A Very Badd Idea presents:

LIBERATED LABIA

A short story by GOMOLEMO B.

MOYO

Written for and dedicated to MELANIN

BROWN

To be read by everyone.
The Liberation – an
introduction to Melanin
Brown
It was a cold night in the mountains of the north. We were like shadows hiding from
the light. Two lustful individuals who found each other in the midst of heartbreak, drugs,
alcohol and sex addiction. Long hours of thrusting and throbbing that played out like a
prolonged porn video. Caught in between love and a loathing for relationships. We
were young and naïve. Careless, as we didn’t know of the word ‘condom’ and
depended on a ‘pull out’ system. Wrapped up in a plastic bubble, I was infused with
the touch of this woman. Her hands knew how to draw out my attention. She was a
misuse who massaged my ego and made me feel more masculine. Lost in an alternate
universe, a matrix system of some sort, time stood still and ambition froze as she
wrapped her feet around my body and persisted I stroke. She had me working
overtime. She had me on call on my days off.

The last night we spend together, she wasn’t in a Jada Fire mood. She said she
wanted to talk.

“Write about me,” she said. “Write about how we met, our premature love and every
sexual and life experience I have told you about. Liberate my labia and put it on a
pedestal. Don’t be ashamed of me like you are now. That is why we are in the
shadows, right? You don’t want to claim me. Your friends probably call me a hoe. The
twisted thing about society is that it embraces individuality, then seconds later it
isolates the outliers. It claims us as different but accepts us when we are the same.
Instead of people focusing on their sinful nature, people find peace knowing others
have accumulated more sinful mileage. We all are evil. Addicted to success, mammon,
alcohol, social media and lust. We all want the pleasures of this world whilst the
guarantee that we’ll have access to enter heaven one day. Question is do we want to
go to heaven because we love God? Or is it because we fear hell?
So, write about me. Even if one person reads my story, please. In all your shame and
all your glory, make sure you dedicate something to me. I know I don’t mean much to
you but write about me. Something short, something amazing, something sweet,
something with bombastic words. Make it free and store it in a cloud so anyone can
read it. Maybe one day our daughter will read it. Write about me because at some
point I will part from this world.

But your words, your words will live forever!”

Pillow Talk Confessions:
‘The Muffin’

It’s his favourite. He loves it with his breakfast, lunch and supper. He occasionally
indulges in between meals. A whole snack. He allows the chocolate avalanche to
collapse in his mouth. The drip is bottomless.

“No napkin?” I uttered.

He doesn’t respond. Instead he prepares for it as if his about to do time. His tongue is
an immaculate drilling machine specked with a TomTom XLS 540s that never seizes
to find its destination. Once it reaches the point of departure, it circulates the
destination until it is ready to land. And land it does, on a moist mountain pink top. As
soon as it hits the ground, the area begins to flood. It doesn’t drown but rather hovers
enough water for it to continue on its mission. “In 2cm turn left,” “now turn right,”
“Please speed up,” “Approaching speed limit, please slow down,” It listens precisely
to each instruction the GPS utters. It was built to voyage.

Beep… Beep… Beep…

I on the other hand have forgotten to put on my safety belt. My legs vibrating is a signal
that the barriers cannot contain the flood anymore. Travis Scott’s lyrics “I get these
goose bumps every time you come around,” become my embodiment. My frame is
present, but my mind has drifted far-off deep into a wormhole where not even
Superman with all his might could pull me out. I was brave enough at first to watch him
eat his muffin, but the more his lips pierced into it, my pupils began to dilate.

“Where am I?” I asked myself.

I yearn to scream to the top of my lungs but his motion has diagnosed me with selective
mutism. As he licks the pink topping of his muffin, my legs lock his head into a
submission where he is forced to tap out. But he reverses it by slowly grabbing my
inner thigh with one hand, whilst using the other hand to lift me up. My back is literally
against the wall, my hands reach for the ceiling as my legs are stretched wide enough
enabling him to use his fine tongue to paint his strokes like da Vinci. Up, down, left,
right and circular. My eyes begin to race to the back of my eyelids. Christmas came
early this year. His fingertips absorb the shockwaves my body sends through. His abs
strong enough for any turbulence. I am in flight mode.

“The date reads 36th of December 2019 at 27 minutes past 13. Today must be the
ninth day of the week,” I uttered.

Truth is I’m lost in a bliss. Where the day, the time, sunsets and moonlights don’t exist.
I’m not even sure whether I am alive. This must be the out of body experience I’ve
heard about. I open my eyes and realise I’ve never been this high before. His tongue
must have had a pinch of general anaesthesia because he had me out like a light. My
eyelids shut down as I venture of into space.

“Can you pass me the napkin,” he says.

“Hello!” he yells out.

I open my eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Uhm... Yes I am,”

I hand him the napkin and watch him clean up the chocolate dripping on the left side
of his lips.

“That was delicious. You should try one of these muffins one day. Especially the
chocolate flavour.”

“I don’t like muffins. Let’s go back to the library. We’ve been in this coffee shop”

As soon as I stood up from my chair he looked down, then at me and said “I know
you’re not pregnant but I think your water just broke.”

“Uhm…. It’s just my water bottle. It must have dripped whilst I was sitting.

Anyway…Uhm…. Remind me again about the day we met…”

Part one: Love Is
(In his narration)
The most memorable part of a wedding has to be the newly married couple’s first
dance. It’s not the choreographed dance moves nor the groom’s two left feet that make
me yearn for marriage, it’s when the groom and his bride look into each other’s eyes
for the first time as man and wife. It’s a picturesque moment. It is as if they both cannot
fathom that after numerous dreadful affairs, they have finally found one that could
possibly be everlasting. That is a beautiful introduction, isn’t it? However this story isn’t
about the love I witnessed at the wedding this past weekend but rather about a girl I
happened to stumble upon. The girl with the dragon fire.

She’s different. Different from my typical selection criteria. I customarily give attention
to girls who are dumpier than I. A softer tone that allows my “husky” voice to stand out.
A damsel in distress who continuously hinges on my words to fill her mineshaft of
insecurities. “She’s an Amazonian,” my sister said. She left me deep in thought.
Despite the fact that she’s the complete opposite of my catalogue, I found myself
attracted to her. Perhaps it’s because for the first time I had met a woman who needed
no saving. Her mere structure, voice and beauty left me feeling emasculated. Have I
finally found my match? The Diana Prince to my Bruce Wayne? The Nakia to my
T’Challa? Time might tell the rest of this tale but what I am sure of is I have come
across a diamond in its purest form. A diamond that mined, refined and sold itself to
freedom, that free doom to a society that continuously preach about a woman’s power
but backstabs her when she succeeds. She set me free. Her aura cited Morpheus’
infamous words “You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and
believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland,
and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes”

Yes, it sounds dramatic but before you pull this plug let me elaborate. She set me free
from my constant yearning to save a damsel. In fact if it was not for her I would have
not comprehended the datum that my selection criteria was a mirror image of how I
felt about myself. All my exes share a common thread in their DNA, they all needed a
cheerleader who would reach far beyond their duties. They all needed saving. Why
did I need to save them? Because in this spherical planet governed by stereotypes my
masculine instinct was to protect, profess and to provide. Question is what happens
when Nala doesn’t need protection, profession and provision? What is the role of
Simba then? I pondered about the depth of this revelation. I had grown accustomed
to pouring myself into glasses that where partially filled, that I permeated with fear
when I found a glass overflowing. I no longer needed a cape that cleared up their
confusion. I no longer needed a mask that covered my true expression of the matter.
A mask that left a bitter taste on my lips in order to heal their broken hearts. Dishonesty
was the order of the day. I realized all of this within the minimal amount of interaction
I had with her.

She breathes fire. Her hoarse voice is proof of that. Her honesty lays uncontaminated.
She does not seek validation, yet she offers it because I need it. The damsels had
tainted my near tortured soul. With every soul I saved, with every cup I filled and with
every breath I gave, it left me unfulfilled. Bullied by empty promises I had made to
never give up on each one of them. Yet I gave up on one. One who took so much that
she left me drained. My reserve light started to flicker for the first time in my life. All of
their scars reappeared. My signal reigned in the sky like an eclipse. The reflection of
the mirror revealed that beyond the mask I was a spitting image of Tom Cruise in
Vanilla Sky. I was frightened by the villainous creature I had turned into. Harvey once
said “you either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

This story does not conclude with the Amazonian being my hero, it begins with one
interaction that reminded me of who I really am. My gauge kicked up to the top of the
brim. I am fuelled. She is fuelled. With neither her nor I needing a hero. The Amazonian
meets The Dark Knight. I answered her aura’s plea. I swallowed the red pill. I choose
to follow the white rabbit.

“I choose you,” he said.

“Who is you? Say my name,” Melanin responded.

“Melanin,” he said in confidence.

“No, not the name my mom gave me. My real name. The one you and your friends call me.
Say it. I dare you to say it out loud!”
Pillow Talk Confessions:

‘Say My NaMe, Say My NaMe’

“Call me a hoe,” she said.

“Say it loudly. Say it proudly. It should be the first word that comes out your mouth
when they ask about me. Don’t refute it. You have seen me roaming these streets. My
figure is conjured up in your sheets. You have felt my breath on your skin. You have
seen me naked carrying a bottle of gin – between my ass cheeks.

Yes, I am a freak! That is why you request my presence over the one you claim to
love. I’m not the girl next door that you introduce to your mother. No, I am not that
boring! I’m sensational. I’m the white rabbit. Addictive like heroin. Though I’m not good
for you – but I’m still a heroine.

These pseudointellectual malcontents judge me off my body count. Times it by 3, by

7 and 11 even. I’m odd. I am perfection.

Men glorify high body counts but expect to marry a virgin. If each man is sleeping with
at least 50 women, then who can stay pure? Is it not women you men sleep with?

I am not one for empty quarrels and debates that don’t have solutions. All I know is
that I am a hoe – a bad one in fact. A motherfu… excuse me… fatherf***ing artefact.
You distaste my dirty language? Because the usage of bombastic words in your
vocabulary makes you seem deeper? The only deep thing is the hole that these men
worship.

Pussy is power and oh, how I have used it; to sign deals, acquire land and fast cars.
This is me. I won’t pretend through the honeymoon stage so I can fit your picture-
perfect trophy wife mentality. This is a reality. I am a Hoe.

Question is: Who are you mortal man?

“Who am I? I’m a man who is profusely and foolishly in love with you” he said.
Part 2: Love is Evol
(Narrated by Love)
“You would make a great prodigy for advertising,” Melanin replied.

She knows men profusely. A modern man enslaved by the chains of his peers
opinions. The detail of his packaging, the logistics behind his delivery and the intricacy
of his skill to simultaneously satisfy each customer, are so well put together. This man
is a sales tycoon. His target market, a bunch of self-loathing insecure light and dark
skin creatures, yearn for his words of validation. He is their saviour. Women should be
labelled dreamcatchers because of how they love the dreams he sells.

Women have always been known to shop until they drop. The lies are for sale.
Pretentious douches running red hanger campaigns that results in a pool of a women’s
red blood from hanging. It’s a wretched setting that the gloomiest of eyes cannot
fathom. A dark plot twist that arose from a fairy tale. Envision an elegant princess who
falls head over hills for a simple village boy. Through trials and tribulations, the
inevitable happens and they live happily. Before the ever after, Jigsaw reveals through
a tormenting gruesome trial that the village boy has a wife and two kids.

“You are the same man who could never trust a woman’s affection because of your
mother’s infidelity. Only to have to come to terms that your parents have been in a
healthy marriage for the past 30 years,” Melanin uttered in anger.

“Men fall in love with what they see and women fall in love with what they hear. This
is why women wear make-up and men lie” he replied.

“Are men doomed to sell lies?” Melanin responded.

“The truth lies there bare naked and unattended. Women have no time for good boys.
Good boys don’t finish last, they just never finish! I can attest to this perspective.
Growing up I was dubbed husband material. This was not because of the fine wool of
my poker-dot cardigan nor my level of maturity. This was purely based on being a
selfless human being. My ability to put a woman’s emotions first had somehow been
perceived as an unattractive element. A weakened vessel, emasculated, no hoarse
voice are all signs ignored by women of the night who are looking for signals from the
fuck boys from the north. I couldn’t receive my qualification, and in order to fit in I had
to illegally acquire one. I had broken the law; an unwritten amendment that states that
‘one must always be their true self regardless of the opposing counsel.’ I had spun a
cocoon of lies, in which I laid in until I could not recognize my former self. I emerged a
beautiful winged creature. Women were blown away by my ability to paint a multi-
dimensional picture utilising one brush. I have become their worst nightmare. A man
they hated in public but loved in secret. Why don’t women love us? Why do they wait
for their heart to be split into a million pieces before they recognize us? Why do they
call us boring? Why won’t they choose us first? Why, why, why….?” He cried out.

Never trust the line on a faded fuck boys head, because just like the line, your
relationship is going nowhere. Yet they fall knees deep into all the lines that get uttered
out of an untrustworthy mouth. They drown in it. In fact when the pool starts to shallow
they quickly rise and find another deepened pond. Drugs, alcohol, lust are not nearly
as fatal as the addiction called love. To put your faith, hope and every single piece of
you in an irrational human being who, at some point in time, is going to disappoint you
is ludicrous. It’s even better to put a heart of gold into the hands of a Rumpelstiltskin.
Still they persist. Could it be that a fuck boy is the epitome of an alpha male? Women
are constantly seeking validation and in competition to prove that just like Nala, they
are more than capable of taming Simba.

Women fail to realize that they are Mother Nature itself. They are the bearer of fruits,
the channel of water that leads to life, they reproduce and built from dust. They anchor
a man’s life and bring it meaning. It is time women validated themselves and realized
that maybe it’s not a man’s validation they need, but rather they need to assess and
validate if a man is worth their time. This is not a piece implying that you should not
fall for fuck boys, this is a piece probing you to fall in love with yourself!

“You’re up to your neck in it, Melanin,” the Doctor said. “You need to get out of this
relationship. You need to leave him. Do you how lucky you are that you made it out of the
accident unscathed whilst he lays here fighting for his life.”

“But Jenny, I love him. And…” the nurse interrupts Melanin before she can finish her sentence.

“In here you refer to me just as Dr.Jenny. Now I pulled a few favours and the statement will
say he was in the car alone when the accident occurred. Now get out of here!”
Pillow Talk Confessions:

‘Aspirations of a Side Chick’

“Shut up and listen to me” Melanin responded.

“I should be content with my character. I’m not superman. I don’t bask out in glory but
rather hide in the corners of the night. I think I am batman. A very sad man… ooops, I
meant a sad Chiquita. I mean I’m not even worth his Benz, he still picks me up in a
Kia.

The glass is half full though. Someone does notice me; or is it that my tunnel vision
ends by his light? Could I be that blind? Could it be that the foundation for my attraction
is built on the concrete evidence that he is not mine?

On the contrary, what the hell would I do if I ever got him all to myself? What would I
do with all that man? Surely, he would suffocate me!

Is it not better to share him?

I get to indulge in all the explicit parts and his main has to deal with all that other shit!

There is a note of exultation in this victory.

Or maybe not?

This position can be deceitful. There are times where I cry myself to sleep. Wishing he
would thump open my door and save me from drowning in a puddle of my own tears.
Look into my eyes and proclaim his love for me. ‘Don’t be afraid to make me yours,’
he would say. Then I would take up the lead role in his biopic.

However, if I am the star, I would be naïve to think there is no supporting cast. Every
time he goes out with his crew, I will know his casting because that is how he hired
me. So, I would rather love him from a distance because girl, the Y in your man is
clearly missing. I should be ecstatic that I at least made it on his roaster. Right?”

“Say your goodbye and leave. His wife and kids are on the way,” the doctor responded.
Part 3: But our love is forever…
(Her narration)
I watched over him battered and bruised. He laid there weak – an adjective I never
thought I would use to describe him.

Jenny, I mean the Doctor, said that ‘words of affection from his loved ones would result
in the dark knights’ rise’. I would be a fool not to trust her words, after all she did spend
12 years of her life studying to give me her specialised opinion.

Both he and I ate the apple. For me, it purified my once faulty vision and gave me back
the sight my vows once deemed unworthy. I could see as clear as Eve did after she
took a bite of an apple from the tree of life. For him, it served quadriplegia. Once a
king with the world at his feet, he now knelt down to beg for mercy over his life. Roles
had been reversed and he was now a damsel in distress awaiting for my lips to touch
his in order for him to wake.

“I hate that I love him,” I screamed out. My voice, more efficient than shock paddles,
awoke his nearly flat lined heartbeat.

He looked at me in awe.

“You have saved his life,” the nurse remarks. “I’ll quickly go tell his wife and kids to
come in.”

“Yes, go and get them,” Melanin replied.

I knew the kids’ presence had more power than my voice, though I couldn’t help but
love the juxtaposition. I leaned closer to him. My mouth over his ear. I whispered:

“They are not yours…”

…… beep…

……. beep…

……. beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…