Day 7 – Oh, Uche

Prompt: Day 7 – Your opinion on cheating on people


I don’t see myself forgiving Uche. It’s easy for people to beg me to, but I promise you, if they were in my shoes, they wouldn’t.

Uche was the first person I ever loved. Growing up, I wasn’t one to get myself into relationships, or even generally having attachments to people. I had friends, quite alright, both guys and girls, but there never was a case where you could say I was closest to this person, or this person. Contributing to that undoubtedly must have been the fact that I was ugly. At least I thought I was.

Being honest, I was really really ugly. There was no denying it. But Uche, Uche made me feel like the most beautiful thing God created. Uche swore I was the most good-looking human being alive, and I believed Uche, because Uche meant it. Couple this with how well Uche treated me and it’s easy to understand why I fell for Uche so easily. Call me gullible but that was how much game this individual had.

We had loads of conversations, spanning all kinds of topics. I remember this one time we discussed cheating.

I wish you were there. I wish you got to listen to the things Uche said. Solid points. Solid and, well, in tune with what I thought about the topic so it was a very worthwhile conversation.

It does not make sense to genuinely love someone and do anything that would hurt them, or do anything you know they do not like. This covers both the little things and the relatively big ones. You cannot claim to love someone and betray their trust.

People make excuses like ‘it is what is is’. ‘One person is not enough’. ‘It was a mistake’. ‘I don’t know what came over me’ to name a few. All filthy excuses in my opinion. Oh, and the most ridiculous, ‘Mens needs are insatiable. One woman cannot..’ Boy If You Don’t.

As I said, Uche and I shared the same views on cheating -(wrong, if you didn’t get it)- and so, it came as a shock to me when I found out she watched the Game of Thrones season finale without me.

I mean, I know we’re a lesbian couple but still.


Elevator with a Stranger

Not being claustrophobic sure made things a bit more comfortable however I was still in a very unsettled state of mind.

I’d seen many movies with this exact same scenario; with most of them not ending really well. And so, it made sense that I would be scared, confused and worried about my life.

Being stuck in an elevator is something I wouldn’t have ruled out happening, considering the state of electrical power supply in this country is abysmal, mostly. But, being stuck in one with a total stranger who looked very suspect? I didn’t see that coming.

Every other time I visited my friend in her building, I always took the stairs. Not because I was scared of elevators, but because I didn’t even know there was one in the building.

On this particular day, my chest felt the need to inconvenience me big time so walking alone was tough, talk less of walking up 12 flights of stairs. So, when I finally found out there was an elevator in the building, I was grateful to the gods of perfect and convenient timing.

After seeing Get Out, which by the way, in my opinion, was a very daft movie – I’ve never seen a more naive black man in my life. Shame. This isn’t a movie review but words can’t describe how pissed I was after wasting 2 hours of my time watching that filth ~rant over~ – white people became proper suspect to me. They’ve been very sus prior to but Get Out intensified things. (Racist much?? Nah. For the next 3 minutes, try not to be woke please)
Yeah, this would’ve made for a decent story uno, butttttt, trust me to come through with that early morning disappointment ✌


On Becoming – Part 2

I wasn’t really sure what to expect from this man; so far so good anyway. All my life, no one had treated me specially, and so this experience felt alien to me. I slept like a queen that night. No, he did not touch me.

Getting out of bed was going to be tough. I could tell; because I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t want all of this to end.

He didn’t rush me or disturb me; he allowed me to stay in bed as long as I wanted.

Night fell quite fast. You know what they say; time passes fast when you’re having fun.

A part of me felt queasy. Everything was going way too perfectly, almost suspicious, very suspicious actually. I disregarded the thoughts and felt it was just me not being used to this star treatment. I wish I listened to myself in retrospect.

The man came to me this particular night. Quite alright, he had been nothing but nice since he brought me home, but this felt different. He was being extra gentle, and kind.

He urged me to soak in his pool. Unbeknownst to him, I could not swim and I was scared of water. However, his kind words trumped my fears and I eventually succumbed. We had a nice chat in the pool.

We got out of the pool and went to chill in his hot tub right after. A part of me felt like a finesse chick but none of this was of my doing; I literally didn’t put myself out there anyway. While in the tub, he helped me apply all sorts of soaps and creams and herbs. At this point, I was so damn wet!

Slowly, I began to feel the temperature rise. The water felt like it was heating up. Being my first time, I assumed this was normal and continued to enjoy my time in the tub.

Have you heard the story of the boiled frog?

I think I slept off. I guess the heat got way too uncomfortable and so I woke startled. I looked up and saw the man staring at me; he had that his cute smile on. A part of me was creeped out though as this smile lasted longer than normal. I looked down to see if it was cleavage. That was when I saw it. My skin had become tan My skin was bright orange.

The steam was killing me, my skin was burning and the discoloration bothered me immensely, I smelled good however but I needed to get out. I tried to but I couldn’t. Slowly, I began to lose consciousness.

This was it. I was dying. In my final moments, I heard him speak, “Honey, food is ready”.

This is my story. My story on becoming Jollof Rice 😊😊


On Becoming – Part 1

My story is not an awesome one; neither is it uninteresting. It’s quite basic. In it’s simplicity, it possesses some depth still. This is my story.

Plain, simple, normal. That’s how anyone you asked would’ve describe me. I didn’t do much. I rarely went out. Spent most of my days indoors, all of my days actually.

Everything changed when I met him. I remember that day; as usual, with my many siblings, I was indoors. I would say home but this wasn’t always our home. We only recently moved here. We used to stay in the wild. Cool, cool life. We would stay out all day, dancing as the wind blew, playing in the rain, frowning when the sun , well, did what the sun does.

They had taken us, my siblings and I. Our parents tried to stop them but their frail arms could only do so much.

So here, new place.

I was only just getting used to life here when he came by and took me. I remember being happy. He was a handsome man. Appeared quite nice. Dark too.

He took me home that night.


Her Design – Part 2

This is her design. This is her masterpiece.
She had always been artistic. Taking every opportunity she had to scribble or draw something, anything. She did this as she was sad. Sad and depressed. Depressed and angry. Angry and weak.
She hated her life; her existence. She always wondered why, why she was created, why she came into this world. Her life was a mess.
She was an only child. The only child of two nefarious and useless parents. She hated them both; she hated them equally.
Her father was insane, he had to be; for that was the only reasonable explanation for how he lived his life. He was a miserable drunk. No job, no bearing in life, nothing. He came home every night, reeking of cheap beer. He would see her in the living room, usually scribbling something, and he would order her to come closer just so he could beat her and fondle with her body.
The devil; that was what she called him.
Her mother was weak. She hated her. The woman always accepted nonsense. The man would go into the kitchen, drag the woman out to the living room, beat her until she could not cry or struggle again and take her right there, in front of the girl.
The fool; that was what she called her.
She hated all men. Her father had made her believe all men were dogs, were animals, were equally wretched. And men like two of her uncles  helped further intensify her conviction.
They all had to die. They didn’t deserve life. At 13, she had been known over and over again by these same 3 men.

Her plan was foolproof. She had gotten all the necessary items she would need – a large canvas, a big paintbrush, enough succinylcholine, a sharp knife, a keg of petrol and a gas lighter. All she waited for now was the perfect time.
And it came quite early. The fool had invited the girls uncles for dinner. This was her opportunity.
As usual, she prepared the dinner. Asides being weak, the fool was also lazy and made the girl do all the domestic work. The girl prepared dinner with a broad smile across her lips.

This is her cue

She announced that the meal was ready and asked that they gather at the dining table while she brings in their food from the kitchen. She had prepared rice. Rice and stew. Stew and succinylcholine.
They ate, except her. She sat and watched as they all ate and laughed. She laughted too. Not at their jokes, but at how well everything was going.
They had finished eating and she cleared the table.

This is her moment

On returning from the kitchen, she saw that they were all motionless. Motionless, but alive. Alive enough to watch as she worked on her masterpiece.
With the sharp knife, she drew their blood. Blood sufficient to start and complete her masterpiece.
All through, she didn’t say a word. She enjoyed the quietness.
She positioned their heads to face the large canvas she had brought into the room.
‘This is my work’ she said, as she dipped the paintbrush into the jar containing their blood and began to ‘scribble’.


Light strokes

She took her time.
She was finally done and so she stepped back to admire her work.


She had painted a little girl, one eye innocent, and the other red with fury. The little girl was looking at four words she had written on the wall.


They wished they could react, but they could not move their bodies.  The succinylcholine had paralysed them.
She excused herself and left the room. Soon, she was back, dragging a keg of petrol behind her. With calmness and a smile, she poured the petrol all over them and around the room.

She brought out a lighter from her pocket.

And then she stood at the entrance of the house, flicked on the lighter, and threw it into the dining room.
As she walked away, away from the nonsense, away from the madness, away from the fire, she could hear their muffled cries. But she did not care.

She never looked back.

For this is her design, this is her masterpiece.