Poetry 101

As she bent over to pick up the white board marker, the rest of the world faded out. It was me and this intriguing glorious enchantress, oh, and that marker that knew just when to fall, in this life of sin. My breath caught in my chest as she rose, in a slow seductive motion, and stood erect, all five foot seven perfection of her. She turned towards the board and continued writing whatever it was she must have been writing in the real world, saying whatever it was she must have been saying to whatever people might have been listening. For me, it was all lips and the glory of her perky backside positioned in my direct eye sight. 

 

I love poetry.

 

I’d never been good with literature. I found reading quite a bore and I hadn’t written a proper essay since Secondary School. So imagine my dismay when I realized I had a compulsory course in Poetry. I woke up that morning hating my life. Everything appeared to be working against me; woke up late, missed the train and then missed my videography practical class - which, by the way, literally had been my only joy in Uni. I went into Poetry 101 with as much life as an old worn rag doll, waiting to count the minutes till I left the class. I wouldn’t have thought how pleasantly surprising my day would turn.

Five minutes past 11am, the lecturer hadn’t arrived. Boring and late, I thought. As if teaching poetry wasn’t bad enough.

Restless and bored, I asked the hippy looking lad beside me about the poetry classes he had taken in the past. He was an English major. He went into an extensive unnecessarily detailed account on how poetry classes worked. Basically from the lecture I picked up two interesting points;
 1. The lecturer was a woman.
 2. She was African.
 I hadn’t had an African lecturer since I’d gotten into Uni in the UK so I was mildly exciting. Until she stepped in.

It felt like the room became less noisy, like the lights became dimmer, like the air had been invaded by an army of sweet-smelling daisies. What I felt that day was beyond excitement. As the stunning African temptress swayed her magnificent hips into Poetry 101, that very moment, my life changed forever.

Every Tuesday - Poetry 101 Tuesdays - I woke up with a hard-on. I woke up with only one thought, I was going to see my Afro-queen today. I never missed a class; I never wanted to go through any Tuesday without watching her plump juicy lips bounce up and down as they went on about Shakespeare. I never missed a class. It was interesting then, that after one semester of taking Poetry, I knew as much about poetry as I did the first day I dragged my grumpy ass into class. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.


 Everything I knew revolved around Ms. Okoh, my divorced Poetry lecturer who had the most amazing behind I had ever seen in my entire life.

So it came as a shock, what I did that day with my essay. Ms. Okoh had given the whole class an assignment to read up on our most fascinating discovery and write an essay on it in the class the next Tuesday. I spent that entire weekend reading up about photography which, at the time, was the most fascinating thing to me.


 I arrived Poetry 101 that Tuesday with my usual boner, ready to take on the world. I was prepared to impress Ms. Okoh with my knowledge of photography with hopes that she would notice me and one or two things might lead to the other. Of course it wasn’t really that much of a hope, more like a dream but I was young and in my prime, and if I could get her to at least say my name, all I needed was my mind, my soap and my… well, never mind.


 We were all settled in, about to begin the essay when she bent to pick her marker. I had never been more disorientated in my life. All I knew was that moment, that woman, that marker and well, that incredibly uncomfortable boner.

Time seemed to freeze. I started writing. Fiercely. Passionately. I didn’t know how long it was until the timer went off. Like someone in a trance, I turned in my paper and zombied out of the classroom.

Tuesday came again. I, and all of my penis, arrived in class. I sat in my spot, a strategic position I had discovered, perfectly inconspicuous to her but with her in my perfect line of vision at all the important angles. I was already far gone into my fantasies when I felt the whole class staring at me which was pretty unusual. Then I heard my name, the slightly modified Nigerian accent that could only belong to one person.


 “Jide Mbadiwe-Gold, please could you step out in front of the class and read us your beautiful piece”.


What beautiful piece!? What the hell was going on!?
 I walked to the front of the class and collected the paper from Ms. Okoh (a paper Ms. Okoh had touched! Holy Moses on a Molly!). Apparently, it was my essay from the previous Tuesday.

It read:


THE TWIN PLANET THAT NEVER GETS ENOUGH CREDIT.

Spherical like the earth but different. Different because it didn’t stand on nothing. No, it didnt hold such magic. It stood, round and proud, on the smallest pillar ever. A miracle in its own right. Just like the earth, it is a master piece, a work of art, a beauty to behold. Its tiny support gave it room to run wild and be free. To stand in all its glory or gyrate to the rhythm of movement. Now, these beautiful twin planets, a lot like the earth they seem, possesses an enchantment that would outshine the earth’s magnificence. The inexplicable beauty of this roundness held up by sheer grace will forever be a marvel to me. For this reason it causes me great pain that the thoughts birthed in me by these oval beauties have been condemned as sinful. How can something that looks so good be so shamefully bad. I believe this roundness of sin can hold no evil. I believe the evil is in man and not in his body. I believe in the gift of nature and the purity of it. I believe in nudity and the body of a woman. I believe in the oval twin planet no one talks about, the most fascinating discovery I ever made.

That, Ladies and gentlemen, was my first attempt at a poem.”

The class applauded as Mr. Mbadiwe-Gold, the poetry 101 lecturer left the platform. Murmurs erupted around the auditorium. The consensus of opinion was;
This nigga really wrote a poem about booty.

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