Newton

...My Newton couldn't hurt a fly. 

It just wasn't in his nature.

Haven said this countless times, it came as easy as breathing.

This was Newton we were talking about.

Sir Newton, as I christened him on one of our numerous play dates and had somehow stuck.

"I've decided you will be my girlfriend", he said when we were just six and playing "daddy and mummy". No questions. Just a statement from someone who knew what he wanted and went for it. Smug lil' peacock he's always been. But he made up for it with the kindest heart and most disarming smile. You couldn't help but love Newton.

I couldn't help but love him.

Forget that he "broke-up" with me two weeks after when I gave him that permanent scar on his forehead...story for another day. But it was too late. He had stolen my little heart.

And so in primary six when he was head boy and I social prefect, and we barely spoke in school even though we saw every sunday in church; when Pearl my best friend asked who my class crush was, I said Sir Newton.

In SS1, when my school debate team went against his and his head debater, the big bully, picked on me, much to the chagrin of his team mates, Newton found a way to redeem the situation when it was his turn to speak. It cost his school the first position but he didn't mind. "Second position isn't so bad, besides I can't stand bullies", he said casually when I asked him why he stood up for me.

That's My Newton for you.

And when we both gained admission into Essex. Him to study Computer Systems Engineering, and me to study Law and Philosophy, it didn't come as a surprise few months into the term when we began dating. It was only natural.

We did everything together. We ate together, spent all-nighters in the library together, played pranks together, traveled to Paris on our second year anniversary together, and when his dad died, we dealt with it together.

We were a team.

"What's yours is mine", he'd joke when he stole my last bar of chocolate from the fridge. When I grabbed his ass in the hallway, I'd throw over my shoulders, "It's mine remember". And when we exchanged short notes...you know how every couple have a 'thing'?, that was ours; His was signed, 'Your Newton'.

And that night like any other night, when he kissed my nose, I smile and waited for him to get to my lips. And when he went to my ears instead, chuckling at the disappointment on my face just as he flicked the lobe with his tongue, I sighed softly. When he took my top off I let him. When he trailed kisses from my neck down to my navel, I sucked in a breath.

That was My Newton, he took my breathe away.

When he unbuttoned my pants, I couldn't get out of them fast enough. Next went his shirt, followed swiftly by his shorts. "Easy Tiger", I said jokingly, which earned me the tickles and had both of us in a mock-struggle. He was on top. Half-kneeling, half-sitting, even as his hard-on was pressed across my abdomen. He bent over, the laughter in his eyes replaced by desire and I thought to myself how lucky I was to have him.

What followed was an hour, maybe more, of passionate kissing, some fondly, kneading, more kissing, licking, then sucking and then some more kissing.

Tonight was different.

It was heaven. It was hell.

It was pleasure. It was torture.

I hated that we had to stop any moment soon. It was especially hard for him, coming so close but never actually going all the way. But he had agreed to wait till I was ready.

Two years and counting.

My Newton had waited.

"Newton...", I whispered waiting for him to take the cue and roll off, even as I wished he wouldn't. I moaned as I felt Him on my wetness. "This is torture", he groaned and remained in position.

"Just the tip" he whispered.

"Newton...we shouldn't ".

"I wouldn't hurt you I promise".

"I know baby, but..." I trailed off my tone begging him to understand.

He trailed kisses round my face, still pressing in.

"Newton!"

"Newton Stop!"

"Newton you're hurting me!"

"NEWTON PLEASE!!!"

"NEWTOOOOOOOOON NOOO!!!"

"n-n-newton?" I choked out, after what felt like centuries.

There were no further words.

My brain refused to comprehend what had happened.

He hugged me all night long.

I let him even as his arms felt like steel against my warm skin.

There were no words.

There were no tears.

All that lingered was a sense of nothingness.

I listened in a trance as his breathing slowed into a steady rhythm.

What just happened? I asked myself.

Could it be ....?

Was I just .....?

I couldn't bring myself to complete the thought.

My Newton couldn't hurt a fly.

It just wasn't in his nature.

I guess I couldn't call it RAPE

"What was mine, was his."

After all, he was My Newton.

Right?

xxx



Inspired  by a true story.

Letter to my unborn son

Once upon a time you were just a little seed and even I didn't know you were there. Way back when I was a waist 26 and all my clothes fit.
And when I became a walking ball and I couldn't go past the door? I laughed out loud and said "you should see your mama now".

The first time I set my eyes on you I was too scared to hold you lest I soiled your perfectly formed innocence with my worldly hands.
The first time I held you, you smiled. It was the slightest tilt of your crimson lips and I swear the world stopped for a millisecond.

When your palms curl around my finger and hold on so tight. I know its because you trust me and know I'll always be there.
And when I cry silently and hold you so tight, in your beautiful innocence your tender fingers trace the tears away.

I'd dress you up in the cutest clothes, Yes...you baby are gonna be the toast of the block!
And when I see a mother hen being protective of her chicks, I'll chuckle inwardly because it reminds me of me.

When I'm puffy eyed from catering to you all night, and you give me that sunny smile, it makes me want to stay up all over again.
As though you see into my soul, you look at me with your big clear brown eyes and I'm lost in all that white .

When you're in tears, my heart breaks into little pieces and I want to promise you, you'd never have to cry again. But I can't.
And so I tell you instead that for as long as I live, I'll look for a million ways to make you smile.

I'll tell of my dreams for you and you'd nod as though you understand my every word.
But that's ok because I understand your every coo even before it is made.

When you say your first word, I hope it'll be "mama" and then I wouldn't know whether to laugh or cry so I'll do a little bit of both.
When you suckle hungrily on my breast I'll shake my head and smile and say to myself "like father like son".

I'll write you a special song and watch as your eyes light up and you clap your hands in excitement.
I'll sing you a lullaby and watch as your eye lashes flutter, your arms fall and slowly you go to sleep.

When the day is far spent and the night is at hand, I'll tiptoe to your cradle just to watch you sleep.
And when the first streak of the sun rouses me, I'll open my eyes to see you watch me wake.

And I'll thank God with everyday I see for blessing me with you.

Love,
Mama

More than a pretty face

All her life Ini wanted a prince. The castle. The medieval ball dresses. The glass slippers too, however uncomfortable they might have been to walk in.

There was Tola, Chuks and Kelvin. Ahmed, Dele and Nonso. Let's not forget Nuel the Ethiopian. Coming and going, like an Abiku they went, until at 28 there was only her left.

28. Two years away from the big thirty. The age most single ladies dreaded. The age where the parents' subtle "meet my friend's son" turns to "can your son meet my daughter, she's single".

This afternoon, Ini found herself missing Nonso. Her chairman as she fondly used to call him. He was her most recent ex. The one. Or so she thought. He oozed class and sex appeal and always seemed in control of every situation however daunting it seemed. Their relationship promised to be every romantic fantasy. Every youthful daydream, every dazzling fairy tale come to life. And just as she was beginning to feel comfortable in her make belief castle, she was brought to the shattering reality that life was more than the storybooks told. It brought with it unexpected twists and curve balls that hit you right where you least expect them. Smack in the centre of your heart. Curve balls like the sudden news of a fiancée tucked away in the Netherlands who returned home to claim her man.

Men!

She'd since then given up on them. They were all the same. Or perhaps it was just the type of men she was attracted to. The dashingly handsome types with the body of an adonis, all cut in the right places. Not that she was shallow, but you see appearance had always been important to her. It counted for significant percentage of the mark, but 7 ex-boyfriends later, she knew better.

Snapping out of her revere, Ini turned her mind back to the present. She had a flight to catch and heaven forbade that she missed it on the account of some senseless private pity party.

Safely buckled in her seat on the plane some three hours later, The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's wives was open on her laps. Barely had she begun reading when a baritone voice asked, "Is this seat taken?" causing her to snap her head sideways. She smiled quickly to cover up the disappointment she felt when she saw the face that bore the voice. Forgive her overactive mind for linking the voice to a tall dark and handsome fellow only to be faced with a chubby averaged height young man in a fitted polo and stonewash jeans. "No it isn't", she politely replied and returned to her book.

He did smell nice though, she thought to herself as the scent of his cologne wafted by her nostrils. Just as she brushed the notion aside, her concentration was interrupted by the same baritone voice. "When do you reckon you'd put me out of my wait?", her seat companion asked.

" Your wait?", Ini replied with a confused look. ''What exactly were you waiting for?"

"Your name of course, the saying did go 'ladies first', didn't it?" He replied with a cheeky smile.

Never one to pass up on a good natured sparing, "if I told you, I'd have to kill you", she replied with an all too sweet smile. To which he gave a hearty laugh.

Pressing on "you certainly look Yoruba so if I were to guess, I'd say your name was Arewa, for obvious reasons of course", he said with mock seriousness.

"Does that line ever work on girls?", Ini countered with raised eyebrows.

"Nope, but u can't blame a brother for trying", he replied with his now familiar cheeky smile.

''So Arewa is it?", he probed.

"We both know that isn't my name", Ini replied rolling her eyes.

"What is it then?", her nameless seat partner persisted.

Relenting, "It's Ini", she replied.

"I'm Tare, nice to meet you" He said with a smile. And Ini couldn't help noticing what nice set of teeth Tare had.


xxx

Granted, we all have our types and that's not necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes we get so carried away by the physical that we fail to realize there's more to an individual if only we got to know them despite the lack of our preferred qualities . There's wit, and kindness and patience and an endless array of more endearing traits. What am I saying? Give the friendly Segun Arinze dead ringer a chance...what do you know, he just might be your prince :D

Off with Okafor

So here I am, fine wednesday afternoon, still in my ex's over sized tee shirt turned nightie and ankara shorts chatting away to an old friend, and naturally as it's a custom when girls talk (not gossip mind you...like I'd ever stoop so low *straight face*), the topic of the opposite sex creeps up. Today we are talking exes. You see Karen* thinks an ex is still sweet on me and I'm determined to prove otherwise.

Karen: Exes can't be just friends.

Me: Say's who?

Karen: Its just normal. It's just like the Okafor's law says. Once u've been physically or romantically involved with someone, even when you're over, residual feelings remain, such that "having something" is not ruled out.

But wait o, who is this blasted Okafor and who died and made his law a given?

Why can't exes be JUST friends???

The other day I was with a male friend and his argument was that after a breakup, one partner is bound to still be physically or emotionally attached to the other. In other words, if I'm still friends with my ex, he is either emotionally attached to me or he (still) wants to jump my bones or vice versa.

I'd concede to his argument in cases where parting ways was solely one person's idea or circumstances beyond their control caused a breakup. But what about cases where the breakup was a mutual decision. "What stops my ex and I from being just friends like any normal opposite sex friendship?", I asked. Only to be informed that guys and girls "can't be friends". To which I say...bollocks!!!

I'm friends with loads of guys (exes inclusive) and they are friends with other girls too. Do they want to get with US all? C'mon!!!

Of course sometimes, we might still have feelings for an ex or they with us, but what of those that we are well over? Surely nothing stops us from being platonic friends, right? RIGHT?

Yes I care about my exes' welfare, like I do with all my friends. No I don't have feelings for them neither do I plan on getting physical with them nor do they necessarily want to do the same with me...off with Okafor's head!

A Piece

I write a piece that speaks of peace
Way past the sunny smiles, from deep within
A place where everything agrees
Beliefs coexist and religious extremists didn't hit the streets
Where youths are not wasted in service to their nation

I write a piece that speaks of peace
Of leaders who aren't filled with greed
Of offices which seek to please
The very masses who vote them in
Where opinions are freely given
And criticisms just as easily taken
Of policies made and followed through
And budget spent on more than a costly meal.

I write a piece that speaks of peace
Not the type we hear on TV
From lips of glorified illiterates
Promising heaven yet ensuring hell
Forgetting their lowly beginnings
As they bring an end to their brothers' dreams
Corporate thieves!
Opportunists!

I write a piece that speaks of peace
Where tsunamis and earthquakes belong in books
And loved ones return safe from school
Where families go for holiday in the Middle East
And Katrina remains another pretty face
Never famed for causing pain

I write a piece that speaks of peace
Of a world that never did exist
Of summer in December and springtime in August
Where fear is foreign and violence a myth
Where laws remain unbroken, but I guess its time I awoken

To write a piece that speaks of peace
Of strength where it should fail
Of tears that flow without shame
Of guts and victory
Of sacrifice and pain
Of redemption
Of love
I write a piece that speaks of peace.