Retroviral Chronicles part 4- Virtue's reward

This shouldn’t be your reward, the payment for being a good wife. All the holy books are full of praises for the woman who is faithful to her husband, they call her blessed, honoured and virtuous.

 They do not say she should be waiting to collect antiretroviral medication in a hospital, imprisoned by a virus that has no cure and that will transform into a disease that will strip you of every dignity before it kills you. They are all silent on this matter, perhaps they did not foresee an idiot quite like the one you married.

Retroviral Chronicles part 3- A Heinous affair

I am a forty-five year old woman who has never been kissed, yet I’m sitting in the reception of a HIV testing clinc, legs pressed together as my vagina twangs from remembered anguish. How did I get here? It’s not a story that I like to tell. I’d rather tell you about the young man who fainted just before his result was announced.

Retroviral Chronicles part 2- The Sampler

The ceiling fan’s laconic twirling seemed to be holding the attention of the middle aged woman sitting on the red plastic chair, she’d probably been staring at it for at least ten minutes. It was clear that she didn’t want to initiate or receive eye contact from anyone, everyone in that room was happy to oblige her. The man with long and pointy beard was watching the ceiling too, his face seemed calm but his left foot was drawing an interesting pattern on the ground.

Retroviral Chronicles part 1a- The Big Sister

 She looked down at her gown as she got off the bus, the engine oil stain from the mechanic’s overall had spread a little wider. She worried about getting the stain off, wearing a white uniform frayed the ends of her patience. The thing attracted more stains than a young girl at a boys boarding house would magnet eyes and she spent a good chunk of her salary on bleach and detergent.

Searching for Sunset

  I’d looked for you for years, I’d gone crazy over you, wondered about you almost every day. I talked about you to people I’d just met. No one seemed to know you, though they agreed that you tickled their minds. You were that strong.

Dreamt

I dreamt of you again,
Lying in another's arms,
His breath warming my fevered brow,
I dreamt of you.

Beat the ground

  I didn’t know I had dreaded this visit, had no idea that the motivation for finding reasons and excuses was fear. This fear was the type that crippled, the type you couldn’t taste or touch- as transparent and weightless as air. You live with it, you’re not even aware of its presence and importance. Like wind, it will hurl you when it’s strong enough, it will leave destruction in its path.

Holy

“Our mission is to depopulate the kingdom of the devil, to save souls bound for hell” 

He’s pacing the length of the stage, his hands waving in an unworldly rhythm, he means those words, the force of his sincerity touches you even through a television screen. He’s talking about soul winning, the great commission of evangelism. The noise from the congregation would drown the voice of a less gifted speaker, but this man can’t be overwhelmed by this frenzy of adoration, this crowd was small potatoes.

A friendly coup

They watched the flurry of activities from their perch at the window, their feet rested on the seat of the club chair propped under the window and their noses were pressed on the window louvres- different louvres because the girl was taller. A woman rolled dough and cut it in strips for chin-chin, another was washing cuts of beef and frozen chicken, their mother was chopping vegetables for fried rice while their aunt had just finished washing a gleaming white mass of rice.

Unfurling

 “They don’t have iodized salt and I don’t understand this sea salt and rock salt that they have” she said looking up at the man beside her who was carrying their basket.

Of friends and fishes

“Dodoyo” she said, she was referring to the driver who’d caused the obstruction. He’d rather delay traffic than wait for two cars to pass through the bottle neck created by the partially open gate.

“I’d thought dodoyo was a typical Yoruba curse word” he replied with a look of surprise, she couldn’t speak Yoruba.

Love's true lie

Being in the farafina creative writing workshop has been a very beautiful experience. I've learned plenty and hopefully I've gotten better at this writing thing. We're supposed to do things we wouldn't normally do, "stretching our writing muscles" in Ms Chimamanda Adichie's words.

 I haven't really written sex scenes before, not because of religious reasons or because my mother reads my blog (well that's a little chunk of the reason), but because I think sex scenes should be well done. I wouldn't write a sex scene unless I think it serves the story and it would be realistic. No flying monkey stuff for me.

The story I'm putting up today doesn't have a sex scene but is very sexy, please let me know in your comments if you felt it was well done and if it felt realistic.

Speechless

“And I would kiss them, suck their nipples and lick them all over”

“For real?” I asked, I wasn’t quite expecting this tale when I told him about the neighbour’s house boy who’d kiss and touch the four year old me.

Too much talk

"Stop that" she said when he touched her breast.

"Na akpu? why you come dey use all your muscle dey press my bobi?" She continued as she watched him fumble with his belt buckle.

Nwachinemere

   "Nwachinemere!" He cried

     Dimka’s voice reflected the bottles of Guinness extra stout he had French kissed until he coaxed the last drops out, his eyes barely focussed on the young man he was calling, the song of alcohol in his blood was affecting his senses. The other men in the bar echoed his call as they welcomed him to the revelry that can only be found in a Nigerian beer parlour.

Jazzed

  I love jazz, I think it's the music of the gods, the only genre of music that can express any emotion fully. Soul is the only other genre that comes close but there's no way Soul can make you feel the heights and depths, plains and tangled paths that jazz guides you through. The people sitting, dancing or just lounging in the quadrangle seemed to agree with me, the look of bliss on their faces as they listened to the live band play Earl Klugh's "Tropical legs".

  I was still clearing tables when the band segued into "Calypso getaway", Bassey the bartender whistled and Jaiye the other waiter nodded at me. I ignored their blatant attempts to see my famous reaction to the song, I've been known to bawl like a baby on hearing the song. Unfortunately for them, I was in a hurry to get home to my man, my shift had ended and the pesky tables were only delaying me.

   The bus ride home was uneventful but the driver kept singing 'Careless Whispers' at the top of his lungs, thankfully he was singing the original version by George Michael. I wouldn't have been responsible for my actions if he'd been singing the jazz version by David Koz. It brought up unpleasant memories and I hated those memories. It had one redeeming feature, without it I wouldn't have met the love of my life, the same young man I was rushing home to see.

I open the door stealthily, trying to make as little noise as possible. Tochukwu is a light sleeper and I hated to have him wake up when I'd come home, he wouldn't go back to bed for the next two or so hours. He'd ask endless questions about my day, tell me everything that happened in his class and at Kachi's- the neighbour who took care of him during the day. I didn't get my wish, he wasn't even asleep.

He runs to hug me, his legs thumping on the cement floor and his words tumbling together in garbled order as he trys to tell me twenty things at once. I finally get him settled on the only sofa we have while I put away the food I brought from the hotel into our fridge- another thing I got from the hotel. The main perk of my job is the fact that I'm allowed to take food home, that way I get to save a bigger chunk of my salary for Tochukwu's education. 

"Mummy play 'together again' on your phone" he says as he flashes the smile that reminded me of the charm with which his father dissolved my defences before he disappeared like dew on a hot morning. Tochukwu loves David Koz's classic song, although I'm pretty sure he developed that love as a defence mechanism due to my excessive binging on the song when he was a toddler.

"Mummy, we have to dance to this song at your wedding" he says as we dance. I smiled at the thought of my wedding, a beautiful pipe dream that could only be imagined by my beautiful five year old son. He has no idea how slim the pickings were for a single mother of a male child whose income put her just above the poverty line.

I lift my son and our eyes are on the same level as his dangling feet betray his glee at being carried. I rub his forehead with mine, we'd done it since he was a baby. He believes it allows him listen to my thoughts.

"I know what you're thinking, Mommy" he says as he claps his little hands. "You're the happiest mommy in the world" he pipes.

  My man is right, he's always right.

Bridges

Last year I started a series that was supposed to have run through out November, however we were suddenly asked to report to NYSC orientation camp and I abandoned the series after putting up six posts.

Sprung

We met in church, he was the visiting pastor’s PA and I was the head of the protocol/ushering group. Naturally, we had to liaise to discuss the modalities for hosting the pastor. He seemed bold, direct and ambitious- the kind of guy his classmates voted most likely to succeed in their yearbook.

Enugu's heartsong

I recently attended a traditional wedding at Enugu, my roommate of six years in the university was getting married. I was there for three days and I decided to base a story there. I really hope you like this one.

Versatile Blogger Award

  Last October, Ernie nominated me for the versatile blogger award, I was so pumped and excited... you need to have seen my shoki dance steps when I read her post. I decided to get to it as soon as I could but sometimes life gets in the way of the best laid plans.

Bottom power

In honour of the International Women's Day I rewrote a poem I'd written in 2007 but didn't get to publish, I wrote it for a campus publication that asked me to submit entries. Perhaps it wasn't its time then, or the title was too risqué for that era. Anyway, here's the poem....

Bottom Power
I am glad I am a woman,
Seemingly soft, weak and helpless.
I am glad you underestimate me
And have no idea what lies under my smooth skin

Rainbow's end

Continued from Rainbows and roses

 Queen's husband was helping her get ready for the big party downstairs, he'd helped her wear her gown and was seriously thinking about giving her a shot of vodka to steady her nerves. A knock on the door startled them and they laughed out of embarrassment at how they'd both jumped.

Rainbows and roses.

 Continued from Sunshine and rain

 The little girl loved listening to the story of how she came to her mother, not in the usual, boring fashion but an entrance worthy of the little queen that she was. Her mother never got irritated by her frequent requests for the retelling of the story, how could she? When it was the story of how her life changed from mundane and drab to one of love and laughter.

Sunlight and rain

 She woke up to a very perculiar sound, it made the fine hairs on her nape bristle and her fists unconsciously clenched. That's when she saw it, his fat hairy stomach which was rising and falling with unfailing regularity. Her gaze travelled upwards and took in his open mouth from which the most obscene snores were released to the world, the little white patch of dried saliva at the corner of his mouth and to his balding head. Nausea was her body's response.

Nothing

The walls are bare,
Sterile, clinical
The rooms are empty
My voice echoes

Dede'm

Remember how excited we were at your unfurling,
Giddy with joy at your awakening.
How our hearts leapt at the sounds of your first steps,
And our smiles at your first words.

Runaway

 He decided he'd had enough of his parents inflexibility and lack of understanding, he had to leave home. They even loved his little sister much more than they loved him, they let her have his toys but he couldn't even touch hers without her crying like someone was kicking her on the stomach. When she cried, they'd rush out, carry her and tell her she was their princess and the most beautiful baby in the world. They didn't even tell him he was handsome.

Rewards 2

 One day I decided to visit my husband at work, a little surprise to spice our already perfect marriage. He was in a meeting and asked me to wait, while I waited I decided to wander a little. My children say I have restless legs syndrome or something like that, those children say the strangest things.

Rewards- Part one

"Wicked woman, witch, Jezebel"

"I told you she was evil, I saw it in her eyes from day one"

"Mama Ayo calm down, remember your hypertension o"

Night shift

I was going to title this post 'Happy New Year?' But as I walked home from work this night, I heard the song "night shift" blaring from a bar's speakers and I knew this was a more appropriate title.

Retroviral chronicles- The virgin

Happy New Year y'all

I'm starting a new series I planned on doing last year, it was inspired by my clerkship days at Ghain HIV/AIDS clinic at the Central hospital Benin and a recent visit to military hospital Ikoyi where my friend was undergoing her internship and she was posted to the Retroviral pharmacy that month.

Land of dreams

See full post here