we beared witness to our possibilities

Femi wrote her a poem.
(She can remember the poem, but she cannot remember his last name.)
I dare you to find a flaw
in her beauty;
or to bring forth a woman
who can stand beside
her without wilting.

But then, is that so hard to believe? Who is to say that an object does not come with its own agenda? Or that the collective agenda of its previous owners does not direct its purpose still?

Why won’t he shut up?

Where is the merit in telling the truth? He doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to believe anything that comes out of my mouth. He just wants her.

“It’s because she is beautiful, you know. That’s all it is. They don’t really care about the rest of it. She gets a pass at life.”

Love is not a weed,
It cannot grow where it please…

He would have figured her out given enough time. He was perceptive.

Earlier, I read a poem of his on his blog—
The African sun shines brightly.
Burning on our backs;
on our scalps,
on our minds—
Our anger has no cause, except if
the sun was a cause.

Our frustrations have no root, except if
the sun was a root.

“Wouldn’t we?”
“No, because we are hardwired to protect and remain loyal to the people we love. Besides, no one is innocent in this world. Why, go up to your maternity ward! All those smiling parents and their newborns? Murderers and victims. Every one of them. ‘The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle kind of murder.’ ”

‘The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle kind of murder.’ ”

“Your sister, I do not know. I hear that she is very lovely, but I have not seen her for myself and so do not care about her. You, I know.” He points to me. “You, I care about.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you. I woke up because of you—your voice calling to me. I still hear you in my dreams…”
He is waxing lyrical. It feels like I’m in another dream.

Seeing her up close, he smiled—but it was not the same smile he had lavished on us earlier.
“Your daughter is very beautiful.”
“Really,” my father replied, cocking his head.
“Very, very lovely.” He moistened his lips. I grabbed Ayoola’s hand and pulled her a couple of steps backward.

She closes my door and I stare at the slip of paper with Muhtar’s number on it. I light a candle on my nightstand and hold the paper over the flame until the numbers are swallowed by blackness and fire licks the tips of my fingers. There will never be another Muhtar, I know this. There will never be another opportunity to confess my sins or another chance to absolve myself of the crimes of the past…or the future. They disappear with the curling paper, because Ayoola needs me; she needs me more than I need untainted hands.

she needs me more than I need untainted hands.

I shall possess this woman; I shall steal her from the husband who profanes her: I will even dare ravish her from the God whom she adores. What delight, to be in turns the object and the victor of her remorse! Far be it from me to destroy the prejudices which sway her mind! They will add to my happiness and my triumph. Let her believe in virtue, and sacrifice it to me; let the idea of falling terrify her, without preventing her fall; and may she, shaken by a thousand terrors, forget them, vanquish them only in my arms.

it is centered around those who had the power to define it.

the other said,
“love is cursed by monogamy.”