A Dictionary of Lovers

“A dictionary of Lovers (#ADL)” is a corpus of emotions and stories of tangled, detached and allied people caught in the mix of love. Stories of the desires and impulses that sail love.

Premiers 9/01/19.

Chemistry of Love

The chemistry of love is like the chemistry of water. H is the intensity, O2. the degree of passion. When you love a person, you becoming parameters of them. Every atom of your hearts intertwined together, thought processes align into structutes.  One point it bears covalence, at another it becomes metallic. Without each other, there’s no magic, no serenity. 



i am no poet
but i am poetically mad
poetically off balance
nothin’ i write
is worth reading twice
muddled thoughts buried in fancy words
say them i must
its my redemption
does it matter if i am a poet
i am just another tired human
who must express his thoughts
in whatever ways he can

Economics of love


When in love never fail to ask what do you want? So many people fall into love never saying what they actually want. Love is an economics laced with wants and needs. Making demands. Happiness in love consist of meeting up to these demands over and over.  To be short of supply, breaks us.



It was the season of love and we were cherry but curious, we were filled with doubts, our indecisions and the unbounded probabilities. Then Perky-boobs busted, what the fuck is love anyways? We all laughed, she was resonating a cumulative thought.

Love is a science it makes experiments with our hearts. Love is a tragedy waiting to happen in broken hearts.


Addiction is the brain wiring of breathing life.

Calvin Bako;

In the warm air of one Friday night in the month of March, Calvin was going to put into practice a new word he had heard. Masturbation.  At the age of sixteen, he was very much naive, but that was soon to come to an end. His tender dick is turgid, looking at the big butts on his Nokia E63. It was Asian porn; loveasian.com. He brought down his boxers and bore the upright muscle in his right hand having the foamy lather of bathroom soap. He stroke up and down, he stroke in tempos of how he felt and in minutes he spilled thick, white milky cum. Flying off inches, dripping down his hand. The first of his life. He took a sniff. The smell of cum is like the smell of dew. He loved the feeling, it was the feeling of rapture, the stuff of orgasms. In the years that was to follow (when the Internet was still crawling) he’d obtained more blueflims than any of his colleagues. With the Internet, he knew every porn site. From xvideos to pornhub, and he could chant off names of porn stars off heart. When soap became too harsh for his dick, he’d masturbate with oil, and lotions and butter. Evidently, he’s tried to stop. Once he had been able to go a week without falling into the lure of his caprices. He couldn’t sustain the tempo of his resistance, because old habits die hard. He manages.

Papa Cadillac;

Age is experience, and experience is the best teacher.

At the riverside there’s a huge mango tree whose overwhelming branches were wide enough to shade my school basketball court, carrying a surreal darkness even at hours of daylight.  It was an unnatural place for anyone to be, but it was the place an old man is seen meditating and smoking. He was stubborn as a pig, and this was his appeal.

For thirteen years he’s been going there. That’s more than half my entire life.” Fanta once told me.

Little kids were always gathered around him, and no matter how much the parents and other consenting adult try to dissuade them, it was pointless. He wasn’t exactly an exemplar character for anyone to be around, talk more of kids.

We loved his stories. We loved his forthrightness. This was probably the cynicism others had about him. You either loved him or you despised him.  With Papa Cadillac there was no middle ground. It’s the highway or the down way.

Listen to me kids, our aim in life is to be happy. That is the basic dynamic of existence. Do what makes you happy. Yes, I love women. Woman is the focal point of life. Without them, we are nothing, there’s nothing, no need, no desire, nothing at all. And the more I pleasure women with my cock, my hands and tongue, the more God loves me.

‘He has essentially fucked every woman in this town.’

‘Why do you say so?’

‘Listen to him talk, then watch, you’ll see he speaks from actual happenings.’

  • Living is an addiction, we are tuned to the daily fixes we get from what soothes our desires. You are addicted as much as the next person is. We try to hide but we know it, we know there are certain things we depend on to live, to breath, to exist. And at the end we all still die. The process is to make our addictions worth our death.



The ultimate goal of life is not just to live but to live freely.


A very private person in a line of work that encompasses everything but seclusion is ridiculous. Fanta is 5ft 4inches tall, with a plump calm face skewed under the fluffy mess of curly hair. She’s what the dictionary word petite aptly captures, fleshy but not fat. A 55kg guy would raise her up easily and walk a distance of 80m and not break a sweat.

The best whore I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. She never faltered in her opinion of herself (which was a whore in and out), never dependent on any admiration from others. She was her own judge and jury, and like that she commanded a great deal of respect. Or was it awe?

Yes, it was awe that made me walk up to her, the degree of freedom entailed in her mannerism. I would have loved to fuck her, but right then in the moment I wasn’t in the best state of mind. An empty belly not certain of when the next meal would be, could not possibly sustain a hard-on. Between the belly and the dick, my belly would always win out. What a sweet fuck she must be, with such a body and so wide her mind. I’ve never tried making a pass at it. Fucking her that is. Papa Cadillac used to say a man must learn how to treat a whore like a lady and when to treat a lady like a whore.

When she said her name was Fanta, it made me laugh. It was even more ridiculous. So dark and shiny was she in complexion that the colour black placed close to her would look pale in comparison.

‘Why are u laughin’?’ ‘What’s funny?’

I became apprehensive, more apparent then was the imposing poise about her that I had not fully acknowledged.

‘What does the name mean?’

‘mus’ every name has a meanin’?’

Apprehension gave way to puzzlement. Then she laughed, and spoke in the warmth of her tone that never rises a pitch higher but clearly depicts her countenance.

‘It’s my name. It’s for u to find the meanin’.’ She was mocking. The name stuck to mind. Fanta, could be Fantastic? Probably. She is.


Your permission is not required when a person falls in love with you.

A big chunk of her life she had grown up wanting bigger buttocks and fuller breasts. The second of three girls, sandwiched in the middle of well-endowed sisters, big buttocks, full round breasts, she was left with less than nothing. She never forgets the time in secondary school when she kept low cut hair and this female teacher suspected her to be a boy impersonating a girl. It was a real brutal moment in her life. All the boys went for the endowed girls, and even when the boys talked with her, they treated her like she was no different from them. In her very midst they chatted about how they’ve fucked a girl, took her virginity, cum on their tight pussies, choke them, still she didn’t care about the degradations, she wanted it all. To be used like that, to be shared among guys like a box of pizza and mocked not for her looks but for her looseness. Easy virtue or not, all she cared for was to be used.

Laura, allow yourself to be just as you are, let the energy you’ve repressed flow out of you, let the beauty blossom. Indeed she was beautiful; beauty isn’t always sensed by the eyes, it must be savoured also. You freed me of this struggle, you genuinely took interest in me. I love you in ways I have never ever loved anyone else. In her own words, etched with decades of shyness that was like the shyness of a new born baby accommodating the atmosphere not of her mother’s womb.

  • I learned that freedom is accepting your shame. A person who is ashamed of what others would say, is afraid of their potentials. Like Papa says, if you can’t bare yourself naked, you’ll spend the rest of life worried about hiding. Life is meant to be lived fully not managed.



The most interesting thing about Kola is that he doesn’t matter. And by the time you realize this isn’t true, you’d be too dumbfounded to regain perspective.  All he does is break laws. Wherever there is a law and Kola comes about it, be certain he would have broken them down to bits. He was undaunted, but yet, he said of himself ‘I’m the biggest chicken there is.’

He ran away from home. A 300 level student of accounting at Kogi state university, he decided one morning he’s had enough of this systematized life that wasn’t fulfilling. The world around him was suffocating, clutching at his throat like boulders. The night I saw him, I was eager for a customer, any customer, so when he came in his all black outfit that made him seem leaner and younger than he is, I could almost feel my ovaries jumping. He was handsome, in a way every handsome man should be; tall, basketball tall, dark but not so dark, tiny eyes, full lips, pointed nose, and a baritone voice that sinks into the depths of the mind leaving a persistent echo. But then, there was the elusive attitude he bore that made me want to protect him.

‘Hi, do you have a room; yours?’ his voiced echoed with a resonance that bore a decade of fragmented pains and yet he managed the warmest smile.

‘Yea sure.’

He pulled out a squeezed N500 note, reluctant to let it slip off his hand, I wanted to tell him I wasn’t one of those cheap asses. But his next words came fluidly ‘I hope I can stay a night in your room. It’s all I have, and I can’t afford a hotel or sleep outside.’

In Abuja, he was right on both premise. Abuja with all its glorified tales, broad roads, and shitty mannerisms of obscure wealth is still as slimy as everywhere in the country. Slimy but with hoards of horny men filled with stolen wealth who swarm to bask in the only place worthy of common sense infrastructure, littered with small girls having big gods; fat cockroaches and glorified beggars. I said ‘follow me.’


Her story is quite a simple one, but like all simple stories it requires a thorough understanding of it. Zainab grew up knowing she was someone’s wife, having no option whatsoever. All her growing up was groomed to fit into the pattern of a cordial and proper woman to satisfy a man over two decades older than her.

Penetrated without her consent, she endured the pain that was to culminate her existence as a mannequin. Old men had the most brutal dicks, do not be deceived by its flaccid appearance. If only they had the willingness to sustain the tempo. They fucked slow, having no heart to pound; she hated it, the slow movements, the raspy breathing, the smell of decay oozing out of pores.

Zainab had a high libido, a ravenous sexual appetite and her owner couldn’t satisfy this hunger. In trying to please his baby, taking pills and pounding, he died and she was very rich. Rich enough to own a garage of Rolls Royce, to live her life on her own terms. Been here, was one of such terms. She wanted a tutor, and had a fancy for me, letting me become her tutor, to refine her sexual taste. But frankly, she needed no refinement.

Laying on the sofa, her legs were spread open, like the petals of a flower under the sun and her fingers maintained an incessant friction on the skin of her cilt; twitching, agitated like a possessed woman undergoing exorcism. She let out a sharp sound of relive as the marvellous pussy of hers squirted liquids like a tap head. We waited, until she had fully convalesced. I didn’t bother to inspect the reactions on Kola’s face.

‘Meet my roommate’

‘Hi’ Kola managed, obviously flummoxed.

‘This one is charming and courteous, hope we can share him?’ Zainab replied grinning, never taking her eyes off him. Her trademark scan.

She could tell you what kinda fuck a man is from just looking at him. And I’ve come to agree without question when Zainab says “he would be a boring fuck!’

‘He’s here to stay the night, not fuck.’  I injected, and with another of her quirks she hissed ‘Such a waste!’

Kola hadn’t moved an inch beyond the door post, still trying to accommodate the whole scene before him into his thoughts. One glance at him and again I find myself feeling the urge to comfort him.

‘U can sleep over here.’ Pointing him to the extra bed that’s been packed unused for months. Zainab had insisted I threw it out, but I refused. How glad was I that it could finally be used again. That bed had history, had tons of great orgasms on it long before Zainab came with her loads of cash to pimp everything.

‘Thanks. I could come back later when you’re done with the business of day.’

‘Fantastic! I so wanna fuck him!’ Zainab yelled out from the bath.

‘God sakes, can’t you stop been a whore for a second!’

‘Fuck you bitch.’ she’s laughing.

‘I’ll be back later.’ Kola turns out.

‘Now you’ve chased him away, fuckin’ slut.’

The shower stops running, she came out naked as she went in and gave me a wink, ‘You know we could go after him right?’ 


Our pains are revelations of who we are, the things we usually love seldom defines us. It is those things which pains us that indicates what we are. The litmus paper of all we are. My pains are not forthcoming, they abide with me. I’ve conditioned myself to go through pains that are not yet existent. I’ve gone through sleepless nights accommodating the shits and mess, the tear-soaked eyes that could be. So when I find myself in these pains as they arrive, I’m not struck. A dead person cannot be dead twice. Let the pains come, I live like nothing happened. I live fully, in comfort with my pains.


A man’s fate and he are two drivers on a seat.

Ali Okoh;

His singular charm has been the ability to appear older, more mature, more sophisticated than he really was. Tall, slightly built, charcoal dark but with a luminous quality and a low cut hair that proves his weekly visit at the barber, most ladies couldn’t resist his confident strides at first glance, some never resist until they’ve fucked and few ever resist it at all. Ali was a thorough ass man. He had a fetish for voluminous asses. The more ass a woman had, the more adamant he gets on bedding it. He would do anything to have a great piece of ass striding in its magnificent glory. So when Ali saw Chi-Chi something in him jolted. He shouldn’t be blamed. Chi-Chi has got the grandest ass I ever saw. Even in a floppy dress her curves are well defined, and the moment she pulls of her clothes, all of your being bursts open with a passion you’d never have believed resides within you. A sort of paroxysm that is crippling. Its lust copulating with love magnified in degrees of awe and respect. His sole driving force became the raw essence of all animals in heat; to fuck, her.

Amanda Ozi;

For several reasons all through her adolescence Amanda has found herself attracted to men older than her. At twelve she had submitted herself to the touch of a man almost twice her age. But since seventeen she’s only been pulled to men who wore rings. Rings. And the men who wore rings always came back to her, she knew one thing so well. How to fuck a man until tears gathered in his eyes. Amanda knew in life everything was about sex, and she wielded onto the ability so well receiving all she can from what she had, taking what pleasures she could, and never becoming chained by the caprices of men who wanted to tame her. She played men like pawns on a chess board. Then she met Kola and the whole fabric of her life lost its guarded balance. It was a case of fate, something that has been destined to happen. For she could not explain why she stuck around him for so long, for less than her attention span required. However, one thing was apparent, and whenever she beheld her naked body in the mirror she couldn’t deny the truth which was, Kola fucked with an intensity that was hard not to submit to. It was the genesis of her end.

Calvin Bako;

Only just 5ft tall, the mistake would be undermining his stature. Like he knew but never realising it, he did everything to be prepared, to twist the elements of fate. He took every sexual enhancement drug he could until he became addicted. He watched every porn clip he could until he didn’t know how to stop. He lifted weights, and took particular care of his grooming. You would call him handsome. However his score lay in his strength of speech, which was a confident boost from his privileged home. He had almost all he wanted, and has never had to work for anything except asses to smash. That was all he really cared about. To fuck and fuck as much ass as his eyes can see and his hands can reach. Sometimes he was a great fuck, most times he was freaking lousy. This was how he fucked Endurance. He flipped the little girl like a pillow, voracious, tore off her pant, and fingered her clit till it was blazing hot like a metal in the grasp of a blacksmith.  When the poor girl was almost crying he stopped, her moans were becoming too loud and imploring. ‘Am I hurting you?’ he asked. Almost like she had the premonition she answered correctly, whispering an easy ‘no.’ an answer in the affirmative would have prove too much to bear. He went on to suck her nipple and then gave it a very sharp bite. She screamed, it hurt, but she liked it.

I’ve heard that a man chooses his own fate; mine was chosen for me, even before I was born. I’ve lived all my life doing this work. My grandmother did it, my mother was skilled at it, and I was born into it. It’s all I’ve known, all I know. I take pride in this work, nothing that’s been said could dissuade my zeal. Some people think I’m into it for the money (although I must say the money is pretty great), but even if there were no money I’d still be found in this trade, it has its other benefits. The other day a couple approached me, (I assumed they were a couple because they dressed alike in deceptious clothing’s of righteousness and because they had the inexplicable pointer which screams; we’re shagging!). The woman had worn a large skirt and loosely fitted blouse hiding every indication of her femininity, with no adornment except a hair band to keep her dull-lustre hair in a bun. She had excellent jaw lines and it made me feel pitied at such waste of beauty. The man on the other hand, seemed much better, for at least he managed to exude his masculinity in clothes that wore him instead of the other way round. Most importantly they wore the same kind of shoes, and it’s quite enigmatic to place what colour it had been, black or brown.  They told me to become born again and change my ways or I was sure to end up in hell. I agreed to be born again (since they kept pestering), but that I couldn’t stop this work. Puzzled of course, they asked why? I said, because this is who I am, all I am. Puzzlement metamorphosed into shock. ‘No! No! God didn’t make any one to become bad or evil.’ I nodded, wondering how much they knew about God to be so sure. So I pushed further, ‘If God knew all things beforehand, then it would have been known who I am to be. It isn’t really my fault is it?’ Then they began to blab and blab.