Why some girlfriends are terrorist

I maintain that some girlfriends are terrorists.
They hold you hostage and do things to you, or make you do things
which when you think of at a later time, whether when the
relationship has shared ‘the grace’ or even when it’s still on and
they have temporarily relieved their fingers from your mumu
remote that they were pressing-hard, it makes you want to stop a
random stranger on the road and tell him “Psst! Bros! I dey fuck
up abeg. Kindly give me dirty slap abeg. The type wen never baff
for like one week biko”
This is why most times when I’m seated with people, especially
guys, usually while watering our gullets with wobile Jwice, and I
hear them talk about things they’ll never ever ever in their lives do
because, or for babes, in my mind I laugh in Makossa. A
gargantuan Awilo Longomba-ish aburukututu maya ei type of
laughter builds up deep in my stomach, clawing its way upwards,
threatening to burst forth, only held back by restraint and an
unwillingness to be thought to have lost my marbles by such
unexpected outburst.
For what? Which babe? Who she be? I no fit do am. If I do am
make I die. You can hear them say amongst their peers.
Tomorrow, that thing that they said if they do they should die will
become oxygen; the more they take it in, the more they have life.
Some will lick sand and swear only to go home and their girlfriends
will use the same sand and do foundation for them and they’ll
awwwn at how on fleek they look. Imagine my shock when one of
my realest guys, always complaining about make-up and how he
doesn’t have time for that nonsense. ‘All that painty painty thing no
be for me. I dey like natural abeg,’ he always said until I barged
into him drawing eyebrows for his babe.
Baba was trying to downplay the whole thing but his babe cooed
affectionately at how from once a Larvae, he had pupated
successfully under her tutelage and had burst forth a makeup
butterfly of many colors, strong winged, able to ride successfully
any face beat challenges life would throw at him, least of which
was drawing of brows. My visit there was supposed to be short –
borrowing sugar doesn’t take a lot of time – but I couldn’t resist
watching my guy work his art. As I left there, a plea in his eyes for
me to keep this between us, I changed his name on my phone to
Fleeky Emma Makeovers.
Chinwe used to make me sit down behind her and have me holding
her as she read romance novels. Azzin I no dey follow her read the
book but I go just dey her back dey count ceiling, dey coil her hair,
dey give her small small pecks from time to time, and most
importantly dey think inside my head ‘nwa guy! Look at what you
have become for babe. A cusheen as my grandmother will call
cushion’. But I did it because na ‘wetin baby want’ and It made her
‘happy’ and of even more significance, when I was toasting her, I
had promised to, though I couldn’t remember, do anything to make
her happy. This computed as anything I guess.
Trust me, I know how many times in church when they are praying
against the spirit of bondage, I would cry out to heaven from where
my help comes from, go home with a strengthened resolve to be
more than a living chair, only for my resolve to melt in the sea of
passion that was her eyes, once she looked at me. Only me go
with my church cloth, sitdan for her favourite spot, spread my legs,
tap the space in between my legs like ‘baby put it here’, I was
made for this.
Or do we talk about the times when a young man is saying sorry
for nothing. You’re not sorry, no scratch that. You don’t know why
you’re sorry but dem no born your papa well not to talk sorry.
You’re there, a string of ‘sorry baby’ making its way out of your
mouth, the most penitent look you can muster plastered on your
face, but deep within your heart, you’re abusing her generations
like e no go better for your boyfriend o, which if she hears, best
believe you’ll apologize for insulting yourself. Osama Bin
I once apologized to Chinwe because she was crying for a
character in her book that had gone through a lot, and I didn’t tell
her sorry. Like she was crying and I asked what it was, and on
realizing it was spawned by fiction, I was like oh ok!
**taps head in Papa-Ajasco like form** Ojigbijigbigbi
Children of God, I was accused of being insensate, wicked, and
interspersed within a cry that had achieved higher pitch, she asked
herself how she had come to love such a brute.
I boned her.
I was on my knees, begging her please, apologizing for not feeling
what she felt. Don’t worry baby, e go better for Alonso – the
fictional character – he will still make it in life (meanwhile in my
mind I’m calling on Ogun to kill Alonso and everybody in
Barcelona) Chinwe my all, I love you more than my mama; I might
have said that. I can’t remember. If you have been in this situation
you know to apologize for both what matters and what doesn’t.
Like baby sorry I didn’t Vote for Goodluck Jonathan, my greatest
sympathies for global warming. Sorry for coming too early the
other day (for an event o before perverts have a field day here. I’m
not a one sound banger biko)
Eventually, she accepted my apologies and I became a cushion as
she slept, regaining her strength to find something for me to be
sorry about the next day I’m sure.
Or do we talk about girlfriends, taking you from school to Hair
Forrest in Owerri to plait one million braids, spending the entire day
there while there was one groove you and your men were
supposed to show up for, and making you lie to your guys that
your grandfather, long dead, re-died so you had to go and sort
things out.
Girlfriends make you do so many things, like cry when they break
your heart. After having boastfully reiterated numerous times to
the hearing of many that, no woman is worth crying for. They
break your heart, and your eyes become river Niger and river
Benue, their confluence at your mouth where you taste their
saltiness carrying the pain in your heart. And coincidentally your
eyes catch a mirror, and you see what you’ll look like as a ghost.


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