Time is on My Side

Ms. Irma Thomas’ voice does something to the tear glands in my eyes, the heartbeat in my chest, the bottomless pit in my stomach, and the tiny-weeny hairs on my legs, I tell you.

She’s incredible! She’s the queen,  no questions necessary! I feel all these feelings, Good God!

Sing to me, mummy!

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Sex is Ruining our World

Mulata

I actually don’t mean the title, it’s ridiculous, and I am a hater.

I went to the database of the International Association of the Unlaid to find the list of individuals who are destined to depart from this cold, hard [lmao, what fuckery] world without ever experiencing intercourse with other individuals, and my name was first on the list. Brethren, believe you me, I was not surprised in the least.

Each time I imagine myself existing in that state of vulnerability that one has to be in to engage in the moment of action that is sex, the thought sends shivers up and down my spine. That won’t be me, God; that can’t possibly be me. Inherently, or perhaps it isn’t, I don’t know,  I can never find true pleasure in a state of vulnerability, and sex involves many things including the surrendering of pride and power. It is a non-violent act of violence. Don’t take the last sentence seriously; I don’t know what I’m on about.

A few years ago, when I used to travel to my mum’s rented residence at Okuku, the same town where my mum was a professor and the head of her department at the Osun State University, there was a perverted individual within the vicinity. He was the landlady’s son and I called him ‘Uncle Raphael, as per the culture. If someone is old enough to be your uncle, ‘uncle’ has to precede their name before it is uttered.

Whenever my mum wasn’t looking, he would look at me weirdly, suggestively, so I avoided him at all costs. I have never told my mum this, and I can certainly see how people who have gone through serious forms of molestation, especially of the sexual nature, keep quiet about it, even for the rest of their lives.

Whenever my mum gave me her clothes to wash, and we sometimes would travel with dirty clothes so I could wash them whenever she was away at her university, I would wash them indoors, in the bath, and although I knew she would give me a piece of her mind whenever she returned for doing so instead of doing the washing outside, I couldn’t exactly tell her why. I was trying to avoid Raphael. I stayed indoors until the afternoon or evening, until I could hear my mum’s car horn outside the gate; I am an indoor-loving person anyway.

Raphael was a completely different person whenever my mum was around. He was a bit cold towards me, almost mean. There was this one time that I slept off and rain fell, making the clothes that I had spread get super-wet all over again, and as my mum was scolding me for not paying attention to the rain, he was too. It was mind-blowing.

My mum spoke highly of him, and she would many times call him ‘Uncle
Raphael’ too, even though she is very much older than him. She would thank him for running errands for her and stuff- some of it had to do with the fact that she was the landlady’s son, I believe.

My whole family took a vacation of sorts to my mum’s residence at a time, and after I had made the meal [I am the first and only daughter of four children, my natal Saturn is in the 1st house, I am not even 30 yet but I have the maturity of a 55-year-old, and I have had to work quite hard till this day], I was told to go into the car to get something- I don’t remember what it was. I grabbed the torch, left the residence, and headed to the car.

There he was, right in front of his residence, as it was next to my mum’s, staring at me like a wild cat [no offence to cats, I love y’all], like he was about to devour me. He was calling me, and I think he may have hastened his steps as I ran to the car. He didn’t run after me, so instinctively, I knew I was going to be ambushed. I remember being very terrified to return to the residence. I got whatever it was and headed for the residence, and as I expected, he was lurking by a wall in the dark, waiting for me.

I kept telling him to leave me alone. The whole thing happened quickly; he carried me, and he kept trying to force a kiss on me. I kept trying to struggle free, but of course, he was stronger than me. I used to be short and slim. I’m still short, just not slim. I can remember how uncomfortable I felt that night; the whole thing was quite distressing.

Then he heard his mum’s voice. It happened not too far from his mother’s quarters and she must have heard me tell him to leave me alone. She was seated, and I can remember her calling his name, ‘Raphael!’. He seemed surprised that she had seen him since she would have been asleep at the time, I assume, and he quickly left me alone.

My family was to leave the town not too long after, and he asked me for a parting gift after he let me go. I gave him a can of Malta Guinness; it was either out of relief or confusion, I don’t know. There were only six cans in the house, and my family members were to have one each. When my mum asked if I had taken my share, I pretended that I had taken the drink. My father was around too, and I couldn’t tell either of them what had happened.

It bothered me for a long time; it bothers me to this day. I wish it didn’t, because nothing really happened, and a voice in my head keeps telling me that the experience I just narrated may be quite insulting to people who have been through more-serious forms of rough handling. The memory of being so vulnerable and unable to defend myself, unable to save myself from Raphael’s very-strong grip, is quite painful. I could have been somewhere between 11-15 years old; I don’t remember vividly.

I have a very strong phobia of being kissed, being held or hugged for longer than necessary, and definitely intercourse. I somewhat believe that my experience has nothing to do with those fears; it is who I am inherently, guarded, not just a late bloomer. I gave myself my first kiss with a mirror and that’s it; I don’t need anymore.

I have a feeling that there will be a change in the future, that perhaps, when I am in my 30s or 40s, I will meet someone, male or female, I don’t care, and when we both look into each other’s eyes, the rest will be history- I will want to be touched in that way. I just don’t see it happening, and I am, for some reason, quite determined to not let it happen, but we’ll see. Life always happens, and life has a very interesting sense of humour.

I mean the title, it’s not ridiculous, and I will tell you why I think so when I make a second part to this- Sex is Ruining our World II. 

Magic Michael

mike2

Born during the phase of the full moon,
for all of the world to see,
in the late evening on August 29, 1958,
around 7:33.

Mother Nature rejoiced!
The waters waved and danced in delight!
The birds flapped their wings in excitement.
The world was showered with new light that night.

The wolves stood on rocks and howled.
The stars and the sky gathered in celebration.
He was here to sing, dance, and heal.
Unborn babies kicked in anticipation.

He was the moon;
an enigma, mystery in the flesh.
He was as the moon;
adored from France to Bangladesh.

He was a man as a child,
and he was a child as a man.
It was in the way that he sat and spoke,
and in the way that he jumped and ran.

He was the Earth Angel Michael;
the friend and guardian of children.
Kids knew it and they loved him,
protective and doting, mother hen.

We miss him.

The earth stood still on June 25, 2009;
we had a nightmare while our eyes were wide open.
We shivered as sweat ran down our foreheads.
We took long and deep breaths in,
quickly running out,
dying.

Where is our Michael?

When we think of him,
we are filled with happiness and strength,
but we miss him,
and the thought of it makes us weak.
We miss his hypnotic, gorgeous eyes,
the beauty of and in his smile,
the charisma and gaiety in his dance,

the sweet softness of his voice,
that voice, the sound of freshwaters.

We miss the way he made us feel
when he lifted us up as he bent to kneel.
Mother Earth weeps as She curls her toes.

Elephants trumpet,
birds sing of our woes.

We are nostalgic about carrying him,
as he carried us,

as we play and replay his shows.
We are lovesick.

He is here.

Mamase, mamasa, mamakusa.
Mama, say,
mama, sir,
mama, cool sir.
He will always be with us.

Yes, he will, our king of pop,
our king of love.
His body will always be in our soil,

swaddled in Gaia’s arms,
and that is not all.

His spirit will always be with us.
He will always be here,
via his songs,
via his dance,
via his teaching,
via his charity,
via his silent cries and loud wailings,
via his musical screams.
We will rock him back and forth;

we will never drop him.
We will remember him fondly,
loving and cherishing him,
for decades and generations to come.

 

Writer’s Block

fish 1

My hand and my mind are at it again.
Hand is in the mood;
she wants some fun.
Mind is really not;
he is numb and done.
If they don’t make love,
how will they both birth words?
What about me?
How will I escort these chords?

The First One Dies First

Hip Bone

‘Hip Bone’ by Gilbert Young

Yesterday,
you braced yourself.

With all the courage that you had,
you told them how you really felt,
and what all your affection meant.

Today,
they tell you that they love you.
They’re here to make your dark sky blue.
You give them butterflies inside too,
so they show you life,
and it’s brand new.
It’s an exciting time for you two,

and there’s nothing,
for your baby,
that you can’t do.

Tomorrow,
you’re going to have a big fight;

the things that they’ll say will hurt you.
If you threaten to leave if they don’t change,
they’ll react in a way that you’ll find strange.
The words that they’ll say will be quite true,
“I didn’t come to you first,
I didn’t want you.”

Clairaudience?

I travelled to Osun state with my mum one time and I don’t think I’ll ever forget what happened. We visited a friend of hers one evening, and after eating, my mum said she was going somewhere different from where we all were to pray. I decided to pack the used plates and do the dishes, and once I had done that, tidy the kitchen up a bit. There wasn’t anything else to do, really, except watch TV. 

I was almost done with the dishes when I heard my name, very clearly in fact, like the caller was just behind the door, and it came through as my mum’s voice. My very thought was she wanted me to join her and her friend in the prayer, and [I feel very impelled to ask God for forgiveness at this point] my first inner reaction was ‘nope’. I responded that I was coming, and I rinsed my hands (and probably did something else) before going to look for her.

When I got to her, I told her that I had approached her in response to her call, and she just looked at me. She said she didn’t call me. What? Who called me then?

Her friend told me not to respond if I heard my name again. I didn’t know how to feel. My mum is not one for pranks, so I knew it wasn’t a prank. She really didn’t call me; someone else did.

Did I hear my name again?
Yes, faintly this time.
Did I respond?
No.

I am pretty sure the reaction to this would be “you are probably very used to hearing your mum call you” or “it was all in your mind” or “she called you and she probably forgot she did”. Sis, I shit you not, I know what I heard. As a matter of fact, it was happening very frequently at a time in my life. 

My brother and I had a similar experience. We were downstairs in the rain very late one evening, chatting away about everything and nothing, trying to put buckets in spaces where they could collect rainwater, when we heard a very loud voice saying inaudible words. We dismissed it, convinced each other that it was from our neighbour’s house or somewhere else, before we heard it again. It was a very deep voice and it sounded like it was coming from above us. It wasn’t a familiar voice because we would have recognized the speaker right away. My brother and I still laugh about the speed with which we ran up the stairs; we still don’t understand what on earth that was till this day.

I did a personal reading to see the psychic gifts that I either have or will have in the future and these cards were included in the list of cards that I got:

I was reading things online about signs of clairaudience, and a content creator touched on very similar experiences to the ones I’ve had, including the one that I have described. I still don’t know if I’m clairaudient. “Clairaudience” sounds really fancy and sophisticated.

We’ll see, I guess.

Between Worlds

SLEEP BY RENAT RAMAZANOV

‘Sleep’ by Renat Ramazanov

Do you know what it means,
do you know how it feels,
to be one of the living
at a time when you are dead?

To not be of that world,
the one you left behind,
or be fully in that one,
the one that is ahead.

You are able to move
but you can barely walk.
You are able to say words
but you can barely talk.
You are very sensitive
but you can barely sense.
You remember how to remember
but you can barely think.

You are able to hear
but you very barely know.
It’s hard for you to understand,
and so painfully so.
You are able to look
but you can barely see.
You’re hanging in midair;
you don’t have any wings.

To not be able to rewind
and start all over again,
or be able to move on,
and fly far far away.

Do you know what it means
when everything means nothing?
Do you know how it feels
when you cannot feel?

Demon Dance

1461683-6

‘Woman Lying on the Bed’ by Frederic Belaubre

I was taking a nap when
an entity perched on my chest.
Not asleep or awake,
I was in severe unrest.

I couldn’t see its frame but
I felt how heavy it was.
It seemed terribly angry,
and I still don’t know the cause.

It pressed down on my torso,
so I tried to fight it off.
It did not stop doing it,
not until it got enough.

I screamed for assistance but,
my mouth made not a sound.
It grabbed me by my nipples,
and fiercely flung me around.

I struggled and fought,
until I called a name.
I was rescued swiftly;
nothing remained the same.

My head hurt badly,
and my body was very sore.
I woke up visibly shaken,
and staggered to the floor.

The Love Rove

Spirit Painting- Elaine Clayton

Spirit Painting – Elaine Clayton

Love is death.
To fall in love truly is to die,
to bury you in yourself,
your arms,
your doubts,
your fears,
past hurts that brought tears.

To fall in love truly is to become a spirit,
to levitate,
to float and glide through the day,
and even with your eyes wide open,
to dream.
It’s an experience that gives your body
control of itself;
it smiles when you don’t ask it to,
and flies when you don’t know how to.

Love is birth.
To fall in love truly is to be reincarnated
while you keep the same skin.
It is to be reborn,
to become a foetus before you sleep,
hugging and kissing the air
when they are not near,
speaking to them
even when they can’t hear.
It is to become someone else,
someone new,
seeing things that are not there,
feeling things that make you bare.

To fall in love truly is to want to grow,
to want to know,
trusting and wondering like a child.
It is to be happy,
to be unafraid,
to be very aware and ill,
to be at peace.

For Michael.

What If We Could Fly

If man could fly,
the earth would be uninhabitable.
People would be stupid enough
to attempt to kiss the sun
or get to Heaven,
and the birds would have been bullied a lot
if the first man was created with wings.
Oh, the chaos!

Slavery would have happened still.
People’s wings would have been cut off.
Someone would have sprayed something in the air
and rendered people’s wings useless
so they could be captured,
especially in an attempt to curb
people’s migration to certain territories.

The air would have been poisoned more
as a means of maintaining territory.

“Fly back to where you came from!”
“Get out of my way!”

Maybe God didn’t give us physical wings
because we are each other’s wings.
We just haven’t mastered the art and act
of helping one another
and flying together yet,
if we ever will.

Greedy, money-hungry, power-seeking people
don’t deserve wings,
for one.
Life would have been unbearable
if we could do more evil
with the aid of wings.

Privacy?
Ha.

Blah.
Blah.
Blah.

Think about it;
I really enjoyed doing so.