Silent Nights.

Hello loves, before I go into my most recent short story, I would like to acknowledge that I write a lot of sad love stories, haha. It's actually not on purpose, my mind just likes to imagine a hundred and one ways people can love and loose. I promise to have something happy and about love (as you can tell, I love to write about love) soon! But till then, hope you enjoy the story below :D

They were ‘cool’ together, but she knew all along that it was the mystery and kept them together. Interwoven like birds tied down in comfortable but unfamiliar nests of wonder. On hushed nights, they lay on beds miles and miles away. In the sacredness of it all. The fearful mix of privacy, the dark and waiting for everyone to sleep first, gave their talks a sense of something more than just friendship. She would lay, legs crossed, on the bed waiting for the pleasant light to appear on her phone without a beep. And then she would wait for him to think she had forgotten about their unstated meeting before answering, sometimes with more of a sleepy accent than necessary.

The theatrics of it all gave her faint butterflies. But their real discussions were light and shallow. About their days and exes. He would call her boring because she didn't go out often and she would call him her sister or ‘woman wrapper’ because he was more obsessed with Justin Beiber than she was. He would ask abrupt questions soured with lust. Loud and simultaneously lulled lust;

‘If you were here, what would you want to do?’ He would ask.

‘Haha, I don’t know, play a game? I’ll probably beat you badly though, wouldn't want you see you sad’

‘Oh, so you care if I’m sad’

‘I don’t like seeing people hurt, don’t start feeling special’

And they would laugh like they didn't hear his voice’s displeasure.

The first night he finally said it out. She refused to talk about it.

‘Would you kiss me if you were here?’ he asked, his words sweetened with irresistible want.

‘It depends on the mood’

‘If I held your cheeks and kissed your lips. You wouldn't slap me, would you?’

‘Haha, maybe, you can’t be too sure’

‘So you wouldn't kiss me back? Even if I was really really good?’ “really really” would come out sounding childish and desirous.

‘Hmmm, well if you were really really good maybe I’ll kiss you and slap you afterwards’ she would reply, allowing her grin seep into her voice so he heard her smiling.

‘I thought you said you cared about me’

‘I said so?’ she would ask, knowing the conversation about kissing was over with that but longing for it to continue.

They had never met, were introduced by a friend over the phone, and it all stayed over the phone. He asked to meet her sometimes but she always declined. He lived in America as a child and so had an American laced Nigerian accent. Making his "o!"s "shey!"s sound funny. He lied about his surname. So the first time he told her his real surname, it made her feel significant like she knew something deeper than the shallow water surface others knew. Like she was finally getting comfortable on a couch in a new house. But there were always stories about various girls littered in his gist. And sometimes he would say some of the girls were imaginary, he only made them up to make her jealous. But she knew most of them were real. And when he said he had a call from his cousin waiting but he'd call him back later, she listened to the beeps in the background of their low voices and knew he wasn't hers alone. He was never hers.

‘Martha, I love you’ he said for the first time one dark woozy night. Nothing had led to the statement. It was as abrupt as his quest for kisses.

‘Aw, you’re sweet. Thank you’ she said for lack of better words.

She would lie and say she loved him too as she had done in the past, but she built this one on honesty and his feelings were too shallow to be rewarded, a lie. It did’t feel like love. It felt like want for what seemed so hard to accomplish. Like something that was his, but wasn't his and he really wanted to be his.

His accent was very entrancing and he spoke with words suspiciously sweet, frighteningly unnatural. Like over sweetened tea, delicious for the moment, but leaving lingering regret at the back of your tongue, or in this case, on the wings of the butterflies in her stomach.

But he wouldn't let go and with every plea for a suggestive or affectionate conversation, he grew a little shallower in her eyes, rising slowly from depth with every conversation. He would rest inveterate questions on her shoulders;

‘If I won one of our games for once, wouldn't you kiss me then?’, ‘What is the worst thing you've done with a guy?’, ‘You’re weird. Why won’t you have these kind conversations with me?’ ‘Okay what if we were on a bed together and I kissed you, will you push me away? You already got on the bed with me now’
‘What do you have on right now?’ and when she answered with “A purple silk pajamas” he would say ‘Silk? My friend told me she only wore silk on special occasions, is talking to me your special occasion?’ he would ask, a palpable smile bathing his voice.

Sometimes she would finally agree to imaginary kiss him, other times she killed his vulgar spirit with a well aimed fork. But both times, it didn't make him less shallow. It only made her slowly rise from depth with him and she despised it.

One night in the deep enchantment of his voice and the too cold AC, he said the words that came too often, too easily from his lips, ‘I love you’ and she finally replied in the best, real and soft voice she could make; ‘I love you too, Jonathan’ and she finally felt pulled to the top of the ocean, cold and shallow. But even then, they still weren't a couple. He had asked and she had asked for more time, he had begged over and over, saying he was kneeling in his room while holding the phone, ‘honestly’, ‘truthfully’,’ sincerely’, he would use these words like he was reading a well thought-out letter.

It was days later her best friend called her with “better gist”

‘Ah what happened? Gist me! My life’s too boring these days'

Her friend laughed excitedly before saying; ‘Remember Jonathan? That guy we talked to on the conference call only once. The one with the accent we were falling for badly?” she asked, excitement and pride unsteadying her voice.

‘Yes o! what happened?’

‘He called me again and asked me out! It was about three weeks to a month ago! He wanted to keep it a secret. I’m sorry I didn't tell you, you know we haven't been in touch, but he is a very nice person. I have met him once. The only problem is that he is short. But that voice, that his voice, I can die for it!’ she said, love ridden laughter oozing from the phone.

The words came fast, incomprehensible and inane. Suddenly she felt like a toddler trying to find her feet on imaginary grounds. Feeling cheated. Blinking in confusion and unusual, unwarranted heartbreak.

She did not have the right after all, to mourn what was never hers.

Two Hugs and a Kiss.

Hey guys! This was written about 3 years ago and edited recently. When I wrote this short story, I was furious about something, I can't remember what it was, but it birthed this.




It took two hugs and a kiss and I was sold.

     Mother had told me to keep way. She said my eyes followed him with the wasted lust of youth. But rebellious as I was, I didn't listen. By the time my eyes were cleared, we were married. Married two long years.

     His name was Obi, short for Obidimkpa. I loved the name, but then again, I was in love, nothing is short of beauty when you are in love. He was a hunter, and I was a singer. But he had a maddening passion for hunting and I just loved to sing, mostly as a hobby.

    As I now sway with the chains of mostly wonder than captivity (one of these foreign me staring at me like I'm a scientific experiment. He obviously hasn't seen black people before), I realise Obi had more than just a “passion” for hunting.

       But why would Obi sell me to these hefty young me for a gun? We had a fight a week ago and I left to a friend's house, but what couple can escape fights?  And I know he holds things to heart but I had no idea he was still furious. Furious enough to send these people to capture me just as I let my guard down and returned to his house.

      His usual antidote was hunting. Mother once said a day will come when I’ll be his prey. But I couldn't hear her words over the rhythm of his feigned love, over the tune of a one sided passion. Now it occurs to me that it wasn't  the songs I would sing for him with an exaggerated melody, or the meals I cooked with expensive spices that lured him home after every hunting trip. It was the joy of his satisfied gun, the scent of gun powder on his shirt and the serenity of the shooting addicted monster in his head.

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

Ha! I tell you, there is no way to a man’s heart.

Frail.

Hey guys! So sorry I haven't uploaded anything in so long, it's been a mixture of writer's block and having so many things to do.


I'm listening to slow music right now and that's usually an easy source of inspiration for me. So I'm going to try writing something little. Sometimes I literally have no idea what I'll be writing about until I start writing. So here it goes. :)


We grew up in the warmth of our palms.
His eyes the only shade of happiness I knew.
And the first day we met,
I don't remember a lot.
But I remember the frailness of his fingers, mine were probably just as frail or maybe even worse.
But it made me worried.
Made me want to help him.
Play games with papers and stones.
And build castles in our heads like they could strengthen our minds.
So we played.
With intoxicating innocence.
We played until we forgot how not to smile.
Until we ran to heaps of sand to build with it, the castles in our minds.
We played until he was 22 and was trying to figure out how to ask a girl with eyes, the color of the morning sky, out.
Until they broke up 2 years later for reasons I knew would come soon but still helped him get the girl for fear that those frail hands would return.
We held hands even when his hands were frail again from heart break and his eyes were a different shade from what I knew.
We held hands until he remembered how to smile again.
Until we decided not to let him fall stupidly again.
And many foolish years later...
We held hands as we slipped on rings on our already destined fingers.
We held hands for many more years, as we fell and pulled each other up over and over again.
We held hands as the days came when the only thing that kept us alive were the feel of our palms against each other.
We held hands until our hands were frail and shaken with age.