I wear his ring, now I carry another man’s child

I will take my time to describe vividly how it happened. My strategy is to at least get your sympathy and to let this story run on your very popular and unique site. I didn’t make my story up. The touch of dialogue in my story is only a narrative style I employed as a graduate of Theatre Arts, yes…from the Benue State University. I don’t think I can open up more than this. Thank you in anticipation.

I was in my room one very hot afternoon and in a very acidic mood. I didn’t know what had got me upset. My roommate was sitting right there, but we shared no conversation. We weren’t new to each other but we had just become roommates. She was already familiar with the terrain and the people around, but I had just moved in. I was up, trying to get the room arranged when we heard a knock, and before we could respond, he let himself in…what if we were naked?

“Ehhhhhh!!! Who has these biscuits on the table, can I have one please?” When he got no response, he turned facing me and my roommate, his eyes pleading. “It is mine” I finally said, “you can have some.” Thank you” he tottered as he threw a whole piece in his mouth. I don’t know what attracted me to him at that moment, although I didn’t even show any interest let alone smile at him…but deep down, I knew better. My groins tightened, not that he was so handsome but maybe for his reckless look. “You don’t smile, do you?” his voice brought me back to reality. I simply ignored the question with a wave of the hand. The rest of the time he chatted away with my roommate, picking from their conversation, I discovered he lived within the neighborhood.

Dropping by the apartment became often for him. The first time I was sure he came to see my roommate, but these other times; I just can’t tell who it was he comes to see. Then one fateful evening, he dropped by the house and my roommate had gone out. “She’s not around” I said to him on opening the door. “It is you I came to visit,” he simply said and strolled past me into the room. I was uncomfortable and breathing was hard. We sat on either side of the room and no one spoke, the silence was as thick as the walls of Jericho. He moved from his side of the room towards me where I sat on the bed and my heart froze. He quietly sat down on the bed beside me. He held me on my shoulders and gently turned me towards him so we could face each other. Am sure he knew what his presence does to me. “I like you,” he said as he starred deep into my eyes. I remember those words exactly like it was just this afternoon. “I ……….am engaged to someone,” I managed to reply. “It doesn’t matter dear,” he answered and before I could say anything, before I could understand what was going on, he covered my lips with his. I thought I tried to resist and push him away but no, I heard myself moaning at his touch, responding to his kiss, passionately. He touched me with so much passion, I couldn’t help it but let myself melt in his arms, I forgot everything around me and in my head, not even the fact that my wedding was few months away. I forgot everything. I submitted myself totally and even let him have me, completely. OMG!!!

It was until the show of shame was over that I regretted it, I wept, I felt guilty. How could I have betrayed a man that loved me so much? How could I have lost control without even realizing it? It was work that had moved me to another town from my fiancé and it hadn’t even been so long. After that day, my supposed neighbor and I never saw again, I had put an end to the ‘bastard’ act.

Weeks passed, then I started having strange feelings, and my body was changing. I dared not to think beyond the ordinary, “but I had not started my ovulation period then,” I consoled myself. “I can’t be pregnant,” I hoped and prayed it was something else. I can’t even bring myself to tell my roommate about it, so I took the first step. I went for a pregnancy test. “Congratulations,” the lab technician said as he handed me my test result and I gave him a stare that could send him to his grave, like it was his fault. “But God, it was just one day, one time, one stand,” my heart pleaded with God. Just one mistake and my future is so bleak.

I am in a state of dilemma, I’m pregnant, courtesy ‘the reckless guy’, that was what attracted me to him in the first place, wasn’t it. Now, I curse the day that I met him. I don’t know if I should tell him I’m carrying his baby. I can’t even dare to tell my fiancé that I’m pregnant for another man; he certainly would break up the wedding plans and I’m not ready to be a disgrace to my family. Moreover, God, I can’t even think of an abortion. I’m confused, I don’t know what to do, someone please help me out. I need your counseling.

sources

truly family is forever

This is one story every woman should read Never EVER Talk Bad Of Your Husband To Anyone…Learn!!!

Wow!This is a MUST read story women! Came across this piece online and not sure who wrote it, but it’s a great story with a solid lesson to teach and a reminder to every woman. I know its quite lenghty, but Please continue reading and don’t forget to share…..someone out there might need this!

“Biyi hasn’t worked for that long?” Dayo’s voice drips with resentment. “For real?” “He’s been trying,” I say in feeble attempt to defend my husband. “You know how the economy is.”
…My husband and I had vowed never to bring in a third party into our relationship but with a bank account screaming for revival, I need to share my burden with someone else. I grip the phone. Dayo is unusually quiet. “You still there?” I ask. “Hello?” “I am here,” she says. “I just didn’t know things were this bad. And all this while, I thought Biyi was providing for the home.” But he is, I argue silently. Well, maybe not financially for now, but in every way else, Biyi is a rock. “It’s not that bad.” My words sound frail. Dayo clucks her tongue. “You might as well be a widow.”
The words hit me like a fist. “Na you I blame,” she continues, oblivious to the damage her words have caused.
“Me? Why?” She is blaming me for this? Seriously?
“Why do you keep paying the bills?”
“Because there is no one else to do it,” I protest, upset.
“For real? He drives your car too?”
“He needs it,” I mutter. “To attend job interviews and stuff. He gets back late sometimes.”
“How late are you talking?
“Nine, ten…ish.”
Dayo pauses for a second. “I hate to say this gurl, but your husband spending your money on another woman.” Whoa! Hang on. Where did that come from? “Haba, Dayo. Biyi would never—” “Look, I know men,” she slices in. “You are his moneybag and he will take you for a ride as long as it takes. Where is your dignity, gurl?” Ride. Dignity. Moneybag. Ouch. “But he’s a good guy,” I manage. Can my husband be using me? It had never crossed my mind in the past, but I now wonder if Biyi is actually having an affair.
“I trust my wonderful Dennis…,” Dayo is saying. I barely listen. My eyes are on the clock. It’s almost midnight and Biyi isn’t home. I force myself to hear what Dayo is saying about Dennis Ono, her multimillionaire-oil- company-golden-husband. Gosh I envy her life, her perfect marriage. “My marriage is wonderful,” Dayo says, as if in affirmation to my undeclared words. “But only because I show Dennis who the boss is. He cannot try nonsense with me. Abi, you think it’s easy to get ten thousand pounds a month as pocket money?” She really gets ten grand a month? That’s like, my entire annual salary in my crappy job plus bonuses. Life is unfair. Honestly. “I am Biyi’s wife,” I say. “I cannot just desert him.” Or can I? At this rate… “In that case,” there is an edge to her voice now, “give him an ultimatum. He gets a job in two weeks or you are out of that marriage.”
“I—”
“Look, I know his type,” she says with conviction. “He conveniently won’t get a job as long as you keep dishing out your money.”
“But—”
“Starve him,” she adds. “No sex. Make life hell. You are not an ATM machine.”
Keys jangle in the hallway. Biyi is home. “Talk later,” I say to Dayo. “He’s back.” “Stand your ground,” Dayo whispers menacingly. “Ultimatum. Two weeks.” I hang up with a sigh. My husband is leaning against the door frame. For a second my heart falters. He looks tired, drawn. But Dayo’s words punctuate my compassion. “Where have you been?” Biyi gives me a side smile. “No hug?” I jerk my head at the wall clock.” Its midnight.” “I had a job interview in Birmingham,” he says. “I called you tell you I was stuck in traffic but I kept getting your voicemail. What’s wrong?” I cock my head. Is that a whiff of female perfume? It is. Dayo is right. He has been with another woman. With my car. Spending my money. My head spins. “Biyi,” I glare at him, “Where are you coming from?” He steps back, surprised. “I went to Birmingham—”
“Did you get it?” I screech. “The job?”
Biyi shakes his head. “I didn’t—”
This is the last straw. I wrench my hand out. “My car keys.”
He gives me a hard level stare. “What is wrong with you, Toni? Did I offend you?”
“Pass my keys!”
He thrusts the car keys to into my palm. I push past him, grab my duffel bag and stuff my overnight things into it. I know I am acting crazy but I have to show him that I would not be taken for a ride. That I am not a moneybag. That I have dignity. I zip the bag up and spin around. My husband is staring at me. “Is everything all right with you, sweetheart?”
“Get out of my way.”
“Where are you going with that bag?”
“I need to clear my head.” I am still yelling.
“Can we talk first?” Biyi suggests.
“I don’t want to talk. Get out of my way.”
He moves out of my path. I swipe a hand across my face, smearing my cheeks with mascara. “Don’t look for me. I will be back when my head clears.” I rush out of the house, jump into my car. My rage doubles as the feminine scent permeates the car. He has been with a woman in my car. I feel like an idiot.
* * *
I pull up in front of Dayo’s mansion. Her husband’s Porsche is in the driveway, and the porch lights illuminate my dreary form as I reach the door. I ball my fists to knock, but a scream freezes the motion.
“Kill me!” I hear Dayo scream. “Good for nothing idiot. Womaniser of the century!” Whoa. Momentarily, I am unable to move. My hand hovers in the air. Dull thuds, muffled screams. Dennis curses. “I warned you never to serve me stew that is not freshly cooked!” “Am I your slave?” Dayo yells back. “If you want fresh stew, get your PA to cook it for you. Or you think I don’t know about her? You think…”
Dayo’s words are silenced by another thump. My hands fall to my side as a flurry of blows stifle her cries. I want call the police, do something…anything. But I cannot move. And so I shut my eyes tight and listen as my friend is pummelled by her husband. The beating stops. I should dash to my car, but something holds me back. “I am sorry I got you upset darling,” Dayo finally says. Her voice is laced with pain. “It is my fault. I should have cooked for you. I…Toni wouldn’t let me get off the phone…its her fault.”
“Next time you talk to me like that, I will tattoo a punch on your forehead,” Dennis growls. “Get into the kitchen and make me fresh stew. And do something about that leech you call a friend.”
That is enough for me. I sprint back to my car and drive home.
* * *
A knock sounds on the window. Biyi. I wind down and he gives me a smile. “Head clear now?” he asks. “Leave me alone,” I mutter. Dayo’s wonderful Denis beats her up? And she never mentioned?
“I will leave you alone in two seconds,” Biyi says. There is a twinkle in his eyes. “But first, get out of the car.” I oblige, grudgingly. “What?” He reaches under the car seat and pulls out a small basket. “I didn’t come home straight from the interview. I stopped over at the Perfume shop to get you this.” He hands the basket over. Inside is a range of exotic feminine perfumes and a small card. I pull the card open, read the words: “Thank you for your support during the hardest times of my life! I love you.”
“That’s why I was late,” he explains as he pulls me into a warm embrace. “You have been so good to me, Toni. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife.” I can’t reply. My throat is lumpy.
“When you left the house to clear your head, I got a call back from the recruiter,” he says with a beam. “God answers prayers, babe. I got the job. It’s a package you won’t believe. Let’s go in. I’ll tuck you into bed and you can tell me what’s bothering you?”
* * *
I awaken to a text message from Dayo. “Denis is flying me to Seychelles this weekend. This is what you get when you stand your ground. You have to be a no nonsense gurl! Don’t you just love my life? Ciao sweetheart xxx.”
I type a quick response back: “Ciao! and i deleted her number right away.
Now, this is one story every woman should read. The grass is never greener on the other side, best believe that. No matter how good a friend’s marriage it, NEVER EVER compare with yours. It’s DEADLY and could cost you so much!

by Abimbola Dare

Nigeria Tribalism: A Personal Love Story

My father's generation will never relinquish their tribalism, but my generation has thankfully learned to look forward. When I was 17, a tall, handsome doctor fell in love with me. He left Nigeria, shortly after, for his residency in America, and proceeded to prove how much he was still in love with me by dispatching mushy Hallmark cards every week – to my university during semester, and to my family home during holidays. Eventually, my father could bear it no more. He summoned me for a tête-à-tête. Along with his address, the smitten doctor always scribbled his name on the colourful envelopes, hence, my father could detect his tribe. "You must never get involved with a Yoruba man," my father warned. "They are wicked."

I didn't blame my father for those sentiments. Like most Igbos, he felt bitter and marginalised. And there was nothing much they could do except murmur and rant because they had already fought for secession … and lost. Even though the official verdict after the Nigeria-Biafra civil war was: no victor; no vanquished.

Throughout our childhood, my parents had regaled me and my siblings with a stream of "during the war" tales. Of the endless traffic when every creature in our hometown, Umuahia, was fleeing the imminent arrival of the Nigerian army. After hours of inching along and swallowing his thirst, my father reached for a rusty can lodged in the mud, scooped from a roadside puddle and drank. Of how my mother didn't have much to show for her years of schooling because the soldiers who invaded Oguta ripped her books to shreds. Of when the war ended and the then finance minister, Obafemi Awolowo, declared that each Igbo was to receive £20, irrespective of how much was in their accounts. Awolowo was Yoruba.

But something else happened after the war. Aware that venomous tribal sentiments were behind most of Nigeria's post-independence troubles, our government hatched an idea. Special schools in every state. These would be the best. Fees would be subsidised. They would also have a quota system that ensured as many tribes as possible represented in their enrolment. Therefore, children from the hinterlands of every region would have the opportunity to mix. Lured by the high academic standard on offer, parents rushed to register their wards for the super-competitive exams into the federal government colleges.

At 10, I left home to attend FGGC Owerri. Over the next six years, I shared the same dormitories, ate at the same tables, played pranks with classmates from various ethnic groups. I discovered that not all Hausas concealed daggers with which to stab Igbos, in their underwear; that not all Yorubas were cantankerous traitors. The curriculum also forced me to learn jaw-breaking phrases in strange Nigerian tongues. Outside language classes, speaking "vernacular" was banned. And during morning assembly, all 1,500 students stood erect and belted out our school anthem:


The guns of battle were all silent

The smoke of destruction blown away

The lips of war were sealed

And the scarring almost healed

When our school was born to herald a new day.

Nigeria, we all make thee a promise

To serve thee with strength of heart and brave

To build and not break down

Bury quarrels in the ground

So that those who died may not have gone in vain.

Eventually, the brainwashing was complete. Apart from when my parents referred to Abimbola as "your Yoruba friend", and Rahila as "your Hausa friend", I hardly remembered any differences between us. With this mentality, I applied to the University of Ibadan. Not only was UI widely acknowledged as "the first and the best", but it was far away enough from Umuahia to allow me spread my wings without parental interference. My father went ballistic. UI was in Yoruba territory. "They are wicked," he insisted. Plus, the city had a history of turmoil. Even my mother had fled UI, following the election riots of 1965, eventually completing her degree in the Igbo-dominated Nsukka University. His advice went in my ear and did a U-turn right out. Like most teenagers, I was sure that my father knew nothing about life.

It turned out that he was right; Ibadan was the headquarters of spontaneous civil unrest. And since I was in the midst of many who never got the opportunity to attend a "Unity School" like I did, Ibadan was also my matriculation into the intriguing world of Nigerian tribalism. I met Igbos convinced that everyone speaking Yoruba in the vicinity was conspiring against them. And Yorubas provoked whenever an Igbo dared to contest a school election. And Igbos deserting Yoruba girlfriends in favour of Igbo brides. And Yorubas horrified when offered an Igbo meal. It was all quite pitiful. As Nigeria celebrates 50 years of independence from Britain on 1 October, I'm thankful for the privilege of attending a federal government college; of learning that we all are basically the same. I'm also more determined to keep the promise I made to my country all those years ago: to build and not break down. The smitten doctor has never been back to Nigeria. Last I heard, he was expecting a child from the Yoruba wife he met there in America. Then, in two lavish ceremonies in 2009, my sister got married to a – gasp! – Yoruba man. With my father's approval!

Had the passing of time led him to finally forgive? Of course not. There really isn't much hope for his generation in terms of relinquishing tribal sentiments. Our only hope is our youth. My father was probably just so eager for his daughters to get married that even if either of us had dragged in an orangutan and presented it as our groom-to-be, he would have approved


By Adaobi Tricia Nwaubani

*This piece was originally published in the Guardian newspaper, UK

African Men Will Cheat!

I know a couple of men started muttering when they came across this topic: “what is up with Pamela and these kinds of topics?”. Yes, I know I have approached this topic from several tangents in different write ups -”men like wolves, small house problem etc”. But, I realized, that there is still a lot more I have to say about this. Maybe, this will be my last write up on this, who knows? Okay, maybe till I come across something that ticks me off. Last week, I got a chance to talk to a guy friend of mine who I had lost contact with in years, and he let it slip that he knows that his daddy was cheating on his mother. I remember being in shock at the blase way he mentioned it. I know African men cheating in most of their love/lust relationships isn’t a new thing but the tone that this was mentioned, made me realize that to many African men – CHEATING IS NOT A BIG DEAL! Having to deal with this onslaught of emotions, I decided that I need to discuss this with one of my Kenyan guy friends.    I realized that these two rules seem to be quite true of our men:

a) African men WILL CHEAT.

b)There is a cultural expectation for these men to cheat, as there is a cultural expectation for African women to forgive them and take them back.

At first, I was in shock at this feedback, because I am being told that as women, I should not expect simple givens like trust and ‘fidelity in a truly ‘committed’ relationship. So, my question really, if the situation were the reverse, “should I expect my man to be blase about it?”. Yes, I can hear the chuckles of some of the men at that statement. We know men will not put up with a cheating partner. I would have taken this further and called for an open relationship but that is a topic for another day.

Let’s deal with the basic question: Why do African men cheat?

a) simple answer: because they can and they can get away with it.

b) complicated answer: because they want to explore something extra, greed, insecurity.

Now, back to the main topic at hand: how do you know your man is cheating?

a) He picks up an argument every time – nothing seems to please him. The main reason for this is because, he is looking for an opportunity to connect with his new, “connection with the classic line, I am so misunderstood aka she doesn’t understand me but you do”.

b) Erratic behavior

c) You come across condoms in his car, his wallet or you notice that there are missing condoms in the pack.

d) He suddenly becomes too nice. For example, if you have a miserly man and all of a sudden he starts buying you stuff like there is no tomorrow, he is doing that to assuage his guilt.

e) He doesn’t notice you in your sexy get up aka freakum dress.

f) He suddenly becomes experimental in the bedroom.

g) calls you by another woman’s name during that moment.

h) Spends all his spare time on the phone with a particular female friend.

i) Raises hypothetical questions like, “do you think it is possible to love more than one person at one time?”.

j) wants more sex

k) wants less sex or no sex

l) turns off his cell phone when he’s home or with you or goes outside to make his phone call.

m) charger problems/lost cell phone/lost charger – being the reason you can’t get a hold of him for days.

I will end by quoting an African man who states -”if he’s African,he’ll probably cheat” and if you are a virgin and you are dating an African man – he’s probably cheating.

By the way – men could we change the lines a bit, if I hear, I am so misunderstood one more time – I will literally scream. oh yes, emotional cheating is still cheating.

Of course, women if you know more signs – we will like to know.

That Bloody Condom:My London,My Son

”you can’t be my dad”….”mum, tell this man to get out of our house”…”well, you wanted me aborted, good she didn’t”

….that’s my three year old son yelling at me when I first saw him. Let me take you back four years before this incident, I met shontell in one of my trips to London, I was supposed to go meet my girlfriend in London(which I did actually) but she barely had time for me as she was rounding off high school (what?!...I was quite young too, so no thoughts of child abuse ok?), I met shontell on a bus 12(my London peeps should be quite familiar with this very one),I was eyeing her all the way and quite luckily she was going my way but got off a bus/stop before mine and I followed suit in a blizzery November cold, and as I walked up to her with fears she might raise an alarm about me stalking her (good, that al-mutallab aint known yet, cos I did look that innocent)but surprisingly she said “thot I lost you there handsome”(was dumbfounded, then again its London)


Shontell was (as at that time) 22 years old, couple of years older than I was, worked at the primarks store in Peckham and of a Nigerian-Jamaican decent and lived in a single room along the peckham rye and also an arsenal fan. That first day, she actually did walk me home instead of going to hers and we saw each other more often after that, always went to peckham to wait for her and every day after work, she would take time to show me round London until that very day she asked me to come see her new apartment in camberwell (her parents stay outside London, I found out later that she ran away from home and quit college).the house was very lovely and her bedroom looked movie-like and while still looking around she gave me a wet, warm kiss and asked me to stay the night, I had to refuse her offer because my mum would be worried(unluckily for me she flew in two days before….left to my aunt, she’d understand) and she just walked me home as usual, we kissed again at the stairs leading to my aunt’s flat. Throughout the night I couldn’t get her off ma head and I knew it was just a matter of time


This very day, she called me and said she just called in sick and was down with a flu, I rushed down to her place after seeing off my girlfriend to school (slept over at her house) and on getting in she was stark naked and it looked like she had greases her oversized bum and the tattoo on her lower back glowing, she looked like she just step out of a FHM magazine. I asked her what this was all about, she told me to be prepared for the best sex I’d ever have(better still, ever had). she had everything prepared; chocolate, lube, beers except for one thing “THAT BLOODY CONDOM”. What the hell? (I told myself, little did I know it’s going to fetch me an unplanned handsome boy). she blew my mind (not forgetting my dick too), we did it on the bed, in the bathtub, stairs, balcony and just I thought I had enough, seeing her bum strolling right in front of me I couldn’t hold back and I rammed her from behind and I was about to withdraw just before I came, she begged(literally)me to cum inside of her, hoping she might be on pills, I did make the greatest mistake of my life(life so far!)


After that moment, she started speaking strangely, telling me thank you (but babe, I just fucked you…I should thank you) telling me I have good genes and how she wanted to have my baby…..STOP THERE!!! Did I just hear you say BABY??? Just a month ago, I just ended my teenage years and what? I’m going to be a daddy soon? She calmed me down, assuring me all is well (well players, if a girl tells you that….well SCRAM!!!)We did it twice more after then before returning back to Nigeria. No wonder she opted for my Nigerian phone number and almost a year later, someone called me with a tear stained voice and says “he’s beautiful, you did it! You made me a son, thank you very much….I’m still on hi5 you know?!” I went cold (felt like fainting), I told my mum and she laughed thinking it was one of my jokes, it took a lot of convincing to make her believe my story(not the detail of course!) and I had a fight with shontell(she was vexed, but dint care if I was around to father my child, she just wanted a baby) and just last august she sent me ticket money to come see my almost four year old son, I bought a two-week return ticket and on getting there, she picked me up from Heathrow and drove to her (again!)new apartment and here comes a carbon copied boy (more like scanned, photoshopped and printed copy of me) that looked exactly like me with this silk hair packed in a ponytail (a boy on ponytail?...best thing ever) and the boy yelled out”you can’t be my dad”….”mum, tell this man to get out of our house”…”well, you wanted me aborted, good she didn’t”…what?! Did you teach him that?....then they both laughed, it was supposed to a joke, she asked him to come hug me, I knelt down and picked my boy and tears from nowhere started to fall.


She told me she had named him Kennedy, that even made it more touching but told me I can have my life and marry who ever I wanted provided I call and come to see my son from time to time and begged me for another one…”NO..Not this time” but we still had sex and this time I was strapped…and to answer the question of guys asking how that place (you know where now?!)is like after birth…feels the same!!!(Probably even better)


NOTE: no matter how tempting, the time, date, people and places depicted in this memoir are fictitious (or just might not be!)…not like you guys care right? But just maybe a shontell exists and I have a son already…..you might never know!!!

It Felt Good At Every Point In Time Part III

…it felt good at every point in time and amidst my tears I felt good till I saw a head throbbing out of the blinds and a voice saying “oga NEPA don bring light, I wan switch over”….oops

Ok now I’m screwed(literally an d figuratively), why is this happening to me?guess what? His head was still in the blinds staring hard?then my dad quickly wore his trousers and dashed to meet him outside before he could make a run for it and spill the news and met him halfway before th gate and brought him back into the house calmly and I sat there naked and confused as my dad proposed and proffered solutions and surprisingly the stupid no good son-of-a bitch asked stupidly for my dad never to sack him(unless he leaves willingly),increase his allowances and surprisingly my dad should impregnate his daughter and he should have sex with me also….what?!!!
My dad choked him in the neck and swore he’d kill him right there and the stupid fool said “who’s gonna open the gate for madam if she return for five o clock?” it was already 4:24pm, logically if my dad killed him now, how fast can he dispose of the body? And seriously who will open the gate? What explanation will be given to my mum for his failure to open the gate? He has been with us even before I was born and only travels few times in a year to go impregnate his wife and my dad did agreed on his terms except for his sleeping with me and then he just decided and said “DO IT!”…what?!!!
Then my dad asked me to cooperate(few hours ago I was a virgin, curse you Eunice for lending me that porn) before my mum gets back,not like I had a choice, I slowly closed my open legs at the sight of his enormous penis, now I’m scared yet I still don’t have a choice. He drove so deep I could feel my intestine giving way and on staring at the “kondo” I notice he had just gotten halfway inside me and then a rush of pleasure and pain shot straight from my spine straight to my brain…I had just climaxed and the pain did not make me wish for more.then as he slipped off the condom he was using, my mum’s horn went blarring and we all scurried off to make things look right and I noticed I could barely walk…a sharp pain throbbed my inner thighs so my dad had to bring my clothes to me
My mum walked in with my siblings and the lawyer and also invited the gateman in…then my heart skipped, had he spilled the news?what could be happening? She(my mum) sent my siblings upstairs and said we all needed to talk and the gateman had to be there…now I knew we were busted…”he made me do it”…I said, and my mum cut me short before I could even start confessing and said “don’t care what you and ur dad have been up to,this is far more important”…for the first half of her sentence, I almost fainted and I couldn’t wait for what was more important than my father having sex with me then she said
“I know you all are wondering why I brought Mr. Olumitan our lawyer to our house, I wanted to clarify some things, first I’m filing for a divorce largely because I feel neglected and also because I have been having affairs with people!!!”
Just when you think that was too hard to swallow and I was having the worst day of my life, then she continued
“secondly, this man is not your father…he’s more like a foster dad to you funmi”
All of a sudden I felt happy, at least it wasn’t my dad that just had sex with me then he can pay for his crimes and then she concluded
“the so called gateman is actually your father and also ur brother and ur sister belongs to someone else…your so called father seem to be impotent after I took some of his sperm to test it after subjecting myself to therapy and expensive fertility test which the bastard dint even pay for and blah blah blah blah”
The rest sounded like blahs in my ear….before I blacked out
Need I tell you that my life never remained the same,I am a stripper at la caliente even though I have money and guys running crazy for and around me, I don’t think I want another penis ever again, I have a girlfriend I love and a story worth telling the world…and did I tell you I had both my dad(I find it hard to call him something else) and the gateman(my useless real dad) killed and asked their penis be put in a jar of formalin for me….anytime I need to calm my self down I just stare hard at it…..and the sight of revenge can be soothing…all I had to add when returning the jar back to the safe is “I hate you daddy!!!”  SOURCE

It Felt Good At Every Point In Time Part II

Did I end the part one with an “oops”?[ Part 1 ]  It should have been an ooooooops!!! What was I thinking? Thought I locked the main door? What do I do now? He has never spanked me before…what will he do now? would he tell my mother? (then I’m DEAD!!!) then I realized I had not locked the kitchen door(most houses have a kitchen door…I think?!)…but something struck me, he had not noticed me(or maybe he did). His eyes were fixed on the plasma, for some ten seconds he gazed hard on the TV and I noticed a huge bulge in his pants(it was kinda on my eye level you know?!)….oops!!!
It was then he looked down at me and couldn’t help but notice the bottle sticking out of my orifice and instead of yelling the shit out of me, he pulled me up, walked me to the bathroom helped me clean up the juice stain on my laps and he actually did help me clean my vagina gently stroking it under the running water and the sensation itself was hormone-testing and climax fetching but I had to figure what was going on in his head, his silence was killing me(so were his fingers!!!)…could he be so drunk he had not realized what had happened? Or maybe he’s doing the silent treatment?….then I noticed the bulge again….oops!!!
He then spoke without looking into my eyes “funmi you have been a very bad girl, there are two ways outta this situation I could either make you explain to your mum or I’d explain what real sex feels like or show you”(I know!!! I didn’t wanna mention my name before)”where is your sense of humour” he said. Then his fingers slid deeper into my vagina and reminded me whom my mum would believe if we both relayed our stories and I shouldn’t bother screaming because the generator was on, moreover, mum wasn’t going to be back till a few more hours, then he carried me back to the couch half naked, quarter confused and the rest of the fractions; MAD. Then he whipped out that ugly thing you guys pride yourself in, it was the biggest I’ve seen (even bigger than Muri the madman’s dick)then he started explaining to me the importance of using a condom…I know!!!…ooops
He picked up a tear from my face and used it to rub my clitoris(now I know all the parts thanks to my dad) and I couldn’t help but to let out a soft moan and then he guided his thingy into me an inch at a time.it felt good at every point in time and amidst my tears I felt good till I saw a head throbbing out of the blinds and a voice saying “oga NEPA don bring light, I wan switch over”….oops
I have to stop here for now…watch out for part three(the concluding part!)…the gateman, neighbor, mum and the lawyer walks in…or maybe not!!!
Feel free to drop your comments on the group page and invite your friends to join from the group page.

The Single Mother Trap!

A couple of years ago, I went to visit a good friend of mine in his house. I met his girlfriend there and we got a talking. In the process, I found out that he had been going out with this lady for awhile, in retrospect that should have been my clue in, after all I am his close friend and I had never heard of this woman. After the lady had left, I sat down to have a personal one on one with my friend. Of course, the ever curious Pammy, had to talk about that lady. The conversation went like this:

Pammy (laughing happily) : “wow! I see the signs”

Male Friend: ” What signs?”. ” What are you on about now?”

Pammy: “she seems to be the one o!”. (At this point, I was already planning my traditional getup for his introduction ceremony).

Male friend (with a bemused look on his face): “the one for what?”

Pammy:”ah ah. Marriage. This is the first time I have ever seen you so serious about a woman in my life”

Male friend (laughing uproariously): ” Not in this life time, she is a single mother”.

Pammy (confused look on my face): “what does that have to do with anything? She isn’t with the father of her child so why is that an issue?. It is obvious you love this woman”.

Male friend (still laughing): “Please o! Don’t you know that you do not take on people’s problem. A single, young, successful man will never marry a single mother unless there is an extra incentive. It isn’t done unless he is off his knockers. You just use them to pass time till you are ready”.

Pamela at this point is pissed off and amazed at this kind of thinking. So, it is fine to f*** a single mother, and be in a quasi relationship with a single mother but you can never take this person seriously! Allow me to become Zimbabwean for two seconds as I say asi chi nha!

Now, I felt that this kind of mentality was just one for my friend who I had put under my “Pammy’s cuckoo list” but I happened to log into one of my favorite Zimbabwean forum sites and this topic was under discussion. The question really was, “why do Zim men want to date the single mother?” A lot of the response brought up were basically on the same line as my friend:

a) easy to sleep with.

b) no need for any form of commitment.

c)many do not expect any form of commitment from men.

Now, I am a bit concerned about this because it seems that many African men view these women in the same line as prostitutes. My question is, what makes these women so different that they cannot expect to receive or give love? Why must the rule be different for men and women when it comes to single parenthood? A man can have children with twenty different women and he is still looked at as a prime catch for any woman but women can’t do the same and be looked at in the light of being someone’s wife. This is a double standard that needs to be addressed.

So, as I often say, edumacate me……why won’t you take a single mother as a wife? For single mother’s, how have you found the dating scene?

*PS: Pamela isn’t a single mother. Pamela is anti double standards in relationships. Pamela is definitely against men who get women pregnant with no intention of marrying them and go chasing other women in their late teens and early twenties (you know who you are!). Oh yes, for those African women having sex with African men, be careful…it is very easy to become yesterday’s discarded newspaper if you get pregnant for him without a ring on that finger, so wrap it up, take those pills and everything in between. To be forewarned is to be forearmed!

No Sex in this Relationship

Hey guys, Mgbeks here!

Lately I’ve been pondering on this issue of sex in a relationship and why it is SO important to men. I keep having conversations with guys who insist that if their girls aren’t giving it up then she got to go. They say things like ‘body no be firewood o’ or ‘Even if I agreed to not wait with her till marriage, I would have a jump off on the side’. I’ve even heard things like ‘You have to test drive the car before you buy it’ and even worse…’If she isn’t giving it up, she will be NEXTED’.
I once had a conversation with a guy who had been in a 5 year relationship and when I asked the no sex question, he replied and told me that if his girlfriend had asked him to wait till marriage, they would not have lasted for 5 years.

Once again, I’m picking on you men because I can’t tell you that I’ve ever heard a female tell me that if there was no sex in a relationship, a guy would be instantly NEXTED. Honestly, I realize that body no be firewood etc etc but seriously guys, is sex the ultimate thing that makes or breaks a relationship?
Imagine if you met a woman who was everything that you wanted and more, would you really let her go because she wasn’t willing to hit the sheets with you?
What is the huge fuss over a maximum of 1 hour of pleasure…and please I’m cutting y’all some slack up in here ‘cos if we have to keep it 100, it probably wouldn’t even reach one hour. LOL, I’m just saying though…

I mean, the thing just tire me o. My ladies, are you feeling me on this or am I alone on this one?

My dudes, please feel free to comment o. I welcome all questions, comments and insults. Ha Ha! I’m just trying to get a general understanding of this right here.

Why is sex so important in a relationship?