LUUUUUURV! A BLOODY ENTRY (short story)

Dear Diary,

The years are no longer tender and it amazes me I’m now in my third decade. After karmically struggling with education, I now have a degree to supposedly go with my direction and drive. Gone are the days when rashness was excused for the insouciance of being a teenager. Daunting responsibility is the new order; responsibility for my choices, my happy-ness, that of my folks and most importantly, the validation of the internet.

Pop beer-parlour wisdom says a lone first degree won’t get you a decent job nowadays, so upon leaving my little provincial town for the promising shores of Lagos, I’m saving some of my atrocious teacher’s salary to pursue a Master’s degree. If I can’t get a proper job after that one, I’ll just join the civil service.

The point, dear diary, is that preposterous impatience pervades this zeitgeist. My mother, bless her, wants me to settle down and anytime I post a peng selfie on the interweb, the comment section is filled with marriage polemics. Don’t get me wrong, I would get married if I could, but I’m not bent on propagating poverty with an overly optimistic wife and rearing malnourished children. That said, the need to physically relieve a heavy psychological stress arises – and I’m only human, so I oblige.

The drawback is that I keep getting dumped because of my evasive maneuvers once discussions inquire as to the future of our partnership without any prior provocation. It was always as if those people had a timetable for bringing that nonsense up; as if that was always the endgame. That leaches the fun and the spontaneity and makes it seem like an elaborate premeditated scheme. Recently, I met the single mother of one of my pupils who is not a million years older than I am, also only half-decent like myself. We talk and gist in proportions that could be considered immoral in an annoyingly puritanical society. Around four weeks ago, we started engaging in a weekly removal of the aforementioned city-induced stress and a couple of days ago, she intimated she would miss our tryst. At that point, I thought she had lost interest in our thing. Then she dm’d she was on her monthly period. I found it fascinating that some people still actually know their place in one’s life.

Her how are you sounds like a genuine question and not just a perfunctory greeting, you know? Like she’s really interested in how I’m faring. She’s unusually intelligent too and possesses a clarity of thought that proves invaluable when trying to solve an issue. I’m liking this woman. I like her slight overbite. I like that she doesn’t call fizzy, soft drinks minerals. I like the fact that she understands I’m not going to call her five times daily. I enjoy the freedom from emotional shackles of being in a well defined relationship with dos, donts and all those joyless and abstract guidelines; although I once heard in a beer-parlour that such is the key to yorubademonic scummery.

I also like that she doesn’t feel obligated to ask the semantically criminal ‘how was your day’ question in the late afternoons. I mean, I don’t particularly look forward to feigning excitement when talking about correcting the roap of my seven year olds. It’s a decent job and I’m probably shaping the future, but it’s not exactly rocket science and I did not study uncle in school. I love that she knows I’m currently punching below my weight and she constantly pushes me to build the muscles required to upgrade my category. I like that she doesn’t see sex as a favour and the fact she doesn’t dip her bread inside tea. I like that she doesn’t seem like someone who will opt to build with anyone just so she can have a veritable excuse for amounting to very little in life. This one knows our peculiar partnership might just expire one day and I like that stance.

I like her vicious curves and the way her body responds to the stimulus of my sensuous touches. I like it when she gives me consent to tear it. I like how we do it against the wall. I like the shy look of embarrassment on her face when her muscles go out of control and release the fluids. More than anything, after seeking for her take on child-policing, she explained she gives him free reigns to develop, before intimating a parent must interfere once in a while so they don’t grow up making wretched decisions like supporting Arsenal.

She is incredibly driven and if I end up securing this covalent bond with marriage or something equally ghastly, I would proudly introduce myself as her husband instead of her being my wife. Such is the ferocity of her personality. I already feel like rearing lots of children with her and we will strive hard to not blame them for our unfulfilled goals. I have never felt so strongly about someone before and if we’re still together at Christmas, I will introduce my parents to someone of growing importance.


I know these parameters seem peculiar, but peculiarity is a function of normalcy. In the end, who’s defining normal?


--CAPTAINCUE (...is a freelance writer taking on gigs for unridiculous money. Send me a direct message on Twitter @Captaincue or send me a mail with your writing needs at kaptaincue@gmail.com)