One Dark Morning

By Oviasuyi Elizabeth

While we’ rejoicing,

We remember not the sad.

When sad moments creep in,

We envy the glad.

Remember me not when tears lurk in my eyes.

O’ remember me not I say?

Pity is that which I detest

But daddy loved all tests

And he would say Heaven doesn’t care

The day I walk in

Yet awaits me nevertheless to read my result to my hearing.

If we have been pleased with life,

We should not be displeased with death

Since it comes from the hand of the same Master.

“Take nothing too serious my dear,” Dad would say.

Although they all smile with you today,

Frown not when they mock tomorrow.

There is no reminder of a day like this,

But an Angel.

Yet the Angel never gave an alert.

Funny! Not even a warning note by my bedside;

Just a dark morning with sighs and tears.

Death isn’t evil after all,

For it freed dad of his ills, regrets and his desires.

And our smiles.

It is nothing to die

What is frightful is not living any more in the hearts

Of the loved ones we have left behind.

For dad, I remember you today.

Seven years, you have been living in my heart,

And you will continue to live on

In the depth of my heart.



Writers or Pretenders

By K.Smith

The life of a writer is a hard one- who can attain.

People confuse he who writes often with a writer, even writers make the mistake. It is an honest mistake, so it is forgiveable. The depth and hardness of human life is difficult enough, now imagine placing the burden of both this hard life and the extra burden of putting it on black and white in such a non repulsive and interesting manner to the reader or critic as the case may be, more often than not (by human nature we are natural critics). You can imagine books whose authors have spent countless days and more sleepless nights than usual trying to reduce the human experience mixed often with imagination being criticised by readers or fellow authors as “not good or creative enough”.

Creativity in all respect takes time and more alone time than non-creative minds can really understand. It is the close relative, family or friends of these ones that bear the brunt of the supposed neglect. Maybe you can imagine Shakespeare putting down his thoughts for his numerous works and try to picture the thoughts running through the minds of his kids and wife when he is locked in one room; busy with writing. Maybe that’s too archaic for us. But then let’s imagine Wole Soyinkas’ family when he too is locked somewhere and trying to be creative as a writer; imagine the feeling of neglect. Now those are the famous ones for which there are countless less successful ones, may we not forget that success covers so many “inadequacies” and vice versa.

Every writer or supposed writer lives for the glamour; to be appreciated in front of the crowd, to hear the pretty words from strangers; how they love our works, how our words make them feel and have always wanted to meet us in person. The frustrations are easy to say when it has become a success story, but some have quit the profession for more paying jobs or due to frustrations of writers block or even due to harsh criticisms from people (family, friends, total strangers and even publishers).

A writer is like a lover and writing is the one you love; you do all you can to be with her, always want to hold her in your arms, play with her ears, run your hands through her hair, and make love to her slowly as she whispers your name. You are damn happy and complete. But that fellow, who believes he is a writer, only wants to be with her when he is in the mood, when his girlfriend is out of town, when boredom chokes the life of him or even where life has battered him and there is nowhere else to turn. He then dusts his diary or opens his writing pad and finds peace with words.

Words almost never turn us down, she is the fine lover that stays true with you, she is the mistress that always keeps her door open. But for the unfortunate or those who have taken for granted her liberties, she is the ruffian drunk on the stairs and cursing in the yard, then she gifts you her love no more. Then the writer’s block sets in; a quagmire for any writer or pretenders to it, many have been broken by this and never recovered.

Whether anyone is a writer or a pretender to it, is not our call to make; it is the lover who can say who has been good in bed or who has been lousy likewise. All we can do is satisfy her appetite, love her a thousand times just in one night and never taking her for granted. Perhaps our names would be written in gold as one of the best or just one of those who were mere pretenders.


By Kammel Audu

“Uncle Kamu, Uncle Kamu,” that sounded really familiar, it was my little nephew Samir, waking me from sleep. He had grown a lot since the last time I saw him, but he still called me Kamu. I got up with a smile; I’m very fond of him.

It was the 23rd day of December, almost everyone was here: my eldest sister Mariam, who everybody now calls Mummy Samir, and my elder brother Dauda, who we all call D1 was here too, he was a graduate of law and already in law school at Kano. He had shaved off his beard and was looking quite different. They had all sat down in the parlor, gisting and laughing. I’m surprised their noise did not wake me up.

I went round to greet everyone and the attention shifted to me for a second.

“Enjoyment officer, U are just sleeping your own jeje,” that was Mummy Samir with both hands in the air.

It was an exciting moment with everyone back together, smiling and rejoicing. Samir was on my neck, playing with my ears. D1 and my father, who is an ardent enthusiast of political developments, were already talking about the APC and PDP primaries. Mummy Samir, a strenuous advocate of fashion and style already gained monopoly of my mother’s attention; it’s moments like this that reminds you nothing is more important than family.

It was a beautiful sunset, followed by a brilliant moonlit night but extremely cold. It had now become a family tradition that everyone came home during Christmas and New Year, it was always something to look forward to.

The day that followed, Mahadi and my cousin Sule arrived. It was a full house and my elder ones had gifts for me, especially since I just passed the JAMB exam. In my house, the exam is not such a big deal although they still tend to acknowledge it, even though not as much as I would have desired.

* * *

I thought I was the first to get out of the bed, until I heard sounds of pots and plates, creaking in the backyard, it was Mother. I had to be up early, to open the gate and sweep the compound. There were sudden distant sounds of bangers, which resounded through the still frosty air, answered to by barking dogs.

Fetching water from a well, which I’m so used to is not a big deal, until you lose count of how many times you have had to draw water. Everyone needed water and it was just me at their service. I was all over the place, running all the errands. It was either my younger brother Malik was too young to do it or my elder brothers were too grown for such errands. I seemed perfect for everything.

I approached Chuka and Sons Supermarket. It was almost the same size with a kiosk, the only reason it was called that, was because of the sign in front of it. Oga Chuka had no sons to the best of my knowledge, so I wondered why he called it so, but the good thing was that he sold every single item you could possibly want in small scale.

As I approached the store, I was glad it was just Chinyere in the store. Chinyere is the daughter of Oga Chuka. She is about my age, dark skinned and beautiful with a dimple and long black hair. There were a lot of people in the store, struggling for attention, I did not join them, I just waited patiently until it was finally just me and her. I stepped in and requested for MTN recharge card of N1500. I could see the surprise on her face because I have never bought above N100 worth before. I stood there with both hands in my pocket.

“Give me MTN one five,” I repeated.

She did as commanded and I handed her three N500 notes, without saying another word. I walked out of the shop with the best feeling ever, ‘yeah, she now knows I’m a big boy,’ I thought aloud on my way home.

I returned to the store 15 minutes later with a long face and an awful feeling, I asked her to change the recharge cards to Glo instead. I could not look at her face to see her expression, but I was quite certain she was sniggering; of course she now knew I was only running an errand. I walked home grudgingly, angry with brother Sule for not making his instructions clear at first.
I was the last to go to bed, I was certain about it, I needed to stay awake to lock the gate and put off the small Tiger generator which generated more noise than power.


It was December 25th, the food was more than sufficient, we were expecting a lot of visitors so the cooking was plentiful, and I ate a lot as if to make up for the firewood I split in the morning. Yes! I ate, and the drinks too kept coming.

I finally had some time to myself; I went out to hang out with my friends. I was feeling dapper, I was putting on Sule’s perfume and D1’s wrist watch and even the mirror confirmed I was looking good.

I hurried back down the street as I took quick but short paced steps, whistling in my bid to get my mind temporarily off my predicament. I flew past acquaintances with just a wave of hand. My dancelike movement was unusual but that did not stop Smith from stopping me to inquire about Sam who was our neighbor’s son.

“I don’t know”, I replied and moved on.

“When last did you see him?” he further asked.

I almost repeated ‘I don’t know’ but that didn’t sound logical. I turned and told him ‘earlier in the morning’. As though that was not enough, he had a message for him. He had no idea what he was doing to me so I had no choice but to wait. My stomach walls were kicking, I was paying for my sin of overfeeding.

I have never had food transform this quickly into chime,hence the rapid absorption. I finally made it to the toilet, my stomach was churning, sweat was dripping from my chin and I was shaking all over, and then came the final explosion that set me free.


I always wanted to ride a motorcycle, it meant more to me than anyone could ever understand; it was a major indicator that I was all grown and it raised my self esteem sky high. My mother owned a bike which she rode to her workplace in the morning and back in the afternoon, the rest of the time, the bike was just parked at home. I taught myself how to ride it, from keen observations of those I’ve seen ride it and my friends who gave me oral lessons, some of whom did not even know how to ride themselves.

I was returning from Sabongari where my mum had sent me to return some shoes, she told me not to use the bike because the town was too busy but I did anyway.

The colourful Ogani festival was on and the streets were jam-packed with people celebrating. It was a big festival and people took it very seriously. Traffic was slow; I was out on the road for close to an hour. My foot, which barely made it to the ground, gave me the needed support. I managed to maneuver my way through the crowd, and I felt like an expert.

My little friend Pele was sitting behind me, everyone on our street, including his parents, called him Pele which was a nickname that stuck because of his amazing football skills. We were talking about the masquerade that almost flogged us, I was sounding confident but I had been scared.

Just as I took the final turn to head home, I felt a vibration followed by a screeching sound. I was tossed off the bike to the other side of the road. I got up almost immediately, trying to figure out what had happened, people rushed towards me from different directions and insisted I sat down.

“My leg, my leg,” that was Pele screaming, there were more people around him, he was bleeding. The bike was a mess, there were fluids all over the road. Another bike had hit us from behind, and both motorcycles were in similar shape. It was a miracle that something worse had not happened to any of us.

The Okada rider wanted to beat me up in annoyance. He beleived I was at fault. I felt otherwise because I trafficated, but I was too shocked to say anything, probably because I was younger and it would be convenient for anyone to presume I was less experienced and most likely to be at fault. Someone I didn’t know rushed Pele to the hospital.

Just then, I saw my mother running to the scene without a head tie, she was weeping and kept repeating my name.

“I always tell you to be careful, I always tell you to be careful”, she said tearfully.

‘How did they know so fast?’ I wondered. There is no feeling worse than seeing tears in your mother’s eyes and you are fully aware that you are the cause.

We all walked home together in silence, no one uttered any word; by the time we got home, I saw the motorcycle leaning on the wall, someone had rolled it home, I had no idea who or when.

Laying inside in silence with my eyes closed, trying to figure out what had gone wrong because it happened so fast. One minute everything seemed perfect and the next it was upside down. I felt horrible about Pele, I was the one who had asked him to come with me, and he was still at the hospital. I feared the worst for him. What if he never gets better? What if he even loses his leg? What if he has to limp for the rest of his life and can never play football again? I know I would not be able to live with such guilt, I pray he recovers completely and fast too. These thoughts kept racing through my mind.


“Uncle Kamu,” I opened my eyes. Samir was standing at the door. He didn’t run to hold me as usual, I guess my mood was infectious and even as little as he was, he could tell. I put on a crooked smile and stretched my hands. Even though this might go down in history, as my worst Christmas ever, it didn’t have to be the same for everyone else, especially not Samir.

Forgotten Season

By Gabrielle Osajiele

A child born with so much pressure,
Brought-in with bond of a known spirit,
A discernment of second Adam,
Not seconded by eve,
A beautiful deceptive virus cut from his ribs.
No man is immortal,
For blood separates our appearances.
The dignified father of knowledge.
Three were wise…
Simplified astrologist from the book of purity.
History regarded his coming from the beginning.
He is before the beginning began.
Was on the cross,
Fought for our loss,
Still an ‘eze’.
Waiting to ride on his white horse,
Whatever is said will be.

Wonders are indeed many,
But the greatest in need has come to be.
Flying in purity,
As the doors of the blue sky unlocked,
A mighty voice.
Moving the banks of the steel waters,
‘This is my beloved son’…
A son as a father,
Mighty is the wonder of the earth,
Just one.
He who caused kings to raise dust.
For one is born not many.
A star.
Delivered poor to us believers,
Last-born but was first gone.
Formed in an image,
Dwell-forth in our lineage,
But with us is a foreign heritage.
I speak forth an unknown language.

Such humility,
Born with an unending blood.
We celebrate a child of the father,
In a lighter vessel moves faster,
The day picked like holiday.
Reflection was but now seized.
For we,
Children of the Child,
We embolden evil that prevails good.
Express your thought,
But judge not!
For ye shall be judged.
We celebrate a child,
But wilfully against his will.
Green-red strolling through street of fame,
Famous santa blowing wishes,
Frost replacing statue calvary.
Like the white beard is bore in bethlehem?
Nothing is compared.
For We are nothing without your birth.


By Gbolahan Badmus

It is not like we don’t believe in Christmas trees and Christmas Lights, but our parents would rather spend their hard-earned money on chickens or turkeys, and we would rather spend ours on bangers.

Yes, bangers. We never called them fireworks. There were distinctions. When you launch fireworks, it spreads across the sky like the explosion of multicoloured stars. But when it came to bangers, we had to strain our eyes to see them, even against a dark sky:

“Oh that’s it,” Ade would say.

“No, that’s just aeroplane light,” Sesi would say.

Bangers also sounded like gunshots, giving about two to four bangs before dying out. The more bangs it made, the better. There were those who even held the bangers, while it gave out its sounds, people like Precious. No one needed to tell me doing that was dangerous because Solo’s right fingers said it all.

When it came to chickens and turkeys, those who bought turkeys were highly regarded—that was why we allowed someone like Ade walk with us. But it depended on the size, because there were some chickens we rated above turkeys. Those small-sized turkeys we mistook for chickens, only for their cackles and flared feathers to convince us otherwise.

In my house, for every Christmas, it had always been chicken, chicken and chicken. But last Christmas, we hit an all time low. Father bought one of those small home-bred chickens. He said it was tastier than agric chickens, which had been chemically swollen in poultries. To be sincere, after it was fried, I couldn’t say which was tastier. Father must have undermined Mother’s cooking skills. Or those words were a way of hiding reality.

To worsen it all, while I was battling with the chicken’s feet it fell from my hand. Unknown to me, Emmai had been targeting my fingers, and before the piece of chicken touched the ground, he caught it mid-air and bolted. I gave him a good chase and whipped the hell out of him. I then took the piece from him, and threw it as far as my strength could. After that, the tears started flowing but no one bothered about me. The image of Father stripping off flesh from the chicken’s lap; my elder ones licking their greasy fingers; and Mother in the kitchen clearing the dishes before nightfall, all remained clear in my memory.

Later that night, Emmai and I soon became pals—who could resist his wordless apology?

Emmai was like my younger brother, or perhaps a son; this was how he came to be. There was a place where they dumped refuse at the end of our area, after Prof’s house, like a large pile, mountains of refuse more likely. Precious, Solo, Ade, Sesi and I all go there to hunt for things. The only competition we had, at first, were the men, who came to scavenge with their large wheelbarrows. While they did theirs to survive life, we did ours to survive boredom. We went there anytime we liked, whether day or night, until the men came to the refuse dump with their machines, and prevented us from entry.

When the men first came, they hired Old Man Sunday to guard the entrance. It was the easiest and most useless job to do. Easiest, because all he had to do was doze off at his post till the morning; and useless, because there were several ways to go in, like the proverbial market square.

Inside the dump, the stench first dipped its fingers into our noses, penetrating the handkerchiefs tied around them. The smell later died off or we got used to it. While standing on one end, it was impossible to see the other end because the rising mount of refuse obstructed the view. The torch lights we carried assisted our eyes, while our strapped bags were for the loot. You would be surprised at the amount of things that came here to waste. On rare occasions, we found shoes, phones, and wristwatches, sometimes still in manageable shape. We skirted around the edges, taking care not to wander farther. Only the men’s machines could go that far, lest one ran the risk of being buried alive. Also the deeper parts had an unbearable heat like the sun was boiling underneath.

Once we were done with our hunting, we moved to Sesi’s room to share the loot according to our rank, irrespective of the finder. Prof once told me the dump was a potential goldmine. If only he knew how right he was.

It had been during one of these hunting I saw him.

“Look!” I pointed to his direction.

He was ascending towards the dangerous zones of the trash, nibbling at the dirt. We all began screaming trying to call his attention, but he kept on moving, like we were the lazy afternoon breeze. I picked a stick and threw it at his direction. The stick took some quick spins in the air and landed at his front. This startled him. And he descended towards us. Straight into my arms.

I picked him up and ran my hands across his soft black fur. He responded with a soft purr, then began licking my fingers. Back then, we had no leader, and we all argued on who would keep him. It was basically between Precious and Solo, even though I had saved him. Ade and Sesi prodded Solo to physically challenge Precious. I was intimidated by Solo’s size but I had to support my cousin.

Precious had three scars across his left cheek, his eyebrows were slanted towards the middle, moulding his face into a permanent scowl. He never spoke about his scars, but we all knew his father was a retired soldier, who never spared his pocket-sized gin. His father was generally known as the General, and according to him “there is no war in Nigeria I never fight.” In less than three minutes, Precious floored Solo. He became our leader, and took Emmai.

The night after Precious brought Emmai into his house, his sister put to bed, but unfortunately she slumped. His father kicked against the cat, saying he was the devil’s incarnate. He had to burn incense round the house, saying it was to expel the evil spirits brought in by Emmai. As Precious was about to dispense Emmai, I pleaded with him for the custody, he obliged.

On bringing him home, my parents didn’t care much, so far I would be the one to feed him, clear his shit, and make sure he didn’t constitute nuisance. All Father’s words. Since Father agreed, it meant Mother had automatically agreed. Emmai fed from my plate, and from what he scavenged along his path. He became a younger one to me, a companion, and sometimes a creature to bully when I became in a bad mood.

It was about four months after Emmai’s adoption, the men came to the dump with their machines, attracting the media. The dump later became almost impossible to sneak in, after it was surrounded by a tall fence rimmed with barbed wires, like they were guarding a prison.


Schools had closed for the holidays, but for me school was still on. I didn’t go to the public school like the others, Father was against it. He said the public school was filled with overgrown children, who rather frolicked and smoked weed than study. He preferred the tutelage of Prof.

Prof had been staying in our area for as long as I could remember. Father said he was a retired Professor of English, hence the title. And he had come to live here, after his pension had always been promised to be paid next month. Prof had neither wife nor child. He had lived all his life for his books.

Precious once told me his father, Professor, and my father were brothers, but an old dispute created a rift between Professor and his father. Precious told me on the day we shared his father’s gin. The day after that Precious came back with his second scar.

Prof was a dark wiry man with grey hair. He always wore a blue shirt, tucked into a brown khaki trouser pulled to his abdomen. His house was the last house you’d see at the end of our area—hidden and conservative like the occupant—right before the refuse dump.

Prof’s house was made up of two rooms. He called them the Inner Sanctuary and Outer Sanctuary. The Outer Sanctuary was where he received visitors, which he hardly had; while the Inner Sanctuary served as his room and kitchen. The back of the house was where toilet acts were done in nylons, and flung to the mountain of refuse. Sometimes, when an ill wind blew, it distributed the stench of refuse round the house. Even after they built the fence, Prof still locked the windows, hence the stale air of ancient books scattered all over the house. The only trace of modern tech I saw in his house was the old rectangular radio he hoisted over his shoulders, married to his ear. The radio looked like it had been defaced by the claws of time. When I asked, after he told me to start referring to him as Prof, why he never had a TV, he replied:

“Those boxed-hypnotists would never apprehend me. They attack sight and hearing. The lesser routes to my deception the better. Even if my pension was never withheld, I would never have purchased a TV set!”

We had our classes in the Outer Sanctuary, surrounded by piles of books. They ranged from small sized pamphlets to encyclopaedia-sized tomes. When we first began our classes, it had been difficult to understand his language. But thanks to the thesaurus and dictionary who proved to be worthy companions.

Prof always boasted that with all he had taught me I could best any secondary school student in the country, even first year university students.


On the last day of class, before the Christmas holidays, I saw men pasting papers on several fences in our area, even the fences that had ‘post no bill’ painted on them. The tiny and medium-sized prints of the posters, coupled with my lateness, discouraged me to read them. I had to do dishes in exchange for Mother to watch over Emmai till I came back. Prof did not take kindly to Emmai urinating on his books. He threatened to kill him as a sacrifice to appease the god of wisdom.

On getting to the front of his house, Prof stood with a bottle of whiskey stuck underneath is arms. I never saw him drink. His blue shirt was tucked out. One of the papers I saw around town was in his left hand. He kept talking to himself, “Betrayers! Betrayers! All for the love of gold.” His radio laid on the floor, beside a blue megaphone, saying something about how much had been invested in electricity, which would soon radically improve in our state.

I cleared my throat several times before he realised I was there. I was about to say ‘Prof what’s wrong? Who are the betrayers?’ When he stared at me, I swallowed the statement from its P… His eyes were bloodshot; strubbles of grey hair were scattered all over his face like whiskers.

“Has your Father met his eye with this?” He said. His heavy breath of alcohol, and something stale knocked me backwards.


“Hurry and feed this to him. I would see him soon.”

I bolted off.

Along the street, people had gathered around the various spots where the papers were pasted. One man was shouting at another, pushing him; another stood apart stretching his hand in submission towards the sky: a woman stood with her hands folded, staring at her feet.

When I burst through our door, Emmai ran to my feet rubbing his back against my ankles. Father was in the middle of the parlour, a wide slice of delight torn across his face. My elder ones and Mother surrounded him with smiles. The emotion brewing outside was yet to pervade our home.

“…and as the final surprise, we are going to be killing a big turkey this Christmas,” Father said. Then he stood still and began twisting his waist. It was his signature dance.

“Father, Father…Professor said…I should give you..this.” I said.

He grabbed it from me, his eyes scanning through the piece, as his slice of delight closed up.

Banger sounds went off outside. Father dropped the paper, and ran outside to look, ignoring Mother’s insistence as to the paper contained.

I peered through the window. Precious’ father was holding a smoking gun, with his son at his side, silent. Ade, Sesi and Solo were nowhere around. Professor had the sleeves of his blue shirt folded. He brandished a blue mega phone. A small crowd had gathered. My elder brothers and Mother all squeezed me off, also peering.

I rushed back to the floor, where the paper laid, and picked it up to read. I schemed through the tiny prints. It basically described our area, and called it all sort of names; it also said something about a new energy company rising from “the ruins to turn Trash to Cash”. I kept scanning through until I found it:

A three-day eviction notice is hereby issued to all the occupants of the aforementioned area to further the state’s energy concerns. Disobedience of which shall lead to drastic eviction measures.

Of Recycled Wishes and Fading Hopes

By K. Smith

It’s Christmas again and Santa seems to have missed his way to my home
Well, this is no Europe or New York. And I am no nigger in some fancy neighbourhood
I am the black child on the streets of Eko with no slippers for my hardened feet
No food on my table; you only have a table when you have a home
But then who cares if “I can’t breathe”.

Emptiness has its own way of whispering in our ears
It tickles us at the moment we are beginning to loosen up and forget the pain
The pain we didn’t create, the pain we may never lose
The feeling of love unrequited, the feelings we may never speak
Our eyes veiled with fever, fever of wants
Wants only our heads can create.

It’s a starless night with silence filling the air
The noisy silence of battered souls
Aching for brighter days ahead and another 365 days of renewed hopes
The recycling of wishes and dreams we have never truly awaken from
Of shining lights we only see from afar
Calls to the Divine seeming to fall on deaf ears
And the messengers in suits haul home the little we have left.

What hope do we have in the dreamy manifesto of the Holy pages?

Nightime Hap

By Khameel Audu

He was smoking a cigarette on the dance floor as he held his cold beer bottle on the other hand, moving from side to side to the music that was playing in an interestingly amazing manner. To him, nothing could feel better as he exhaled smoke from his nose, staring at the ceiling with his hands up in the air. Smoking, drinking and dancing all at the same time was one of his many specialties; nothing could feel better.

It was another Friday, an opportunity for him to let loose, ‘feel alright and enjoy life’ as he always told us who were there with him and we repeatedly screamed ‘Macdon’ which was what everybody called him, only very few persons and probably his teachers asides his family members knew his name was Mark.

He noticed a lady seated with her friends at a corner, chewing gum and holding a glass in her hand. He noticed she was staring at him and he walked up to her and asked her why she was not dancing, she leaned forward because she could not hear him, he repeated ‘why are you not dancing?’ she smiled and responded ‘I’m not in the mood’, he held her hand and dragged her as he screamed ‘let me put you in the mood’, spilling her drink a little but he went on. Dropped his near empty bottle of beer with his friends, put out his cigarette and began to dance with her in a corner of the club, giving their all into it and sweating their asses off. They danced for about an hour, passionately letting themselves go, gyrating and rubbing against each other; at this point, the dance floor of Exclusive night club was jam-packed, he said something to her, she could not hear him, he embraced her and whispered, ‘let’s get some air outside’ and she moved her index finger side to side and said ‘no’, he leaned forward again and said ‘lets have a few words outside, away from all this noise and stuffiness’, she stepped back, looked him over for a moment and then backed up to her friends, raising her finger in a manner that meant that she needed a minute. He rushed to us and collected Linch’s car key as he smiled mischievously, Linch leaned forward and screamed ‘make I no see stain O.’

He grabbed the keys and a bottle of water from the table; he stepped out and into the parking lot which was right in front of the club. He walked slowly towards a black Toyota Camry Muscle, parked at an extreme end, looking back at intervals and stopped when he noticed she was following him. Held her hand and they walked together to the car, he opened the door to the driver’s side and got in, and she went around and slid in from the other side. He turned on the ignition, then the air conditioner. He opened the pigeon hole grabbed a cold bottle of Smirnoff Ice, opened it and handed it to her.

He charmingly sparked off a conversation as he tried to find out basic things about her, then with so much confidence, he leaned forward as though he wanted to whisper something to her and he kissed her ears leisurely and repeatedly, slowly and gradually moved his lips towards hers , he kissed her gently and then intensely, almost rolling over as he sucked on her lower lip, cleansing it of whatever was originally on it, she dropped the bottle as she put her hand around her neck then she suddenly pushed him away, held her face in her hands and exhaled deeply ‘I’m not supposed to do this’. He rested his back on the chair and wore a face like a child whom a bully had just snatched his favorite toy, she stared at him and he stared back without saying a word. She suddenly pounced on him and continued from where they had stopped, more ferociously this time, as though it would make up for the lost time. He reciprocated by grabbing her waist and attempting to roll her over but the car steering was in the way, he did not pause for a minute but adjusted the car seat with his left hand, pulling her to himself. He caressed her gently as she reached for his ears with her lips, nibbling his earlobe gently, he pressed her breast soothingly as he grabbed her ass with the other hand, he rolled down her armless gown to reveal a black bra which he did not have the patience to remove and also rolled it down to reveal two sumptuous big coconut-shaped breast, with his hands on one, the other one he sucked with so much oomph, switching to the other one at quick intervals as though they had different but complementing flavors. It seemed they were assigned to different duties and they had a deadline, working towards it sedulously. She leaned backwards towards the dash board and began to remove his shirt, he merely raised his hands to aid her, reached for her nipples and gently rubbed between his fingers, she tried to slide her hands into his trousers but it was too tight, he reached for the belt and loosened it still rubbing on her nipples. She dug deep and pulled out his usually gentle but already angered penis. Her palms around it sent different vibrations through his body as she stroked it up and down as if she wanted to yank it off. She leaned forward and licked it, licked it again and took it into her mouth taking it back and forth and side to side relentlessly like a traditional African chewing stick. He moaned with ecstasy running his fingers through her hair and almost jumping off his seat as he felt a constriction in his lower belly, she raised her hair and looked up at him, his eyes were closed as he pleaded ‘don’t stop, don’t stooop’ which he kept repeating, held her hair tight as he let out his juice which he was struggling so hard to hold back. He stroke her hair as she opened the door to let out her head and she spat out what was in her mouth, picked up her bottle of Smirnoff Ice poured some into her mouth, gargled, spat it out and then drank what was left of it, shutting the door and throwing the bottle on the back seat.

He rubbed his belly as he smiled, looked at her and said ‘this is just the beginning’, he leaned forward and kissed her, the entire process started all over again. He reached for her dress which was now only covering from her waist down and pulled it up, rousing for him, she had no panties on; he squeezed as he rubbed up and down the two giant mountains on top of him. She held his third leg and aimed it between her legs and she tried to sit on it. He held her back and reached for a condom from underneath the seat, with expertise he tore it open and slide his into it. His third leg, ready to rumble was firm as iron holding a standing fan. He lowered her gently onto it as she aided him, she screamed quietly and attempted to pull back but he held her and slowly struted in; with his hands on her thighs and hers on his chest, she went up and down on him, he controlled the pace with his hands as he made her go faster and slower at some point. She screamed in different languages and spoke in various voices confessing her undying love. Panting, she rested on the window. He swiftly turned her to his position, hanging one of her legs on the dash board and the other on his shoulder; it was a completely different phase, her screams fuelled his rage, the speed with which he was going back and forth kept getting faster as he yielded to the irresistible desire to pound harder. She clinched her legs around his waist, enduring the ecstatic pain as he transformed from a man to a beast, she wriggled under his firm but passionate grip. He tore his way into her as he bit his lips and placed hands on her shoulder. He continued the back and forth movement and suddenly increased celerity then it came, yes, he had come finally, holding her tight to himself and convulsing with vigour as he spills the residue of his juice into the sheath.

He came back to meet us in the club, smiling like his cheek was going to burst and he said. ‘I go marry that girl, and he glided into a seat right next to me. ‘we hear’ Peter responded, trying to be more convincing, he repeated ‘I swear, I’m going to marry that girl’, looking at us and still smiling ‘I dey serious O’ he emphasized. It was 4am; we resolved it was time to call it a night. We rose as we headed towards the door, not really wanting to leave just yet, still hopeful that I might get lucky like Macdon as I turned to look again at the best female dancer for the night, we locked eyes again, I should have spoken to her, how hard could it be? I thought. I spent d entire night, waiting for the perfect moment which never came. I guess it’s just who I am, my friends say, I would never change; I just would not know what to say.

I guess I would just have to be content with the thought of her which I was not going to get out of my head anytime soon and complement it with what Macdon was going to tell us which I was very sure he was going to exaggerate. He is the greatest megalomaniac I know. Interesting friends I had, it was yet another nighttime hap.