I wrote this around two years ago, sitting in a lecture. The teacher was ruggy and old and all together unpleasant to the eye. He was, in that deliciously Nigerian way, an ‘eyesore’, but it was less his appearance that moved me to write this poem as it was the scantness of his knowledge of what he taught. As scant as the greyed stubble on his chin
The sex is mostly fuzzy in my mind now, so I only know what Taiye said about it the next morning: that I took her hand and kissed it, and she didn’t try to stop me; that she tasted the wine in my mouth, but there was something else there too, something sour; that I said her tongue was good on my nipples and good between my thighs too; that I groaned when she put a finger in me and she thought it hurt, but when she looked at my face, she put the second finger in, and the third, and soon I was screaming; that afterwards, I said she’d made me feel real good.
The reality: life is right here.
Behind their backs, like grandpa’s ghost.
Before them like a wondrous spectacle,
only they’re blind to see.
The wounds of yesterday are yet to heal
I see them still bloody rings on my heels
I feel the sting I want to curse
the unctuous flies that lick the pus
Nigerians are finally showing some sense and demanding what they want from our buffoonish leaders. I support the current protest happening in Lagos. I hope it brings good changes.