I Want My Flowers Now

I want my flowers now,
While I have hands to hold them,
I want my praise songs too
Whilst my feet can move to their tunes
I care less for
Posthumous garlands
Or gardens full of roses,
Nor for
Eloquent dedications
Sang as obituary dirges.

For some it may be too late
To tell them how much
They blessed you,
But for us,
The day is still young,
So let’s get busy saying
Our “I love you”s
“Your life was a blessing to me”
“I couldn’t be who I am today without you”
” You brought such joy, laughter, wit, wisdom, insight, blessing, growth and fortune my way.”

Quickly, before the Grim Reaper calls again,
Let’s hurry,
Let’s say.

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This Is How You Lose Him.

You are handicapped from the beginning. With your face shrouded in veils, all you have to keep his attention is the inadequacy of words. It is a pittance and you know it, but still you try. You try, to make your affection seen, heard, read, felt. You try to let your love shine through. You try, even though you fail, you fail in the act, never the heart.

He is the real thing. You are sure of this. You have seen every guy in the horrid guy book: the braggart, the brawler, the beggar, the sloppy, the crook. He is different, refreshingly so. You can read it in every line he writes, tweets, and in the ones he doesn’t. You have found genius. Real genius. The kind that isn’t aware of itself or its abilities, the kind that makes a smart publisher rich, yet….

The Igbo in you is livid, how in heaven’s name can we watch this raw gold get snapped up? Just thinking of the possibilities makes you grin, yeah, this is real raw talent right here. You want to sign him on yourself, but you aren’t a publisher, have never been one, and insecurity flaps its lead wings against your breast. You sigh, long and deep. There’s no winning these things is there?

Day and night the thought is awake stabbing your mind with pitchforks, prodding your head with skewers, you cave in. After all, publishers are made, not born. You begin to google then, little things first. Stuff like ‘ABCs of publishing’ How To Start A Publishing Firm’ ‘How To Spot Great Literary Talent’ ‘Basic Finance For Publishers’.

Of course you also come across the elegy to ‘The Last Publishing House In Nigeria’. You ignore that, failure is contagious.

All that changes when she appears.

From the minute you set eyes on her elegant well-tones curves, flawless make-up and cheek-brushing eyelashes, you know the game has changed. This is no longer about keeping his attention, winning his trust, becoming an over-night African Literature publisher or anything like that.

This will be a game of seduction, a dance of desire, a duel of passion and you, are unarmed. Your man will be taken, yes he will, just because she can.

You want to scream, to mark your territory, to put up a fight. You want to paste ‘Keep Off’ signs all over his handsome six foot frame. You want to make T-shirts for him, that Say I belong to____ and type in your name. Instead you watch in disbelieving silence as the dance of desire begins.

She calls, he answers. She teases, he responds. They lol, they lmao, they sigh, they do poetry duets. They waltz up and down your timeline, like a elitist ballet, you watch, like a zombie pawn. You ache like an arthritic joint. You see the handwriting scrawled on the wall– your time is up–but it doesn’t help break your fall.

You fall hard. Your heart bounces once, skids on the slippery floors of hope, then it shatters into a a shower of pink strips. That’s not all, soon, she comes along with her industrial roller and grinds your bleeding heart to dust. You want to shout. You want to beg, to ask for a little mercy. Your dry tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth. You are ground to dust and a part of you ceases to exist.

Time stands still. Your agony isn’t something the world wants to forget. So, instead of feeling better or allowing your organic remnants rest, you are tossed instead, into the eye of the tsunami. A wall of solid seawater is crashing into your chaos… This time, you know–you are finished.

In the transient, fragile, final moments, between the surge and when you are swept away, one thought lingers,persists, stays: you gave your best, and you did it in good faith, and if this is what you get, let the waves, come, and let them be quick.

*
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Thank you for reading, please consider supporting my Etisalat Flash Fiction bid with a vote, voting is easy and free,

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Splinters Of Glass In A Bleeding Heart.

Hmmmmggh!

Where do I begin? With an apology, I haven’t posted as often as I should. I have a bag of excuses for this:

  • 1. The Westgate attacks shocked my fingers to stone.

    2. Prof Kofi Awoonor’s Death shot me into mourning.

    3. My Samsung Tab has gone into coma (read possible death).

    4. I missed another set of deadlines (Again?! Yes. Again).

    5. Unforeseen emergencies arrived and scrambled my budget.

    6. I have been scouting for 1M votes for my clients.

    7. I lost an election.

    8. I lost a friend.

    So there, it hasn’t been as easy as it usually is. It has been rough and tough and challenging. But all through you have been on my mind. And I know that often it is grief, not glee that brings out the best in us.

    I hope I’ll get to write about all these things, one after the other, and share my writing with you.

    In any case, I thank God for being there for me through it all.

    I thank Him for

    1. The hostages that made it out alive and. Eliot Prior the brave four year old boy that stood up to a bad man with a gun. He got a bar of chocolate and freedom.

    2. Afetsi Awoonor, that he is hurt but alive and recovering. My prayers are with you.

    3. My new laptop, Sam. (Though I can’t quite remember how to type on a keyboard and sometimes I touch and tap the screen. (x_x)

    4. The new opportunities emerging everyday and the painful lesson learnt.

    5. That I could give towards the emergency, and I have gotten a third of the money back already. *Azonto*

    6. I am just doing the vote scouting once, some people do thing for a living. Phew!

    7. I learnt never to jump into a tging unprepared.

    8. I have gained many new friends and followers and fans.

    9. I am still here; and where there is life, there is hope. Hallelu!

    Going forward, I hope to be more faithful, +/- return to the 3 posts a week thing. I don’t know for certain, yet. What I do know is that I truly appreciate you and you are the best blog readers in the galaxy. Thank you for choosing to read me.

    ^

    ^

    ^
    🙂 How have you been? What has been on your mind? Please share with us in the comments (or privately email/Twitter).

    And please share this as widely as you can. Thank you. God bless you.

  • Splinters Of Glass In A Bleeding Heart.

    Hmmmmggh!

    Where do I begin? With an apology, I haven’t posted as often as I should. I have a bag of excuses for this:

  • 1. The Westgate attacks shocked my fingers to stone.

    2. Prof Kofi Awoonor’s Death shot me into mourning.

    3. My Samsung Tab has gone into coma (read possible death).

    4. I missed another set of deadlines (Again?! Yes. Again).

    5. Unforeseen emergencies arrived and scrambled my budget.

    6. I have been scouting for 1M votes for my clients.

    7. I lost an election.

    8. I lost a friend.

    So there, it hasn’t been as easy as it usually is. It has been rough and tough and challenging. But all through you have been on my mind. And I know that often it is grief, not glee that brings out the best in us.

    I hope I’ll get to write about all these things, one after the other, and share my writing with you.

    In any case, I thank God for being there for me through it all.

    I thank Him for

    1. The hostages that made it out alive and. Eliot Prior the brave four year old boy that stood up to a bad man with a gun. He got a bar of chocolate and was let go .

    2. Afetsi Awoonor, that he is hurt but alive and recovering. My prayers are with you.

    3. My new laptop, Sam. (Though I can’t quite remember how to type on a keyboard and sometimes I touch and tap the screen. (x_x)

    4. The new opportunities emerging everyday and the painful lesson learnt.

    5. That I could give towards the emergency, and I have gotten a third of the money back already. *Azonto*

    6. I am just doing the vote scouting once, some people do thing for a living. Phew!

    7. I learnt never to jump into a tging unprepared.

    8. I have gained many new friends and followers and fans.

    9. I am still here; and where there is life, there is hope. Hallelu!

    Going forward, I hope to be more faithful, +/- return to the 3 posts a week thing. I don’t know for certain, yet. What I do know is that I truly appreciate you and you are the best blog readers in the galaxy. Thank you for choosing to read me.

    ^

    ^

    ^
    🙂 How have you been? What has been on your mind? Please share with us in the comments (or privately email/Twitter).

    And please share this as widely as you can. Thank you. God bless you.

  • Split

    We went out together. She was looking nice in black sneakers and a green jacket. I was my usual unkempt self in brown knickers and flip flops. We wanted to get a little fresh air, explore the area, do something new…

    I held her hand. She looked up to me and smiled.
    “A kobo for your thoughts.”

    I smiled back and handed her a coin.
    “I give you 50, now tell me 49 of yours.”

    “I think you have big ears and you are the quirkiest person I have ever met.”

    I didn’t know how to feel. “Really 47 more. Or you have to give me change.” None of us had seen a 1kobo coin in decades. I got the 50kobo coin when I went to a Free Trade Zone.

    “Nonsense. Let’s race, last to the Indian pear tree, piggy-backs the other!” She was off like a bolt.

    Then it hit her. A motor bike hit her so hard she flew into the gutter. The driver ran off and I was there , carrying her out of the debris. Trying to stop the bleeding with my hanky. Telling myself I was dreaming. making phone calls and screaming.

    She stopped breathing before Oscar could rush us to the hospital.

    We left home together. I came back widowed.

    Just A Peck

    image

    Your lips brush my cheek, leave memories sweet.
    Your eyes look in mine, suspend gravity, time.
    Your fingers trace a path of fire down my arms
    My eyes are closed but you linger on,
    A scent, strong and tender like sunlight kissed flowers
    Or wood steeped in gin.
    A taste, like apples and buttermint,
    A sound, words we couldn’t say
    A weight, hopes turning to pain,
    Why is abundance fond of shame?
    Why are there floods and deserts?
    Why do I have just a peck?
    While that woman gets your neck?