love

Riposte: To Catch A Fly . . . Again

~ livelytwist ~ 38 Comments

aging

 

Ife Nihinlola’s article follows from last week’s dialogue. The question is: when it comes to romance, does age really matter?

 

Riposte: To Catch A Fly . . . Again

“Hey, someone did not sleep well today. So are we celebrating?”

“Celebrating what? See, we have work to do this morning, let’s just focus on that.”

“Wow. Did she curve you that badly?”

“No one curved anyone, okay? I’ve not even asked her anything yet.”

“Okay. This is becoming a problem. Talk to me. Is this psychological?”

“How do you feel about marrying someone older than you?”

“I see what is happening here. How old is she?”

“Answer my question first. Would you have married your wife if she was older than you?”

“Of course I would. She’s a great woman. Age is just a number, you know?”

“What if that number is thirty-five?”

“Ermmm, are we talking about the same person you showed me her picture on your phone?”

“Yes. And this universe is a cruel one. Just last week, I watched this thing on Al Jazeera about women who tried to get pregnant later in life . . .”

“Slow down, slow down. Now you’re thinking of kids.”

“My friend, focus. I’m talking about something I watched and how that was all I could think of when I heard her age. Do you know women are often advised to freeze their eggs when they’re young so they can have better chances of conception later in life?”

“What are you talking about? Who wants to freeze eggs in Nigeria? All I want to know is what went down between you two yesterday.”

“There’s actually nothing to know. All that happened is that I heard her age and my brain hasn’t stopped doing calculations ever since. Do you know she actually thought I was thirty-eight?”

“You’ll soon be thirty-eight and single at this rate. So what did you guys do when you found out your ages? This is actually good you know—knowing this early so you can get the awkwardness out-of-the-way?”

“How is this a good thing? I’m actually trying to move on right now. That’s the goal of the next two weeks.”

“But she has great genes sha o. That is how I want my wife to look at thirty-five. You know, one of my aunties gave birth to her first son at forty last year, and he’s a very healthy boy. Very healthy.”

“What are you saying, this man? You think I should go ahead?”

“I’m not saying anything, but at least take her out on a date, just one date to make up for all the seminars you’ve made her endure.”

“Isn’t that stringing her along? Because I don’t see how she is even interested in me anymore. You should have seen her face when she realized I was twenty-nine. It was like she wanted to faint.”

“Doesn’t mean she still won’t appreciate you making an effort. Let me tell you something about women: no matter how old they get, they still appreciate a guy treating them decently.”

“So you get married now and suddenly become a girl whisperer?”

“Trust me on this one. I know it because I read my wife’s WhatsApp. You should see how much they rate young men who know how old they are and still pay them attention like they’re twenty-one year olds.”

“It won’t be bad to take her out on a date sha. You know she likes Sade too.”

“What is my own with whether she likes Sade or Emile Sande. All I know is that you should call her now and ask her out on the way you should have done yesterday.”

“Okay Sensei.”

“And put it on speaker; there’s no one in this office yet.”

“Yes Sensei.”

***

 “Hello. Hello? Hello?”

“Hello, can you hear me? It’s me.”

“Of course Junior, I know it’s you. Ha ha ha! I hope you made it home before your curfew last ni—”

 ***

 “Why did you cut the call?”

“I . . .I—”

“Never mind, Did she just call you junior? My God. Wife this woman abeg.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can, and you will. You’re going to call her again and ask her out properly and live happily ever after. That’s a fact. I’m going to my cubicle.”

 

©Ife Nihinlola 2016 @ IfeOluwa’s Rambles

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2016

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Love is Bridging the Gulf

~ livelytwist ~ 43 Comments

African proverb

My grandmother was a darker smaller version of my mum. Parents do not resemble their children. It is the other way round, but that is how I keep my memory of her alive—in my mother’s strong arms, I see hers, ready to cradle the world. My mother tells me she was the daughter of a prince, who thought it a waste of time for her to acquire formal education and that she ran away from her first marriage due to harsh treatment from her husband.

She was kind. She only spoke her dialect and Pidgin English. I could neither speak nor understand her dialect. Her pidgin was the Warri-Sapele variety, which was difficult for me to understand and I barely spoke pidgin. Her eyes told me she had more to say than the little she did. She must have felt even more frustrated than I did; harbouring experience she could not transfer.

The conversations we managed to have, centred on her concerns that I could not speak her dialect. She would ask worry etched on her face, about what I would do when the war starts. I had heard about the Nigerian Civil War just as I had heard of World War 1 and 2, events in history, far from my reality. In her broken English, she would tell me how soldiers used language to determine if you were on the Nigerian or Biafran side. Those who could not speak their language were at the mercy of the soldiers.

Her stories did not motivate me to learn her dialect. I asked my parents where they had been during the war. “In Lagos,” my mum and dad answered respectively, and I filled in the blanks, “far from the war.” It showed in the priorities my parents chose for my life.

But those who have seen war speak of it with tremor in their voice. Does memory not erase the boom boom of falling bombs or the tikatikatikatika of machine gun rounds?

One time, she came to my university campus. Armed with my name and address she left her home in Sapele to visit me. When the driver who brought her came to call me, I hurried outside not believing. I met her smiling, and I loved her for taking a chance that she would find her eighteen-year old granddaughter in school on a Saturday evening.

“I bring fish for you,” she said, holding out some plastic bags.

Back at my apartment, we unpacked fish, plantain, spices, palm oil, yam, pepper. How could I tell her that I did not cook; did not really know how, especially did not know what to do with smoked fish and palm oil? That the gas cooker in my kitchen sat bemoaning its uselessness. That I nodded and said, “Mmm mmm,” to my mother whenever at the beginning of a new semester she admonished me not to set the kitchen on fire. That I was liable to throw the fish away because it ‘smelled’ and would go bad under my watch.

I thanked her instead. I did not want her to ask me what I would do when war broke out and I could not cook.

We sat in my room. She sipped a soft drink because I had nothing else to offer and because she said, “No, no,” when I wanted to go out and buy food. The silence made me restless and I longed to fill it, but you can only ask, “How your body? Home people? Sapele?” once.

She seemed content to look at me. Maybe I reminded her of her daughter. After a long time in which I started feeling uncomfortable and wished she would go before my friends came along, she broached the subject of language and war.

I let my silence speak for me.

After she lost her vitality, she came to live with us. Sometimes she would talk to no one in particular; it was no longer surprising to find her in her room alone, chatting. My mother made sure she was always within eye view because she could wander off into the sunset, her legs possessing an agility incongruent with the rest of her. By then, I was hardly home and when I was, I retreated to my world of youthful infallibility, busy with things I have no recollection of.

When she died, I felt the general sorrow, which accompanies loss of human life, and the particular sorrow that haunts a child who watches her mother grieve.

I am thinking of my grandmother because as I embark on a new series on motherhood and invite people to tell their stories, I wonder about the blank spaces in her life, which I cannot fill. I realize I did not do enough to bridge the gulf between us; there are languages other than pidgin and her dialect. My active presence is a language I denied her.

 

In loving memory of Princess Ajoritse-Debi Atsemudiara Etchie.

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2016

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Bluetooth Lottery

~ livelytwist ~ 57 Comments

Bluetrooth Lottery

As the intercity train from Schiphol arrives at Leiden Central, we shuffle and readjust positions until we are standing on either side of the train doors. The twin doors heave and open with a sigh, letting rush-hour passengers out via the narrow aisle we’ve created. Once the last passenger gets off, we dash for the two cabins on the right. Each passenger holds the swinging glass cabin door for the next to catch as though passing the baton in a relay race, a perfunctory smile or nod in place.

I always sit in the upper deck. After I settle into my seat, my phone beeps. Martijn wants to share a song via Bluetooth. I crane forward and backward, rising from my chair, to catch a view of Martijn. Most people in the thirty-two-seater cabin have their eyes glued to the Metro newspaper, a tablet, or a smart phone. A few chat while one sips coffee from a paper cup. Our eyes meet and he smiles first.

This tall man with close-cut hair wearing blue jeans and brown lace-up shoes is a regular who waits for the train in outlier territory, at the end of Platform 4, way past the Kiosk shop. His glasses add seriousness to his good looks and he always has earplugs on. So, Martijn is his name.

I pair my phone with his and accept the song. Roy Orbison’s Oh Pretty Woman, fills my ears. I contain my laughter, cupping my lips with my hands and sneak another peek at Martijn. He is busy with his phone.

At Den Haag, passengers crowd the stairs leading down the doors. We sway left and right, holding the banister or resting on walls, as the train changes tracks to rest on Platform 8. On the platform and in the main hall, passengers move like a colony of soldier ants defending capitalism. I walk with unhurried steps to give Martijn a chance, but his long strides overtake mine as he rushes to chip out with his card.

On Tuesday, I check my phone several times and my disappointment mounts as we approach Den Haag. Since Martijn is sitting on the left side of the train like me, it is fruitless desperation to peep through the aisle. When we disembark, his long strides overtake mine just like yesterday.

On Wednesday, I arrive Platform 4 early, but he does not. He slips into the train seconds before the doors close and walks past our cabin to the next because it is full. I sigh and continue looking out the window. My phone startles me. Martijn has sent me 3 Doors Down’s, Here Without You. I smile and wonder about the range of Bluetooth technology before losing myself in the lyrics.

 

“Which song today?” my coworkers ask after I arrive at the office.

It is our game. Martijn has been serenading me for six days. The day I wore my red coat, they guessed, Chris de Burgh’s Lady in Red. My burgeoning romance story doesn’t impress all.

“Aren’t you afraid of viruses and him stealing your information?”

“If you have the latest Android update, you’re safe,” another colleague counters.

We google the answer and I continue accepting songs from Martijn.

 

Martijn’s ritual is unchanged. He gives a perfunctory nod at the cabin door if I am behind him and hurries away after we disembark.

 

“This is maddening!” a coworker declares.

“What kind of clown doesn’t speak to a girl?” another shakes his head.

“A shy one; a Dutch guy,” I reply.

 

One evening, after I get off the train on my return journey, someone calls my name, “Angela.”

I turn, “Do I know you?”

“I’m Martijn.”

I leave his hand hanging as my mind struggles to do the math. I feel as if all but the last number of my lottery ticket has been called and when the last number is announced, it is a two instead of my three.

“Martijn?”

“Yes.” He smiles, revealing gap teeth. He is a couple of inches taller than I am, a blur on our section of the platform.

“It w . . . was you?” Disappointment makes my voice husky.

“May I buy you coffee?” He points to the Kiosk shop.

It is the least I can do. “Sure,” I say still subtracting, adding, and rewinding the lottery winner announcement.

We sit on a bench outside the shop, letting the paper cups warm our hands and watching people chip out or in. The sum doesn’t make sense.

“But . . . how did you know my name . . . my phone?”

“I checked for discoverable devices, took a stab in the dark, and watched you plug your headphones.”

He laughs. His chest and belly join his face. I do not.

“Life is funny,” he begins.

Yes, and here I am sitting with the real Martijn. I almost won the lottery!

“We spend so much time chasing what’s ahead, when we could just look back.”

I don’t have time for pop psychology. I take a sip of my coffee and calculate the number of sips it will take to finish. Lottery is a game of chance, a thrill-seeker’s fantasy.

“Like you,” he gestures with his cup, “You’re reaching for someone; meanwhile, he’s probably reaching for someone else—”

“Pardon?”

“Tall, handsome guy on the train . . .”

My cheeks burn. I dislike his tone and express it with mine. “Your point being?”

“Turn around and take a chance on who’s pursuing you instead of pursuing elusive happiness.” His eyes dance like flames.

Does he think life is like Lotto? Maybe it is. A search for, which lottery numbers come up the most, fetches 50 million results under one minute.

I sigh. “You shouldn’t send stuff to strangers.”

“But you liked my songs—”

“I was curious . . .” I look at my boots. “You invaded my privacy.”

“No, you let me in; you accepted my songs.”

I watch the sky exchange hues, blue for pale orange and then reddish-orange. Streetlights come on and trains whizz past. On the train platforms, crowds thin out. The probability of picking a single correct number in Lotto depends on how many balls have already been chosen.

“Angela? Angela . . . here’s a free tip, turn off your Bluetooth and people will leave you alone!” He gets up and throws his coffee in the bin. “Ready?”

I look ahead until I hear his footfalls fade.

In the morning, I turn off my Bluetooth and then turn it on just before I enter the train. People play the lottery in the irrational hope of winning something. Nothing suspends logic and inspires hope and dreams like the love lottery.

I look around, but Martijn is not in my cabin. I want to go to the next cabin to check, but I’m afraid of losing my seat.

The first time my phone beeps, it’s an email notification. The second time, it’s a WhatsApp message. The third time, Martijn wants to share a song via Bluetooth. I wonder about the range of Bluetooth technology as strains of Lionel Richie’s, Hello is it me you’re looking for, fill my ears.

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2015

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh Dolly

~ livelytwist ~ 23 Comments

OH DOLLY

 

 

My affinity for conspiracy theories ballooned and adopted a sophisticated veneer when I first moved here. In 2012, I sold my lucrative practice and waited for the Mayan apocalypse and the downfall of Facebook and the internet to no avail. Reading the Conspiracy Times halted my dejection. Through the mag, I joined a classified mission.

After three years of training, it was time to recruit others. I asked Tyrone to help me set up a Facebook account. He arrived one October day, wearing a navy hoodie with UNLV emblazoned on it.

“Was it easy making your way here?” I asked as I led him to the study.

“Why do you live in this wasteland, surrounded by solar panels? He sighed, “This is beyond frugal, man.”

“UFO sightings, global warming. It is going downhill faster than we expect—”

“Bullshit!”

The teak bookshelf in the corner housed the latest statistics, which proved my point. But I needed my Facebook account more than I need to be right.

“A coat of paint never hurt anyone.” He grumbled and pulled his seat closer to the table. “Choose a password; think alphanumeric.”

“Done.”

“Time to connect to people you know. Friend me.”

“What?”

He showed me how to send a friend request.

“Okay. Let’s hook you up with old friends—”

“But I haven’t kept in touch—”

“That’s what Facebook’s for.”

I searched for friends and sent requests. I was excited when my requests were accepted and I messaged some buddies from long ago.

We took a break on the porch, eating sandwiches and swigging from cans of root beer. I asked him about the layoffs in his company since the merger.

He shrugged. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.” He sprang from the bannister and the porch creaked. “What’s that,” he pointed.

“Satellite dish; they track Martian invasions—”

He shook his head. “Let’s go inside and connect you with some babes!”

I cleared our paper plates. He had created an uneven circular map on the bread slices leaving the bread crusts bereft. Earthlings were so wasteful.

Back in the study, he asked, “Names please?” and cracked his knuckles.

I looked away. “Just show me other things I can do.”

He whistled. “You don’t? . . . For your sake, I hope there are babes in your Mars.”

How could I explain transmutation? The world wasn’t ready for us yet. I hoped to build a small community on Facebook. I pointed to the screen.

“Oh that, look . . . find people you know. . . You can have up to 3000 or 5000 friends, I’m not sure—”

“I don’t want many friends.”

“This is Facebook. You don’t know what you want. Just add all the good-looking people . . .”

I examined each photo and then checked out the Timeline.

“You are too slow. A snail would have reached Utah and back!”

He took over from me and began to add friends at random. His definition of good-looking was at variance with mine. I winced.

“Wait a sec . . .” I placed my hands over his to stop the mouse.

“What?”

“That’s Dolapo!”

“Who’s she?”

“She . . . she . . .”

His impatience ruled. “Okay, I’ve added her.” And he continued adding. My mind journeyed back. What if?

He patted my back as he left, “You’re all set now. Facebook can be quite addictive. Maybe it’s what a hermit needs. ”

I thanked him and as soon as he drove off, I raced to Dolapo. Nothing on her Timeline indicated that she was married. She was still very pretty. But what was with her name, Yvonne Smith?

I kept checking to see if she’d accepted my friend request, reminding myself that I had joined Facebook to seek out fellow believers. The truth was, I had walked into Dolapo’s magnetic field and become her prisoner. She rewarded my two-week devotion by confirming my friend request. I wrote a message and deleted it.

I went to bed, but threw the covers after four hours of false sleep attempts.  She was online. My heart strained against its cage as I typed.

Hi

Hi there!

Dolapo? Is that Dolapo?

I am the artist formerly known as Dolapo. I’m called Yvonne now.

Are you related to Prince… who discovered the extraterrestrial bases on the moon?

???

Are you?

My performance gives me visibility and I accept many people as friends. No one has called me D for years. How are we connected?

Can’t you see my name?

I can, but it doesn’t ring any bells . . .

You’ve forgotten me so soon?

Pls I meet many people in my line of work…

Can’t you see my profile picture?

 

I waited. She had seen my message, but failed to reply. So, I went to bed and dreamt about asteroids colliding with the earth. A group of us from the classified mission worked with friendly aliens to rescue people. I scooped Dolapo in my arms and carried her to safety. She kissed me and called me her hero. 

The next day, I kept checking to see if she was online. The minute she was, I messaged her.

 Hi

Hi there? Dolapo?

It’s me David. Have I mistaken you for someone else? Is this not Dolapo? Dolapo Smith? Tani’s sister?


Her silence stung. I carried hope like deflated balloons. I still had not sought out other believers on Facebook. Two full days passed before her response came.

Hi David, please remind me again how we’re connected…

My emotions unsettled me. Love was corrosive, reversing the effects of transmutation. But how could I let this opportunity pass? My hands trembled as I typed.

UI … set of ‘89


When she responded minutes later, I was still sitting in my study panting like a dog.

Ah, that was over 20 years ago. Please provide some context.

What more context do you want? Haven’t you seen my profile picture?

Is that how you looked 20 years ago?

Give me your number, let me call and tease you …

 

She didn’t respond. My joke had fallen flat. I was wondering how to remedy the situation, when I saw notification for a new message. I clicked greedily. She had sent a photo.
internet meme
Who did she think she was? A mere Earthling! 

Dolapo, I used to visit you in your hostel on campus. And during the holidays, I would buy suya and bring to your house in Ibadan.

David, thanks but I don’t remember.

What do you mean, you don’t remember? A man who came to your room every day and to your house many times? So all this while, I wasn’t even existing for you?

David, have a nice life, I’m out.

Look Dolapo or Yvonne or artist, a man can’t be after a girl for twenty-six years. Enough is enough. You too have a nice life!

 

I deactivated my Facebook account and picked up the latest copy of Conspiracy Times. The cover stole my attention: Uncovered D-Day 2016. I scanned the article, a familiar excitement racing through my veins. I pulled the receptor from the bookshelf and set it on the table. Then I tinkered with the transmitter. It took a while, but I found the frequency.

I ran outside and stood in the force field created by the satellite dishes. The dot of light in the black sky grew bigger. The grass swayed and plants shook. My legs quivered as the flying saucer hovered above. The blood moon prediction was a hoax, but 2016 was sure. Despite NASA’s denials, the pole shift had started.

I smiled, closed my eyes, and waited for the pull. That will show Mark Zuckerberg and Google and Dolapo. Yes!

The phosphorescent beam penetrated my being. I held my breath for as long as I could. My reflection in the giant eye of the alien who steered the saucer, shocked me. The outline of my human heart appeared first and then throbbed like a living thing. The verdict came through the speakers of the spacecraft. 

Abort Mission. All Systems Abort Mission.
Love Spell. Transmutation Unaccomplished.

The saucer rose and receded, twinkling in the night sky. I fell on the ground and cried, “Oh Dolly!”

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2015

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 

Small Spaces

~ livelytwist ~ 31 Comments

SMALL

 

You pointed at the students outside the library and complained their chatter rose and filled the apartment like steam. I said the apartment had charm but did not say what we knew; you would not be around to hear the noise during the day. I swept my arm at the blue wall-to-wall carpet that flowed like an endless sea and goaded you to take in the view of the lake.

“It’s doable,” I whispered.

“But you don’t have a job . . .”

Those six words imprisoned my mouth.

Therefore, we rented the other apartment. The front door opened into the living area, which opened into the kitchen, which opened into the sleeping area. The bathroom was an afterthought of clever masonry, tacked to the right wall of the sleeping area and cordoned off with a curtain that reminded you of Joseph’s coat of many colours.

We squashed our belongings into the interstices the landlord called rooms, but we could not squeeze our personalities past each other. When I turned, I bumped into you. When you turned, you bumped into me. And so a hurricane brewed.

The problem with your invitation to that argument was not our disparate points of view, but my overwhelming desire to win at something, anything, and the knowledge that I could. You bade me sit, so that neither of us had comparative height advantage.

We had agreed that we would always start with bad news and end on a high note by delivering good news last. But you reversed the order. I hardly heard your praise because it was as short as a one-minute foreplay. Your accusations were long and resembled the leading questions attorneys ask in American soaps, stunning the defendant and then finishing with, no further questions, Your Honour.

I adjusted my frame on the narrow bed, one of two pushed together. Small spaces should have sparked chemistry not tension between us. Was it too late? I rehearsed my new strategy: be quiet, don’t try to win, acquiesce, and retreat. No matter what happens, do not win this argument.

“On the charge of not rinsing my teacup and plate after coffee and donut, I plead guilty Your Honour.” I smiled, “I am very sorry.”

I saw the dilemma in your eyes. You had not expected to win in this manner, closing arguments defused. So, I pled with you, “Let it go.”

Instead, you looked at the window, which we opened with fear because the broken glass mocked the sellotape that held it in place. You stood and stabbed me in the thighs and buttocks but excess flesh dulled your blade. Then you selected a garasuki knife, those six words, which imprisoned my mouth, and plunged it into my heart, twisting for good measure.

I reacted from the gut. My words were like arrows with poisoned tips. They were so many your shield gradually slipped. Then weak and bleeding, we both staggered to the ground.

“Words matter. You should know,” you coughed and spat.

I knew. My six hundred unpublished pages lay on the table.

“Bloody hell! No one should attend an argument after only three hours of sleep, two coffees, and paracetamol,” I gasped.

You laughed and I laughed.

But that summer, for the first time, you only paid your share of the rent.  Then you moved to the first-floor apartment opposite the library. The one you said we could not afford.

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2015

 

Photo credit: Unsplash/ https://pixabay.com/en/alley-pavement-houses-narrow-urban-336539/

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

An Unwanted Miracle

~ livelytwist ~ 52 Comments

 

unwanted miracle

After she heard the prognosis, Mirembe obsessed over death, kindling a comfortable friendship. Each day, life bled out of her and the sterile white room adorned with monitors, pumps, and tubes became her new home. The secret she had kept for twenty-five years bounced in her chest and flirted with her tongue like fireflies in flight.

Mirembe wanted to share her secret before her speech slurred and she no longer recognized the people who came and went, like the nurse who lifted her and turned her from side to side. Tattoos of hideous things peeked from underneath his short sleeve, but she was too tired to care. Another nurse scurried around the room, busy with everything but eye contact as if she was afraid of catching death.

One afternoon Mirembe looked at the nurse and opened her mouth. She searched her head for his name while her heart worked twice as hard to quiet her panic. He quizzed his brow when she clutched his arm with weak strength.

“Dementia,” she blurted.

He nodded, but she knew he did not understand. It was time. “Any day now,” the doctor had said.

That evening, Ntare took her hand, smoothing his thumb over her veins. His touch was gentle for one so big. Husband and only child hushed her when she coughed and tried to begin.

Mugisha said, “Easy mum. Easy.”

When Mirembe looked at her son, her resolve fled. Would she not break his heart? Was the secret not the reason success had eluded him, causing him to flit from thing to thing like one who had no centre? His parent’s money meant he could continue to search for himself ad infinitum. Yes, it was her duty to bring closure.

And Ntare, her partner, lover, companion, and friend, what would it do to him? Ntare who had never doubted his place in the world, carved on the globe with his sure hands. No, she had forgiven him for past indiscretions. She was not seeking revenge.

Mirembe had read that when people are dying, dying being a present continuous activity, they have a compulsion to tell all. She concluded that in death, absolution is final; secrets lie stripped of power. Secrets are useless in the place where the dead go. They only retain value on earth.

“Ntare, you know that I love you?”

He answered with his eyes, his thumb still caressing her veins.

“Mugisha—”

“Easy mum, easy.”

Although Mirembe had acted this script out before, she could not find her voice. She flitted from topic to topic like fireflies in flight—morality, justice, forgiveness, impulses, wrong decisions, redemption. Dying conferred privileges. They let her hold the mic without betraying their impatience. When she could not arrive at her centre in spite of her rigmarole, she let the words escape in a whisper.

“Ntare, Mugisha is not your son. Mugisha, Ntare is not your father.”

What followed transpired quickly. Mirembe watched them, Ntare, Mugisha, and herself with detachment. Mugisha’s insistent, “Then who? Who mum?” brought her back. But her answer seemed to come from a distant place.

“Didn’t really know him . . . Germany. One evening . . .  long a . . .”

Frustration, anger, disbelief, and hate, bristled and circled the room like aeroplanes stacked in a holding pattern. However, dying put her in cruise control shielding her from all of them. Her eyelids began to close and she refused to fight.

Mirembe awoke with life creeping in her bones and looked around. “Am I in Heaven?”

The white wall, monitors, pumps, and tubes replied.

“It’s a miracle!” the doctor later proclaimed.

One by one, sometimes in twos, and other times in threes, doctors came to examine her. Once a large sea of white came. One peered over her charts, while the others took notes.

She tried to make the days go slowly by calling attention to pain in different parts of her body.

“Psychosomatic,” the doctor waved away her concerns as he surveyed another batch of test results.

The days kept racing. The nurse now wanted to hold her gaze, but Mirembe had forgotten her name and the nurse with tattooed arms had stopped coming. Maybe the novelty of her miracle wore off or they needed the room, one morning too soon, they shooed her warmly into the angry arms of Ntare and Mugisha.

Mirembe sat in the living room in the home they had built, kneading her fingers in her palm. Could one secret mixed into the foundation fracture concrete? Oh, death was so far away.

“Mum, I can’t believe you lied to me. You’re just a bloody hypocrite!”

“Where are you going?” Mirembe asked.

“I don’t know!” Mugisha brushed past Ntare to the front door and then out into the hot afternoon, leaving the door wide open.

“Ntare . . . Ntare, please go after him. Don’t let him go.”

Ntare did not move. “You should have left things the way they were.” His eyes were cold.

Then Ntare turned and was gone. He did not hear Mirembe say, “Wait.” He did not hear her say, “I love you.”

She picked up her phone.

“Dr Phil? Yes—yes, it’s me. Please tell me, I mean explain it to me again, why did I not die?”

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2015

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 

Heat

~ livelytwist ~ 24 Comments

Heat

He stared at it for a long time. But when he looked up at the huge round clock, incongruous analogue, mocking the digital revolution below, only seven minutes had elapsed.

Now that the man had finished reading the label on it and his son had stopped pushing his face, chin first towards it, his daughter refused to go. The girl stood in front of it, revelling in the way it made her t-shirt crease and lean into her chest, her short sleeves shaking and sharing her delight.

“Mieke! Kom op!”

She ignored her father and spoke into it. The sound of her voice breaking and quivering cajoled her brother to let go of his father’s hand and join shoulders with his sister. Their voices trembled together, gibberish to others but holding meaning for them both.

And he remembered what it felt like to have someone whose voice rose and fell in cadence with his.  He should not have let her go.

“Dani!” their father called, securing the box in a tighter embrace before turning and walking away.

He measured the angle formed by tracing the son’s head up to the father’s and down to the daughter’s. An obtuse angle, the geometry of his life. He must have looked at their backs for too long, because when he turned around to move closer to it, two girls were already there. Their legs, as yet, insufficiently kissed by the sun, stretched long from the edge of their bum shorts to their ankles. They wore black flip-flops decorated with neon flowers, which would glow in the dark.

The first girl raised her arms and let her mid-riff enjoy it and although it teased her crop top, it could not lift the blouse higher. The second girl used one hand to plunge her neckline so that it could find more places to affect. They giggled. Then they were gone, as quickly as his youth, hobbling as they shared the weight of the box.

The whirring noise coming from it reminded him why he had come.

“Pardon. Meneer?”

The boy who addressed him wore a red shirt with a name pin on the front pocket. The boy was leading a man with an open collar and rolled-up sleeves to it. He wanted to say he was not done yet, but moved aside instead.

He watched the boy, nineteen perhaps, summer job maybe, gesturing with his hands as he explained what it could do. The man nodded and rubbed his neck. He imagined that this man wearing a striped shirt sat in an office from nine until five, getting up for coffee every hour, and sending emails every other hour. The man’s torso had made peace with that kind of life.

The man must have asked how much and then asked for a discount because the boy told him 50 Euros. The boy said it was the last one but since it had been on display, the man could have it for 45. The man shook his head as if he could bargain on a day like today. The boy suddenly seemed older as he explained capitalism to the man.

“Tomorrow, we will get more stock and sell them for 70 Euros and people will still buy. We could have sold this one, but we needed a demo.”

He saw an opportunity he had not known existed and fingered the money in his pocket. But the man nodded and pushed his glasses up his nose. Then the boy bent down and got to work.

He watched the boy break it in parts and steady the blades before pushing its head into a rectangular carton. He folded the cord in 4 cm strips, securing it with a string. Then the boy hoisted the box and walked to the counter where the man was taking out his credit card.

He swallowed his anger like saliva that gathers in one’s mouth from inactivity. He recalled his last night with her. She had asked him what his plans were, if he was going to drift forever. Her parting words, the patient dog never eats the fattest bone; can’t you be crazy for once, galvanized him to action now.

He dashed to the counter and snatched the box. He made for the door, pushing languid bodies with the box. The alarm sounded but the heat had humbled the security guard in a navy blazer who possessed neither baton nor gun.

Only when he reached his apartment door did he stop looking back. Inside, the open windows yawned and wished for something to do. Sweat gathered around his neck then slithered to his chest. He opened the box and put the parts together, steadying the blades as he had seen the boy with the red shirt do.

Finished, he admired his work and waited for it. After two minutes, he rechecked the parts and fumbled with the cord. He searched the box, moving his hand from side to side. He let out a deep sigh and banged the wall. Then he dropped on his bed and cursed the heat while his sweat seeped into the hot sheet.

The infrared sensor on its sleek black panel glowed and turned to an eye that grew and grew. Then the boy with the red shirt emerged from the eye. The boy shrugged and gestured with the remote in his hand, “It is the heat; it makes people crazy.”

He blinked and looked away, fear creating tremors in his heart. When he dared to look again, the glow and the boy were gone. He groaned. Was there no more room for analogue in a digital world?

Tomorrow he would return to the shop wearing a baseball cap. Tonight he would wrestle the heat. He picked her wedding invitation from the bed and began to move his hand from side to side, rewarding himself with hot air. He imagined the card was made from steel and black plastic, like the fan on display in the shop.

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2015

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The Conversation

~ livelytwist ~ 41 Comments

 

The Conversation

“Stop! Wait, wait. Na wa. Which conversation are we having? This one or the one we had a few days ago?”

“This one!”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean are you sure? Am I a child? I hate it when you patronize me!”

“Sorry o . . . that was not my intention—”

“As I was saying, so what did you mean when you said what you said about Jimi’s—”

“Ahn ahn, which conversation are we having now?”

“We’re having this one, the one we had a few days ago, and every single one we’ve ever had!”

“Wahala dey—”

“What did you say?”

“I’m listening . . .”

“So what did you mean?”

“I . . . I meant what I said . . .”

“Meaning?”

“Ha, what I said na?”

“Please humour me, elaborate . . .”

“Mehn, okay, I can’t remember what I said.”

“You said that what a woman brings to the table increases her value. That the assets Jimi’s wife brought to the table had diminished comparatively in the last several years. That for women, love and attractiveness were neither here nor there as they placed a higher premium on the combo—love and security but for men an inverse relationship holds—”

“Wow! I said all that?”

“Yes. I mean no . . . the magazine article put it that way, but yeah, in essence, it’s the same sentiment you shared, I guess . . .”

“Which magazine? I can’t remember saying—”

“How can you forget? That night we returned—”

“Okay, okay, if you say so.”

“So what did you mean?”

“Hmmm. Jimi loves his wife and he’s chosen to see other assets beyond what she first had to offer.”

“But she’s . . . she just . . . she doesn’t really take care. . .”

“She’s fat.”

“That’s not politically correct! She’s just on the big side!”

“Okay.”

“You were saying?”

“No, no. . . I’m done. Political correctness stifles conversation, don’t you think?”

“Just say what’s on your mind. It’s not as if you’re giving a TED Talk!”

“So, obviously, a man of his influence and means would be spoilt for options. Though people who’ve done business with him vouch for his integrity as well.”

“You didn’t say this part that day.”

“I’m not a parrot. These are just my thoughts—”

“But you said one of the things that put men off is unattractiveness. That after hooking the guy, some women just stop trying . . .”

“I did?”

“Yes! Remember? When we were dating?”

“That was like what? Years ago?”

“Three and two months to be precise.”

“Elephant mem— hey, where are you going? Why did you put on the light? Turn it off please!”

“I want you to see—”

“See what? Geez—”

“I knew it!”

“What?”

“You think my butt is too flabby!”

“But I didn’t say so!”

“You said geez!”

“Because of the light!”

“But when Patrick said that if he were married to Jimi’s wife, he would’ve taken off, you laughed.”

“Seriously? That’s just a guy thing. He didn’t mean it and we were joking.”

“A very mean joke about a woman who’s had kids. Do you know what having kids does to a woman’s body?”

“Em . . . em, which conversation are we having now?”

“What do you mean? We are just talking! Why do you keep saying, ‘which conversation are we having’?”

“Because—”

“Some women just manage to look great no matter what . . . like Angela. Four kids and she’s still tight. What do you think of Angela?”

“I haven’t thought of her. I have eyes for only you.”

“And Jimi’s wife obviously, since you noticed she’s fat! Are. . . are you listening?”

“Uhuh.”

“You’re sleeping?”

“No.”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“That’s fantastic! We are pregnant! Come here!”

“Not sure . . . I’m late. I’ll buy a kit tomorrow . . .”

“We’ll do it together.”

“Okay, I’d like that.

“Good. Come to bed—”

“See? See? When I walk it just kinda wiggles all over the place!”

“Mmmm hmmm.”

“What?”

“Are you wearing anything under? Turn . . . walk again let me see . . .nice . . .very nice.”

“Gosh! Are you even looking?

“Oh yes! And even if your butt is as wide as Texas and lumpy like dough, I would still love you.”

“Lumpy like dough—”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Oya, please turn off the light and come back to bed.”

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2015

 

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The End of a Series

~ livelytwist ~ 35 Comments

vintage envelope

 

I grew up in a close-knit family, a middle child, disciplined and socialized within the same context as my siblings. Our mannerisms were similar and we shared friends the way we shared hand-me-downs. However, if you had asked us, “What do you think about . . . ?” our views would have differed.

So after I approached nine guys to write this series,  my fear that I would end up with a monologue—each writer parroting the other, was perfectionist-phobia. They were to distil their opinions (in 300 words or less without preaching), about a phrase, think like a man, end up without one. The phrase might be a tongue-in-cheek response to Steve Harvey’s book on what men really think about love, relationships, intimacy, and commitment.

When I told one writer that his submission was controversial and would draw ire, he said in essence, “What do you want readers to do—smile, turn over on their sides, and fall asleep or frown, stay awake, and ponder what they read?” He reminded me of something I had heard, that those who are least like us, have the most to teach us about ourselves.

Maria Popova says that a great story is not about providing information, though it can certainly inform—a great story invites an expansion of understanding, a self-transcendence. More than that, the story plants the seed and makes it impossible to do anything but grow a new understanding—of the world, of our place in it, of ourselves, of some subtle or monumental aspect of existence.

Because I read with an open mind, I embraced each writer’s invitation to stack his opinion against my experience and preference. My beliefs about why I’m here and what follows death as well as my present cultural reality shaped the points of consonance and dissonance I found. The comments showed me mathematics makes sense:  3+6 and 4+5 and 1+8 and 2+7 all equal nine, but not when it comes to the heart. Tomi captures it best: Perhaps love is our different similarity. We love differently, but we love all the same.

The first time I liked a boy whom I thought liked me back, I told a friend. She had acquired a worldly veneer from eavesdropping on the conversations of her many older siblings. Thus her advice, play hard to get, went unchallenged by me. I must have looked like a toy atop the Eiffel Tower because, with no ladder in sight, the boy’s hands hung limp and he left. I suppose the moral of the story is life is art, more fluid than formulaic, and a variable presents an opportunity or a looming threat. As Tola reminds us, embedded in every story are endless possibilities.

It seems everyone wants love and yet, in the words of C.S. Lewis, to love at all is to be vulnerable[;] love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. What to do then? Dela wants the predictability of drama. Ife sighs at the two hunters in the jungle. Samuel unveils a game of thieves; Ifeanyi makes it about egos. Tonwa advocates for less brain and more heart and Seun stresses, a human brain, please! Brian hints at the delicate balance of pursuit and protection: We want to be loved for who we are, but we fear the risk that comes with disrobing to be known.

 

Love slays what we have been that we may be what we were not. – St. Augustine

 

Relationships are oxygen. The post views, likes, comments, and shares, do not lie. If I had any sense I would start a series (written by women), dance like Cinderella, end up with the Prince!

What about you, what do you think?

 

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2015

 

p.s. Thank you Tomi, Ifeanyi, Ife, Dela, Tola, Samuel, Tonwa, Seun, and Brian!

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

Think Like a Man, End up Without One [3]

~ livelytwist ~ 33 Comments

gender

Game of Thieves

In the matter of love, men are thieves and women, treasure chests to be discovered. The thief braves thickets and thistles, his sharp eyes searching for the chest his heart desires. His ears, tuned to pick the jingle of gold coins, help decide which chests are true measures of the treasures within.

As the hunt begins, many chests rely on their bejeweled covering to attract the most skillful and dogged thief. So they stand immobile, waiting to be saved from true loneliness. These ones stick to the ancient wisdom that thieves judge a treasure chest by its cover.

But the woman who thinks like a thief waits not for the bandit of her dreams to steal her heart. She discovers his desires and then entices him, in small steps, to the place of her heart. When the thief’s eyes hit her trail of gold coins, the fires of his desire will burn bright keeping him in blind sight of the trail.

Time soon unwraps the thief in front of an open chest. Not a heap of gold he finds but a flight of gentle steps littered with more coins and precious stones. His curiosity will burn as forest fires. He will plunge in and the chest—hitherto open as a crocodile’s mouth awaiting prey—will then shut tight. The thief will keep descending unaware that his freedom and maybe loyalty to another has been stolen.

Perhaps he will find an abundance of gold, perhaps a nest of scorpions. No matter the find, the woman-thief finally would have caged the man’s heart in her chest as she had planned from the beginning.

© Samuel Okopi @ SamuelOkopi

If a woman doesn’t chase a man a little, she doesn’t love him.  ― E. W. Howe

 

Men think. Women think too much!

Let’s just get right down to the critical issue here, thinking. Men think. Women think too much, quote me on that. It’s not a bad thing until a man has had a single thought and moved on, and a woman is still having several thoughts about his single thought, long after.

Take for instance the following scenario. A young man and his girlfriend are enjoying a hearty meal and each other’s company at a fast food restaurant, when a stunning woman walks past. The man may think one of two things: what she’ll look like naked or what she’ll be like in bed. His girlfriend on the other hand may think many things including several variations of what her man was thinking about some seconds ago.

Paranoia could follow her dangerous thought process. His eyes lingered a little too long. He must like her. He said he likes women with assets and hers are bigger. Meanwhile the man has resumed munching his burger. His girlfriend on the other hand, has moved from paranoia to “casual” interrogation—“She’s very attractive isn’t she?” Wise men know this is a trap and the correct answer for peace to reign is, “I only have eyes for you, dear.” But if he loves you, why worry?

When it comes to love, less brain, more heart, or else a woman may just chase that man away. Men dislike wahala jo!

© Tonwa Anthony @ thecrazynigerian

Don’t be afraid to lose him, because if a man truly loves you, he’s not going anywhere.  ― Steve Harvey

 

A Bad Thing?

Think like a man, end up without one. The question that comes to me is: how do men think? I’m sure we all agree that pop culture doesn’t acknowledge that men even think at all. I mean, you have sayings like, all men are dogs, and memes like, in American football, the helmet was invented almost fifty years after the jock strap. So, why would a woman want to think like a man?

To expect a human being to think in terms of gender or sex is quite limiting. Once, at a friend’s place, I overheard his father telling his six sisters, “Don’t think like women. Think like human beings!” That pretty much sums my opinion on the matter.

I’m a bit uncomfortable with Steve Harvey’s book, Act Like A Lady, Think Like A Man, or at least the title, because it’s misleading. Moreover, the movie didn’t portray women “thinking like men” but women pushing the bar by going the extra mile to understand their men. And I think this is what makes relationships work—understanding the person you’re with.

It’s also better to establish clearly, roles and who-does-what since gender equality is quite the hot button these days. While I have my thoughts on the matter, I strongly believe two captains cannot drive a ship. There has to be one leader. Who says it has to be the man?

So, the quote says, “Think like a man, end up without one.” And I ask, “In today’s world, how is that a bad thing?”

© Seun Odukoya @ SeunOdukoya
Seun is the award-winning author of Saving Dapo

 

Live as though life was created for you. ― Maya Angelou

 

A Thin Line

Sometimes we struggle to find the thin line between being vulnerable and gullible.  We want to be loved for who we are, but we fear the risk that comes with disrobing to be known.  This is the board upon which the proverbial game of love is played.

Because women are more emotionally open than men are (generally speaking), they tend to see inwardly, and then project onto their surroundings. The opposite is true for us. Men are simple. We connect with our surroundings visually, and then project inwardly to process it all. This disconnect causes problems when women seek to understand how men think. We may like at first sight, but we love when we see ourselves in you.

Understanding what initially attracts a man is one thing; but knowing what makes a man fall in love is totally different.  For many women, this is where the need for strategy becomes apparent.  As with any effective strategy, one must think like their opponent. But should hearts be used as pawns? I believe that the game of love should always culminate in both players being free to be themselves without fear of rejection. Herein lies the delicate balance of pursuit and protection.

Secure women who possess values epitomize sexiness and class. There is nothing wrong with “thinking” like a man, as long as you properly defend who you are as a woman.

©Brian Evans @ Wisdom’s Quill

Between what is said and not meant and what is meant and not said, most of love is lost. ― Khalil Gibran

 

 

 

 

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Think Like a Man, End up Without One [2]

~ livelytwist ~ 65 Comments

couple

 

The Guy’s Girl

When Yetunde asked me where to meet up the following day, I didn’t hesitate before suggesting Babs, a sports bar. Calling Babs a ‘sports bar’ was dignifying the seedy, open-air joint in a backstreet in Surulere that sold cheap beer but also screened live football matches. I knew Yetunde wouldn’t have any qualms about hanging out at a beer parlour, surrounded by a crowd of raucous, sweaty, beer-guzzling men. I’d started giving her directions, when she cut in. She knew the place. I wasn’t surprised.

Yetunde was the quintessential guy’s girl. She loved video games, argued about politics and football and drank Guinness Extra Stout. But it was more than that. She understood men in a way that was uncanny. Whenever my girlfriend and I had a bust-up, Yetunde was my go-to-person. Majority of the time, she sided with me. I don’t think it was because we were friends. She would subject me to a grilling; she only wanted to hear the facts but didn’t want any important detail omitted. She would analyze the issues—a painstaking process that usually ended with her concluding that my girlfriend, Funmi was at fault.

Then she would laugh and say, “But you better go and apologize to Funmi. Forget about my analysis o; all that is English. I’m sorry, that’s what women want to hear.”

It was easier to apologize to Funmi after my conversations with Yetunde; that Yetunde agreed with me was enough vindication.

We had to raise our voices to hear each other above the din at Babs, but there was no lull in our conversation over the ninety minutes of the game. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. I asked her, half-teasingly, if she now had a boyfriend.

“How can?” she laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be here with you?”

“Come on, be serious. How about that tall, skinny dude I saw you with a couple of times at the cinema?”

“It’s always the same,” Yetunde replied, her voice dropping a notch. “He didn’t want a relationship.” The expression on her face suddenly became serious. She went on, “It doesn’t look like it would ever happen, Akin. I’ve started preparing myself for a lifetime of singleness.”

I faltered, unable to come up with an appropriate remark.

“Why are you looking so concerned?” Yetunde quipped. “Are you my father?”

I doubled over with laughter.

As I drove back home that night, light-headed from the beer and the euphoria of Arsenal’s victory over Chelsea, Yetunde’s remark about bracing up for a lifetime of singleness came back to me. It made no sense why a girl who got along so well with guys, shared our interests, and reasoned the way we did, seemed incapable of being more than just friends with any guy. Would I date her myself, I wondered, as I turned into my street. I chuckled. The thought was ludicrous. It was a question I had never considered, not even fleetingly.

It wasn’t that Yetunde wasn’t attractive. Far from it; boy, she nearly caught me staring at her behind on our way out of Babs that evening! I was also certain it had nothing to do with being friend-zoned or any such nonsense. Then why did the idea of dating Yetunde seem so incongruous? This was a girl I loved to hang out with, a girl who always cracked me up. Why would I not want to be with her?

Then it struck me with sudden clarity that defied the wooziness in my head, as I arrived at the entrance to my house: was it because Yetunde was too much like men that successful romantic relationships with them continued to elude her?

I haven’t been able to answer that question; neither that night nor in the six years that have passed. I am now married and I have two daughters. Yetunde is still single.

 

© Olutola Bella @ Bellanchi

 

 

Photo credit: SnapwireSnaps/ http://pixabay.com/en/couple-laughing-happy-people-598315/

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 

Think Like a Man, End up Without One [1]

~ livelytwist ~ 68 Comments

Think

In The Beginning

The story: Eve ate the forbidden fruit and seduced Adam into a bite, na so yawa gas. The origin of male-female dynamics is rooted in the creation of sin and chaos. If Adam had not eaten the fruit, if Eve had not convinced him to, the world would not be a revolving globe of horrors. The blame game has ensued since, with both sides keeping score like umpires at a game.

The joke: God created the world in seven days and rested. He then formed woman and has not rested since. The difficulties in male-female romantic relations are caused by gender complexities, sensitivities or the lack thereof, and hormonal activities. Mr Lagbaja will probably never cry while watching The Titanic. Ms Jane Doe will probably narrate an epistle of random events if you ask how her day went.

The Conclusion: Paralleling the thought patterns of the opposite sex probably has its advantages, but men exhibit varying levels of machismo and women varying levels of femininity.  Perhaps Love is our different similarity. We love differently, but we love all the same.

Think like man; end up with none, or with one, or two, if you’re into that kind of thing. Think like a woman? Well, you really can’t if you’re a man; you’re not that clever.

© Tomi Olugbemi @ Poetry is Peace

 

Although the man and his wife were both naked, they were not ashamed. – Genesis 1:25

 

Think like a Man? Think Again! 

Ladies are different, but most men are the same. When a lady starts thinking like a man, she begins to have a big ego and two (big) egos can be bad for relationships. I have seen many independent, smart, and successful ladies, who want to get married, end up single.

Generally speaking, the ladies who end up with men exude care and use the power of submissiveness to full effect—the ability to massage the ego, while making the mind see reason. They create the impression of vulnerability thereby increasing the protective instincts of a man.

The way a lady makes a man feel, more than anything else, determines if she’ll end up with him. If she respects him and makes him feel comfortable in her presence, he will want to spend the rest of his life with her

If a lady thinks like a man and then acts like him, she may end up without him. Men are designed to seek conquest and when two people seek to conquer, one will be devoured. A lady who lets a man lead the chase without making herself 100% available, will either inspire his consistency, strength of character, and responsible side, bringing him nearer commitment or inspire him to walk away.

© Ifeanyi Ukoha @ Moments with my Mind

 

 Male egos require constant stroking. Every task is an achievement, every success epic. That is why women cook, but men are chefs: we make cheese on toast, they produce pain de fromage. ― Belle de Jour

 

My Move, Your Move, Checkmate!

Do we even think when we fall in love? Can we solve the mathematics of our hearts with formulas in our brains? Or is the man supposed to be thinking because he’s expected to make the first move?

Ah! Make the move, here lies the problem: game-play language used to define the parameters of emotions and attraction aka love.

If the man is expected to make the first move, but he’s more interested in winding down the timer, the lady has to force his hand. Then he has to lie and deceive while keeping his eye on the prize—sex, exclusivity, friendship with benefits sans responsibility, etc. Then she has to counter his moves to checkmate him, that is, to get his money, his ring, his commitment, etc. Two hunters in the jungle.

Why don’t we ditch the games, no scheming and no faking? Forget about whether the other person is playing fair. Forget all you’ve been told: men are evil, women are gold-diggers, if you don’t manipulate him, he’ll dump you, yada yada yada.

Focus on being the best version of yourself. Have genuine affection for another and risk trusting them with your emotions. Will you get hurt? Probably. Letting go to love another and trusting them to return your love is not being naïve, it is learning to be human.

The thing about manipulating love like a game is this: nobody wins.

© IfeOluwa Nihinlola @ ifeOluwa’s rambles

 

We all think that this relationship thing is a game out here. All I’m saying to women is, ‘Okay. If it’s a game, here are the rules that we play by.’ – Steve Harvey

 

Dramatically Predictable 

There are many men. I have seen enough to know that when women state their preferences, a good number of short, fairly ugly, and poor men are left languishing on the wait list. Very little is said about the thinking of The Chosen and there is good reason. Every next man thinks differently.

Men don’t know how men think. We just shake hands, grunt, and pat our backs. But when men deal with women, usually we expect a game, a chase, a lot more drama. It’s rewarding when the curtains close and you’re both backstage. And even though men wish the drama did not persist sometimes, we like the certainty that we will get drama. I suppose many men want their women to stay dramatically predictable. It is what makes women interesting and keeps men interested.

For the sake of ourselves, let women not think like us, whatever that means, please. Women who try to think like the men in their world are adventurously boring and they will certainly find boring men for themselves.

The thought that a woman who thinks like a man will end up without one is condescending to women and a joke to be fair. No woman needs to think like the next woman, much more a man. What are you doing thinking like a man? Think like you! There is nothing more desirous in a woman than independent thought. Men crave it and nothing will change that. Because in truth, even we don’t know how we think.

© Delalorm Semabia @ African Soulja

 

A man’s face is his autobiography. A woman’s face is her work of fiction. ― Oscar Wilde

 

 

Photo credit: Hans/ http://pixabay.com/en/bottles-imprint-glass-think-yellow-60336/

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 

 

Martians and Earthlings

~ livelytwist ~ 33 Comments

That the book, Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, sold over two million copies1 lends credence to something I read: women spend more time thinking about what men think than men spend thinking. If you’re rolling your eyes, I’ll rephrase. That the book, Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, sold over two million copies lends credence to something we already know: men are from Mars, women are from Earth.

When a friend brought the poster2 that inspired the one below to my attention, “Hilarious!” was my response. But, I wondered what motivated the author to coin the words? Was it true? Was it a joke? Was it a barb aimed at Steve Harvey enthusiasts?

 

think like a man

 

I asked several brave men who saw the poster to let their thoughts roam and pen flow. I hope you’ll join the conversation beginning Sunday. Perhaps, if you keep an open mind, you might learn or disagree with a thing or two. Or you’ll share your laughter with a friend or three.

If you missed The Hunter Games, now might be a good time to catch up.

 

Take lemons, make life, & jump for joy!

timi

 

 

 

 

 

  1. Steve Harvey’s book rose to number one on The New York Times Bestseller list after its release in 2009. A feature movie, a sequel to the movie, and an expanded version of the book has since been released.
  2. The original poster: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10154257033455431&set=a.10151940356485431.878240.602760430&type=1&theater

 

 

 

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The Promise of Spring

~ livelytwist ~ 66 Comments

acting

The wind brushes my hair into a side part and I curl my fingers around my thumb. My hands dig deep in my pockets, pulling the fabric down, as far as they will go. My neck is warm, my feet are warm, the rest of me shivers. Every winter is the same; I ask myself, why am I still here.

A seven-minute walk separates the station from Chizanes. The harried strides of rush hour has given way to languid walks. I linger by the oldest statue in the city, the first mayor on a horse. Inscribed on the marble plaque is my answer: the promise of spring. The wind, kinder now, carries distant laughter past me. It is the sound of a man and woman in love. Even the stars twinkle in appreciation.

Inside Chizanes, after my eyes adjust to the dimmed lighting, he is easy to spot. He waves and rises to greet me, leaning forward. I hesitate then stretch my right hand to dissipate his confusion. He takes it.

“Thank you for meeting me. How are you?”

“Fine,” my falsetto is on, “how are you?”

“Good. Good to see you! You look good!”

“You too.”

We order drinks. I ask about his family. He asks about mine. We waste time on the menu, searching for our rhythm—this, no that; are you sure? I heard it’s good. What of the chef’s specialty? No, you decide.

He signals for the waiter.

He asks about my job. I tell him I left. He doesn’t pursue an explanation. We talk about the weather. I cannot believe that the passion we shared has fizzled to this: the temperature is expected to go below zero on Wednesday.

He clears his throat and begins. “The reason I left—”

“Fish?” The waiter looks at me, then at him. He places three more dishes on the table, naming them with flair. “Is everything okay?” He asks with a half nod.

We both nod.

“Enjoy your meal.”

We dish food on our plates. Raise bowls and pass them, careful not to touch. We eat like famished travellers.

“As I was saying I left because . . .”

He covers his eyes with his hands. I stop chewing.

“What can I say? I’m just a coward . . .”

“What?”

“I said, ‘I’m a coward.’ I . . . I—”

“Three years of my life and you tell me you’re a coward?”

“Sssh, sssh, lower your voice,” he whispers, reaching for my hand.

I snatch my hand and look around. More interested stares. Chizanes packs about thirty people in a circular arrangement. The walls are windows, which stretch and nearly kiss the high ceiling, an illusion of space. Our table is sandwiched in the centre.

“He left me three years ago,” my chair scrapes the ground protesting the sudden movement, “and now he says he’s a coward?” Standing, my voice booms and blankets all conversation. “Can you believe that?”

Quiet like the embarrassed silence after the president farts noisily.

I catch the man in a navy shirt before he averts his gaze like the others. “Sir, can you believe that? He’s a coward?” His girl whispers something to him and he examines his plate as if there’s gold in the soup.

“Ma’am, we’re gonna have to ask you to calm down and sit down.”

The man addressing me sounds important, like the manager.

“No, I won’t sit down with this coward!” I stand on my chair goaded by impulse.

“Ma’am . . .”

“Three years.” I try harder, “Three years people!”

“Ma’am we’re gonna have to ask you to leave.”

I get down slowly. Now they are watching. Cowards, all of them. Maybe someone is recording for YouTube.

“May I escort you? Sir . . .?”

“It’s okay, I’ll handle things from here,” my coward’s smile convinces the manager. He leaves us to organize our shame and repackage our dignity.

“Are you just going to let them walk me out?”

“Sssh, sssh. Let’s just go before they call security.”

Outside, he holds my bag while I don my gloves.

“Now that the world knows how you feel,” he gestures at the people watching from inside, “Have a nice life!”

He hands my bag over and walks away.

I run after him. “Don’t leave me!”

Out of view from Chizanes, he stops. “That used to be my line.” He lifts my chin and lets my tears wet his gloves. “Award-winning actress,” he whispers. “You were supposed to storm out. Wh . .  . what if—”

“Coward. You need to get a job, we can’t keep doing this.”

“In the spring when the quarries reopen, things will be better. This is great practice until we can afford acting classes. Wasn’t the food good though?”

Three years of doubts dissolve in laughter. The wind is harsher now, unforgiving, breaking tiny branches off stoic trees, sending twigs sailing across the sidewalk and freezing my tears. I nestle my head on his chest. Nothing is sure. Last year only a few quarries reopened. When his arms circle my waist, I close my eyes and count, December, January, February; three months until spring.

“Do you want dessert?”

“Do you have any money?”

“No, but I know another place where we can act . . .”

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2015

 

Author’s Note

The Promise of Spring is about anything you fancy. Me? I wanted to depict some challenges immigrants face in a country unlike the one they left.

The frequent references to the wind portrays how immigrants experience climate change and how the weather now becomes an important aspect of life in their adopted country. The story opens with a question immigrants may ask when disillusionment (winter represents foreign culture and systems as much as it does weather) sets in. Hope (spring) sees them through from year to year.

The author delves into the ingenious ways immigrants survive (some illegal), and plays with the idea that although immigrants are in plain sight they live on the fringes of society (in the restaurant, although she stands on the chair, she is ignored by other diners).

Acting is the ‘job’ of choice in the story because immigrants live at least two lives—a ‘glamourous’ one for friends and family in their native country, and a ‘grim’ one for their hosts.

The story ends with the suggestion that there is another place where they can act. This is a reference to the immigrants’ mindset about moving from region to region or country to country when perhaps immigration policies tighten or economic realities no longer favour them. Returning to their native country is not an option.

Why add love and romance? Because love is oxygen. And because I have done some foolish things for love. Haven’t you?

timi

 

 

 

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Did We Do Any Learning? [4]

~ livelytwist ~ 49 Comments

 

know thyself

 

A Small Sacrifice to Make

I love December. Although I miss the sunlight of the longer summer days, I try to embrace the darkness of winter, because it forces me to re-focus; focus on me, my life, my house, my work, my family, and my friends. I see this month as an end and a beginning, a time to evaluate the past year and to think about the future.

This year has been very emotional with some considerable lows and some exhilarating highs. I fell for the wrong guy and was faced with the task of mending the pieces of my broken heart.

The most important thing I have learned this year is twofold. I saw a quote, I can’t remember where, but thankfully, it stuck in my head and in my heart: “Be strong enough to let go and be patient enough to wait for what you truly deserve.”

Repeating this mantra over and over gave me strength to make choices and say goodbyes that aided my wellbeing. It helped and is still helping me feel and truly believe I deserve the kind of stuff for which patience is a small sacrifice to make.

 

Gertie Janine Fransens makes her home in Amstelveen. When not working or enjoying books, movies, and music at home, she likes to go out, have a drink, get to know new people, and dance like nobody’s watching.

 

Table for One

The wind whipped my hair as I walked along the alleys of the Centrum. I smoothened my hair before I pushed the door open.

Poised, I said, “I have a reservation for two . . .”

“This way please.”

Twenty uncomfortable minutes followed.

The text came in after I sat: runin late b dere in 5.

When the third waiter asked if I wanted to order; if someone was joining me, I answered, “Yes, they’re coming!” and reminded myself to take the edge off my voice.

I refused to lose myself in Khalid Hosseini’s, And the Mountains Echoed. I refused to “smoke” my 21st century “cigarette,” that is, play with my smart phone. I sat, elbows off the table, admiring the oriental décor in the cozy setting. I played the which-couples-are-dating-married-fighting-game; and then watched the long and short hands of the clock.

Because I didn’t fill the void, (to prove what exactly?), I felt as though every eye was on me, every conversation was about me; my aloneness fingered with naan bread, forked and knifed with lamb tikka masala, and spooned with kulfi.

I had heard about a restaurant in Amsterdam, EENMAAL, billed as the first one-person restaurant in the world, and an attractive place for temporary disconnection. I had scoffed at the idea. Wouldn’t people rather eat alone in a normal restaurant? As I sat by myself, trying to be brave, I ate my words.

I write alone.

I create alone.

I think alone.

I can shop alone.

I can travel alone.

I can go to the cinema alone.

It catches me by surprise; I cannot eat dinner alone in a restaurant.

I am not as self-assured and independent as I thought I was. And, it’s okay.

 

Timi @ livelytwist

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

 

 

Bus 281

~ livelytwist ~ 70 Comments

Bus 281

The bus driver did not look at me when I entered the bus. I spared him a glance as he sped away from the bus stop and grabbed a red pole to steady myself before I flopped into my seat.

“Sorry,” I apologized to the man on the window seat when I regained my balance and saw what my lipstick had done to his sleeve.

He shrugged and smiled.

Whenever we approached a bus stop, we lurched forward as the driver braked, and we fell backwards as he accelerated again. No one got on the bus.

At the intersection between Park and Jacob Street, a grey Toyota on the opposite lane anxious to beat the red light, navigated a left turn. But it was caught in the middle of the road, in the path of our angry bus. The bus driver brought the bus within scratching distance of the Toyota. The Toyota driver inched further left. The bus growled and heaved. I felt the faltering bravery of the Toyota driver. Chatter climbed a few decibels.

Vroom, vroom, vroom! The bus driver’s impatience bellowed from the engine.

“Go! Go! Go!” the passengers cheered and clapped, with necks extended.

The lights turned green, and the Toyota rolled into Jacob Street just as the bus charged forward. I fell back in my seat and began to breathe again.

Five hundred metres before my stop, I pressed the button. The buzz pierced the chatter and the display flashed, STOP, in the monitor overhead. Moments later, I stood and held a red pole to brace myself, but the driver rode past the bus stop.

The passenger sitting beside me called out, “Chauffeur!”

More passengers called, “Chauffeur!” and then chanted, “Chauffeur! Chauffeur! Chauffeur!” stamping their feet to match the two syllables in the word.

Eventually the driver swerved towards the kerb. Passengers rose and shambled to the door like zombies. The driver lowered the belly of the bus, and the door puffed before opening. Twilight had bowed to a moonless night, and we were in the middle of nowhere.

“The world is full of crazy people. Get out while you can,” called the driver.

My feet developed roots, and I watched all the passengers except the man I sat beside, file out of the bus. They wore pale blue tops and trousers. He nudged me, and we got off together.

The passengers in pale blue led the way. Their voices floated and filled the night. In the absence of buildings and street lamps, the tree branches were monsters looking on. Reprieve from the darkness came from a dim signpost where the passengers melted into the shadows. I read the sign, National Psychiatric Hospital, and we quickened our pace. His presence by my side, kept me from running. The next bus stop was still ahead.

The bus stop, a pole with a twisted metal sign, offered no protection from the night. I checked my phone. The battery was dead.

“Mine too,” he shrugged.

Darkness stretched time like fitted sheets that are too small. I stifled the urge to pee. The wind whistled through the leaves.

“Did you hear?”

“What?” I replied.

“I thought I heard my name,” he turned in a semi-circle.

“Me t . . . t . . .  too.”

We huddled closer. Then he started singing, “Love is like two dreamers dreamin the exact same dream . . .”

“Nightmoves, Michael Franks,” I mumbled.

“Marry me,” he whispered.

The leaves answered the wind, “Whooosh!” and fell to the ground.

But the wind whistled back in hot pursuit gathering leaves in its arms and spinning them round and round. Some leaves broke free and circled our feet. Something in the pit of my stomach churned.

“The music begins and the titles fade in, starrin’ you and me. The hero is struggling to say that his lady is far away in her prison of wishes . . . ,” he continued singing.

Headlights appeared in the distance. I moved as far out to the edge of the road as I dared and waved.

“Marry me!” his voice was urgent.

The thing in my stomach grew. My chest rose and threatened to pop the buttons of my blouse. I darted to the middle of the road and waved my hands with all my might.

Two yellow eyes flashed twice, cutting through the darkness. The sound of the engine grew louder. I ran to the side just as the bus screeched to a stop, lowered her belly, and the doors swung open. I clambered in and willed the driver to read my eyes.

“Close the door!” I screamed.

“Aha, the world is full of crazy people, get in while you can,” he smiled and sped away.

I turned and watched the passenger singing and dancing as his pale blue form retreated into the darkness, then flopped into my seat. I closed my eyes and opened them when I started breathing through my nose again, grateful for street lamps. By now, the bus was ambling over the cobblestones of the deserted shopping district. I saw our reflection on the floor-to-ceiling windows and squinted to read the inscription on the side of the bus, Bus 281: Property of The National Psychiatric Hospital.

“Honey, just marry the idiot already. One of these days he’s gonna tire of the game and find someone else,” the bus driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror and winked.

I looked at his shirt, pale blue. I looked down at my blouse, pale blue. I fainted.

 

©Timi Yeseibo 2014

——–

Michael Franks, Nightmoves, from the album, The Art of Tea.

Image credit: illustrations from Microsoft

 

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Timi Yeseibo and livelytwist.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Marinochka by Samuel Okopi

~ livelytwist ~ 7 Comments

marinochka1

Lace

Faded pink

Rose-embossed writing paper

The scent of Old Spice

Handwritten love-letters before email & Google

Postcards and postage stamps

That’s what Samuel Okopi’s story reminds me of. And he’s clever too with personification, making me wonder if “Shostakovich” is a chair or a person. From Russia with love, what say you?

 

I am sad these days, Luke. Shostakovich doesn’t smile anymore. His hands are always cold. On the harsh nights when I snuggle into his embrace, warmth does not find me. Only a matching cold. Maybe it is because the night winds blowing from Nicolayevskaya into my little apartment here in Krasnoyarsk have become colder. The large familiar shadows cast by our samovar set have now shrunk to that of the wooden figure of St. Stolobensky, standing on the dining table. Maybe I feel sad because he was Zoya’s favourite saint. But the orange flames that float on the candles at night are as bright as they have always been. Maybe they want Shostakovich and me to be happy? Like forget the memory of the weird laughter of Zoya that scared us and amused us at the same time? I am sorry Luke for the silence. Really sorry. Continue here . . .

 

Image Credits:

Antique Jewel Box Victorian Pearls Lace Old Silver by JamesDeMers

http://pixabay.com/en/antique-jewel-box-victorian-pearls-72414/

Mutual ExChange

~ livelytwist ~ 15 Comments

I laughed while reading this post, which without trying too hard, examines the nuances in the way men and women process ideas and think about relationships. I hope you will too.

naija rookie's avatarNigerian Newcomer

We are driving back from the movies. This is our third time together.
The talk is usually sparse, peppered with jokes, and ending with an ‘I had fun, we should do it again’. So we do it again.
Today the air feels different. The movie, a long drama ending with the sad unexpected death of the main character, has triggered something because we shared that experience.

About fifteen minutes into the drive, she cracks open. She says:
“You know what I am scared of? I am afraid of making the wrong decision especially when it comes to relationships. I see couples, some are happy and some are not. And I wonder, how do you know when to fight for something and when to give up on it?”

She takes a deep breath and continues:
“Even the simpler decision, whether to open up to someone or be friends with them, each…

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