intense and yes attentive to my pain.’
‘Chinedu Richards! First of all I don’t preach. Secondly, of course shea butter would be slower for a butt tear. Dude! Pele. Wait, intense eh? Gist me o.’ Concern and intrigue filters through my voice as I rest my left elbow on the cool, silver, balcony railing.
‘Zaza I will but later. I have some boxes to give these delivery babes. They just arrived. Gtg. Love you babe.’ His hurried tone makes me smile and blow three kisses.
‘Oh by the way guess who had 600 page visits in two days? I did! It’s amazing the effects of implementing She Leads Africa’s social media marketing training email series. I got numerous orders and follows also. I’m running out of the Naija Party Jollof scent.’ Interrupting Chi I exclaim, ‘I hope you kept the batch I want to give as wedding souvenirs!’ I sit up then burrow my gold, glittering toes deeper in my grey fur balcony slides.
‘I got you babe. I kept your box aside, immediately you paid. I need to go.’ he insists. ‘Congrats on your increased instagram engagement. Watch out for my post today. It’s taking about tips for buying air-fresheners that match one’s decoration theme.’ I rush talk to the silence.
‘K, bye!’ our call ends with me smiling.

• • •

I remember meeting Chi during NYSC. We didn’t click immediately. But after a series of random interactions and whatsapp status viewing we got closer. He was surprised I had began blogging since my fine-art polytechnic days. Also impressed I’d began an interior decoration business after some trainings before gaining a BS.c admission. It was nice befriending a bold, supportive man with beautiful skin. I was shocked someone could study perfumery. With both of us having business trainings we had being queer and creative in common.

Utilising his lessons from his parents catering services and a research team. He released what would change the Nigerian air-freshener and perfume industry forever. Naija Aroma, sells scents that capture our Nigerian food aromas. Want your car to smell like you’re hiding a pack of Party jollof rice under your seat? Or your office to smell like yummy, hot dodo or chilled zobo? That’s why I’m happy my batch is safe. After initial difficulty getting investors and nation-wide recognition. It’s delightful seeing Naija Aroma join international innovative companies.

A blurry site icon comes into focus as I snap out of my reverie. It’s my blog icon making me guilty. I left it’s drafts for Evernote. I navigate the mouse to click on the icon. My dashboard fills the screen. Rubbing the small, black patch on the keyboard like a lover’s clit, I click preview. After proofreading Tips: Buying Home Air-Freshners. I close the preview smiling at my site icon. Its a picture of the dark brown work table in my study. The space in the middle with the blog name is framed with minature sculptures and wooden figurines, small yelow-orange flowers sticking a recycled glass pot, a pair of my father’s vintage glasses, mint green pens, a custom ankara notebook, split and full agbalumo and littered black velvet awin fruits. I remove my eyes from Zaza’s Decorations & Collectibles hovering above a mishapened head figurine on the right angle of layered sofa fabrics beside a tiny glass saucer with milky orange agbalumo halves.

Lemon flies over black keyboard, as I type a conclusion of the post. Health concerns, home decor themes and prices, are great considerations when buying air-fresheners. You want to buy an air-freshener that not only smells good. But is dispensed from chic recyclable containers. After all, you don’t want to find out cheap air fresheners are a contributory cause of lung cancer later in life. How your house smells is as important as your customised throw pillows and family portraits. Don’t forget to keep the air freshners away from children and pets. Especially if you buy those gel ones shaped as fruits and sweets by AirEat. Scintillating scents from Naija Aroma are dispensed from artsy sculptures. It’s what makes them premium scents. Keep them high away from disturbing jolts or fingers.

When you order from any of the linked companies, money from my 5% discount code is donated to Lagos Food Bank. Use the discount code, ZAZA fellow enthusiast! Don’t forget to tag me pictures of your beautiful air fresheners.
May your day be decorated with goodness.

After saving and previewing I click publish then view the post. Satisfied with how images from my study and brand account of referred companies add visual inspiration to the post. I smile as a comment pops up. You write about simple daily objects beautifully, RoseP17 comments. ‘My genuine gratitude’ is what I type back. I’d already shared a shorter version of this post on my Instagram. It’s the caption of a shot of my library shelves with a minature metal Olopo pot, newly released novels from Parresia and Farafina publishers and a small bowl of purple pears. The native pears are actually pear-scented gel AirEat air-fresheners. The pot is the container of Naija Aroma’s best selling Naija Party Jollof scent.

I sigh and look out the balcony. I push the laptop towards the middle of the clear plastic table. Notification zings ring out from my phone as I eat yellow yoghurt through my full lips. Beams of sunlight hit the table’s circular edge and does a glitter rainbow dance. Breeze brings cool air, conversations in Yoruba and honking traffic noise. I feel at peace. If I could, Laide would be mine but instead she sent me her wedding invite and aso-ebi. She said her relationship with Jimi wasn’t too serious. Why did she bother sparing my feelings? After all my flirting, support, fantasies and money spent at the food festival. I don’t get the girl. My pearl-white teeth chew currants and broken almonds in the yoghurt. After I get out of my white, strappy bodysuit and into the bathtub. I’d finish my notes on reasons why. Or so I promise my sad heart.


•Reasons Why is a ZAZA entry. ZAZA is a heartfelt queer memoir of self love, sensuality, erotic sex and romance.