Plant lover


Every time I hold back from giving love my body cramps. Each breath I take hurts.

You don’t reciprocate my efforts. Monotonous ‘I love yous’.

The cramps hurt my heart, in my womb, everywhere. But its the only way I stop the resentment.

Hold back. Hurt.

Hold back.

I should say, ‘I release you’ like Carol.

But I’d rather cry about our dying love and constantly check for double blue ticks and missed calls.

Why can’t you just let me mourn in peace. Let me go. Since you refuse to leave. Let me go.

Release me. I’m hurting

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Your faith makes it

You cover the plant watering bottle. Your glittering fingernail glide through the golden palm leaves. With a loud sigh you sit beside the plant pot and sip pink yoghurt.

Questions float around with Cigarettes after Sex tunes.

Where do you go after love stops growing?

Were his ‘I love you’ convincing because they are true? Or do you really want to believe him? So your faith makes it true.

You sip and lick the silky sweetness. These questions pound your head, ache your heart for answers.

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.


My Booked Weekend

‘Belief fuels action. Consistent action yields result. Its Saturday, evaluate this week and plan for the next’-Adaeze Feyisayo

I decided to spend this weekend typing reviews, reading Asian mythical retellings from A Thousand Beginnings and Endings, packing up for Law School and rearranging the house. Of course, I packed up my bookstagram props box first. Which recent prop do you like more in my pictures, the balloons or pearls? 

But my plans got a little variation. My book girlfriend, Habeebah sent me Nnedi Okorafor’s short story collection, Kabu Kabu. I’ve already read and listened to some of its stories on online platforms. Captivating stories like The Baboon War, The Harmattan Winds, The Palm Tree Bandit and Spider the Artiste. Thanks Gem! I began reading it last night, gripping my pillowcase through the tension and mystical rides. My reading vigil ended by 3am.  I slept off to VanJess melodically singing through my earbuds with my EPUB reader glowing. 

I‘ve tried recalling how many paperback books, poems and online short fiction I have read this year. I regret not keeping count. This made me decide to share a list of all the flash stories and series I published this year. Watch out for that!  All of that aside, I moved back to my apartment on Sunday. I haven’t been here in three weeks due to flooding. It really feels good to be back. To be able to flll in my plant bottles and jar, boil ginger tea, lounge in lingerie and peacefully listen to audiobooks and podcasts. I noticed my creativity got a boost. I mean look at the pictures above. 

I really enjoyed reading The Used Life’s Footwork which discusses authenticity and creativity as time goes by. I share some thoughts in the comment section. In September I struggled with my creativity, authenticity and expressing the changes they were undergoing. If you’ve followed me on Instagram you’ll notice the change. In the end, I decided to be myself. All the vibrant, yummy, fiery and sometimes reserved versions. Other reads I enjoyed this weekend were Biology Practicals by Timehin Adegbeye and Her Lovers by Nana Darkoa. ‘She wanted to show the world the beauty and culture that Africa contained, and for herself, she had discovered that the best of culture was contained within people.’ 

If you haven’t read my latest story, BANTU KNOTS. A Youth Corper is found strangled in his apartment at Maryland in Lagos. The Police say its suicide but his secret lover has other suspicions. With October coming to an end, the year’s last two months are gaining on us.  Apart from evaluating my progress with my 2k18 reading goals or reading up DNF books. I’m curating reads for Law School which resumes mid November. I currently have three books on that list. I plan to begin saving and buying soon. Expect some book reviews and stories this coming week.

Enjoy your weekend Gem!