Monthly Archives: March 2014


Slipping from sleep to wakefulness is the grey between black and white. Trying to fathom the depths of that moment we crossfade between the spirit world and waking realm is like watching the sun set. At first, it is the golden hour with its magnificent artistry that only the divine can put together. Then the night comes with its inky blackness, with an insidiousness that makes the light-show a memory. It is in this transitory moment I am aware of you. You. It is more of a sensing than an awareness. It is like the tingling in your forehead just before you walk into the wall in the dark.

My eyes are reluctant to relinquish the darkness but that I do. Sensing is not enough. I watch you sift through the small pile. Seeds aside, little stalks, stubborn as fallen as Mango branches strewn in the streets back home in harmattan, to another side. The furrow of your brows matches the squint in your eyes. They also match the sturdiness of your lotus seat. Buddha would be proud.

Sticks and stones will break my bones, you said to me once, as you separated weed from chaff like you do now. You will save some of the seeds. Seven of them. Most people don’t like that the seeds pop as the heat rises. 

Your masterpiece is an elongated cone like a miniature bullhorn. It reminds me of a childhood treat, caramel wrapped in paper in the same shape with a short broom stick in the wider end. As children, we didn’t know or even care, that they were named after the fingers of a military ruler long forgotten. What mattered was that ten of them were worth one Chupa Chups. Maybe it is romanticised memories but those were sepia toned days of happiness and sunshine. 

You raise the bullhorn to your lips by its sides. Your tongue matches the matte red of your lips as its very tip wets the paper. The careful creation is complete. You smile as your eyes meet mine. I hate that I am so easily smiling back. You’re about to say something and then you don’t. There are two more in the platter before you. You drop the freshest creation and pick another, along with the lighter and stalk off. 

You bring in smell of the cote d’azure as you open the double doors. The sounds of the distant harbour rush in from the distance as well. I muse for a second about morning wood and waking up mid-afternoon as it swings side to side when I come out to join you. I don’t look around the room. My eyes skip the shot glasses and the diminished bottle of vodka on the armoire; the black and white tiles and the white walls. They are fixed on you.

The cool air hits me as the cold marble welcomes my feet. You face away from the force of the sea air. You are a vision. Your leopard print bra and denim tennis skirt contrasts the turquoise of your toe nails and the color of the sea behind you. The tiny bullhorn is pinched firmly between your lips as you try again and again. I chuckle as I cup both my palms to make a vacuum around your cupped left palm. Strike, strike, flame. It flickers but fulfills its purpose. You drag a full breath, and then another. The seeds you have arranged in the little treat start to pop like you like it to. You say it is a euphemism for the little chains of reality that snap open in your consciousness as you imbibe. 

I reach out and you share with me. I take a lung-full and let it out like a dragon. I am a naked dragon with skin the color of Agbalumo. I like how you look at me, at my body. I know you take the total piss when you look at me with longing and say I am built like a god. But it’s something good to hear. I fill my lungs again and again then I share with you. I want to say something about puff-puff and missing that oily snack. But I don’t. I smile instead at you. I love it, this shared silence. It bursts at the seams with the strength of a hundred unspoken conversations. 

One moment, we’re looking at each other, the next you’re next to me. Your head rests on my shoulder with your arms around my waist. You’re nibbling at me; from my clavicle, up my neck to the bottom of my earlobe. It is as far as you can reach on your tiptoes. I stare at nothing in particular and enjoy the feel of your skin on mine everywhere.  

I know it starts to hit when I feel open. Open. My pores let in more air, they let in more you. I feel every inch of my skin that yours touches come alive. This openness, it is beautiful in its simplicity. 

It is not limited to my skin, but my mind is open as well. I understand. I get it. I get you. I get how you can be so misunderstood and misjudged. I get it. I get me. I get my flaws and my recurrent mistakes. I get my need to please everyone and end up hurting all the world instead.  

This openness comes with understanding. It is no wonder that a whole religion endorses it and a host of people want it legitimized by the law. 

I know it hits hard when my already roving mind leaps into the air. I piece together random bits of information to rein it in. Cote d’Azur is Azure Coast. My niece is nice. I’m feeling nice in Nice.

I try to remember what the ink written in arabic on your collar bone means as I trace my fingers over it. It is the same inscription as I have on the same place on my own body. Its meaning flutters on the edge of my consciousness. I assuage my agitated mind with other bits of information. 

It is the newest of four engravements on the canvass that is your skin. Akan, Egyptian and Arabic. It is United Nations on your dermis. I wonder if you will get one in Kanji and complete your world expedition. You shudder as my fingertips travel up your spine to the base of your neck. I grab your hair and pull you away from your nibbling. You don’t protest as I tilt your neck a bit and drag you to the other end of the balcony.

Touch you, I say, like I would. You hesitate. I can tell you’re more used to giving orders but you do as I demand. One finger, I say. You sigh into my ear as you make contact. No, that’s enough. Don’t move. I walk away from you and back into the room. I pick up a second treat and start to burn it as I return. I don’t come back to you. You stand on the balls of your feet, one finger slipped in. It is already slick with your essence, dripping down to your knuckles.

Go on. Your eyes flutter closed. Open your eyes. You groan, but you open them still. I pause mid-drag and beckon you forth. Stop, I say. Is that how I touch you? It is rhetoric, this question. You start to answer. Shut up. Face the sea. You lean against the railings in its black ornate majesty, it supports you. You look back at me and you have a small smile. You’re daring me. Goading me. I strike your left buttcheek and then the right in quick succession. They vibrate and clap; a request for an encore. I deliver another strike. And then another. Your groans come from somewhere deep.

This tableau, it is familiar. The pirouettes and twirls of this dance are familiar and yet it crackles with the freshness of mint Naira notes. It dates where we began, where we set the parameters of what we have. I am King. Your King, with your body mind to conquer and subdue. 

Go back, I say. One finger. All the way in. Back out. Only the tip. You let out a suppressed whimper. Your forefinger glistens. I fill my lungs again and raise my forefinger to my  lips. Two fingers. All the way in. You seem relieved when I let you enjoy the sensations. Tip. You groan. Clearly, my finger on my lips didn’t pass the message across. I point to where you just left. Two strikes to each cheek. The second strike jolts a line of moisture like a tear that courses down your inner thigh.

Turn. I hand what’s left of our little bullhorn to you. As it passes your lips, I pass your other lips. Two fingers. I look at you pointedly. You swallow the groan. I am proud of how you hold it in, barely. Let’s see how well you handle more. 

Turn. I tap the inside of your ankles with my feet. Wider. I forget for a second my royalty to you as I slip the tip in. My openness amplifies the deliciousness of this feeling. It is sheer effort to not slam into you on the first thrust. I am no savage. Not yet. I grab your hair. You groan. You have forgotten my instruction. I strike the cheek I can reach. You shudder and bite into your own arm to stifle your scream. It is wicked, but I slam in, to the hilt right at that moment. Your scream escapes lost in the air with the sounds of the coast. I strike again as I withdraw and lunge. Again and again. 

It is too much, this pleasure. My eyes should be closed. I should be lost in the pleasure. But I stare over the choppy waters. And I am, lost. Lost in you. It is difficult to tell where I end and you begin. We are one automaton, a synergetic machine. I am adrift in our pleasure. I am the ruins of a blasted ship. Your insides are a survivor clinging to driftwood for life. I soar grabbing your hips and stabbing even harder than I was moments before.

I hear the sound of your cries in my head as it drowns out the sea and the gulls. With every thrust I ride the wind currents and look down over the water. I am reminded of Icarus. I come, crashing down toward the waves you make, squeezing me deep inside you. 

Waters crash against rocks below us, and I bathe your insides with life.



Never Forgotten: A Letter To A Great Friend

Nnam Kedu?  How is  obodo Heaven? I know you are happy and having the time of your life. I wish I could post this letter to heaven but I have this feeling you are sitting right beside and watching me write. I don’t cry as often as I used to whenever I think of you, because I know how much you hated to see me cry. I’m finally over that guy you didn’t like (Chukwu daalu)

I met you at a low point in my life, and I have God, you and few others  to thank for lifting me from that mess. You called me a Queen even when I felt I didn’t deserve that title. You told me I was beautiful when I often forgot. You told me I was talented and would be a success when I felt like giving up. My life would have never been this good if I never met you. You reminded me each time that God loved me and I should never forget and love Him in return. You stopped me when I had suicidal thoughts, you said “A lot of lives won’t be the same without you” . I’m not sure I fully understood that till the morning I got the text that you had passed, My life changed that day.

I woke up that Sunday morning and before I even thanked God for giving me another chance among the living , I picked up my phone to check messages. I have never read anything so shocking and horrible. It’s taken me months to accept that I will never hear your voice again, or see you and hold you.

There’s a lot I never told you, but I will say it in this letter , hoping that somehow you’ll read it. You were a great man, and you touched many lives, you saved mine. Given more years you would have accomplished a lot more than you could have ever dreamed of. You were so kind, very attentive and very loving. I was privileged to have met you and been your friend. God knows why he called for you sooner than we were ready, but you were so great we would have never been ready to let you go no matter how much you aged. Maybe this world wasn’t good enough for you, I think that’s why. I miss you Nnam, I miss making fun of your height and calling you Iroko. I miss arguing over Nigerian Politics, you were so patriotic, I called you my President. Since you left I’ve been wondering, “ Who will be our president?” I miss our fights. I remember the day you blocked Ify and I on bbm. I kept counting down the number of days it would take you to come back, and Yes you did , I won that fight :p . I also miss you going on and on about your Mother, you loved her so much.

There would never be enough words to tell you how much I miss you, I’ll always miss and love you Nnamdi. You’ll live in my heart forever. The last time I saw you will forever  play in my head. I spent the entire day with you and your friends, I wanted to go see another friend since I was leaving back to London that night but you didn’t let me go. It was as if you knew it’d be the last time I’d see you. I begged to go but you said No, you even took me to the airport to make sure I spent every last second with you. I Hugged and kissed your cheeks goodbye, if I had known I’d never see you again I’d have hugged you a lot tighter and longer, said these things I never said to you, thanked you for saving my life countless times and being one of the best people I’d ever met. I didn’t know, I thought you’d be coming to London in the summer and we’ll turn up forever and argue politics and probably see if we can find good palm wine in London.

It’s finally been a year, I’ve accepted you’re gone, but darling you are not forgotten, you will live forever in my heart and in the hearts of everyone that loves and misses you. Your death is an excruciating painful sting but it’s also my biggest motivator. I’m motivated to live my life to the fullest because Nnam would want me to, He would want me to take my disappointments on the chin and fight harder, he taught me that. I would not let a great man down even in death. I will live a better life so that I can make heaven and see you again. Rest In Peace Nnamdi Princewill Nwuruku , I love you baby and so does the world.





The Callypygian strut

His jaw hung open as she listed all the artists she had been with. “See, I’m a bit of an art groupie. I love artists and they love me.”

He could certainly see why. With a head of curly honey-toned ringlets, thick long lashes that shielded eyes alive with mischief, her elegant, flawless nose, the smattering of freckles on her olive skin. She was definitely interesting. His eyes continued to trail her body; she had noticed and was doing a twirl for him, initiating a conversation between the two bodies where words could not suffice.

She was like a song; her highs and lows, the dips and curves were like the perfect composition and his heart seemed to reach the crescendo when he took in the wonder that was her bottom. The orbs of flesh that jutted out of her back, so out of sync with the rest of her body that it looked like it belonged on another person. Holy mounds that existed out of a deep profundity. They definitely did not belong on this white woman. And yet it drove him mad with desire. He wanted to feel it, if only to be sure of his own mind.

She snapped him out of his reverie with her high, tinkling laugh.
“Not bad, eh?”
Not bad? She was fucking perfect was what he wanted to say. Before he could make the statement, she was off, excusing herself to use the bathroom. She had the walk of a woman who lived her entire life a spectacle. A matter of confusion to lesser minds.

Her buttocks rotated rather then swayed. Bounced in an out of rhythm. Her hips and legs doing a well-practiced dance with each step she took. It was breathtaking to watch.
The Callypygian strut.

She was an artist’s dream. She was the kind of woman you wrote poems for, the kind you wrote stories about, the kind you sang songs for, the kind you photographed, the kind you painted. The kind you died for and the sum of all living. All these years he had toiled in vain. She was all there was. All there ever would be.
He decided there and then that he had found his purpose. His magnum opus. He would paint her. Submit his will, his hands, his craft in devotion to her. He would inhale her essence. Eyes, the lips, the breasts. They would become part of him and he part of them.

She was the kind of woman who would ruin a man. The kind that men couldn’t help falling in love with. The kind who was flighty, who packed her belongings and took off once she got bored.

He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. She was walking towards him.. He drank in her vision. The whole bar was watching. The stars were aligned.

“You want to take me home, don’t you, John?” He nodded weakly, spellbound by her gaze. Her accent had changed from something slightly French to a bit more Italian. He assumed it was the result of living and traveling all over. Either way, he didn’t care. Every subtle change he noticed in her, every little detail in her appearance or demeanor he had not sensed before, only served to place him further under her spell.

And so when she stood and led him to his car, parked two streets away, he wondered not how a woman he’d met at a gallery two hours ago knew where he’d parked his car that morning. Just before they left the bar he was sure he had felt all the eyes in the room on his back, but when he looked over, he saw nothing.

On the ride over to the flat in Trocadero his parents had gifted him after graduating art school top of his class, he began to wonder why this French goddess would choose him of all the artists who showcased at the gallery, why she had paid him such special interest, following his career all the way from Nigeria.

Any other day, he would doubt her intentions, but all he wanted was to make her immortal with his brush. He was sure that even the sight of her bare skin would transport him to paradise.  But to actually paint it…. he would see God.

Inside his apartment, her clothing seemed to melt off her skin before his very eyes. She was dancing, no, making love to every space of his apartment. She moved to the music in her head that somehow, he could also hear, chasing her with his camera, capturing and capturing, her legs in the air, her feet gliding over the piano, her form sliding down the curtains. She was everywhere and nowhere at once. She was dizzying and electrifying. Fire.

His heart was pounding and he was laughing harder than he ever had before. She was Valkyrie, she was all the Muses, she was Athena, and Aphrodite, Hera and Persephone, his genius, his Daemon, she was Gaia, she was Yemoja, she was Cleopatra and he was the Father of Rome, here. They were empires.

His entire body was drowning. He was thirsty with want. He needed her.

He was so exhilarated from her that he couldn’t breathe but breathing was not required. Not in this dance. He grabbed his easel and began to sketch. She continued to saunter around the flat, like a spirit. She spun and spun until all he saw was a vision of white flesh and brown hair, almost white in the room’s light. A disciple of Selene and he was mesmerized.

He painted like he had never done before. With his mind and his heart, bones and veins, his eyes never leaving her, his hands racing across the canvass like children in a park. He felt her arms around him, but she was still dancing in front of him. Still everywhere.

“Enough, child”, came the watery voice at his ear. His hands froze at his sides, caked in red ink.

His eyes looked up ahead and he saw nothing but the lights of the twinkling Eiffel reflected on his bleached floors as he sank to his knees. Pain shooting out of every pore.

His back lay on the ground as he looked up into the gleaming eyes of the figure before him. Her features blurred as he sipped quickly into a hot darkness. This was how it was supposed to be. They had shared an eternity. Birthed a civilization.

When life left him, it was as the flutter of a page on a stormy day.

Ten minutes later, a young woman exited a Trocadero flat with a large, red painting.

Another masterpiece. Another soul.

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