The Lady and the Seer

PicMonkey Collage

A lady went to a seer to talk about the one she loved, whom she wasn’t with anymore. She said to the seer, “I miss him. I wonder if he misses me. I wonder if he’s coming back. I’m so depressed, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

The seer said “okay”, and looked away. Of course, that wasn’t a satisfactory response for the lady. 

She said “I miss him” and “I wonder if he’s coming back” again, hoping to get some sympathy, and maybe some insight into what the future held for her.

Then he replied, “I’m sure you do, I’m sure you wonder”.

“Well, do you have any advice for me?”, she said, after two minutes had passed, two heavy minutes that felt like 30.

“I don’t have any”, he said. “You choose to miss him, so allow yourself to miss him. Be true to yourself.” The he adds, “but ask yourself, how long are you going to do this for?”

She broke into tears, and he took a step back. 

“Who is in charge of you?” Who controls what happens up there?”, he asked, pointing to his head. 

“I do”, she replied.

“Who is in charge of your mind, your body, your self? Of course, missing him and letting yourself be miserable is what you’re choosing to do, what do you expect me to do, become you? Do you think I have any power over you? Do you think of yourself as a robot that has to be controlled by someone else to survive/function?”

She stopped crying and wiped her tears.

“If you want to choose to miss him, miss him. If you want to choose to be in denial, and wait for something that isn’t coming, wait. If you want to choose to move on and do something good with yourself, do it. It’s not my business or problem. You’re choosing to do something and asking me to help you stop. Ultimately, you get to choose whether or not you want to suffer, and if suffering is what you have chosen to do for this long, so be it. You’re a wonderful soul; don’t be so dense. Healing is a choice- choose it.”

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His Venus is in Capricorn

“Making me hard won’t make my life less hard.
Thank you, but we shouldn’t do that, not now at least.
Put your clothes on; let’s go out.”

She was embarrassed but impressed.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Mrs

MrsI am experimenting a style of prose writing in which a character narrates the whole story to the reader in a personal way, like the reader is a spirit/ghost and the chosen character is the only one that can see them, like a secret best-friend of some sort. I am still working on it, not done yet. Enjoy!

We just spoke, for three hours straight. Tomorrow is ‘the day’, our wedding day, and to say that I am extremely nervous would be to say the least of the emotions that I feel right now. There are probably ten more that I cannot describe with words. See my palms; they are so sweaty.

My friends are having a good time in the room next to this one; I just don’t know if I need to let them know that I am freaking out. I need to use the bathroom so bad too.

Before I leave for the  bathroom, I just want you to know that I am very happy; don’t get me wrong, but just as worried as I am happy, worried that something might go wrong with this contract that I’m about to sign. I’ll tell you about the call I had with my man first, after my bathroom break, and tell you something I’ve never told anyone later.

I’m back. Sit with me on my bed.

About the call, I had never heard him say the words “I love you” so many times in three hours! He kept going on about how happy he was that we were finally getting married, and how lucky he was, and all that. I had never heard him talk so much, so I guess he is nervous too. In-between sentences, he would ask if I was listening, and I would say “yes”. Then he would tell me he loves me and I would reply that I love him even more. There were about ten “I love you”-“I love you even more” pauses before I told him I needed to sleep, and that he needed to sleep too.

There is a problem though. Well, I don’t know if it’s a problem or I’m just being petty. I had never really considered it an issue before now but I can’t get it out of my mind. He hit me a year ago with his belt, I’ll tell you why later, and I’m scared that he might do it again. I had never seen anyone that angry in real life.

He promised it would never repeat itself, I believed him, and since there were no permanent scars on my neck and arms, I didn’t tell anyone. Giving an account and telling someone else my business wasn’t at all necessary.

This is the thing- he has anger issues that I have refused to fully address, and I might be done for. Babe becomes a beast, a raging monster, whenever he’s angry. Oh! I should tell you something else before I forget. I went to an astrologer/psychic out of curiosity. I’m a Leo and he’s a Scorpio, if you would like to know. She said we have several Venus-Chiron-Mars-Pluto connections in our synastry analysis, and because those aspects are hard, we both need to learn to understand each other and we would be fine. He came up as The Emperor reversed/4 of Pentacles,and I came up as the Queen of Pentacles/Strength cards, in the readings.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said “yes”, but I love him. I don’t ever want to get a divorce; the thought of it is so frightening, because I hated it when my parents got a divorce. I don’t know; I don’t know what I’ll do if he ever hits me again.

Dead Love

womanShe always had to ask if he loved her, and he often replied with a “yeah, yeah, love you, sure I do. Why do you keep asking?”

She was looking for the Àjọkẹ́, s’ó n gbọ́ mi? Mo nífẹ̀ẹ́ rẹ. The I am in love with you that was often said with a soft voice and a pleading gaze; it was what she was used to, what she had taken for granted. It was what she really wanted.

She hated herself for hurting a man who used to declare his love for her ever so often, sometimes with tears in his eyes, because he did so. 


There could be two different men in this piece, or just one man [the same man], depending on how you choose to interpret it.

Unrequitedly Requited

African-Woman-Konstantin-Yegorovich-Makovsky-Oil-Painting-1-800x1084

“African Woman” by Konstantin Yegorovich Makovsky [Oil Painting]

“I love you.”

My heart froze, but not out of fear. It was beating very quickly, and I could have sworn it was having continuous orgasms, if I had to describe the feeling. I wasn’t afraid anymore; I was nervously, intensely relieved.

He loved me.
He loved me.
He. loved. me.
Oh, God.

Then he continued, and right after he did, I wished that he hadn’t.

“I love you two, you and Leidy.”

Wait, one second! Did he say “I love you two” earlier or “I love you too”?

“You both mean so much to me and I’m lucky to have you as sisters from another mum.”

I immediately burst into laughter, and for some reason, he began to giggle too.

“You both are my babies.”

Well, he just didn’t know when to stop, did he? 

I began to laugh even louder. I laughed so much so that tears began to run down my face.
He was laughing because I was laughing; I was laughing because I thought I had just made a fool of myself, and I was deeply hurt. If he was laughing because I was laughing, he was laughing because I had made a fool of myself, because I was deeply hurt.

I so desperately wanted to sink into the ground and disappear or fly on the angel of death’s wings and never return. He loved me, that was good, but not the way I wanted to be loved.

Moving On

Nude Back

“Nude Back” by Michael Escoffery

I was devastated,
but more accurately, devastation was me.
I wasn’t happy,
and almost all of the time,
unhappiness clung very tightly to me.

I didn’t even feel that I was living,
that I was,
because I couldn’t feel,
and when I did, it hurt.

One minute, I thought,
“he left me,
so I’ll leave me too.”
The next, I thought,
“he dislikes me now,
so I’ll like me.
Who the hell needs him;
who?”

I’ll dislike all the things he likes.

He likes water,
so I’ll hate water.
He likes air,
so I’ll hate air.
He likes fire,
so I’ll hate fire.
He hates life,
so I’ll hate life.

The ‘only’ that truly like me,
water,
air,
fire
and life;
are the same things keep us alive.

How do you find peace
when a piece of you is gone?
How do you put yourself together
when you’re left in the cold to burn?

“Does he miss me?
Does he miss at feast,
or has he found a different Miss?
Is there a new Beauty for my Beast?”

You have a list of things you hope
he’ll remember and cherish at least.

It hurts;
it’s like an invisible stab to the chest.
It really hurts.

Moving on
and looking back;
moving back
and shedding tears.
Moving on
and looking back;
looking blank
and shedding fears.

That is how the broken have moved on,
for years and years.

Human Sacrifices and Sheet

BlckMTade’s heart is broken into three pieces. It was split into two whole halves for a long time, but it was shattered last night, and there are three pieces now.

Tonight, he’ll meet a new woman, and in a few days, he’ll make passionate love to her. She’ll think he’s madly in love with her, but he wouldn’t really be, obviously. He is, and he would be, in love with someone else who has declared herself unavailable, and for a while, the new woman would become his true love’s clone. 

Maggots and contaminated blood from an untreated, rotten wound in his heart, anger- fiery anger, and sweet-bitter desire would be the new recipe for his semen, for her new meal, and she would lick and suck and swallow in delight, without a slight clue on how or under what conditions it was prepared.

The good or not so good news, depending on what side you’re on, is that he will get better. Within 6-8 months, he’ll get over the old girl, and, unfortunately, the new girl. She would not be so new anymore. He would not be as vulnerable, and the wound would be fairly healed by that time, so he would change; he would become his true self again. 

It would be time to search for a real replacement; he’ll be totally done with the “living sacrifice”. The not-so-new-anymore girl’s heart will be split into two halves when his behaviour changes, and of course, it’ll be shattered into three pieces when he announces that she is of no true use to him; she was, but not anymore. 

K-her-ma

She said
“…and may your daughters be treated
the same way you treat women and girls…”,
and no one in the audience could say “amen”.

Death III: Lifeless, but Deathless

Death is the new life.
Death is the old lie-fe.
Although we become lifeless when we “die”,
we become deathless when we leave.


oya-alisa-kuumba

My gentle Oladapo is okay. He fell sick and he left me but he is okay. Bolanle is okay. She was so energetic.

Uncle Ismaila is okay. He took me to write my common entrance exam at ISI and taught me Mathematics the day before. That bread and egg and tomtom though. That year. Immediately after the exam, we began to look for where to shit. It wasn’t until we got to Osogbo where my other family members were before we “shat”. I can’t believe we held watery shit from Ibadan to Osogbo. We should have been on the Guiness Book of Records. The way we were sweating. My uncle Ismaila is okay.

Debra is okay. One day, during one of the social events at the ISI cafetaria, an A-Z list of the junior and senior students was mentioned. “As attractive as so-so-so. As beautiful as so-so-o. As creative as so-so-so. As dirty as Ronke Babajide. I was going to get some food [I stopped going for socials] at the tuck shop when I heard my name on from the speaker that could almost cover the whole school.

Gosh! I ran back to class so fast and placed my head on the table. I was so embarrassed and sad. Whoever it was that submitted my name, I hope it was worth it. It was the exact thing that I needed for the low self-esteem that I had. I, for some reason, thought being different was bad and I had to keep up. I didn’t fit in any group.

Debra was a class higher but we became friends. She didn’t let me get depressed. We would walk to the main gate together and spend our money on suya or corn. Debra even bought chicken suya for us one day. Romance-novel gang. There was always one woman that needed to be “saved” through sex but it was worth it. One day, Debra took me to watch Amos Tutuola’s “The Palm-Wine Drinkard”. Debra passed on after a car hit her. Debra is okay.

My grandmas are okay- Mama Ireakari and Mamee. My grandpa is okay. Jane Davenport is okay. She didn’t stay so I could show her how I tie my scarf, but she’s okay. My cousin’s baby is okay. Gorgeous-eyed Matt is okay.

All our “dead” relatives and friends are okay. They just don’t live with us anymore, they are living, and they are okay.

Too Rich to Give

Poverty in the Midst of Plenty (1939)

Poverty in the Midst of Plenty (1939) by Gerard Sekoto

A poor man wakes up feeling hungry and useless.
A rich man prefers to have his meat boneless.
The poor man eats out of the rich man’s bins, homeless.
The rich man blames him for it, but the poor man is faultless.

Poor man only wants some food; he’s harmless.
He has told rich man many times- it’s countless.
He needs rich man’s attention; he’s helpless,
but rich man doesn’t care, he’s loveless.

Does wealth make a person heartless?
Someone, tell me, ’cause I’m clueless.
Does it kill a person’s sense of fairness?
Does it make a human being think less?