Omolajipe

9/16

Like building a house on a sinking ship
Planting a tree on a buried land mine
Having for a watch, a ticking time bomb
Loving a ghost, and calling it mine

Love feels like coming home they say
I hate to agree, but for a split second it did
Feel like my homecoming indeed
Joyous return from lonely nights away

This love, akin to a sonorous song
It fills my heart, breathing life deep within
On it, all my cares and fears hung
Hopes and dreams; a new dawn to begin

Yet, tis all I have to show
For a love that I have indeed toiled
An endless bounty of naught
Despairs of an empty heart

My love flees like a thief in the night
I have no recourse, no claims to vengeance
What you sow, you surely reap
So I collect my harvest in silent tears

Once a lovely maiden, filled with youth
A thirst for life, love and laughter
She now bargains, pleading for meager mercies
Cast her not into the shadows of the forgotten

Forget me not my lover
Turn not your back on me
I fear I may wither to nothing
Should you take your sunlight away

She begs in desperation, fearing a life alone
Fearing a life without her lover
Her lover, who became the air she breathed
Her lover, who became the joy she had

What she sowed, she reaps
Violent begetting violence
What was not hers, she took
And now she calls another the crook

See her now in the marketplace and spare not a thought
She comes and she goes, a shadow of her own afterthought
A product of a love equally brightening and maddening
Culmination of guilt and regret, in equal measure

Cast her out into the streets, cursed to a life of solitude
Banish from your minds, the memory of her desperate pleas
But forget her not, and let her story serve as a lesson
Lest you look in the mirror to find her staring

9/12

TW: Incestuous rape

I don’t really have the words to describe this feeling. Is it disgust? Perhaps shame? It’s an unease at the top of my belly, a constriction in my throat. I feel queasy and sick. I keep a bucket beside me in case I wretch. I feel dirty, so unclean. I have scrubbed my skin really hard and tried to wash away the shame with scalding hot water. My skin stings all over…it seems the shame burns even brighter now. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. I hate what stares back at me. I hate that person and worse, I hate that I can’t hate who did that to her, to us.

I was transported back to a time in centuries past. I laid flat on the marble slab in what I can only describe as an Ottoman Haman. I had a body scrub for my legs. I was trying to get them soft and beautiful. I worked the scrub in gently but firmly. It was soothing and relaxing. I was so lost in my own world, basking in the moment, that I did not realize I was no longer alone. Somehow, he had joined me. He was laying next to me and expecting me to scrub him too. I couldn’t be disrespectful, I couldn’t be rude so I obliged. He told me how he was sorry I had to care for him being so young. He told me life had been unfair to him and he wished things could have been different for me. He poured his heart out but all I wondered was whether or not he noticed my naked form and if he did, why he thought this was acceptable. But I could not be rude, I could not question his actions. I had to bow my head in obeisance and do as I was asked.

It was not lost on me that his member was starting to get excited by the contact and probably my nakedness. I did my best to ignore it; the body will react the way the body will. I scrubbed his legs, trying carefully not to come in contact with the rising member. He must have noticed my hesitation and tried to coax my hands along his now erect part. I pulled away instantly. He urged me not to shy away and pleaded with me. My mother had ignored him for many, many years and he was not even sure he could be a man anymore. My mother had denied him her touch, so he needed me to have mercy on his poor soul and give him the gift of his manhood back. As if I stole it in the first place. This was not right, I knew that in my heart but I could say nothing, do nothing. I regarded his member and thought it looked shriveled up and old like the person it was attached to; so sad looking, a shadow of what may have been great in the past. I felt powerless and I just laid there as he slid into me. It helped that there was moisture from the bath we had been taking; at least it didn’t hurt. Not physically.

I was worried that my body would betray me. After all, I too had been deprived of love and intimacy for a long time. I could relate, so I feared my body would welcome his touch. I didn’t hate him, so would my body feel something? No. I felt nothing. I was numb physically and emotionally. It was like flipping the pages of an empty book; it sparked no kind of emotions. Then suddenly, we became a spectacle, under the watchful gaze of passersby. Visible, yet unseen. It was as though everyone who looked upon us merely looked through me. People had the nerve to ask for directions, ask for information but not a single soul pointed out the forbidden intertwining. Everyone merely continued on their merry way after getting what they needed from me. No one raised a cry for help. I supposed I couldn’t blame them. After all, I also carried on conversation as if all was normal. If I did not reach out for help, how would they know I did not want to be in this position?

I tried to drown out his cries of pleasure and his moans of thank you. He was thanking me for helping him feel something again but all I wanted was for it to be over. People continued to pass by. I asked if we could change positions, he had laid down behind me long enough. I asked if I could be on top. Maybe I could hide his face from the world so my shame would not be on such great display. Maybe I could suffocate him while he reached ecstasy at the expense of my soul and dignity. Maybe this could all end faster. I pushed his head down so the world could not see him. A small crowd began to gather. They were still watching. An old lady began to laugh and walk away. My eyes followed her through cobblestone alleys until she found my mother. She asked my mother about me. ‘No’ I had thought to myself. My mother bragged about how I was such a good child.

“You must not know then,” the lady said to her.
“Know what?”
“That she lays with your husband, her father, a shameful spectacle for the whole town to see.”

I felt my mother’s pain and shame. I wished so desperately that she would come to free me from this prison, so we could run away and leave this horrid town and family for good. She never came. She ran away leaving me behind. I guess the heartbreak was too much. My father found completion and I was finally released. I like to think I died that night.

Every day, I have tried to burn my skin off, scrubbed hard to rid myself of that horrible memory. Every day, I am reminded of that terrible time. Every day, I feel that unease in my stomach, the constriction in my throat, the nausea that threatens to take over me. What is it I wonder again? Disgust perhaps? Or an abomination growing deep within me?

The Girl of My Dreams

Over 3 decades ago…

She sat across the table from me at the senior staff canteen

Staring me in the face, her gaze seemed to pierce my soul in a warm way

This ebony beauty! All mine to behold!

In a soft and balanced voice, she asked “What is your name?”

Still shell-shocked, I muttered “…..”

Then she went on “Which department do you work?”

By this time, I had regained some composure

“Mechanical”, I managed to man up

I cannot remember exactly what else we talked about

But how could I forget the smooth voice echoing in my head and melting my heart

I must have said a few things, but she owned the conversation

I could not help but wonder at her grace, voice, choice of words, gesticulations

Her smiling eyes, most beautiful set of teeth I had ever seen…

Every word, and sentence was carefully packaged and delivered

Every trip her hand made from her plate to her mouth seemed to be calculated: pace and delivery

The munching was mechanical; I could almost feel myself moving to her rhythm

Words and food rolled into one beautiful symphony in my heart as I watched and listened

Beauty and brains!

She must be an angel! An angel is sitting across my table!

I was totally mesmerized that I almost completely forgot my food

She seemed to be eating for the two of us

With every spoonful of hers, I was filled and fulfilled

A soft touch on my hand brought me back to life

“Okay, see you around sometime” and she slid out of her seat to drop her plate

“Okay” I said dreamily

As her slim graceful figure disappeared into the afternoon sun behind the revolving doors I suddenly remembered my plate

I quickly rushed a few spoonful down my throat and made it in time to my department

Back at my desk, I could hardly concentrate

I had always seen her from a distance, admired her qualities but never had the courage to walk up to her to say “Hello”

I made several trips to her part of the administrative building with the hope of running into her

I saw her chatting with other people; the possibility of me doing same existed only in my dreams

She seemed so confident with everyone, the junior staff and even the big bosses

And today, oh today, she chose my table at lunch! And no one interrupted us; what luck!

It was like everything and everyone froze with only the two of us moving

I felt like the luckiest man on earth

My heart tripped with all sorts of possibilities and questions …

“If I could …” How will I …” “How will she …”

Then fear crept in …

It was another two weeks before I was able to catch up with her again after lunch

The canteen was the high point of the day for us in the factory; lunch time was our own social convergence

There was always some work that delayed me in my department; like the forces were against me

Then I tried to match her timing to lunch but my table always filled up with men before she got her food

On the flip side, if she was seated before me, her table was over-subscribed

No surprises there; I had stiff competition in an environment of 99.9% male population

But I was not going to give up just like that

So, on this fateful day, I rushed my food and caught up with her as she made her way back to her office

Without rehearsal, the words rolled out of my mouth before my heart stopped, waiting for an answer

“Hello, good afternoon. Would you mind me having your home address? I will like to visit you”

Her soft eyes backed up with the most lovely smile I had ever received was her immediate response

Those white teeth seemed to be receiving the right amount of calcium

“Okay, that will be nice” came next. My heart started beating again

She reached into her pocket; out came a pen and a sheet of paper, which she tore a part of

She scribbled something on it and said a few words

I was dazed. I could hardly believe it. Such a simple task that had taken me weeks

Her soft skin grazing on my rough factory hand brought me back to the present

I managed to mutter “Thank you. See you tomorrow” and made a dash to my department

I could not wait for confirmation of the day for fear of rejection

My head and heart were about to explode!
I managed to contain my excitement as the day went on

Getting back to the single room apartment, I got ready my best shirt, trousers and shoes

Sleep eluded me that night. I could hardly wait for the morning to come

I was going to meet the Girl of My Dreams!

The great, unforgettable and disastrous encounter …

By noon, I was at her address

As a true African beauty, she was having her lovely black hair done in braids ready for the next work week

I received a warm welcome, and that smile again …

She took me into a room and served me a bottle of chilled Coca-Cola and homemade chin-chin

Poor timing, I guessed, she hardly had time for me

My liver failed me when I saw the rows of shoes neatly organized in the room

“She is definitely out of my league” I concluded

From then on, I discountenanced myself as being worthy of this angel

On her part, I seemed not to exist; like I was just a ‘nice’ work colleague who dropped by

After her summer vacation job and my internship at the factory, we both moved on

Yet her image remained ingrained in my heart and soul

She is the Girl of my dreams!

I longed to run into her one day

I prayed and searched for her, to no avail

Her qualities I searched for in every lady I came across, but none matched

Time was running out, I had a business with great potentials and needed to settle down and start a family

My mates already had children in high school

I reasoned, “Surely, she must be happily married to a lucky bloke out there”

But the Girl of My Dreams never left my heart; I still longed for her with every fabric of my being …

Out of the blues, at a function, came another work colleague from back then; an intern too

I called out his name and introduced myself

After catching up for a few minutes, and with great control, I inquired if he was still in touch with some other names I mentioned

I hoped he would help me find the Girl of My Dreams

And yes! He had a number for her! Oh, what divine arrangement!

I could not believe it; 33 years searching for her and getting her number just like that!

Getting home, I wasted no time …

“Hello, is that …?”

“Yes please. May I know who is calling?” … came the angelic sound in my ears

“My name is … We worked together at … in 1983; … gave me your number”

“Oh, really?” she giggled, and my heart sank. Then something more reassuring “How are you?”

After the pleasantries, I went down memory lane carefully touching on the nice spots only

But the Girl of My Dreams had only a faint recollection of the events

I cannot blame her though; I never made my intention known

And she probably got more concrete advances

I was just a faint and distant memory …

Anyways, we chatted over the next few weeks on phone

Finally, we had a lunch date set up

I had to look my best … I wondered if I would still feel the same way when I saw her …

No longer as slim as I remembered, but with no less grace in her steps

With maturity, she looked more elegant and graceful

Her ebony skin still glowing, even better than I remembered it

Those beautiful black braids adorned her hear, neatly bunched up on her head

She strode across the floor to my table, every step mechanically coordinated

My table, again!

But this time, it will be different

I was not going to leave this table without making my intention known, I resolved

The afternoon wore on and we lacked nothing to discuss, moving from one subject area to the other; one discipline to the other, for hours, over lunch and after lunch, running into dinner time

She was just the way I remembered her, just more alluring

Once again, the world around us seemed to have stopped as we chatted, laughed, ate and drank
.
Before departing, and almost without a second thought, I blurted out my 33 year old script, “… will you marry me?”

“Where did that come from?” she calmly asked, in her usual characteristic, her eyes dazzling and a chuckle in her throat

“I will not repeat the mistake of 33 years ago” I declared in a confident tone.

We left the question hanging

I had fulfilled the desire I had lived for, for over 3 decades – seeing her and asking for her love, her response notwithstanding

But life has its own complications …

A glimmer of hope …

Today…

The Girl of My Dreams is my friend once again

What tomorrow has in stock for us is yet unknown

All I know is that I have her in my sights, and I intend to keep her there, whatever her answer …

Author: Yemisi A. Ikuomola

Stop with all the Nigerian accent BS

God, I hate all these “Nigerian accent” things…there’s no such thing as a Nigerian accent for crying out loud! We don’t even speak the same native language or share the same ethnicity. You can’t tell me I sound like Musa, your Hausa neighbor, or Chika, your Igbo aunt. I don’t even sound like Iya Kasala, and we’re probably from the same state. Neither do I sound like the president of my country -_-

You can’t imitate a Nigerian accent, because it doesn’t exist. And you make people look stupid. 😑 If you say try to imitate an accent from Nigeria, that’s fine- pick and choose, Fulani, Ibibio, Igbo, Oyo (even though they’re Yoruba, they still sound very distinct), your daddy from Ogbomosho (again, also Yoruba, but very distinct). Don’t just come here and be insinuating that we sound anything alike. Maybe if we had a common native language called ‘Nigerian’, we could have a ‘Nigerian’ accent. But we DO NOT. We all (mostly) speak English with accents derived from a mix of our native tongues, and education.

I understand there has to be some generalization cos everyone in the world speaks differently. It’s okay, generalize all Yoruba people. I still maintain that I don’t sound like daddy Ogbomosho though 🙄 Cool though. Yoruba people: We all add ‘h’ to the beginning of every word that starts with a vowel, and take away the ‘h’ from every actual h-word. And just fuck words up generally. H’am h’espetin ‘Arry Potta part 2 h’in d mail toe-marrow (I’m expecting Harry Potter 2 in the mail tomorrow). 😒 I don’t sound like that though do I? Asides the h’ocashuna (occasional) slip up. ☺️☺️

Anyway, point h’is (oops ☺️): there is no such thing as a Nigerian accent. We don’t have a common native language that could commonly accent our English. So many native languages, so many great (and at times killer) versions of the English language, so many, ‘far too distinct to be generalized’ accents.

‘Ope you af h’enjoy diz pieze. ✌🏾️✌🏾

P.S: the only general rules that will probably apply are more in the area of mannerisms- open your mouth as wide as you can, always shout, always sound angry and aggressive, gesture intensely too. When laughing, slap your neighbor’s back really hard cos the laugh is just too much to handle, also, occasionally throw your arms, and legs around when laughing, and if possible take out the next person’s eye while at it. 😒

Giving Away

Another piece written by my mother in celebration of my 21st birthday (18-02-1995). Enjoy…💛

–

Omolajipe, my daughter, I am not afraid to let go of your hand knowing you have to hold on to another. I’m content with sharing your heart. I have done the nurturing and I have all the confidence that you will continue the journey, with God bearing you every step of the way. I extend a hand of friendship to the next generation. I will always be here…

Birthday Blessings: Omolajipe

A beautiful piece written by my mother in celebration of my 21st birthday (18-02-1995). Enjoy… 💛

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Dateline February 18, 1995…

Unto me a beautiful feminine gift was given. Fragile, but very beautiful. And I’m the custodian, for life! Wow! What a divine privilege. Over the next few years, as I began to unwrap this gift, I realized she was, and still is, a bundle of talents. Full of life, I watched as this gift developed and grew even more beautiful wings to fly. I monitored (still do, by the way! Lol!) the flight and to my heart’s rejoicing, the glide has been a great one. You know, I was never afraid of the flight. We prepared for it together and I’m grateful to still be a passenger on board. We’ve encountered mild turbulence, but the Manufacturer has made a sturdy carrier.

Zoom to February 18, 2016…

I bless God for making me the custodian of a young woman who recognized her onions at a very tender age. I’m grateful to her for trusting me enough to allow me be her best friend as she evolved. She’s one, and the first, of the two best gifts I could ever ask God for.

Omolajipe! (the name I gave to her at birth) yes, it is the child you call out to first in the morning, after God, of course! I’m most privileged to be your mother and friend. I’m proud of you, all you have ever been, all that you are now, and all that you can, and will, ever be. I celebrate you today as you turn 21, a fully developed gift in flight.

You have chosen a wonderful base for your future flights, being mindful of your cradle base. You have found a worthy recipient of your love and affection, a Chief Pilot. I’m grateful to God for this gift as well. I wish you bliss as you take off and land.

May God continue to shine His light brightly on your pathway that you do not stumble. Have a most beautiful day! Give yourself a great ‘adult’ treat! Lol! I love you!

xoxo… Mummy

Written by: Yemisi A. Ikuomola

Anticipation

the candle burns out

the oil in the lamps nearly dry

but still we wait

oh yes, wait we do

•

the sun sinks lower into the clouds

the day grows a little darker

our shadows, a little larger

but still we wait

•

the song starts to slow

the laughter, it slowly dies down

the crowd begins to disperse

we wait

•

the dust begins to settle

we begin to come up on the horizon

the skies get a little clearer

and oh we wait

•

the first drop, the first drizzle

the first shower

the first taste, the first look

the first fitting

•

the first day, the first time

the first touch

the first kiss, the first look

and yes, we wait.

Guitarman

I see the veins, like vines, stretching out on his left arm. From my angle, I see the depression on each finger, impressions left behind by the strings he holds down as he strums away with the other hand. He looks my way, and for a second I indulge, letting myself believe he sees me, sees into my want, into my heart. He stops and searches for something. A small piece of paper. Something special I assume. It’s a key of some sort; he retunes his instrument, strumming severally until each string produces the desired sound. He begins a wordless song, a lyricless tale. He fills the room, and the corridors of my heart with beautiful melodies. He looks at me as he plays, the intensity in his eyes reminiscent of a wildfire. He mouths words, soundless words. His hands begin to dance along the neck of his guitar faster, as the music becomes more frantic. We engage in a battle of wills, neither of us wanting to be the first to break the connection. His gaze burns. I turn back to his hand, I spot the ring, and wonder which bosoms he would lay his head on tonight. Maybe if I approach him, he would let me keep him from his wife tonight. Maybe he will play his guitar for me all night, the beating of my heart a perfect harmony to his melody. Maybe he wouldn’t mind that my husband would be just a few miles from us, trapped between his secretary’s thighs. Maybe he wouldn’t mind that my son will be just down the hall in his room, wondering why his daddy has to work so late, or never come home at all. Maybe he will call me beautiful, and shower my body and soul with heavenly ministrations. Maybe his rough, calloused fingers will awaken an arousal so strong, set my skin on fire. Maybe he will lust after my body like sharks after blood. Maybe he will love and guard my heart. The lady beside me is clapping loudly. She’s obviously infatuated by my guitarman too. “Isn’t he something?” I say to her. “Indeed”, she answers, “20 years of marriage, and I still fall in love with him all over again whenever he plays that guitar.” She smiles kindly. She loves him. I would too if I were her. I wonder if she was kind to him, made him happy, feel wanted and loved. She would be fool not to. As I get up to leave, I notice a hint of disappointment cross his face. He can’t react now, cause his wife has come over to greet him. He turns to return her affection, but I feel him watch me as I leave; the show is over. Goodnight my guitarman, maybe one day…

Want

It draws me in, like a lamb to the slaughter. My naïve mind unaware of the consequences, or maybe just choosing to ignore them. My conceited body craves and begs for this depravity. I am reduced to a simple minded man, begging with no shame at all. I try to turn away, to tell myself no; but the more I run, the closer I get to exactly that which I intend to run from. It is an unavoidable battle, sadly, one that I cannot win. I hate to do this, to want this so much. I am afraid to turn to my benefactor, I hate myself for asking, for wanting. My heart breaks a little more, a tear falls; I am too weak for this, my mind is caving under this intense pressure. I beg my body, but it is merciless as it fans the flames of its want. Curse my desires, set fire to my want, cause this hunger to cease, and be kind unto my gentle spirit…

A box of donuts is all I really want 😭😭🍩🍩 #periodcravings

Hope

I dream of a tomorrow bright and shiny, borne from a yesterday gloomy and bleak. I envision a future ripe with plenty, to quench the hunger of the past, sate this thirst I was born into. I see a time to come with joy and dancing, atonement for suffering and strife of days gone past. I see in tomorrow big, bold lights, to illuminate the darkness that rid my yesterday. I dream of a future with color and music, birthed by a silent past in greyscale. I envision a day to come with prosperity, and wealth in the most divine of senses, an atonement for the need and hardships of days gone past.

I look to a place beyond the horizon, green and flowing with life; healing, and resurrection from the ashes that mark this ground. I look to a place in the skies, vast, with beauty incomparable, growing from the seed of sacrifice in this small space with little to live on. I look to a place so close, yet so far; a dream so fickle, yet so real. A place where the real and the unreal mingle; a place where earth and sky collide. A place where divinity meets humanity. A place where royalty greets the common man in humble adoration. A place of liberation from the shackles of a time which must now end.

I look to a future beautiful and peaceful, borne out of the pain of yesterday, and the hope we had through it all.
(Photo Credit: Google search, http://www.ifreex.deviantart.com)