They turned at nights, the curse of the moon.

She is a 23 year old girl, the word is girl intentionally. Shy, introverted, reserved, she actually has nothing to say.

Anna. Petite, small everything, lips, hips, voice, feet. Walks as if cowering in the presence of the sky. Talks with muted gesticulations, swallowing the vibrations of her voice box.
Until those nights when she feels generous enough to grace the world with her presence. Laughing louder to the most ridiculous things… like the creaking of the door because it sounds like the fart of lightning.
She becomes a dictionary of cusses. “The bastard gas refuses to fucking burn and this shitty noodle is condemned to a soup of bloody ass pudding.”
She calls to her neighbor, “You look like a million bucks baby. Girl, see that booty. Shake it like you mean it,” in a black American accent. The neighbor, confused. Anna’s “hi”s were rarely louder than a whisper.
She makes it to fellowship, her horny clit takes over her mind, she wants to rip the shirt off the lanky chorister.
She could change the world; she should start making plans to rule the political arena. UIMSA needs her.
She starts designing a flyer for the campaign. She needs to buy official wears, so races to IG for vendors, wires her last 20k for a crochet bikini.
It is going to be a very long night.

‘A full sophisticated son of Adam,’ he calls himself, principled by rationality, love and maturity.

He loves her. Proposed on a breezy night, it was a certain ‘YES’. The plan was to elope, make the ceremony theirs and theirs alone. It was perfect.
Until that night before Vegas. He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. Something was off, the air was different. She cooked, he usually watched, but that night, he was in the room drafting plans to escape the house. The doors are no longer safe, maybe he should go into the ceiling. Why did she make porridge, the meal of witches? So, he excused himself, induced vomiting to cleanse his gut.
He usually did the dishes, but he could not turn his back at her, she might stab him.
Everything was a lie, he thought. She was in his life to end him. She wasn’t real, they sent her, they don’t want him here again. He didn’t know who they were, but they were real.
She asked, “Everything okay, love? You are awfully quiet.” He hissed, staring longer. He was not taking his eyes off this pretentious masquerade.
“When last did you take your meds?” her voice shook.
“You mean the herbal chalk to dull my senses so I don’t see you for who you are.”
She got up, truly concerned, while sugar ants gathered at his feet. As she came closer, they climbed higher. He jerked violently, thrashing his limbs haphazardly. “Don’t come close,” he begged.
They shouldn’t have eloped. It was going to be a long night.

Nothing is too high to be reached. Confident, high achiever, level headed.

He is a 500 level finalist; he loves to put it that way. He has paid his dues to Ogba and it is the final dance. On that list is JAW WAR, coming up in a week. The plan is to keep Ransome Kuti Hall on top of the pyramid. He knows it, he is the man for the job, he knows it.
As he goes over his first speech- “MENTAL HEALTH: IS THE POWER OF WILL UNDEREMPHASIZED?”, his chest seems to tighten harder after every sentence as he taps his feet unconsciously.
The next day, on his way to submit his project topics, Alo waves, nods or shakes a dozen persons, as the popular-jingo that he is. However, air seems to evade his lungs, he feels the need to breathe faster. He crouches to take a seat on a pavement; his gut doesn’t feel right. He is terrified, though the reason eludes him. He raps to himself, “Everything is fine. Nothing bad will happen. Everything is fine… nothing bad will happen…”
A thought floats to his mind. He remembers Professor Ogunniyi, his supervisor’s rule, “Never be late, not even by a minute”. Such a disciplined woman. She has always been his favorite lecturer and he definitely isn’t going disappoint. Distracted from the sense of impending doom, he carries on with his journey.
Friday night is for the boys, Queens 101, or 501 for him. There is this babe he is processing, Folashade. He dons a white tee hugging his defined upper anatomy, with his grey joggers, a light spray of Hummer perfume, and a glistening silver necklace.
He is Alo the Dazzler for a reason.
Their conversation is dominated by mostly flirting with a sprinkle of focus on each other’s welfare. However, the more he speaks of how well he is doing the more fear grows in his heart, until, he can’t hear his heart racing.
He clutches his chest with his sweaty palm, his heart beating gets louder till he can hear nothing else. His vision now has dark blotches, he can’t hear her, but he hears himself repeating, “I think I am dying.” He is hyperventilating, falling to the floor as his knees gave in.
His bros get to him at some point. “Take me to Jaja,” he pleads. His mind is running haywire on the way to the clinic.
The night draws out like it won’t end. It is definitely a long one.

Leave A Reply

Your email address will not be published.