I am going to tell this story because my husband Ugokwe Uzoma has told this same story ten times over. It has become a story to tell to lighten up any room. And he’d bite the edge of a smile to start the story; in a vain attempt to keep his creeping grin at bay. The intention behind his perking lips isn’t something that could easily be ensured. But today it’s my story to tell.

We were in Bangkok for a holiday trip after several persuasions from me that we needed to take some time off the family business. It was a humid afternoon, so we decided to treat ourselves to a satisfying lunch. After walking around some of the street markets, we decided to go for a traditional Thai massage. I was ready to take solace from the stresses of modern life in an exciting and powerful mind/body healing experience. The massage parlor was an open concept; consisting of two huge communal halls, one side for males and the other for females, with a walkway in the middle. There were no rooms or curtains, and the massages were performed on mats.

We changed into the garments provided by the spa – loose cotton tops and baggy drawstring pants. My husband was very uncomfortable with the idea of another man touching my body but he was ok with the lady therapist for himself. A five minutes argument began and again I was able to convince my husband that it wasn’t a big deal. I was not taking my garment off because it was a Thai massage.

“Unlike most massage modalities that utilize massage oils and require you to disrobe and climb under a sheet on a massage table, Thai massage is performed while you are fully clothed, usually on a padded mat on the floor.” I explained.

“Are you sure? Isn’t it same as the ones we see in movies?” he asked.

“Relax, dim oma (my dearest husband) Even if… there are strict protocols for draping during massages. I began to praise him with some fancy Igbo titles to help me win this war and it worked. At the sound of “Odu’m” (my lion) he agreed with a little smile

“Please don’t fail to alert me when….” I cut him short.

“Nothing out of the ordinary would happen – my love,” I reaffirmed him.

The therapist noticed we were arguing and offered him a space by my side. I was so glad he did. Our massage began simultaneously. We were beginning to enjoy the relaxing atmosphere in the room —soft spa music was playing in the background, a trickling waterfall perched in the corner, and the sweet smells of lemongrass and jasmine wafted in the air. My husband laid still enjoying his incredibly relaxing rub down of his neck and shoulders while I was battling something different.

He became fully alert when his masseuse stretched and bent his knees and arms at awkward angles. She grabbed his hands from behind and positions her knee behind his back; sketching his muscles to relieve tension and enhance flexibility instead of the relaxing gliding and kneading motions he was expecting.

 “Chi mu! (Good God)” He exclaimed in disbelief.

Halfway through my own massage, I felt a huge fart coming. I held it in for what felt like forever, until my entire body stiffened up and I felt as if I was turning blue. My therapist, thinking that my stiffness meant that I needed more loosening up, proceeded to stretch my body with renewed zest, basically forcing all the air out. Against my will, I let rip the loudest fart which echoed in the open halls, every other person on the other side heard it loud and clear.

There was a stunned silence for five seconds then everyone burst out laughing in surprise (and disgust, I’m sure). My husband who was beside me screamed with laughter and announced that the fart came from me. After we left Thai my husband replayed the scenario constantly about eating Thai food and going for Thai massage; it became the climax of our travel experience.

It’s been said that women are physically private and emotionally naked. In other words, they have no problem talking about their emotions, but feel quickly violated if someone gets too close to them physically. Men, on the other hand, are emotionally private and physically naked. They have no problem taking showers together in a locker room, or roughing each other up in the halls. But when it comes to talking about their emotions, that’s when they feel intruded. However, men feel emotional pain just as women do. Ignoring it only cements the bitterness and confusion caused by it. I’ve found that if I am ever going to get passed the pain and live with passion and purpose, I must talk with someone about my emotional pain. So I have chosen to share my pain in the open.

My name is Kolawole Babalola Gibson. I married my tall, dark and slender wife few weeks after I turned twenty nine. She has straight black hair and sparkling brown eyes. She brought the song “Brown Skin Girl” to mind. We have been married for over three years. My wife’s name is Moyosore and she’s the love of my life. We are blessed with twin babies; a boy and a girl. We are the perfect family anyone would ask for. We lived in a condo in the heart of Lagos.

On Friday April 19^th, there I was staring at my laptop screen sifting through dozens of emails I had put off until the end of business day – if there is such a thing. My wife had just called if I was going to be late again. The twins were driving her nuts continually questioning, “When is daddy coming home?” At least they still cared enough to ask. Right after my wife called by best friend Adams text messaged me to see if I could make the games tonight as they were a couple of players short. Staring down at my belly I knew my body needed a little fun and required body exercise.

I rounded up quickly and in on hour I was in the company of my friends ready to tackle ourselves in engaging soccer. I didn’t make the first eleven but I was glad to sit on the bench and watch from the sidelines and maybe play a few minutes. Before the match, my friends and I got together watching some popular videos on social media. We would swap phones to show off our funny video archives. Apparently, I was still with Adams’ phone. I decided to take my mind off the game for a moment to re-watch one of the funny videos. I clicked on the wrong video. It was the goriest video I had ever seen; my best friend ejaculating over my naked four year old daughter. A lot began to go through my head but the most dominant thought was to kill my friend. The notion moved from an actual thought to action months after.

I have accepted the name “murderer” a name I have once reserved for psychopaths. If the killing was done for means of survival no-one thought less of you. There are those who took life and crumpled under the weight of guilt, even if they’d no choice. There are some who kill when necessary and never lose a wink of sleep over it, that’s pretty much where I sit. There are others who have made it a whole new hobby, look at them the wrong way and they attacked with lethal force. That last group is the only ones to be considered murderers. No, I disagree and I know you do too. The term applies to me as much as it does to all kinds of killer; man wolf or a bear. Killing in self-defense is just a given. Killing for resources is a grey area, I killed Adams Okulaja Simpson, I don’t regret it, don’t judge me, and who are you to judge?

It’s scary, complex and overwhelming to respond when you’re sexually assaulted on public transit — even when you thought you’d be prepared.

Ovie had to push and shove to get into the bus. She kept her sight on the goal which was the slightly-opened door. She couldn’t see if she was going to bump into the bus or crash into a person.  When she finally got to the entrance, she took a step in to find out that all the seats were taken. She was left with the standing option. Before she could make up her mind on what to do next, she was trapped in an endless sea of people trooping in.

The bus aisle was filled with lots of people. They rubbed shoulders never minding that their toes were often trodden on or that they were in closer proximity to strangers. Ovie felt claustrophobic.

“Ogbeni move in! Space dey for back,” the bus attendant yelled. Some people protested. There was noise everywhere; Someone’s cell phone was ringing, a child wailing who probably lost his mum in the overcrowded bus, two people fighting angrily over one of them pushing the other. It was a chaotic and extremely hot. Sweat was trickling down everyone’s face. A disgusting odour hung in the air. Ovie felt very uncomfortable. She couldn’t wait to get off the bus. Unfortunately her bus stop was not in sight.

The bus rocked from side to side as they traveled the familiar Lagos roads not affording Ovie’s brain the time to daydream or rest. The bus was filled with people of different kinds; there were those who chattered, their voices rising and blending together in the sweet ritual of friendship. Some absorb themselves in music; others drift into worries that will erase themselves on arrival, when their body rejoins the world of moving and speaking to others. And so the journey continued – people were clogged together yet they seemed separate; feeling all the same turns and bumps.

The bus attendant called out the next stop. A young woman and her three children were alighting so Ovie had to make room. She moved slightly towards the door. She then stepped back to let the doors close. Just then a man put his hands on her back and pushed her into the people on the bus to quickly get in. The door closed behind him and Ovie was crammed between him and another man. She had nothing to hold on to so she put her right hand on the ceiling. Ovie tried to reposition herself so she wouldn’t be touching anyone else. Slowly she started to feel a tingle behind her, something hard was pushing against her butt. She tried to look behind her, but all she could see was a man, older, dark suit, about her height- out of the corner of her eye. His coat was hanging on his left shoulder and his hand and arm were hidden. She thought, “Maybe he has a broken arm. Maybe that’s what’s hitting me.” But she knew… she knew what was pushing into the back of her skirt.

The doors opened at Cement Bustop, and people started to shift around. Ovie moved, so her side was facing this man. As the doors closed and the bus pulled away, Ovie felt that hard object again digging into her leg. She tried to look down, afraid of what she was going to see. She could see his hand moving around in his pants. She stuck her elbow out and into his abdomen to keep him farther away. He just pushed harder. She thought, “No, Ovie! You know what to do!” She started darting her eyes around the bus, silently begging someone to help. No one looked at her. They arrived at Sawmill bus-stop and as the door opened she jumped out of the bus. She was ready to run, but the man followed her out. Ovie tried to make eye contact with him, but he just kept walking. Ovie jumped back in the bus. She held it together until she got her final stop. As soon as door closed Ovie burst into tears; her entire body seemed to sag with exhaustion and numbed sadness that she was for some minutes a pleasurable toy used to excite a man’s sexual abnormality.