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.