Monday, 30 August 2010

At what point in life do you get a tattoo of a dick on your lap saying "cum on up"? Akata Oshi.

So you want to be a Nigerian?

I once read a book "How to be a Nigerian". This is a kind of remixed and abridged version of this book, albeit by memory. So for those of you who have never been to Nigeria, or who have not met any Nigerians before... please see the real version of Nigeria; or go to Google and research about Nigeria, for then and only then will you find this hilariously funny.

Anyhows if you find this funny without ever being to Nigeria, then you might actually be a Nigerian or have Nigerian Blood in you... (Michael Jackson was White, wasn't he?).

The Federal Republic of Nigeria, popularly known as Nigeria, is a country, capital in Abuja, 15..(I’m not sure)..0000 square miles in size, as big as Ghana, Benin, Togo put together. This might not be totally correct, because in 2012, Togo has decided to put together a case to claim Lagos as part of their territory seeing as Cameroon won over Bakassi from Nigeria (This was due to a President falling asleep during a meeting in which the Surveyor General (whose Mom was Cameroonian) conspired to leave out Bakassi from the official map of Nigeria.

1) To be a Nigerian, first and foremost, you must be very religious. This has nothing to do with the ease with which you tell lies or your willingness to short change the very next person at the slightest opportunity. What is important here is that a bible/prayer bead is always part of your personal effects at every time and that you are very quick to declare your faith both orally or in writing especially in your Curriculum vitae even without being prompted.

As an extension of your religiousness, you must believe strongly that every thing that happens, from the late arrival of the rains in a rainy season to the collapse of a poorly constructed building has a spiritual explanation and thus can only be handled spiritually. You must also learn to place the responsibility for your woes on some body. It’s either a neighbor who doesn’t like your face, an envious relation who doesn’t want your progress or simply put, some kind of demon which no body ever sees. That way they don’t get to weigh you down and you get to save your self the depressing feeling of being a failure. You must always remind your self that your country was “the most populous black nation in the world” and the “sixth largest oil producer in the world”. If nothing else, it provides you a mental satisfaction that, since your country was great, you too were great. Potentially.

2) To save your self from the prospects of an early death, don’t ever go worrying yourself about the actions or inactions of Government. In Nigeria, siren blaring, tinted glass, dangerously driving, fast moving vehicles were the symbol of Government. You should be happy each time you encounter them. Its a reminder that even though it doesn’t seem apparent, a Government exists. What they do (or don’t do) should be none of your effing business.

3) One word you must be very familiar with is NEPA. Like it or not, it will be an important part of your vocabulary. It’s not even actually a word but an acronym for the now defunct National Electrical Power Authority. Its importance lies in the fact that it is a synonym for two other important words: Light and darkness. Once your bulb goes out, you shout “NEPA”. Whenever it comes back on, you again shout “Up NEPA”. You won’t need a reminder. Soon, it would become part of you.

4) As a potential Nigerian, when inviting people for any function remember that Nigerians arrived at occasions two hours after the scheduled time. We call it African time. Why should one be the first to arrive? It would seem like he was the hungriest of all. No, the place should be full before he arrived. So learn to push back the time on your invitation so that after two hours – just when you really want them-, they will begin to arrive.

5) When asked to join in a meal or to receive a gift, be sure to initially refuse at first. Your host will find you extremely respectful. After imploring you to accept the gift after about ten times, grudgingly accept the gift with coy smiles. This is very respectful.

The story is told of a Liberian who invited his Nigerian friend to a meal. His Nigerian friend fasted and had not eaten or drunk anything for four days. Arriving at his friends house, he met his friend drinking a glass of wine. Welcoming his friend, the Liberian invited his friend to share in his bottle of wine. The Nigerian responded: “Ah, I have just drunk two kegs of palm wine; I cannot possibly take another drink today.” His Liberian friend went ahead with his drink and finished it. When it was time for the meal, the Liberian invited his friend over to the table, again the Nigerian (respectfully) refused. “We just cooked a new pot of soup at home, it will be wrong to deprive you of your much needed ration”. And so our Liberian friend went ahead and had a hearty meal. Now our Nigerian friend thinks all Liberians are stingy.

6) Now, don’t attempt becoming a Nigerian if you are new to embarrassments. Anything happens around here and you should be prepared for it. You must get used to things like the National Television going off in the middle of the network news and your TV making an annoying noisy sound and returning five minutes later with a visibly perplexed newscaster offering an obviously well rehearsed line of apology. At the parks, you must elbow your way to a seat on a taxi. You must be prepared to wait long hours – most likely in the Sun- to pay for things like your electricity bill. You must also be ready to freely and willingly give and receive abuses at the slightest provocation. You could start by learning some of the relatively easy ones like: “Your Father”. And oh, by the way all local TV stations open at 4pm and close at 10pm. (effectively).

7) Warning: if you are a frequent traveler-abroad I mean-, you must get used to being treated like a lesser being by the air line officials. You might wish to fly British Airways for a first hand taste of this. Your green passport must be wrapped in a brown jacket just so that you don’t give away your identity cheaply. When eventually your identity is known, be ready to have gloved fingers straying even into the private recesses of your anus because you are most often than not expected to be travelling with banned substances.

Don’t feel bad about this; it was only one of the many dividends of being Nigerian.

8) If you are white, you will be lovingly called Oyinbo. Never Mind this, because the friend of yours whom you met at the airport who is black but extremely light skinned will also be called Oyinbo.

And oh, by the way Nigerians can be hilariously funny. A joke is told of a Nigerian who went to London. Arriving at Gatwick he decided to buy a whole roast Chicken. Not checking the price, he went ahead and dug in. Halfway through, he decided to look at the price. 40 pounds. Thinking this was an effectively high price, the Nigerian decided to eat out and noisily chew the bones. A white man sitting at the next table, eating chocolate iced cream, hearing the Nigerian noisily sucking the bones, decided to make a joke out of it. Bending over to his friend he said loudly;

“I wonder what their dogs eat in Nigeria”.

The Nigerian looked back, smiled and said… “Iced Cream”.

Now, if you tell that joke to the end in Nigeria, your joke will be extremely funny and your sense of humor will be greatly appreciated for 3 weeks. But if you decide to end it at the end of the white man’s joke…….

In case you wish to learn more, just buy your self some CD tapes of our Nollywood (Nigerian) films. I am sure that before you are through with watching five (I mean both the part ones and two’s), you might just have become more Nigerian than I am. I can also swear however that the CDs you will buy will be pirated. You will be lucky if they all play to the end.

(To Be Continued)

Sunday, 29 August 2010

Thank you.

It was all so wrong. Perfect but wrong.
But then wrong is enjoyable. Or so it seems. Or seemed.

At the time I was jumping and in between girlfriends, which was not much of a new thing. What was fresh and beautiful was that she was the best friend. And my, she was beautiful.
Plait my hair. Will you? Of course, she knew he could. She was the best friend. She lay in his lap, her arms stretched over head, fingers interlaced with her long flowing hair. He laughed at her statement and gave her an incredulous look.

You can, you plait her hair, please plait my hair.”

He sighed out in annoyance, of course she would make this difficult, she'd pout, stick out that luscious bottom lip and bat those thick dark eye lashes of hers at him and all resolve would melt away instantly. There was no point in trying anymore.

He surrendered, she was up and out of the room in a flash, but soon returned, naked as the day she was born with a box of tools in hand. He blanched as the natural lighting reflected off of her sun kissed brightly colored yellow skin.

“Where did your clothes go?”

She laughed, walked past him into the bathroom and began to assemble her tools of trade. Taking a few moments to admire herself in the mirror before she plugged in the clippers and turned around towards him expectantly.

“I'm ready”
He hadn't moved from the bed, and just stared up at her with a slack jaw. She was utterly insane, but in such a beautiful way, every day there was something new to catch his attention, would he ever be free? Throwing his head back, he stood up ready for the battle ahead. She arched her back as she handed the comb to him, their fingers overlapping momentarily, spiking the energy levels in the air around them. A coy smile here, a soft touch there, she sat awaiting his touch.

He stood behind her, long fingers caressing her scalp, the comb moved smoothly in his left hand, as his right tickled her senses.

“I could fuck up you know...”

He whispered threateningly, a double meaning in all speech. She smiled, eyes closed, bringing her own hand to his.

“You won't”

He bent over and kissed the tip of her skull, eyes closed in a silent prayer. The elevated music buzzing in the background was the only sound heard between the two humans. Strands of hair fell down around her, lightly touching her shoulders before moving down to her feet. He watched the tips of her breasts rise and fall with each breath, taking a glance every now and then at the adjacent mirror, marveling in the gift that sat before him. Naked of all things, materialism, vanity, ignorance, stupidity, a gift indeed.

He was almost done with her hair, he could feel the difference about her already, she opened her eyes and watched him in the mirror, his light shone so bright to her in everything he did, he gave her freedom but he gave her love, gave her the world if she asked for it, but she didn't need it, because she had him, and he inspired. He inspired everything.

He was done. He placed the comb on the bathroom counter, then stood before her, knees almost touching her own. She opened her legs, eyes never leaving his, and rubbed her scalp as she stretched her neck, arching her back just a little more.

She stood up, closing the distance between them, her small hands splayed gently on his chest, lips reaching higher to touch his own, she stopped a few centimeters from his face. Feeling his warm breathe against her lips, savoring the scent of his cologne, his left hand touched her cheeks as he brought his forehead to her own.

“Thank you”.

Saturday, 28 August 2010


I lost my aunt this morning.

Mrs. Meg Akwele Nwachukwu. (Nee Smith)


A lull before the storm.

It’s like a calm before the storm. It’s going too well with a few underground problems right now. You know? Like you know a storm is coming up, you see the signs, but hold on to the tethering hope that it might just be well?
It was her her who broke the ice, and her ego that was the negative energy, but who thought it would bring me this far?

When I first met her, in one of those customary unknown blunt sharing "session" settings, she spent a good hour talking about herself, how amazing she was, how hot she was, how cool she was, the list goes on and I had never met anyone so fucking blatantly egotistical before.

I mean I knew some proud and cocky girls but this girls’ own was just in an excessive amount and it was so fascinating. Maybe, that’s it.
Unusual, and attractive.
She was attractive and dressed like an ex of mine which fed my own vanity quite heartily, but most of all I liked the way she carried herself. The way she stood, the way she walked, it was a trait I found very sexy, a trait I almost always look for, a trait that'll make you instantly fuckable. The first night I met her I just watched, the first time I meet anyone I observe them first, and calculate how I could interact with them. I knew, looking at this girl, that I wanted to fuck her, but what else did I want?

That ego was begging for a mind fuck. But then how would I set it up?
A couple of weeks pass and my interest wanes, I asked about her often but did nothing with the information that was given to me, to be honest I just couldn't be bothered, there was too much in my own life for me to add more weight to it. Then I started seeing her more often, and her name became a part of my daily life. We all smoked you see? And smokers generally stick and smoke together, so needless to say she came by a lot. But again I didn't think much of it, I know a lot of lady smokers, besides we never really spoke to one another, we just smoked together.

One day she spoke to me, and it took me by surprise, that may have been my first fuck up, I was content at the time, not interested in fostering any new relationships really, at least any that involved constant work on my part. I've always enjoyed the fall in your lap type of friendships. One that require little work, and little upkeep, so when she offered what I assumed to be a green light in the one sentence "We should hang out" I was actually pleasantly surprised.
Or happy. Or maybe my dick jumped.

I paid closer attention to her after that and continued to be quietly and pleasantly surprised. All of a sudden this girl transformed from a quick fuck to a friend in 15 minutes flat all because of one simple conversation. The first real conversation I think we ever had just between the both of us. I guess that day she saw behind my façade, she saw right through everything I said, all the cards I played, it was a quarter exasperating quarter annoying half exciting. I'd never played the game with anyone who also knew the game existed before.

It was different, and I remembered the point in my life where I had friends, not love sick idiots. And the idea that I could attain this sort of social and sexual peace at this point stimulated me in brand new ways.

But will my life ever be that simple?

Of course not.
The settings were perfect, I had found my friends with benefits candidate, simple enough for me to remain attracted to her, and intelligent enough to catch all my tricks and lies but still allow me to employ the use of them? Absolutely perfect.

In this great package deal there was one fatal flaw, one fatal flaw I could never have foreseen to have even been a possibility in this girls life.
She wouldn’t fuck.
A flaw so fatal…. She had never fucked before.
We talked about it as best we could, she claimed that she had been trying to find the right guy. And from the look of things, I wasn’t. Yet. At least. She wasn't trying to blame me but it was a puzzle I couldn't solve and it incontrovertibly pissed me the fuck off. We stopped mind-fucking for a while, both of us emotionally strained by these events and simply hung out instead. She’s cool you know? An actual friend, someone I can have a conversation with and someone who knows when I’m faking. That’s important to me, because almost no one can tell, no one even questioned if I even retained the ability to lie. And the fact that I can completely be myself around this girl comforts me in new ways. Ways I still don't feel comfortable exploring.

Because if I delve into these ways I may find that I'm a lot more emotionally attached now because of this entire trauma. I went into this with the express intent of mind fucking and physically fucking like a rabbit, all I got to do was mind fuck. Something unfamiliar to me once more.
I would actually go see her just to hang out, a very dangerous destination for a fragile ego.
I know so much about her now, stuff I'm sure the regular male isn't privy too, or perhaps I've just told myself that to make me feel better about the Melting Moments in our none-existent sex life. Maybe I deluded myself into thinking that I was important outside of the sexual realm to make up for my failure within it.

And it worries me.

That this situation could have inadvertently given me a complex. A severe and sexual complex. My sex life is one of the few things I really and truly enjoy in the world of social interaction, and if that is compromised it may change my very way of life, it may unravel my very soul, or even worse, it may make me utterly fucking miserable.

So what should I do? I don't know how to relay this too him, how do I say;
"I'm worried that we may have gotten closer outside of sex, which would be cool if our closeness inside of sex were at the same level of intensity, it's not, so at this point I'm putting a lot of emotions into this, and if there is one thing I will never forget, I have a dick, and no matter how unemotional I can be, this said dick can produce certain hormones that could fuck with my brain and make me despise you and throw away our friendship all because you won’t fuck”.
Maybe just by the fact that I can’t tell her that means I still have a part of me she does not know.

I think right now I may be trying to console myself into thinking that I am somehow special to her, if I was somehow special to her on an emotional front the laceration on my sex life may begin to heal. I don't really want her on that level, but I want to be important, I want to be indispensable, I think that may be the only way to make up for the physical fuckery.

But again, how the fuck do I tell her that?
And I like kissing her, which is disturbing, because we haven't had a normal sex life, or any sex life at all, I should hate all things sexual with her at this point of our relationship, but the fact that I don't see kissing her as something that sexual also greatly troubles me.

Because I don't know when all of this will end.
It is still what is it. Bad ass kids need a shock collar.
Is this mine?

(To be continued. I hope.)

Thursday, 26 August 2010

Calm. 3:38 am.

Its all calm. And silent. And lonely, once again. The keystrokes of this keyboard sound like music. But then, my mind goes to you. Thank you for the fucking STD. And thank you, for talking thrash about me to your new-fucking boyfriend. Yes, I’m talking about my ex.
Not my fault if I fall in love with the most basic bitches. But you. You.

Are fucking stupid.

Now listen, so I broke your heart right? And now you're on some 'he made me a better woman' kick trying to salvage what little dignity you have left after you cut off all ties to the outside world because of me? Gosh.

Now you're all over the place trying to be the 'better' person.

Not even realizing in the end, the beginning and the fucking next this dude you are trying so hard to prove something to does not give a fuck. I simply do not.

So you look at me with judgmental eyes and try to push your poor little broken hearted girl image on me thinking we're in the same boat.

Now let me clear something with your stupid ass.

We are on the same ocean yes, in the same boat? Hell to the fuck get the fuck out of here NO.
Because with my case? My situation? My emotional issues?
broke up with you. I ended it. I finished it. I ran the fuck away from something that was clearly about to blow up in my face. I MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE in an attempt to save myself from your pathetic situation. So don't come at me with some "I hurt you so bad" shit.
Because I had the right mind to run the fuck away.

Given it didn't really fix nothing but hey, small comforts. You get me? I'm still as stuck as I ever was, still waiting to meet someone else and have that same reaction you know? Cause with you all you need is to get some dude to make you feel wanted again but with me it's a lot more complicated.What I need to be completely and utterly over you and another woman to set me ablaze just the way you did.

Another dudette to run through my head all damn day, another girl to make me blush, another girl to fill my stomach with butterflies, another girl to get my hands all clammy, another girl to make me so fucking nervous I can't put my sentences together, another girl who only has to open her mouth to get me thinking thoughts the very definition of sex, another girl I wake up in the morning and just stare in utter wonder at, another girl I can't believe I managed to bag, another girl who would never even have to think about asking me to stay true, another girl who I'd have no need to use the english language or any other with and another guy who I'd have no qualms admitting that I am irrefutably in love with.

Trust me. It's been 3 months, I've had plenty of women. But not one single mother fucker has been that “girl”.

So while you sit there in your newly acquired vapid ass relationship that we all know is gonna end up just like that last one did and you look at me all judgmental and shit just remember that while you attempt to grasp onto some semblance of a relationship you hope to last forever Femi Smith already knows the formula to his own infinity.

He's simply trying to find the right variables.

So eat shit you stupid bitch.

At least I know my left from fucking right. I’m just trying to die happy.

I still love you.

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

I need.

So many people complain of being lonely, of which I am included in this profound observation. There are so many people, tweeps, face book friends, so many people in this world around me, but really deep down WE ARE LONELY.

I am Lonely.

I want a friend. That is what I am lacking in this world, I have friends, but I want a soul friend, someone to communicate with at all times, to depend on when needed, to lay with and do absolutely nothing, to understand and be understood. It'd be lovely if sex would play a role in these ministrations, making that soul friend probably someone of the opposite sex, someone to call a prototype, to make me feel at home when I am so far away from my real home.

I get easily depressed here, lack of love, lack of truth, the willing blind all hurt me, bring my soul down, bring my intellect to it's knee's. I feel lost at times in this country, and it scares me, I am unused to this fear, but now my mere acknowledgment of it gives me power, if I can pin point the wound I can stop the bleeding.

I don't ask for much. I just want someone to exist with. There are so many words, people talk to me all the time, telling me they love me, that I'm their "inner caucus". But how many actually mean it? How many actually sacrifice as much as I would for a stranger without question?

I want truth. So many talk, but never actually mean what they say, always telling me how real they are, how far they'd go for me, but never actually mean it. And the fact that I can smell the lies, I can see the falsehoods, all unnecessary, because if it any of it were real, you wouldn't have to tell me. I would see it. I would feel it. Right now, words are useless to me. Everyone in my world talks. No one acts. A painful truth, so much that my optimism suffers greatly because of. I am never pleasantly surprised most of the time, everyone acts just as expected. I have the lowest standards in regards to the nature of human beings, and most live up to them.
There's this girl I might've fucked with ages ago, and we recently got in contact with one another via Facebook, her interest in me remains it would seem, but I find her methods of garnering my attention stupid at best. I read them with a sigh, the sweetness sickens, have I alluded to any interest in this being romantically once more? What we had, is just that, a HAD. Past tense of have. I don't even remember my reasoning behind the encounter, but I came to regret it at times, it was sweet, she really liked me, I suppose she still does, I really liked her, but I have no interest in anything of the sort.

I want to us to speak like human beings first. I know I always say you should just express your emotions, but when it comes to me, please measure your distance before you walk it. I don't want to be rude, so I generally just ignore advances in hopes that she'll desist and act like a normal human being once more. Perhaps it's the predictable nature of the entire affair that turns me off so much, because I knew she would do this, I knew she would approach it like that, because I saw it coming, I immediately despised it, and in that sense, is she really to blame? Is it her fault that I'm a foreshadowing son of a bitch?

No, it's not her fault, but the blame game does not change how I feel at the end of the day. My interest remains nonexistent. I hold such contempt for predictability. I can't even help myself. I hate formula's, I hate scripts, I hate any sense of a feeling that this has been done before, the idea that we live our lives according to someone else's picture of how and what things should be causes my bile to rise. And the fact that so many are happy in this existence is despairing.

So I shall remain on this island, all by my lonesome, until one day, some rescue ship would come floating down, with only one person inside. Who won’t talk.

And I’ll just know that I have to kick off my shoes, scream and step into that boat. Till then.

It is what it is.

Actually, I eat my words. You have a right to be selfish.


Tuesday, 24 August 2010

So, Seriously.

Ive been trying to write for ages, but i'm really getting serious about this, due to many circumstances which might be to much to list out here....

So I decided to share the beginning of moi writing ( I ain't calling it no book yet... cos really I suck with titles) But then, if you are interested in helping me out with titles. Well, the whole point is to make sure I'm not writing rubbish. I had to edit and edit and edit like 50 times, so please if you don't like it, try and be a little not so blunt.

And I might just continue the story if i'm encouraged. So here Goes:

Las Gidi. Lagos.

She always wondered why they called it Las Gidi. Maybe in refrence to Las Vegas? She could care less.

The sky was beautiful tonight.

One of the many things she loved so much about this city, there was always music, and always men. Her flavor of the city lazily led her down the dark lit street, murmuring tones of Afro-Hip hop matching the sound of her heels clicking against the untarred road..

She would love him tonight as much as she did this life, and as she pulled him close towards her and kissed his soft lips, ran her hands through his short african curls and whispered obscenities in her own language against his neck she took care to remember every detail. Every detail of this man, she took care so she wouldn't ever forget.

He was laughing now. So full of exuberance, so full of passion and they continued their trek to her apartment to continue their night together. She pitied him.

As they got closer to their destination she frowned with dismay when she saw the heavy shadow of her landlord through his window. Why did he always wait for her?

It was the same story every night and she grew tired of the crazed mans ranting. She rummaged through her small clutch bag to locate her keys, as her companion took it upon himself to plant small kisses against her naked collar bone and grind his hips into her back.

"Ife Mi..."

He whispered one of the few yoruba words words she could understand and she turned her head to smile at him. He would not be disappointed tonight.

As she turned the key and opened the door, she frowned once more blundering through the dark corridor to find the crooked staircase.

He laughed again as she tripped and guided her to the stairwell, he seemed to know this place better than she and it would make sense, he had been here enough. The trip up the stairs was painfully slow and equally as sensually, his hands seem to find all the right places and his untranslated words seems to touch her very soul.

She loved this city. Las Gidi.

And as if on cue, when they reached the top of the staircase her landlord burst out of his room with such a fury she was sure he was about to have a heart attack. As his custom was, he started to bellow and scream at her, and all she ever seemed to catch were "your rent" "do you not know what time it is?" "go back to where you came from" "your clothes are too many" in between the pidgin and cacophony of yoruba-english. So on and so forth.

She never knew why he chose this time to impart these words to her, seeing as though he had never so much as greeted her at any other time of the day, but she suspected it had a lot to do with the many opened bottles of various degrees of wine strewn across his living room. As he continued to rant, and her lover continued to touch in the darkness, and when her breathing began to come in short spurts, she took it upon herself to light a cigarette.

She took a drag, and lazily blinked at her landlord.

"Sir, I do not know why we go through this every night, but just as I told you yesterday, and as I will tell you tomorrow...I have no idea...what the fuck you are saying."

And with that she inhaled more of the offending smoke, took her lovers hand in her own and brushed past the drunken old man to her own quarters, disappearing behind the painted rotten wood that bore the numbers 18 in chipped gold paint.

This was supposed to the the best place in Las Gidi. Lekki.

Her apartment was next to nothing, so far from the plum and plush she was accustomed to all of her life in Barcelona but she adored it all the same. Her guest took the cigarette from her hand and placed it on his own lips and she smiled with devilish intent and began to undress him.

"Más cerca..."

He whispered against her lips, one of the only words of Spanish he could remember, and the cigarette was soon discarded. He cupped her face with both his hands and gently pressed his forehead to her own as her hands made short work of his trousers. He pulled back and just looked at her, seemingly memorizing her features, and traced the lines of her face with his fingers, and ran a calloused hand in between her lush hair.

And on perfect time her landlord began to blast his midnight douse of Timaya and something that sounded like Oliver De Couque in what she could only understand to be a declaration of war against her person but he would never know the stage it set for nights, for her conquests. Tonight it sounded like a combo of the above two and tomorrow she hoped it would be D'banj or Sound Sultan or Pasuma. She wasns't sure he knew what he ever played, and suspected it was always the radio.

And somewhere in between Timaya and Oliver De Couque she was reminded again of why she adored this city so much, and why she would probably never leave.

She was his Spanish Teacher.

He was Her Nigerian Student.

She was in love.

Finally. Again.

And again, she pitied him.

My wish for you this Week.

This week, may the grass be green under your feet.

And the Sun shine warm on your neck.

May the hand of a friend be near, and the heart of the one who loves you, be true.


Monday, 23 August 2010

Ice Cold.

Sincerely. I’m scared.

Okay, so the past couple of sexual encounters of mine have confirmed something about myself that I am slowly coming to fear. These past sexual encounters, the first was utterly horrendous, so nonchalance was to be expected, but the depth of it still amazes me. The whole ordeal is just so robotic, it's something you pride yourself on to be sure, but then you start to ask yourself...

How long will this last?

Not because you fear that you'll regress, and turn into some blubbering male, no, because you are terrified of the opposite. That grows over time, and starts dropping fruits of fact in your daily thought process. Facts so obvious, and so true and undeniable. But only feeds the monster within. What if I do spend the rest of my life not caring? What if thousands of eternal hopeful's come and go? What if this shit slowly feeds on my subconscious and eats me up forever?

The coldness of my nature worries me. I see so much warmth and pain around me; I sometimes wonder how and why I so easily escape it. Does not touch me, leaving me all lonely. That explains what I mean when I say I’m lonely.

But as your heart grows colder, the soft glow of romance all but disappears, so when they say "I love you" You scoff instead of smile. So now all the compliments, the possible foundation for lasting attachments are met with skepticism and annoyance. What is even the point? I don't hurt for any of you. At times I want to. Just to remember what it felt like. To see why so many of my counterparts invest in it so.

My life is ruled by my brain. I think that's what it is. I'm not very emotional, I'm all thought, hardly any heart when it comes to sex. Or anything really. I'm all computation, no emotion. But I simply can't. There are no hard feelings. There are no feelings are all. My brain ate them. I discern the truth too easily, and everyone knows how swiftly truth can murder any sense of affection available. What does “making love” mean anymore? Utter un-discernment. Or Deadment. So when I hear: "It was like we were making love" I raise an eyebrow and think "Your sex life must be an utter bore”. Right now, to me, pretty faces do nothing unless they're bobbing up and down in between your legs. Sometimes, I’m even too bored to talk. Making me addicted to Benson’s after sex and tracing the outline of the smoke all the way to the ceiling. Shit’s tingly, you know?

I guess it’s the result of too much shit and clutter in my life. The days of saying “I love you” with my lips instead of my brain. Shit’s not coming out anymore.

I’m Ice Cold. And I’m scared. Will I melt?

I’ve been talking to this girl. . I pray she doesn’t spoil it by saying I love you. Or something like that. And I really can’t fathom what I feel. I’m all thinking, and the question that keep’s on recurring is “What’s in it for me?” She’s too much of a good girl. There has to be a problem. All my attempts to feel again, look like me prodding a dead body on the street and trying to prod it back to life.

God works in wonderful ways.

I’m just trying to die happy. The heart’s just too fucking weak you know. No reason to shatter it again. Or isn’t it already in bits and pieces already.

And so, I am constantly reminded. So little time left.

So much positive energy to be shared. It is what it is. And what will be.

You have no right to be selfish.

I will die happy.

Amen, thank you Jesus.


Sunday, 22 August 2010

Dear Uncle.

Okay, so a friend of mine went purging on twitter the other day. And so I decided to purge. No details. Just simple cursing and writing. I’m sure you won’t like it.
But like my friend says, I’m simply purging.

If I was any good at this, I’d dedicate this to a particular @fozadoza on twitter. Don’t know if that’ll do any good. But then, still. I pray you log on to read this one day.

Dear Uncle,

I mean it's not like you're sitting there with stacks in your bank account on some grown man shit for you to be walking around like you own the fucking place, No nigger, you are just as broke as I am, if not fucking more.

Only difference is, you're a good 40-odd something years older than me.
So when you look me in my face and tell me not to talk to you like a child when you are CLEARLY acting like some adolescent nutter don't expect me not to get angry.
I get it. You're older than me. But you're not exactly in the position to put fear in my heart for nothing, because as far as I know my FATHER is the one paying the bills, my FATHER is the one who provides for me, my FATHER is the one built this house, I don't know where the fuck in America you came from still waltzing in on some egotistical African man shit.

You're family, I love you, but you're not my fucking Father, so shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down and stop acting like I owe you anything.

-Close the fucking door when you're pissing, that's disgusting and disrespectful.

-Stop using up all my shit and talking about some 'I'll get you another' cause we both fucking know that that's like my Mom calling and telling me she'll pay for my school. A bold face manipulative fucking lie.

- Why the fuck do you go through everything like a 3 year old would? Is it that hard to act your age in regards to your environment? Seriously.

- I repeat. You are STAYING with ME.

- You don't live here.

- You're not my Father. I love you, I do, but you ain't got it like my Dad so you don't get the same amount of reverence okay?

- You don't give a shit? Well that's why you're sleeping on the floor of your elder brother’s house. And that’s my father.

- I don't even know why you're here.

- It's my fucking Laptop, which you did not contribute to getting. So get the fuck over your fucking self.

- Get the fuck over your fucking self.

- GET the FUCK over your fucking SELF.

- GET THE FUCK OVER YOUR FUCKING SELF and understand that you cannot pull some "I'm some big man no one can tell me what to do" when you're fucking SLEEPING ON THE FLOOR OF YOUR 8 YEARS YOUNGER THAN YOU BROTHER.

-I’m glad you leave tomorrow. Just when I’m getting to like your daughter. Thank God she stays.

P.S.: Close your mouth when you're eating, that's so disgusting.

Thank you and good fucking night.

21:07 pm

Let me tell you something interesting. Okay, two things. Nope. Many things.

My father is a Pastor. And I didn't smoke, or drink my entire high school career.

Thinking about it now, the path to my metamorphosis is quite astounding. I mean there was no clear signs that would point to the person I am today, there was no direct route, no obvious outcome.

I've just always been myself.

I've just always done what I wanted to do.

I didn't want to smoke or drink. So I didn't.

Then all of a sudden. I just didn't. It's kind of like when your favorite color changes. Preferences change you know? You go to a restaurant you've been eating at for years and all of a sudden decide to eat something you've never tried before.

Change in a change you know?

So after I graduated high school the great summer of 07 came upon me and all of a sudden. I was drinking, I was smoking , I was cheating on the "love of my life", I was changing, I was growing and to put it simply.

I was doing whatever the fuck I wanted.

Because that's me. That's the mystery behind ME. The strength and the weakness behind this great machine. I do what I want and I don't hold myself back.

I was talking to someone, a friend with whom I had lost touch with for almost 6 years. She asked me if I was still the same ME. And that if a random person chats me up, I’d still be nice.

And I can't help but laugh at the innocence of that question. Because when you think about it, not that much time has passed it's just that the amount of shit I've managed to pile in such a small amount of time has forced me out of...well...myself.

That Femi? That Femi was a doppelganger of this Femi.

There isn't much difference; the wording of my translation has switched up is all.
And maybe it's in a different language as well.

I can do what I want and have it not reflect badly on my life because in the end

I'm not a bad person. I'm just trying to die happy.

So if you want to have a nice little chat with me go ahead.

I won't bite.

As long as you don’t pull a “I don’t talk to Potheads” bullshit with me.

I will, talk to you, later. Amen, thank you Jesus.

Friday, 20 August 2010

He shook his head with reckless abandon. He had done this so many times over the past few days. Argue with himself. Again. And Again.

He sighed and rubbed his temple in an effort to reduce his ever increasing stress levels. Turning over in the bed, stretching his hand to the prone nude figure calmly sleeping beside him, he cupped her jaw in his hands and stroked her cheek.
She didn't wake up. She never did.

Would he wake up? From all this?
It seemed so unreal. So free. The feeling was there, he knew what he felt, but could not describe it. Was it love? No, he knew what that felt like. Using the tips of his fingers to trace down from her cheeks to her neck.... holding her left shoulder.. he saw her blink. And moan. Smiling, he turned, wondering what she was dreaming of, lying face up, whispering, he asked his older lover, his teacher: You awake?
Not waiting for a response, he used his left hand to draw her close to him. She snuggled close to him and threw a lazy leg over his torso. She rarely talked.

And when she did, it turned his brain into mush.   

But then he knew, every other guy who'd done her, felt the same way. He'd prided himself as someone who'd never fall in love. Who was immune. He was the grandmaster. A genius. A fucking cold hearted male of the human species. So what the fuck was he feeling? Definatly it was not love, because last night, he'd seen her check a text message on her phone and smile. She wasn't trying to hide it, and so he checked it. Another lover. But he didn’t mind. Love was supposed to be jealous, init?

But that in itself was a first. Checking a girls phone for a text. She made him excited. Feel on top of this world. You know that feeling? Dang. He still couldnt describe it. She'd slept off. Getting up, he lit a ciggartte and thought of thier love making that night. After catching him checking her phone, a fight broke out. She'd been so cool about it, and he had gotten mad. Looking outside the window of her shabby apartment, he stared at the stars.

The stars seemed brighter, they hurt his eyes.

He remembered the way his anger had made him almost blind, literrlily blind, when she laughed when he'd lied that he was only looking at her pictures. He remembered how she'd looked at him with a puzzled look on her face, when he stopped and stared blindly at her.

The way she stepped forward... and kissed him.

The way he tasted ciggaette smoke mixed with wine in her lips. The way he melted. The way she cupped his buttocks in her hands, and him reciprocating the gesture.... which made both of them burst into laughter. The way she smiled and cocked her head to one side, still hugging him, kissing his cheek taking her phone from his hands, and deleting the text message, still smiling, going through her contacts and deleting the sender of the message.

The way she made things look so simple. So fucking simple.

She gone into the kitchen - or what she called a kitchen, and came out with two glasses and a bottle of some kind of wine he couldnt remember. The way she lay her head on his shoulder and watched T.V.  together, both of them thinking what the fuck they where watching the N.T.A. News for. Then she switched the channel. To A.I.T or channels or something. They where playing some kind of slow music.
Crushing the cigarette on the winow pane, he thought of thier love making.

Slow and Methodical.
Intense. The normal Missionary position.
Mind blowing. 

The way she moaned. The way she tore at his back, he could feel the scars on his back. The way her feet crossed themselves across his back. The way she drew him close to her, the way she whispered nothing but moans into his ear.

Oh fuck.

Above the din of cars passing, still lost in thought, he heard a noise at the door, a whining of a drunk man. He immediately recognized the voice, her landlord. What did he want at his freaking time of the night?
Still lost in thought, he thought of waking her up, glancing at her, he heard the whining at the door turn to heated pounding, he hurried to the front door.
Opening the door, He saw the land lord standing there, with a bottle of beer in his right hand and a packet of condoms in his left, smiling like a 4 year old who had been promised a car for his 5th birthday.

They both stared at themselves in shock and suprise.

Stunned and drunk, the landlord collapsed unto the floor, his heat beating a tad faster than it ususlly used to.
Stunned, he looked down at the already gasping landlord.

That was when he realised with dismay.

He was naked.

2:35 am

2:35 am. I am still high? Why?

I've been on some other shit lately. You can all vouch for that.

Let me write this while the feeling is fresh. I'm feeling pretty objective right now, I dunno...pretty mature?
So here, I'm back.

On the verge of going back to bed and lying down to either text with her or with the first wife..... I think. I type. I wonder. It is a strange feeling you know? All the pain and difficulty I had foreseen to go hand in hand with this has not made itself present. I'm not really sure what to do. I think that’s a good definition of "Too good to be true". :) The pride you thought you had fades and the intensity you thought had lost hits you with power you never knew it had. It seems as though I have always been ready for this, or maybe what happened last finally sobered me up, I now understand that I simply wasn't ready.

And to be honest, I’m not sure I was never meant to be.

You love but never learn. You learn then never love.

Solo. It was once:  piss me off and it's over, I learnt my lesson with ol' Malcolm X about the dangers of not letting go quickly enough that now the talent comes as easy as breathing. But its magical how i re-learned not to let go.

I burnt a lot of bridges last year.  Late last Year.

And have left no evidence on my person that would suggest the rampart fires.

Thinking about it, at the beginning, the only thing I was really interested in doing was to turn her individual and probably secret perverse nature and translate it into something beautiful. And dumping her.

Then I said "No" and the whole world blows up. My whole world. Blows up into joy.

Whatever.  I’m not even sure what I’m writing makes any sense at all.

God makes us pass through ugly shit in order to show us the beautiful side.

All I have to be is who he has made me and he will do the rest.
It is what it is. Per usual.
Fly on Little Wing.

Don't watch me darlings.
I hope.

Excuse me while I touch the sky.

Love. xx.

Wednesday, 18 August 2010


I'm searching. (Not in the Single, MArried or ina relationship sense of the word....) 

I just need someone.

I need someone, ANYONE to take my mind to outer fucking space, to send me soaring with words and thoughts of outta-worldly presence, I need my brain saturated with philosophical truth.

I need that presence in my life.

I need to put put my mental penis in your mental vagina and fuck the living shit out of you, I need to remember this night for the rest of my life as the night that I was changed forever. The night I came a thousand times.

I need your hands all over my body, I need that heat, that lust.

For my mind.

I need you deep inside me, I need you to fill me, complete me, I need to give you the best fuck I have ever had, everywhere and anywhere. I don't care, just please me, do me, make me want you, make me need you.

Talk to me.

Show me that you are more than this, show me that you understand your power, your presence, your beauty, your creation, show me you know that there is more, tell me you want to share it with me.

Put my head to yours and FUCK YOU.

I need to finish utterly satisfied with a cigarette in hand and a silly smile on my face. I need to see your intellect, I need to see your mind, I need you to overflow with beautiful knowledge and beautiful words. I need you to challenge me, to question me, to drive me, to feel me, to understand me, to want you without ever having to touch you.

I need to look at you and know that we both mean more to this universe than anyone could ever understand.

I'm still searching, Lord knows I'm still searching, for that mental click. I'm looking for nothing in particular but everything I've ever dreamed of. A mind, true and deep, so obvious, so present so overpowering it oozes out of your very being with every step you take.

A mind deep rooted in the knowledge that you need no one to define your person, that you can stand tall (maybe a little short), proud and singular away from the crowd. A mind that is it's own species all together.

I need to see it in you, in every breath you take, with every word you say, with every beat of your everlasting heart and with every bit of truth you feed me.

I'm not interested in unlocking a puzzle, I'm not interested in getting to know the 'real' you underneath all the many man made creations you've adorned yourself with, I want you ready, and fresh for the pickings.

Just as I am for you.

I only care for your mind, don't you understand? Love and Sex are relative, you can get it from anybody and everybody and lord knows I'm tired of fucking nothing. I'm tired of entertaining the nothings, I'm tired of humoring myself with NOTHING.

I need you. True, deep, and fucking wondrous. I need you in my life. In the beginning, in the end and in the next. Just do it once. 
Please, I'm begging you, anybody...please...please...

Just satisfy me.
Just keep me.



Wide open all over again. 

I don't know you.

I want to know you.

On a lighter note, English. A Funny Language.

Ill start with box. The plural is boxes. But the plural of ox should be oxen and not oxes.

One fowl is a goose. Two are called geese. The plural of mouse? Its not meese. You might find a lone mouse or a whole nest of mice; but the plural of house is houses, not hice.

The plural of man is always called men, then why should the plural of pan be called pen?

Cows in the plural is called Cows or Kine. But a bow if repeated, is never called bine. If that is not clear enough, the plural of vow is vows never vine.

If I speak of one foot, you’ll show me two feet. If I give you a boot. Would you call a pair beet?

If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth, why shouldn’t the plural of booth be beeth?

If the singular’s this and the plural is these, should the plural of kiss be keese?

One may be that, and two maybe those… but the plural of hat will not be hose. And the plural of cat is cats and not cose.

We speak of brother and brethren, But when we say mother, we never say methren.

The masculine pronouns are his, he and him. But imagine the feminine, she, shis and shim.

So, English, I think you will agree, is the funniest language you ever did see.

Tuesday, 17 August 2010

D'Banj - Mr Endowed OFFICIAL VIDEO


Yeah, I did go to church. Sometime.


Its so funny I feel high, without even touching a lighter...... Cos u make me high.... Just by thinking about you....

Lord please don't let it be crazy. Please.

No lie, these words bring a smile to my face as I type, shit's tingly you know? Mad tingly. I think about infinity, about all the answers in the food i ate tonight, about all the beauty and joy I want to create.

About all the answers I want to find.

About how badly I want this phone to ring.

About how I want this shit to last forever.

I want this shit to last forever blood. You don't fucking know.

Gawd, I even apologised for the sex.

I'm thinking about how much I love you, about how you looked when you thought i was just after some part time pussy, About how much I love you. You're my chick, till the day I die. If you want. Even if you don't. Your'e still my chick, till the day I die. Never Mind, i know im making sense.

Till the day I rot.

Cause you feel me.

I need that. I feel that. I love that.

I'm typing jibberish, but my fingers are moving so quick on this keyboard, like this ish was premeditated.

My boo's busy.

My boo I love, my boo I cherish, my boo I'd take a bullet for.

My boo.

Boo, Darling, Lover. She calls me her shawty.

I want you. All of you. Need to translate this shit. Need for this shit to last forever. Need to keep this feeling in my face, this feeling in my heart, this feeling of a connection.

Are you real?

On the pinnacle of my fucked up ness the idea of you..... stirs up the maleness in me. The idea of you jolts me. I'm glad I can still spell this fucked up.

Party next Thursday.

Fucked up, loved up, felt up, infinity.

Black Dante.

Cause I'm soooooooo haaaaapppyyy.

Sooooo gonnneeee.

Soooooo loveeed.




Star 69 motherfucker.

Imma ride this wave till I die. Imma ride what God gave me till it's dry.

I ain't no pretty mother fucker. I ain't no simple person neither.

Smith Babafemi Olaoluwa.

Till the day I die.

Black Dante.

A passing thought. Please don't crucify me.

The beauty of life is vast and magnificent, immeasurable and unknown, life and death could be one in the same, one could simply be a pathway to another. I find it hard to imagine that these little children's souls, that the light I saw in these boy's eye's this morning will pass forever, never to be seen again. After walking through this unit my believe in reincarnation is reinforced.

I don't believe the Creator would waste such magnificence, especially magnificence created by his own hand.

A child is a terrible thing to lose, you can call it my coping mechanism but there are too many questions about the scientific make up of my soul for me to believe that after death there is nothing else.

I refuse to believe that that little boy I saw the first day I went there for my pre-op test, the little boy with the smeared Quran verses in blue ink on his forehead who died the next day's soul is lost forever.

It's just too cruel.

You can sit there and say that life is cruel, but it is what we have put into our lives that has made it thus, all these material items, all these man made destruction has made our existence difficult.

Did God make war? Did God create murder?

Christianity states that he gave us free will, and with that free will we paved our own path. Perhaps he's simply been watching us create our own disastrous cause and effects. Simply waiting for it to either all end, or for us to change.

All he gave us was the stage, and the ability to act on it. We provided the props, the costumes, the food we consume, we've altered everything.

I hear the prayer call and wonder how many Muslims have stopped their tasks to get on their knee's and pray. I also wonder if the same rules where implemented in Christianity would I have done it 5 times a day? As twisted as Islam is, Christianity is just as warped...but at least the Islamic faith remains dedicated.

At least they're dedicated.


I should really be in rehab for habits like mine. Right now, I’m supposed to be writing a few articles (ten to be exact). But then, my brain and fingers still do not feel that inspiration. Sucks.

Instead my mind is toying with the idea of having sex and a hot bath, a full body massage (feet and toes included), spa treatment and a mad shagging section in selected parts of the country/ house/school. You know, sex in the kitchen, on Zuma rock or in House of Assembly where stupid politicians pretend to make good decisions for the people, or on the office boardroom table? I mean, sometimes during my Internship, I used to wonder what went on on the office table the night before. Was that why my manager used to have this queer smile during meetings? *kanye shrug*

Right now, I’m having a full dose of selective amnesia. So please swallow anything you’re about to read with a spoonful of salt.

I'm going to be “single” (notice the quote) until the minute that priest says "You may kiss the bride" and if that never happens, I'm going to have a long string of lovers, all artistic, all insane. Just like me. I'm too fundamentally strange to not have an explosive love life. I thrive on poetic justice; my life is a script, written by my creator to entertain my ancestors.

Everything about a new day, is new. There will never be another tomorrow; there will never be another yesterday, today is the only today you will ever experience. Today is the only day that matters. So today, I want to be intrigued, I want to be amazed; I want to share some energy. Let's spread our power all over the room, explode into a thousand ethereal bits, we'll come up for air tomorrow. Nothing else existing.

But whenever I school is about to start, I find myself yearning for an interest, a friend, something in my mind switches, all of a sudden there are just so many girls around and my optimism starts to perk up and play with the idea that at least one of these could tickle my fancy for a little while. I get bored here very easily, and as tedious as women are, they do entertain, I enjoy being entertained. I mean, isn't that the point of entertainment?

What's so funny about it with me, is the fact that it has little to no sap factors in it at all, I just want to find someone as technically and romantically sick as I am, who will give me freedom without them, and fiery security with them, mental food you know? I want to be understood as an entity all on my own, I'm not a “boyfriend”. I will never be a “boyfriend”.

I'm a lover.

I'm a soulmate.

Maybe its because my relationship status on here has never been “single” or “in a relationship” ever before. You get used to such.

Sorry for the digress.

And again, I repeat. I will never be a “boyfriend”. I'm a lover. I'm a soulmate. And when you play in the tendrils of those two arena's, societies’ laws and expectations about "relationships" are destroyed entirely, there are no rules, only raw emotions, raw energy transferred between two human beings, it is indefinable in it's power. You can't box it in with "I love you" with "That's my wifey" with "That's my boyfriend". What the fuck is a boyfriend?

I know, its hard to understand. Possibly because it’s so simple. As simple as two people having interlocked hearts, having no reason to ask the other “What’s wrong?” simply because you can feel it just by the mere crease on your partners face? And knowing not to appease that crease by talking, but just by actions?

I’m truly and completely worn out, because I am damn tired of faking love. I am once again disparaged. And the more it happens the more morose I become. I like her so much but I have a feeling this may not be worth it. But then, I’m still wide open, I will forever be, despite the distance, and despite my stance, I still truly want to fall in love. Maybe not yet. Maybe I still consciously deny it. And run the fuck away from it. Because I've turned into this robot and I can't reach the switch to reverse the process.

But a relationship has never been something I've been able to fabricate. I am far too complex of a person to be able to fool myself or somebody else for that matter in such a way. I’m way too intense for that.

But sex? Sex I can do. A blunt? Terribly so too.

You all have your coping mechanisms and I have mine.

Don't judge. Bad ass kids need shock collars.

I need one. Are you?

Make me believe.

Adios, brethren. Adios.