In Defense of World Rapists Day

Going through my TL on twitter today I read that a wonderful man of god, Reverend Ogechi Ofurum, claims that rape is justified because of the way ladies dress ‘indecently’. Sometime last year Katsina’s State Attorney-General, Alhaji Ibrahim Dan-Soho made a case for rapists, in his own words ‘rapes are self-inflicted 90% of the time’. For those of you who do not understand English, this means most rape victims either rape themselves or force somebody to rape them!

I am not here to insult the ‘revered’ gentleman , who should be Christ-like in his approach to life and the people he’s supposed to shepherd or the intelligent Alhaji, who should be a vanguard of hope in our judiciary. Nope! I’m here to defend their reasoning and to advocate for a World Rapists Day, which I believe should coincide with Christmas or any other religious holiday during which love is preached, it would be so apt!

I was raped the first time I had sex. It was an older and trusted person who did me the favour of punishing me for being young and foolish. He is a hero! He cured me of my virginity, showed me that men cannot be trusted and taught me how to defend myself from would be rapists.

After the first time, two more men attempted to rape me, one a very close friend and the other the Pastor of a church I used to attend (thank heavens the guy cured me of all romantic beliefs in the sanctity of the church). Suffice to say that the two men rued the day they met me ... but enough about me.

To all sane men and women who are reading this piece, you who protest that rape is wrong, that it is dehumanizing, that it is a crime, I beg you to stop and move to the other side, let us form an association of ‘Nigerians Earnestly ask for Rapists’. We should hold a ‘One Million Man March for Rape.’ Yes, you read that correctly.

Rape should be legalized. Actually that’s why I love Nigeria, in a nice quiet way it is legal, on paper (as most of our laws are) it is a crime, but if you accidentally enter a police station to report a rape case you will be cured of all desire to ever do such again! You would be treated like a criminal! You would be asked questions meant to embarrass and anger you. You’d be treated like a pariah! You would be spoken to as if you just went in to the police station to confess a murder. God help you if you are vulnerable (eg a woman living alone, a young girl below the age of 18 or someone from a poor home).

By the way, in this great country of ours abortion is also quite illegal (like a lot of important things that would make life easier for women). So most women go to ‘doctors’ who specialize in abortions, men and women who have, in most likelihood, never seen the walls of a medical school before in their lives! These women (the word ‘woman’ is interchangeable with ‘sinner’ by the way) pay for it with their health and in a lot of cases their lives.

Women are nothing more than things in this country, you’re owned, first by your parents or male relatives who have the right to do anything they like with you. The paedophiles amongst them will molest you and the greedier ones will sell you off to the highest bidder given half the chance.

But I digress.

All rapists should be canonized. A lot of people would agree with me that too many women these days dress so indecently (including yours truly) .We go around baring parts of our bodies which should be only seen by the people who own the money on our ‘heads’, the person who has officially bought us by either sliding a ring on our fingers or better still paid the bride price. But no! We prefer to walk around the streets half naked, baring our breasts and arses to anybody who cared to look, we deserve nothing more than rape and nothing less than death sentences. Death to all sexy dressers! Off with their (our?) heads!

Although most rapists would not grab and rape us for being so dressed on the streets, rather they go home with their turgid wieners and rape the nearest girl (ages 3months to 99years). Rapists should be canonized. The fear of a rapist is the beginning of wisdom.

These men who lack self-control keep our society sane! They keep the women in their rightful place (the kitchen) and populate the face of the earth with children from their diseased loins. Yes rapists are heroes! They deserve 16 virgins when they get to heaven, who they can serially rape to their hearts’ content.

Rapists are wonderful, they are everywhere, they live among us. They believe they are god’s gift to women, the best thing since sliced bread. They are Superman, Spiderman and Robocop, all rolled into one great big specimen of manhood.

I know a lot of times in the process of raping a girl they also tend to beat them up, both physically and mentally, but all that does not matter, after all, men beat women up all the time, even women they are not married to.

I raise a toast to all rapists and encourage you all to continue doing the world this huge favour. We shall constitute a special squad for you called the Rapid Response Rape Team (RRRT) within the police ranks (a great opportunity for Policemen who specialize in raping sex workers). Where you will all be allowed to rape women and (if you swing that way) men who have not lived up to the high standards you guys live by.

You will be given the right to abuse anybody that dresses ‘indecently’ ... I wonder what happened to the ‘Act against indecent dressing in public’ passed by the Lagos State government (Eko o ni b’aje o) a few years ago. Such Acts would be resurrected. In fact rape victims should be arrested and thrown in jail (after they’ve been raped of course!).

We, as Nigerians, deserve the country we live in, we deserve the leaders in power presently, we deserve every humiliation these people mete out to us. When we are not giving our money to pastors, (who spend it on living the lives we dream about) with the hope that the Great Lord Above, will double it for us and turn us into overnight millionaires without us having to work too hard. We are out there condemning the very acts we indulge in, if not in reality but in our fantasies (the ‘gay marriage’ issue comes to mind).

We follow people blindly and refuse to question people in authority because we are cowardly and ignorant. We all want to go to heaven but we do not want to die. Ignorance and hypocrisy are the two words we live by. One thing by day, another by night.

We are sanctimonious and holy, we are all children of the Great White God who dwells in Heaven and the Great Black Man who dwells in RCCG on the expressway between Lagos and Ibadan.

We are always right and we can quote the bible passages our pastors quote at us word for word.

We are Nigerians, we Love and Defend rapists, the same way we defend our friends and relatives in government who are blatantly robbing us blind. If we had half the chance we would do EXACTLY the same.

Yes we would rape and plunder. We would steal from the mouth of the poor, employ underage children as maids, rape any girl that takes our fancy, pay our employees poorly or not at all (since there are many desperate people out there looking for jobs). Yes we can!

We are Nigerians. We defend the rights of men to rape. We want a World’s Rapist Day to encourage our men to rape in a more violent way, to rape more often. Rapists are Heroes!

I weep for my country.

If

if I shave off my beard,
change the colour of my hair,
go back in time, got born again.

if I spoke better grammar,
wore dolce and gabanna
the papparazzi on my Hummer.

if I become a bilgs gelz,
wore a lot more blingz,
counted my billionz with Bill.

if I'm related to Her Royal Majesty
the queen of England, Lizzie,
walked with my nose in the air.

if I got a new pair of tits,
a makeover from Style - lists
dropped names on the A- list.

if I got more class,
graduate with the masters,
kiss the air by your airse.

if I lived in the mews,
walked in jimmy choos,
rolled with the Gates.

maybe ...

The Hooves

Something to scare you witless ...

Come here, move closer, I can’t speak louder than a whisper, because the story I’m about to tell is of the spirits, and as you know those beings lurk everywhere. They are in the very air you breathe. If you don’t believe me please explain to me in detail how the internet works without descending into gibberish.

So my dear young lady, pull your chair closer and let me tell you of my adventure with one of them. This tale is true, I swear, every word I say is the Gospel, I have neither added nor taken anything away from it.

I will continue my dear, what you people lack nowadays is patience and the strength to whisper, whisper m’dear, don’t shout.

I had just bought my first Peugot 404, with my first salary, this was way back in the seventies. I decided to wash it for my friends and all of us planned to hook up at a peppersoup joint along Oke-Ado.

What I’d forgotten was the fact that I had another party in Abeokuta on that same day, my grandfather had been dead for some years, but some of his children decided to turn him on his other side, because the side on which he had been sleeping on must be aching, and they did it the old honourable way of throwing a chop and quench party.
I had to be there or my mother would have had my head.

So there I was in Abeokuta, conscious of the fact that my friends were waiting for me in Ibadan. As you well know, there were no mobile phones in those days, so I really had to turn up or I would be forever known as the man who reneged on a promise.
At 12pm on the dot, I jumped into my car and commenced the drive to Ibadan, of course I did not tell my mother or she would not have allowed me to leave.

To cut a long story short, I was nearly in Ibadan, at Omi Adio to be precise, my headlights picked out the figure of a young lady standing by the road side. I was shocked, what was she doing out flagging down cars that time of the day? In those days armed robbers were the last things on your mind, the country was enjoying a boom then, and all those caught stealing were instantly executed.

You got that right my girl, mob justice, tyres, petrol and matches ... and boom!

There goes the thief.

Barbaric? Aren’t we all animals?

Now back to my story.

I drove past her, but something inside, some insistent voice made me return to her. I reversed and smiled at her, I asked her what she was doing at that time of the night in that part of town, I asked her where she was going and finally I asked her if she wouldn’t mind a ride.

She smiled at me then

I thought you’d never ask.

Till date I don’t know whether she said those words to me or sent it by telepathy.

Anyway as she stepped into my car, I tried to speed off, but she was too strong for me. She sat down and asked me why I was such a scaredy cat. I pointed at her legs. She smiled at me and said that was exactly why she was going to borrow mine, she showed me her face, her arms, flashed me a pair of pert breasts, a flat stomach.
She needs to snag herself a man she said, a real man not a manling like me. She’d have me for breakfast, she said casually, and that would not fill her up, she needed one that she can also have for lunch and dinner.

See every part of me? I had to borrow from some people. As you can see there’s only one part of me left, my legs, I like yours. I’ll just borrow them and hopefully return them to you soon. From the way you’ve been pressing down on that accelerator I can see they are in perfect working order. She said and leaned close to me, she stank like a he-goat.

That was the last thing I remembered. Till date I don’t know how I got to the hospital. The people that found me met my car intact, I was slumped over the steering wheel.

Did she borrow your legs?

Oh she did, she did all right.

How come you can still walk then uncle?

Why she replaced mine with hers.

Stop laughing, I can show you her legs, they are right here.

I pulled up my trousers and showed her my goat legs complete with hooves.

Falling in love

I spotted her as soon as I entered the fast food restaurant next door to my office.
Our eyes caught and I noted she’s another tall, slim, fair skinned girl. Yellow girls are notorious for catching people’s attention, I thought dismissively, most of them turn out to be unattractive by the second look.

I bought lunch and as I swung around to leave, her gaze locked with mine again. I noted her nose, lips, those eyes bored into mine, they whispered promises.

I walked out and promptly forgot about her?

She was seated at the same table the following day. Her eyes lit up as I entered. I groaned inside and pretended I didn’t see her. That long neck, I had always sneered at people who waxed poetic about people’s necks, now all I wanted to do was run my hand from her neck to her cheek. Those lips, how would they feel if I kissed them?

What did I buy?

I walked out of the restaurant in a daze, my thoughts spun round and around, those lips, those eyes, she should quit it! I’m not going to walk up to her table, I won’t sit down. I won’t.

My heartbeat picked up as I approached the restaurant. I willed my feet not to skip towards those doors. I took a deep breath and looked up, she was there. She smiled at me.

I walked over to her table, stretched out my hand which was grasped in her warmth. Her smile grew wider.

Hi, my name is Ngozi, what’s yours? I said as I sat down beside her.

She smiled, we held hands as we walked out of the restaurant together.

A Loss of Memory

I write this with a lot of reluctance.

Not as a response to Richard Ali and his ilk who seem to thrive on controversies and mud-slinging. The hysteria and melodrama that accompanies everything they say is off-putting and extremely boring.

This is written for people who cared enough to ask for my own ‘side of the story’. I fear no man.

First off I’d like to state categorically that I did not ‘formally’ invite Richard Ali to Laipo, the writer’s platform that I started over a year ago in conjunction with NSIAC(Nigerian Society for Information on Arts and Culture) and Booksellers. As writers who have been to Ibadan will testify, you can only consider yourself formally invited when Mrs Pimoh, the Librarian at NSIAC calls you.

So I don’t know the phone call Richard Ali referred to in his first point.

There is nobody that goes by the name Shola who is a member of Laipo, and I can’t remember anybody from NSIAC who goes by that name either. So I am totally baffled by this call received by Richard Ali. The question is when this ‘Shola’ called him to tell him that his reading has been ‘called off’ because it was going to be ‘boycotted’ why did he not make enquiries immediately?

There is however, an aggrieved member of Laipo, an elderly gentleman who heard about the accusation of plagiarism levelled against Rotimi Babatunde by Maiwada, a man Richard Ali is associated with. This gentleman called me and said that he does not want Richard Ali featured at the event. I told Afi about this call, who was at that time staying in my house (as she usually does anytime she’s in Ibadan) not because I planned to ‘uninvite’ someone who has already been invited, but because she’s my friend.

I placed a call to Mr Mosuro and Mrs Scott-Emuakpor, and informed them about what happened, they agreed with my point that the event will hold, because even if Maiwada wrote a book worth featuring nothing will stop us from inviting him, since the club is about books.

I, immediately (this word is used deliberately) put a call through to Afi (who had by then returned to Lagos) to inform her that she shouldn’t worry about the reading, we were going ahead with it.

Two days to the reading I stumbled on a tweet exchange between Richard Ali and another tweep where he stated categorically that he was NOT coming to Ibadan. I called Afi and asked her what was going on and that was when she decided to tell me that Abubakar and Richard were not coming. I was annoyed and asked her why I wasn’t informed earlier so as to make other arrangements but I did not get any straight response, so I immediately called up other people who graciously agreed to attend in spite of the short notice.

I want to ask Richard Ali who he called when he ‘declined’ the invitation. In his typical fashion he claims to be ‘censored’ and in the same breath claims he ‘declined’ to attend the event. Which one is it Richard Ali? Were you ‘censored’ (and by whom)? Or did you ‘censor’ yourself?

The next point I want to call him up on is his reference to Mr Kolade Mosuro, who he claims is a ‘philanthropist’ and ‘bankrolls’ Laipo. He said Mr Mosuro ‘dissociated’ himself from the way he (Richard Ali) was being treated. I do not recall Mr Mosuro ever meeting Richard Ali talk less of holding forth a discussion on Laipo and the role he plays in it. I will also like to ask Ali, since he’s so fond of making references to ‘evidence’ to please state the time and place this conversation took place.

If Richard Ali’s blog hadn’t been so mind-numbingly repetitive and full of hyperboles I would have been outraged. He asked me why I didn’t respond to his ‘interview’, well because I find all these tiresome. I don’t engage in fruitless argument or discourse with people who can’t even get their facts straight.

As to his demand to have the name of this elderly gentleman made ‘public’ simply because he expressed his opinion, I find that disturbing, to say the least, because somebody here is obviously suffering from delusions of grandeur.

Three easy steps to riches beyond your wildest imaginations

I have to tell my story before I die. That much is clear to me as I lay on my bed contemplating how I got to this place, at this point in my life.

My name is Owolabi, I was born somewhere in Ibadan in the mid-70’s. My parents are retired civil servants. The one thing I have not been able to discover, is the reason why they decided to name me Owolabi, which in Yoruba means ‘we have given birth to wealth.’

I snigger when I think of my name and where I am right now.

I can hear their noise, ah! I’m in trouble. It is a quarter to 10. I should be able to finish telling my story before it’s 12 o clock, I am sure it’s my mind playing tricks on me.

My parents were not fetish, in fact they laugh at most people who believed in witches, wizards and other sundry spirits. They were not religious either, when the wave of Pentecostalism hit Nigeria, it somehow passed over their heads. We never went to church, but they believe there’s a Supreme Being who watched over everything that happened to human beings, they believe the Being has a wicked sense of humor.

Yesterday, in a bid to clear my conscience and prepare my parents for any eventuality, I had gone home and confessed all to my parents, who to my astonishment fell about laughing instead of feeling sorry for me.

“Forget that bladderdash!” Father had said, “Everything that happened was just coincidental, anyway I hope you’ve learnt your lessons ... if you survive till the day after tomorrow.” Father was practically rolling on the floor with laughter when he said the last sentence the book he had been reading fell on the floor. Mother tried to keep a straight face and appear sympathetic but she failed woefully. I am their only child and I’m about to die, and they are laughing. My parents are crazy. But then I run ahead of myself, let me tell you the story.

I graduated from the University of Nsukka over 14years ago where I read a course in
Engineering. After graduation and Service I went back for my masters. By the time I finally left the four walls of the university, most of the guys that I went to school with had already started doing something with their lives. I stayed at home for the first six years, walking from one company to another, attending tests and interviews. Translation: I couldn’t get a job.

I eventually got a job in a secondary school teaching Maths, Physics and Chemistry to the poor unsuspecting students. This job I did for three years, I was still at home, I still could not afford to feed myself because the pay was so poor I could barely transport myself to work. After a while I started helping the weak students, I don’t know why the school authorities thought my method of helping the poor kids by showing them the answers to tests and exams before they actually sit for them was wrong.
Their parents had money and I had the services, and we all know those students wouldn’t have passed if I hadn’t helped them. To cut a long story short I was fired by the school authorities when some bad-belle parents went to complain that I was aiding exam malpractices in the school.

That had to happen when I was finally able to meet my financial obligations and moved into my own apartment.

After losing that job, I tried everything, I played ‘Baba Lotto’, worked in a sweet making factory, tried to be a hustler (and discovered the life is not as easy as people make it out to be) and finally ended up working on a chicken farm for peanuts.
Then one stupid manager who doesn’t know the difference between a chicken and a pig started harassing me sexually. Why would I want to sleep with an overbleached piece of womanhood, who starved herself regularly in the name of dieting? Her bones stuck out all over the place and her face, which would have been pretty, wore a perpetually hungry look, the poor girl reminded me of those children people like posting on social medias as the representation of African Children (capitalization deliberate).
I told the poor girl the truth about her lack of backside, the smell of bleaching and the odour that oozes out of her ‘real Brazillian’ hair that her expensive perfumes couldn’t manage to cover and the girl hit the roof.

She had me fired.

So I set up a chicken farm with the money I had managed to save.

All the chickens died.

I stayed indoors and despaired.

That was when Suraju came into my life. He was one of the regulars at one drinking joint like that where I go to drown my bitterness in bottles of beer. I didn’t know he had been studying me until he walked up to me one night.

“Egbon I’ve been watching you for close to three years.” He said to me. There’s no doubt about the fact that Suraju was not a bad looking dude, but I don’t swing that way.

“Come on Egbon, I’m not propositioning you, what I mean is that you have been very kind to me but I think life has not been kind to you, especially in respect to your wonderful name.”

Well he can say that again, I’m an Owolabi without a penny to my name. I laughed at everything, at nothing.

He drew close to me, he smelt surprisingly clean for a man who had taken twice the amount of beers that I drank that night.

“If you want to know the three steps to easy wealth, call me on this number by 9am tomorrow, not earlier or later, it has to be nine on the dot.” He said as he slipped a card into my hand, he turned back and disappeared into the night.
My eyes were bleary and my head pounded like someone was playing steel drums in my head the following morning but I had the presence of mind to call Suraju at 9 on the dot.

Oh God, I can hear spirit noises outside my window, although as I peer through my curtains I can’t see anything, there’s a shape drawing near, maybe I should drop the curtain and hide under my bed. Oh it’s the night guard. They can’t be here yet, it’s just some minutes after eleven, I should stop panicking... watch out for Part II.

The Padlock

My name is Florence, and before you start judging me, I’ll have you know that I LOVE THE LORD, I know I shouldn’t have shouted at you but then you will have to pardon me, I needed to make that point even before I start telling you my story.

I am going to be 35years old in the next few months. I am a medical doctor and I’m doing quite fine in Neurological Sciences circles.

To the outsider I have it all, a great career, nice car, fantastic flat (that I bought with my own money) and a great body.

I know I’m a beautiful woman, thank you very much!

Since I’m writing this story you must have guessed that all is not well in my paradise, yes my dear brother or sister, you know that saying ‘all that glitters is not gold’? Yes that one, I'm now a cliche.

I am a beautiful, intelligent woman who is the envy of her peers, but as my pastor, my mother, my siblings, church members and even Facebookers and Tweeps (whom I’ve never met, nor likely to meet) has pointed out over and again, all these things are NOT important.

I am a failure.

Yes I said it, and no I do not have an inferiority complex. Why would I suffer from that kind of thing when I know exactly who I am and what I want out of life? The problem started when I was born a girl, I still don’t understand it, I should have come as a boy, all women should have been male so that there will be equality in the world, and no, I’m not a feminist, I dislike those manly women almost as much as I dislike all those married women in my church who flaunt their husbands and children in my face.

I can tell you expressly that I know I’m the child of the Most High God, the best friend of Jesus Christ. I am a staunch member of my church and I give my tithe even far above what is required of me. In spite of my tight schedule I do volunteer work in church and I belong to about 3 departments and these 3 will practically fall apart without me. I tell you no lie.

As per what I want from life ... A husband and three children. Two boys and one girl, Jesutito, Jesuwalaye and Jesuseyifunmi. Is there anything wrong with picking out names for your unborn children? The names are written down in my prayer

notebook, the date on it is 7th of August 2000, that is just to show you how long ago I’ve been asking God for my own family.

I do not possess a single bone of jealousy or envy in my body, anytime there’s going to be a wedding in church and another one of those little girls with little sense and those blind brothers decide to put a wedding band on each other’s fingers I always make myself available for those occasions. Some of these broke people even approach me to help finance their weddings, (rubbish!).

I don’t think I’ve asked the Lord for too much, since I did most of the work of passing my medical exams and performing exceedingly well in my duties as a doctor without divine intervention.

Recently I met a Christian brother, Poju, who is the embodiment of everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. He is a fiiiiine boy! He is not only fine he also has good taste, you should see the designer clothes this brother wears to church. He trained as a fashion designer in one of those swanky art schools in America and has just returned to Nigeria to start his own fashion label. He is well traveled, a wine connoisseur and he reads! Frankly he can easily give all those romance novel heroes a run for their money any day!

Immediately he joined the church I was drawn to him. Not only because of his good looks and wealth, but he is also my intellectual equal, we spend hours arguing one fine point of the books we’ve read or the other, we critiqued movies and loved eating the same type of food. It would appear that the Good Lord has finally answered my prayers.

Immediately he came into my life, I went to buy a suit for him which I kept in my wardrobe and every morning I pray him into the suit. I will point my hand at the clothes and imagine his body filling them. Ah my brother (or is it my sister?) that man is fiiiiiiine (I said that already abi?) and that body! Jesus walks!

From the moment we met Poju and I became inseparable, we enriched those thieving telephone network companies with our constant calls.

It got to a point that we started seating beside each other in church and people started noticing us. For the first time since I joined that church, people looked at me with envy and I felt a deep sense of satisfaction, the wait had been worth it.
My mother heard the news through the grapevine and was overjoyed. Life is good ... or so it appeared.

When I told my mum that I was disturbed about the fact that Poju had never touched me before. The best we’d done was exchange chaste goodnight kisses. My mother was shocked at the turn my thoughts were taking. Impure thoughts she called them. She did not raise me as one of those nymphomaniacs who seem to enjoy sex, it is shocking the things you see these days my mother said in consternation, all those girls enjoy sex and they even ask for orgasms, it is so not lady-like!

After that day I stopped talking about my failed attempts at luring Poju into my bed. I have ‘accidentally’ touched him before and I’ve seen him rise to the occasion once when we were in church and some boys and girls seated in front of us were shaking their bodies to the Lord, Poju is a yansh man and thank God for giving me that gift.
So I am darn sure that he does not have a problem in that department, I concluded that he must be one of those who actually don’t believe in sex before marriage, not those ones that do everything but penetration and still claim to be virgins.

In order to ensure Poju’s full cooperation in our upcoming nuptials (although the dense man had not proposed at that point in time) my mother took me to one of my uncles, a pastor who is well versed in the spiritual arts. Don’t get me wrong, he does not practice all those fetishes some of these ancestral spirit worshipers engage in, he is just more spiritual than the average Christian.

The long and short of the story is that he gave me a padlock and a key, which he assured me was my spirit and Poju’s spirit. The padlock was Poju and I was the key. Once the key (that’s me) has locked the padlock (that’s Poju) his eyes will be opened to the fact that he loved me all along, that he’s never loved anyone as much as he loved me and he will marry me immediately and all my dreams will come true and the Lord Jesus would finally shut the big mouths of my enemies. And a trailer full of joy will hit me as I cross an expressway, a trainload of happiness will crush me on my way to work, a plane full of health and wealth will crash on me as I sit down in my lovely sitting room.

He told me to keep the padlock and key in a safe place in case I decide to unlock the thing by myself because once it is locked both of us are locked together forever and there’s no escaping the person, and if we go our separate ways without opening the lock and doing the appropriate rituals, both of us will die, slowly and painfully. That sounds right up my alley. I love padlocks and keys.

True to my Uncle’s words, as soon as I locked the thing ‘pam’ like that, my phone rang, it was Poju. He was anxious to see me, when I told him I was doing some stuff in my village, he insisted that I must return to Ibadan immediately. When I got to his house I found him pacing his sitting room. As soon as he saw me his countenance changed and he hugged me (which goes to show how much he’d missed me).

He knelt down and asked me to be his wife. I was short of all other words except ‘YES!’ and ‘THANK YOU JESUS!’

Wedding preparations started in earnest, and I was sad when Poju resisted all efforts on my part to make him kiss me. But then the days of my patience were numbered so I did not mind so much.

Early yesterday morning... this is difficult but I have to do it

Early yesterday morning the person that brought our platinum wedding bands from England called to inform me that the rings were ready, I quickly went to Poju’s house to pick up my atm card that I had forgotten there two days earlier, so I can pay the girl. I thought I heard sounds from Poju’s room so I entered and met him being taken from the back by his personal assistant, Kabir.

The two men scrambled for their clothes and Poju burst into tears. He loved me and nobody else he claimed, it was just sex and nothing more between him and Kabir. Although he can’t stand the idea of a woman touching him in a sexual way, he was willing to sacrifice himself for me and that’s the depth of his love for me.

He and Muhammad were just having a goodbye fuck, from now on, he said as tears streamed down his face, he will be faithful to me, the look of dismay on his face when he uttered the word ‘faithful’ had me gasping with laughter.

The implications of what happened eventually sank into my consciousness, I fainted, not because of my discovery, but because yesterday morning I had traveled down to Lagos and thrown the padlock and key inside the sea.