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. 

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Freely Bound: Heroin Today, Slave Tomorrow

Ginnny

Painted by Ginny Thonson

💉💊🚬
It’s My Death’s Life:
Freedom made love to me
and it was surprisingly good,
even better than I had imagined,
so I did it again.

Again and again,
till my breasts and arms
and hips and thighs were sore.
Again and again,
I didn’t care ’cause I wanted more.
Again and again, and again,
three shots stopped being enough,
so I made it four.
Again and again and again, and again,
“I can’t do without this feeling;
it mustn’t walk out my door.”

We did it till I became paralyzed;
my thighs and trunk were stuck.
I was in complete and constant pain
from all the fruitless fuck.

Freedom didn’t untie me from the bed,
and it didn’t listen to a thing I said.
Freedom didn’t let me go;
temporary tallness didn’t let me grow.

Freedom is the strongest wind,
and no one can catch up with it.
When you think you have,
look again,
because it sheds its skin at that point,
and quickly becomes death. 

Everyone wants to own freedom
but she doesn’t want to be owned.
Freedom likes to own
just as much as she likes to disown;
she makes you a king today,
and tomorrow, gets you dethroned.

In freedom, in complete “freedom”,
“dom”(ination) comes right after “free”.

My Mind= Field | My Feelings= Ball

Falling in love with fire,
an obsessive, compulsive liar,
was the most exhausting thing
that I had ever done
since the very minute
that I was born.

He would say,
‘Air, you need to come on stronger
if you want to have me.”
So, I would give him more air,
and we would start a fire right there.

Then he would say,
“woah, this is too much for me;
you’re going to blow me out.
If you don’t leave me be for as long as I need,
you will go many days without.”
So, of course, I would withdraw,
until our fire was no more.
It made my soul so sore.

Extremely hot,
extremely cold.
Extremely fickle,
nothing to mold.
Extremely mean,
no heart to hold.
I never told him off;
I was never so bold.

Too Good for Her

You tell her you don’t deserve
her when you have nothing.
Then you get something- many things;
you become the king of things.
You begin to regret the sweet nothings
you uttered when you were naked,
when your hands were empty.

Beelzebub pays you a visit.
He perches on your penis,
washes on your eyes,
and shows you beelzeboobs and beelzebutts.
Then he tells you she doesn’t deserve you.
He reminds you that she can’t spell “deserve”.

You can now see all her inadequacies,
her mistakes,
her little flaws.
The things you used to love
quickly become the things you hate,
the things you can’t stand,
the things that irritate.

Who deserves whom?
Who deserves what?
Who deserves whom?
Who deserves “what?!”
Who deserves whom?
Who deserves worth?

Poetree

It’s poetree.
Butter doesn’t help it grow;
dung does.
Comfort won’t make it flow;
chaos will.

You might be surprised at
the number of times you’ll give
hand-jobs to pens in one day
as soon as your heart gets wounded,
as soon as it begins to stink.

Your hand will move across paper,
and back again,
till undiluted pain rushes into your fingers-
pain, like pus,
deposited into your bloodstream from your heart.

You’ll bleed ink and
carve your blood into words;
you’ll come, on paper,
so you can maintain your composure
and manage the hard time,
even if you can’t get closure,
even if the words don’t rhyme.

No Clay for You Anymore

Peju Alatise

Peju Alatise’s Art

I put my heart and soul into
molding a clay pot for you.
You didn’t ask or beg me to,
but for some reason, at that time,
it was the thing that I cared most about.

In the course of molding and shaping,
I asked if you would let me drink
from it when I was done,
from you,
if I ever got thirsty.

Looking back, I’m not sure if I had asked for too much,
or I had said something terribly wrong,
because the resounding “no!” that I heard
cut me deep in the soul.

At that time, I would have become water for you
whenever you were thirsty,
if you wanted me to.
I would have fed you milk from my breasts
and honey from between my thighs if you wanted,
and maybe that was too much.
Maybe too much was asking for me instead,
so he could cut me in the throat.

On my 21st birthday,
you told me to break the clay pot,
and when I was done with breaking it,
you stepped on it.

Testamendo-de-divorciado.jpg

I cried and begged and said
I could start all over again,
and I was sorry,
and I wasn’t one to use clay pots,
and I didn’t really want to drink with yours,
and I loved and fantasized about plastic plates instead,
and my question was hypothetical,
but you didn’t want to hear it.

I got so vulnerable around you,
and I always wanted to tell you everything,
and maybe I shouldn’t have been like that, you know,
maybe I should have kept some things to myself.

Ten days of depression.
Ten weeks of uncontrollable tears.
In ten weeks, I gained so much weight.
In the next ten weeks, I lost so much,
so much weight,
so much happiness,
so much zeal,
so much reason to live,
so much you.

Before the spirits took me away,
I looked for you
and waited for you
and cried for you but
I didn’t see you.

Where were you?

It’s the tenth month, and you’re back,
not for me,
not for the pot,
but for the clay.

You’re going to pretend like you didn’t squish the clay?
Like it’s a sweet new day today?
Like you didn’t send me away,
and nothing happened yesterday?

The karmic tie is broken
and I’m done.
Stay in your lane
and I’ll stay in mine.

I wanted to squish you
the way you did me.
My goodness,
I was a sensitive thing.
It’s not worth it anymore,
those days have passed,
and I’m glad that I, at least,
got to kick you at last.

 

Don’t Forget My Children

Little children who can’t pronounce war yet;
children who shouldn’t know what it is.
Running, their bodies plagued with beads of sweat,
with kwashiorkor and tuberculosis.

“Uncle, where is mama? Where is papa?”
Parents’ bodies are lifeless on the farms.
“Mama, why did you leave me here with master?”
Babies are starving, dying in their own arms.

Don’t try to make me shut my mouth
when I get possessed by pain and cry.
  
But if we return to the past, we’re going south.
Can brothers forgive other brothers if they try?

Take flowers to the sea for my children,
who could’ve been all they wanted to be.
At least, admit it was not okay for grown men
to snatch my children away from me.

hunger

Biafran War (6 July 1967 – 15 January 1970)

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.

The Society’s Guide to Being a Man, 101.

The only way to be a man
is to not be human.
Don’t cry;
be sad, but don’t say why.
Don’t feel;
hurting someone is the best way to heal.
Don’t express yourself when you do feel,
and if you must,
do it with clenched fists.

The only way to be seen as strong
is to insist that you’re never wrong,
and if a woman isn’t under
your absolute control,
you can’t be a man on your own-
you can’t possibly be whole.

Unre-QUIT-ed II

Staying with someone who doesn’t love you because you love them.
Being okay with it because you think you have them, at least, but you don’t.

You have him or her but they’re not yours. You can touch them and pet them and feed them and kiss them but they’re not yours. All those things won’t make them yours. You know that quite well but you wish you didn’t. 

For some reason, for love reasons, holding on seems a lot easier than letting go. You know you’re treading on a futile, wrong path, but you’re not stopping. You’re lost. You have to stop and turn back. You can’t find the right path if you don’t stop.

It’s hard. It’s hard to quit this unrequited love…