That Man…

Tell him…

That you love him

That you long for his body

You are ecstasy. He, the fantasy.

Court him…

There are things that he likes

Invest shrewdly; you cannot lose

You are the music. He, the lyric.

Touch him…

Seduce him incessantly

Use his body, he is yours

You are Qetesh… He, Pothos.

Do You Love Me?

I had just taken this picture when she asked me that question.

Had to remove her image… Sorry. Privacy policies…

Yes, that question.

We were in a popular frozen yogurt franchise. We were sitting around a table meant for four people.

She was seated by my left hand side. ‘Mrs’ (not mine, but another’s) was seated by my right hand side. Her husband was still at the toilets.

My angel had ‘to go’ and I had taken her to the female side. Handed her over to a vivacious looking female employee who benevolently escorted her in and out. I had waited outside (of course) trying to look busy and non-creepy loitering around the female half of the toilets.

Mrs’ husband had also felt the burden to unburden. And so we three had left her, (Mrs) guarding our frozen delights, and table.

‘Vivacious’ returned my angel safe and sound, but she was suddenly flirty and inquisitive… Sigh… At the risk of being immodest, I am compelled to inform you that women find me attractive.

That is all I have to say about that… No, no, that is a story for another day.


I diplomatically defused Vivacious and turned just in time to see my angel walking back toward me. She had a look in her eyes that reminded me of me. She and I share DNA… A lot of DNA I think. Like me, she is territorial. Not jealous, territorial. I immediately assumed that she did not like Vivacious.

By the time we got back, my frozen yogurt was now a complex mixture of atrocious flavors and color. Undeterred I raised my cup to sip…

Out of my peripheral, I saw Mrs visibly inhale in near ecstasy as I opened my (rather small) mouth.

‘Mrs Johnson’…


Where do I begin with her?

She refers to me as ‘the one that got away’.

She has liked me for years!

She was (in my opinion) one of those misguided people… Those rebels without a cause. She seemed determined to live life on her own terms and made sure that we all knew this.

Interestingly, no one cared what she did with her life or vagina.

I was part of a small ad hoc committee she once assembled. She had slept with all seven of the eight men there. And with two of the women too. Her agenda was ‘career advice’. I was glad that I could not make that meeting.

I do not suffer fools lightly.

Without regard for my personal code of ethics, she did not just overtly convey her feelings for me, she proceeded to hint that I marry her.

Me!? Marry… Her?

Haaaa!!?? (in a Yoruba accent)


A few years ago, this young man bravely walked up to me and requested that I introduce him to her… He said that he wanted to marry her.

And Shazam!

He did.

All is well that ended well…

My contract with the United Nations had me in Nigeria for a year at this time and I had another year to go.

In light of recent kidnappings, rape of children and other such abuse, I had established a ‘safe word’ with my seven year old angel.

An innocuous phrase. To be used when, and if she was ever molested in any way. Especially if the perpetuator was within proximity. Or it was urgent but I had company.

The phrase was the question, “DO YOU LOVE ME?”

I slowly lowered the cup and dropped it on the table without sipping.

My mind went nuclear… Then I channeled the rage in seconds to a single laser beam.

“I love you baby” I replied softly looking deep into her eyes. Searching for the hurt… The pain… A sign… Anything!


It was like looking into my own eyes… No dice.

The abuser(s) was / were definitely on our table. Mr and / or Mrs.

But how?



Were they mad? Did they not know what I would do to them? The lengths I would go to kill them painfully?

Then ‘Mr’ re-joined us.

The atmosphere had suddenly changed. The tension though intangible, was palpable.

“What did I miss?” He quipped eyes roving from his wife, to me and then my angel.

“Nothing bruh… Just some love between my baby and me…” I rhymed sing-song like lightly punching my daughter’s shoulder.

My angel’s eyes were like laser beams boring through the back of my head.

Something was wrong… Dear Lord, what was she trying to show me!?

Her eyes wandered toward the entrance and all our eyes followed hers…

“Is that your car driving away Papa?”

We all craned our necks and established that it was not my SLS AMG.

“Let’s finish up…, bottoms up!” I suggested.

We all quaffed the contents of our cups and dropped the cups simultaneously.

My angel looked downright distressed at this point. Her curiously beautiful features further enhanced by tears in both big innocent eyes.

I winked at her…

She sat up blinking and cleaning her eyes hopeful…

“I wish we had a child together Dan…”

Mrs Johnson gravely intoned. Eyes dreamy.

Sweeeeeeetttt Jeeeeeeessuuuss!!!!! The shock almost killed three of us.

Her husband viciously spat out her name in lieu of a dire warning.

“I imagine your girth in my tightness Danny – love …”

“inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un…”

(PLEASE ask Wikipedia for the meaning)

I jumped up like a bullet and bodily picked up my kid and ran for the front door.

“I’m sorry, but I love you…”

I heard her shout at me as I fled into my automobile and fled the vicinity like a banshee exorcized.

I pulled over a few minutes later and parked. Engine idling.

“I saw her pour something in your yogurt Papa… I didn’t know what else to do”

“Thank you baby. You did good. I am proud of you. Using my car as a distraction… Epic” I remember saying, nodding in approval.

Her face scrunched up… “Distraction… I was not…” Her voice trailed off.

“Papa… No! How…?”

“I switched cups with hers” I replied laughing.

“Why was she trying to kill you Papa?”


The blissful wonder of innocence and its attendant peace.

In rare moments like this, the true essence of kids beam forth. Bathing their listeners in righteousness.

Where would I begin? The devil? Demons? Witchcraft? Hexes? Love potions? Love charms to enslave? Kayan Mata?


“She is a very, very naughty aunty… She is no longer our friend.” I (parent-ally) informed my ward.

Mrs Johnson suffered a mental breakdown from that instant. She deteriorated in mental health until she passed.

I hear that it was not pleasant way to go. She died in pain and agony.



How my eyes could caress your soul

How our minds became one being

How we did not need to guess


How I would touch you there

How I would set you on fire

How I was all you needed ad infinitum


How your zeniths were like life!

How your body craved mine

How we would simultaneously soar


Our plans for us?

Our faith when we looked at us?

Those loving, unspoken vows?


Missing Us

What happened to us?!

Why do we still bother?

Nothing is as it was.


Now we have nothing to talk about

We used to jabber and babble

These days it’s like we hurt our mouth

Tiny issues typically erupt in trouble.


Lo hearts; now calcified into stone

Are we trapped, or fighting for ‘us’?

Sex and passion… Long gone

Politeness used to conceal animus

Unfaithfulness is not sex alone.

Agbokim and Her Fairy

The story I am about to tell you is a true story.

Well to some extent. If you are from the enchanting land of Agbokim, or have heard tales from that land you have an unfair advantage.

Agbokim is the home of seven waterfalls. Very close to the border of Cameroon. It is a beautiful place.

You can pay for a tour. You will be regaled with a fantastic tale by the ‘curator’ as he is wont to call himself. These tales are generally too fanatic to believe depending on how much of an idiot you are.


One of these tales takes place in a natural cave to the left of the waterfalls. I am shown the thrones of deities. One male, one female. A king and his queen.

His throne has a thick jute rope on top of it. Doubled like you would a lasso.

No not you… I am not acknowledging you in any way. I am only looking to describe the rope…

Her throne has the tip of a spear driven into the rock representing her seat. Pointed end of said spear upwards.

The curator described how the king was dressed. Between you and me, I do not give two flying pieces of excrement. What is my business how the king is dressed.

The queen was dressed in beads he told me. Beads from neck down. I do not want to insult the curator, but I question his skills at describing things

Family ties…

Have you ever been in love? Fallen so hard that you are high? When your hearts beat as one? Your minds in perfect harmony?

This is a love story.

About twenty years ago, a rich and powerful man brought me into Abuja as a consultant. I was fresh. Unsullied. Sharp as a whip. I was young and handsome. Bold and beautiful. I could not wait to capture the world.

He lodged me in a four star hotel I immediately knew that he owned. He treated me like VIP. He treated me like his son.

He lodged me there for about a year. Two weeks into my stay, I had met his family except one. I met her six months later. She was seventeen years old then. Shy, dark skin and tall.

We became fast friends. She had questions about everything. And when you love someone… I had every answer she wanted.

Needless to say, we fell in love. Hard!

Have you ever met your soul mate? She was beautiful and intelligent. Inquisitive and passionate.

A few months later, I moved in to my own place in Maitama. Of course she visited every chance she could. She would escape, lie and risk my being at home by coming in unannounced. Risk because you only had to look at her to confirm her life of privilege. Of course she did not have money, what did an eighteen year old want money for? The driver’s were many, any thing she wanted, was hers for the asking. But getting a driver to bring her to my place was suicide for her and murder for me. Her father would have killed us.

But we managed somehow because he was a governor. His kids were in a mansion in Abuja, while he was at work in their state.

I was a gentleman like I told you, and women know these things. She trusted me implicitly. Till today, I have never betrayed that trust.

I taught her how to kiss… Kiss only me of course. And I am the only man she ever kissed. Or loved.

We were intimate without sex. Do you understand? I peeled the yam tuber without eating any of it. Work with me please… I am trying to be decent.

She would disrobe and show me every birth mark, scar and insecurity on every inch of her body. I would respond by kissing every “blemish” and tell her that she was beautiful.

Do you know why she did that? You see, it was taken for granted by both of us that we were going to marry. We never spoke about it, but we just knew. She wanted me to know what I was going to see for the rest of my life.

If I did not like her flaws, these revelations were my cue to retreat.

We would talk about everything for hours!

So imagine our surprise when she told me that she had missed her monthly period.

Father Lord!

She was a virgin.

I swear that she was. Hymen intact too. Trust me on this.

She had a saying, “I am yours Dan. But please marry me before we have sex. I can’t stop you from doing it. But please help me.”

And I never ever betrayed that confidence.

I knew instantly though that she was pregnant. You see, I do not fire blank bullets. I have always been virile.

I reached out to older friends who recommended all sorts of pills to abort the fetus.

Lastly I had her come over and told her that we should go see her parents.

She cried and suggested that we elope instead. She could not bear to face her family. Their upbringing was too strict. Besides she had just gotten admission into an ivy league university in the United States. I was to join her as soon as I could.

I am not a coward. I refused to run.

Finally, she suggested that we go get an abortion.

I agreed.

It was a short procedure. I held her hand all through. She was crying and praying throughout. It must have been painful. Imagine a virgin undergoing a D and C?!


I made sure she took her antibiotics daily and we remained in love.

She left the country about two weeks later and never reached out to me again.

Ever. She just blanked me. I was inconsolable.

After about six months, I ran into her mum at the Hilton. I was shocked at how the woman had depreciated. Her husband was an executive governor, he was a billionaire long before dabbling into politics for crying out loud!

I hedged for a few minutes before asking about my beloved.

Instantly tears began streaming down her cheeks and she excused herself and left me standing there like an idiot.

Luckily her mums brother was part of the entourage. He is a cool dude.

He waited until they were out of earshot before he told me that barely a week after her arrival in the United States, she had been rushed to a hospital. She had cramps and severe abdominal pains.

She had died within twenty four hours of admission. Toxic shock was the cause of death.

Complications from an abortion.