Category: Romance

“You don’t belong here” he stuttered angrily, wisps of sparse white hair waning as he shook his bony index finger in my face. I could smell the lingering odour of his hotdog lunch on them and wrinkling my nose, I moved his offending finger away from, making sure he noticed me wiping my hand on my trousers.
I chortled in my head at the hue of anger on his pudgy face, his walrus nose visibly flaring as his thin lips quivered
I stepped back.
“Well Mr Smibly” I said calmly, “I belong here just as much as you do. And there is nothing you can do about it”
I smiled sweetly at him and walked away, sitting at a corner where I knew he would be able to see me. I wanted my black ass clearly in his sight.
The racist cunt.

He took a deep drag and blew puffs of cigarette smoke into her face. He knew she hated it whenever he did that, which was the main reason why he did it anyway.
She’d complain but would never leave.
That was the nature of their friendship.
“What is love?” he said, repeating her question.
“Love is that special moment spent in between the legs of a street tart at night in Camden. That is love.”
She huffed in irritation.
She always huffed but never went away.
“Seriously! Just talk!” she said in her whiny voice.
He quite liked her voice; even more so when she was moaning in pleasure. It always made him giggle but she never noticed, too caught up in her ecstasy.
Love. What was love?
“Look, let’s forget love ok?”
He blew another into her face and laughed wildly at his antics and her deepening frown.
“Oh come onnn” he cajoled and she smiled a little, her hand subconsciously rubbing her unobvious baby bump.
How was she supposed to get him to love anything but himself?


She smiled at him.
“So… I am going to ask you out” he said rather ceremoniously.
“For breakfast?” A small smile played on her lips.
“Yes, breakfast. Then I’ll ask you out.”
“For lunch?”
“Yes, lunch. Then I’ll ask you out.”
“For dinner?”
She was clearly enjoying herself.
“Yes. dinner. Then I’ll ask you out.”
“Stuck?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.
She laughed. “Indeed. I am!”
He grinned and held her hands
“I’ll ask you out to he my girlfriend”
She raised an eyebrow imperiously. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea”
She burst into a fit of laughter, shaking her head.
“My, aren’t you a charmer…”
She nodded. “Sure”
A sly look crept into his eyes. “Why?”
“Yes, why?”
Imitating him, she shrugged.
“I have no idea”


So, decided to put this up instead of wait till Monday
Wrote these one day on the train and left somewhere in an obscure folder.
Writing it made me smile. Lol.
Oh and a private wink to whom it may concern. 😉

Have a lovely weekend… nah just kidding. 😛

Te Amo

So it’s the 14th of February. Yada Yada.
Everyone seems to be writing bloody love letters! Lol.
Well, this isn’t a letter but decided to try out a short love story for you love junkies.



“Shh…” He held her tight in his arms, burying his face in her hair and stroking her arm. “Say no more baby. I understand” he whispered into her ear softly, a small, sad smile on his lips.
She shook her head slowly, tears streaming down her face, dampening his singlet clad shoulder.
“I forgive you Ibukun” he murmured, kissing her ear to her neck and up to her forehead. “I forgive you because I love you. It hurt but baby,I cannot go on without you.” His voice cracked and her hands shaking, gripped his arm tight.
She choked on her sob, shaking, trying to get a word out of trembling lips but he held a finger against her lips, silencing her.
“Let’s forget it all. Don’t explain. You cheated but I want us to make peace ok?”
He kissed her softly, tasting salty tears on her lips. He licked them. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”
He stroked her hair again and suddenly pushed her on the bed roughly.
He smiled serenely at her jerking body; smiled as she cried, foaming at the mouth, the poison she had ingested making a short work of her system.
Her kohl-lined eyes rolled back and her nails dug into the sheets as her limbs thrashed on the bed.
He studied the transformation on his wife’s face with absolute fascination, arms folded.
He sat beside her and stroke her tangled weave as she tried to moan through the pain. “We’ll get through this”
Slowly, her thrashing reduced, her limbs losing energy to continue that frantic movements.
He stroked her hair as he watched her seize movement.
He watched her die.

His smile broadened and he arranged her neatly on the bed, taking time to divest her of her clothing. Satisfied with his work, he jumped off the bed and rummaged through his drawer till he found what he was looking for. Dropping the found item on the bed, he unbuckled his trousers, pulling them down and off. He threw his singlet off his slim frame.
He climbed back in bed and with reverence, mounted his wife of three months.
Marital consummation.
The word floated in his head and he barked in laughter as he exercised his rights.
“We’ll make a baby. The baby you always wanted, we’d make one. Maybe a girl that looks like you…”
He talked to her, stroking her face, feeling her body stiffen beneath him.
He rode her relentlessly.
“We’d be happy together. All of us. They’d grow up to be doctors and lawyers”
His breath hitched as he was about to release his seed.
“You’ll love me! You’ll love me because I love you! My love is big enough!”
He squeezed her tight as his body spasmed, ejaculating into her.

A beautific smile on his face and he laid beside her, suddenly exhausted.
He exhaled deeply, hands tapping blindly till he felt the object he had dropped on the bed earlier. His fingers found the cold butt of the pistol and he smiled as he lifted it up.
He held her hand and dropped a tiny kiss on her palm.
“I love you…”
He raised the barrel to his head, feeling slight shivers run down his spine when the cold steel met his skin.
“I love you…”

He pulled the trigger.

When The Raisins Ate Nothing

Hey all!!
How are we enjoying our Mondays?
Monsieur Joshua is saving me today from my dry spell with this interesting piece!


When The Raisins Ate Nothing


Intolerant eyes seep through the cracks in the door;

Reiterating our thoughts in a million microdots.

Broken Bubbled Blisterine screams.

Juga juga juga, that is the story we will tell.

The telling of stories is an alternative,

To sitting back and watching the synapomorphy of our taxomine scars,

((Together; in the balance or under it))

I hang and cling to my dear Cecilia,the dearest of all.

Her smile like a panting old whale and an empty soup can.

Who are I? The pimple who left here with no shoes.

Weevil bites Ah-weigh da coN-Struck-shun Of Our sa-lu-bri-us dreams.

Made to see all that we are through ah-foh-rest-ay-shuns of duh-bul bah-rell-ed egos.


I lost my footing, but you remain unstressed in our iambic pentameter,


This is not a love song, yet

but it will be.

Patience,my dear.

This is a cluck cluck duck – an Uh-peh-ray-ting fan-tom.

Orphaned peat on prophane date.

I like how our hopes wobble like a wheelers and wail out of uncomfortable conversations.

No, I will bear no compromise.

Devised a deracinated demon in the drawer of our throats so we would say the words we wanted to hear ,in slow, apple,

Bram-tuckling, ram-buckling noose-fitting, Cran-crafitng doses.

Lance after lance we dance into the gas chamber of our immaculate whispers.

Drawing in every primordial urge with cryogenically infused antlers.

Gregorian chanters,the sound of metal plate kissing metal plate.

Slashing mental slate into mental slate.

Roaming the the wild borders of our mental state,

Alas,we find the lips on which our menta sate.

I find that you were easy to love when you were broken and silent.

But now you are manumitted by the mutations of your manubrium,

And your hips sway to the zinggraaaa in other men’s eyes.

Oh foul spirit.

How can I wrest you from your foolish conceit?.

I freeze your diencephalon

until you think nothing.

I feel you die in my watery arms,

And I lay you beside harrowing daffodils,

That sing you that ugly song you never wanted to hear again.

The weevils bite away my thin veneer and I lay dead beside you.

The color of sky and a multitude of powdered babies,

This death is an epoch that kills every other one under its weight

Our glorious synapses;

Dis is da home-O-low-jus Kro-mo-some that will stand to evince our every meiotic prophase,

This is indefinitely a love song.


– JSL.


*Dreamy sigh*

Back to earth!
Do not think I have abandoned writing people, I have not.
I shall soon be bringing you some stories I’ve been working and have worked on (once I’m done doing my shoddy editing. Really, I stink as an editor!:'( )

Drop your comments!!
Tee Hee!

*set to In The End by Vanessa Carlton*

The keys black and white, like him and her.

His ochre skin glistened with sweat as he thrust into her, over and over. She arched her back into him, crying furiously as he took her. She wrapped her hand around his neck and squeezed, her wiry fingers compressing his windpipe with unnatural strength. Her eyes were sad, but they shone with a preternatural light as his thrusts intensified with the tightening of her fingers. He began to gasp as her body began to spasm under him and he buried himself deep into her, his outstretched arms  rested on flat palms on either side of her face. In a mindless lust filled haze, she bucked and was rewarded with a resounding snap. His head lolled and his arms gave way, his naked body collapsing onto hers. She wrapped her hands around his torso and cried softly, the relief of taking a life washing over her, silently savouring the warmth leave his body and the gentle weight that slowly grew on her as his blood stopped to flow and his limbs turned to lead.

It took ten minutes for his body to transmute from healthy ochre to a sickly ash and she laid under him through it all, arms wrapped around his neck, legs spread beneath him. With some effort she crawled out from under him, the smell of death upon her. It is just as it should be, she thought to herself, walking through the dimly lit belfry towards the little square of light cast by the moon through the stained glass window. The kaleidoscope of colours bathed her pale skin in the glorious hues, a mockery of the blackness she was inside. Her youthful skin, milky white in spite of the years she spent in the desert sun, playing away the beautiful concertos that she had longed to play in the darkened halls with beautiful high ceilings. Her breasts blue and yellow from the light cast by the robes and cherubic face of the Christ child, they had stayed small as they were when He first fondled them in that back alley, when he made her spirit soar and her skin flush with light and her womb bloom with his seed. Her flat belly was the cream of the sheep that lay beside the manger, the fertile pudgy sheep that bowed its head in adoration of the child. Hers would never rise, never. He’d taken that from her because she took his seed away from him. The only thing that continued to thrive was her raven hair falling to her plump buttocks, hiding the scars of her trysts with Him as He prod her over and over, every season she sook him out to lay with her.  He’d obliged her each time, but he forbade her to look upon his beautiful face, bent her over and took her, sinking his claws into the small of her back and raking deep gouges that took a year to heal. He thought he was punishing her, but she knew better, he was the only one who could hurt her and pain was better than the numbness she felt.

He would ask her to play for Him wherever they met, in a crowded market or a dingy slum or an upscale hotel. It never mattered to him how many would die after. It never did.

“I have missed my violin, Tana.” He would say. “Play me a little piece? I want to hear if he has been tuned and oiled like you promised.”

She would play, from mournful to joyous, from jubilant to brooding, astute to languid, and they paused  where the music carried. Young, old, beautiful, juvenile; it didn’t matter to Tana Brooks’ violin. They would stop in their tracks and gather around her, transfixed by the sounds her bow wrought. He would disappear into the mist as he always did, smiling at his creation. She would play as long as they wished her to, minutes, hours, even days. She would tap out melodies that reminded suited business men of their childhood dancing to folk songs and they would dance in helpless abandon while she cried for now she was so in tune with the violin she could see the deaths that would come for them. Eventually they would all get sated with her and as a swarm they would disappear to their deaths and leave her with the burden of being judge and executioner. And she would disappear until, her scars healed and compulsion drew her to seek Belial again.

“Doh! Doh! Doh!” came the melodious whisper from the aged piano in the corner. Tana shook herself from her reverie and noticed the light was much stronger now; she had stood there for hours. She turned to the sound and a smile parted her lips. Ashy and stiff, he perched naked on the tiny stool that faithfully stood beside the crumbling piano hidden in the darkened corner of the room, his frozen fingers picking notes of a child’s lullaby. His neck jutted out an angle and his glassy eyes stared into the dark but he didn’t need to see the keys to play. She stood in the light and watched in awe as his skin regained its lustre and his joints became fluid once again, his neck slowly inching its way back up, righting his head full of curly hair. She saw it every other night, but each time he rose from where they had coupled and healed, it awed her over again. He turned his now straight head at her and smiled ruefully, seguing from the jaunty march he had been playing into a languid waltz. Play with me, his eyes pleaded.

Tana picked her violin from where she’d laid it by the window sill and tightened the frogs. She tested a few notes ensuring her notes rang true to his, and plunged herself into the music; following his lead, complementing his dips and shoring the silences between his transitions. They played so beautifully, two angels of death, harbingers of doom, cursed by their chance meetings with Lilith and Belial to wreak death in all they did. She played the half tones that her heart had longed to sing and the dirges she couldn’t play at the funerals of all the people she’d loved from afar and watched slip into darkness and he played the grand hymns he had dreamed of subsuming himself in at the cathedral where he had grown up, on the colossus of an organ behind which he had prayed for eighteen years tightening screws and waiting for his turn to glory in its melodies. Lilith found him and cursed his eyes to stay forever open and his hands to freeze in death each time he ever played for another’s entertainment, she’d taken all he cared for away from him on a petulant whim.  She was his salvation and he her companion, the perfect waltz, the girl on the violin and the boy on the piano.


This piece was written in 45 minutes as an imagined sequel to the  epic Girl On The Violin (read it here) set to the haunting song In the End by Vanessa Carlton. Our boy on the piano is none other than Johnny Depp. I hope I did justice to Tana Brooks. Shalom.

Fatal Encounter 6

We’re almost done with this…sadly?



It gets lonely; boring.
Being what I am.
Of course I could choose to shack up with a male, be his woman and bear a child. But that would mean my dying.
You see, going through the human process of childbirth reverts something in us.
Not demons. Not humans. A blurry being in between.
It would cause me to die after a few years.
Nah, I’m too selfish. I don’t want a child. Or a man.
I’m free. Free and alone.

Well, not anymore.
It isn’t lust or hunger that has driven me to her.
It is love.
I think I’m in love with her.
Permanent, crazy love.
I can’t remember the last time I ate, yet I do not feel the gnawing of hunger. Not one bit! Not when I’m staring at her, basking in her gaze on me. I see the very feeling I have reflected in her eyes, shimmering black eyes.
Her face is so smooth, so pale, so flawless, so beautiful.
Her hands look soft, small, dainty.
I can’t keep away from her.
I dream of holding her in my arms.
Oh my fair lady!
I want to be with you, I want to be like you!

Alas, we’re not the same.
It’s complicated.
She doesn’t eat what I eat. Neither does she drink. It would be hard showing her the pleasures of being me.
Yet, we’re meant to be.
When we hold hands, the coolness of our contact brings shivers up my arms.
When our lips meet, the coolness delights me, driving me into moments of rapture.
You make me lose myself!
I cannot believe I’m saying this, but you do.
Zanda, the independent. Zanda, the fierce.
Brought to her knees, in surrender.
She makes me see the real me, I see what I have become better because of her.
She’s my confessor.
I tell her my deeds; the good, the bad and the bloody.
She never judges me. She never interrupts.
She just listens.
I don’t deserve you, my love; I don’t!
I move to push you away, but I can’t.
You’re everywhere I go.

How have you done this to me?
Tell me?
What do you see, that I can see, yet can’t see?
The cynical part of me wonders what she’d taste like.
I hope that doesn’t frighten her, not like I can bring myself to do the horrid deed. I’m just too curious sometimes.

It killed the cat. It died nine times.
Would you be scared if I squeezed your throat?
Would your eyes plead for mercy when I claw you?
Would you hate me?
Would you?
Answer me!
You refuse to speak.
See, she refuses to speak.

I can see the misery in her eyes.
Of course, she would hate me.
I wish I could hit her.
Not to kill her, just to make myself feel better.
I can’t.

I apologise profusely to her, and I see her lips move.
I cannot hear her. I move my ears closer to meet the divide separating us.
Cold divide.
Hard divide.
Glassy divide.

The object of my love, my affection
Narcissus, bear me witness.
I’m in love with the face in the mirror.
My reflection.

I can’t take this anymore.
I should break the mirror, but i can’t.
I’ve tried covering her up but i end up going back.
I love you.
But i hate you for what you are; for what you’re not.
So long.
For how long?


It’s cold in here.
Trapped, unable to move.
I’ve watched her as she watched me.
I ache to touch that face but I can’t.
I haven’t seen her in a while.
I’m afraid.
Inanimate, non-existent, I might be.
After all, I’m just a reflection.
But a mirror is like a memory.
It saves every look of you.
A little of yourself is trapped inside a looking glass.
Just the way a little of herself is trapped.
I dream about getting out; a pipe dream perhaps but i can dream can’t I?
What is it like outside?
Can you tel me?
I want to know.
I want to live.
An odd request for one trapped inside a mirror isn’t it?

Is it possible to let me out?
No? Ohwell.
I’m not hopeful.
It is cold.
Look for Zanda.
I fear she’s in trouble.
Tell her i am here; here waiting.



The concluding part of this, tomorrow. Lucky number 7.

Under The Mango Tree

This was a poem @Newton_Samson sent me ages ago! Can’t believe I never posted it. X_X! Do enjoy! 🙂

She waited until night fall
Very close to their favourite wall
She waited for his love call
And she heard nothing, nothing at all

She tried not to remember
But the day was in November
The same month he met her
When he came newly, as a corper.

He strode into the village in his khaki
His beauty like the fabled Fulani
She wanted to be his houri
From then, all she wanted was Lamidi

He taught her all about lust
Feelings, she thought were lost
She forgot all about her husband’s trust
giving her all to take every thrust.

How they all despise her
Women spat when they passed her
Every foul name they called her
Is it her fault that he loved her?

He promised to take her away
Back to the city where he had his way
Where they would live on his pay
Where even the gods don’t have a say

So she waits at the mango tree
The place he made them three
Now she and his child free
Her emotion in turmoil she wants to reel.

He has gone
Her burden she bears alone
To her husband must she atone?
Who can blame her if she has a heart of stone?

X for Ada

I watch her approach and stand up immediately, even though I know she hasn’t noticed me yet. I watch her meander her way past children playing on the field, laughing as she clumsily kicks a ball that made its way to her. I can’t help but smile.
Big baby.
She finally sees me and waves in excitement, almost stumbling as she runs with her black shoes on uneven grass.
“Hey!” She says, laughing and falling into the wooden seat, trying to catch her breath.
“Still as unfit as ever eh?” I taunt, chuckling as she sticks out her tongue at me in petulance.
“Sit down jo meanie!” She says as she pats the wooden bench, smiling. I sit back down, maintaining a little distance between us. It is only appropriate. She busies herself with unclipping her grey scarf and I take the time to admire her profile. Her long ‘British’ nose as I used to call it, dark pink lips pursed in concentration as she unveils her lovely black hair tied roughly into a bun. Memories of our make-out sessions come unbidden and her murmuring brings me back to the present.
“Weather’s too hot for this thing you know!”
I smile as she sighs in satisfaction, draping the scarf on the bench.
She smiles at me.
“Long time no see! You look great!”
It hasn’t been that long; just over 5 months.
“You too. Beautiful as ever.”
She laughs out loud in her usual asinine fashion. We always joked about how her donkey laugh would earn her a place in a barn. I smile.
“How are you? Work? How’s Ada!”
Work’s good. Got a promotion. My sister’s great. Still asks after you. I watch her brown eyes dance in interest at all I have to say. She had always been a good listener.

“So, how are you doing yourself?” I steer the conversation back to her. She was a talker so I let her ramble on.
I tune her out and watch her body language. I try comparing the new her to the old girl I fell in love with, time ago. Had there been any changes or is five months still too short a time?
Asides the attire and the lack of any trace of make up, nope…not really.
“Are you happy?” I suddenly blurt out, interrupting her lurid description of a particularly nasty boil she had on her behind .
“Of course I am Nino! What kind of question is that!”
She shifts her voluminous grey skirt, pretending to be upset but I can see her mischievous smile playing slowly across her lips.
Without any thoughts or warning, I bridge the gap between us, cup her face in my palms and drop a hard kiss on her lips.
This time, she’s really upset. She pushes at my chest slightly, taking her face away.
“You shouldn’t have done that you know. And we are in public as well!”
I should feel chastised but I don’t. I’m glad I kissed her. I apologise anyway and after a few minutes of cajoling and teasing, the frown lines that marred her smooth honey brown forehead disappears and she punches me playfully.
“Nonsense boy!”

Sins forgiven, we fill up the silence with banalities. She doesn’t have access to the television or internet so I regale her with the latest updates. I notice she hasn’t brought back the distance between us on the bench. I am glad. We are soon lulled into a comfortable silence. I stare out at two young children skipping. I can feel her eyes on me. I wonder what she sees. In what light does she view me now? Nino, the ex-lover or Nino, the friend.

She asks me a question and I turn to her. She’s staring down at her ugly black shoes, kicking at a clump of grass.
How are you?
How does she think I am? Broken, battered and sore from the heart ache. Of course I don’t tell her this.
I shrug, smiling a little. She looks up and smiles back, her beauty hits me anew. Her lopsided smile.
I reach forward and she instinctively draws back. Undeterred, I lean in and drop a kiss on her gorgeous full lips; a soft one this time. She hardens them but I continue probing slowly until she yields and softens up. She’s finally kissing me back. She sucks a little on my lower lip, sighing as I gently caress her upper lip with my tongue. She runs her fingers across my neck,eliciting a little groan from me.
That snaps her back to the present.
She jumps up in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry! Um I must be going now Nino. Mass.”
Without waiting for a reply, she beats a hasty retreat.
“Ada!” I jump up and shout.
She turns reluctantly.
“Your wimple” I say with a sad smile as I watch the comical expression of surprise and dismay on her face as she rushes back and collects it from me.
“Bye” she whispered as she turns her back and walks away.
“Bye” I mouth to myself.

I watch her meander her way past the soccer kids again, her iron cross dangling on her slightly creased white shirt, long skirt playing peek-a-boo with her ankles. I feel the little box poke my thigh and without breaking contact with her retreating back, I bring it out. My hands caress the familiar velvety box I bought five months ago.
I was going to propose that night. The night she told me she’d decided to join the convent; the night she left our little love nest without a backwards glance. For how long had she planned it? Why had I been blind?
I knew she had her personal demons and I was sure proposing to her was going to get her to open up to me, finally. I so wanted to offer her the peace she craved. Fate had other ideas though. I had my girlfriend snatched by God. ‘Who can battle with the Lord’ I ask whimsically in my head.
My fingers run expertly around the curved edges of my little companion. I carried my box everywhere with me since that night. A symbol of our love? Perhaps a symbol of love unrequited or just a stupid buoy for a drowning man.

It had taken a lot of letters to her Mother Superior, to bring her to the park today. Four months worth of correspondence. I wonder why she decided to finally see me today. I won’t be so conceited to think that she misses me even though I miss her terribly. The house has been too silent without her.

I watch her almost stumble and laugh out loud despite myself.
Big baby.
Crazy nun.
Just how were they coping with her?
She finally disappears and I sigh.
I’m not too sad though.
She isn’t happy; despite her outward bubbly character. She never was a good liar.
She said she was happy but her eyes begs to differ. They didn’t do their usual dance of excitement. They went still.
I smile a little, pocketing my little black, velvety, box friend.
There still might be hope.
I just have to be patient.
A ball sails towards me and I skillfully head it back to the rambunctious boys.
“You children better watch how you kick this thing!”

Thank you Joey Parker for the inspiration 🙂 ({})

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