Traditionally woven

Unwrinkle your nose, shit is perfectly edible and might be eaten at some point.

The choice of how to eat it is what’s more important you see, for though it is well known that shit can simply be eaten with one’s bare unwashed hands, shit can also be eaten properly with a fork and knife. Even with chopsticks, for the more adventurous.

Yes, some sit down to devour the pungent faecal mass with such polished table manners, one would imagine it were a three course meal at a cordon bleu restaurant, with the stinky shit artfully plated on fine china, silverware laid atop folded napkins, steamed hand towels and fine linen tablecloth.

The housemaid is pregnant.  ‘But that’s how men are, they are all like that’.  Resigned acceptance or perhaps aloof indifference.

So, with a knife she cuts into the sizzling shit and guides the fork into her mouth, then washes it down with diarrhoeic champagne bubbling with a most peculiar breed of shame; the sort that another’s embarrassment imposes on one.

‘What would people say?’ To the casual observer, she’s relishing her feast. To herself, with no small measure of compromise, she says Hmm this isn’t half as bad as it appears, in fact it leaves a sweet tangy after-taste if I push it to the back of my throat then swallow quickly without chewing.  An acquired taste of sorts.

Sewing Asooke 1

In defining shit, need anyone be reminded of the fact that it decomposes? When exposed in the open, it breaks down till all that remains is grains of dirt that eventually blend with the earth.

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Pee-shaoon!

Pink gun love

If I had on my posh ajebutter hat,  I’d have titled this post “Bang-Bang” mimicking the sound of a gun expelling bullets.

The tragic news of senseless killings, regardless of where it happens, always touches me deeply. I empathise with those caught in the crossfire of thoughts within another person’s disturbed mind and sympathise with their loved ones.  Everyone is entitled to the right to die a more dignified death.

Recently, I was surprised to learn that a man responsible for mass shootings in the US simply walked into a licensed store and purchased two guns with the casual ease of buying Bazooka bubble gum.

I wondered, what would be the motive for purchasing a gun? What else could guns possibly be used for? So, to give those who make lax regulations that piggyback on the second amendment the benefit of the doubt, I made a list of possible alternatives outside of firing and killing:

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I’m not giving up on you

At first glance, certain events seem irredeemable, absolutely down the drains of annihilation and beyond the grasp of salvation. One might wish and wish with all their might, but once past that finish line of destruction some things remain irreversible you see.

One example that comes to mind is preparing ògì corn pap in a pot that is atop a stove, and stirring absentmindedly until alas the pudding thickens, inadvertently setting into wobbly èko. Rapidly stirring in a futile attempt to salvage the situation only condemns it further, deeper into to its solid state, because èko will never revert to flowy pap. Q.E.D.

Still on the topic of cooking, as I find that quite a number of culinary mistakes have a way of being stubbornly unresponsive even after being gently cajoled back to the path of purposefulness, overly-salty rice is another example.  How does one un-salt rice that’s bordering on becoming quite like Lot’s disobedient wife?  A lost cause, really.

Likewise, tears that have begun to run down one’s face.  One can’t un-cry those, so might as well have a good cry, ruined mascara or not, puzzled/alarmed spectators be damned.

In staying the course of bodily emissions, one cannot not add farts to this list, for a fart that’s been let out cannot be tidily tucked back in.  So, one might as well allow the offended others marinate in one’s own offensive essence.

Drawing (5)

And whilst magnanimously permitting them to do so, one must have the requisite self-righteous facial expression in place, arranging one’s mug into an almost bored look as though one is oh so above the mortal act of emitting gases from the putrefied remains of digested food within their own bowels.

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Hoping for Hope

Hope

I was seventeen when I wrote my first poem “A Suicide Note”.  In that sad way that one leaves behind bits of themselves in the whirlwind of moving houses or cities, it got forgotten, not unfastened from my wardrobe door.  Like memories, possessions too get caught in the haze of transitions.

Still, I remember most of it exactly as it was first written-

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Debating about debates

For four days every month since I “became a woman” at the age of eleven,  my crampy discomfort coerces me into wishing I were male and afterwards I continue to take delight in the complexities that make me female. At least until the next time, next month.

I’ve regarded the many heated debates about female-male equality/equity with mixed feelings on the one hand and detachment on the other hand. Would it be considered utterly flippant if I was sincere enough to admit that sometimes I couldn’t care less about feminism?  Quite simply, I am mostly concerned about being treated fairly compared to the next person, whether male or female, with or without a penis. Period. (this reminds me of crampy discomforts).

Oju Zipped mouth

Recently, I read an article, and in it the Nigerian writer articulately expressed their displeasure at the use of an all-white cast in a particular Hollywood film. Their main grouse was that the black race was not represented, which to them ranked even lower on the Unfairness scale than being represented inaccurately. Their argument was that the whole thing reeked of lack of diversity.

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Valid

Maxine W

To the woman who crashed into my car with the force of a wrecking ball a week ago,

My car was stationary as it was impossible to inch forward. We were both stuck in unyielding peak hour traffic, yet your excuse was that you thought I was moving. In plain speak, you took your eyes off the immobile car in front of you and accelerated as if you were cruising along the highway on a Sunday.

My smouldering anger at you was valid, not because of what it would cost me at the auto body shop but because what you did was entirely avoidable.  Mindlessly, you told me “This is Nigeria” when I crossly advised you to be more careful in the future.  I hope you find yourself in many Nigerias and as you drive daily, may your path be richly coloured with the green-white-greens.

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