Naughty Narratives

Image by Freepik 'That's a pretty ring.' 'Thank you.' 'You're wearing it on your engagement finger.' 'I am engaged.' 'How old are you?' 'Please mind your own business.' Emeka rests his head against the window and sighs. The bus chugs along. In his peripheral vision, he sees the intrusive neighbour pick up a book and flip through it. He thinks of Abigail. Ever since he'd started to send his things home in batches, Abigail had become sulky. This morning, when he'd asked if she wouldn't say goodbye, she'd said, 'Goodbye when you're leaving selfishly? It looks like I'm finally going to graduate and you're leaving? You couldn't wait until my last paper? Who'll cook? Who'll keep this place running?' 'My father already booked the bus, Abigail. There's nothing I can do.' 'Well, wahala for you and wahala for your father. See, I get it, you're done, you wa...

Image by Freepik Tosin's stare lifted from his phone to the cocktail and then, as if in slow motion, caressed me from my sandals, flitted to my gown, grazed my lipstick, and in that moment, I noticed the corner of his mouth twitch before finally meeting my eyes. I involuntarily gasped. What was that I just felt? I'd heard people describe intense attraction as electricity before, but it always sounded exaggerated—until now. Why him of all people? "I see you finally came out of the shadows." Tosin's voice carried authority, but it was soft at the same time. I was too busy wondering if all billionaires' sons sounded like him that I almost missed what he said. "Excuse me," I blinked, my eyes widening. His smile was sarcastic. "You've been watching me from over there," he nodded toward the spot I'd been sitting. "Do we know each other?" He crossed his arms across his expansive chest—he must gym a lot—and looked ...

Image by Freepik There he was in all his glory—Tosin Balewa, the third son of billionaire Harry Balewa. Tosin had quite the reputation: womanizer, party animal, not surprisingly the black sheep of his family and surprisingly a tech mogul in his own right. He wore a Celine white tee, Adidas sweats, and Levi sneakers. He had money, lots of it, and often parted with it freely. This weekend, I'd come to get my share. I made the trip all the way from UNEC, Enugu, down here to Abuja. Because I was only a student hustling her way, I had taken the night bus. I'd imagined several scenarios of how I would get him to notice me. In one of them, I was seated at the bar of the trendy club, pretending to be lost in an interesting conversation with the bartender, and Tosin would approach. He would insert himself firmly in the middle, striving to steal my attention for himself alone. In another scenario, I would be dancing and feel a warm presence behind me. This towering figure w...

Image by Freepik Thirty minutes later, as she sucks sauce off her index finger, Abigail says, 'I wrote a poem while you were away. Pass me my guitar.' Emeka gets it for her, watches her in what used to be awe as she does some warm-up strumming. They'd met at a Faculty of Arts party three years ago. Abigail had been performing a crass original with a loud band. Emeka had been at the front, shyly sipping tepid Coke, wondering again why he'd let his roommates persuade him to attend. While the Director of Socials was making a drunken speech, Abigail had come up to him and touched his cheek. 'I was playing for you, you know', she'd said, swaying from side to side. Abigail has never been able to keep still. 'I looked down from the stage and saw you and thought, 'Hell, I've found my muse.'' Emeka had said nothing, just looked, and Abigail had caressed his right earlobe and asked his name. 'Emeka,' she'd repeated, with rev...

Image by Freepik Emeka's clothes look like pleas; they hang helpless from the clothesline. His red shorts have bled into his white T-shirt, a splash of crimson blooming at the side before thinning into delicate streaks down the sleeve. The rain falls in a lazy, slanted drizzle, a quiet denouement after a roaring climax. Emeka makes his way inside, the sodden bundle clutched to his middle. Abigail is asleep. The pot of fried rice—the one Emeka missed three lectures to cook—sits on the blue rug. There is nothing beneath it. It is empty, save for a few chewed bones. Four spoons and two soiled dishes beside it. One holds diced liver. Abigail's friends have been here. Onyinye. Amara. Possibly Chekwube. The diced liver is from Amara's portion; she is wary of things she cannot afford. Once, she'd invited herself over when Abigail had a show. Emeka's hands shook as he set down peanuts and a bottle of Coke before her. She'd snatched his wrist and turned his p...

Image by Freepik Sebastian is in my apartment when I get back from work the next day, lounging on the sofa he got me on our first anniversary: white with black spots and stripes. Like a cow and a zebra all at once. He stands and walks to me. I remember to throw my arms around him and he presses me against himself. There is no time for words. With Sebastian, there is seldom any time for words. Afterwards, when he is exhausted, my sheets around his midriff, he points to my table and says he got me something. I catch my reflection in the mirror as I walk over to the table. My camisole is still on, and there are a few creases on my skirt. My hair is hardly tousled. There are two boxes on the table: One has a necklace and the other, chocolate. He got me this exact necklace a few months ago. But the chocolate is nice. I eat half the box while I watch him sleep. When I sleep, I dream about both of them again, my grandma and Iya Farouk. They are in the parlour. My grandmother is ...