MURDER, SHE WROTE

I am sure her braids were made of strips of rawhide. The wind was mercilessly flogging my face with the million braids, but I was not fazed. It kept me awake and alert, lest I fall asleep ridding on an Okada behind a delectable chic . I don’t mind too, the metal rail that was making minced meat of my pelvic bones. I was practically perched on the edge of the seat as her fanny was pressing down heavily, and pushing back, hard against me crouch, ouch!.

She was a drop-dead gorgeous diva- looking like she just walked out off the cover of a PlayBoy magazine. She got a face like Omotola, Hips like Beyoncé, and , a figure Shakira will be envious of. Those emerald eyes must never have seen evil, nor has that wine-red-lip-sticked pouting kisser, emitted any foul word. A man will go verily, verily, on straight to heaven if those well-turned legs should wrap around his midriff; and…maaaaan… those tempting-to-touch thighs, the entire lengths of them barely concealed by a pair of denim shorts, are a artist’s masterpiece. Those legs, if they should straddle a brotha , walahi, he will find himself floating in fluffy clouds amongst the stars of the 7th heaven. I can kill myself to get such visa. But I want to stay earth-bound if such heavenly creatures as this winsome lass could be found on here.

I found a little heaven in that beyoncé asrse sitting right on top of my balls. It could have been hell: the ride was one bumpy grind: the frequent bouncing of the Okada, in-and-out, in-and-out, in-and-out of unending potholes on the road to mile-2 from Okokomaiko, almost made it a hell for me. Her heavy bums were scrambling my eggs and making puddings of my Banana. A sizzling Hell that was.

But murder she, wrote. I got off the bike before her, having arrived at my bus stop. I really couldn’t go on with the torture. You would think a brotha should prolong the sweet sensations, and “ride or die”, but my rationality geared into motion. The pain was fast superseding what small pleasures there were. I had the good sense or stupidity to save my life to get down, and not go on to Oshodi-Isalé, or wherever she might be headed. I must have paid her fare in that daze, but I can’t remember such insignificant occurrence now. I have my mind on to-do things for next opportunity.

Define excruciating pain, something more than that is what I feel all over me. My eyes, I can no more open then wide enough in the blazing glare of the sun- they hurt like hell would, having been whooped so mercilessly by La Femmé Fatalé’s Million-And-One Braids. I could virtually see the redness of my sore eyes. It is a sorry thing. My balls, having taken so much hit, I can’t feel them no more, I’m sure they’re done for, this time, and lost for good; those goodly eggs , the pair of them; My Bum-bum is toast for sure; It must have swollen to 6-times its usual twin-burger size, and burnt so black it’s blue. The poor thing has been constantly chafed and pounded by the metallic part of the bike’s seat. I can’t even touch them now, because they feel like fire when touched.

How I endured all that grilling beats me. I can’t even account for what I got out of being an uncomplaining gentleman. But in all christian honesty, I can’t say I have given up my body for persecution for nothing. Reminiscent now (some of the pains assuaged) I count it all joy. Yesiree. I does.

I remember that Mona Lisa smile, O…M…G…! O.M.f**king.G! how my heart skipped ten beats and did a hundred flips in a second. Her smile had started from deep within those universes in her doe-like eyes, diffused to the Red-Hot-kisser, and spread wanly over the angelic-visage, and gave light to the stars. In there is the potency to turn the North Pole into Eden of flowers. That face- the heart-shape of it; the cherubim dimples; that graceful fulani-maiden neck balancing the pretty head; the so-so lovely twin-hills jutting off that heaving bosom; whoever has them can do no wrong. You know why? Because they can only belong to an angel.

I still think I deserved to have that angel for my forbearance and long suffering. Yes, I think, therefore I do!

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3 thoughts on “MURDER, SHE WROTE

  1. In the arts,the primary concern dwells on craft,feeling and expression,and targetted audience.To this extent,you are on course.
    Self control gives balance,then class to self expression-the moral angle here.
    You may wish to check the spelling and grammatical errors e.g fair instead of fare.

    Like

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