Friday, dirty things from Nigeria piled my heart and made my mind heavy.
I settled for a walk the evening -- a long walk alone. Unknown to me, a set of lovers had gone ahead of me. They've walked the end and were now seated on a lush corner of the lane, engrossed in each other, sucking fingers, whispering to ears, getting hard and soft all at the same time and at same spot.They didn't see me coming; they couldn't have. They were in their world and had shut the door against the rest of us.
They are not aware that a day before this, a tanker from the petrol it carried had made fire and carried somewhere around a bridge in Lagos and roasted everything in sight -- persons, visions, dreams, and cars -- to nothingness.
They've exchanged fluid enough that from the chemistry around them one could tell they're unaware of the innocent blood spilled in Plateau and the shallowness of the mass graves for the bodies of victims of the Fulani herdsmen in Benue. I hurried out screaming for love. What an invaluable survival hint I've met here. Is anybody home? Come committed and true, and then with tissue papers, I'll provide the rest.