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Sunday, June 16, 2019

Gift Of Crabs





Jimi twirled the pen in his hand, gazing intently at the woman in front of him.
“Sade, how long have we known each other?” he asked suddenly.
“One year,” she answered hesitantly.
“And how long have we been dating?”
“Six months,” she replied a bit faster this time.
Why was he asking all these questions on a Tuesday afternoon? As if he was reading her mind, he said:
“You know these questions have a purpose.  In the six months I have dated you, the question of compatibility has never come up.  We have both carried on under the assumption that we were suited for each other.”
He paused.
Sade began to shift uncomfortably in her chair.  Jimi ignored her body language and continued.
“You know most men don’t date women for their intellect.  What initially attracts a woman to a man is her body.  Specifically, her ‘attack,’ ” he said, patting his chest, “and her ‘defense’ are relevant features.  A pretty face is just jara.  There are certain men who want their women to come fully loaded with a formidable attack, the kind that does not require the additional services of a padded bra,” he said, using his hands to form the shape of a full, well-rounded set of mammary glands.  From his antics, Sade surmised that he was trying to describe a set of double-D cups.  He wasn’t done though.
” … And there are others who prefer that their women have a heavy and capable ‘defense,’ the kind that can comfortably support a glass of water, and if necessary, a complete 3-seater sofa.”
By now, he had gotten up from his chair and had migrated to a spot beside her, using his hands to form the shape of a firmer, fuller butt.  Sade uncrossed her legs and leaned forward slightly.
“So, which class of men do you belong to?” she asked coolly.
“You’re an intelligent girl.  I’m sure you know the answer to that question.  I am a member of both classes.  Now, I have convinced myself for …. how long have we been dating again …?”
“Six months.”
“Exactly.  For six months, I have convinced myself that your intellect was enough to make up for your obvious deficits, but I am tired of preaching to myself.  Anyone with eyes can see that you are both flat-chested and have absolutely no defense.  In fact, my brothers are more endowed in the defense department than you.  I think I can safely tell you that I’m moving on.  It’s over.”
Sade said nothing.  The crooked smile she had on her face the entire time Jimi was decorating her with insults, was still there.  His speech had not wiped off that smile.  It was now his turn to feel uncomfortable.
“Oya say something now … “
“Why? I rather enjoyed your speech.  You must have rehearsed it a couple of times, and I am certain that you’re not done.  You still haven’t told me who you’re leaving me for.”
Jimi was shocked.  This girl was not floored by his break-up speech, and was even demanding to know who his new girlfriend was.  He began to worry.
“What?! You’re not entitled to know that.  It’s none of your–“
“Oh, but I already know.  I just wanted you to say it with your mouth.  Since you’re not going to be a gentleman and finish what you started, I’ll do it for you.  It’s my kid sister, Bose, isn’t it?”
Jimi did not say a word.  He was dumfounded and began to ask himself how she knew.  He had covered his tracks very well and taken extra precautions, but–
“Don’t trouble yourself, ehn.  You’ll be happy to learn that she has Herpes.  In a few days, when you start itching and scratching your–” and at this juncture, she briefly glanced at the area below his waist, and then back at his face, “–you’ll know what your second early birthday present is. Two special gifts, just for you.”
Picking up her purse and leaving an astonished Jimi behind, she turned around and added: “I hope the crabs eat you for lunch, Mr. Attack and Defense.  Happy Birthday o!”
 By Sharon Salu (courtesy naijastories.com)







Thursday, June 06, 2019

A Touch of Spite (1)





True loves are the ones you reminisce about. The kinds you remember with a pang and an ache. They are always in past tense, because you never really know love till you are out of it. 

You also never forget the worst romantic involvements of your life. It is a well known fact; love and hate are siblings, very identical.

The other day I saw an ad for a writing competition with the theme, A Touch of Spice. They wanted a steamy love story. These writer people and their captions. They believe all experiences are to be chronicled.

 If I were to write a story about each of my relationships, the caption would be a touch of spite, or better, a handful of spite.

I ran my mind over some of my relationships, ticking them off one after the other till I got to a particular one that refused to be ticked off. That relationship was terrible.

 You see, they give you no warning in the beginning, these terrible ones. They always start up like the best thing to ever happen to a man. You keep feeling lucky and blessed until the ultimate shock.

 It is not anybody’s fault; spice and spite are so similar that if, while in the middle of the act, Spice goes to the bathroom and returns as Spite, you will not know the difference till the next morning, or the morning after.

And the girls in such relationships are always exquisite. The one in this particular relationship of mine is not like the others you have read about, or even thought about. 

You have heard people claim that someone is perfect and you have lied to your lovers that they were perfect. But I assure you, this one is no lie; she is perfect.

 I can repeat if you don’t believe. It is not a beauty one can capture on canvas or on any lens. God is the only artist that can draw her, and if He tries He might not even get her as He drew her in the beginning.

She is fair. Not screaming fair, but the creamy kind that is a blend of all light colours. Of course you know all beautiful girls are tall and slim, like mermaids and Sicklers.

 Her eyes cannot be described in words. If they fill with tears yours too will. This kind of girl you do not resist; this kind of girl you do not disagree with.

But I can really not convince you. I have only described her here like a work of art. You need to see her as she is.

I met her at a junction, the bus stop near my house. A taxi had just dropped her off. I tried very hard not to stare. She was all light and bright things, and she was walking towards me. 

I have never seen a gazelle walk, and I do not know why people like to compare themselves with animals; I don’t know who started the comparisons, but I do know that as she walked towards me, a gazelle was the word that pulsated from my mind.

“Excuse me,” she said, “Good evening.”

I delayed a few seconds before I turned her way. Then I arranged my face in an uninterested, unimpressed look, as if I see her type every day. 



This is the best style, mind you. Obvious beauties expect you to be awed and impressed by their look. If you are not, or pretend not to be, you will get their attention.

I did not bother to reply her greeting; I just nodded at her, big boy fashion.

“I am looking for no 3, Abudu Street. I don’t know if you know any Lola?”

I turned, flippantly, and pointed her down the street. “The Green gate, first floor.”

“Ok, that one? …Thank you,” she said, and turned to follow my directions. My eyes turned to follow her.

Lola’s elder brother was not exactly a friend of mine, we have argued sports once or twice in the evenings with other guys in the area, and I had been to their place only once. 

But I suddenly saw no harm in trying to become friendlier, even if for just an hour. So in twenty minutes I was knocking at the green gate too.

Lola, providentially, did not retreat with her visitor to any inner chamber when I arrived. Rather, she introduced us, and her brother and I joined the conversation. 

Things happened well. By the end of the evening I had the beautiful guest’s name, number and few other friendly details.

With the details, the Player in me took pre-eminence, thanks to the Art of Seduction. (May no woman read it).
So I arranged for accidents to happen all over her and around me. I accidentally started driving past her office just when she was leaving for home; I accidentally started attending the same church service… a lot of small-small accidents like that ensured her senses were never free of me.

And thus our romance began the usual way trouble starts; like play. Do not concern yourself with the particulars of the romance; you know a writer is lying when he remembers every detail of his life.

 But I think I recall the first time she came to my place, which was also the first time I achieved the ultimate goal with her.

The first time she was in my house, for the first few minutes, we concerned ourselves with the reasons for her wonderfulness and how she was so beautiful… on the inside. If you must tell a very beautiful lady about her beauty and be unique about it, then you must talk of her beauty within. She knows how she looks on the outside.

But I did not fail to chip in my inner qualities too. From our conversation it seemed her insides were more wonderful than mine, but, of course, a gentleman would always let the lady win and outshine at the initial transactions. 

The talk had begun with me sitting opposite her, but we soon found ourselves together on the sofa. Everything went exactly the way it always did. 

 At some point we were holding hands and I was, as expected, telling her about her fingers and how they looked so dainty, and then in the normal way the talking lessened and we grew quieter and everything got to that stage they always get especially in the movies when the couples eyes would be fixed on each other’s lips, before the dive.

Dive we did, speaking only in tongues and lips now. I am not a forgetful body, especially in these matters, but, I cannot remember how we got to the room. 

Believe it; a man speaks mostly the truth when he is talking about sex. You also do not expect a man to remember at what stage and in what manner the clothes came off. Only gay people dwell on that.

 But I do remember what gave me a slight pause. Ok, well, it gave me pause and shock only later, when I was reliving the exercise in bliss, but at that moment, that day, when she said it, I did not even blink. I just obeyed her and discarded the condom. I have never again heard of anyone allergic to latex.

That day, I remember that some foolish discouraging thoughts tried to intrude and discourage the whole enterprise; thoughts of the STD’s of medicine and the STDs of Christendom.

While the STD of medicine is caused by unprotected sex, the Christian STD is caused by any kind of sex without the protection of marriage and the license of Heaven.

 These two latter requirements are very hard to come by. The Christian STD is an eternal thing, very terminal. One never recovers from a Spiritual Termination of Destiny. Pregnancy is also a disease, but it isn’t as terrible as medical STD’s or the Christian STD.

I thought of all these in the thrice my chairman was poised before the place, her place.
But I am a man, and men have no sense, and I was even manlier at that moment. STD of whatever strain and variant has stopped no man. It was not about to stop me. 

Whatever happened next is none of your business. I don’t kiss and tell, and my chairman’s motion in there is classified info. But suffice it to say that we did the do. And the chairman was well sated.

From there, our romance blossomed and picked up and flew very high and left the earth. We were very much in love. I wish I could tell you all about it, but I forget some, and others I have wisely left out, because the acts of a man in love are filled with foolishness and stupidity, something an external audience should not observe.

 But I will tell you of how she turned from a touch of spice to a touch of spite. Brace yourselves....


 This is the Part 1 of this series which should have been posted before Part 2 . We apologise for the mix up.


By Kaycee (courtesy naijastories.com)



Tuesday, May 21, 2019

Touch Of Spite (2)





See, she did not break my heart. I am serious, she didn’t. Yes, I did not eat for some days, but that had nothing to do with her. I just did not have the appetite.

For the whole week that she refused to speak to me or see me, I had no hunger for food.

I was just worried.
That I did not date another female after her for more than a year didn’t mean that my heart was broken. I am a man, we do not get heartbroken.

Do not argue with me, it is my heart not yours. If a body’s heart gets broken, the body dies. My heart was just fine, still is, thank you.

Nothing really happened too. There was no offense on my part. The last time we were together, it was all blissful panting and enjoyable sighs.

This was routine. So when she did not take my calls the next morning, it was no issue for me. I began to worry when she did not call me or pick my calls the next day too.

Then she sent a text telling me that she wanted to be alone for some time because she wanted to think through some things.

I have never put much stock in what a woman would be thinking, so I felt I just needed to up my game, even though I was sure I was up there with cupid and the other masters of romance.

So I took the Art of Seduction and marked some pages and underlined some great ideas. Then I persevered and wrote some other great insights at the book edges and between the lines.

 But when a girl is evil, there is no strategy that will bring her back. That great book failed me.

Ok, it earned me one last audience with her for some minutes, but I don’t know if that should count because that interview that occurred at her door step was terrible.

When her door opened, joy flooded my heart; I observed that her eyes were a bit swollen and red. I also observed that she did not let me in.

“Sweetie, what happened? What is going on? Did I do something wrong?”

She raised her eyes at me, and for the umpteenth time I wondered what God was playing at when he made those eyes.

“I am pregnant.”

I swallowed, digested the swallow and swallowed some more. My heart stammered and then my lips exulted.




“What? Sweet heart! Are you serious? That is so wonderful! It is going to be a boy. I can't belie…”

The slap that slim fine lady gave me was worse than a gun shot. In my ecstasy I did not see it coming. My brain thought the world had ended. I could not see. I could not hear.

All those idiots who think women are weaker or harmless have never been slapped by a woman. Her door slamming shut inspired my brain to get hold of itself and give me balance. I found I was still standing and alive in front of the closed door.

I journeyed back to my car, flipped down my mirror and checked why the left side of my face felt like rusted heavy metal.

When a man survives blunt trauma, he naturally begins to evaluate how it happened. Now, in a saner world, pregnancy is a good thing. In the womb of the wise and pure women without bad intentions, a child is a testimony. 

A man swells with pride at the feat of impregnating a female body. But my own things are always different. My achievement was a blunt trauma worse than a stroke. Judge this matter and tell me how I did wrong? How I deserved that slap, and how pregnancy is a cause for break up?

I have always told you why women are not good things: They can never be predicted. Add this also to that list.

It is known that women are generally worse during pregnancy, and that their hormones and emotions swing like pendulum at many intervals. So, I had supposed, after that slap, that she will call me to apologize and tell me some nice things.

I supposed erroneously for two days.

I trampled on my ego and pride, and called her. She did not pick the calls. I supposed it was due to the bad cell network in the area. I wanted to go see her but the left side of my face would have none of it; it didn’t want another trauma.

So I sent her a text message. I put all my reason into that message which after five phone pages climaxed with the fact that I would marry her and will be a good man and father to our child.

My phone tringed with her message and I smiled in satisfaction.

“Go to hell!”
I removed my SIM card, blew at it, swiped it, blew inside the phone too for good measure and then reinserted the SIM.

“Go to hell!”

It was no SIM error. She wanted me to go to hell. And she did not say how long she wanted me to stay there.

Slowly, it took some hours, as I examined and cogitated on the three words of her reply text, it began to dawn on me, very gently, that she did not want anything further to do with me.

You find it strange too, right? She did not even want to marry me. Imagine that! This is me we are chatting about here. Did I not tell you she was evil?

Other single women play the pregnancy card to ensnare and enslave an unfortunate male, there I was, willing to be the unfortunate, yet she refused me.

What do you make of that?

While I was coming to terms with her message requesting me to go spend some time in hell, and if I agreed, how best I should undertake the enterprise, three sharp raps on my door interrupted me.

I opened the door and encountered three policemen. They looked at me, and my eyes replied...


 To be continued


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