A kiss is a secret told to the mouth instead of the ear.

That is part of a quote from Ingrid Bergman. If you ever saw old TNT movies and you know Casablanca, she was in it. That’s all I’m telling you about her. You want more information, Google is your friend.

My emotions are a million-and-one and all over the place after re-reading Rodney’s text message from the early hours of this morning. Like I told you guys last entry, Rodney is a Casanova. Casanova with a majuscule, bolded, coloured-in-red for emphasis C. So, amid my many emotions is that tug of irritation you get when you anticipate the appearance of an annoying character. Some of the other emotions would be, nervousness, excitement, panic, confusion, curiosity, amusement and somewhere in the dark, obscure background, fear.

Yes, fear usually tugs when I anticipate kissing. I hate kissing, remember. More like I hate the thought of kissing. Damn those bacteria and herpes!

I step, mentally, on fear and crush it with one single stab of my foot. It doesn’t quite die but it is weakened enough to allow me jump off my bed, switch my shorts to a pair of Chinos and a Polo shirt, sneakers and my always-on-me The-Trill baseball cap.

I consider tip-toeing past mum’s room but perish the idea. That will earn me a mortifying smack when I get back. So, I knock on her door. At the sniff, which means enter, I push in the door and poke my head through it. “Sorry to disturb, mum, but I have an errand to run with Rodney.”

She lowers the Genevieve Magazine and peers at me. “Isn’t it a little bit too early in the day to be running around town with that boy?”

Mum does not like Rodney. She also has a vision of me dying a virgin. No, she didn’t share the revelation of this vision with me but I soon figured it out when she spent the best part of my life keeping me away from females—except when they are older and should be wiser—and grumbling against my rascal-like guy-friends. And it became clearer every time there is purity-talk in church and she gives me that you-still-got it-right? look.

So, in her book, Rodney is a bad influence for her innocent boy.

“It’s not early, mum. It’s already aiming for nine am. I’ll be back later.” I close the door quickly before she thinks up an excuse to make me stay at home.

Since Rodney stays in one of the many far and wide parts of Lagos, I jump three danfo-buses before I get to his bus-stop and stroll the rest of the way to his house. I knock on the door and then step away from it as I wait for him to open. It takes him all of twelve minutes to do so and he is wearing a cocky grin as he belts up his jeans.

He has scored.

“You’re late. Come right in.”

I follow him inside the self-contained apartment. Sex smelled in the air. Oh yes, just because I haven’t had it doesn’t mean I don’t know the smell of it. The smell of it filters around the room and as I breathe, I feel its intoxicating power by that little tightening in the yonder region.

I eye the rumpled bed and then turn to him. He is pulling out a drink from his mini refrigerator. “If you were going to be busy, why did you invite me over?”

“I didn’t plan on getting busy, as you put it.” He passes me the bottle of malt drink. My alcohol tolerance level is embarrassingly low and everyone who knows me, knew that. “I sent you the message hours ago and you failed to arrive on time, so when…” he shoots an arched brow at the bathroom door and beams his cocky grin. “I had to do what I had to do.”

“Please tell me she’s not the one you’re planning to introduce to me.”

“Tsk!” Rodney makes his customary disapproving noise. “Of course not. I—”

The door of the bathroom squeals open and he drops his whispering talk and turns to beam his playboy-smile at the girl that strolls out from it.

Of course I know that is his playboy-smile but average-height, curvy and gifted in vital statistics, dressed in snug, short flared-skirt and top girl doesn’t know that. Girls—majority of girls—don’t know the playboy-smile. They see it all the time but respond to it like it’s a charming smile. Which it pretentiously looks like.

“Hi.” She smiles at me.

There is a momentary interest in her eyes but she quickly dims it. No doubt to hide it from Rodney. Thing I have learnt is that girls give guys the look too, but they like to pretend that they don’t—or hide it from their boyfriends like she just did.

“Babe, this is my best bud, Emma. Emma, this gorgeous lady here is one who’s stolen my heart and refused to release the key. Her name is Teni.”

Please Lord, give her the sense to use the brain you inserted inside that massive-weave covered head, I silently pray.

Unfortunately, she disappoints the Good Lord… and me. She falls, hook, line and sinker, for Rodney’s cock-and-bullshit introduction with her blushing-bride smile as she extends her right hand to me. “Pleasure to meet you, Emma.”

“Same here, Teni.” I shake her hand and release it.

“I hope you don’t mind my manners, Emma, but I’ve got to get back to school.” Teni continues to beam like she is the winner of a world-renown jackpot. “I hope we meet again some other time.”

“I hope so too. It’s a pleasure once more.” I step away and keep myself busy as they do their thing.

There are whispers, swishing and smacking sounds and then, Rodney calls out to me as they head for the door. “Dude, I’ll be back soon. Sit tight.”

“No sweat.” I watch as they step out, plastered against each other and once the door closes behind them, I roll my eyes.

How in heaven’s name do girls buy that crap that Rodney just sold? Stolen my heart and refused to return the key? Like seriously? I shake my head and step away from the bed, drop into the only couch in the room and pick up the remote to turn on the television.

Rodney is a semi-big Lagos boy. Semi, because his parents are not of the wealthy, crème-de-crème class, but Rodney is a hustler who’s made some good to get himself his own apartment even whilst a student and buy himself a in-the-2000s Honda car. It’s vague how he earns his money. Rodney never really tells. Especially if you are not interested in earning like I’m not. But he has cash to spend, has the lean, muscled build girls—and should-be sensible women—grope after these days. Which by the way, he spends at least three days, weekly working at the gym working at. He also has got the car and then good looks and plenty charm to top off these extra-curricular qualities.

He is the opposite of me. And he is a Casanova. He pursues girls like they will be going into extinction like the Dinosaurs and he indulges in sex like it is food. No girl has the key to his heart. If he there is a heart meant for romantic love inside of Rodney, it is locked away and the key buried deep in an unknown land. Take my word for it.

The door opens and he comes back in.

“Dude, I hammered that girl like she was Manny Pacquiao and I was Floyd Mayweather. And she was panting and wheezing… begging me never to stop.” Rodney makes a wolfish sound to match his grin. “If you hadn’t arrived, I would have done her two more times before sending her off on her pretty way. Damn, chick knows how to take a ride from behind.”

An image of dogs floats into my mind but I banish it quickly. “Who is she and when did you even meet her?”

“Cross-over club night. While you went to church like mummy’s little good boy, I shot me some fresh meat for the first quarter of 2016 and I just feasted on the second in the pack.”

“You do remember HIV, don’t you?”

“The reason real men created condom. Don’t start that your girly talk, Emma, it’s boring.” Rodney walks to his closet and drags on a T-shirt. “You are plugging that little man of yours into a girl this month or I’m chalking you up as a bone-man.”

Bone-man would be his way of saying gay.

“I don’t think sex was meant to be pursued as a recreational activity.”

“What?” Rodney looks truly flabbergasted as he gapes at me. “Which kain talk be dat nau?” He demanded in Pidgin English. “Guy, you dey kolo, abi you be bone-man, abi you wan be monk? Which one be your stress?”

“Neither.” I never speak Pidgin English. Don’t know why. But I don’t. “I’m just not ready for sex. But if you’ve got a girl for me, let’s go meet her. I want to lose my kiss-virginity.”

“Your what?”

I chuckle. “My coined word for my not having yet kissed.”

“You dey kolo. This boy you dey mad. And na me God send as your Saviour.” Rodney grabs his wallet and car key from the table. “Let’s go. Na only kiss-virginity! Guy, stop this your dulling this year o.”

I do not bother with a response. I have my goal and it stops at kissing. I have no plans of changing it. Not in 2016.

We get into Rodney’s car and drive out. Some forty-something minutes later, we’re pulling up beside a fenced house somewhere in downtown Mainland.

“Nina lives here with her older sister. But she is away now on some study-leave abroad.” Rodney informs me as we go through the pedestrian gate. “She is pretty. She is friendly. And she is older.”

“What?” I am shocked. I had not expected older. “How much older?” Anything above twenty-nine and I am walking back through the gate.

“Twenty-five or six. I’m not certain. But can’t be older.”

Rodney’s nonchalant tone doesn’t surprise me. He is just twenty-four but in the three years I’ve known him, I’ve seen him with countless older women. Yes, women would be the operative word and older doesn’t stop at just twenty-nine either. But twenty-five or six doesn’t sound bad. My rule-book allows it. So, I bolster my smile as Rodney rings the doorbell and we wait for it to open.

It takes about three minutes and then the frosted-glass door slides open and my eyes nearly pop out at the seductive image in chequered bum-shorts, dangerously-dipped belly-top tank and kinky-girl made-up face that frames the door. But it isn’t the mind-distorting image that is almost sending my eyes out of their sockets, it is who Nina really is.

“Brother Emmanuel!” Munachi shrieks and without waiting for a response, yanks the door shut as she hastily retreat.

“What the f**k!” Rodney stares bewildered at me.

I only shake my head. Nina—Munachi—is Sister Munachi from church, Youth Minister and Choir’s lead singer. Damn!

Journal Entry.

ThursdayDisaster encounter with ‘Sister Munachi’. Hoes everywhere.

FridayNothing significant. Chat with Naomi. She thinks I’m hilarious. Note: Might be a kiss-prospective quality. But don’t overdo.

Saturday – Sunday—Church activities. Sister Munachi absent. Called-in Excuse—Sick with Malaria. Lord deliver her. Heal her, Lord.*

Monday & Tuesday—More nothings. Dad called. Sending money for my clearance. And increasing my allowance by 50%. Yippee!… No biggie.

Wednesday— Mostly nothing… until call from Naomi.


“I’ve been busy. But I’ve got some free time tomorrow. Want to do lunch?”

Her voice is throatier on phone. “Ah… yes. Yes, I want to do lunch. When?”

Her laugh comes fast and ticklish to my eardrum. “One pm fine with you?”

“One pm is super!”

“All right. Come over to the house for me then. See ya tomorrow.”

I wait to hear the call-dropped tone before I lower my hand and let the phone slip off my hand. Yes! She likes me!!!


Week Evaluation—Drama week but ending just fine. I just might get kissed soon.



Be health-conscious. Brush before kissing to lessen ‘em bacteria.


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