TUG OF WAR (Part 2)

Read the previous part of Tug Of War HERE

*

At the touch of Kevin’s lips, I stopped my scramble to get up and off him. I was stunned, and my lips stayed unresponsive as his slipped and slid sensuously over my mouth. Then he stopped and pulled away, staring at me. His breathing was heavy like he’d been running for a while.

“Say something goddamnit!” he rasped.

I couldn’t say a word. Instead, I slid back into a sitting position on the swing chair and stared back at him. I still didn’t say anything.

“Fuck!” He sat up and put his face in his palms.

TUG OF WAR

Author’s Note: This is based on a true life story. Whose story, you may ask? Wel,l I don’t know. It is probably the story of that Father, Brother, Friend, Husband, Uncle, Mentor, Boss who is right next to you. They may seem well put together and composed, but inside they are fragile, because there’s a war going on.

*

Slumping into my bed after a really long day at work, I was looking forward to just relaxing after a shower and dinner. My laptop bag acted as a pillow while I shut my eyes for a bit, just to savour the peace and quiet of my room.

My phone just then began ringing, waking me up from my near-slumber. I checked the caller ID and it was Mrs. Ate, my CEO’s personal assistant. She was calling me from the office phone. This couldn’t be good, I thought as I answered.

“Good evening, ma. You still dey office so? I think say you for don dey prepare to close by now?”

“Hmm, my dear,” Mrs. Ate replied, “I still dey o. Oga asked me to call you sef. He wants to speak with you. Hold on while I patch him through.”

A few seconds later, and then the voice of my CEO, Dr. Charles Ebi, sailed through the receiver. “Felix, good evening… How are you?”

Sex In Prague

Written by keredim, and originally published on sagbachronicles.com

*

It is Sunday. I have been in Prague for two weeks with work. I am horny. I am an arse man. I make no apologies about that. I like them bubble, I like them muscular, I like them pert, I like them visible. When I see guys I like on the street, in the bus, train, clubs, bars, wherever, I check out their backsides. I check out the local guys here, and though majority of them have porn star looks, their arses were flat, sometimes concave shaped. My chances of getting laid seem low.

Previous attempts at hooking up using Grindr and Scruff have been futile. About 80% of the profiles on there are twinks. I am beginning to think this is where twinks are manufactured and sent out to the rest of Europe – a bit like the Skoda. Twinks are not for me. I prefer muscular/athletic body types. I mention this in my profile, but this is ignored. A common trend I find, no matter where in the world I am. No one reads. Why the twinks pose like Victoria Beckham, complete with pouty lips in their profile pics, bewilders me. They send me unsolicited pics of their bums, usually exposing their arseholes. Where I am lucky, they send bum pics in a bend-over pose to accentuate their bony arses.

I REMEMBER

FOREWORD: The following is a work of fiction, written by Masked Man and dedicated to all those who have experienced the loss of loved ones.

*

I remember vividly the very beginning. How it all began. I remember it all like it just happened yesterday. Memories etched in beautiful innocence. And every single time, it gives me a feeling of déjà vu.

An 18yr old naïve fresher on campus – that was me back then.  I arrived early to commence registration and get a place in the hostel before it gets all taken. Yes, it was hell of a tough day. As I struggled with my baggage through the door, into the room I was assigned to, my eyes beheld you for the first time. You were standing by the window, clad in black denim jeans and a grey V-neck top. Your slim figure and average height was a nice match. I remember that first smile you flashed at me. It affected me instantly. When you smiled it, it was with all frankness, like one could see your soul through that priceless smile. I still don’t forget how you came over and introduced yourself as Funsho.  

APOLLO, A Story By Chimamanda Adichie

This piece of fiction, penned by acclaimed writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, was originally published on The New Yorker. A friend of mine read it and passed me the link with a scoffing “The main character, that Okenwa person, as a kid – he was so gay.” So, I read it. But I quite disagreed with my friend. In my opinion, the choices Okenwa made as a child may or may not have been driven by an unrecognized homosexuality.

But hey, if you haven’t already read it, here it is. Read and let us know your thoughts.

*

Twice a month, like a dutiful son, I visited my parents in Enugu, in their small over-furnished flat that grew dark in the afternoon. Retirement had changed them, shrunk them. They were in their late eighties, both small and mahogany-skinned, with a tendency to stoop. They seemed to look more and more alike, as though all the years together had made their features blend and bleed into one another. They even smelled alike—a menthol scent, from the green vial of Vicks VapoRub they passed to each other, carefully rubbing a little in their nostrils and on aching joints. When I arrived, I would find them either sitting out on the veranda overlooking the road or sunk into the living-room sofa, watching Animal Planet. They had a new, simple sense of wonder. They marveled at the wiliness of wolves, laughed at the cleverness of apes, and asked each other, “Ifukwa? Did you see that?”

EXTRA BAGGAGE

Author’s Note: This story is a mixture of both fiction and reality but based on recent events surrounding a person who meant something to me at one point. Any resemblance in characters or misrepresentation of places or events is highly regrettable.

January 5th 2015

My phone rang. The Caller ID read ‘Gandalf.’

“I was just thinking about you now sef. I planned on calling later tonight,” I said. “I thought you’d be busy with all your fellow wizards or something.”

“Good, save your airtime, as I’ve got one better. When can you come home?” Gandalf asked.

“Hian! Just like that? Where would I even get a ticket at this time of the year to begin with mbok ette?” I asked.

“Just answer the question and stop asking me stupid questions. Did you think I hadn’t considered that?”

“Don’t be such a grumpy old man,” I said. “The original Gandalf was never grumpy, plus it’s bad for your skin and can cause wrinkles. I’m your only gay son, so I know.”

FLEETING DESIRE

This is the debut piece of KDian, La-Coozee, a short work of fiction. Read and enjoy.

*

At first, I thought him odd. The easy way he smiled, the breezy cologne he had on, the garish stripes on his shirt all contributed to my perception of him. And then, in a hoarse voice scented by Mentos, he turned to me in the bus and said, “I’m Fintan.”

In all the months of our relationship, months when we had hasty sex in my Obalende flat, months when he drove me to Shoprite in his vanilla-scented car, months when he cooked spaghetti garnished with Titus sardines for me, it did not occur to me to ask what his name meant, to ask him about the necessary things, to tell him my fears.

Perhaps that was why we broke up, or there were other things I would never be able to identify.

THE PROMISE

It was the distant crow of a cock that roused Paul to the morning of Valentine’s Day.

He tried opening his eyes. It seemed like a huge task, absolutely impossible. He could feel himself mentally trying to lift his eyelids, but it still remained shut, felt like it was glued together. And then he realized with a start that they were glued shut – with a masking tape. He made to move his hands, to lift them up so he could tear away the tape from his eyes, but those too were immobile, strapped to his back by masking tape as well.

What is going on? he thought, feeling a niggling of uneasiness trickle down his spine.

Then he heard a sound – a whisper of a movement in the room, one which made him freeze. Was someone in the room? He turned his head around in the direction of the sound, his ears straining to make up for his enforced blindness. He didn’t hear the sound anymore. Was he imagining things? He tried to remember.

Of course, someone was in the room, he thought as recollections flooded his mind. He’d had a guy over from the club last night; quite the looker, and boy, was the sex amazing. What was his name again? Busola… Abbey… Kehinde – yes, Kehinde.

AT 35,000 FEET

Author’s Note: This story is a complete work of fiction, but loosely based around a man I met not too long ago. Any resemblance in characters or misrepresentation of places or events is highly regrettable.

*

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll like to welcome you onboard Air France Flight 513 departing for Charles De Gaulle International. On behalf of the captain and crew, thank you for choosing to fly with us. Crew, arms doors and cross check for pushback.”

Abuja to Paris is roughly a 7-hour flight. I’ve done it a few times and, trust me, the glamour wears off after a while. Working for reputable tech company with its base in Abuja, I was one of the advanced team members to establish our European markets, and Paris was the base of operations. Plus I had to do my yearly management training as well. With a Master’s Degree in Artificial Intelligence and a six-figure salary per month, I could buy my own ticket with no hassle at all. But my job comes with a lot of perks to make my life even more interesting. At twenty-eight, single, with a nice body and job to match, I was living the dream, to be honest.

The Boy Who Had the Saddest Eyes

Read this story listening to any song(s) that give(s) you peace – Marcus.

He came to St John’s Boys’ High at a time when I wasn’t sure what I was. In the mornings, when everybody taunted Ben, calling him a homo, sissy, fag, I watched and said nothing, afraid that Ben would get tired of being teased alone and suddenly blurt out that I did stuff with him too; and in the evenings, I visited Vera, a girl from Our Lady’s Girls’ High whom I liked a lot because she was always willing, always giving.

He came one sunny morning looking like a thing from hell, thin and droopy-eyed, his scalp a radiating mirror, an old, ugly schoolbag slung lazily on his shoulder. He stood beside Miss Lara in front of the class, and introduced himself. His name was Amara, which was another ridiculous thing about him because all the Amaras I knew were girls. Miss Lara gave him a seat by the window, and whenever I looked at him, he was either always staring outside or sketching something in his sketchpad. He hardly ever talked, always mumbling a one-word reply whenever talked to, and soon I began to think of him as a bag of monosyllables.

Whenever we played basketball, he stood under the dogonyaro tree outside the court, watching us. One day I asked, “Do you want to play?” and he shook his head, mumbled something nonsensical, and started walking away.

And so, apart from being called Solar System because of his clean haircut, he was also called Robot, Dummy, Alien. I didn’t know why, but I found myself riveted by him. Maybe it was because he had an air of mystery around him, of enigma. I would sit across from him in class and stare and stare at him, until he looked up from his book or away from the window, and his eyes would settle on mine, a lazy settling, like a pat on the head; and it would linger, his eyes, until, always, I was forced to look away, embarrassed.