Monday Musings: Voice over Looks?


I have always been a fan of sexy voices. Always! But reading Amity’s bit on her crush on an Ibo boy’s voice just made me realise how much more a rich sexy voice means to me.

I have crushed on guys, tons of them by the way, just by speaking to them over the phone. It’s like a therapeutic miracle to me. I could get into this awful mood and just place a call to one of my ‘sexy voice clients‘ and my day would almost be made. I don’t know if it’s just me, but that is how it is!

So again, as I was reading through Amity’s piece, a thought struck me. There’s a lot to trip for in a guy/girl, but let me restrict it to these two perks: voice and looks. So brotherly has got a loooooovely voice, (say you met him through some friend or a dating site or some other social media forum) and you couldn’t even wait to meet him in person before tripping way down in love with him. Of course, he would show you a dozen pictures of himself every now and then, so to you, the setting is almost pitch- perfect. Eventually though, you fix a date, and on seeing brotherly, he’s not so much as his pictures and the frames promised, what do you do? 😦

I don’t want us to get overly analytical on this issue, yeah? Because of course, in the real world, you do not choose a guy simply because he’s got a good voice or simply because he’s gorgeous! But limiting the influences over your choice of man/woman to these two things, voice and looks, which would you go for and why?

By the way, I am still pretty much confused about it myself! I seem to be an oliver twist when it comes to these things. Even, I am tempted to add ‘perfect diction’ to the perks. And guess what, I think I want it all! There is nothing sexier on earth than having a gorgeous partner who has a lovely voice and a good command of English too 😀

So tell me, what’s your thought? Happy Monday people!


© The Short Black Girl, 2015.


The Painter.


He is erratic, clumpsy, shy, but none of that is capable of hiding his light. He is an artist, with a bold mind. He would draw day and night, from the perching fly to the moving bus; the high and mighty, to the poor in the creeks. He never speaks, atleast I have never seen him do so. Who is he? Does he ever talk? Is he a student? What does he study? This and many more have plagued my mind all this time but I have not found the courage to go over to ask. Maybe i’ll ask him today…

I am at the cake shop now, which is just a glance away from the underground staircase where he normally sits with his canvas and brushes but I don’t see him there. I turn the bottle cover of my coke nervously with unsteady sweaty hands, stuffing my mouth with even more chocolate cake from the saucer in front of me with my other hand, as my eyes dart around, searching for him. I am high on about half a dozen feelings: happy that he is not around to caution my sugar- eating habit with his gentle scolding eyes, sad that he is not around to spare me his distracted yet disarming smile when I need it most, angry that I missed the evening performance at the underground theatre because Mimi, my roommate, had locked me out while making out with her boyfriend, confused at…

Now, he shows up and I banish every other thought to concentrate on him. He is wearing a denim short, a white cashmere top plastered with a platter of colours, and a bowler hat. He sways his hips deliciously, canvas under one arm, a bag in the other swaying hand, and his red signature earpiece dangling down the length of his broad chest to the pocket in his shorts. He stares fixedly at the ground until he is at the first step leading to the underground theatre. He stops now, and settles down. I watch him keenly, as I have done for the past one week since I first sighted him doing a painting of Martin Luther King Junior. What struck me was not the object of the painting, or how indeed beautiful the painting was, but his poise and concentration which was akin to a man tending to his woman lover with expected calm, adoration and reverence. Oh, what gentle lover he would be…

I begin to wonder what it would feel like if he held me upclose like he did his canvas, with his fingers sketching designs of forbidden emotions within me. I stir where I am sitting as I notice his eyes on me. Is he looking at me, or through me, beside or behind? I can’t really tell. Oh no, he is smiling now… at me? I wish he would not look like that, or smile like that. Does he know I am in love with him? Is he perhaps in love with me too? My heart quickens, and my throat dries. It’s amazing how he always has that effect on me from a distance. His gaze returns to rest on his canvas again, and I wish it would return to me. I want to go over to him and just watch him draw, I want to fill my nostrils with all the paint chemicals so that I may never forget him even as I breathe, I want to listen to the same songs he listens to so maybe I can smile brightly like he always does. It’s beautiful, the way he makes me feel. I make up my mind at once that I must know his name, and what’s more, let him know how much he inspires me.

In the quick tick of a few seconds, ‘m up on my feet and right in front of him, but seeing his eyes on nothing but the canvas before him, I feel like an intruder and rather than perch beside him, I walk straight past him and head to the hostel instead. ‘Coward!!’ I curse my inner mind, as I drag myself idly through the chilly night. I have thoroughly fallen in love with a shy mute painter, and it can’t be helped, at least not today. Maybe tomorrow, i’ll do something about it…


© The Short Black Girl, 2015.

Operation Crush Squashed!


Firstly, Jollof Rice is a binsh! No apologies *straight face*


I noticed him staring at me from the minute I crossed over to enter that Yaba bus. He was seated on the second seat beside the Drivers’. I couldn’t pay him more than a flicking minute of my attention because I was too excited knowing that I won’t be late for classes. Ten minutes into the journey, the heavy stare plagued my mind again, this time making as much impression as Chicken Flu in December. He looked familiar, and then it struck me that he was the guy I had been admiring in class the previous day. I smiled.

I thought it was no more than a random stare or glance from the guy in the bus, only to find him some steps away looking back at me every now and then after we had stopped at the same junction minutes ago. And then I became self conscious. It couldn’t be the beauty, surely his ogling skills knew better. Neither could it be the curves, because the short black girl has got none to spare. Was it the dress? There was nothing to the skirt and blouse I had on. I had never spoken to him or had contact with him before that morning. So why the picky interest?

We got into the class, and with glee, I picked my favorite seat (LOL! For y’all that read HIM, no it’s not that same spot. Catch up guys! ;)). Not that I was watching him, but I fleetingly noticed the object of my confused thoughts had gone to fix himself somewhere behind. I saved my seat and went out to get some snacks for my peace, and on coming back, the ‘object’ had moved his bag beside mine. Whao! Is it ‘pay day’ today? I wasn’t sure what it was really about his stare, but it felt refreshing that it pulled him into my corner still.

So, halfway into lectures and dude spares at least every five seconds to stare at me or my note. How so sweet eh? I borrowed his note to copy some detail I missed and boy, he’s got some cute writing. That was when I sighted his nails and I almost went gaga (yeah, long cute nails. Except the other hand had dirty unfiled nails, but hey, it was pardonable).

We made small joke every now and then and when break set in, I was sure I was gonna miss his company. Thinking back now, rushing through my pack of jollof rice and moin- moin with hopes that the one hour break will lapse soon enough must have been my undoing. Once the break was over, my stomach started to feel funny. I thought it was just a passing second, but I sadly realized too late that it had come to stay. I felt the urge to fart every one minute, but being in a huge class with seats filled with about four to five people and my crush seated right beside me with the distance of a hair’s breadth, I decided the farts could wait. Hell nur! I thought the worst that could be was farting silently and having the smell disturb the senses of everyone present, but I was wrong; because unknown to me the gas was mounting in my stomach, and before long, my stomach had made a disturbing sound track in thirty minutes, loud enough to awake the dead maybe. Gah! And that was how the crush operation, was well um, squashed. 😦


PS: No, I didn’t fart eventually. A girl’s got some pride to save eh? Loool! So if it were you in this ‘dilemma’, what would you do? Plus why the heck do guys ogle?! Eew.

#teamScopophobic #teamShygirl


© The Short Black Girl, 2015.