Some Room for Her

He doesn’t love me back, so why do I still love him? He turns his back on me; when I try to do the same to him, it kills me. With wickedness he smiles at me but I still lie next to him in steadfastness. It’s almost like he loves to see me suffer. Close to insanity yet distant from it, I am a hustler for his love. He is undeniably a cheating man. He’s meeting me and on his brown shirt, is pink lipstick splashed all over. It’s sick how he’s too blind to see that I am the better lover. For when I kiss him, I am not bitter but I do it in kind never missing his lips or anywhere else he asks me to. And it’s never on his shirt.

He doesn’t want me back, so why do I return to him? He had prior warned that if I wanted to leave, I should take the dog with me. Little does he know that I am in dire need for him, my only dog and sire. So after dumping cold turkey and Rex, brittle and frail– I returned home. He was alone and seemingly happy. I was cold and lonely but he only selfishly asked about the dog, nothing about me. As he rolled up on the right side of the bed, joining him I enrolled back into the ongoing war inside my heart. It hurt, so cried a fresh. It actually felt nice. I am used to tears.  They wash away my fears, but never his lies and my blind ties to him. They said that in the greatest loss there still lies some gain. But I, have nothing if he can’t feel my pain.

He doesn’t call me back, so why do I even write him letters and poems? He will never reply. He will always be the player who lost. In the game where he tossed my heart up high and then kicked it down the gutter. We are like clutter, unnecessary. It’s still a mystery that we are still together, or so it seems. This isn’t like chemistry, it’s like nothing at all. In fact it’s nothing. I now realize that we are nothing. He wakes up teary-eyed and says he had a dream. In it he heard a voice asking him to make me some room. For sleep, peace or comfort, he didn’t quite get that part. And he is not making any effort to. I slept well and I feel at peace. In my dream I also heard a voice that told me to leave, and never look back.

Love and Shoes

Sometimes we are like shoes, downright dirty. Our fights stink and are washed out. You are right and I am always wrong. When I am out like a cigarette, you miss me. We break up then make up. But it’s all a charade, because like shoes we are worn out but still going strong. So we stay up all night long, playing pillows and eating marshmallows. Good times. I would walk for miles in search, but there’s no need. No one else makes me smile like you do.

Sometimes we are like shoes, high. Our satisfaction dangerously leaves us falling, in love. Catching me is your forte and it’s a fact that a fraction of me, is always in control of the situation. We have no limit to how far we can walk, because like shoes we were made to trek, though this love. So we play tricks throughout the relationship. Oh the thrills. You are the anchor to my ship.

Sometimes we are like shoes, inseparable and entangled. Like a shoelace, you embrace me tight, and leave me restless for more, of you. You are a neat man, so I tuck my arms around your sweater. ‘Later!’, we tell them. We are the envy of many. They want to buy us, into their thoughts. But they can’t afford us for our levy is too high and mysterious. Like shoes we clean up very nicely, and then look brand new. Your niceties are like dew, ever fresh. Oh fellow shoe i wrote this verse for you, because you are the hues to my canvas.

Proper Nice

Girl that’s what you are, tight. Your thighs tell it all. It’s how you move not swiftly but gracefully. See it’s how you smile, not just sweetly but angelically. See, I believe in you and everything you do. It’s how you live freely, how you love deeply, how you laugh silly, how you grab me lately, I adore you. I want to open doors for you, anything you love I will do. On the floor you will be my lady. And when the music stops, you will still be mine.

Girl, you are a keeper. I am a leaper and a believer of your love. You are special. And If I have you, I don’t have to think of anything at all but bliss. Your kiss is lethal, making our bond stronger than metal. Missing you makes me go mental, I can’t get rid of you. You lead the way and I follow. Though you sometimes sway, you are always true. It’s what I dig about you. In the desert you will be my sand. And when the storm washes it all away, you will still be mine.

You are a sexy girl. Lately I can’t stop staring at your confidence. Evidence is in how you carry yourself, you never need to defend yourself. Even when you are wrong, you seem right. You make me enjoy light moments when you play with my heart. It’s a joy to see you lay beside me every day. You are the best thing about today. That’s because you shine brighter than the sun, you rock harder than the stone, and when the world ends, you will be my investment. For when they will think I am wasted and nothing, I will still have you proper nice.

Why a Black Man is Like Chocolate

Tall, dark and handsome or short, stout and perky, but still dark–whichever form of African they come in, men are like chocolate. Seemingly hard but malleable, sometimes messy, sticky, sweet and rich or not. In many ways both dark chocolate and black men are quite similar.

Heat melts chocolate. Similarly, any man will practically melt if and when heated up the right way by a lady (preferably a hot one). Various research findings including one done by BBC have cited a sizeable reduction of stress levels following the activity of melting chocolate in the mouth. It’s said that that even beats kissing at reducing stress levels! Good thing, those who don’t fancy chocolate like me can still indulge and benefit from frogs-to-princes induced activities.

A look at plain chocolate or a plain man can either evoke love or dislike (hate is a strong word for skin-choc lovers). Like mud is a naked bar–basic and unattractive. But off the paper and into biting, chances of stumbling upon all types of life’s goodness from wine, nuts, fruits, to any thinkable sweet thing that might fit in, are very high. A man’s nudity, heart, strength or all might turn him into a striking god, a transformation from a dressed-down dull, null and void creature. In summary, to discover what a man/chocolate is made of, you simply have to trust, taste, nibble, and then delve in.

That’s reason why ‘the world’ has blindly ostracized the dark skin of African countries like Sudan as charcoal-ish while brandished that of successful Africans who have become world stars like Mr. Kimora, formerly Djimon Hounsou as a show of light in Hollywood, Nollywood and even classics like ‘Boyz in Da Hood’. Remember the time when youthful/ non-shirtless Cuba Gooding Jr. and Morris Chestnut were synonymous to unopened attractive chocolate covers? Sigh.

I don’t like the non-human version of chocolate so I don’t have the moral/ gastronomical authority of writing on chocolate addiction. However, I have heard of theories and testimonials on how black men can be as addictive as chocolate. White princess Coco reaffirmed the famous quote while speaking on her black ghetto prince Ice-T, “Once you go black, you never go back.”

Most African eyes are veiled and can’t see past the black-fuss. Why should they? Everything in Africa is practically dark anyway, from the streets, people’s deeds, soil and of course the men and women. Black skin however still remains a phenomenon abroad and especially in Europe. Thanks to that, we still have racism and looming sickness in the 21st century. The latter prompting white women mostly tourists to flood Africa in search of curing the dreaded and deadly ‘jungle fever’ disease, as theorized by my sidekick Chim.

‘Jungle fever’ is a curable ailment that only affects white-skinned women, most times leaving them restless, horny and in need of dark African men (the ones in torn-tattered washed out pants, never-washed Converse and unkempt dreads are usually tastier like extra toppings on the pizza). Black injection in little or large doses is highly recommended, and in all forms.

And true to that prescription–the cured lot usually comprise white women married to black men, or who are with black men parading at African music festivals, weed smoking parties, African traditional ceremonies, crowded markets and slum areas or simply between sheets or somewhere in the streets. This is art, culture and a lifestyle that will never be unraveled, just like the world’s obsession with chocolate.

Chocolate isn’t my thing but when given to me, for pleasure or as a gift; I have no choice but to devour it, a process that takes me days, even weeks to complete. I am glad it takes me just a split second to come up with this thought process. Over a simple conversation while snacking, a friend said to me, ‘Come to think of it, men are like chocolate’. The sound of that statement was sweet enough to make me blog. Did I expound on the topic? I don’t know. But I am certain that it doesn’t matter whether it, she or he is black or white. Just go ahead and enjoy it, and yourself!

Skin Deep

Boy you are a sight, I can’t even lie. Aside from it all, you are sacred. Even in the face of hurt, your heart knows no hatred or anger but adoration and love. Sometimes you are like a river, silent and deep, flowing full of emotion and I am glad, that I have you to keep. While in dire need, I found you. While entirely engrossed in it, like a gift you wrapped me up around you. Like a lift is your love to me, enriching, enticing, elating and surrounding. Around you is simplicity, I don’t strive to impress you. That’s because I am already your empress.

Boy you are some sport, I can’t even keep up. Like a mountain, you are steep and not easy to get across. When I did, I felt a form of achievement because you rewarded me with a rose laden with chivalry and appreciation. You’re like the fountain in my garden that keeps flowing, allowing me to bathe in the waters of serenity. We are hardened by your faithfulness to me and the Almighty, so God bless you babe. We are saddened by fights and incompatibility but we crawl, soon we shall walk, then we could run but not too fast to fall for in the long run, this is not windfall or a fallback, it’s our plan.

Boy you are handsome, I can’t even describe but I will try. Your eyes are the keepers to my secrets. I inscribe prosetry for you because you are the type that appreciates. Your chest is the pillow to my bosom. Your bottom is my up, and my double is your single win. Your kiss is sweeter than honey, your money has nothing on your hugs, you love is deeper than lust, so it lasts all day and night. In many ways, your touch is electrifying, satisfying and gratifying. Between the sheets and streets, you got class. Like a stone cast in the sea, you fall directly into my spot and if I had it all, without you skin deep, it would mean nothing.