Love is a beautiful thing, but let’s be honest—sometimes, it’s like that one pair of shoes you thought would change your life, but now you just want to toss them in the back of the closet. I used to think my parents were madly in love, the Romeo and Juliet of our house (minus the tragic ending, thankfully). But as I got older, their “love” started looking less like a passionate romance and more like a joint obligation, like paying taxes or sharing a Netflix password. What’s love anyway? I can’t define it, and I’m pretty sure everyone has their own version of it. Some people love pizza, some love skydiving, and some men just really love their appendages so much they become a DICK. Regardless, there is always a lady out there willing to be FINGERED by these PRICKS like an insulin test kit. Love also changes with time or as you age. My choice of compatible counterpart companion 20 years ago is widely different from now. If I did marry anyone, I thought was deemed to be my “Happily Ever After” then I would have given away more stones than the infinity War Avengers or maybe have one ring for each finger on my left hand, or one per letter of my last name. Well! That’s if my last name was L.O.P.E.Z. But please, don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got, it just means I have been around the block.
Speaking of love and last names, African men, like my father, are often obsessed with having male children. My dad wanted a boy so bad that when my mom was pregnant, she probably prayed harder than anyone in the history of prayer circles. I mean, there was a lot at steak—I mean, stake (but steak too, you’ll see why). So, I arrived on a Wednesday in the 80s, on the 4th of the 1st month, and on the 4th day of the week. Yep, all fours. Which explains a lot about me, especially my undeniable love for meat. I was basically born a carnivore, ready to chow down on any four-legged farm animal. While other babies were teething on rubber rings, I was probably dreaming of BBQ ribs and jerk chicken. As soon as I see any farm animal, I am all four-it (see what I did there? —Nah! Too late, dummy).
But my love isn’t just for meat; I have a special place in my heart for animals—specifically, dogs. When I was eight, I decided it was time to take my love to the next level and begged my mom for a puppy. My dad? Oh, he was not a fan, Ironically, he was quick to BREEZE out of my dog idea and out of my life. I don’t know if it’s because I wasn’t the kind of son he had in mind, or if he could sense that I was going to be more into dogs and cheeseburgers than football. Dada was a prime Dick pretending to be a hero and has no idea what it means to be a caring father and loving husband. But this is not about my deceitfully dashing douche dada so let’s leave shit out of my article or blog or blog-ish article.
After much begging and probably some tears (the dramatic kind), my mom gave in and got me a puppy. His name was Lion. Now, before you start picturing a Simba situation, I didn’t name him. He came pre-named. Why Lion, you ask? Well, in Africa, we don’t get too creative with dog names. You’ve got Lion, Tiger, Bingo, and Dingo. That’s it. It’s like a law or something. And let me tell you, I’ve been chased by the Bingo and Dingo Duo at different points in my life, and they definitely lived up to their names. I have their trademark teeth scars on my ankle, hand and you guessed right…….my ass cheek (both of them). As a kid, I was the definition of go ahead “Fuck-Around-And-Find-Out”.
But Lion? Oh, I loved him. We were inseparable. He was my best friend, my companion, and the only living being in the house who didn’t look at me like, “Why aren’t you more like your father?” And I never once questioned why my dog was named after a king of the jungle when he was clearly more “cuddly couch potato” than “majestic predator.”
Oh, I know what you Whitewalkers are thinking. “Makes sense to name your dog ‘Lion’ if you’re from Africa, since you probably have those wildlings on speed dial over there, right?” NO! Just no. I lived in Africa for 20 years and guess what? Not one damn lion sighting. Not a single “Hakuna Matata” moment. The first time I saw one of those majestic, oversized murder-cats was at a zoo in Winnipeg, Canada.
There I was at the zoo, staring at this massive beast, and I could practically hear my Spirit leaving my body whispering, “Yeah, you’re on your own, fam. I know we stuck by you during the Bingo and Dingo Fiasco. But a lion? Nah! Bro, these mudafuckers bite more than they can chew”. I was absolutely shaken at the sight of this muscle-bound carnivore, and then I noticed this one cocky Caucasian giving me the ol’ side-eye like, “What’s the big deal? It’s just as close as one of your African cousins, right?”
And just when I thought things couldn’t get more awkward, the lion lets out this terrifying roar, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. The Whitewalker smirks and casually goes, “Maybe he recognizes you from back home.” I did not reply, I always let retards stay retarded, good for the economy.
So, back to my four-legged drama. If you’ve read my piece on how I once straight-up shit myself, you already know our family house was a bootleg boarding school. Imagine living with siblings, not a single parental figure in sight since I was 11. Why, you ask? Well, that’s a story for another day.
Now, boarding school rules are simple: chaos reigns supreme. Anything goes, anytime. Around this time, my dog (yes, Lion) had passed away, shortly followed by my mom. And dad? Yeah, he pulled a Houdini and vanished; breezed out.
My siblings? Well, we were all over the map. Everyone was rolling with their own crew, vibing with whatever religion or lifestyle their friends were into. It was like a reality show under one roof. Christians, Muslims, Atheists—you name it, we had it. If the Atheist jacked your food, he’d casually tell the Christian, “Don’t worry, just pray. Manna will fall from the heavens.”
Then there was my half-sister, the eldest at 26. She’d gone full Jehovah’s Witness. Every now and then, she’d bring her JW squad over for what we, me and my younger sister called “rituals.” But we didn’t mind, because those JW girls? Top-tier. Not to mention, they always brought food. My older half-brother and I never missed a single gathering, which felt more like a lockdown drill or concentration camp, but whatever. We’d sit there pretending to soak in the spiritual vibes, when really, we were just eyeing the food and, well, the girls. Sure, our ‘preach love’ attempts failed miserably, but hey, at least we got fed.
Now, July 2002, my JW sister was gearing up for her final meeting before her wedding. She was about to graduate from the boarding school life. She cleaned the house like she was prepping for a royal inspection with everything gleaming. I, of course, took this chance to christen her freshly scrubbed toilet with a good ol’ number two. No water to flush.
Meanwhile, her JW friends were over, cooking up a storm. The smell of meat hit the air, and my half-brother and I shared a look. No words needed. Boarding school rule #1: If you’re cooking in the house, you better guard that pot like your life depends on it. Otherwise? Pieces will mysteriously start disappearing.
Meat was on the menu, and there’s no way I’m walking past without grabbing some. So, with me on lookout, my half-brother swiped chunks of half-cooked meat, expertly wrapping them in my sister’s clothes like a pro. We took our haul back to the room and got down on it like Kool & the Gang, living our best carnivorous lives.
Now, here’s where it got weird. I’ve eaten just about every type of beef, from goat to rabbit, but this? This was… different. Like, “what farm animal is this?” kind of different. I chalked it up to the fact it wasn’t fully cooked. My half-brother, on the other hand, was chomping away like Bugs Bunny on a carrot. This man’s eaten a snake before, so nothing fazes him. I asked, “Does this meat taste weird to you?” and he’s like, “Food doesn’t taste weird, it just tastes delicious.”
I gave up trying to Sherlock the situation and went for more rounds. Fast forward, we headed out to see which of my sister’s friends we could charm into a date. One of them started raving about the food, especially the meat. My half-brother’s all, “Yeah, that was fire!” Meanwhile, I’m over here like, “It was okay… just tasted a little off. What was that, anyway?”
She looks at me dead in the eye and says, “Oh, it wasn’t beef.” “Was it sheep?” I ask, thinking maybe my taste buds are just tripping. “No, no,” she replies. “It was more like the shepherd.” “The shepherd??” “Yes, a dog. That was dog meat.”
I froze. “Wait… wait a minute. You mean like… the barking kind of dog?!” She hits me with the sarcasm: “No, the talking kind.”
Now, this is where my soul left my body. “You didn’t know? Yeah, some of us from the southern part of the country eat the furry ones.” I wanted to vanish into thin air. Meanwhile, my half-brother? He’s chill, all like, “Damn, I gotta add dog to my list of delicious delicacies.”
I ran to the bathroom, trying to vomit. Lifted the toilet lid, and there it was—my earlier number 2 masterpiece, now swollen. I slammed the lid shut and ran outside, hand down my throat, trying to regurgitate the betrayal I’d just consumed. But nope, nothing. Only a tiny chunk came out.
After that whole dog-meat fiasco, it felt like every dog in town had me marked for life. I swear, they could smell the betrayal oozing out of my pores. Every time I walked by, they’d start barking like, “Get away from him! He’s a traitor! Don’t trust him—he eats his own!” It was like I’d been blacklisted by the entire canine community.
Dogs that used to wag their tails at me now gave me that side-eye, like, “Oh, we remember, the canines never forget. You thought we wouldn’t find out? You failed your four-legged friends, bro.” Took me months before I could even lookat meat again. Every bite felt like I was committing another unspeakable act of betrayal against the four-legged kingdom.
