(Not quite) weekend ramblings: Summer is finally here!

•  I really shouldn’t neglect my blog so much. I mean, I do think up quite a lot of new stuff to put it in while I am in the shower – why do all good things happen in there anyway? Seriously, I need to invent some kind of pad that attaches to my shower stall in which I can jot down all my ideas as they come – but life gets in the way as soon as I step out and I get sucked into the vortex.

•  I am doing quite well with edits for my book, but sadly I am not going as fast as I would like. I pore over every minute detail – which I suppose is as should be – that I think the book might be done much later now. Besides, I have been advised to delay the launch till after the Olympics. Apparently people will not buy/read it. Who knew?

• Olololo, see the number of umu akpu obi going shirtless all over the street. Do they not know that I am a married woman, eh? One who is a serious writer for that matter and must not be distracted by…by..ahem! See these smalling boys o! Chukwu nalu ekwensu ike.
• What are small-small children doing fornicating on the street? This photo was taken from two weeks ago. I still cannot get my head around it:

What are these smalling children doing eh? See them, still in their school uniforms, just messing around. And for what?

*** In case you cannot see, there are three (black) girls to three (white) boys. The couple by the tables lay down, the girl between the boy’s legs at some point. The girl had the chest of a thirty-year-old and the braces of a twelve-year-old. The hidden set is of a boy sitting on a bench, trying to convince the another girl to ‘have a go’ because their friends – the obvious couple – were snogging. (Granted, I imagined this bit.)

The girl in green arrived last with another boy. She kept her distance,preferring to swing by herself. The girl in white you can see, is the snogger. ***

And while my liberal self rejoices at such uniformed interracial-ism, I cannot help but wonder, in such an unequal world (males above females, white ‘above’ black), if there was to be a scandal who would find themselves the losers? Please if you have daughters, pick their ears very well. A young, black girl is already twice ‘disadvantaged’ in society.

• In fact, I am vexed now. In the playground? Where did they expect me to look? I mean, even I, who knows exactly what to do with a man in my lair (and have biblical right to do so, oh yes!) was forced to avert my gaze. Issorai.

• I am not bikini ready. In fact, I have never worn a bikini in my life. To me, it’s false advertising. What of I’m prancing about in my bikini and someone decides to give me a shove into the pool? I can’t swim.

• I defy anyone to eye my unshaven legs on the bus this summer. In my country, my hairy legs are very hot among men of my tribe. All boys avert your gaze! These are for men only…well, now one man. Anyway, avert!

• I wish I could swim. I guess I am going to have to settle for a shower. Man it’s hot.

Girls who don’t run the world

Here’s what I said on Facebook:

Guys can barely concentrate on two things at once, especially when one of them is sex. Now if it’s true they think of sex once every four seconds, how the heck did we let them run the world?

Answers welcome.

Ash Wednesday (‘s child)

“Is that clock correct?”

“Yes, why?”

“Jesus!” The floor came up to meet Adaku’s knee. She pulled the wrapper from around her ankle and got to her feet.

“Jiri nwayo, now. What’s the rush? You’re going to injure yourself.” Adaku heard the bed creak as Uzodinma got to his feet. “Let me see,” he said squatting to examine her knee.

“I don’t need a doctor. Where’s my shirt?”

“Relax now, what’s the rush?” Uzodinma pushed his glasses up his face and felt around Adaku’s leg. “Hold still. The way you just rolled off and landed on the floor, you could have seriously hurt yourself.”

“It will serve me right. What we’re doing is wrong, wrong wrong.” Adaku pulled her skirt out from where it was wedged behind a cupboard. How had it got in there?

Hi guys,

Meet Massive Mocha, a 500-pound-plus woman who gets paid to ‘squash’ men. Now for people who don’t know, ‘squashing’ is a sexual fetish which involves just that – a person, usually a morbidly obese woman – sits on you until all the breath leaves your body. And then you get your rocks off. At least that’s how it’s meant to work.

Sometimes, squashees have ‘feeder’ fetishes as well. That is to say the partner gets off on feeding the squasher a lot of food and is then sat on afterwards for their trouble. Here’s Mocha’s blog here. Some of this stuff might be NSFW-ish.

I wonder, how much they make? Am I dieting for nothing?

The Hero Series: Part Two

Igbo sex

Number of times searched – 3.

Alternate searches: Igbo sex 2011 (2), How to say I want to make love to you in Igbo (2), Nigerian men sex (1), Having sex with an Igbo man (1), Sex Igbo man (1), How to say I want to make love in Igbo (1), Igbo sex com (1), Igbo sex site (1), Sex games (1).

Dear Reader,

You sad, sad slapper.

First of all, if you want to have sex with an Igbo guy, sitting at your computer googling ‘Sex with Igbo man’ is not going to help you do it. Not unless there is an Igbo porn site out there, with films made entirely in the Igbo language, with Igbo characters and settings. (Maybe we could set one in pre-colonial times called ‘Things Fall(ing) Apart’. Would Achebe dare sue if by so doing he admits he watches a bit of porn? Have I just blasphemed the creator of modern African literature? Would 50 Cent invest to spite him? Hmmm. I smell a business venture. I wonder where all those actors I mentioned in the previous Hero post are? Would they be interested, do you think? OK, forget this idea. It’s mine. Seriously, the Igbo sex.com site WILL HAPPEN and the idea belongs to me).

But back to you. Whether this desperate foray into the underground world of smut is only because you wish to have a smouldering wedding night with your man, or for other non-igbo-girl ‘fornicatory’, the result is the same.

• Find your man wherever he is. If he is with people, go on your knees and whisper: ”Dollars. Pounds Sterling. Containers”. Yes, I know it’s very Onitsha main market but this is sex. It’s supposed to be straightforward.
• Take your clothes off.
• Lie down – on your back like a good girl. Any other position – especially one that sees you in charge of pleasure-taking – is frowned upon. It leads to women being promiscuous and children born out of such become prostitutes and thieves, layabouts and ne’er-do-wells. (It’s like that useless ‘Obogu’ boy in my village. We called him that on account of the fact he walked like a duck…anyway, the reason he was born soft in the head was because his mother jumped on top of his father, in the middle of the afternoon no less. He spends his time at the entrance to the borehole flashing girls that come to fetch water). This simply will not do.

That’s pretty much it.

If you insist on foreplay then for the love of God, have a lot of CDs by Osita Osadebe or Oliver de Coque around. You had better know how to dance. And make sure he ‘sprays’ money on you. He expects it. By letting him do this you will be stroking his…ego.

Not convinced? You’d best be moving on then. I can do nothing to disabuse you of your Mills&Boon notions of sex being equal to romance; soft music playing, candles burning, perfume filling the air. My God, woman! Pull yourself together. It’s an Igbo man you’re after.

Any candles you have burning in that room had better be enough to roast bush meat on, is all I’m saying.

And if you must know how to waste your time saying ‘I want to make love’ in Igbo, a simple ‘Baby, ka anyi nwe’ should suffice. Just draw out that last syllable until you’re bleating a bit like a goat: ‘Nweeeeeeee’. That’s it.

Be fruitful and multiply.

Love,

H.