They all asked you who she was and you replied: dark chocolate skin and a mad ass.
Anita was the choir girl in your church. You hadn’t yet spoken to her, but you were certain you of your love. You could bet the last of your (already dwindling) finances that you were—everybody was kind of broke, it was the month’s end.
You were so happy that if you had the money, you would have gotten all your boys dinner. You were in the habit of keeping your love interests from them. Your last relationship lasted for six weeks, but they didn’t know about it until a week after it ended. So they were happy that you told them about Anita. She was clearly special to you.
The next thing was for you to formally introduce her to your boys. None of them would speak to her until you did the introduction. So when will you talk to her?, they asked. The question hovered above you like dark clouds, all through the week. Sunday, you later replied. With crossed fingers, the wait began.
Can you remember that Thursday when you had the opportunity to talk to her in that buka? But you didn’t. You acted like your heart throb wasn’t there. Your face was blank. Everyone joked loudly in the buka while you watched her with your side eye, amazed at the mountain of eba she smashed to valleys. She even bought extra!
After she left, your friends began: elephant legs; this girl will crush you to pieces like the eba in her hands that didn’t stand a chance etc. But the one that burnt your ears the most was when they said, her pestle-legs didn’t walk the earth, rather it pounded it.
Listening to these ‘compliments’ made you smile. They were your boys just doing their boy thing. You’ve been guilty of the same thing in the past. Remember when you made fun of your other friend who was in love with that girl with beards? How you said she’d be the one to finish his shaving cream? Or how when you saw him, you kept rubbing your chin? The world is truly round, no?
Sunday came. You went to church early, and they already knew why—Anita. The funny thing was that even though you never spoke to her, they all called her ‘your wife’.
When one of your friend’s friends told your friends that he had a crush on her. They told him she was your wife. He obeyed the bro-code and stepped down. You were uncontested. The door was opened wide for you to enter and speak to your pestle-legged wife.
When you got to church, you saw her in a knee-length pleated gown, her lips painted red. Your heart sank as she sang, but you couldn’t even look at the altar. You kept looking away like your gaze was fire and you didn’t want to burn her.
After the church service, you stayed behind taking pictures with your friends, but your side eye was on her. She was leaving with two of her friends, and you didn’t move towards her. That day you still didn’t speak to her. When your boys asked you, you gave excuses. They laughed and skillfully changed the topic.
At that time, it seemed Cupid had enough arrows to spare. Hit: One of your friends, who didn’t know the first book of the bible was Genesis, started going to church frequently. He even joined the work force. They later found out it was because of a girl. Hit: There was a girl they all constantly abused and abused, only to find out one of your boys sneaked out to meet with her almost every night. Hit: The bearded girl that your friend fell in love with. Hit: You and your choir girl.
You remember when two of your friends, your roommate, Bula, and your other friend, Sani, were in love with the same girl. They both met to “negotiate” but none was ready to relinquish. War was declared. Every night, your roommate abandoned his law textbooks, wiped the dust off his age-old Art of Seduction, and read deep into the night. You heard him praying furiously on the same issue, deeper into the night. Love truly was war. Seven days later, Sani relinquished his interest and your roommate went for the prize uncontested.
You remember the day your roommate came back at night, drunk with love? He was unable to think straight, he was goofy, aloof and with all smiles. He just got her number. Your friends all gathered and began to advice him on the best time to call her. After leafing through several precedents—Think like a Man, Why Men Marry Bitches, they decided on three days. But he couldn’t resist and called her the next day.
Your roommate was a go-getter, making progress, while you sat on your bony ass delaying and delaying.
Three Sundays strolled by, and you still hadn’t spoken to Anita. You hid beneath the shade of excuses: I’m feeling fine; I pray so hard in church my voice give out before I get a chance to speak to her. Don’t worry, you reassure your boys, next Sunday.
Your friends decided to take matters into their own hands. They told you she liked you. You grinned from ear to ear but still did not make a move. So on that Wednesday afternoon, immediately after class, they pushed you beside her while she was walking alone to her hostel.
The last they heard was you saying a nervous Hello. They watched you walk beside her with your tall frame, lanky legs and slightly hunched back as she pounded the earth with her pestle-legs.
You came back happy, jumping, screaming. You even took them out to lunch even though you monthly allowance was running low. You laughed at every joke cracked and all your words were doused with confidence. You later told us she said she couldn’t stand guys with afro. She believed it was a facile attempt at looking like an intellectual. You planed on saving your hair, but the next day, you shaved off your savannah to a shiny rock. Your boys, your source of reasoning in times of love and other periods of mental impairment, told you not to let her change you. You promised them she won’t.
Slowly, she pounded her way into your life and eclipsed them from it therein. She said all your friends were loud and uncouth. She said their jokes were un-gentlemanly. She said you were too cultured for such wildlings. Of course you didn’t tell them any of this. You couldn’t. You wanted to eat your cake—Anita—and have it—your friends. But it was impossible to do both, so you decided to eat your cake.
You began sitting with her during lectures. You organized tutorials for her while you left your boys to hang out dry. When you saw them in public, you just muttered a curt greeting as she dragged you away. She even ignored/avoided them like they were ghosts or a plague or a hybrid of both. Even Bula’s girl became part of the crew, unlike your Anita. Some of them started seeing her as your replacement.
It didn’t take long for your boys to figure out the reason for your newfound behavior. It was more than just Anita.
You were a virgin and she gave you your first taste of loopeeta—at the age of 24! The day you were to do it, you were nervous and jittery. How you got the right opening must have been a miracle.
Before you started, you told her that you were a grower and not a shower. Then she said don’t worry, just put it in. And you were like: I’ve been in for the past five minutes. Other nights, you’d be like: oh baby, I’m not just hard enough. It must have been horrible for her, but it was your own handful of stars.
Every night you came back late to the room, weighed down with weariness. You said it was just the tutorials. They were your boys, much more experienced than you, and they knew it was more like totorials.
You started getting slimmer and slimmer while she got fatter, in all the right places. Your boys wanted to warn you. They were scared you might even fail law school, but they decided to let you learn. Experience is the best teacher, no?
And so like flies to shit or like bees to honey, her round honey ass began to attract the big bees. The big bees began to spend more money than you could ever have spent. She started coming late for your tutorials. You’d wait an hour or two, then she’d come, fanning herself with that your green jotter and chewing gum loudly. She never apologized and she wouldn’t stay for long. No goodnight hugs, no nothing. She even stopped you from getting loopeeta. You were relegated to occasional handjobs.
The worst part of it all was on that Tuesday beneath the fiery Yola sun when you were walking together, one of them big bees called her. She left your side after whispering: wait for me. And you waited as she talked in his air conditioned car. You waited as the sun melted you to sweat. You waited while staring at your shoes, at the wandering goats, swatting flies, and tapping your damn phone. When she finally came out, she handed you the bag he gave her and told you to help her carry it to her hostel. And you did!
She began buzzing with those big bees, leaving you alone to wither. After all, all you had to offer were tutorials and your I’m-already-in dick. The handful of stars seemed to have trickled away and the fog of love seemed to have cleared. It was then you came crawling on your knees, when you no longer had anything, begging and begging. But what are boys for? They warned you never to leave them for loopeeta again and welcomed you back to the herd.
That period also, Cupid began retrieving his arrows. Retrieve: The friend that fell in love with the church-girl fell out of love— she wasn’t adventurous enough. Retrieve: That guy who fell in love with that girl we always abused later found out that every guy on campus could aptly describe her loopeeta. Retrieve: Turned out that bearded girl was a drag queen. When they were about to get down, (s)he pulled out a schlong longer than his. Retrieve: You and your choir girl.
Today, as you see her wedding invitation to that guy who also had a crush on her, you tap my shoulder and say: One advice for you bro, beware of the big bees.
Post image by JNKIRUKA. Check out more HERE.
About the Author:
Gbolahan Badmus is graduate of OAU. Presently a student of the Nigerian Law School. He contributed to the poetry chapbook, Sandstorms in June. He was a participant in the Writivism Creative Workshop, 2015.