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Saturday 22 December 2018

Stalker


Image result for image of a man in shadows

I spotted her like Vitiligo on melanin skin.
Like black spots on Dalmatian pups.
Like black stripes on yellow Lagos buses.

I saw her move and I followed suit.

She skipped and scurried across asphalt and brick roads.
I tiptoed and followed.
I watched and observed with keen interest as she haggled prices at the market place brimming with zest.

"Who is she?" I asked myself whilst being befuddled.

5 foot 8 inches in flowing gown and dazzling hijab.
Her face knocked you out cold like Tyson with one Jab.
Inked hands and feet, artistic aesthetics complementing anatomical perfection.



She looked in my direction and in one swift reflex I pretended to be searching for keys.

That one moment of delight cocooned in embarrassment.
In that instance her scent became apparent.
I couldn't make it out; my olfactory nerves twitched and tingled.
It wasn't even Christmas yet, but I could hear the bells and their Jingles.

Her gaze moved on and so did mine.

Following her gracious movements with a revamped version of stealth.
She was moving faster now, so I too had upped my ante.
She moved like a gazelle, I was stuck trying to cover ground like N'golo Kante.

I had heard the rumours about northern women.

Shy in the face, freak in the sheets.
Gentle like the laminar flow of a river, Wave and Wave of sexuality once you cross into their turbulent seas.
I was about to throw caution into the wind; not caring if curiosity killed this cat.
To taste of the fruit was my mission and a slew of other things which neither my mouth nor pen can spew.

Soon enough I lost track of her.

I kept up with the Kardashians better than I did with her pace.
I wondered if I'd ever see her again.
"aboki if she no chop my sugar cane, wetin I gain?"

A strong fantasy filled with a lust for the northern variety had been born.

Borne from the sheer grace and aura of this woman.
Built on the intrigue of what laid beneath her gown-like hijab.
Enforcing on my brain imaginations of how well she rides and how she would probably moan Arabic monosyllables.

I'm gutted as I thread back home.

Even an hour with mallams at the chill zone couldn't make a curve out of the straight line my lips had on my face.
My coordination was a mess, all of my cells seemed to be united in some sort of insubordination.

I got to my door; I flip my keys out quickly.

My mind already settled on a pillow talk monologue.
I flung the door open without giving a fuck about scanning the room as I float into the kitchen.
My radio was blaring some song in pidgin; a text comes in ... I hiss coz it's one of those students that i'm teaching.

My heart was in a race, I couldn't figure out why I came into the kitchen.

I'm finna turn around when a voice tickles my eardrums.
"mallam daud" ... the voice is feminine with a lot of fierce lusciousness.

I turn back in one swift motion and there she lay;

Devoid of her hijab and clothing.
Devoid of everything except her undies like she came to the beach to play.
I was dumbfounded, zero words rolled to the tip of my tongue ... I had nothing to say.

She was glorious in her birthday suit, strutting her stuff with the seductive abilities of Cleopatra.

Her hips swayed like Jamaicans to the rhythm of reggae; I wish I could describe it in patios.

I was rooted like a dongoyaro tree, reaffirming that the best things in life are probably free.

She walked up to me like Adriana Lima when she makes the runway feel slow.
She took me in her mouth and all the lights went low.

I'm drifting into orgasmic eruption.

The legends were true; my world turned erotic blue.
She didn't spare my rod, but she as sure as hell spoilt this child.











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