Your foot collides with the brakes and your car screeches to a halt. You lean your head on the steering wheel and begin to sob because, today, you don’t know where you’re going.
Mama will send you to school, and you will return to your room each day and hide because the other boys threaten to stick their hands down your throat and release the poor toad you swallowed. She will say, Touch this world a little bit; it might answer us. You cannot sit beneath your window and cry forever. You will try to obey your mother, but you cannot recognize your hands or this place.
Mfe, my brother now offers me stories and laughter in a desperate plea that I remember him, that in the upheaval of a new life, I should not uproot him from my mind or forget the memories that bind us.
Someday, Cletus will become ‘the Shoulder’ you lean on. He’ll express his affection for you, desiring more than just friendship. Because in your last skin, you have learned what he meant, you’ll accept it. He’ll tell you to meet him at his home. You’ll go and he’ll smile when you arrive, groping you, pulling off your clothes from the door.
And despite her fear that he had seen what she’d been up to, a warmth spread across her chest. This was her husband who laughed like Goofy from Mickey Mouse; her husband who, while they were dating, once came to her house by midnight with small chops because she couldn’t stop crying. Her heart clenched; she had to know if there was another woman.
“Have you ever been with a woman?” I didn’t know how to respond. She startled me, and then she kissed my collarbone. My skin tingled with goosebumps at her every touch, and she made her way to my nipples.
The whirling wind whispered his sagacious sapience in books, and plethoric eyes pleaded assertingly that he dabbled into politics. Like all misologists, he leapt pronto, and he was made the mayor of a state in his sod, UAR.
You left the flames too close to the kerosene, and fate, not out of love for you, saving you from the fire, revealing the destruction of your dream… Standing outside like a soldier, you watched as your life project went up in flames, realizing that the world has no heroes.
Even as a newborn, you could see Iris’s eyes, ears, nose, and hair in hers. It was a beautiful reminder. I held her in my arms, played with her, and sang her the songs I used to sing with my sister. I named her Ọmọ́túndé because I believed she was my twin returned again.
Mother, I fear I have lost a whole lot of contacts and relationships as a mango tree loses its leaves. Our street looks smaller now. It is now a strange place even to people like me who once had only its scent inflected in their nostrils.