The Mind Of A Man

My Valentine Kaleidoscope…

Charles and I walked into an art gallery at St. Albert when I caught sight of her like perfume wisp. I moved in for a closer look. It was my first time seeing her there, resplendent in poise like a magnificent gazelle. I would swear that I was smitten. The dark brown eyes shaped like large almonds would come to arrest me, the smile would come to keep me glued to her, the full mouth smeared in red lipstick would provoke a certain feeling in me, the hour glassy physique hidden in a very short bodycon dress would make me wonder where in the world such a creature came from, and the exposed long, straight legs fitted in ballet flats would ring an alarm somewhere in the down south of me where all my blood would drain into. Her skin, oh yes, her shiny, bronzed skin would remind me of caramel and caramel is such a sweet substance too difficult to detest. Talking with her would be like talking with a comrade. No, confidant did it better a term to explain in a single word, the deductions of the impression she would have made over time. The mesmerizing allure and charisma consequent upon her damning elegance would constitute the 24 hour traffic of my days.

Standing curvaceously tall at 5’10”, she would be the dawn accompanied by the sunrise, the dawn that ushered in a new day. She would wake up before I did and disappear somewhere in the kitchen. She would sing and hum to herself to whatever song that came into her mind while doing her magic in the kitchen. An hour later she would silently walk back into my bedroom carrying a tray of her magic. Try as hard as I might, I could never hear her footsteps. She would quietly drop the tray on the bedside table and when the aroma of that magic on the tray began to have a tingling effect on my nose, she would sit by the edge of the bed to ruffle my hair, kiss my forehead and whisper a salient “Good Morning, my Prince”. I would come to love it whenever she called me her prince because she would always say it with a very attractive and possessive form of fierceness. I would come to love it knowing that she was taken by me. My eyes would flutter open at her touch and the first thing I would see would be her charming, dimpled smile with a flashing gap tooth embedded beneath. That smile would come to chase away all the demons tormenting my soul, that smile would come to caress my senses with reckless abandon and that smile would make me get lost in the very depths of a seemingly bottomless pit of that abstract feeling too great to be quantified or measured. That, I would nod to my inner self, was the smile of a keeper. In a flashing second her smile would disappear and she would bend over to kiss me slowly again, this time on my lips, leaving me bemused and darn right speechless. A Mother Confessor she was. My wish, her command, her bidding, her doing. She could read me and she would come to know that she was a wanted person.

My face would slowly and gradually work it’s way into its own smile whilst she ruffled and scratched my hair, a form of appreciation to the Mother Confessor. Her nails would dig into my scalp and transmit sweet sensations and nothings down my spine. My eyes would seep in wake and drown into her very sheer essence. We would have our usual and virtual tête à tête, just us both, away from the prying eyes and ears of the world. Her voice would come to be a sonorous melody ringing out consistent vibes when she spoke. I would be the observant listener, like the ever obedient child that listens to his mother and takes corrections from his teacher whilst being eager to learn. She would sit cross legged while I lay down with a propped up elbow on a pillow. She would come to look like a modelled priceless work of art, her arms would stretch out in a bid to gesticulate and the round shape of her nipples would jut out of a see-through nighty with the nice pair of twin towers jiggling gently on her chest with each definite movement of her hands. She was the fiery and fierce temptress, the lioness with the silent roar that beckoned to me to enter into her den. Mother Confessor was a drama queen, her energy and gusto would be a force to reckon with. After I let her talk, she would then ask for my opinion. I was the careful listener, the observant master. I would like it when she always asked for my opinion. It would show that I was truly valued, wanted. It would also show that I was not just an ordinary person.

She would gloriously rise from the bed in a slow motion kind of movement like she was advertising for a product on TV and with her arched index finger pointing at me, moving back and forth, she would tell me, “Come with me, young man”. Then she would waltz away into the closet to change, coming back five minutes later in beach shorts and a camisole. I would rise from the bed and stare at my breakfast on a tray on top of the bedside table. The aroma of fresh omelet sandwiched between slices of whole wheat grain bread would stifle my senses that I couldn’t concentrate anymore and my stomach would screech and grunt. So, I would take a bite of her magic. A bite would turn into two, then three and the next thing, I would dig into the food like a hungry lion and sip coffee inbetween. Mother Confessor knew how to get to my heart through my stomach but it was the contents of her brain that stood the test of time. Damn, she was that deep and it struck me so hard like a lightening bolt just before a thunderstorm. It was one of her ways. I would brush my teeth after eating and change into shorts and a Tee with the name Mother Confessor boldy printed on the front and the cartoon image of an alluring woman under the print. We would step out into the early morning breeze and the bright morning sun. I would swear that I never knew where she would take me. I would only know that wherever she led was where I would follow.

We would walk down the beach, arm in arm, smiling to ourselves like fools that we were. We would be fools in love and that would be allowed because we could care less. The waves would splatter on our feet and move back intermittently, sometimes the wind would almost drag us into the waters and the sand would bury our feet carelessly. We would come to a piece of boulder a short distance away and sit on it. Then we would stare at the endless horizon, the cool breeze would sweep at us and it would be this breeze that would make her hair fly up and about in different directions. I would say a thing or two, maybe three, and she would laugh while pulling back strands of hair that were scattered by the breeze, this high-pitched sound that echoed in full inside my head, sending the birds of the air chirping out and away. It would seem as if the wind laughed with her. She would not care, instead she would just let her youth glow and glow it did. She would be too good to be true and I would never have enough of this lady. They say, “Behind every happy man is a woman responsible for that happiness”. Alas, she was the one holding me at ‘siki five’, the ‘mumu’ button which was lost to her bidding.

Hours later, I would sit on a high stool in my studio facing the canvas while she would lay down on a love seat, looking regal like Queen Cleopatra of Egypt, positioned in a very inviting and sensual manner with no holds barred, all behind closed doors. She would not mind leaving little to the imagination where I was concerned since I would be hers and hers alone. She would not mind whether her back ached or her legs hurt in the hours I would spend drawing her. The only thing she wanted was the final output. She wouldnt even  make too much movement or talk much for fear that I would make a mistake. She was patience personified and her humility defined the very essence of the African virtue. I would get to discover the mystery behind that personality, behind that pure work of art. The audacity of hope and veracity of joy she would bring would perplex my consciousness…

The cold water electrified my senses. It came pouring down my face as I continued to stare at the painting of Mother Confessor at the art gallery before me with my mouth wide open. My shirt became damp. I jerked up in a frenzy, wondering who the hell cut my trance short. I cleaned my face with the handkerchief from my pocket.

“Lawrence, why are you drooling over a mere piece of artwork? You’ve been ogling at this painting for the past one hour,” my friend, Charles, spoke in a melodramatic fashion. I turned abruptly to see the bewildered look on his face and the empty glass cup that was once filled with water in his hands.

“You better close your mouth, my friend. You look very ridiculous like that,” he chuckled. “Let’s ball.”

I turned to give the painting one last lingering look and for a second, I thought the woman in the painting winked at me. I shook my head a few moments later and walked away. That painting was already etched somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain.


Niqui Anekwe

www.imaginationsrundeep.blogspot. com

5 thoughts on “The Mind Of A Man” by Niqui Anekwe (@Dominique)

  1. It is never a waste- the time spent to describe every romantic reverie, every detail of romance, every curvaceous detail of anatomy, every imagination of fore-longing love, every imaginable yarn of beauty and brain; all encapsulated on the brush strokes over the wefts of canvass.

    It is never wasted- for, you made the image on the picture come alive- in a goddess enchanted way. Keep penning deep

    1. @poetrazon
      Thank you so much for commenting. I’m just at a loss for words here, lol…

  2. Oluwaseun Ojegoke (@ojestar)

    Wow @dominique I salute your vivid mind…I tip my hat to your art.

    You are a blessed writer and you write with grace.

    I’m not surprised @poetrazon ‘s comment, because he understands what it takes to write so gracefully. You two are real poets, true writers.

    I wish i could retitle this “the Mind of an Artist” for that which is created consumes the creator.

    Great job.

    1. @ojestar
      Thanks a lot. we do it for the love of the pen and the imagination. :)

  3. @ojestar lol. Thanks for saying such sweet words. Thanks for reading us

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