We tasted each others lips
And got entangled on the sofa.
I think it was on a Thursday’s night.
You may know her, I guess…
The hey boy crooner.
First, the diamond on her neck,
I easily lifted off her head
And laid on the soft leather chair.
Then the long black gown,
A more complicated matter with mother of pearl buttons down the back,
So tiny and plenty that it took forever
Before my hands could unloose them.
And her bra,
Purest of whites,
The bow undone with just a slight pull.
You may want to know
That she was leaning by the same leather chair motionless,
As she was filled with suspense.
The complexity of our women’s garment in this twenty-first century is not something to let go just like that,
Something must be done about it!
And I proceeded like Moses and parted the red sea
Dangling back and forth,
Switching styles and positions.
Later in my journal the next day I wrote…
I cannot tell you everything,
The way she closed her eyes screaming for more,
Her light skin glittering from the dryness of sweat from her pores.
What I can tell you is,
It was very quiet in Festac that Thursday’s night.
Nothing but Nonso Amadi’s sound and the amazing rhythm from hey boy himself was on repeat.
And I could hear her sigh
When finally she was filled,
The way some premiership fans sigh
When they realized that the match isn’t over yet,
And that hope has feathers.