I Remember My First Trip

I remember my first trip to America. It was more than ten years ago, in the summer month of July. It felt like a dream, boarding the plane in Muritala Mohammed airport in Lagos, Nigeria, next stop being JFK International in New York. I kept saying to myself that this couldn’t be real. No way could it possibly be . . . yet it was real. It was happening as I boarded the plane, settled in my seat, and watched the plane taxi off the runway into the midnight sky, leaving my home and Africa behind.

I grabbed the armrest of my seat while looking out the window beside me as we soared higher and higher into the clouds. The crowd in the Economy class section of the plane broke into a cheer, like we were off to an afterparty special event. I would have preferred settling in the Business or First Class section, but you’ve got to have plenty of bread to spare to afford that luxury. In the Economy section, you had to deal with narrow seats, awful leg-room, and pray the fellow seated beside you doesn’t have a mighty elbow. Even worse is whoever that’s beside you isn’t long-legged to be digging into your backside. It was very inconvenient, which is why I prefer having a window seat than sandwiched in the centre aisle. A bad conundrum is knowing how many times you’ll need to get up and go pee in the back; double bad if it’s preoccupied and there’s a long like of folks waiting their turn. You get the picture, don’t you?

The most ingratiating moment consists of listening to children whine, cry, and grumble all through the flight. There were times when I truly contemplated suicide. The good thing was that it didn’t take long for many to start falling asleep. For me, sleep came late. I simply couldn’t force myself to nod off. This was a historic moment for me, and I wasn’t yet done cherishing it.

Our next stop was Charles DeGaulle airport, in France. We deplaned, and then made our way through the airport to another section, where he had hours to burn before boarding our scheduled flight that would take us across the Atlantic. Only then did I allow myself some hours of sleep. 

It was dark again by the time we drew closer to America. All I saw was a dazzling panorama of bright, colourful lights that stretched as far as my eyes could see into the horizon. Lights, lights, and more lights. Then we began our descent, and everyone stayed quiet as we taxied down the runway. The room broke into cheering again as the plane slowed to a final stop.

Homeland Security waved me through, and I still had butterflies dancing in my gut as I followed the crowd to claim my baggage, and then I was outside the airport, setting firm foot on American soil. The ride to my friend’s home in Mount Vernon was smooth. I got to take some shots along the way.

Hard to believe that before that day, it had only been a dream I’d whispered to myself about visiting America. That dream had now become a reality. What came afterwards was beyond my imagination.

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A Cold Day Walking into Central Park

I woke up to a cold morning like every other morning had been for the past month and the month before. A cold morning in Mount Vernon, New York. It was March 2013. The snow outside had already begun to melt, but the cold, blustery wind wasn’t going anywhere. I huddled under my twin blanket, seeking comfort, but it wasn’t enough to keep from feeling the bite of cold. I got up instead with no other intention but to face the rigours of the day, one way or another.

My friend’s Dad, whom I had been residing with, reminded me the month was soon ending, and if I was going to spend another month living with him, then I’ll need to fork over another 500 Dollars rent. My pocket was dwindling already. If I kept spending that large amount, I would barely have enough to keep me going for another month. 

I might as well have become stranded in America.

I did a rough calculation and told him I didn’t think I could pay for another month. He nodded solemnly and said he would speak to the landlord later. My old man’s Dad taught at an urban institute in Brooklyn. He wore his hat and scarf, picked up his briefcase and left me alone in the apartment. I had nothing but lots of quiet all to myself. The sort of quiet that can drive you insane if you let it. But such was what I’d become used to since coming to this part of the world.

I opened my laptop and tried to do some writing, but nothing came forth. I was worried, deeply worried. I was getting closer to being destitute, and I couldn’t think of any way out of my predicament. I’d laid in bed praying for a Hail Mary, and nothing seemed forthcoming. The eerie quietness in the apartment seemed to weigh down my dilemma.

I showered, dressed up, and left the apartment.

The apartment housing wasn’t far from Mount Vernon East Station. I went there and got myself a ticket, and rode it to Harlem. I got off at 125th Street Station and decided to walk from there. 

I walked past Marcus Garvey Park, but it stopping there seemed so dismal. I continued along Fifth Avenue. Realizing I’d been walking for a long time and my feet were growing tired, I stepped through a side gate and strolled into Central Park.

I found myself a lone bench and sat there to cool off my heels while admiring the steady flow of humanity around. My mind raged inside my skull, trying to take stock of my dire situation while my eyes roamed the vicinity. Across from me was a pond, and I sighted an old white man leading a kid towards the pond’s edge. They were admiring a raft of ducks circling the water. I couldn’t help feeling slightly fascinated by the old man and the little kid, watching the way they interacted r. I imagined the old man as my Dad, and it got me wishing my Dad and I had done something similar to this before. Not something you’d expect a Nigerian Dad to do, but the thought of it warmed my heart nostalgically.

The thought of the old man and the little kid got me imagining where they came from. I began sketching back-stories in my head regarding their past: I imagined the old man hadn’t seen his grandson in ever, and this outing was their first time bonding together. I tried concocting ideas of whatever could have led to them never encountering each other until that moment. It was out of that brainstorming that the idea for my forthcoming novel LEMMON’S JOURNEY came about.

I got up, feeling better about myself, left the Park, and continued my walk down Fifth Avenue to Grand Central Station. I spent the next few hours viewing the latest MacBook laptop at the Apple store. Hours later, I stopped at a restaurant to fill my stomach and rode the train back to Mount Vernon. I was buoyant and rejuvenated when I returned to the apartment and got busy starting work on the novel I had in mind involving the old man and his alleged grandkid.

My friend’s Dad returned later in the evening. I told him I had changed my mind and would pay rent for another month’s stay. His response was the least news I expected to hear, and it killed what little happiness I’d saved up for the remainder of the day.

“No can do,” he said. “I already told the landlord that you’ll be leaving, and he’s agreed. I’m sorry, but that’s how I do things around here.”

Without further word, he marched into his room and slammed his door in my face. I returned to mine and tirelessly asked myself what I’d done wrong in life.

Two weeks later, May came around, and my days of homelessness began. I left the apartment with my luggage in hand without a farewell from my friend or his Dad. Neither bothered walking me to the train station. I rode the train to the city and got on a Greyhound bus to Washington, D.C.

Last Train out of Grand Central

My friend and I were eager to see the ball drop on December 31st night. We set out of our home in Mount Vernon East around 6:00p.m., made it to the train station and rode it all the way to Grand Central in New York City. It was bitterly cold that evening, colder than I’d ever felt, and winter was yet to arrive.

I had dreamed about doing something like this for years. This was one of my earliest trips to the USA, so I was still a novice on things. But watching the ball drop in Times Square was a dream I needed to make happen.

The city was in chaos when we got off the train and made our way out of the station. The city was bursting to the brim, teaming with New Yorkers and foreigners from all over; apparently, everybody was there to witness the same thing. Everyone was decked in parkas, winter jackets, hoodies, and thick shoes. It hadn’t begun to snow yet, but on the weather report declared that was coming soon.

Several avenues were closed. Cops manned road-block stands deterring anyone from passing through. We joined the crowd and walked down West 42nd Street to Times Square. It felt like we were part of a chain gang; I started wishing we had taken our time before coming.

There was a bursting crowd there, and it was tough getting through onto Broadway. We made it to a Burger joint and filled our stomachs for the long night. The sun was out, but it was frigging cold; the sun looked like it wasn’t going anywhere.

Eventually, the sun dipped beyond the skyscrapers and vanished, replaced by a starry night. There was bright lights and Christmas décor all around. My friend and I returned to the streets, waiting. We talked, we joked about how cold it was, and laughed. It was fun seeing my breath turn to vapor before my eyes. We exchanged greetings with other people who were there to see the ball drop. 

Time passed, and the crowd grew larger, more frenetic. There was music playing, but it seemed to come from everywhere. The hours went by and yet we continued to wait.

Like that, the inevitable hour arrived. I could barely see much from where I stood, and like everyone else, I had my phone out, taking snapshots. The resounding countdown noise was eloquently clear.

“FIVE! . . . FOUR! . . . THREE! . . . TWO! . . . ONE! . . . HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!”

You could hear the scream for miles. Fireworks exploded into the sky; confetti rained on our heads. People hugged and cheered; couples held each other and shared passionate kisses; enemies kissed friends, and friends celebrated with enemies.

Peace reigned briefly upon the world. It was beautiful.

Then came time to leave, and that was a struggle going with the crowd. It was non-stop bumping and grinding as we returned to Grand Central. There wasn’t a direct train to Mount Vernon, so we joined one heading to Harlem, and made two more stops before arriving at our station. It was 02:37 a.m. when we returned home. neither of us slept much. We made tea and talked for hours, mostly about what we hoped the New Year would bring.

It had begun to snow by the time we laid our heads to sleep.

HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE!

Paradise

Who knows what Paradise looks like

Whoever has been there and returned to tell

Whoever would go and even want to return?

I have questions that need answers:

How clean is the water?

Are there food a-plenty?

Do they heal the sick?

Whatever becomes of the Dead if they truly die?

Hopefully someone will tell me someday,

I pray I’m not old and senile when they return.

Tease Me

Go ahead, wear something nasty

Tell yourself that you are sexy:

Talk sex because you were built for sex

Never mind your age, body folds,

Or stretch marks around your booty—

Those are love lines, so love more

Seduce me with your kink 

Offer me a peek at your tits

Tease me 

Watch me get hard in my jeans

Come sit on my knees

Nibble on my ears—moan while I caress you dear

Tell me your horniest erotic secrets

How bad you want to ride

No ice cream or chocolate for tonight

Just rough sex and nothing less

Come on then, my sexy dear

My bed is calling

And I’m super-horny!

Blessed Sunday

“Have yourself a blessed Sunday!”

Is what I hear from morning till evening

What’s the use of the day being blessed

When night comes and you neglected feeding your stomach?

What good is a day blessed when your thoughts grow wear and troubled

As yesterday and the day before?

Your wife left you, dragging your child along,

Claiming you’re ineffectual

Incapable of nourishing them both;

Your father falls off his stool drunk

Muttering about what life has befallen him;

Your brother neglects you’re alive,

It’s just you alone caring after the wretched, dejected homestead.

Plenty of times you thought of taking your own life,

But you couldn’t—you can’t stand the sight of blood

The night ends eventually, making way for dawn’s approach:

It’s a Monday,

But still your neighbors smile at your misery

Wishing you a blessed Sunday.

Imagine that!

In May Comes Summer – excerpt.

Neither of them could have been any prepared for what happened two days later. It was as if all the avoidance and space they’d been trying to give each other was soon going to come to a clash, and no better than on a day when they were least prepared for.

It was a morning just like any other, although the sky had opened earlier with heavy showers of rain. Marie was getting late for work and she had just finished having her bath and was hurrying off towards her bedroom down the hall. Curtis was coming up from the stairs, having just gotten rid of breakfast and seeing how heavy the rain was falling was rushing back to his room to shut his windows. Curtis was on the top of the stairs, hardly looking forward and gave a startled ‘Look out!’ shout too late before Marie collided into him.

They fell to the floor with Marie landing on top of him. Her towel came loose and as Curtis tried to help her up they both realised she was naked with her breasts pressed against his chest. They muttered quick apologies to each other. Their eyes held each other as if charmed. It was then that it happened. 

She held onto him as if scared that he might suddenly start to fade away and then she would realise that indeed this was all a dream.

Their faces moved simultaneously and their lips met and enclosed in a kiss. The kiss felt rushed, nearly tentative. Seconds later their lips parted and together their tongues met at the junction. Marie’s towel slid off her body. They rolled on their side, their lips locked in a fierce kiss while their hands caressed each other’s body. Marie was gasping for air when Curtis finally broke it off. He got up to his feet and helped Marie up. They stood there holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes. Marie’s features were flush with excitement. Drops of water dotted her body; her nipples stood straight off their areola ring. Goosebumps broke out on her arms. She was nervous at the same time excited, standing there shivering like a school girl who’d just gotten her first kiss. Curtis too was just as nervous and excited as she was, though he tried to remain cool about it. He too had been wanting for this moment to happen and never figured it ever would. He was aware of Marie being a widow, and little did she realise until then that he too had been having a lot of midnight thoughts of her building in his mind.

“Well,” she said, then laughed nervously. “Where do we go: your room or mine?”

“Let’s make it mine,” he answered. 

Curtis scooped her up in his arms and carried her towards his bedroom door. Her towel lay on the carpeted floor forgotten for the time being.

He kicked his door in and laid her on the bed. He went to close to windows from the rain splattering inside then turned around and began taking off his clothes. He threw them on the floor and Marie half sat up on the bed, her mouth came unhinged as she marvelled at his physique. She told him to come closer. Curtis climbed upon the bed and Marie felt her hands on his chest. She cupped his hardened breasts, loved the muscled outline of his abs, and felt over the hills and valleys of his arms and shoulders. She sensed her pussy raging like a dam about to burst its walls any second. She had never been this sexually fired-up in a long time.

“I have dreamed of this moment for so long,” she muttered as she planted kisses on his torso. 

She held onto him as if scared that he might suddenly start to fade away and then she would realise that indeed this was all a dream. She pressed her body against his as her kisses climbed up the side of his shoulders and clavicle and up to his neck.

“Ohhhh . . . Uhh-Uhhhhh . . . God!” she moaned like a wounded animal. “Uuhhh . . . It’s been so long! SO FUCKING LONG!”

Enjoy this excerpt from my adult-romance novel: In May Comes Summer.

Breakfast and Sex

I woke up from bed horny, hungry, and desperate for something to do. My mind was racing beyond its tracks. Directionless. I felt cramps stabbing my abdomen. I flung the sheets off me and raced into the restroom to take a piss. That done, I was still horny and hungry.

The hotel had a 24/7 schedule. I called the lobby and arranged for breakfast. They told me my service was on its way.

I laid in bed naked, anticipating breakfast while contemplating my sense of arousal. My hands were at twelve o’ clock: my left one pinched my nipples while my right stayed squeezed between my thighs.

I needed a cigarette. Bad. But I needed a man’s head resting on my crotch in the worse way.

This is supposed to be my spring vacation. The first time I’ve been away from my office in years. I shouldn’t be this alone, except I am. My boyfriend said I’ve got abandonment issues and decided to split. My shrink said that I was holding onto the past too much.

Time to let go and embrace the future. Go out and mingle: make friends; fall in love; have terrific sex, just stop being suicidal.

Where to go? No idea. All I wanted was someplace warm, sunny, and laden with gorgeous hunks to envy.

Ibiza.

I packed a bag, and now here I am on my third day, horny like I’ve never been with no fucking boyfriend. Even forgot my dildo back home.

A knock on the door—room service, a man announced.

I approached the door, held my breath for a moment and then exhaled before opening it.

The young man’s eyes popped when he saw I was naked. I gave him a look that said I cared less to be decent.

“Ma’am . . . I brought your breakfast,” he murmured.

“Oh, good. Thank you.”

I stepped aside for him to push the food trolley into my room. The young man stopped the trolley beside my bed, then turned to me.

“Will that be all, ma’am?”

Anxiety and lust in his eyes. I reached for his hand.

“Are you good with your tongue?”

My latest book FATHER’S LAND is currently available on Amazon.

(Untitled) Friday

Another Friday morning it is today

Goddamn, why can’t it be Saturday always?

I’m heading out to work

Doing stuff I despise with all my might

But I’ve got no choice, and I’m going to need some motivation

Luck is on my side, though:

I’ve got your woman riding shotgun beside me—

She makes great company—especially since

You’re off to work, and we’ve had plenty of time to fuck

We just pulled up to a traffic stop

Your girlfriend is looking kind of horny, rubbing her thighs together 

I’ve got enough time on hand,

So, I unzip my fly and she bends over to start choking on my mic.

Speed of light

If I could be there at inception

To see the birth of dawn:

What your birth would resemble

Then speed through time

To view the hour of your death

Wouldn’t that make me a god

To be a squid burrowing

Through galaxies of space, love and time

Wouldn’t I be king over all?

If I could hold the world

Between thumb and forefinger

Be like the sun and hurl a breath of stars

And create life enteral,

Would I own your trust, this earth we inhabit,

Imagine if I were god for a night?