Skip to main content

Magi


'I'm a Magi', I told her. 'but I'll need your thyme to validate my sweetness'.

She giggled and I went on to narrate how I once brought to the Lord's manger a bit of frank-sense. Honestly, I don't pretend. But when I pleaded in poetic lines to the Lord to please restore my love; but baby, Jesus was silent.

I must've rendered him speechless with punchlines. 

My bard!

She giggled. I still hear her giggle royco in my head whenever I stare at the full moon.

We both love the moon. Full moon.

Sighs.

I miss her.

Does she miss me too? I don't knorr.

She is hot, my ex. Very hot like hot chocolate. Her skin, chocolate. I could ogle and drool for split seconds, that seem like hours, at her pictures painting poetica in my subconscious.

We are poets. We wrote lines back and forth that could make one twice wet under the rain.

When cold, I pretend to cuddle her so I could steal her body heat.

Told ya. She's hot, my ex, like hot chocolate. And I was the marshmallow. Too hot was she I couldn't be on top for long.

I came too soon.

I came with all my hart and sole. Little wonder she was so hurt when I bored a hole with my absence. She was pale when I returned. Suffering from a lack of vitamin me.

'I can heal ya' I promised. 'I still need ya'

But that was noise to her ears. Even my sweetest of songs was like the croaking of an elderly toad.

Sadly, there was no space left for the Magi. Because frankly, my sweet words made no sense no more.

Not even her thyme could validate my sweetness. Love became a pot of tasteless jollof.

=============================================

'I'm a Magi', I told her. 'but I'll need your thyme to validate my sweetness'.

Fortunately, she didn't understand a bit of what I said that night.

Thyme played a fast one on Magi. She ran out of time, I suppose.

Why?

Magi comes. Magi goes. Magi leads a nomadic life, following stars here and there, in search of one lone star to whom Magi owes eternal worship.

Truth is, relationships that happen too soon are like fat people. Most of them don't work out.

But Magi is just a lanky guy. Needs to work out.

...and that's how Magi lost his sweetness to lack of thyme.

Yet Magi's onga for love never dies.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.  "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies"  "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat"  After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?"  "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener  pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold  patriotis...
Post a Comment
Read more

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....
Post a Comment
Read more