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.

Unfamiliar.

Hey! I like to explain a little bit of what inspired a write up before sharing it. So this was basically inspired by a short story I read recently about a girl that was in love with someone too old for her. I hope you like it :)



I was 15, he was 29.
Our love was strange.
Like cracks in an hour glass.
Our love was loud.
Like the beat of frenzied drums.
Our love was silent.
Like the sound of dancers as their feet grace the tiles.
Our love was aggressive.
Belligerent.
Stiff as a deep rooted tree.
Our love was kind.
Mellow.
Secret.
Shame.
Our love was servile.
I was servile.
Our love was speechless clenched fists,
Fighting our insides.
Fighting my insides.
Our love was intense.
Our love was bad words.
Curled toes.
Crossed legs.
Bitten lips.
Sore eyes.

I was 15 and he was 29.
And we kissed for the first time 8 days to valentine's.
My back against the rough barks of an Iroko tree in his compound.
The moon shining a little too dim.
Blurring the features of his face.
I was intoxicated.
By the scent of mint in his breath.
The cologne on the side of his neck.
The grip of his arms around my waist.
The pierce of his eyes into mine.
I turned away too late.
His lips were already on mine.
Seducing me, melting my lips like rain on snow.
Making it hard to think.
Or do.
It was unfamiliar.


Our love was unfamiliar.