Alive to be happy

If you live where I live, you would be able to identify with the words in my head. You probably know how it feels; every day the same, a repetitive cycle of redundancies. Some hate their life, some hate their job and some even hate the government; albeit that being permissible. But it is dangerous to drift through life without a smile to brighten the corner where you are. We live mechanical lives, having neither smiles, sparks nor sparkles. It’s almost like King Xerxes is forcing some to live, especially my friends in the banks, to whom I hold much pity.

There is more to life than we seem to know, there is immense depth of happiness waiting to be explored and enjoyed. People have long lost the purpose of life itself; we don’t even keep pets anymore: I miss my dog. Some live for the money and when it dries up, they become a pathetic specimen of what they used to be. If you’re not happy with your life, you can change it: Today.

Enjoy every single day of your great life. Take time to relax, everyone need it sometimes; close your eyes, breathe the air again. Take walks with your pets or loved ones and look around you; enjoy the wild outdoors, you will see amazing things; you will see the world smiling back at you.

For the sake of sanity, visit your family; I know a great deal of people who do not do this because of all the wrong reasons yet to enter the books. Visit them, you will make them happy; we tend to forget that while we are busy growing up, our parents are growing old. Do something for your body, sports or healthy foods would do just fine; that do not include shawarma or whatever those fast food places take your money for. Dream big, if you believe, it can become true; remember thoughts become things.

Be positive, be honest, if you see anyone without a smile, give them one of yours. It’s your life, enjoy the beauty of your seduction, and learn to put love into everything you do. Never wear colour blocking clothes, never do duck face and keep your emotions in the clubhouse. I really hate recent fashion trends. And don’t take pictures in bathrooms, please I’m begging.

Cherish every moment, every time you see a loved could be the last time you will. Remember that and treasure every passing second. It’s ok to cry. Soon the ‘whys’ and the reasons will be gone and all that will be left is the feeling.

No stress, you’re alive to be happy.

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Your Beauty

Shyness, that was what it was thought to be; inability to look straight into the eye of another human and tell the person what sits deep in your mind, inability to speak to a person and hit the deepest part of who they truly are because of fear. It wasn’t shyness in her case, it was insecurity.

“Beauty: excelling in grace or form, charm or colouring, qualities which delight the eye and call forth the admiration of the human face or other objects.”

She has the beauty to brighten up the darkness, but her fears make her bury it deep beneath the shadows. Her reserve of wisdom is so vast it could teach a generation, so deep it can never be exhausted, yet she bridles her tongue and bites every word before it even nears the exits of her curvy lips. Haven been told over and over again that all anyone could possibly want from her is her beauty and her wisdom, it became imperative for her to guard herself against the wolf that she had been warned of. The wolf that only exist proverbially: the victimless wolf that has kept her butterfly from flying.

She’s not proud, but she’s timid. Afraid she’ll say something wrong. Her loud heart has been tamed by the stories created around her. In a world where the truth is forbidden, convenient fabrications have sharpened how she lives her life. She’s even afraid to use her face as profile pictures; ashamed of her flawless beauty.

You’ll find her at the back of the line, looking away insecurely or walking on the edges, being wary of every crawling gecko, suspicious of even the orgasmic sound of a mating wasp. Yet it would be erroneous to blame her, she has done no wrong, just living the life that society has designed. If only she knew better, she would live her life to the fullest and flaunt herself to the benefit of the world. If only she knew her beauty weighs more than the size of a bullet and it’s a blessing unto the world and not something to be ashamed of, then she would rule her world. She would dominate and let her aura influence those around her.

They say beauty does not last, but I decline. It’s transgenerational and could outlast whoever is wearing it. Beauty isn’t a thing that is only externalised; it’s also a sum of the internal. All she knows is that she’s wanted for only her beauty, but I wish she knew that someone out there would love her even if she had wicked scarification on her body. I wish she knew she was created that way to be a light on the bacon. If the world doesn’t get to hear her story, would she influence the world? I doubt. She’ll be stuck in silence except she decides to speak up. Someone should save her with these words “your beauty is your blessing, not your curse.”

Follow Back

You’re beautiful and you know it.

Singularly, you look like the proverbial white unicorn that has shiny white hair on the back and is all too awesome to be real. You are real. Tall, beautiful; face like a model and a body like a bottle. Long curly hairs crown a beauty-full face that stings the eyes with stunning appeal as the hair runs a few kilometres into the rest of your body. You’re every lady’s dream of envy and the emphatic torture of every man; you literally live up to that specification.

You get your kicks from the fact that you know that we know you are out of our league; yes, ‘our’, I’m not alone. You sashay pass like a fly by a cake, almost oblivious to the fact that my presence actually poses potential weight and definitely occupies space. I refuse to be scared by these antics, because you’ve done it over and over again that arrogance has come next to your breathing. Generally, it is believed that unparalleled beauty brings pride that borders on self-idolation; this belief holds true. You ride on your high horse, you’ve built a wall so high that only you and your horse can get a way through; but what your hottie haughtiness never saw coming was me, with a ladder and a juggernaut.

Special is how you want to feel, unattainable is the standard you wish to set, but under all of the pretentiousness lies a layer of internal fragility; that, in the shadows and thick darkness, scares you to your core, but you wear an air of pride as a shield. It comes across as belligerent cockiness. Your avalanche of inadequacies is ever looming around you and they do not even remotely seduce me. Rather, they bore me. Your constant banally flow of how hard to get you are, the wig you often don to cover the brittleness of your receding hairline, the long sleeves you wear to cover the unappealing burn on your right arm or the blush you wear without consideration for your skin colour.

You’re had me wrapped around your finger.

Get down the high horse, pull the wall down or let down a rope. You’re probably going to end up a bitter forever-alone person if your aura impassionately shoves fear even in the strongest hearted. I can see that beneath the strong brave beautiful outlook is a shy calm little girl that wants to be rocked on a swing, be told sweet things and be made to feel like the centre of the solar system. I want to reach out and touch you in the deepest part of who you truly are.

Pardon my use of words, I could get reckless sometimes. All I need from you now is a follow back, I’m already following you.

After Waterloo

Silence.

That was all I could hear, see or feel. A moment that belonged in the black hole; silence so thick and immense, it was like matter. The numbing noiselessness so thick I could tear through the decibel particles of it the way a turtle would waddle through the weight of mud. Spiritless and empty, devoid of any logic, shattered beyond even my powers of observation; but all I heard was nothing as everything flashed before me. It wasn’t my choice, the silence wasn’t induced, it was the voice of inevitability. The silence was more a roar of an impending undoing; the roar would rock even the earth to its core. In my eyes, no sorrow showed.

The quietness of defeat, the exquisite torture of a crushed soul, leading to visions not to be uttered, not even in the realm of higher life. The words fell on my ears and everything else made no sound. I grew up learning many languages; none was coherent in my head as I walked the lonely road to the bridge. All I ever wanted passed through my hands in but a flashing moment. I had high dreams but got nothing. I walked on and on. I had it but didn’t have it. It had always eluded me. Unsure of how to move on, I sank deeper into the hole in my soul.

In my head I could picture flashes of guns, the thunder of cannons, the shrieks of the slain, the surgeons and their knives besides my bruised and broken spirit. If I was to describe it all, I would be an artist; but if I was an artist, there would be deeper wounds which I would not be able to describe. It was like a train wreck waiting to happen; how I longed for someone to pick me up from the tracks, to save the wildfire from frustration.

I learned silence from the talkative, tolerance from the intolerant and kindness from the unkind; yet, strange, I’m ungrateful to those teachers; none had led me to what I wanted. I longed for the day when the torture would end, I would wear a smile and walk in the sun. But it was a far cry, for all I had for company was the silence of great love that stung stronger than death. The silence that only music could find words to explain. On the walk to the bridge, I did my crying in the rain.

The Mirrored Me

There you are, the little me, the miraculous outcome from the spill of my male menace after ravaging the concubines of a clavicle. The mirrored me, the power that escaped from my loins. You remind me of everything I was and all I never was; from the beauty of my seduction I got more than I wanted, everything I never had. I’m filled with glee and bliss that my first pour of wine to the earth gave up its finest back to me.

Your tiny hands gripped my finger like you knew who it was and in a moment, I was in love. It felt like my heart was being squeezed and through your eyes, I could see the world smiling back at me. I carried you in my arms and softly kissed your fluffy pink cheeks and the manliest of tears I ever shed ran down the isle of my lean face as I’ve never felt a love so pure and true; after I met your mother that is. I’ll never trade a day with you for all the money in the world, I won’t trade even your toys for all the diamond in Russia, and I’ll never trade the sleepless nights you gave to me for all the trophies in the world.

To your mother, I hold the fire that burns beyond my cloak and deep in my heart. My love, my life, the beauty of my seduction, the mother of my child. No higher position, no loftier throne has any other in my heart; the best design with nothing missing, a completed jigsaw that have merged into an indivisible perfect picture. To her I owe all, the conveyor of you into my life. From the moment she knew you existed, the love for you had no resistance; the elation she felt as you grew in her womb, the joy I felt in my heart when you started to bloom.

From the first time you kicked me in the ears until that glorious day you actually appeared upside down and much quicker than planned, you change my life in that instant. I pray that I remain a good father to you and that I live a life worthy of emulation. I can’t seem to get to grips exactly with what I did to deserve you, but I definitely must have done something right because having you as my daughter has been nothing short of pure delight.

This day last year, you cried as you came into my life, your cry brought a smile to my face as I was birthed into the realm of being a father. You are the best part of me. Happy birthday Iteoluwakiishi, love you till eternity.

(FICTION)

Twisted Escape

The customary sound of his car security was enough to alert the neighbourhood of his presence. The loud annoying sound he so used to detest became the kingly horn that announced his arrival at places he was known. With the gate open and the security man nowhere to be found, his whole package was only going to get a lot finer. He turned to look at the backseat as he undid his seatbelt, a surge of pride and satisfaction went from the sweat on his face to the chill at the base of his spine. She had never been a fan of surprises, but he wanted a new twist to their romance. Pour a little oil to the frying pan to ignite a burning surface.

Burdened by his sweat soaked shirt, he felt heavy with the live white rose bouquet on his right hand while his Sekonda wrist watch on his left wrist helped hold the new handbag he bought, setting him back the price of a fairly used car. He smiled as he walked along, forming Mr Romantic all the way. As he approached her door, he heard his favourite song, ‘Red light’ by TLC. Closed his eyes, clenched his lips, he nodded to the beat of the song as he knew she was already in the mood. Royal epicness was waiting for him. With his personal key he opened, to behold the consternation of having a romantic evening destroyed by a force never planned for.

Her toned arms were up in the air, with her long black hair flowing to her yellow back as a firm hairy masculine hand gripped her just below the ribs. She was moving in circles, but it was only her lower body, as she was seated like she was on a yoga spot; but she was seated on another man’s yoga spot with her hands held up like she was expecting some healing. He was shocked! As the loud music and overtly erotic atmosphere made it impossible for them to even be cognisant of his presence. He heard him moan like a retard king and she like the queen. It was a moment of shock, one that would not even let his reflex drop what were in his hands.

Without violence or wailing, without attention, he turned and walked out of the lonely door. The three meter walk from the door to his car seemed like a trip between Lekki and Berger. A million thoughts ran through his head and none was pleasant. His guilty pleasure has been violated; his sweet escape from the harsh unpleasant reality he lived in had been compromised. She was the only sweetness in his sour life and he trusted her with all that he was, all that was within him; his mistake. A pocket perforating apartment in the heart of the Island, a car only a few notches from his car, he made her life comfortable and thought he had sole exclusivity.

As he reluctantly ignited his car to leave, he saw her face through the window with tears welled up in her eyes. But the rather disproportionate anger and disappointment in him pushed the car through the gears and out of the compound. He would put an end to his misery; it had already ended in his head. He turned and twisted and got himself to his lawyer’s place after some kamikaze displays behind the wheels. Without any pleasantries, he made his point in an unclear manliest tearful voice “This would probably not make sense to you, I just caught my girlfriend cheating on me and I’m a very torn man on the inside. But first I need your help, I want to divorce my wife.”

Another Wasted Saturday

“I hate you.”
“I hate you”, those heavy words pounded in her head repeatedly like a relentless pendulum reminding the world of the sun’s cruelty at noon time. The words struck straight through the heart of Joke, it wouldn’t have mattered if it came from any other mortal, it came from Sam; her only daughter.

Samantha was birthed at the twilight of a blissful short lived romance. Joke and Daniel met during a youth camp programme and a cloud of passion and desire flooded the sky, raining down heavy feelings that seemed unquenchable. There were inseparable and so into each other that they couldn’t wait to consummate each other. When they made love, it was transcendental; her soul took hold of him and, unaware of the passage of time, they basked in the affection they had. Every moment was filled with sunshine, moonlight and a million stars. It was pure magic: Until her ‘period’ went covert.

Joke told Daniel about her pregnancy, expecting love and acceptance, but was greeted with a bouquet of rejection and hostility. Her misery gathered pace when he vanished like a healthy pee in a vast ocean of coloured waters. Then it hit her, the unrealness of the romance and the intensity of the passion had left vital stones unturned. She brought forth a baby girl and raised her the best way she could; little did she know her best wasn’t enough to cut the mustard by her daughter’s unicorn standards. Her inability to consciously appreciate male attention led to her perennial spinsterhood and she took it out on Sam.

The last product of civilisation is the intelligent use of leisure, and that was all Samantha wanted: A break. She saw her mother as cold, unloving, non-sympathetic and inherited the sole ownership of the real estate of deep misery; she even seemed unhappy about her own very smile. Her mother blamed her for everything and she never understood why they had to endure such strained relationship. Both of them never agreed on any topic, in any sphere, not even about sun and moon regime. Her mother saw her as a remnant of a derelict father, on occasions she would call her Daniel while beating the living daylight out of her daughter. Samantha developed a thick skin.

Sam wished she could hate the woman that conveyed her from being an egg to being a life, but she couldn’t justify why her mother even deserved the hatred; her scale was tilted more towards apathy. She desperately wished she could find a way out of it. When mother and child are out in front of friends, they act normal with smiles adorning their faces as they parade their unnoticeable false happiness. Two adults under the same roof speaking the same language but were fundamentally incompatible; a collection of contrarieties.

The sun was just overhead, and even the spirits would dread the hovering heat, when both of them had to go to a wedding in their local church.
“Go change that dress, I don’t like that colour” barked out Joke at Sam
“No, I’m not 3. I wear what I want to wear” replied Sam in a rebellious tone
“Is that how you would talk back to me? no respect whatsoever”
“Free me abeg”
“Maybe he knew I’d produce a rude uncultured girl like you, that’s why your father probably ran away” Joke said with all conviction and no remorse in her voice
“I hate you” Sam screamed at her mother.

Joke stood awe struck by the car as her child had thrust the ultimate indignity upon her. Two lonely shadows cast on the floor by their figures as they both stood staring at each other. Sam ran back into the house with her face in her palms and slammed the door to her room. The wedding wouldn’t be graced with their presence, but such was nothing new. It was just another wasted Saturday.