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Enough of these love songs I be playing on a daily. She is not coming back to me. She is never redeeming her pledge of staying with me all her life. Should I not cuss her for having forevouched loyalty to me, I might die of a heart break. She did not appear to mind my chronic igbotic accent and breathtaking mouth odour; she said she loved me for my humour and smartness, not even the fat bills that stockpiled my KOM KOM. A bloody liar she was. MONICA, GOD GO PUNISH YOU!

It seemed to me that I was not going to leave her alone having given hours to watch her wash her dirty garments. Oh! Such a rear-end that Grisham described as reasonable grounds to stopping a busy traffic with the ballpark of say 100 curious eyes. Every adjustment of her legs was not without a waist magic that made secure the swerving of her buttocks. The short wrapper that settled loosely on her bosom had the effrontery to display her thighs; her spotless bow legs were just a centre of excellence. That I ever got bruised by Monica was my attempt to use my callous palm to stamp my authority on that pellucid load of hers on three occasions. The slaps were deserved but it was the only way I could be with witty opportunity to viewing her bouncing peptus which were most probably bigger than every watermelon my dad bought every Tuesday whenever he stops at aunt Ronke’s store. With her waggling, there was no atom of seriousness in her chest area as it betrayed her motive but did well to map out the stealth location of my daggling modifier initially at rest in my bogus underpant. She would notice this and fear a rape scene was cooking due to the hours of the day I succumbed to this ritual mischief plus she was fully aware of the fact that the distance of houses closed chances of her screams being heard, she knew she would only be with aid on a miraculous basis. She did not savvy that my heart was dirty but not to the point of applying force to get her cookie. I would adopt the mocking laugh and walk gracefully as though the slaps pattered on my pimple-condemned face was of little or no effect.

Every night was a hit. I had stolen her picture from Whatsapp and ever admired her photo before I transit to dream world. Everything happened in my dream. My mom had to advise me to lock my room after she bounced in on one occasion only to be taken aback at how my four dollar foot long got misplaced from its habitual niche in a very hard and huge way of expressing my state of mind. But with incessant thoughts and no actions, I knew madness might catch up with me. I was tired of the heavy petting, lip locking, pillow cuddling, underpants swapping, and moaning routine in my bedroom, so my best shot was a confession of love to Monique. I remember going on my knees the following day and telling her my crappy story. “Monica. It is you I want. I can do anything to be with you and keep you”. Now that was the only thing I said and the only thing I regretted. All my savings got wiped slowly but consistently, thanks to ever demanding lips. If I try to protect my money box, she would rumple that spot allegedly safeguarded by my pantaloon. She was evil. The consideration she always gave to calm my hot blooded libido was copulation on her birthday. I waited like Job for April 1, 2017 to participate actively and powerfully. It was now two days away but the clock either tested my patience or had some battery dispute to settle – damn! Way too slow.

The crow of the cock in my compound welcomed me into the first day of April. I woke up late that morning having spent so much time cogitating on how the forbidden orifice would be served hot and the scene that staged the episode. My money that had polished her was to be paid in full. All my life savings which used to be proudly N56, 000 until Monique licked it with no compunction, was to be regained in bed with 5 rounds for a start and infinity up front. With quick feet, I left for Charlie’s home, got some weed inhaled for high performance and returned to find Monica. The concierge of the compound came around and with fresh tenants. They entered the crib I thought Monica occupied and were talking finances. She had moved? She had. I was her April fool. She was the only girl with such piercing cleavage and voluptuousness (shrugs). She was no more. I have never been this foolish.

                      © OKOCHA OBED 



My name is Okocha Obed, you can call me Obeezy. I love to display aesthetics through my ink—I must say writing is my small world. I consider myself a deep writer; I say I am deep because I have discovered that part about myself, even, my fabulous audience share same view. I believe in connecting to all kind of persons as there is always something to learn from everyone. I see myself as an actor; to stay on the stage, I need to think ink. The voice is a reflection of myself and my conscience. I always felt I could be like superman while growing up. It was pretty ridiculous so all I did was dream of being a soldier. It was abortive. So I created a world where I could keep talking about the ills in my community but with other flavours to show I am growing into completeness. keep reading.

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