shameera's personal blog. NSFW.
We slept on a huge bed that took up most of the room. The electricity would cut off intermittently throughout the afternoon to the shouts of the family next door. The bathroom ran only cold water and was in a separate house. I trudged there bare-legged each morning to wash my hair.
The first time I woke up where we were, it was the grime and sweat, lodged within the folds of Yannick’s neck, that I enjoyed the most. I got closer, my nose buried into his rib as I pushed my head up against his underarm. My drool was a ridiculous pool of thick slop that bore a deep grey hole in his tee-shirt. My mouth crusted with rheum which I’d wipe against mine. It was hot in the room even if the dead of winter rumbled on outside. I kissed the underside of his jaw, nose and lips cordoned off for his face was already turned, away from me. My fingers fiddled with his ear. He then sniffed and swallowed the blubbery mix of saliva and phlegm in the back of his mouth.
On the floor was the chocolate bar we bought last night at the shop, half-eaten. Then I saw all the photographs on the wall and I remembered the ones Yannick had inside his own room at his place of his “glory days”, the one with him in the jersey he met Samuel Eto’o in. They took a nice shot of him getting ready to lob the ball straight across the field, or into a goal-post I’m not sure, but I was pretty sure it was mid-field. He didn’t put that photo up because he didn’t think he’d stay where he was that long. The one photo I loved was a black-and-white one of him, probably fourteen years old, scowling into the camera. I’d plucked it off the table, it was a passport-sized one, which fitted neatly into the coin pocket in my wallet. He saw it once, there, and yelled at me. “Why’d you take that weak one?” “It’s my favourite!” I said. It was, it was cute and it reminded me of how I’d come to know him: a young boy who enjoyed growing up fast, who enjoyed that responsibility and leadership and yet suffered heavily, emotionally, the abrasions that came with an all-too-quick-quick adulthood.
We had fought the night before about my mother. He’d taken her side and said that she loved me. I said to him that yes, I know of her love for me, her fondness, but look, there were still problems in our relationship. He had said to me that I needed to understand where she came from, my mother, who never really had that life but built herself up to provide me with the luxuries I had today. I told him, I said, “Just because you grew up poor and I, comfortable, you think you can dictate what I’ll be miserable about in life?” I was fuming then and he kept silent. I knew in his head it was a self-evident yes. I knew it was beneath me to have said that.
I thought about all of this with my eyes fastened to the dingy ceiling, not noticing that he had opened his. I turned to meet his gaze, his eyes a smeared yellow-red in the orange glare of the lightbulb.
Backup dancers/singers be the finest thickest women walking earth.
boyfriends are cool but y’all ever had really cold mango lassi on a really hot summer day?