YY

children on the net

The hook up seemed a lot like a set up. It’s not that I didn’t like the girl or that in those days of receding innocence and overwhelming pubescence, I hadn’t lusted after her more than once. The problem was that I hadn’t told anyone I liked her, but here I was, being urged by my friend Osa to ask her out. I felt invaded. How could Osa, the most insensitive of God’s creatures possibly have knowledge of a thing that I had buried so deep? Was it so obvious? Had he made me talk in my sleep? It was the sort of thing he could do, after all he used to go around the hostel on some nights, covered in a white bed sheet, fastidiously applying Close-Up toothpaste to the eyelids of sound asleep, then he would slap them out of their slumber and watch as the toothpaste got into their eyes. As they lay there writhing in pain and screaming screams that reverberated throughout the building, he’d run off, a malevolent, cowardly wraith in the night. The next morning he’d gleefully tell me about the ‘painful sight’. That was the kind of person Osa was.

I was also suspicious because YY, the girl in question, was Osa’s cousin. We were all in JSS 2, but in different arms. If Osa was a rabid, untamable beast, then YY was the opposite- quiet and kind, but with a sense of humour and a certain glint in her eye that rumoured a capacity for great mischief. Sometimes she’d come to talk to her cousin when he and I were standing together, and we’d exchange a hello and no more. She was slim in a way that suggested she’d grow up to be a tall woman. She was beautiful even then. Of course that was a time when few of the girls had curves of any kind. They were straight in their housewears, and even straighter in their pinafores. A couple of unfulfilled lumps on their chests declared their femininity and promised a future harvest of womaness. But at that time we didn’t care. Some girls of course, were already somewhat developed. At those ones, we sniggered and behind their backs we called them old, and maybe really lusted after them. YY was as beautiful as an 11 year old could be, and even though we barely spoke, I wanted her, or wanted to be a part of her, or something.

Osa was always on my case. I know you like that girl. You had better go ahead and ask her out before someone else will. She has already turned three guys down this term. That was how encouraging Osa could be. I’d feign disinterest and question his motives. I know you like her. She’s my cousin and you are my friend. Again I’d deny, and then I’d ask him if she liked me. Ask her out, and then you’ll know. The thing was getting more and more dodgy. I swore to myself that I’d never make the foolish mistake of asking her out. Knowing Osa, it may well have been an elaborate prank designed to humiliate me. But still I wondered if she had told him she liked me and would want to go out with me.

Back then going out meant little more than holding hands and taking walks with your girlfriend or boyfriend during sports time, occasionally hanging out and sharing snacks at break periods, getting furtive hugs, and if you were really daring maybe even kisses once in a while behind some hedge. It meant writing love letters during night-prep, and finding creative ways to courier the letter from one prep hall to the other without it falling into the wrong hands. Personally, I wasn’t too big on the whole going out thing. I was the cynical kid who spent his night preps writing love letters for people in exchange for cash, or canned food.

Fast forward to a Christmas Carol Night we were having. I was standing with Osa in front of a choir which featured some of our friends. Osa was trying-with some success- to distract them by making silly faces. I was bored and sleepy. Next thing I know, YY sidles up next to her cousin. They start talking; I pretend to be interested in the choir, anything to avoid her gaze (assuming of course, that she’s actually gazing at me). Moments later, Osa grabs me and says we should go somewhere quieter. I have no choice in the matter, but there are alarm bells going off in my head. We get to a spot behind the crowds. He tells YY I have something to ask her, and then he disappears into the crowd no doubt to do even more mischief somewhere else.

My heart is pounding. Indecision, anger, weakness, fear, excitement, everything. A few yards away the choir is singing Glory, glory, Hallelujah!

It occurs to me that Osa is an inglorious bastard.

YY stands there, looking at me. Her left foot is playfully digging into the grass, her long, pretty arms are folded across her almost-flat chest. The Christmas lights bathe her in a soft stream as my awkward seconds tick away. Finally she cocks her head to the left, raises an eyebrow and says so?
I respond with a huh, or something equally lame, and then I try to seize the moment.

From the second the words start coming out of my mouth, I know I’m on the inexorable journey towards asking her out. I can’t remember what I said, but I must have spoken for about three minutes. An unnecessary, boring speech with the phrase 'I’d like us to go out' worked in somewhere near the end. I finish, feeling stupid, and manipulated. I make another empty personal vow to kill Osa. She has been watching me throughout my ordeal with as much expression as the famous Benin mask. She let’s me hang for a few moments more then she opens her mouth, and with her braces glinting menacingly in the light, she gives the orthodox response ‘I’ll think about it’ (or ‘I shink aboushit’ as I vengefully narrate to Osa later that night). At that moment, I’m not sure I like her anymore. I even wonder if I suddenly hate her. I have no doubt that she will return some days later with a big NO. I will be the fourth boy denied that term.

Two days later, she sends word: we may go out. By then I don’t know how to feel. That afternoon we spend sports time together, walking around (but not holding hands), and conversing in fits and starts. By that evening everybody knows we are going out. Osa urges me to send her a love letter. I refuse.

School closes for Christmas that same week. Over the holidays we talk over the phone a few times, and I get to start liking her again. By the time we resume in January, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her. Her braces still make me uncomfortable, and I almost ask her if they’ll ever come off.

The removal of her braces is for me, like the fall of the Berlin Wall. The Iron Curtain disappears overnight, and East and West come closer. What has metal got to do with passionate pressing together of lips and eager excursions of tongues into previously unexplored mouths? For a while we live bliss. I write her one letter, and no more. She tells Osa to beg me to write her every night. I refuse. In my nightmares, my letters to her are read by the entire Girls’ Hostel and then photocopied, enlarged and pasted on their Notice Board.

Between us, there suddenly rises a wall of grievances unspoken. She sends someone to tell me to try and be like other guys. I send a retort asking if she wants me to start bouncing or sagging. She tries to tolerate me.

The final straw comes on her birthday. The tradition is that when you are going out with a girl, you spend an insane amount of money buying her gifts on her birthday. I simply buy her a box of chocolate and a book of poetry, in it I write that she deserves more words than a Hallmark Card can hold. The gesture does not go down well with her. She thinks I’m being cheap. She sends Osa to tell me she has broken up with me. I’m hurt by her misunderstanding of my gesture, and by this materialistic side she has shown. She immediately starts going out with some guy who bought her three different perfumes.

Many years later, she calls me and asks me to write her a poem. I can only remember the end:

…The next few lines will end this poem
Like a year December will close
My fire for you may be out
But this ember still glows

YY has indeed grown into a tall, beautiful woman and will be getting married to the Three Perfumes Guy this Christmas.

Osa is still alive and still very much an inglorious bastard.

The Table

Graffiti on the door of the men's room in Kilimanjaro

I sit there, with that part of me I’ve come to think of as my soul grinning. My face, I hope, is mask of calm and sophisticated interest in spite of the ludicrous drama in which I find myself an indifferent actor.

They sit across the table from me, giggling, holding hands, and whispering; generic gestures of an ostensible romance. Occasionally, they toss a comment in my direction, a bit like offal being tossed to Bingo as he paces outside the kitchen door. I play my part in this pleasureless ménage.

I look at him, handsome in his skin, fashionable in his clothes, and secure in his relationship. The leading man of the play, a willing actor, hero to my villain (or perhaps I flatter myself, perhaps mine is no more than a waka-pass role). She is a fitting partner, her beauty providing an undeniable visual complement to his good looks. They are the picture of aesthetic symmetry. Adonis and Venus seated at a table. I wonder what I am doing here with the gods. He is Achilles, she is his fatal heel, and the arrow that kills him again and again, lies idly, for the moment at least, between my legs. Did not Lord Byron say something about beauty being a fatal gift?

We all met here by fate. I had time to kill while waiting for a deposit to come through at the bank. I walk into the nearest restaurant, and there they are, on a lunch date. Fate. The gods who manipulate us like pieces on a chess board are not without humour. He: the rightful boyfriend, the king, legal resident of the castle. Me: the intruder, a modern day Sir Lancelot who is only just realizing that there is a King Arthur, and I’m meeting him here for the first time at this square table. In my defense, I will say that I was not aware until this very moment that she had a boyfriend. In her defense, she will probably claim that I never asked. Ask and ye shall receive. She attends church twice a week.

I’ve known her for a few weeks. We go out a couple of times and then the physical intimacy thing kicks in. We start gbenshing. It’s not just the sex though, we have great conversations. Her beauty belies her brains. Thing is, we never talk about the prospect of getting into a relationship. It’s the unspoken.

We’re sitting together on the couch one day watching TV, when she turns to me and accuses me of ‘looking smug these days’ .I shake my head. She insists, and then sighs, murmuring something about men and conquest. I chuckle, and tell her that conquest is Edmund Hilary getting to that summit, not us climaxing on the rug.

She giggles, and mounts me, yet another taste of that succulent fruit. We go on like this for a month, our trysts increasing in frequency, that fruit becomes my staple, and yet we remain, at least in my mind, friends. One day she asks me if I feel jealous about her. This is one question girls inevitably ask. It is a test of how possessive a man feels about them. It is supposed to be an indication of where the man thinks they are in the relationship. It is a gentle tug at the leash (if any), a testing of the bounds, of expectations of exclusivity, and of the acceptability of flirtation. It is a dubious question. I do not answer; instead I make a joke about no one wanting to plead guilty to any of the seven deadly sins. Nice try, she says ‘But, I’m sure you know the difference between jealousy and envy.’
So anyway, I walk into the restaurant, and my eyes immediately fall upon them. I’m more impressed than I am surprised. They look good together. She sees me in that brief moment in which I’m trying to decide whether or not to walk up to them. I see a flash of panic in her eyes, but it lasts for just a nanosecond. Then she gets up and calls out, as though she saw me first. I give her full marks and walk up. A hug here, a handshake there and an introduction. She calls me her very good friend. She doesn’t lie, probably because thou shall not. He says something about finally getting to meet Porter. I try to leave them and head for another table, but they both scold me. ‘You must sit with us,’ they say. I settle down for the idle chit chat and get a beer while they daintily pick at their food (yes, they even do the whole feeding each other thing). I’m thoroughly amused.

They finish their meal, and it becomes clear we really do not have anything to talk about. He keeps staring suspiciously at my drink. I decide to have some fun. I start smacking my lips with a satisfied ‘aaahhhh!’ after each sip. He’s disgusted but says nothing. She tries to kick me under the table. When the whole thing becomes too awkward, he resorts to the lovey-dovey crap they are currently engaged in.

Thankfully, my phone soon rings. Time to go to the bank, I take one final gulp, stand up, and decide against belching. I say my goodbyes. Another hug and a not so friendly handshake, and I’m gone. As I walk across the street and into the bank premises, my phone beeps. It’s a message from her. I read it
I kno u r angry. I’ll xplain 2nite. xxx

I smile, no I’m not angry, I think to myself, how can I be? I try to think of all the scenarios that could play out tonight when she comes over to explain. I’m pulled roughly out of my reverie by the grating voice of a particularly rude security man at the door of the bank.

‘Oga, wey you! Abeg obey simple in-stroshun. Switch off ya handset’

I belch at him, and then set my phone to vibrate.

Where Was I Going with This?

Things change in Benin, but then not so much. I come here a few times a year to visit some of my relatives. The ancient city is as stubborn as the even more ancient traditions of the Bini people. The Oba’s palace is a huge, sprawling compound with a land mass that would make any one of Saddam’s infamous palaces feel inadequate. The seat of one of Africa’s most famous Kingdoms is fenced round with the ubiquitous red mud of the Benin. I’m always awed by the length of the side of the fence that runs along Airport Road. It seems to go on forever.

Benin has its mystery which is not unconnected with the inextant traditions of its people in these times. The Chiefs are truly a sight to behold, with their very unique hairstyles, their impeccably white garments and the essential native beads around their necks and on their wrists. The King is officially addressed as The Omo n'Oba n'Edo, Uku Akpolokpolo, Oba Erediuwa,Oba of Benin. Personally, I love the title, but that Uku Akpolokpolo part makes me uneasy.

I remember when I was about to come here to start secondary school. Two of my aunts came to our house with the sole intention of warning me of the perils lying in wait in the shadowy, foreign land into which my parents were about to pitch me.

Aunt N: When you go there keep to yourself.

Aunt W: Yes, don’t make friends anyhow.

Aunt N: I know you are inquisitive but it might land you in trouble over there.

Aunt W: Yes o! Curiosity kills the cat.

Aunt N: Of course we are not saying that you will be killed.

Aunt W: Or that you are a cat.

Aunt N: God forbid! That reminds me, beware of cats.

Aunt W: All animals in short. Those people are very fetish. They can change into any creature.

Aunt N: Porter, are you listening?

Aunt W: Listen and learn, we always tell you.

Aunt N: Don’t take food from anyone.

Aunt W: Especially rice. They use what you like to get you.

Aunt N: Don’t give out your clothes.

Aunt W: Yes, very important.

Aunt N: You must take your prayers seriously.

Aunt W: Put your bible under your pillow.

Aunt N: Fast when you can.

Aunt W: Very necessary.

Aunt N: What is making you laugh Porter? Do you think this is funny?

Aunt W: Take heed Porter, take heed.

On and on they went. My wonderful aunts. They still double-team me like that to this day.

Ahem! So back to Benin and its mystery and all that. Juju is not something hidden away in the backyard like some embarrassingly deranged relative. Here, it is real and acknowledged. It sits at the table and takes leisurely strolls around the neighbourhood. The practitioners/adherents of ancient religious traditions perform their rites with as much pride as the Hasids when they observe Hanukkah. It is not unusual to find an odd assortment of things slaughtered and things unidentifiable heaped at some junction early in the morning as sacrifice. There are various traditional religious sects that congregate and worship without any thought for the self-righteous opinions of the rest of our purported Christian/Muslim society.

There was a running joke back when I was in secondary school. It was something to the effect that on the CNN weather forecast, all other major cities in the world were listed thus :

New York 27F

London 42°F

Paris 38°F

Johannesburg 45°F

Rio de Janeiro 52°F

Benin City *

*Weather conditions may change dramatically throughout the day due to obvious forces at work. Please contact your local juju-man or rainmaker for up-to-the minute forecast in that city.

Apparently I wasn’t the only kid from outside Benin who had been warned about the spiritual risks of just being in the city. The Benin boys as expected were not too happy with all the allegations that theirs was a decidedly hyper-fetish tradition, and they were always defensive. Their denials were however contradicted when most fights they got into over whatever ended up with them threatening to go home and 'swear for' their opponent at the shrine of some malevolent-sounding deity.

On one occasion, it suddenly started raining in the middle of a graduation ceremony. Our proprietor, a prominent Benin chief, stood up from the platform where parents and dignitaries were seated and headed toward a secluded corner, brushing away the shelter of an umbrella offered by an eager crony. Legend has it that he went and mouthed some arcane and potent incantations. I don’t know about that. What I know is that by the time he was returning to his high chair at the high table, the rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He gained a lot of respect and, I dare say, fear on that day.

We had yet another eventful graduation ceremony a few years later when the erstwhile Military Administrator was invited as the Special Guest of Honour. When it was time to deliver his speech, the Navy Captain stood up and got into an arrogant intellectual rant intended to ridicule the monarch with whom he had a very bitter quarrel at the time. The audience was stunned. Amongst other very irreverent and disparaging comments, the MILAD said he was an intellectual and had read several books on diverse topics including Plasma Physics. He said it was an insult to his fecund intellect to expect him to believe that a human being could turn himself into a bat. He wondered what kind of molecular metamorphosis could permit such a mutation to occur. He went on to express his disdain for such backwardness, such superstition. The skimpily veiled attack almost ruined the entire event. The Benin Kingdom slept uneasily that day.

When the Milad’s wife suffered a miscarriage a few weeks later, the Benin people knew why.

On a less than morbid note, I resorted to calling the MILAD’s son (who-unfortunately for him-was my classmate) Plasma Boy! He hated it.

Speaking of bats, I’ve seen some very unusual activity by the nocturnal birds in these parts. On several occasions what seems like millions of them hover over the palace and around Ring Road. I wonder if there’s a huge bat cave somewhere in that vicinity. Hollywood take note: a good location for research or even a shoot if another Batman movie is in the works. I tink na authenticity dem say dem want?

Amongst the more bizarre things I’ve witnessed (albeit through the medium of the televison) in Benin was the Lovers’ Palaver which occurred a couple of years ago when I was here on a visit. A girl suspected that her boyfriend was cheating on her. To be sure, rather than hire a Private Eye to keep an eye on her lover’s privates, she went to a native doctor and ordered a customized spell. How she applied her designer spell, I don’t know. The fact is that whether via satellite, or the good old sprinkle-on-his-food method, the spell and (indeed the die) was cast. All that was required now was a siddon-look posture.

And so Mr. Loverman, oblivious as my fisherman Uncle in the village is to world oil prices, went about his business and played yet another away match. After the final whistle however, his erection remained. All his attempts to lower his flag were unsuccessful, he couldn’t even achieve half-mast by thinking unpleasant thoughts. Indeed, it was his mother who called in the family native doctor to help find a solution to the perpetual turgidity with which her son had been afflicted. And alas, it was the native doctor who with Sherlockian perspicacity deduced that the spell was from Mr. Loverman’s personal person, his babe, his main squeeze, his…em (I think I’m getting carried away again). ‘Hell hath no fury…’ said the native doctor, quoting Shakespeare in an unmistakably Oxbridge accent. (Sorry about that. I couldn’t resist. This is a true story o! Except for the obviously silly parts).

Anyway, the native doctor immediately asked that the long-suffering girlfriend be summoned. As can be expected, the girl refused to come, and instead sent a message back along the lines of ‘everyday for the thief…’ (Women!! Hah!)

Mr. Loverman spent one hellish night with an unyielding erection even as the native doctor tried his best to help him. By morning, it was clear that the spell was passworded and it was the girl who knew the pin code. Again they begged her but she continued to spurn all entreaties. Eventually, the boy had to go to the palace and plead his case (this is where the newscameras got in on the whole thing) even though the problem was clear to everyone. The palace then summoned the girl, and got her to temper justice with mercy and give the guy a break for crying out loud (italics and sympathetic opinion are mine). The guy was full of remorse and gratitude when they emerged from the Palace. He promised to be a stand up guy from then on. The girl was sulking and unwilling to oblige the journalists with any sound bites.

I think it’s pretty obvious that this post has veered way off course. Make I end am here. I can’t even remember what I set out to blog about. Anyway, I’m in Benin sleeping, eating, watching TV, and making the most of all that ‘oh-so-you-won’t-go-to-lawschool-until-September’ sympathy. I’m also giving my liver a bit of a break and rediscovering the music of The Cranberries and Tracy Chapman.

We go yan.

What to Do

I've been busy with my classmates, fighting to get admitted into lawschool. Thing is, we'd already been offered admission, but our evil Acting Dean decided to send the results of just some of the people in our class to lawschool. Those guys have been at their various campuses having lectures for almost a month. We on the other hand, have had to struggle to make him send our results to Abuja. He finally did, long after the deadline. The result? about 200 qualified law graduates have to wait almost an entire year. It's annoying. I hear the Acting Dean now has police protection. God help him!

The Struggle as we refer to it, is now practically over. We celebrate our small victories and hope that the wounds will soon phase into scars. there's been a lot of strategizing. An unlikely bunch of classmates thrown together by a common challenge. I'm now friends with people i never spoke to in all the 6 years i spent in that faculty. there has been a lot of bitterness confessedas well as a lot of beer consumed. there've been anecdotes from the time spent chasing that LLB degree. there's the guy who 'toasted' the most wicked female lecturer when he was in year 2. He claims he'd thought she was a student because of her very nice legs. He developed cold feet for Madam Hot Legs when someone told him who she was. He never called her, even though she had given him her number. the next time she saw him, she yelled "I don't like being disappointed!". He, on his part, prostrated and begged her to forgive him for ever coming on to her.

Now I have a year to fill, but I'm too exhausted to evaluate my options. I feel like I need to sleep for a long time, even my body aches. I got a call from my cousin she wants me to 'come to Lagos and hustle'. I'm not even sure what that means. My sister thinks I should travel, but she's not very clear on whether she'll be willing to bankroll such a trip. My mother called me last night.

"What are you doing now Porter?"

"Nothing."

"When are you coming home for Christmas?"

"As soon as my girlfriends release me."

She chuckles uncomfortably, not sure if I'm serious.

"Well, don't keep us waiting for too long."

"Ok."

"Have you thought of what you'll do next year?"

"I'll find something to do. Maybe learn Spanish or something. I might even blog"

"What's that?"

I explain.

"I thought you wanted to be a writer? This blogging thing sounds like a compromise."

"Okay."

"I hate it when you do that Porter."

"Sorry."

"Anyway, take care out there. Don't do anything that..."

The network rudely interrupts. Service is down again. I try to call her back, but I can't get a connection. I sit back and try to think of what I'll do in the coming year. My mind yawns. I'm having unpleasant flashbacks to that nasty episode with Punishment. I lie down and hope to wake up in 2008.

Porter: A Brief History of Treason

I remember quite clearly when I was about 6 or 7, I got thoroughly scolded by my eldest sister for not keeping my room tidy. As she was leaving the room, I made a rude gesture (I show her waka) and she just so happened to turn around at that moment. She saw my hand mid-air, palm facing her, fingers extended, and a defiant look on my face. She came back and gave me a memorable beating. After that, I made it a policy to keep my rude gestures mental and unseen to the human eye.

There was another incident not too long after that. I had just emerged from the toilet. My sister called out from downstairs

‘Porter, what is that horrible smell?’


“Smell? I can’t smell anything”


“What do you mean you can’t smell anything? Did you just use the toilet?”


“Yes, but it didn’t even smell, and I flushed”


Next thing I knew, my sister was bounding up the stairs, handkerchief tied over her nose and mouth. In her right hand, a loaded canister of some lilac airfreshner, in her left, a can of Raid. I’ve never been able to figure out what the Raid was for…to kill germs? To further suppress the (imagined) stench? To prevent flies from finding ground zero? She began to spray away the moment she saw me in front of my room. I had to get out of the way.



She sprayed generously from both cans all the way to the bathroom, and then she went postal when she got inside it. I reckon she must have emptied both cans in there. After that, she ordered me to go and take a bath in my father’s bathroom.


“You’d better scrub yourself very well because I will inspect”


I was angry, and I contemplated another rude gesture but the memory of the last beating was still too fresh and raw in my mind and so I did as the dictator had ordered.


I got my chance for revenge a few days later. I waited until my sister had gone into the toilet one evening and then I took a can of Raid and started spraying away outside the door.


“Who is that?” she called out, startled. I kept quiet and went on spraying.


“I say who is there? Porter?”


“Yes, aunty” (she made us call her aunty in those days. Such was her tyranny)


“Porter what’s going on there?”


“Nothing aunty”


“What is that sound? What are you spraying?”


“I smelled something. I think there’s a dead rat around here. I’m spraying Raid because of the smell, and to kill the insects that will be looking for the rat”


She kept quiet for a while and then she said “you evil child, you had better leave that place before I come out and descend on you. In short, go and kneel down in my room and wait for me”


I was standing covering my mouth with one hand, trying not to laugh out loud. As I turned to go and observe my punishment, I couldn’t resist one final spray. There is no need to recount what happened when she came out of the toilet that day. But let’s just say that I didn’t receive any presents from my sister/aunty the following Christmas.


A couple of years later, my father’s lady friend found a note inside her car after one of her numerous overnight visits. The note was scribbled on a plain sheet of paper. Its message was simple, and the lettering was large and quite legible. It read:

GO AWAY YOU STUPID WOMAN. WE HATE YOU.

She almost fainted when she saw it. My father was not at home, and so she went upstairs to his study and began pacing until he got back. Downstairs, there was a buzz, we weren’t quite sure what had happened, we could only speculate.

After about 10 minutes, my father summoned the household to his study. He told us what had happened. The lady sat quietly, glaring at my older brother and me with hateful eyes. My father then began to narrow down the list of suspects. The cook had been busy all day, besides she was very fond of Madam. The gateman couldn’t write a single alphabet even if his life depended on it. Our cousins had just come from the village the previous day, and they could not have formed an opinion about the lady in so short a time. And so it went until the only two people standing in the study and facing the hateful gaze of the woman and the certain justice of my father were my brother and I.

My father then asked us to go and bring our school notebooks. After some handwriting analysis, my brother was fingered as the culprit. My father said even though he had ‘tried to be clever’ by changing the way he constructed his letters, his W’s were unchanged. My brother would be grounded for a week. He would write a letter of apology, in his original handwriting, to the lady, and wash her car whenever she came (and slept over). I thought I was off the hook until my father turned to me and said

“Porter, I notice the note says ‘we hate you’. I can only imagine that you and your brother had agreed on this”

“No, I didn’t…”

“Sharrap!” he barked, and then he went on. “You will also write a letter of apology”. With that, he dismissed us. I went to my room and even as my brother was biting the top of his biro, agonizing over what to write, I wrote a very brief letter that went something like this

Dear Aunty,
I am writing to apologise for the note you found in your car today. I am sorry that somebody in this house does not like you. I don’t know the person, but I would like the person.

The lady was furious when she read this. She took the note to my father and he summoned me once again. He read it aloud to me and asked me what I meant by ‘I would like the person’

“Oh!” I exclaimed, feigning surprise “It’s a mistake, I meant to say I would like to find the person”

“It’s a lie!” the woman screamed.

My father asked her to calm down and let him handle it.

“Now look here Porter, I know you are trying to be very clever. I am now convinced you were the brains behind that note even though your brother was the one who foolishly wrote it. You will go and write another letter of apology, this time without any mistakes. You are also banned from watching TV for a week.” I thought I saw just the slightest hint of a smile playing on my father's lips.

With that, he sent me away. He knew he had given me a very painful punishment. I still like to think that my father was somewhat amused by my treachery. He wasn’t a humourless man, and in his youth, he’d been a bit a rascal. There were rumours that he’d been the leader of a group that burned the blackbook back when he was in secondary school. I think he was secretly proud of my naughtiness.

As for his lady friend, she became very paranoid and she was always on our case from then onwards. However, about a year later, she had a major falling out with my father and the day she left, my brother and I were smiling broadly and waving mockingly as we opened the gate for her to drive out of our lives.

From Sugar to Shit in Just a Bit

She visits. We hug, and then kiss. We sit down to talk. We laugh and play. Our love is bliss. I say something. She misunderstands. I joke about it, she overreacts. I shrug, she curses. I yell at her, she yells back. I ignore her, she screams. I grab a beer, she hits me. I sip my beer and watch the TV. She sits on the bed and starts to sob. I turn off the TV and try to hold her. She pushes me away and curls up on her own. I try again, and fail again. I sigh, and sip my beer. Her cell phone rings. She wipes her eyes, and answers with the breathless hello she usually reserves for me. I turn on the TV and try to focus. Her whispered words distract me so. She soon sits up and cuddles a pillow. The call lingers, ands soon she laughs. I look at her, she turns away. Her whispers drop an octave. She giggles again, and leaves the room. I hear her lock the bathroom door. My jealous hearts quickens pace. My state of mind is insecure. Giggles and laughter are all I hear. They make her happy. I wonder who. When give her pain is all I seem to do. From across the door I listen in. I hear the smile in her happy hum. She comes out soon and stares at me. I’m leaving you, I hear her say. She knocks the sunshine out of my day. I sit on the floor and close my eyes. Something deep within me dies.

THE BACK

Gaze upon his back

Not so proud
But strong

Too often bent in subservience
With more stripes
Than the zebra in the Safari

The crimson welts
Are now Stygian scars

His eternal scowl
Began as a frequent wince

His anger is rooted
In his pain

His roots are watered
By his hate

His hate flows
From his past

His past
Has made his back

Not so proud

But strong