THE PROMISE

B0jzc1CIAAA0tFLIt 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. Continue reading

AT 35,000 FEET

zBDuZUYTCYAItdl8Author’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. Continue reading

The Boy Who Had the Saddest Eyes

others 105Read 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. Continue reading

GOD OF THE SEA

FOREWORD: Guess what, folks… Chestnut has written his first piece for KD. It’s a work of fiction, and loaded with so much wit and humour, I couldn’t help my laughter as I read. It was reading I thoroughly enjoyed, and I’m sure y’all will to. Check on it – God Of The Sea.

*

6310345057_a1de92329e_zI think I smelled him before I saw him. It was a heady scent, strong enough to command attention, but subtle enough not to be overpowering; the kind of scent you knew came in a fancy, expensive-looking bottle, with a fancy, expensive-looking designer label.

That morning, as I drove to the hotel where the seminar was to hold, I didn’t imagine anything of significance would happen that day. I thought it would be just a seminar, like I had attended a hundred times before. I was wrong.

As I sat listening to the opening speech by Dr. Hassan Arogundade, I kept fighting the urge to bring out my phone and start scrolling through my favourite blogs; I was that bored already. And then I smelled him. It was strange, because I was remotely aware that other participants who came in later than I did had been taking seats behind me. But when he came in and took a seat two rows behind me, my awareness was no longer remote; it was fully present, even though I didn’t turn my head to look. It was definitely his perfume that first caught my attention. I’m normally not big on perfume; I never even wear it myself. A good deodorant stick and body-spray has always been good enough for me, but this…this heady scent coming from behind me had me in a strange mixture of alertness and numbness, almost like I was on the verge of getting drunk, but not quite. Continue reading

Cocktails and Charm from Nairobi with Love

o-WEDDING-TOAST-TIPS-facebookFOREWORD: So we’ve got our first write-up from a Kitodiariesian who’s not Nigerian. He’s from Kenya, and below is his offering. It’s fiction. Read and enjoy.

*

Max hurriedly bundled the computer on his desk into his duffle bag and picked up the pen that lay on the shared desk in front of him, together with a notepad and the directional print-out he’d sneaked from the printer in the adjacent room, from the open plan work area of FundiCorp, an edgy, new Tech Hub to the West of Nairobi.

He was (almost) late for an interview he had across the city, and this being his very last chance at leaving FundiCorp, the company that had frustrated him for three years, he wasn’t about to let the chance just slip away.

“You seem in an awful hurry… where’s the fire?” Ciku, the boss’ friendly Personal Assistant chimed, as she happened by on her way to the conference room. She had a prim figure, tiny hands, a beautiful mono-print dress on that moulded perfectly her body, and pumps that always seemed to gleam. Despite her varnished looks, she was way older than Max was.

“Oh, hey, Ciku. I didn’t see you there,” Max managed, after zipping up my bag, placing it on my shoulder and straightening his tie. “I’m just very late for a meeting. I don’t know where the time went.”

“That’s nothing new,” she said with a cheeky smile, obviously referring to how often Max had been in to the office a few minutes past the hour. “But you’ll still deliver, I’m certain. All the best, and with the traffic…” She tsk-tsked as she moved on. Continue reading

THE QUEER CASE OF THE BROTHER-IN-LAW

kd 6Mark watched Chike throughout that afternoon when he wasn’t looking. Clean-shaven head, a mouth turned down at the top corners, thoughtful eyes. He seemed too deliberate, this Chike, in an awkward way.  When he leaned across the sofa to kiss his wife Adaobi, then take her hand, then slide his body closer until the sides of their hips touched, he oozed self-consciousness, like he had spent seconds mulling over such plain acts before deciding to do them.

* * *

Adaobi poked her head through the yellow bar of light from the corridor behind her into the darkness of Mark’s room. The front hem of her nightgown was held up higher than the back by her rounded tummy.

Mark looked up from his phone. It was 11:12pm on his first eight hours in Nigeria in a year. He had just finished a Masters in Manchester three weeks ago and was back to pick up a waiting lecturing appointment with the University of Ibadan’s English department.

Footsteps started to approach from the right end of the corridor, and presently Chike walked past Adaobi towards their bedroom at the left end of the corridor. He did not look left or right. He did not say a word.

“Your husband doesn’t talk much, does he?” Mark asked. Continue reading

The Awkward Encounter

g12“Did the call go through?” Fred said in a tone that was mixed with varying emotions. He was tense and concerned, because today was the day he believed he would tame the neighbourhood ‘ass goddess, Scholastica. He had planned it all – the conversations that led up to this day, the breaking-in of a classroom in the public school of the area they lived, the condoms. Everything was set, but there was a slight problem. The missing ingredient to this concoction was nowhere to be seen or heard from. Scholastica had not made an appearance yet.

“Guy, I don’t think this girl wants to come oh,” Ayo said easily. It was after all not his sexual prowess that was to be tested. It was Fred’s… Fred who had both the anxious and outraged disposition of one who couldn’t imagine any girl could ever curve(sly) him.

Ayo also wondered how Scholastica could, how she wasn’t already here, shooing him away in order to be all up in Fred’s business, because frankly, Fred was a hottie. Half-caste, pink-lipped, chiseled body, laidback personality, and he had a certain calm about him that was welcoming to anybody he met. Ayo couldn’t get these girls, really. This was the reason he didn’t have much use for them. He however contented himself with making commiserative remarks, in an effort to console his obviously-jilted friend, while they puffed away on the joints they had both been smoking for some time now.

“As I am like this now, I need my dick sucked – BAD…” Fred groaned. Continue reading