THE ITALIAN CONNECTION

Kayode's Opening: He's almost certainly crazy and probably belongs in an "institution" somewhere but boy does he turn out great stuff. He's Rolands Ndu Akpe (some name, I know) and @Bloody_Voyeur on Twitter. He writes what he calls poetry on Bloodywrits. As you may have noticed, he's a bloodthirsty, thieving son of a golden pen. You'll love this story. Enjoy.

I’ve been known to lie a bit; a lot of times, that is. I’ve been known to steal not much; I never get caught. I’m not mythomanic or klepto or anything, and so would therefore advice you, dear reader, to fucking put away that bowl of salt you’re about to take a pinch of! I’m sorry I swore, but I swear by the haematophilic gods of my fathers that whatever words shall come after this sentence shall be the truth and nothing but not the truth.

That aside, whoever on this planet earth tells you reality is far stranger than fiction deserves a slap. True. It’s just like being told YOLO. Read. My. Lips: I. Know. I. Am. Not. Super. Mario. Ebenezer Obey in his obviously not R ‘n’ B-ish voice already told me that some thirty years ago. Read my lips: I. Don’t. Need. No. female Drake telling me I only have one life to live! Ah, I’m sorry I yelled. Excuse me while I take some deep breaths.

Okay. I’m calm now. Truth is, reality is a lot ‘more scarier’, stranger than a Tarantino movie. I just sincerely hope I would not have to tell you about the time I cheated on Amara to convince you. Amara, by the way, is a girl; my first real girlfriend who left the country when I was 17. I had just gotten to know her a couple of months just before. I told her I loved her days before I ever knew I might never see her again. I wrote her a poem when I knew she was leaving. I’m not ashamed to say that I wrote her a poem that was, basically, snatches from the Songs of Solomon where I substituted words like ‘your breasts soft like pawpaw’ for the original ‘your teeth white like sheep in flock’(that ain’t plagiarism, or is it?) She had tears in her eyes when she read it. It earned me a kiss, by the way, a wet one on the cheek.

I, really, am hankering to tell you the happenings between then and now, but I shan’t. For your own good, I shan’t. You just had better know that that this laptop I’m typing on: that expensive, made-in-China, Italian shoe and one or two other things in my room is courtesy of Amara and her industry when she travelled. You, also, had better know that the accent she spoke with when she hugged me after she disembarked the Alitalia Boeing, after her illegal sojourn in Palermo for four years was what I strongly suspect she thinks is an American accent. You just had better know that the first time we did things to ourselves she kept her eyes closed all through, in the bedded boudoir, and cried feverishly, uttering random phrases like “Non, Signore! Signore, non!” repeatedly. Another time when I got too frisky and tried things too kinky like blessing her abdomen and belly-button with sharp, bite-sized nibbles, all I heard was her mumbling, mumbling, “Padrone Giuliamo, non . . .per favore, non, per favore!” and pushing my head away almost quite viciously.

This isn’t the strangest part of this reality at all. What was far stranger was when I cheated on Amara. Cheated, I think, isn’t the right word. ‘Almost cheated” is a very better substitute, for when I tried to gain access into Moji -the kind of  pretty, meaty girl I like - my ‘screw-driver’ rather than lengthening and strengthening like it should grew shorter, in length; thinner, in width; and began to look astonishingly like 2-year old Raymond’s limp, little leaf.

I shall not tell you how loud I screamed. I shall not tell you how I did not give a shit if all employees, from the Janitor to the arse-traders, of Rantipe Hotel saw my tool -no, my twig- so long as they had a solution to grow me back my tree! I shall not mention how all Amara had to do to make me whole was to make me promise never to TRY to cheat on her, and to hit my flat, meat-less back-side three good times with her little finger. I shall not tell you how much I’m in love with Amara right now! This is my reality, as Amara’s article. Am I done for?