Unteachable

Unteachable.

That’s what he called me before he banged the door and left for work.

We haven’t spoken in three days. Well, I haven’t spoken to him. He’s done a lot of speaking. The voice notes, the texts, the DMs, the emails, and when none of those worked – the flowers. He could always get me back with flowers. You know those green and white ones with purple streaks. I forget what they’re called. I wasn’t a flower person until I met him. Anyway, it’s not going to work this time. I have to let him know what being unteachable really means because I’m not that. Far from it.

Continue reading “Unteachable”

Uncle Kareem.

I had my first kiss when I was twelve years old. It was from my uncle Kareem. His lips were soft and plump like the pillows on my bed. His upper lip was dark like that of a chronic smoker and the bottom was deep pink, like the colour of the cotton underwear I was wearing. He had his hands cupped around my face and had the look of love in his eyes. I knew this wasn’t supposed to happen but he had promised to help me with the Math homework I had at school.

‘Don’t tell your mummy oh. Don’t you like it?’

I could feel the heat of his breath very close to my skin. It was obvious what he had had for dinner – Two scoops of fried rice, three deep-fried turkey breasts and a cold bottle of Fanta; just the way he liked it. And yes, I did like it. I liked the way his moustache tickled my face, but my head shook side to side in disagreement. He pulled back and sat on the rim of the bed with an offended look.

‘Ehn, your teacher will give you zero and mummy will beat you.’

So I let him carry me on his lap and kiss me – His tongue wagging in my mouth with too much force than I had expected.

Continue reading “Uncle Kareem.”

11:48

Hey beautiful people! I know, I know, I just disappeared like that with zero warning. I’ve been busy with school (I’m trying to get that degree). But I’m back with another piece for you guys. Don’t be scared to leave comments by the way. I won’t bite you. Really, I’m pescatarian (for this month at least).

I wrote this piece for a competition Arts and Africa held a while ago and it actually made it to the shortlist. I was super excited and shocked that I made it that far. Firstly because I literally wrote it hours before the competition closed and secondly, because I made like three grammatical errors. Shout out to Ope Adedeji (an amazing writer that I look up to) for encouraging me to do it.

I’m not sure if this is plagiarizing my own work as I submitted it to the competition but hopefully it doesn’t get flagged. Anyway, enough with the rant, you came for a quality experience with the fictional. So here it is. I hope you enjoy!

Title: 11:48

   I put all my body’s weight on his chest with my hands where he had been shot like I had seen in the movies. I could still see the blood seeping through my hands like a punctured sachet of pure water. ‘Ibrahim! Ibrahim! Stay with me!’ I screamed as loud as I could without damaging my larynx. Continue reading “11:48”

Folakemi

 

“Fola! Is this how to pound amala?” Papa glared at me, his hands shivering underneath the table.

I knew what the look meant. It was his frustrated expression. His pupils contracted, his eyebrows looked like they were fighting to touch each other and his lips, usually full and plump went flat into a snarl. He was going to beat me until I was swollen and no longer had a voice to cry. Continue reading “Folakemi”