You Will Lose Your Virginity Today

Today you will lose it. Everybody’s life depends on it, at least for those you know. A virtuous lady must be clean and unopened. You have always been told that. Just how a woman’s virtue must depend on the soft sticky flesh walling her inside is what you will never understand. And you will not. But today you must burst their bubbles. You must lose it. No! You will give it out, you wouldn’t lose it. To lose it, your virginity, is for it to be forcibly taken from you. Today, you must give it to him, because you love him, because he is worth it. He is your first love. For the times you have shared and the emotions bared with him, your virginity will be his reward. Soon, today, he will bang you hard until he goes all in. However, now, you are battling with mixed feelings. The very anticipation that you will climax and float as pleasures flush through you excites you. 

Notwithstanding, when you think of the brief pains, the trickle of blood and his sore first thrusts before your water oils his subsequent entries, you shiver, you bite your lower lip, fear rankles you on end. Today, you are sure, you must give it to him. You know this truth. Your virginity is no longer yours. And just like anything you have shared with him, you must that too. 

These days, you are wetter than it is expected of a virgin. Sometimes, in the bathroom, briefly, you brook yourself with your toothbrush. Only with the tip, so that you don't break through it. For that, you are shameful. You feel embarrassed afterwards. That only speaks of some inferiority, you tell yourself. That informs it that when he asks you allow him, you promise he will be your first man. He will make the first entry into you. You have waited so long for this, the day you will know the warmth feel of someone else in you. You so want to be opened through. Today it will be. You will lose your virginity.

Today, he calls you. He says he finally gets the condom. The news makes you joyous. You feel everything will sail through. You had agreed on a protected first-time. You fear pregnancy. He had come into your hands before, the initial time you almost had sex with him but soon stopped. You fear pregnancy; he fears a bleak future. You know how sticky his sperm is. It will shoot up your tummy in no time. Almost immediately after the news, you feel sad. Some seconds ago, you are joyous, now you are sad. Having ambivalent feelings has become a habit with you. You really cannot place your sudden emotional shift, why you are happy and then sad.

Condom will not do it. You finally place it. That is the reason for your sadness. It will not be different from the rubbery feel you get whenever you fuck yourself with your toothbrush, in the bath. You desire something natural. You want him. You want his pulsing energy in you, in flesh. Condom will make everything rubbery. So you text him. And you speak in fragmented thoughts, sending him six SMSes in a row:

“You.”

“Only.”

“Fuck.”

“Flesh.”

“Condom.”

“Hate.”

He understands what you mean. And he dashes. He does not show up at your place. You know he fears your intention. You are more desperate than he is. That will be your first time, not his. He’s more experienced. Your bed is ready. Nothing appears special though, unlike what those Western romantic soft porn movies make one believe. Your bed is just ordinarily laid; your duvet on the brown bedspread; two pillows at both sides of the 4^1/2 bed. You stay outside the campus. Today, you stab your evening lecture. He promises to come by 5pm, same time as your core course class. 

Tick…clock…sighs. He does not show up. 5:45pm. 

Wet…sweats…pants. He is still not there. 6:25pm. 

Teats…breasts…cunt. You can’t wait anymore. 7:05pm. 

Wetter…aroused…dick. You are frustrated. You buckle. 9:25pm

So, you move. Today, you will lose your virginity. He is not here. He is not with you. You will make him be. Today, he must be in you. You will make him.

You tear a piece of paper. You write his name on it. You unroll a tape. You rush into the bathroom. You grab your toothbrush. You wrap some tissue around the toothbrush. You follow with the paper, spirally around the toothbrush stick. You tape it. Today, he must be in you.

You shove the whole length of the toothbrush into you. You break your hymen. He just dis-virgins you. The toothbrush is labeled. His name is on it. Blow trickles out faster now. You give him your virginity. 

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I Mark My Days (2013).

I am typing this some days before June 17^th. In few days’ time, once again, it will be my birthday. And I will become retrospective. My mind will wander on end about so many things. Once more, I may loathe ever growing older. I have always hated this year counting thing called birthday. At a time, I made sure I was always shaven to appear younger. But soon enough, that failed as a disguise style.  Growing old is a demanding business. It makes you number your days on failing dreams and surviving hopes.

Desires

Secret desires come true. Those titchy yearnings called private wants decide our fate. I had one and some lesser significant others last year. They all came through. And the ground was almost giving off my feet. I wasn’t prepared for them or basically not well ready for the bigger one that turned out real. The heart matters. I am now being mindful of what I keep in it. Call what the bible says about that cliché. It’s just so, because the truth doesn’t change; out of the heart are the issues deciding your life. Overlook my biblical paraphrase. I only speak what’s true. Desires.

Fears

Last year gave me fears. Many things happened. If there was ever anything to be grateful for, they were my fears. I am happy I had them. They pushed me over-board. They had me fighting long enough not to fall. I am still fighting. I am not spent. Fears are humanity precious gifts. Everyone has them. Most times, we ignore their existence, and that’s the basis for our overcoming. My fears.

Ignore

I am beginning to take my mind off things. But how does one unlearn something to learn a new thing? That’s the arduous task of convenient nonchalance. Some say it is not bothering about so many issues. I think I should take to what they say though. If I don’t, I may grow wrinkles on the temple soon. There are traces already. I would rather say staying flexible soothes. This is not escapism. The problems may still be there. A convenient negligence will allow you think through them. Recently, I have been telling myself; I must live long, worrying too hard is not just a way to go about it. Ignore.

Attached

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I still don’t understand this thing. Know there is now someone called N. Attached to N. Positively attached.

Ropes

Let all my aspirations and dreams fall under this heading. I totter on them. I fear I might fall. Achieving them scares me sore. But I must. That’s the only way my name will be remembered. I am not heroic. I only want a better life. Some of these dreams may fail, others won’t. Nonetheless, every day, I must move on. Ropes.

Wiches

That’s not an error. I spelt what I meant. Insert a T and your world changes, reenacting a typical Nolllywood flick. Wi(t)ches.  As it is pronounced, I meant Wishes. I had one in 2011 and my system crashed. I had some last year, my world changed (-/+). Be careful of what you wish for on your birthday. Birthday-wishes legend is real. Today, I have another one. It’s in my heart. I have only one wish.

Prayer

Lord, let my one wish be real. Overlook my excesses. A born-sinner isn’t perfect.

#LagosTraffic: Many Voices, One Memory (2)

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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.

New Nigerian Writing and the Next Achebe

Chinua Achebe (1930-2013)

Guest blogged by Okiri Christopher Raphael 

If there is any one writer that has taken Nigerian literature to the world, it is Chinua Achebe. His novel, Things Fall Apart, indisputably qualifies as a classic. Chinua Achebe had written several other books, many which are no less worthy of the attention Things Fall Apart has garnered in the course of time. Arrow Of God and No Longer At Ease are two full length novels that immediately succeeds Things Fall Apart. There is no denying the fact that these three books make up a trilogy of note as there is a traceable generational link in the plot and characters of those three great books. There is also The Anthills Of The Savanah, another noteworthy offering by the master writer. In all, the Man is reported to have written over 20 books. He was the editor of the African Writers Series; a collection of myriads of writing across Africa.

There are other books written by the world acclaimed author from Nigeria; Chinua Achebe had dabbled in the realms of other genres of writing like short stories (Girls At War), poetry (Beware Soul Brother), children's story (Chike And The River), and essays. While novel-writing may be Chinua Achebe's forte, he has made several hits with his essays. His recent and lastly published disturbing quasi-autobiography, There Was A Country, could be said to be very successful. As it is the trend with significantly successful books in Nigeria, the book pirates are having a field day at running off cheap re-prints of There Was A Country, and putting them on the streets. No sooner does a copy of There Was A Country lands on the street than it is quickly purchased by a waiting reader. The surplus reviews already on the book may have whetted the appetite of the reading public for what Uncle Achebe has to say. And I heard the man say, in the book, things about the plight of Biafra in the unfortunate last century's civil war in Nigeria. Even before the first print got to the shores of Nigeria, many reviewer and casual readers alike had already, metaphorically, rolled up their sleeves to engage Uncle Chinua Achebe in controversies over the content and intent of the book, however most of the views were based on online excerpts.

Nothing succeeds like success. If there is a successful Nigerian author, Chinua Achebe is it. He is indisputably an icon of African Literature. As characteristically enigmatic as Achebe may be regarded in certain quarters of the Nigerian polity, the man is held in high esteem by the younger generation of Nigerian writers. Now Uncle Achebe is gone, a lacuna is definitely created, one that must be filled soon. Chinua Achebe will always remain an icon of Nigerian, if not African, writing. While there are other living successful Nigerian writers to look up to, like Wole Soyinka, Ben Okri, to name but two, this generation of writer must have one of their own be their standard-bearer. There are brilliant writers out of Nigeria, and they are plenty, but this generation must find one of its own to hold high the standard of contemporary Nigerian Writing; a one who will take the burning torch to the world in the footsteps of Late Uncle Achebe.

This generation is fortunate to still have the contemporaries of Uncle Achebe like Uncle Wole "Kongi" Soyinka, et al, to guide and point it in the right direction. This generation of younger Nigerian Writers is privilege too to have publishers like Farafina, Cassava, Republic, Magic Wand Publishing, Kraft Books, Evans Publishers, Macmillan Books, and Paressia – to name but a handful – to help make of its works, world standard books (in all formats). There are booksellers like Monsuro, Rovingheights, Glendora, Patabah, Bookville, and Debonair Bookstores to make books available to direct consumers. We should be thankful too to have The Rainbow Book Club and Garden City Literary Festival, The Nigerian International Book Fair, Celebrity Read Africa, Book Jam, Book 'N' Gauge to ginger Nigeria's interest and love for books. There is the Association Of Nigerian Authors (ANA) which organises and moderate many literary awards for Nigerian Literature. There is also Promise Ogochukwu's Lumina: organisers of The Wole Soyinka Prize For Literature with her continental reach. Myriads of literary groups, societies, clubs and cabals abound to help mould the next icons for Nigerian writing. In sum, all efforts must be coordinated to keep Nigerian Writing on the global stage, and a Standard-Bearer in the order of Chinua Achebe must emerge from this blooming crop of Nigerian writers: this generation of writers that has its own stories to tell.

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To contact or read more from Okiri Christopher Raphael, do so here.

Saraba #13 – Africa Issue

Saraba Issue 13 Africa does not downplay the Africa theme by over-romanticizing Africa’s rusticity over her glossed rots. Africa is what she is. Simple. People live in Africa and she is a continent. And just like any other, her people are suffering, celebrating, dying, living, falling in love and shagging.  Admittedly however, Africans are still different; our collective negative stereotype makes us dissimilar from the rest. This issue does so much to stamp out such fixed picture of Africa. You really should read to know how this Saraba issue pulls that off. 

For me, this isn’t the best of what Saraba has offered, it really isn’t. I am only enamored to it for its totality of genre classification. This issue touches all genres and that is some worthy effort for a tasteful reading. In this issue, there is a drama entry, a genre that has been absent in past publications. Moreover, one will readily understand its past absence and ascribe it to the fact that the genre is the less appreciated and written of the literary genres. Having a drama feature in this issue beautifies it and – I should also add – tells this Africa issue apart from previous issues. This is called Africa. And nothing could be like it, with or without the drama genre. Even Africa is a drama in many offerings: in photographs, poetry, fictions, essays and You.

My fear is fast becoming real and I do hope the long break between Saraba’s last publication and this one is not a vesper ring gradually calling Saraba in. Before this issue came out, numerous publication schedules have been broken and remade. I initially wondered if Saraba was also going the way of numerous others that are presently dying and unworthily subsisting. In recent moments, online mags as this have swiftly been losing it, going under in quality and means. With Sentinel Nigeria’s introduction of paltry inducement to accepted entries came its sharp fall. Go through that mag now, compare it with his past self and you would mourn it. Klorofyl was also so promising in her debut, second and third issue. That mag may also have suffered mishap. For months now, Klorofyl is yet to produce another issue. These literary magazines need help. It’s time they started calling out for voluntary funds. They need it. Their efforts are beyond what vast readership can only compensate. I stand to be corrected, vast readership that does not attract worthwhile advert placements.

Contrary to what the numbers of pages might have you believe, there is a dearth of submissions in this issue. This is the only sense I can make of the republished guest posts and the book excerpts that uninspiringly took up space. I cannot but wonder why essays by Adesanmi and Harrow, the two longest essays in the mag, are only reposts from some blog. While these essays work well with the Africa theme and an engaging read, it would have been better if they were genuinely written for the mag. I wouldn’t take it honestly if I am told essays by seemingly unknown writers were not rejected for placement of those ‘favoured’ ones. That’s bad. Saraba hawks around the motto ‘Creating Unending Voices’. With that single action, it would now seem they are for ‘Creating Established Voices’. We have read Adesanmi’s “Face Me, I Book You” and Harrow’s “Do We Still Have Postcolonialism?” elsewhere and we appreciated them there. Having them here again only clutters pages. They serve no purpose here, at least to me and many other committed readers who have read them at some other place before now.

If the idea around the few book excerpts in this Africa issue were a creative means of advertisement, then, the creativity in such would be adored. After reading the “Guilt Trip”, an excerpt from Nze Sylva’s recent book, “The Funeral Did Not End” and “A Safe Indiscretion”, an excerpt from Seffi Atta’s novel, A Bit of Difference, I came off with the strong thirst to get those books. But publishing their excerpts in the mag is just so insufficient in itself. Moreover, Richard’s book, “City of Memories” is also excerpted, making three excerpts in all. Again, these writers should have been asked to produce original stories for the mag and alternatively have the Amazon links to their new books in their profiles. If the stories interest readers, they would in turn hanker after their books and buy them anyway. Publishing such excerpts gives off the rationale behind them as fake and misleading. Leaving a reader hanging after brief sweetened excerpts, only informing him afterwards to go for the fuller books arouses mixed feelings. And mixed feelings are riotous emotions. Riotous emotions spoil growing readership.

In this Saraba 13, the foregoing leaves me with little pieces to comment on. I will only talk on some and hope the reader finds the issue enjoyable.

Africa in these Shades

“All in the Night Together” by Brendan Bannon and Mike Pflanz

The various photographs in this issue are my main attraction. They visibly tell African in her honest light. Photo collection such as “All in the Night Together” by Brendan Bannon and Mike Pflanz comes to mind. Those photos show the transience of human daily struggle through our individual resoluteness to survive odds. These are not fiction, they are real and that makes them sound so well home. You will see yourself in the faces of the determined people shown in the picture collection by Bannon and Pflanz. If you don’t, at least, you will see those minor scavengers trolling your street in Johnny Be Good and Ocha Ocha, the father driver trying to make ends meet in Walter Ngau and your car washer boy in John Mbogo. These are men telling what some part of Africa really is, without the lazy stereotype.

“Nyamiri” by Okwuje Israel Chukwuemeka

This story is so much tribally steeped. However, the theme is truthful. The tribal hate is left unbidden and that only makes you doubt the writer’s writing objectivity. This writer does not pretend to be objective and that is the main strength of the piece. In the unbridled emotion of the piece, the truth is not coloured: frankly, there is always a Northern monster-Danladi amongst us, venting out decades long tribal hate on an innocent “Nyamiri” of the East.

“Thirteen” by Tosin Akingbulu

This story languidly picks up but with time, it grows on the reader and everything soon comes into an instant flourish. I admire writers who can transform the stereotypical into an engaging read. Tosin does so with this story. “Thirteen” is the everyday story of child abuse and female-child neglect, but the very telling is not usual. I like this story.

“A Beautiful Mind” by Lara Daniels

Lara Daniel’s piece is brief. There is wisdom in the shortness of the piece; it is straight forward and effective to its message. A girl character goes through a funny but painful psychological battle. But while in it, she believes she is sane or she really is sane. Her parents take her to be otherwise; that she is mad. Consequently, when she meets the Yellow Man, she is assured her mind is only different and beautiful.

“The Real Tragedy in Being African” by Miriam Jerotich

Perhaps, this excerpt from Miriam’s essay wholly captures what this Saraba issue drives at:

“…the tragedy isn‘t in the burdened identity that makes many think of us only as African or Kenyan or Nigerian or (insert ethnic group). Neither does it lie in the failed attempts we make when we challenge the status quo, nor when we question why we are monolithic figurines of the Western world. The real tragedy lies in failing to find a way to live with the label, in failing to reconcile our passions and our anger. More importantly, it lies in failing to know that we can be more than our assigned labels…” (pg. 93)

First of all, Miriam bemoans her preconfigured African identity, whimsically clutch to her pre-immigrant memories, then goes on to accept the power her differentness wields; for she is African.

In Conversation: Dami Ajayi & Seffi Atta

Arguably, this is the best interview I have seen Seffi Atta granted. Dami Ajayi does a good job as the interviewer. In the interview, discourses smoothly move around Seffi’s new book, her writing, her views and the media controversy that has been plaguing her for long. Amongst other things, Seffi extensively talks on the Lagos middle class of the pre- and post-colonial era. This interview stands out. Dami really engages Seffi.

***

It is the 13^th issue and Saraba has indeed come a long way from their first outing. Saraba might have slightly failed me in this present one, but their sense of literary quality and determination to keep at promoting the arts marvel me. Go download the mag now. It may be the best free mag you have ever come across. Tell me when you’ve downloaded and read it.

VAL: Win a #1,500 Airtime/the Money in Cash!!!

Read this short post and find the How-To Win a #1500 recharge card (or the money in cash) below it. Enjoy the season.

^^^^

You think you wouldn’t love again, your heart is broken and you are a scum. You think this season isn’t for you; no one to express it to, and you just might have been deceived. Forget about the Valentine charade, disabuse your mind of the usual; if no one would take you out, give a hand to that helpless individual on the street beating the wheel barrow metal-sheet, shouting: ‘E ko ile bo’ta o!’

Accept this; love isn’t love when those needing your bits still suffer, when what your home-woofers go for will well put a boy through a Term in school. A low-school? Yeah, but it is still a school anyway.

You are capable to be loved, you must love too. Shun the fake brothers now, spite the over-pretentious ladies anyhow and love the few people around waiting for cares, the ones in your strengths. Okay, don’t think about those. You aren’t given to a large-scale charity, I know. But presently, try this: you know your friend took a long walk to work this morning. And you didn’t even ask yourself, who would walk mileages to work if Adenle is in his pocket?  Express this season to such a friend and tomorrow, he wouldn’t have to do a sweaty leisured walk to work. Try #500 and he would be saved. Take it down more, give him #100 and he wouldn’t skip lunch in a rush.

Let’s launch this season now. But before that, I must tell you a story. It is about Titi. I used to know Titi as a classmate. I knew Titi as a crush. I know Titi now, she is a friend. On the 14^th of February, 2005, Titi gave me a chocolate cake. She marvelled me. That day I began to see love in another way.

Years later, I would look back at that very moment and would take a cue from it, that as little as we were then and pure, Titi could sacrifice the conventional and give a mischievous boy like me a big chocolate cake as a gift. Recently, we had the opportunity to chat in our adult selves and I asked her what prompted her action years ago and she replied; I knew you to always silently grovel on my small chops during break time and I thought a large big cake on that day will buy me a break from your discreet covetousness. Funny, right?  It wouldn’t be if I told you that I didn’t only eat that cake, the little ants in our refrigerator ate it too. Every morning of the day, I would take a look at it, fearing that if I ate it too quickly, I may soon stop seeing the beauty of the big black chocolate cake and I left it there for days, only momentarily chipping out of it until ants took away the largest portion of the cake. In my case, Titi cared and the ants got it too.

Forget my sermon joor and let’s get to the How-To-Win proper.

****

TrueTalk is celebrating the Valentine Season with a #1500 airtime recharge or the money in cash. TrueTalk is appreciating its readers this season. An average post on this blog gets 300 pageviews in few hours and that’s a lot to be thankful for. The winning amount could get you a book or a monthly subscription on your BB or a nice meal in an average restaurant this season. To win the #1500 recharge card (of any Nigerian network of your choice) or the money in cash, follow the instructions below:

1. Follow this blog with your Google/Yahoo/Twitter/AIM/Netlog/Open ID. (Do so through the “Join this Site” button at the left side of the blog)
2. Follow me @omotayome on Twitter.
3. In the comment box below, write your Best Love Message in 100 words (without TextSpeak/SMS short words, please). So, get creative!
4. Put your phone number below the message to be contacted if you happen to be the winner, include the Twitter handle you are following me with on Twitter and the ID you are following the blog with.
5. You must reside in Nigeria.

(Instructions 1,2,4 & 5 are only requirements for the main Instruction 4. The winner will emerge from skillful use of words in the 100 words Best Love Message)

Note: If you happen to be the winner, you could ask the recharge card to be converted to cash and sent to your bank account. Giveaway closes on Thursday 14^th February, at 22:00 GMT, Nigerian time. Thank you and enjoy the season! Yippee!

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