WALKING IN MY DELIGHT!

With my towel tied round my chest
I walked carelessly into the sitting room
I had forgot my phone there earlier on after watching my favorite show on TV
There he was, the one I admired but whom never seemed to look at me
I was a little embarrassed because I was in my towel and was not expecting to meet him there
Our eyes met, my body shivered and I let go
My towel dropped...
His eyes were all over me like a desperate lion looking for a prey
I quickly picked my towel and dashed into my room leaving my phone out for the second time

I had come over to my Funke's place to spend some days
Funke had been my best friend since secondary school
I came into Lagos few days back for an interview at KC foods limited
Funke had left me with her elder brother for Abuja
He had been quite cold to me since my arrival
I could tell he was running away from something

I had all that it took to make a man go crazy
My experience with my past 2 boyfriends had proven it
My boobs complemented my ass, two round, big, firm oranges in front for two round, big, firm, soft paw paws behind
The doggy style had always been my preference... it sent me to heaven straight away

I knew he would come after me
For no one ever saw and remained the same
As I dressed in my nightie, I heard a knock on the door
That was the first time someone had knocked on my door since I came
I opened up, he stammered, saying he came to give me my phone
I collected it thanking him and shut the door

I had already cuddled up in my bed to sleep when I heard another knock on my door
I knew who it would be and what he wanted
But was I going to just allow him freely?
I stood up to open the door
He came in claiming that he had been unable to sleep
He rattled down how his feelings for me had been building up since I came into the house
He came close and I allowed him do the rest...

Comments

The Sphere

Photograph by Elena Saavedra Buckley. Once when I was about twelve I was walking down the dead-end road in Albuquerque where I grew up, around twilight with a friend. Far beyond the end of the road was a mountain range, and at that time of evening it flattened into a matte indigo wash, like a mural. While kicking down the asphalt we saw a small bright light appear at the top of the peaks, near where we knew radio towers to occasionally emit flashes of red. But this glare, blinding and colorless, grew at an alarming rate. It looked like a single floodlight and then a tight swarm beginning to leak over the edge of the summit. My friend and I became frightened, and as the light poured from the crest, our murmurs turned into screams. We stood there, clutching our heads, screaming. I knew this was the thing that was going to come and get me. It was finally going to show me the horrifying wiring that lay just behind the visible universe and that was inside of me too. And then, a couple se

The Rejection Plot

Print from Trouble , by Bruce Charlesworth, a portfolio which appeared in The Paris Review in the magazine’s Fall 1985 issue. Rejection may be universal, but as plots go, it’s second-rate—all buildup and no closure, an inherent letdown. Stories are usually defined by progress: the development of events toward their conclusions, characters toward their fates, questions toward understanding, themes toward fulfillment. But unlike marriage, murder, and war, rejection offers no obstacles to surmount, milestones to mark, rituals to observe. If a plot point is a shift in a state of affairs—the meeting of a long-lost twin, the fateful red stain on a handkerchief—rejection offers none; what was true before is true after. Nothing happens, no one is materially harmed, and the rejected party loses nothing but the cherished prospect of something they never had to begin with. If the romance plot sets up an enticing question—Will they or won’t they? — the rejection plot spoils everything upfront:

On the Distinctiveness of Writing in China

Yan Lianke at the Salon du Livre, 2010. Photograph by Georges Seguin, via Wikimedia Commons . Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 DEED . When I talk to non-Chinese readers like yourselves, I often find that you are interested in hearing about what distinguishes me as an author but also what distinguishes my country—and particularly details that go beyond what you see on the television, read about in newspapers, and hear about from tourists. I know that China’s international reputation is like that of a young upstart from the countryside who has money but lacks culture, education, and knowledge. Of course, in addition to money, this young upstart also has things like despotism and injustice, while lacking democracy and freedom. The result is like a wild man who is loaded with gold bullion but wears shabby clothing, behaves rudely, stinks of bad breath, and never plays by the rules. If an author must write under the oversight of this sort of individual, how should that author evaluate, discu

TOBI'S DESK

Search This Blog