rules

Family is trash and a bottle of water.

When she opened her legs, I knew it was happening, her breast was like hot chocolates drank in a rush, one that you hope doesn’t finish- she was smooth, smoother than most girls I have met, she said she wanted more and I was ready. I crave Lagos, like vagina or vodka, a way that should be explorative, one that should satisfy me, I want to walk by the beach with my hand in my hair, pulling through every stride, I  crave Lagos like the local jollof rice my grandma use to make, she uses local Maggi and lots of onions and dry fish, the palm oil had a different aroma, my grandma was a genius in the kitchen, why do people get old?

I want to be human or whatever.

I used to proud of my breast, now I hate it. I hate a lot of things; let me live through. I’m too young for what I am facing, I will take a picture of my naked self when I turn 22. Say a prayer for me or two. It is hard being a girl; I want to just be Human.

Resilience

A lady stopped talking to me cos’ she thought I was bi-curious, I actually am, but I have never gone that far to suck a girl, the most I have done is kiss, not even suck a boob

Pizza and iPhones and Prophets and shit!

I met Stephen at an outlet cafe, lets go to a nearby pizza hut, “I swear you will like it”. The shorts I wore was an old Jean that was ripped at one end, In Nigeria, they are male tailors who move with the head of a sewing machine, hitting a metallic scissors indicating their presence with every hit, they mend torn clothes, I had torn worn out Jean, I needed them.

I hate yellow and rules.

I watch my mother scream and nag at me for disobeying a rule she so long protected, rules are regulations, law or maybe guidelines. A regulating principle, something that keeps you in order.