You might want to read the previous post–> ”Through her eyes” if you haven’t because ‘Tamara’ is a continuation x

He parked his motorcycle behind the town hall building and walked to the front door. He gave it three short raps and two long ones and it opened up a second later. The other rebels were gathered around a broad, hand crafted table and he noticed their guns were kept close to their sides like quiet companions. They looked up when he walked in and he gave them a short bow. They murmured their acknowledgement of his presence with quick nods and he pulled up an empty chair and joined the tight circle. A man with thinning hairline stood up and a hush settled over the meeting. His name is Kingsley and the most noticeable thing about him was the scar that started at the top of his forehead and ended at the bottom of his lip. He got it the first night he spent in jail for kidnapping the child of an employer that worked for one of the oil companies. The police men that found him beat him mercilessly until he was coughing up a mouth full of blood and broken teeth. They threw him into their already cramped cell, taking him out only to torture and question him until he confessed his crime. He was released the next day with a deep cut on his face that ended up requiring 28 stitches. As he bit down on his lip to stop himself from screaming in pain at the community clinic, he decided to form the rebel group and recruit young men who were willing to die and kill for the justice he believed in.

‘My Brothers. Welcome.’

‘Our Leader.Welcome.’

Tamara tuned Kingsley’s voice out and allowed his mind to wander to his cousin. When Tari had first arrived, he had his doubts about her, but over time she proved to be a resilient young woman and a friendly face he appreciated when his aunt’s disapproving looks followed him around the house. He fingered the trigger on his gun and thought about the first life he had taken. It was his initiation night and he was sent on a police station in one of the communities he was familiar with. He walked in to find the only policeman on duty sleeping. He laughed and used the butt of his gun to violently wake him up. The policeman dropped to his knees and begged Tamara to spare his life. He babbled and cried about his wife and children at home for a few minutes before Tamara got tired of the pathetic grovelling and shot him in the head. He was surprised at how killing came so easily to him; he had no fear and the cocaine he had snorted earlier in the day was still heavy in his system. He grabbed whatever guns he could find and stepped on the puddle of blood and brain matter that was starting to form, leaving a trail of dark red boot prints in his wake.

He heard Kingsley say his name and he looked up quickly and caught the end of the sentence.

‘…Tamara is finally a man.’ The rebels flashed their yellowing teeth in approval and the ones close to him patted his back and congratulated him. He stood up, loudly repeated the oath and sat back down. Watching the men regard him with new-found respect made his heart swell with pride. His decision to become a rebel had hurt his aunt deeply. She wanted him to focus on school and finding a good job, but at 20, Tamara was very restless and stubborn. He knew he had a calling and he was convinced this was it.

Kingsley rounded up the meeting with the oath and proceeded to produce a large bottle of rum from his messenger bag. He took a healthy swig and passed it around the table with a loud laugh. When the bottle got to him, Tamara tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut when the warm liquor slid down his throat. He passed it on and embraced the burning sensation that made him feel invisible and untouchable. When the feeling the feeling died down, he remembered Tari alone in the house and hurriedly joined the stream of men leaving the town hall.  

Any extra comments: tweet me @koromonayy or e-mail me kkoroye@gmail.com

I read and reply everything

I tiptoed carefully around the pile of dirt and garbage that had been swept up to the edge of the river bank. It was late afternoon but the sun was still hanging over my parent’s village with its intense rays beating down on my naked eyes. I walked a little further down the road and stood next to a group of naked children building mud houses with quiet determination. They paused to wipe their running noses occasionally before returning their attention back to their poorly crafted homes. I tore my eyes away from them and looked out into the river. The waves were always calm and although the water was murky, the villagers never failed to to carry out their daily activities in the vast and unending river. I watched young men gather around the stairs leading to the water, they were almost naked as well save for the boxers that sagged beneath their bony waist lines. Their voices traveled upwards and I tried without success to understand their rapid conversations in our ever elusive native language. Soon their voices dimmed and I could hear the loud splashes that signaled they had each dived into the water fearlessly. Their arms cut through the dirty brown water with ease and I envied their precision. I had started taking swimming lessons 2 months before my schedule year long stay in the village but my swimming coach did not possess their confidence and dexterity.

My eyes followed another group heading towards the river in a slow funeral like procession. The older women, who only left the comfort of their thin mats in the afternoons, trudged barefoot into the river and set down their buckets and baskets next to their feet. Some of them had their wrappers tied around their tanned chests and they loosened them as soon as they slipped into the water. The first time I discovered a majority of the villagers bathed in the same river they defecated in, I wrinkled my nose in disgust and immediately appreciated the clean water my aunt fetched for me every morning. I soon noticed that the younger women had arrived with buckets filled with clothes probably belonging to their families. They set up a few steps away from the old women and washed with practiced skills as they talked rapidly, punctuating their words with laughter every 5 minutes. I longed to join them everyday but I knew I would never fit in with my perfectly combed hair and fabric softened clothes. I watched them for a little while and when they finally caught me staring, I allowed my eyes to focus on the large oil rig sitting in the middle of the river like a crowned king. It was starting to rust and its roped drills looked like lifeless tentacles. I knew about the big oil companies exploiting the small oil rich villages in the Niger Delta but I never knew how bad it was until my aunt walked in with a net filled with dead fish two days ago. An early memory of my first summer in the village sprang into my mind- my mother’s eyes bright with fear when we entered the canoe, my aunt’s arm flexing with strength when she tossed her fishing net into the water and my curious smile when I watched the countless fish squirming in the bowl we brought back from our trip. But that was before the oil companies arrived with their promises and never ending oil spills. I heard a loud cough and turned to find my cousin, Tamara, watching me intently. He had on the dark blue pants I bought him after my first semester at NYU and a shirt that bore the President’s face with a large red X across it. He held a gun in his left hand and a cigarette in his right. I knew he was heading to the neighboring village for the daily meetings he had with his fellow rebels. He beckoned for me with a tilt of us head and I pulled myself away from the river. The first time I had seen his gun, I had clasped my hand over my mouth with muted shock and he warned me to never touch it without his permission. I was now used to the menacing weapon and sometimes even wondered how it would feel to hold it and threaten to pull the trigger.

‘Have you eaten?’ His voice was low and raspy.

‘Uh hmm. An hour ago I think.’

‘I’m going to my meeting now. Will you be okay by yourself?’

‘Yeah Tam, I’ll be fine.’ He smiled at the nick name and headed towards his motorcycle. He climbed on, turned on the engine and gave me a slight wave before he drove away.

After the smoke from Tamara’s motorcycle had finally cleared, I ducked low and slipped into my aunt’s house. It was a little dark and I reached for the Kerosine lamp that has sat in the corner of the room for as long as I could remember. I struck the match and a bright light erupted before it settled into a shy three colored flame. I carried the lit lamp into the room I shared with my aunt and plopped myself on my unmade bed. I thought about the nightmare that had been plaguing me every night since I had been in the village. Once again, I dreamed I had been standing at the edge of a cliff and I fell into the river without warning. I found myself drowning not in water but in dark, unrefined oil. I woke up with an accelerated heart beat and a fresh wave of confusion about the meaning behind my dream. I never shared my nightmares with my aunt even though she rubbed my back until I fell back into a restless sleep.

I gazed at the flickering flame in deep thought until it started to blur and all I could see was a lone orange shape sitting in the center of the lamp.

I was 8 years old when my uncle took me and my sister to Fantasy Land for an impromptu afternoon trip. It was a Sunday; I remember this because I was wearing my blue church dress and my shiny black shoes. Uncle Bode told me he loved the flowers on my dress and when I was older he would take me to Paris and show me beautiful parks where I could pick as many flowers as I wanted. I didn’t understand what he meant back then because I was half listening to his sweaty promises and half listening to my sister’s hyperactive babble. When the car stopped in front of the amusement park, my sister flew out of the backseat and I tried to leave but Uncle Bode’s hand was clamped on my thigh. My 8 year old thigh. I looked at him with a half smile on my face almost asking him why he was not releasing me. I thought he was going to give me extra money like he always did but there were no wallets or generous gestures. He leaned closer and I could taste the last cigarette he smoked before he picked us up from our house. I looked outside the car window and watched my sister bite into a candy floss cone- I sighed wistfully and ignored my uncle’s heavy breathing. Before he unlocked the door, Uncle Bode told me that some secrets will be buried with us when we die and there was no way we could stop that from happening.

My sister is dating Abdul again. He is a banker and his suits smell like trapped dust and Air Conditioning. He is a Muslim and he lets me play with his prayer beads when he stops by to visit. He also brings a bag of Taffy’s with him and I am always too busy sorting through my favorite flavors to notice his hands snaking up Wande’s skirt. My mother smiles when she sees him but it never quite reaches her eyes; she stands there with a tray of lukewarm juice, two glasses and an insincere smile. At night, my father tells her to stop smiling and take Wande to church for deliverance, my mother screams at him and curses the day she met him. You got me pregnant, her voice is always bitter with unapologetic anger, she’s your daughter too! I am tired of talking to her. If she wants to date a terrorist, she can go right ahead. Sometimes when the screaming gets too loud, Wande slips into my room and squeezes herself next to me on my narrow bed. Her wet cheeks dampen my pillow and by the next morning, the tear streaks on her face look like jagged tire tracks.

Wande never stops talking about Abdul. She tells me about the flowers and the chocolate boxes and the lingerie. I ask her what lunjayray means and she giggles and tells me to go and bring her makeup bag. Her makeup bag is like my own personal candy store. When she leaves for work, I sneak into her room and try on different lipsticks that don’t taste as nice as they look. I stare in the mirror and will myself to look as beautiful as Wande, but all I see are my too small eyes and my bushy eyebrows. I give my sister her mascara and she smiles a pretty smile at me. Her hair has pink rollers in them and they hang around her shoulders like beaded curtains. I stroke the blonde streaks in her hair and I remember the day she came home after she dyed it- my mother had laughed hysterically, marched out of the living room and did not talk to her for three days. My father threatened to disown her and send her to the village if she did not stop acting like a stupid American girl. Wande returned to her boring brown hair and dyed it again when she met Abdul.

On my 13^th birthday, Wande picked me up from school with a mischievous glint in her eyes. I ignored it until I noticed she drove past the street that led to our house.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked with as much curiosity as I could muster.

“It’s a surprise,’ she said in a high sing song voice that really annoyed me. I shrugged and thought maybe she was taking me to see a movie or do something she was so certain I would enjoy. When the car eased into the growing traffic, I looked outside the window and admired the hawkers and beggars. A young boy pressed his small carton of goods against my window and made a silent plea with his eyes. I gave him N100 and bought a pack of N10 gum. Wande called me a Good Samaritan and started drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Tap tap tap tap tap tap. The traffic eventually cleared and we drove for a few more minutes before the car slowed down outside Fantasy Land. I glanced at my sister and shook my head. No no no no. I can’t remember if I said it in my head or out loud.

“Are you silly? Why are you shaking your head? My friend, get out of the car!” I remembered Uncle Bode’s hands and suddenly the smell of cigarette smoke settled in the car. I started to cough and Wande unbuckled her seat belt and reached over to rub my back.

“Moyo! What’s wrong?” I quieted down and begged her to take me back home.

“I thought you loved Fantasy Land! Don’t you remember when Uncle brought us here?”

“I want to go home!” Wande pushed my head and called me an ungrateful, spoiled brat.

“Abdul is in there waiting for us and all you can do is sit here and cough. Stupid little girl! I planned this nice surprise for you and this is how you repay me? Rubbish!” She sucked her teeth, pulled out her phone and called who I believed was Abdul. I heard her yell a few angry words into it before she started the car and drove away.

When we got home, Wande locked herself in her room and pretended not to hear me even though I knocked on her door every hour. I was reading my bible and getting ready for bed when she walked into my room and demanded an explanation for the way I acted that afternoon. I told her that some secrets were better off inside our heads. She sat on my bed and crossed her heart and promised not to tell mummy or daddy. I closed my eyes and whispered Uncle Bode’s sins between quiet sobs and loud hiccups. Wande sat and listened until I was done, then she stumbled out of my room without a word. I woke up the next morning and found her curled up next to me, but this time the tire track tear streaks were on my face.

I like Abdul and his wide gap tooth; the first time I met him, I asked him if I could push my coin through the gap, he laughed as Wande shrieked and pulled me out of the room. I snuck back to the door way and watched him tickle her mouth with his tongue, his large hand resting on her thighs. I went back to my room and practiced kissing with my teddy bear but all I could see was Abdul’s smiling face so I stopped and stared at the ceiling until my eyes watered. I tell my friends about Abdul and they blush and giggle and ask me if I have a crush on him. I wave their questions away and remind them that I am fourteen years old and he is much older than I am. They exchange knowing glances and taunt me all day until I cry with anger and push them away as we walk back home from school. I know I don’t have a crush on Abdul because of Wale. Wale is a handsome boy in my class with a birthmark on his right cheek that everyone teases him about. They call him eczema boy behind his back and sometimes in front of him, but he never gets angry, instead he tells them he will visit them at night and rub his face on their bodies when they are asleep; they scream and stop making fun of him for a week or two. I like Wale because he smiles when I lend him my eraser and he tells me I have beautiful cheekbones. He says they are high like mountains and they make me look like a true African queen. He kissed me once behind the classroom block during our short break, I was telling him about the color of my new room and he leaned in, cutting me off with a short kiss. I pulled away first and ran back to the class, my face burning with embarrassment. I told Wande about the kiss when I got back home and she said me I was too young to have a boyfriend, I replied that he was not my boyfriend and she made me promise to stay away from him. You are too young to be kissing boys! Do you hear me Moyo? Too young! I nodded and swore not to talk to Wale again.

I help her remove the rollers from her hair and listen to her hum and sing love songs. She sprays her favorite perfume and I breathe in her happiness with envy.

“So, where is he taking you today?”

“Pearl Garden. He knows how much I love Chinese food.” She winks at me and slips into her shoes. I have always been jealous of her tiny feet; I stare at the chipped nail polish on my long toes and kiss my teeth. She turns to look at me and I notice she’s wearing her contacts, the blue ones that make her eyes look bigger.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m jealous of your feet. They are so ladylike.” I think about the times my mother has begged me to act like a lady: Moyo! Sit up straight! Stop burping like a man! Why can’t you be more like your sister?  I stare at the invisible bump on Wande’s stomach and I know that I don’t want to be like my sister at all.

“Moyo,’ she says as she touches her face, “I wish I had your cheekbones. Mine are so flat and they make my face look fat.”

“Fat? Are you crazy?” I scoff and toss the pillow on my lap at her, it misses her by an inch and she sticks her tongue out at me. Wande acts like a little girl around me and sometimes, I forget that she is twenty five years old.

“Maybe I am crazy little sis.” She twirls around in her little black dress. “I’m crazy in love.” I groan and walk over to her. She stands still and lets me finger the multicolored sequins on her dress; I sweep my eyes over her and sigh with approval.

“You look beautiful.” She shrugs her shoulders and presses her lips to my forehead.

“Thank you.” I want to ask her if she went to the doctor’s today but I stop myself and shoo her out of the room instead. She blows me a kiss and reminds me to tell mummy and daddy that she is going for a business dinner.

“You are going to have to tell them soon.” I say when she gets into the car.

“I will tell them after the doctor tells me what’s wrong okay? See you soon.” She drives off and her secrets weigh heavy on my teenage shoulders.

 Later tonight, I will tell my parents that Wande and Abdul have been seeing each other for close to five years. I will watch my mother clap her hands over her mouth with shock and I will watch my father lean back into his chair and shake his left leg repeatedly. I will also tell them that Wande had an abortion when she was twenty-one; my mother will jump out of her seat and scream questions at me until her voice is hoarse. My father will lunge at me and grab the front of my shirt and shake me until answers drop out of my mouth like shiny coins. I will confess that Wande is still trying to have a baby and I will cry with my mother and yell at my father with my new found confidence. Wande will come back home brimming with secrets to tell me and she will find our parents in her room, their hands rummaging through her medicine closet like homeless people in garbage cans. She will call my name over and over again and I will whisper quiet, funeral service apologies. I will cry myself to sleep and wake up the next morning to find Wande pulling hurriedly packed suitcases out of the house. I will beg and plead but she will shake her head and call my name over and over again until she leaves.

Coffee here with another exciting post *runs around* whoopie -_-

First of all I have to say a huge thank you to everyone that read and left a comment on my last post. I read all of them and responded to 90% of the comments.

Hoodneegah if you rear your ugly head in this post I will hunt you down :I

So a number of people asked for a part 2 of ‘What women want’ and because I am a lovely person (no I’m not) I surveyed four new female followers and I absolutely loved everything they wrote in their lists and I hope you guys do.

Before I post their relationship killers, let me just say what kills a relationship for me completely.

1. If you talk too damn much I will dead that relationship quickly. I like to keep my business to myself so I expect you to do the same. whatever happens in our relationship stays between us. Don’t be sharing details about what we do/don’t do with your cousin from your grandma’s side twice removed. We don’t that over here.

Let’s get started:

Zara (@Novacrossqueen)

1. Sex- well I was gonna do the list in no particular order, but this definitely comes first, I mean my man has to be open to anything (but not too open that he starts having sex without me, ha..) If I wanna hang from the ceiling fan and nak to George of the jungle music, he better come with that rope and ky jelly… and Dear Lord, all those men that do not give head, I pray they never find me in their lifetime, Amen.

2. Know when to shut up – can you not see that im in the middle of training my snail for the 100m race, I don’t care for what you have to say right now… go get snail steroids. No offense, but some men don’t know that sometimes I just wanna sit and be quiet, none of that ‘trying to connect on a spiritual level all the time so that we can read each other’s mind’ crap…

3. Money – I cannot make a list without this, abi will I run my relationship on engine oil? Money is important, I don’t mind taking care of my man… paying for shit, as long as he plans to take care of me back in the near future..after all we are not married, its just a relationship, if im coming to your house, U pay my taxi, if youre coming to mines, I pay… or we can just meet halfway and nak at bar beach…

4. Your mother – don’t give your mum my number. Period.

5. Unclean spirits – that same boy that was showing up to my office looking like they ripped him out from pages of GQ, that’s the same nigga I wanna date o, not 3weeks down the line you looking like you have hobo DNA…. You have to be so fresh and so clean, if I look at your dick I can almost see my reflection… hello.

Sekemi (@SekemiB)

So I was asked to write 5 relationship killers and my number one has got to be the >>
1. Amebo/insecure boyfriend: The fella keeps asking you why you replied his bbms late or why you didn’t pick up his calls or when you get off skype he asks who you just skyped with I mean! Are you my boyfriend or my father?!

2. My boyfriend the Droner: The bf who calls but yet has nothing to say except whisper what he happens to think are sweet ‘somethings’ in my poor sensible convo deprived ears. He’s the ‘hi boo I miss you. The last time I saw you I just wanted to kiss you so bad, you’re so sexy’ guy.  He’s also the guy who makes you feel like your brain cells are depreciating per second. The ‘so what’s up guy?’ the ‘oh ok you’re eating so what you doing next?’ guy. The ‘so are you thinking about me?’ Guy. The guy you only agreed to date cause you were attracted to him and not because you knew him that well or even if you did at the time you were probably desperate to jump on the girls with boys bandwagon. The sooner you realise this about your relationship the sooner it ends!
3. Help! My boyfriend is a Flipping Pervert: He is the ‘so what are you wearing now?’ douche. Or the send me pictures of you rasclat(or whatever its called) I don’t care if we’re seeing each other, how many more flipping years have to go by before these monsters realise that this is NOT a seductive line. Neither is it complimentary in any form so sit your bottoms down and stop asking such questions you gentle pervs. If your girlfriend wants to send you pics I think you would’ve had em by now and wouldn’t need to keep asking :*

4. The washing galore guy: I guess it’s the general consensus in male land that if you praise a female she’ll be on her knees… Well it’s wrong. With a capital ONG. I for one am not a fan of constant compliments or mushiness. Calling me cubby cake will get you no points, calling me sweetums will get you dumped. ‘Hey beautiful’ will make me appreciate you cause of course compliments matter but when it starts to sound ridiculous as opposed to making me feel secure then we’re over.

5. Tranquility: If you are too accepting as a lad then I’m sorry our relationship will cease before it begins. I know this might sound silly but I love fighting. Lol it genuinely makes me happy. If our relationship is a smooth sailing boat on the atlantic ocean without any Pirate of the Caribbean like storms then it’s not gonna work out. I love me some rough arguments and at the beginning stages I hate to see people getting attached. It reaches into my inner robot and I power down immediately! Don’t be so blehh! Grow some balls and argue with me.
All this being said and I’m out like I’m outside. Toodles.

Onye (@Onyeyeezy)

1) Comparison: There’s nothing I hate more than being compared to an ex girlfriend. It’s extremely rude and insensitive. I am a different person and as such will do and handle things differently. “Oh ….. never talked to me like this, oh ….. always knew how to make me smile, bla bla blaaaa” well in case you haven’t noticed, I am NOT your ex!! Comparing me to your ex will only make me feel you are not over her, which will eventually ruin our relationship.

2)  Excessive Jealousy/Paranoia: I understand people get jealous and a bit uncomfortable when someone is hitting on your partner, it’s completely normal, I get jealous easily. However when you start demanding to know who every guy I talk to is, stalking my every move and invading my privacy by going through my phone, that’s when we’ll have a problem.

3) Trust: Tbh there’s no relationship without trust. And I’m not just talking about being faithful, if we are in a relationship I expect you to not only be my boyfriend but to also be like my best friend and brother, I should be able to talk to you about family issues, school stress etc and trust that you’ll be there for me and also keep whatever I tell you to yourself. I believe most guys cheat, it’s kinda the new ‘norm’ so I always prepare myself for that, but I should trust that it won’t be a normal occurrence and that you would tell me (I’m a very tolerable person and I forgive easily).

4) Playing the ‘age’ card: I like dating older guys, you have to be at least 4-5 years older than me. If we get into a fight or an argument, don’t bring my age into it. Didn’t you know how old I was before we started dating? So why is my age an issue only when we have a disagreement? When I’m in a relationship I believe we are equals, I will treat you with respect obviously because you are older but that doesn’t stop me from shouting and cursing at you when I’m angry. Don’t think I’ll keep quiet and take your crap because of your age.

5) Ambition: Like I said earlier, I like dating older guys. You can’t be in your mid/late 20′s and lack ambition. I believe everyone should be ambitious, if all you want to do is drink and club every weekend and smoke weed with your guys, then the relationship won’t last. If you’re still in uni, I expect you to take it seriously not to be ‘faffing’ around ‘waking and baking’ with your guys and expecting daddy to sort you out after uni. You should have started making future plans of your own. I like talking about the future and it’s sexy watching a guy talk about the plans he has and what he hopes to achieve by a certain age. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I expect us to be together till marriage but I refuse to date an NFA regardless of if it leads to marriage or if we only date for a week.

So there you have it guys. personally my favorite list is by Sekemi, I’m really glad I asked her to send me hers because her personality is very refreshing. You know what to do: leave a comment telling me what kills a relatonship for you and also if you agree with anything the girls mentioned in this post.

Coffee out.

Today’s post was inspired by Toolman’s post here -> http://thetoolsman.wordpress.com/2011/06/20/what-men-dont-want/

The post was insightful as usual but the comments were CRAZY. I mean after I read like 50 I was ready to throw my T.V out of the window. I mean I understand everyone has standards but some people were just pushing it. I’ll just let you guys read the post/comments if you haven’t already.

Moving on, just like Toolsman, I picked 4 of my lovely followers and asked them to tell me what they DO NOT want in a man. Three of them are very opinionated and the fourth one is more reserved and I chose her for that reason so we can all see it from different point of views you know?

BUT before I post their comments, let me just say the want thing I know I don’t want….. BITCH NIGGA ATTITUDE.

Bitch Nigga Attitude *sighs* *walks up to chalk board and slaps ruler on the table*: Unfortunately the Bitch Nigga Attitude occurs during the relationship and shortly after it has ended. what do I mean by Bitch Nigga Attitude a.k.a B.A.N?  A guy that nags and complains about EVERYTHING you do. A guy that craves attention every single hour. I mean if you called me an hour ago telling me you ‘missed’ me, calling me back an hour to say the same shit is very ridiculous! I mean you are the guy! I should be the one acting like a clingy cat and if I have a problem with that then obviously something is wrong somewhere. B.A.N also occurs after the relationship is over… how? well you know the dudes that decide to slander you after you broke up with them? yeah. that’s a bitch nigga. shame. Alright I’m done.

Itunu (@MsItunu)

1) Pettiness: A man who fusses about the most mundane of things is an instant turn off. Why are you bothered about the colour of a babe’s nail polish or the fact that she wears Brazilian hair instead of Peruvian? Why do you even know the difference between Peruvian and brazilian hair to start with? If you’re constantly bitching about petty things and non issues I’m sorry mate we can’t happen.

2) Close minded/Unadventurous/Basic/Judgemental: you believe personal grooming is meant for women only? You think being a ‘real’ man means acting brash and overbearing? You’re unashamedly racist/tribalistic/sexist. Your idea of sex is pounding, pounding and more pounding. She tells you she enjoys watching porn and you sit there judging her. Men like this, this way please <—— (To the left)

3) Paranoia: A man who is paranoid, not sure of himself, needs constant validation and is constantly questioning about phone calls/emails/bbm’s/tweets is a turn off. No woman, well let me speak for myself; I don’t want a man who questions me about every dude that talks to me or even tweets at me.

4) No passion/interest: He’s  not passionate about anything, even if it’s vampire diaries. No hobbies, nothing makes his blood pump or his heart race even if its country music, he takes no active interest in anything like ANYTHING at all. I don’t want that kind of man.

5) Uncharismatic: this is lack of a sense of style, inability to hold an interesting conversation and bad carriage all rolled into one. It’s what basic people call ‘lacking swag’ ( I’m upset I had to use this word ). If you lack this then its goodnight and God bless.

Ola (@OlaHolloway)

1. Don’t be a child.

I don’t see why I should be in a relationship with someone that acts like a 12 year old. MAN UP! If you do something wrong, you apologise. Don’t run your mouth and say shit for the sole purpose of hurting my feelings. I don’t want a manipulative bastard. This is real life we are not in a movie you don’t fuck around with people’s feelings because you are unsure of yours. It’s cruel.  Unless we both knowingly enter the ‘relationship’ for the sole purpose of fucking, I will be treated with the respect and reverence that you would expect your dad to give to your mom. For all you know, I could be the future mother of your child. If you cannot treat people with love and respect, if you cannot admit to being wrong, if you cannot be completely honest with me, please find someone who will endure your half-arsed attitude. I wish you the very best. .

I also do not want a guy with no ambitions. You need to have a passion for something. You need to want to BE something. Don’t sit on your arse and be an arrogant bastard. You will be happy for me when I reach greater heights.

2. Body Odour

Please don’t have it. Don’t bathe in perfume either. I have asthma. Thanks.

3. Passive

Obviously I like to believe I wear the pants in the relationship, but I do not want my boyfriend to be a passive bitch. Why on earth would you agree with everything I say? Tell me to shut up if you have to. Give me some ‘Love the way you lie’ type loving. There is no need to act like a fairy. If I wanted Edward Cullen, I would go and remake twilight or find a fairy or something. Be a man. This doesn’t mean you should beat me up. Be warned, I grew up with 5 boys, I have 3 dogs, one father who is not afraid to use his guns and I am a brown belt. Just saying.

4. Illiterates

I have a short temper. I can’t stand stupid people. What are we going to talk about if you have the IQ of a spoon? Intellectuals are sexy. Intellectuals with facial hair are sex.

5. Brap people

No thanks.

Tiwa (@Tidiji)

1) He has to be supportive: If I say I want to do something, and everyone else is “making jest” of me, I expect him to be the one to stick by me no matter what. Yes oh, he must do “ride or die” for me. He must be my personal voltron, as they say on Twitter. I can’t be second guessing his loyalty, because I’ll feel insecure about out relationship. That will not do.

2) He has to be emotionally mature: Let’s face it. There are some grown men out there that keep acting like kids. If you are going to stomp your feet and pout like a child, I will treat you like a child. If you don’t know when to step up and act like a man, take charge of situations and look at things from a mature point of view, it will never work.

3) He has to be a family man: I will not even look twice at a man who does not respect his parents, or thinks kids are “stupid”. Like I said, his long-term goals have to align with mine, and I’m huge on family values.

4) He can’t be an NFA: I’m a very ambitious person, and I tend to surround myself with equally motivated people. Go ahead and rap in your spare time, but you better be doing something sensible and lucrative with your life (school, work etc).

5) He has to be God-fearing: if we’re going to do this long-term, his ultimate goal has to align with mine, which is, to become a better Christian everyday and in the bigger picture, make Heaven. Making my life centered around God is a hard journey on its own, so there’s no way I can be dragging a spiritual infant along with me. Working on myself alone is already difficult enough.
(All other physical and materialistic specifications will fall under numbers 6, 7, 8 , 9 and 10. But I was only asked to give five, and these are the 5 things most important to me.)

@OtasE

1) Size Matters: I know everyone’s mind is going straight to the size of his penis but that is not what I mean. Well…that is not ONLY what I mean. I’m 5’10, so I require a guy who is at least 6 ft. I don’t know why but I can’t ever date a guy who is shorter than me. Ever. It pains me greatly when I see a 5’2 chick dating a 6’1 guy meanwhile 5’9s are asking me out. It makes me want to cry.

2. Openness: I am not the most conventional girl so I require a guy who is open to making our own rules in a relationship. A guy who isn’t so swayed by what society tells us our roles should be. A guy who can choose happiness over convention. Whether it be me wanting a hyphenated last name or no last name at all or who should cook vs. who should clean etc.

3. Perseverance: I am emotionally detached. It takes a certain level of patience and perseverance to get me intimate. I don’t pick up my phone, sometimes it takes me days to call back; I haven’t listened to my voice mail in a month. Things like this irk people and there have been few people who’ve been able to put up with it. But once I get to the level where I open up to you, you’ll beg me to stop calling you every day.

4) Acceptance: I come with baggage. Loads of it. You have to understand that. Also be accepting of the fact that sometimes me and you will turn back and admire the same girl because I’m bisexual. With bisexuality comes gay friends both the flaming homosexuals and the macho homosexuals. If I ever hear you say ‘ew’ regarding my friends, it’s done. You don’t have to like gayness but you don’t get to disrespect or judge my friends. Also I’m not Christian or Muslim, I don’t like holidays, I don’t fucking like hugs, I’m not a family person but the sex is really good and I can cook even though I hate cooking…so yeah perks.

5) Personality: Big big deal. I bore easily. I have the attention span of a 10-year-old in an amusement park. Keep me entertained, make me laugh. Be able to keep up with me. Intellectually and what not. Be adventurous, trust me you’ll need it. Have drive. People have asked me “Would you date a guy without a car?” And I always say, it’s not the car that matters, it’s his car getting/keeping potential.

I would be lying if I said looks didn’t matter. They do. Hell. Chiseled face and leanness. That is all I ask. I don’t ask that you be buff. I don’t ask for bulging muscles (even though I don’t mind). In fact the only bulge I ask for is in your pants.

There you go! I sincerely apologize for the length but you guys will be alright

leave a comment telling me what you don’t want in a man and if you agree with any of the points these lovely ladies made.

You can follow them on twitter. I absolutely love them on my timeline and I’m sure you would too.

Coffee out!

This is going to be a short post.

Today is Father’s day and I refrained from going on twitter because all the tweets were doing my head in to be honest.

Before I even start this post let me just say I appreciate my Father and everything he has done for me and my siblings.

I was not going to blog about this but I saw something that  I wanted to address. I’m going to paraphrase the tweet because my brain is tired right now.

“people that are saying ‘Fuck Father’s day’ don’t disrespect. No matter what your father did to you, he’s the reason you are here right now”

I just want to say in reply to that is, you don’t know what a person has been through in their life. A person can only show you a fraction of their lives. You will never understand a person’s struggles unless you have lived their lives.

Young people, especially young Nigerians are plagued with demons that I cannot even begin to wrap my head around.

I was having a conversation with my friend and she telling me she could not wait to stop depending on her parents. she could not wait to move out and live her own life. She was genuinely upset that she was felt like she was running away from her parents because of how messed up her childhood was. Of course besides me and maybe one or two close friends, no one really knows about that part of her life. She’s only going to tell people who understand what she has been through because quite frankly hearing ‘No matter what your parents did to you you owe them your life’ gets tiring after a while. 

While this post was inspired by Father’s day, I also had my best friend in mind. Her Father passed away recently, and while everyone around the world is celebrating their fathers or their mothers who took up that responsibility, I had her in my mind since the day started. I cannot possible imagine what she is going through today so I decided to share this poem I wrote about her. My own way of showing her that I’m always here for her.

My best friend is the first kiss

a 13 year old boy shares with his crush

in a coat closet…

brown skin glowing with perfection,

eyes the color of the sun at night

the body of an Egyptian belly dancer,

my best friend is the 8^th wonder of the world.

She’s an artist

so her hands were reincarnated

from Picasso’s flesh and bones,

she uses her rainbow colored imagination

to paint pictures that hang proudly

in roman churches.

She’s a Pisces… like me

and they say we are feisty

but she’s a shy pearl hiding in

the comfort of her shell…

my best friend is the grenade buried

underneath the parched African soil

she is a planet with

her own solar system,

an addiction that leaves you at the edge of your seat

gasping for air

slapping your veins

feigning for another hit…

she has the courage of a suicide bomber

with her heart strapped to her chest

naked wire veins pulsing with strength…

my best friend is the secret you write

on the front page of your diary,

private thoughts you want to make public

like how her hugs feel like a million feathers

caressing your skin

and how her laugh sounds like a Tsunami

hitting a mountain.

My best friend is the humming bird

bringing life to a blind man’s ears,

she is the reason God created Adam

she loves like cupid’s last arrow

but he never shoots her because

he cannot imagine living without

his heart.

My best friend is the hope a survivor feels

after a natural disaster,

a natural beauty growing even in the midst

of disaster and she reminds me

that it’s possible to be surrounded by so much pain

and still come out smiling

like refugees finally seeing the sun

after years of living under gun powdered clouds.

So I’m on my bed, Maxi dress hiked up to my thighs, shiny face, my Afro is doing something weird on my head and I don’t even want to question why it’s misbehaving. I’m relaxed, listening to ‘From Head to Toe’ by Miles Hodges (if you love spoken word you will love this poem. I bet my life on it) The poet is describing a girl he likes or is in love with. He does it with such perfection I almost wish he was talking about me but sadly he isn’t

I promise this post is not about Poetry, I don’t want to bore you guys. It’s about Usain Bolt. well it’s more about what Usain Bolt does. He runs. he runs really fast, that is what he is known for.

I have been an Usain Bolt since I can remember. But I don’t run like him, I just chase. I run like there’s something in front of me that I have to catch. I chase like my life depends on it. Like without that chase, I will be less than nothing.

At first I loved to chase…. wait let me tell you what I used to chase.  I used to chase… boys. Not ordinary boys…

Boys that made me realize that it’s possible to be alone and crave love so desperately, it knocks the wind out of your breath.

Boys that drew me and then erased themselves right out of the picture without warning.

Boys that wore false hope around their necks like cologne or pendants or veins. They wore false hope like their second skin and I would try to penetrate through this second skin just to understand who they really were but they never let me. Hence the reason I started running. I started chasing them because I needed answers and also because they were not willing to chase me. Ouch.

That part hurts the most I think. I sound a little poetic. Can I be gritty? no? that’s Coffee’s job.

Sometimes I wonder why I even bothered to put my running shoes on… then I remembered that these boys held my hands and walked me to the starting line with smiles on their faces and promises dripping from their tongues like morning dew and I am a morning person so I believed them. 20 years old and still believing.

Sometimes I compare promises to water, people say water has no taste…. so if water is tasteless… wait for it… 20 years old and still believing words that taste like water (I hope I did not confuse you. My job is to make you think)

I stopped chasing though. not because I got tired of it, no I loved the adrenaline rush to be honest but I stopped chasing because some body decided to chase me. He decided to run after me and you know what’s so crazy? I didn’t run away from him. I just stood there and let his words settle onto every part of my body. I would say I am back to square one but there was really no square to begin with, just a shit load of circles. or cycles.

Sometimes I compare being a former chaser to being a recovering crack addict. Yes I have been to rehab. Yes I have been to therapy. Yes I promised myself that I was done chasing ever since he came along but… but much like a recovering crack addict I still crave the high.

I still the high that comes with chasing boys that may or may not want me with their water flavored promises.

Yes I am very much like a recovering crack addict.

Okay I’m not even going to lie I have been lazy and that’s why I have not blogged in so long. Did you guys miss me? some-one better say yes or Imma find out where you live *evil glare*

SIDE-NOTE: A lot of F bombs will be dropped in this post.

SO! let’s get to it. CASE OF THE EX. There is an unwritten/written girl rule somewhere in space that states:

‘Thou shall not date your friend’s ex boyfriend’ – I don’t know why the rule sounds like the 11th commandment but we shall discuss that later.

Now ya’ll know Coffee is a reasonable somebody so I am going to look at this from TWO perspectives about this issue/problem/situation/whatever the fuck you wanna call it.

First perspective: Why do I give a fuck?

1. If you are my best/close/good friend and by this I mean ‘if I see a bus is about to hit you and I run (in my heels) to push you out of the way type’ close friend, you CANNOT date my Ex.

You cannot even imagine what it will feel like to kiss him.

You cannot day dream about dating him.

You cannot daydream about daydreaming about dating him.

If you even think about it, I will be in your head with a large kitchen knife stabbing the fuck out of your brain.

IF IT IS CLEAR TO THE BOTH OF US THAT WE ARE VERY VERY GOOD FRIENDS, YOU CANNOT DATE MY EX.

2. If I dated said Ex for more than a year, You cannot date my him. For me, once a relationship hits that one year mark, it’s as serious as it gets. You know what it means to sit in a relationship for a year? That shit is heavy. trust me.

3. You mean to tell me that out of ALL THE WHOLE BOYS IN THE WORLD, My Ex is the only one that caught your eye? you better carry your fishing hook and enter the Benue river and find your own fish or another person’s fish my dear.

4. You can totally control your feelings so don’t bring me that ‘you can’t help who you like’ bullshit. I’m trying to understand when you started liking him? when I was dating him or after we broke up? If you started liking him when we were dating then clearly you need deliverance and if you started liking him after then you’re just trifling. get your heart out of your va-jay-jay. Thank you very much.

Reasonable enough right? Okay, If you are my close you cannot date my Ex. Like that just crosses some line. This is not gossip girl. we will not be sharing our ex boyfriends like garlic bread at the dinner table. stop it.

Second Perspective: Why don’t I give a fuck

1. If we were together for less than 5 months *pushes Ex boyfriend towards friend* you can totally have him. I see girls that only dated dudes for like a month talking about ‘my Ex is out of bounds’ *looks around* a month? bitch that’s what you call a MICKEY MOUSE RELATIONSHIP. sit your ass down. What were ya’ll doing in the relationship in that month? Let’s be reasonable.

2. If you’re just an acquaintance/some-one I just met for the first time/twitter follower(stalker) please go right ahead! I mean I don’t know you like that and vice versa so it does not really matter to me at all. In fact you don’t even have to bring it to my attention that you want to date him. Just pretend like you never knew we were together.

3. Every body has bad habits so best believe if you let me know you are about to get with my Ex, I will be telling you only good things about him and Imma let you find out the bad things.     

Maybe he turns into a cat at night *shrug* you gon have to wake up at 2 am and find a black cat sleeping next to you. 

Maybe he sleeps with one leg on the wall and the other leg on your back.

Maybe he eats toothpaste. who knows? You sure as hell don’t know *evil villain laugh*

Reasonable enough right? I told ya’ll I can be reasonable when I want to be

Let me know how you guys feel about my perspectives.. do you agree or disagree? do you have any more to add? Just leave a comment or two or tweet at me: Twitter.com/theycallmekoro

That’s all for me

Coffee out!

We had built a solid one year friendship during our first year of A-levels. We were inseparable, me and her, every time she was not with me and vice versa, people would immediately ask if anything was wrong. We were the same height, although she was skinnier than me and my forehead was bigger. we lived close to each other but she commuted and I stayed in the boarding house. Our friendship was simple. it flowed so well even though we were completely different people. We never had any serious fights even though we disagreed about some things but they were never serious. I knew her very well. I knew what she liked and what she didn’t like. She loved shoes and she hated Wrist watches.

When she told she had gotten accepted into her dream school in Maryland, I was upset because I had focused on our friendship so much I did not bother building stronger ties with other people. It was just me and her. 

She ended up convincing me to take the SATs and apply to a school in NY so I would be closer to her and she could come visit (which she did). Everything was great first semester freshman year, we talked every weekend about college and boys and books etc. I guess our friendship grew stronger and there I was outside her door waiting for her to open up so I could give her the other half of my necklace.

But the crazy thing is after I gave her the necklace, the symbolism of our close we were, our friendship started to deteriorate…. we stopped communicating and the distance grew to the point that nothing at this point would bring us back as close as we used to be… and now the other half of the necklace sits in my jewellery box, I can’t bring myself to throw it out because it reminds me of an almost perfect friendship.

Friendship is a very complicated thing. People try to define it and I think that’s where the problem lies. I don’t think Friendship can be defined… it’s like trying to define love. Friendship is different for different people.. Friendship is an intricate design and only the people involved in it can decipher the relationship they have with each other.

I stand outside and I watch the people I call my friends. I watch how I relate with them and how they relate with me. Friends I’ve known for 10 years. Friends I’ve only known for less than a month. I watch and analyze anything. I see how much effort I put into certain friendships.

I see how easy people make friends and I wonder how they do it. Take for example, how people become good friends with folks they met on social networks like Twitter or Facebook. I mean it’s easy to get along with some-one you talk to everyday but being friends with them is something completely different. I mean friendship requires not only communication to work.. it requires trust. Is it easy to trust a stranger? I mean I’m not saying I don’t have friends I met on twitter but the thing is before I met them in person or before we hung out almost every day during the summer, I did not tell them personal things, I did not trust them with my deepest darkest secrets (you get what I mean).

There’s a difference between an acquaintance and a friend. The line is getting blurry but it’s definitely there for some people. I have heard people complain about their friends and how they are this and how they are that and I ask them to evaluate their friendships… who is putting in the effort? are you always supporting your friend and never getting any support back? You have to really think about who you’re giving the ‘friend’ tag to.. some people in this world are only looking out for themselves and the sooner we realize that, the better.

That’s all for me

Cream xx

Hey guys Sugar here once again..

This post is not exactly ‘sugary’ but hey, you guys will be alright. We all have our not-so-sweet days.

Can I just say I hope I never come across any of Adele’s exes. Those guys have really done her dirty, damn. I listen to ’21′ pretty much everyday. As depressing as she can be, Adele’s music is truly amazing. The other day, just as I had finished listening to Adele’s song ‘Someone Like You’ a friend of mine tweeted something that really made me think. The tweet was: “When people say “You’ll never find someone like me again” they fail to realize that’s exactly the point.”

I hit that ReTweet button so damn fast! I mean, how true is that? You break up with someone and they have the nerve to say things like “good luck finding someone like me” or “You’ll never find someone like me again.” Well no shit sherlock darling, if I really wanted someone like you I’d stick with you wouldn’t I.

My exes are my exes for a reason. I wish nothing but the best for them, no doubt about that. However, finding someone like them? I think I’ll pass. Why would you want to find someone else who makes you baptize your pillow with tears every night? Someone who is the reason why the top 25 most played songs on your iTunes are nothing but songs belting out tunes of depression and heart break?

A lot of us make the mistake of going off to find someone just like our ex and it becomes a never ending cycle of the same old thing. This is why people tend to say things like “all men/women are the same.” This is false. They are not all the same, we just need to open our eyes and step out of our comfort zone in order to find someone new, someone better.

I’m sure a lot of y’all agree. Let’s move on to bigger and better things. Lol. JK but you get the point. That’s all for now. x