May it be that we all be your parents. 

May it be that we all shelter you from prejudice, vice and abuse. 
Regardless of creed, race or religion, 

May it be that we all nurture you in love, peace and education. 
May you all grow to be better than us;

Loving, protecting and reeducating all children. 

May it be… 


The Book Of Denial (Chapter 5)

As concerns Aydin.
A young, cherubic Prince.

Of comely countenance and predisposed of good cheer.

Assuredly I have lived; I have lived a life and another.

Pay heed and hearken to my thoughts of a “necessary evil” of sorts my Prince.

The rising and the falling of many a man.

1. Not all vintage is befitting of your status. Or fit to drink. Find your wines only through exhaustive search.

2. Discreetly establish your love of red, white or wine – otherwise. Study to know your ‘Sauvignons’, ‘Merlots’, ‘Chardonnays’ and ‘Semillons’…’Champagnes’ and ‘Sangrias’ … And therein, establish which flavor you prefer.

3. Bad vine. Bad wine.
Take care to know where the grapes your wine is made of comes from. A grape will not fall too far from its vine.

4. Is your wine sealed with a wooden or plastic cork? Were the grapes pressed or trodden? How much alcohol (if any) does it have? Know exactly what you will be drinking.

5. My Prince, as wine ages, it’s fermentation can burst old wineskins. It will inflame and excite you, though not necessarily in a good way. Her age must be factored in, for as long as you keep the wine.

6. Be not of them that mix wines.
Wine will not mix with any other alcoholic beverage for good.
Red ought not to be drunk with white or with wine – otherwise. They seldom mix satisfactorily.

7. Even of your wine, drink sparingly. Though beneficial, do not get drunk with her. Lest you become unfocused and fall prey to her whims. Then be ridiculed, and perceived as weak and unreliable.

Hold fast to these words often my liege. A woman’s love, or not art the demise of royalty not a few.

Two years old as of this day , but thou wilt be king one day.

Let us koinonia often. I have much to impart.

Long live the Prince!

Dance With My Father

I laid my head on his broad chest, my arms around his muscular torso.

I felt his large hand ‘gently’ thumping my uncovered back, the space between my neck and where my wedding gown began.

Luther Vandross’, “Dance With My Father Again” was aptly playing through the monstrous sound systems DJ Snap had brought for my wedding.

From my peripheral, I could see Antoine standing close to mum. He looked unsure, it was his wedding day, yet his father in-law got the first dance… hahaha…

My mum looked on tolerantly… I guess the years had taught them all not to come between this daughter and her father.

As the song ended, he pulled away and gently kissed my forehead. He was still as handsome as always. Athletic too.
He wore his Armani tuxedo like second skin.

My father… El Presidento! I mean that literally, my dad is Mr President.

He has remained unchanged physically for as long as I can remember. It’s so bad that trash-talker’s have branded him a vampire. Some say he is a shape-shifter.
There is talk of his affiliation with The Watchers and some say even The Illuminati… Well…

I tend to agree… In a way…

Back then he drove a pearl green Nissan Pathfinder. I was maybe four years old.

He has always driven us to school. For as long as I can remember, on my way to school, dad and I always sang and prayed and talked and played every school day. He loved us unreservedly.

That morning, he wore black jeans under a flowing white jelabia (traditional native dress). Everything was normal. I was seated at the back and screaming songs as they played off his CD player.

We got to school and he parked across the building along the street.

As always he would clown a bit before opening the door behind the drivers seat to let me out.

School was for 8 am. But dad was always there by 7 am. I was usually the first student to school.

He was standing out there and making faces at me through the window when suddenly a car hit him.

It seemed to have come from nowhere. I screamed as his body was tossed in the air and then he hit the asphalt before rolling towards the other side of the street.

l looked and saw his white jelabia suddenly turn crimson with blood and dirty brown from dust, mud and dirt.

He was not moving.

I remember screaming “Papa!”… “Papa!!”

I can’t remember how long I screamed and cried. But it was a while.

The engine was still idling, music and the air-conditioning still on. I was frightened and confused.

Suddenly there was a ‘ratatat’ on the window and I whipped towards it, my hands wiping tears from my eyes.

My dad stood by the window.

He looked different. Like a good ghost. He was still dressed the same way, but he was a sparkling white.

I looked past him to where his body had fallen…he was still lying down there immobile.

Even though I was young, I knew this was not a good sign. So I tried to open the door to get to him… To them? It would not open… (Child lock).


I looked up at dad’s ghost… He was pointing at something in front like on the seat. I slid toward the front and climbed into the drivers seat looking frantically about. I could not see anything he would want.


I looked… He was by the drivers side window now still pointing… Toward the other seat?

Then I got it… His phone!

I snatched it up and held it toward his ghost… And he rewarded me with a wan smile.
But my face fell as he held up his hand… His usual gesture that meant, ‘wait’.
He closed his eyes as though in deep concentration… Opened them and looked at his phone.
Closed his eyes again, Papa looked like he was going to cry… Opened his eyes and looked at the phone again.

It looked like every time he closed his eyes, he faded. He was weakening.
By the fifth try, I could see through his ghost. I could see his body still bleeding out on the street and my school beyond him.

Then I noticed he had placed his right palm on the window for the first time since his apparition appeared… Again, though I was a kid I intuitively knew he had given up and required I place my palm on the window opposite his. I screamed out, “no!”

He was visibly taken aback by my action and he gazed solemnly at me for a few seconds… Eyes full of tears, I held his gaze… Then he shut his eyes again…

Immediately his phone started to ring, with my heart pounding I glanced up at him and he gestured that I pick up.

“Hello”…, I remember saying to whoever was calling,

“a car hit Papa and I think he is dead”…

“at my school”…I told the screaming lady that called.

By the time I looked up, Papa’s ghost was smiling at me, yet I wept. He was almost like smoke now. But he pointed to his phone again, and it rang once more.

I recognised her voice immediately. My grandmother. His mum. Bawling now, I sobbed out the story. She calmed me down and while we were still speaking, my mum and some uncles arrived within minutes of each other.

Dad was the victim of a freak hit and run accident. The driver did not stop and was never caught.

He broke one leg in two places. Several ribs. Ruptured his spleen. Broke a collarbone and his wrist.
In less than a year though, he was fully healed. To the amazement of everyone.

Only he and mum know the identity of the lady who called him that fateful day. She was the one that called mum. My parents never speak of that part of the incidence or of her. Ever.

I stopped calling him ‘Papa’ after that accident. He became ‘dad’. No reason.

Only he and I know what happened that fateful day. Well you do too (now). We have no need to speak of it.

We became friends, soulmates, confidants after that. Yes, and father and daughter.

He almost gave up and died, and I refused.

No big deal.

He has always loved big cats, guess he simply lost one of his nine lives.

Kids Say (And Do) The Darndest Things

We were going to marry.

She had a kid. He was eighteen months old at the time.

Now, I don’t mean to discriminate, but back then single moms were a no-no. Ordinarily there was no way my family would ever accept her.

I could see it in their eyes when they first met her, the condemnation. Truth be told, in their eyes I could do better. She was never going to be good enough.

Then they met little Tommy.

The child was a cherub I swear.
If Cupid was to ever have a human face, Tommy was it.
I’m a father and a husband now, trust me, you want a kid EXACTLY like little Tommy.

The kid was smart.
Too smart for his age.
Everybody loved Tommy.
He was truly a bundle of joy.

Alicia was accepted only because of Tommy.

Clearly I loved him like he was mine. I loved his mum Alicia. My family loved Tommy; and so Alicia was “permitted”.

I’m from proud, pompous and wealthy aristocracy.
Please forgive my family.

Black beauty.

Dark, curvaceous goddess.

Sensuality and beauty marred only by her eyes.

Her eyes were full of hurt, guilt and bottled-up feelings.

But hey, I guess heartbreak with a kid as evidence of your “mistake” would do that to a person.

She was a banker. First Bank I think. Stable.
A girl to take home to mama.

Rich. And a nice person I guess. At least that’s what I’m told.

My only excess? I always like to know what I’m getting involved in.
I hate surprises.

Hey! I’m human… Forgive me.

And so wedding plans… Hurray!
Groan… Not really.
Alicia was smiling more though…

And… Then the pastor of her church swung by one evening. I was at her place. He came by to talk about the upcoming wedding.

Tommy was being well, Tommy.
He was at the phase were he was hiding keys and jewellery.
Successfully climbing the most dangerously precarious items of furniture and fittings.
He would gurgle water and spit all day. Gurgle saliva and spit when we wouldn’t give him water… All day.
Remove his nappies for reasons he could not communicate…
Tommy was being, a kid.

He waddled into his mum’s room eventually, (presumably to hide in her closet) and so we hunkered down to
“talk shop”.

A couple of minutes into our talks, Tommy saunters back lugging something behind him. Sits on the rug in our midst and with a cry of glee thrusts it at the pastor.

The man of God screamed “blood of Jesus!” As he recoiled in shock.

Alicia’s face fell in abject humiliation and despair. Her delicate hands flying towards her endowed chest as if to stop her heart from exploding.

The meeting was cut short. I could feel her eyes on me the whole time. I could not meet her eyes.

We were going to get married.

But we did not.

No one broke it off. We just did nothing.

Neither of us have spoken about the incident till this day twenty years later.

You see, we had been lovers for three years prior to that day.

At full mast I measured a paltry four inches. Width, an average adults index finger.

She always said I was “the best”.

It was about thirteen feet long.

It was a shiny black, white flaky stains here and there.

It was about the width of a can of soda.

It was one big-ass rubber dildo.

Any way you chose to interpret the dildo, it did not look good for Alicia. Present company considered.

An Ode To My Prince

You are beautiful
Tiny, yet larger than life
A wonderful bundle
You are more than enough.

And so I kiss you often
Because soon I cannot
And so I try to carry you often
Because soon I will not.

You are my ‘shooting star’
Blazing forth in bright light…
My erudite scholar…
My dunamis; my might.

Thou art great; a legend.
Thou art a god my son.
Thou shalt be excellent until the end.
I bless you; my Aydin.

Child Of My Heart

Child of my heart
Fruit of love
Beloved from the start
Sent from above.

Love of my life
Daughter of my youth
Mitigator of strife
Speaker of truth.

I loved you before
I love you forever
There’s so much in store
Wealth, health and laughter.

Birthday blessings sweet Sage
I wish you life’s best
Shine brighter with age
My best; my rest, my first.

Wife Material

These are a few points gleaned off a few Compadre’s. A couple of them I’m thoroughly ashamed to be affiliated with; a few mere acquaintances rendered garrulous after a few bottles of neutral spirits, and I suspect a bit of substance abuse and misuse. I honestly suspect I caught a whiff of ‘the herbs’ off a couple of their halitoses.

The preceding paragraph sought to distance myself (rather poorly I suspect) of their questionable code of ethics… And because I’m afraid of my wife. She’s been called-to-bar almost a decade now, and owns her own chambers. Surely you can empathize?

That being said, they said, they told me how to know if that girl/woman is suitable for marriage. (Sweet Jesus help me afterward!!)

Non issue.
The way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach. The ways to a man’s heart are:
Fuck him
Feed him
Leave him alone! And not necessarily in that order.

Ah! “Watch her carefully on this one”, they said. Especially if the kids in question aren’t hers. And particularly if they belong to you from another woman. I gathered that you would be reading between the lines on this point. If your kid, or if kids don’t like her…well…
It would seem that even if she was a total klutz on the subject of raising kids, she is redeemable.

Very vast and ambiguous this point. “Would you trust her with your piece?” Uhmmm, since I didn’t own a sidearm I shrugged in embarrassment. Luckily the banker there seated recapitulated, “would you trust her with your unlocked phone then?” Brrrrrr! Now that is a thinker. I guess its about how she handles sensitive information. I guess its what she does with indicting and incriminating truths she knows about you. Is she Cool FM or Fort Knox? You get my drift I’m sure.

Infidelity (On your part you moron!)
A relationship is hard to evaluate when things are rosy; fairytale like. The true test of a relationship is in the face of your betrayal. Yes she ought to flip. If she don’t, run my friend, run very swiftly. Her ability to somehow forgive you and want to work it out positively is a pointer that she’s a keeper. I gathered that you should also watch her reaction and take on a story about another man’s infidelity. If she crucifies him, or men in every situation… Dude, reevaluate your position. Let’s face it, a man is only as faithful as his options. You know if you have it in you to be unfaithful. Do yourself a favour and curb such excesses or be with someone less likely to become homicidal.

If she is ambitious. Avoid her.
That’s all they said. Hey! These are not my opinions. I’m just relating stuff seven men deliberated on.

Work harder you slob! Forget the fallacy that women love money, no they don’t! They do not all fall for a guy that has money. They in truth fall for a rich guy for the  SECURITY he can offer and provide. That’s one thing women crave…security and stability. So, thou payer of rent…thou eternal borrower of money…you are treading on thin ice. I need to add that a woman would traditionally fall for a broke, upcoming man with POTENTIAL. If she knows you know your ish, she would love to grow into security and stability with you. Yeah, and some riches too. Don’t forget, the fairer sex are homebuilders by their default setting. She likes to build with her man.

Whooohooo! Hah!
Settle down sir!
Non issue.
Sex gets better with love and time. Make love to her more often than you fuck her. Leave off Viagra et al. Foreplay definitely. Break out the scrolls of the Kamasutra and experiment daily. Women are freakier than you think. They want the thrills more than you think. But she may often lapse into your pace and style and may contentedly live like that forever…till any of my seven friends show up that is.

Her mum
I approach this subject with trepidation.
The apple does not fall too far from the apple tree. While there are exceptions to every rule, this point rates 90% in high probability to happen. If she is close to her mum, and her mum is not the sort of woman you would marry…”Men of Capua! Brace yourselves!!

There! That’s all we covered. Hope it helped. I’m going to publish now and then go holy for a bit. If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow, guess my better half read this and…

P.S: To my lovely kids, I love you. Don’t hate mummy. Daddy was bad. That’s why.