A Man Who Will Complete You

I’m 38, while Evans is 24, church member, job hunting, irreligious, not too handsome. He came in contact with my phone number after we came for a youth program in church and we were linked together for a church assignment, an assignment that involved us holding the money that was contributed to buy baby items for a pregnant woman in our group. The assignment was successful and everyone went their way. But once in a while, Evans would view my WhatsApp status. Sometimes he would comment in the brotherly-churchy way when I updated my WhatsApp status. I also viewed his status once in a while, but in a way that was detached. During the period around the presidential election we talked about what was happening in Nigeria, how we were all hopeful that change was about to happen in Nigeria, and then our hopes were torn apart when the result of the presidential election was announced. Then one day I posted that I was hiring. I was looking for someone who could help me in my finishings shop. He was the first to reply, fifty two seconds after the post uploaded.

“Do you have any experience in finishings?”

“Yes, ma. I did it for my elder brother before I started school, but he wasn’t paying me then.”

“Okay,” I said. I gave him the address of my shop, and he said “Thank you ma.”

That was how Evans became my employee. From church brother to my employee. People were often careful about church brothers and sisters, especially when it came to business, but Evans was truthful about the things he said about himself. He was very effective in handling the finishing machines. I also loved the fact that he was not one of those church people who were always preaching to people, even while at work. I’ve had one of such people in the past. She kept inviting me to see her pastor and I kept refusing till she finally left when she became pregnant. Her husband asked her to stop working, to safeguard their unborn baby. Evans carried his religion lightly, and he was a great fresh air in my workplace.

Let me stop here and say a few things about my personal life. The truth is that I’ve gone through a lot in the hands of men. In Nigeria we say Men are scum, but I don’t like using the word Scum. Not that the saying is untrue. I just don’t like the word.

When I was 25, I gathered my money and gave my boyfriend to support his business, but he ended up marrying another girl. I shrank and then allowed myself to spring back to life again. After that I’ve gone through many relationships that kept failing, but for four years, I decided to stay on my own. My sisters are all married, and everyone wonders what is wrong with me. Because I’m single, some of them call me on phone asking me to help them with one thing or the other, especially the ones who now have kids. The unspoken words are these: Because you are still single, can you please support us to raise our children while you wait for yours to come?  But of course those words were never spoken out loud. They are often caged in “My children no longer have clothes o. I just hope that someone will help me out. My husband is trying, but you know men nau. They expect you to do some certain things.” Or they would say, “The children have been asking about you. You know school is about to open. They will need new exercise books.”

Sometimes I would send some money to my sisters, other times I would say that things were hard. “You know everywhere is hard in this Buhari’s regime.” And it was true. Things were hard. Buhari’s regime really dealt with my finances.

It’s been four years of staying on my own. My parents are both dead and so nobody is recommending one pastor or the other who would deliver me from the bondage of spinsterhood. This was particularly the assignment my mother kept doing until she died five years ago. I was 33 when she died. We had visited many prophets and pastors, sowed seeds of money, fasted together, so that God would give me a husband. But my good mother is now dead, and apart from attending the Sunday services of my local church, I have not gone to see any other pastor or prophet for prayers. I sincerely understood my mother’s concern about me, and sometimes I still think about her, how she would often drive our conversations towards marriage, husbands and powerful pastors. She was always on the lookout for any pastor that people say could perform miracles.

It’s been four years of being single. I kept pushing the men away who kept coming to suck from me. You would always know those kind of men. They kept coming, feeling entitled as though I should pamper them for their willingness to save me from my horrible spinsterhood. I’m still surprised about the fact that there are many jobless men in Aba looking for women who would take care of them. This is what my spinsterhood has opened my eyes to see: many jobless men who have no direction in their lives. I’m surprised because looking at them from afar, you would think they are sane and responsible. When they come close to you, that is when you would discover that they are vagabonds in good clothes.

Until Evans came to work for me. The last person who worked for me was a girl. She was 19, and she left to attend school after she got admission from Imo State University. That was why I started looking for a new worker, someone who would be efficient and fast with the finishing machines.

Evans was good, respectful, and funny. He often philosophized about life, and he was a keen follower of Nnamdi Kanu, the freedom fighter. He had worked for four months before I asked him to work overtime; I would pay him for the overtime. He agreed. After we were done with the work, late in the night, he said he would go home with me. “Won’t your parents get angry?” I asked.

“I’ve told them already. They said okay.”

I have heard of women in their late thirties or forties having sexual affairs with younger men, but I had never thought it was a rational thing to do, never thought it was something I myself was capable of doing, for whatever reason. Our bodies will always vent out what it had suppressed for a long time. Evans was also starved of affection. Both of us being in the same room that night, our flesh drew the attention of each other until they explored each other in intimacy. It happened after we have had something to eat. After some seconds, Evans leaned over and started to kiss me. It was unexpected, it was rousing, it was sweet. And I was human.

.

Evans would continue to work for me for the next one year, but I never allowed him to come to my house again. He left after a year to seek for a better paying job. He told me he was leaving, that he got a job in Umuahia, and I gave him some extra money, in addition to his salary. He was one of the most loyal people I’ve ever worked with. He was also very friendly with my customers.

I’m still friends with Evans. At least on WhatsApp. We never talked about what happened that night. We both knew why it happened. And there was no need to talk about it. On my birthday shortly after he left, he sent me a message:

 Happy birthday to you ma. You are one of the kindest people I ever met. You see people for who they are, and you have a free spirit. I pray that God will send you a man that will complete you and cherish you just as you deserve.

Much love from Evans.

So Evans is just my friend now. Not my employee anymore.

Isaac Aju is a Nigerian storyteller whose works have appeared in both UK and US literary journals and publications including Poetry X Hunger, Penned In Rage Journal, Writers’ Journal – Live And Learn. His historical poems on Biafra will be published by Flapper Press at the end of the month. He lives in Nigeria where he works as a fashion designer, designing and making clothes for men.

ZAPOMNIANY OBSYDIAN

Możemy zrezygnować
z mięsa.

Wtedy wyciekną płyny. 

Mięso zrezygnuje
z nas

Forgotten Obsidian

We have to give up

meat.

Then our bodily fluids will leak.

And our meat will give up

on us.

CIEPŁA KREW

Ciepła 
krew

uśmierca

zew 
krwi.

Warm-Blooded

Warm 

blood

kills 

for 

blood. 

MAHAJANA

Psy smakują lepiej 
od mahajany, 
dlatego bez sensu 
byłoby utrwalanie 
w sobie uporczywych, 
niskobiałkowych 

myśli zakonnych. 

A sierść i tak ściągnie 
z podłogi nasza filipińska 
służąca, żywiąca się 
promieniami słońca, 
deszczówką 
i zaklęciami trupów.

Mahāyāna Buddhism

Dog tastes better 

than the flesh of Buddhists;

therefore, it would make no sense

to nourish oneself with persistent,

yet low-protein monastic thoughts.

Besides, our servant will remove

the fur that thrives on the sunshine,

rainwater, and curses of the dead

anyways. 

ROZSĄDEK

Zabawa empatycznych ciał miękkich 
wchodzących głęboko/płytko w inne 
ciała miękkie, półmiękkie, 
zapowietrzone? 
Coś odgryzło mu palce. 

Ale to nie są moje utraty płynów. 
Ja posiadam nadal metalową 
protezę. 
Życie prywatne! 
Tylko życie prywatne się liczy…

Common Sense

Does playing empathetically with soft flesh—

pushing, pulsing deep then shallow

into soft and semi-soft flesh—

allow in air?

Something bit off my fingers.

But I haven’t lost a thing.

I still have a metal prosthetic

instead. This is my private life!

Only ones’ private life

truly matters. 

 

The Flow

“They” say “go with the flow”

But the flow sometimes fails to follow

Perhaps because of a “Florence” or a “Frank”

Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine the

Flow flowing even if my life machine

Has mechanical mis-flows

Sometimes flows in a “Joe”

And I say, “Hey Joe, what do you know….?!”

And he knows to say “just go with the flow”

After all that is how we got here, isn’t it?

      Someone met someone and went with “the flow”

Then something          flowed              into

        Some         other thing    and “Presto!”

Here we are…

Sometimes the flow is turbo

Sometimes the flow is slow

But I know the flow is the flow

It exists on its own “gO”

It is not dictated to

Nor is it directed by YOU or for You

Like the wind it just flows on its own BLOW!

In the grand scheme of our life flow

No “Florence”

Nor “Frank”

Not even ‘Joe” who thinks he knows

Can block the blow of the flow

For the flow bows to no one you know

Despite delusional attempts at adaptations

Dismissed as delicate solutions

To inescapable life situations

Long before “Florence” or “Frank” and

Even know it all “Joe” found their very own flow

Abide in a flowy lucidity

Flow with mortality like a fraternity

Then pass it on for posterity…

So live, love and laugh on the gO!

Because it’s the only way to come into “the flow” …

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…  He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at:  http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–

A dream… When people hear this word, it sometimes brings joy to their faces, while at other times, it evokes deep sighs and regret. This is because as long as a person lives, they dream. They set goals, take steps toward them, strive, and work hard. Sometimes, fate grants them the fulfillment of their dreams, and sometimes, those dreams remain as mere wishes—unfulfilled and lost in time.

Since my youth, I, too, have had dreams—visions that guided me, inspired me, and fueled my determination. I have worked tirelessly to achieve them, pouring my energy into every step forward. Dreams have the power to elevate a person, to make them feel like they rule the world, to transport them into a realm as magical as Alice’s Wonderland, where everything seems possible. Even now, I continue to chase my dreams—I study, I strive, I push forward.

Some of my dreams were born in childhood, while others emerged during my teenage years. I am grateful for those I have achieved. Of course, not all dreams are easy to reach. Some may seem utterly impossible, as if fate itself has placed an insurmountable barrier in the way. But no matter how difficult it may seem, one must never surrender. One must never give up.

Because a dream, no matter how distant, is always worth the pursuit.

I, too, have lived chasing my dreams. Yet, those unfulfilled dreams still linger in my heart, my thoughts, and my mind—like distant peaks with no way to reach them.

When I shared my dreams with my parents and loved ones, I often heard discouraging words: “That is impossible,” “It doesn’t suit you,” “It’s not appropriate for our culture,” or “A girl should not pursue such a path.” I faced resistance and opposition.

One of the dreams that turned into a mirage was my deep desire to enter the military. My passion for this field began when I was in school. I was so captivated by the idea of serving in the military that I often imagined myself in uniform, standing in formation, marching with pride, singing military anthems, and taking an oath with unwavering determination. I could see myself walking with honor and discipline among my fellow soldiers.

When the time came and people asked, “What career do you want to pursue?” I confidently answered, “I want to become a soldier.” I had planned to apply to a military academy after finishing school. But, unfortunately, I was met with strong opposition and countless restrictions.

Even then, I refused to give up. I didn’t want to surrender my dream so easily. I graduated from school and began preparing my application, determined to fight for my place in the field I loved. Yet, once again, I found myself under immense pressure—barriers I could not break through. In the end, I was forced to choose a different path. My dream, once vivid and full of life, faded into a distant mirage. And with deep regret, I buried it in the depths of my heart.

But that was not my only dream. There were others—many others. And for them, I have studied, worked hard, and pushed forward. Some I have achieved, while others have slipped through my grasp, turning into mirages just like my military dream.

Yet, I refuse to stop dreaming. I continue to strive toward my future aspirations with the firm belief that I will succeed. There are still so many dreams ahead of me, waiting to be turned into reality.

Lalezar Orinbaeva was born in 2003 in the Turtkul district of the Republic of Karakalpakstan. She is of Turkmen nationality. In 2021, she became a student at the Faculty of Primary Education at the Tashkent University of Applied Sciences in Tashkent. She is an ambassador for three international organizations and a member of one international organization. Her creative works have been published in Kenya, Germany, Albania, Azerbaijan, Russia, Belarus, and several other foreign countries, and are indexed on Google. She is the recipient of various international certificates. She has also founded her personal “Anthology”. Lalezar is a holder of international medals, statuettes, diplomas, certificates, and invitations. She is a professional curator of Dreams That Turned Into a Mirage.

(B)

See Life In Your Own Way

(i)

Deceptions try permeating my sub-conscious like a virus

Ugly events want to make me dance bad circus

I choose to see myself as the citrus

That grows in the field of peace

Never caught up by the weeds of disease

I’m hooked with creativity through my ability

To express my service to humanity

I see life my own way

Decided not to be in dis-array

It doesn’t matter the name;

Whose distraction is giving him the fame

For I know that’s his game

(ii)

I’m out for the money

but not down with the honeys

because they are monkeys

pretending to be like good mummies

I’m ahead of my time like time

That’s why  you don’t see me all the time

That’s the way I see it…My own way

So, see life in your own way!

Pavers (What To Do If You’re Not Cormac McCarthy)

Just walk the stones. I think it’s a nice path, and especially in lieu of the winter snow and ice and wind. See, they have gone over it with a Bobcat machine and ploughed the way. I think I even saw salt. It’s important. Like water or light or such. I go slow, slower than average. Think thoughts, whatever thoughts, and for a second because if the paver stones I remember that Cormac McCarthy said prostitution was not the oldest profession because the first thing anyone did was stonework, was laying a stone upon a stone.

What do I know though?

Continuing there is a bridge and a blackbird. The bird disappears and the bridge remains. Calm. It becomes for a time calm there. I think already that I will have to come back. Whatever I encounter after the first half, that initial twenty minutes or half-hour, is worth it. Another bridge and the off-path area is manageable then for people have walked it. Maybe the kind man in snowshoes, a few dog walkers, a couple simple friendly types who get fresh air and exercise…whatever the case, enough so that’s it’s compacted and not too rough. 

I choose to go along and know that up some hills and then down some more, it will connect with the brick path again. Bricks are also known as ‘pavers,’ and they usually are laid on compacted limestone then sand is put atop and swept in. The sides often have cuts that are done with a proper machine and someone that knows what they are doing. Sometimes a ‘re-lay,’ is needed if water or just time shifts some stones. There are different designs beginning with a standard lay to more intricate patterns. Tera cotta or blue seem to be nice colours, the path then containing lots of blue and some grey. Around here beyond the path people choose just grey though. It’s not horrible, but lacks character and everything appears too uniform.

That’s the way I see it anyhow. 

There is a stream, making a sound as the thawing water moves along. Then a winding way up the first hill, a straight way up another second and higher hill. From there much can be seen, and it’s bright and clean and open. I can hear car traffic in the far distance somewhere but the world is not inhabited by me then, which is a nice break, akin to a meditation or at least small spiritual sojourn. 

We can’t all go to Bali or The Himalayas or The River Ganges.  

There is a time from the outer world and the inner world both that dictates its halfway through and I that must begin heading back. That time comes near a bench I don’t sit on. I walk down and admire another bridge but take the longer way around, eventually entering onto the main path of pavers again. I remember that Eckhart Tolle mentioned somewhere that your mind will feel more at ease for what it’s worth, when you physically enter a manufactured set of lines and walls. This seems anathema or at least contradictory to the whole point of nature walking, of people forever having sought out mountains, deserts, pastoral plains and fields, river and stream, and the entirety of the surrounding oneself with the sanctuary of sanguine and even sacrosanct nature. 

Go figure. 

But, there is some weird truth to it. My feet on the pavers feel better and I’m glad to be back on an actual path. It just is what it is. I go around a big bend slowly and see nature but also tall hydro lines and neither startles or bothers me. It’s almost time to go to the final stretch to the vehicle and then home. It will be a success, for what it’s worth, and the worth is invisible to societal mores and distinctions but apparent to me. Why? Because I have moved and breathed fresh air and gotten if even vaguely, the beginning ideas for certain words or stories. Not everyone can be Cormac McCarthy, and the Tao itself mentions that they will laugh but it wouldn’t be the true Tao if they didn’t. Yes, the most one can do is sometimes walk the stones and write some poems, being as content as possible with oneself. If there is deep snow everywhere, try and find some pavers that have been cleared and follow them.