Repeat That, Please

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“Yes”, beautiful man.

I am assessing the size of your eyes,
and the magnificence of each,
the crevices of your earlobes,
the shape of your nose,
the way it gorgeously sits on your face,
the curves of your lips,
your beautifully-sculpted cheeks,
the way your tongue dances 
in your mouth as you speak.

“Yes, I’m listening to you.”

Every part of you,
every detail of you,
but I cannot hear a thing. 

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. 

Outeraction

sunflower-5-daily-oil-by-Krista-Hasson

‘Sunflower’ by Krista Hasson

I’m running out of breath;
my sweat is overflowing.

My thighs are widely apart;
he’s in six-feet deep.

I can taste my tears;

I can’t feel my legs.

He’s giving me life but
I know this is deadly.


Whose grave is he digging?

Is it mine or his?

Will I die again 
or is this the good living?

Rebirth

'Longing in Silence by Aricadia

‘Longing in Silence’ by Aricadia

It is always hard-
cutting strong, karmic cords.
It’s like a birth experience;
isn’t it why we sometimes
cry in fetal positions?

In truth,
one is birthing oneself,
and conjoining different pieces
into one self.

Art and music help,
writing included.
Patience and hope are necessary

because the ‘umbilical’ cord
that attaches one to the past,
to the old self,
always fall and seals off by itself,
gradually,
the pain leaves,
maybe even slowly,
and the memories and lessons are left.

Falling and Rising

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‘Sun And Moon Abstract Art’ by Sketchii Studio

The moon was unhappy.
Surrounded by stars,
and as beautiful as she was,
she felt different and alone,
and all of that was not all.

The stars poked fun at her;

they had things to say about her size,
and other bad things, her rise.
They took her light for granted;
it didn’t shine exactly like theirs.

The sun doesn’t trust anyone;
she won’t let you come close to her.
Stars only appear when she’s away now
’cause she’s fierce and very defensive,
but deep, deep, deep inside every sun
is the old half-moon groaning in pain,
and deep, deep inside every big, bright sun
is a full moon wanting to be loved.

Black Girls in Sunlight

back_isexy__Site_1024x1024-Recupere_1024x1024

Painted by Nicholle Kobi

In sunlight,
black girls look like precious metals.

Some black girls glow like rich copper,
and some, like brass,
and some, like bronze,
and some, like gold.

I find it all intriguing:
the various styles of their hair,
the haughtiness in their stares,
the colours on their lips,
the excitement in their speech,
the fierceness of their strides,
the way they sit like royal highnesses,
like queens.

The love is requited:
the sun loves the black girl
and the black girl loves the sun.

In sunlight,
black girls are a wonder.

Who Do You Call an ‘Icon Living’?

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?

Praise for the Sunflower

Sunflower

Oh, how beautiful you are!
Look at you;
see how grand you’ve become!
From your darkness came this light;
from your dark seeds of pain,
piercing, heart-wrenching pain,
came these beautiful, bright petals,
such awe-striking sight!
I want to lose myself in you;

you are the clearest, sweetest dream.
I want to find myself in you,
your royal highness,
Queen of Wands.

I adore you!