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Tuesday, April 30, 2013

#LagosTraffic: Many Voices, One Memory (2)




Nothing captures the condition of a Lagosian or anyone who has experienced  the #LagosTraffic than in these words by Okiri Christopher; Peel the surface of a Lagosian, you will find a tough survivor. Lagos traffic, besides other vagaries of Lagos life, toughens the people…”

It is very fluid as to how you can become a Lagosian. Only experience the #LagosTraffic for once and you are one, a real Lagosian.

The series continues here, catch up on the previous here. Remember, nothing is personal. Your #LagosTraffic experience is not. Someone too has the same story. This is Lagos.

Enjoy!

****



The fact that you earn your living as a writer might not come as a shock to many. But that you do so in Lagos would, especially to those who know about the sort of concrete jungle that Lagos is.

Being a writer, and consequently being one of those who are foresworn to earn below the comfort zone, you can only afford to live in the outskirts of the city, where distance still keeps the price at a level that you can at least afford. While living far away from the city centre may have its advantage in lower house rents, the commute to and fro work is another matter entirely.

So, when you leave home every day by 6am, it is usually still dark. You run through the dark empty street of your still-sleeping neighbourhood, praying you reach the junction before the man that lives two houses away from you. The man works in the Island and seems to have forgotten he was the one that enthusiastically asked you wait for him at this same spot every week morning. So you brave his cold good morning, thrown at you as he flips open the passenger side door without looking at you. You eagerly return his good morning, asking about the kids and madam. He grunts his reply, maintaining his coldness. You understand. You would be cold too, to anyone who instead of keeping you company in the dreary bumper-to-bumper traffic that stretches for miles, falls asleep once the cool AC hits him. You understand, but you know it is not your fault. The distance to your office is far, he would help you get half way there, save you vital money needed for the liftless journey back, needed for the snacks you would need to eat, for the traffic will only let you see your house again by 11:30 PM.

You understand, even though you would rather tell the man to FUCKOFF with his car and big-man airs. You understand; Lagos traffic forces you to.





Let me tell you the day I saw hell on Lagos roads.

Hell!

First, you should know Olumide Oyedeji. He's a basketballer, a renowned one at that. When his money started spilling over, or I should say, when he began constipating over his American dollars in NBA, he remembered his roots.

He thought organising a summer basketball camp for his homely folks will broaden their hopes. I liked Olumide Oyedeji. He was smart. With his yearly summer camp, he speedily became our hero. We adored him. I admired him too until that night in 2005 when I began hating him, that night when I had to spend 9hrs journeying between Surulere and Ikorodu.

That very night was the last day of the camp that year. I was short in height, the rim was feets taller than my jumping height, but Olumide recognised my skill. I could throw a brilliant free-throw than a Yao Min would do. He honoured me. On the last day of the camp, I took photo Ops with him. I was celebrated. I had competed nicely with camp mates for the best free-throw shot. I turned out the best.

Fame is good. However, mine turned salty. I stayed longer at the camp late into the night. I hate jumping buses in Lagos at night. At that time of the day, you only join others in that mad traffic races. I spent 9hrs between National Stadium, Surelere and Itupate in Ikorodu. It was just so typical of the Lagos traffic that night. Nobody knew what caused it really. We had stories as excuses instead. It was either a tanker fell on the road or some polices were on a roja-spree. I spent 9hrs on Lagos roads in 2005. Olumide was to be blamed and not Lagos and its typical roads. Olumide delayed me because he wanted to honour his best free-throw shooter for that year.

I spent 9 hells on the roads. I spent 9 miseries on Lagos roads.9 fucking hours! Ko'shi!

****

Mazi Chiagozie F Nwonwu is a magazine editor and a freelance writer. He has been published in various literary magazines. He blogs at www.fredrnwonwu.blogspot.com

Joseph Omotayo is TrueTalk



Please, share your #LagosTraffic experience in the comment box.



Sunday, April 7, 2013

Kiss. Kissing. Kissed.


Kiss. Your life flashes before you. At this moment you recall so many things: your principles and rigidities become watery as the spittle in your mouth. Kiss. This is your first. It almost seems a movie scene is being enacted there and then, with you, the actor.

Kiss. You suck at it. It begins so immediately. You don’t know which should start which, if your lower lip should clinch her upper or the other way round. Kiss. You take them all in anyway and all you have are two plumb fleshes. You suck them, she does with yours too. As you suck, she slurps. You long for something extraordinary. This isn’t it. Nothing is romantic about it. And you begin to curse Western hype about it, about kissing. Those who initiate this as foreplay must be drab, so you think. Kiss. You are getting quickly bored. She knows this and changes style. No, she doesn’t. You do, she only acquiesces. She guides your hands. They are becoming fidgety. You are discontented already. Kiss. Your hands move, by her careful guide. They have been slouchy, but now, they gather life. Kiss. Her breasts are paddy. You grope for the nipples. You are unsuccessful. Kiss. She smiles. That’s my bra, she says. You ooh. You feel embarrassed. Kiss. The breasts bore you instantly. They are secured, they are paddy, they are in her bra. Your hands explore more. They slide across her sides, settle well on her waist. They are comfortable. But you are not. They move on. Kiss. You squeeze her handful back. She isn’t so buxom. You like it that way. You press her bum softly now, she moans. Your mid-man hardens, sobs and you are wet. Kiss.

Kissing. You like this stage better, it is not routine. You have a good collection of porn to know that. Kissing. Everything is moving so fast. The beast in you comes out. You can’t imagine this is you. Now, your dick is in an unusual size, throbbing, vomiting hot akamu. Kissing. Whoever names sperm semen must be mistaken. Semen sounds cold. What you are feeling is hot. Your temperature is sweltering. Kissing. Anytime from then, your dick will be out, you know this. It is already stretching your fly. Kissing. You groan. Your voice is husky now. Your erection makes it so. Kissing. Things begin to move faster. Your hands are still holding on to her backside. You balance your hands on the two halves of her bum and you squeeze roughly. She grunts. That is a go-on for you. Immediately, you are more turned on. She feels your hardness poking at her left thigh. She looks at you with riotous pleasure. Her eyes are in slits now. Kissing. You draw her closer. Your dick is throbbing, you are wetter now. She feels it and murmurs; hold me tight. You know she means; fuck me now. But you are careful. She is fast reaching orgasm. She must be wet too, you think. But to be sure, you want to feel it, feel her wetness. Kissing. So, your left hand falls down her thigh and it slowly moves south-up. Kissing. She has only her pant on. She is ready for this. Any girl who isn’t ready would have worn a tight. You hike her skirt further up, pull her pant to her mid-thigh and you trace for the labia, the two soggy lips of her vagina welcome you. Kissing. You toy with her clit, she roars. With her back pressed to the wall, you are in a better position. Kissing. She unzips you. Your dick is ramrod ready.

Kissed. This is sweet. She takes you all in. Her cunt must be deep; deeper than what you had thought. Kissed. The feel of the two fleshy folds, her labia, excites you. You shiver. A sudden fever descends on you. Her inside keeps dripping. Her vagina wall’s slimy, slippery and smooth. This makes your thrusting easy. Kissed. You come out and go in. Groan. Moan. You come out and go in. Any moment from then, you will come, splattering her inside with your hot akamu. You are both not on protection. You ease down on the thrusts and pull out. kissed. Veins stand around your dick. And you come. You spill your hot akamu over her blouse. Beads of sweat multiply on your forehead. You just climax. Kissed. You thrust in harder this time and more confidently too. Kissed. Your innocence is lost. You laugh. This is your first time. There will be more other times. You are sure. Kissed.
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