I don’t know if to begin making mention of my faults. Like, at the preliminary of the relationship, Seyifun, a school pal on a day privately enunciated: she doesn’t know to say nay to any guy who asks her out, the names of guys who dated her far; close behind. But at my account, she christened me her first love. Perhaps, a first out of countless forgone alternatives she loathed already. Or, who reminisces or love an ex? I here, could only grieve her gummy lips left untouched, even though I knew she would never snub a French-kiss, or smooching, or others far too deeper than that. Wahab would eavesdrop to me, tell me stuffs like Yahoo boys are drifting her community, around her. I believed. Since back on Facebook, she would say ‘Kk’ to every conversation and sound cold. But well, a holy apple, should at least concede, that though holy I am, I have been infected by a bird’s beak.


    That same year we began our love from little-little on Facebook, the connection came from the incessant literary outings a requisite to attend, in my school. I mean, I was a member of the Literary and Debating Society.

Mostly, all Prefects were members since they were the prime, and few bright Students. Well, it was on that year for reasons, I couldn’t attend the outing at BGC. But my pals that attended narrated how the event went. How they made new friends and wrote down fine girl’s numbers. How fine sisi(s) chased to know their brains, of which they shared me some of their usernames and opened a Facebook account for me; plus how I became loosed to things I afore deemed as trivial. I mean, most of my brilliant buddies then, were child of the world.

Truthfully. Though later, I have never met her in real life. Just her real face that appeared so much in my dreams, and her profile picture. There, in the profile, she was fair, eyebrows blends blackly on its brow, eyelashes uniformed, eyes were sunny and colourful, lower lip freshed-out like a fitted cow-meat, and pose looking almost-sideway. It was a picture with a brother. On it was written, Steerzy ft angel fairy. It was this same look that surfaced perpetually in my dreams. Dead-ringer, except that she was fairer and her soft skin blinks than her profile’s.

This clean-skin damsel my friend Dongari tightly argued in our peer tete-a-tete no one dares earn her heart. Though then, I was there already, feasting.

Ade*kanla was my ‘now and then’ type of girl. The way she speaks close to singing. Her thin nightingale voice, with the senses in her lively sentence while being serious made me love her personality. I wonder what she so much loved about my bio. That I’m a Typist, Artist, Writer, Poet, Singer, Baptist Boys’ Prefect of some such. But we had this mutual tie of shyness. This eye-contact love you’ll think there are cockroaches beneath their cupboards. She’ll be hiking like stealing a dancing step from her feet, leg lifting, waist twisting, and smiling too much shies at me while we stroll alongside, in the teak woods somewhere distant within my school fence. Or, on a bench beside her mother’s shop, talking.

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Everyday, even for every seconds we have idle, we would log on eternal chats without ends till sleep snatch one of us away. It was between those texts I divulged this ‘never to love me too much’, because I saw it coming. I saw loving something too much the believing of something non-existence. I even scripted her a letter of thoughts, and yes, she is that type that understands every of my axioms left-right. But maybe I had even added fires to the coal I beseeched her to burn down. Because at firsts, she would say her Mom would query my visit. But after a day we went in groups led by a friend her mother knew, she would receive me anytime drenched in smiles at me. She would be very thrilled. We would gasp words into bits, and she would look me straight in the eyes, away chuckling. We wouldn’t touch.

One evening, I felt like holding her close in her absence, so I texted her to give me her hands freely, I said ‘as soon as you like’. But just after we would detour the day following, she stretched it romantically over, and my demons-rose up all of me as I took her palms on mine. I thought the dead in Christ are rising. I felt chilled from malicious sensations that came from my brains down to tease my toes. I meant that moment, I had about forty to fifty brains. I later discarded such as ludicrousness. Of why you would feel the whole wild world for feeling the naked palms of your girlfriend.

The following week, I went to pick her up at Saje Junction. A Junction nigh to my school. Where she would halt around 4:00pm. In a brown and cream coloured pinafore uniform, since she left B.G.C. for Samfield International to write there her West African Secondary School Certificate Exams. She would be looking like an angel, fresh fairy, and arms akimbo anticipating my aura. Sometimes, she would susurrate like a baby, says, “I’ve been lingering one and half hour ago and my legs are hurting”. I would grin childishly and enquire if she wanted some massage, petting her. She would mime a light bewitching baby face that looks both colourful and dim. Revealing those smiles again and stuffing her eyelashes like, in sleeping mood bambino. I would hold a bit of her little finger and we walk and talk.

The truth was, the shortcut to her house is through the jungle of my school. We’d walk past and she’d stick to me usually, being scared of my school boys with red eyes, lying in wait at the jungle seeking for whom to devour. Perhaps, for girls to deal-for. We’d talk things till we got home; I meant her house, pretending to not be daters or more than like.

But one particular Saturday, I went visiting Ade*kanla. But the entire stares Ade*kanla could wear, was to lock me with this looks like a hungry Zombie. My lips began liquefying for hers, while she resent the day before stares to my face recalling the gazes for cuddles. I soon desired some warmth on both body and lips. She mums, I, mummed. Looking. Reading what the time was, and worth the time what it was with everything. I moved closer to Ade*kanla, starved at her, and skipped two beats in a row. And- that was the best mistake my heart ever made so far in life.

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Her Mom was inside her shop resting. She just knew of my camaraderie, and we do gist sometimes till laughter descends. I meant, mother, daughter, and boyfriend.

Sometimes ago, while the relationship soared, my pals once counselled me to cover her hugs, and place my arms around her neck and feel warmth, that very day we all walked the teak together. They say it is love. I wondered when love left the heart for the body and arms or neck. When it begins to live outside the heart-box for somewhere still close to the body. I thought that was play-love. That very day, they showed me ways to looking a girl straight in the eye. But I didn’t. Though, I had a rethought I should have, if, maybe some over-romantic neutrons would have shied off from my nervous tendon.

Throughout those love-eye contact weeks, we were still like absence. Just like when a starved child goes lying at a silent corner, looking for no rotor to fix under his carton car’s tyres. But we thirsted for ourselves, maybe for the bodies too. But who will bell the cat? When two couples who dare not control the loosed pulse of their tempers finally burst out into wrangle, who will bell the cat? I mean, who calms first?

I could trail many molecules walk the lines of her eyes, the voice of the narrator L. Lefkow, of “The Time Traveler’s Wife” by A. Niffenegger. I mean, those lines, “it’s hard being left behind. I wait for Henry, not knowing where he is, wondering if he is okay. It’s hard being the one who stays. I keep myself busy. Time goes faster that way. I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take works. I work until I’m tired. I watched the winds play with the trash, snow or winter. Everything seems simple, until you think about it. Why is love intensified by absence?” The ambience of the narration came gaudy in Ade*kanla’s eyes.  Though unlike Henry, she knows where I am, but my body must have gone absent. Her lonely eyes peeping at mine, wanted something peppery. But do I have pepper?

The following week while we amble alongside from the usual junction through our school, I held her close and ogled her. She at night replied among text that she so much loved me, and sworn housing herself for me. That felt bae, and, it made me composed a song behind her for her on that note. Wahab who was the middle-setter of the union knew of the song, and advised I really sang it all for her, though I didn’t get to. Faruq, the closest to me then, knew too. His advice tallies with Wahab’s, but no, I didn’t.

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The pathetic month was one month we were busy trying to culminate 2018, my girl was busy trying to disconnect. A born psychologist like me would always project sighs and ways. My girl loved material things, stuffs I couldn’t endow her. Demanding her friend-boys procure her a necklace or some ‘ring-klaces’. I thought I was only a poor young boy, looking for a loving heart, or; a girl who will love boy with his sequestered life, and, mourn all his rejection letters. Who will lift boy when he is down, who will be the first to throw parties when he got featured on some big magazines paying in dollars. Who will hail boy is almost there, and stay close to make him feel he is just a piece of theme in Haris J’s song, ‘human’. Who will wipe boy’s tears away, and, plant exhilaration on the looks of boy’s countenance.

I was that kind of guy, who had this linear heart. Who doesn’t easily go jaundiced or jealous? Yes! See. I would just ask you; ask her, on a straight note. “Anything like you’re double-dating on me?” Say no, I’ll change the subject after a ‘thank you so much’. Say ‘thanks bunch for the so much love’, and stay blank of other news I hear about you with other broken boys like me. I would allot you one of my eye, both perhaps, if there are no Hugs or Kisses or Pecks on ground. I’ll give that.

But I finally texted her earlier this year. The thing is Ade*kanla and I never ruined up really; I, released her to go do her heart. She was already flying somewhere materialistic and, maybe body-listic too. So I bought her more fluttering wings. I told her to fade with her New Year’s resolution. Beauty, go New York, go Bariga. To the girl who will smile loud at me and sit tight teasingly to me. Who will wait for me at the Junction and surely hint me she declined a guy today, tomorrow too, for my love alone. To the girl who would chant with a beautiful thin voice, awaiting my comment. And- I would join with my voice she calls girly, I say, fly. Fly, let my lips get burnt after it is ready. The winds are there to bear you wholly in its arms, where consuming lips and bodies fly too. Far, fly away.



Olude S. P. is an hyper-realistic pencil artist, Writer and Poet. He hails from Nigeria. His poetry sing out sighing messages and give it a cure. His story and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Madswirl, African writers, Parousia Christian magazine, Caffeinated Journal and elsewhere. He at his leisure time lies in a silent cave permutating Rubiks cube and sketching deep inks of fine chiaroscuro.

Categories: Fiction

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