By Babatunde Alaran
In the first time of the New Year, It was exactly a day, we talked on our New Year resolutions, that, I discovered, that my libido was getting a grade beyond my expectation. It was that time I began to know about sexing a woman. Actually, I left my primary function in school; to know about the factor that necessitated the importance of sex in a man’s life. Those times were time of absurdity that I often described as wasted times to my craft.
I painted my room then, in a kind of graffiti that went with sex, and was adorned with unscrupulous images of lustful women. I was indeed fascinated by such mischievousness that befell me. Perhaps, in my entrance, the kind of words I wrote, would rhetorically tell any guest, as if I was busy. Well, that busyness was not studying. It was just that I felt nobody should disturb me when I tentatively enjoyed myself with holding my dick with a jelly.
It is not longer a barrier that many artists do masturbate because of their dissatisfaction to women; and it is admittedly a kind of sexual transformation that causes the credo of their tenaciousness towards life. A writer is a bohemian. That is apt; to the evanescent of how it unifies the emotion of art without any sense of prejudice.
But any time I went home from school, my discretion was always churlish, in the sense that, I kept mute to anything that could affect my pedagogy. And what I do often was to write poetry and watch the news. These are parts of my writing intelligence that overwhelmed me to become sanctimonious persona when people talked about sex or any concupiscent story.
So, it was a day, in my life, that I encountered a part of defiance to adulthood whenever things happened; and there should always be a way out to control that incorrigible event. Though, it was a fussing time; as the weather became rowdy. And there was a somewhat tidal wave that people started panicking, thinking that was hurricane Florence. I myself was terrified that I was pleading for my sins. I was praying copiously because I knew I had committed sins that I could not reluctantly ignore. It was at that venue that I knew sex is a sin. One part of my heart was throbbing while the other part of my heart which was tumultuous.
Still I saw one lady whose body I had been admiring for years. She passed like a nomad. It was after the heavy breeze had stopped. I ran after her and dodged my mother. That area she had passed was the lonely road to our cathedral. I was walking slowly at her back so that our clergyman wouldn’t know I was following her.
Well, that was the period I realized that to become a writer was part of my story, but it was a case for me to know how to become somebody that would know how to speak in tongue whenever I saw people trying to inculcate the habit of immorality. Love to me is like a section that is often a cause to be in preamble on, with impact it takes.
That evening when I left her alone, after I had expressed my love to her, what I noticed in my poetry, was a kind of melancholic reaction of the experiences I had with ladies. So, during the course of my education years, there was an event, I would not have forgotten, indeed, such an event was a misery to me, because I could not write. To become a writer is like withering the pages of books with your poignant imagination.
And one particular day, in my hostel, the entirety was adorned with different images of friends, who were involved in the school politics. This day, the odour of my room became stench. It was fussing. It was as if a dead person was left in the room. I now became curious; until I noticed that it was the cloth I used to clean my sperm the last time. Sometime, to act in this manner always made someone to mesmerize; or to be disgraced by whom someone had trusted.
My friend whom I trust dearly came into my room. When he came, he began to grumble on the putrefied odour that was oozing out. He nodded his head. And he began to act like someone who was suffering from nausea. I was perplexed. I too acted like as if I didn’t know what smelt in the room. That incident made me not to trust anybody again in my life. Since my blossom friend acted like as if what had happened was intention when I had explained to him that it was my sperm. Surprisingly, his countenance wasn’t approachable. He lit his Rothmans cigarette and he began to smoke. The whole room was in the fume. I was angry. But my anger was limited because I was sceptical about my secret that I had confided in him.
Well, apart from my predicament, I was a writer of non-fiction, an aficionado to Public Relations. I love these processes of communication. I began to plan on the kind of strategy I would use when my friend was planning to reveal my secret to our colleagues. I began to wonder, on what PR Models to employ. Part of my instinct said, RACE because to use this model means a lot to me.
Writing about PR in a society that is purely disparaging means we need to understand the society than any other thing and perhaps; it should be arguably a scope of appreciation when we talk about the strategy and implication. This was aptly, what I considered, when I knew that my friend would expose me to our colleagues. So, I took the condemnation to talk before he could to our friends.
It wasn’t a rueful time in my life. But at a period; I began to know that to sex means a lot in the society that is inclined with masculine toxicity. This shows that my life is scornfully an apparition of past event that is not discreet to my mischief. The factor of my growth has been with providence to the extent that it is arbitrarily a nuanced event in any body’s growth and action.
My friend in whom I distrust began to act peevishly to my success whenever I talked amidst our colleague. To myself, I was fret; I sometime felt the kind of dissipation, of a gargoyle whose precocious ability was being victimised by the meteor of anguish and lack of convenience to profession.
That was how I had decided to reluctantly give myself a career of talking and writing. What he had done to me, in other way, had extremely helped me. So far, I wonder, that doing PR so as to avoid my predicament is simply because of how fast I can tackle the menace.
Be that it is may, it is not a premonition to my life, but it is certain because I found myself so akin; to the fact that, I necessarily became under pressure with how I describe sex to myself as student. And with this inaction, I now find out that PR is a tool for me to write a new life for myself as someone who knows how to face challenge and how to rewrite my story as a victim to someone who can describe inability or to appreciate a new life. So, Public Relations is a misgiving character to a man.