Chronicles of Silence | Excerpt From The Thing Between My Legs And Other Stories

IBADAN WAS THE OLDER SON WHO was too meek to garner fame and affluence, unlike his little brother, Lagos, who did all the talking, fighting and got all the swags that in no time made him the center of excellence.

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This morning, unlike every other day, Ibadan was beautiful with touches of red and white; a perfect blend. Faces wore special kinds of radiance, eyes glittered, everyone looked busy, yet calm. I was in Mohammed’s car, we had earlier planned to remain indoor all day until evening but he got a call from home and he had taken that as an opportunity to introduce me to his mum.
There was something quite interesting about Mohammed; his patronizing skill, though sometimes annoying but always engaging. The way he stared would make you answer his questions even before he asked. At times you would want to shrug him off, not because he wasn’t making some points with his advances but just to avoid getting mad- most especially moments when you find yourself angry at some things you don’t even know, things you can’t even imagine no matter how hard you try. He also had a good grade in examining himself with regards to situations and giving himself good but biased judgments; he knew how best to keep quiet even when he wasn’t going to; he knew how to keep talking even when he knew he might abruptly run into silence.
The journey was convincingly dominated by mutual silence now, even though Lil kesh’s album which Mohammed considered as noise was playing. He loved foreign. He had gotten really angry the day I wiped off his entire playlist which comprised songs by Ed Sheeran, Justin Timberlake, Jcole, Future and some others like them and replaced it with Nigerian hip hop. He didn’t talk to me throughout the night as he surfed the internet to get his songs downloaded back.
As I sat still expecting Mohammed to talk but hoping he would remain silent, i reflected on myself. I was used to loud sounds so I had my utmost concentration. A lot of thoughts captured my heart. People like me always have more than enough to think about. I was about breaking free from these emotions that had started to choke me when I felt a strange fright. I tried to jerk it off but the sense of guilt that lay right below my skin wouldn’t let me be. I had taken a huge risk the previous night and now I was not sure what was reaching out from the thick darkness that lurked before me.
AROUND 4P.M THE PREVIOUS DAY, Mohammed had arrived home from work. That was quite too early for people like him who always had meetings to attend and matters to sort out after closing hours. So I challenged him, I didn’t mean to sound interrogating but somehow I let my curiousness do the talking I guess it took a wrong turn on him, just like it was expected because he looked at me with shock mixed with anger- a pale face and cold mind already pricked with distress.
“So I cannot come to my own house the time I deem fit anymore?” He said with the statement ending with a tone neither falling nor rising; he wasn’t making a declaration, he wasn’t even asking a question, and that left me no other choice but to question him with a rejoinder.
“And what was that supposed to mean? Have I gone beyond by bounds for asking why you’re home earlier than usual?” I couldn’t tell whether it was the sour manner with which he personalized the house which belonged to him that got me pissed off or his countenance that appeared so disgusting. He muttered something real fast and went to his bedroom. I wished I had gotten the chance to read his lips, but I was happy I didn’t because whatever he said wouldn’t taste well and I wasn’t in the mood to let a bitter gum find solace between my jaws.
I went outside to sit beside the flowers that didn’t obviously need my company but I needed a companion and I was ready to get it where he would least expect. The roses smelled nice, the hibiscus that was next to them reminded me of Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the happily married woman who became a frontier of feminist movements. The thought of her unwise attitude alone made the flowers grew into thorns. Writers are supposed to be smart and thoughtful but what about this woman who wanted everyone to hate what she cherished and revered. I thought to myself and left for the door.
Mohammed didn’t talk to me until evening when I served him dinner. He made a joke which I found really funny but I wasn’t going to laugh. I did everything I could to remind him I was angry and needed an apology.
I was heading up the stairs which led to the bedroom when I ran into him. He didn’t seem surprised as he curved his hands around my tiny waist. He folded his fingers into a fist, placed it below my chin and then raised my head up a bit. I knew what he was going to do so I close my eyes and felt his lips collide with mine. He swept me off my feet and took me to the bedroom; he bit my nipples so gently that I grew too weak to tell him I haven’t given in to him making love to me. He parted my legs, dipped his head and minutes later I was squirting, soaking the bedspread with my juice. He was done thrusting fifteen minutes later as he jerked off me like a soldier that suddenly grew limp. I knew he’d be surprised and disappointed I had lied to him about being a virgin but I guess he left that battle for another day.
KANO’S INDEED A LONG WAY FROM Ibadan. The album had finished playing or perhaps he stopped it when he realised I was no longer paying attention, and had tuned to one of the local radio stations from the northern part of Nigeria. The silence now was beginning to make me tired and hungry.
____________Continue Reading Below______________
Thing Between My Legs And Other Stories And Other Stories by Micheal Ace is a collection of nonfictional stories comprising:
  • My end of the year speech as a stammerer
  • A slut at fifteen
  • Miseries of First love
  • The thing between my legs
  • Chronicles of Lora
  • Blackout &
  • 7 O’clock
The book goes for #200. Get a copy…

– Transfer #200 to the bank account below.

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Acc Name: Oyedokun Adedotun Micheal
Bank: First Bank

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Facebook: Micheal Ace
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Email: poetmichealace@gmail.

– Then get your copy delivered to you.


Author: Micheal Ace
Publisher: Dwarts Publishers
Price: #200

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