Mrs Adebowale helps a Stranger

I apologise that it’s been a while since we put up anything. Been busy, life and its works. But you know us, always ready to kill you with awesomeness. Right Tele?

 Teleola: *giggles sheepishly while reading text from lover*

Anyway. If you ever read the Mrs Pollifax stories by Dorothy Gilman, about the straw-hatted, grandmotherly, sexagenarian CIA superspy with a penchant for deadly judo, then you’ll know what to expect.

Enjoy abeg.. 😀

Introducing Mata Hari in 'I Spy - the movie'
Introducing Mata Hari in ‘I Spy – the movie’

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Inspired by True events from the life of the greatest woman I know.

****

The figure darted out of the dark bushes to her right and right into the glare of the headlights. Mrs Adebowale slammed her right foot hard on the brakes, the 2004 Chrysler 300C, pistons charging angrily, slid sideways into a crushing stop.

Who the hell was that?

Forty-six year old Christina Adebowale was no stranger to danger. Born in Onitsha, Eastern Region at the onset of the Biafran war, her instincts had been honed from birth. And right now, her instincts urged her to lift her foot off the brake and zoom off.

Christina Adebowale pressed a button that locked the doors. The reassuring click as the locks all snapped shut buoyed her. Then she glanced at her rearview mirror. The road was dark and empty. Where was the person? All the way down for where she was up until perhaps Lagos, the Benin-Lagos expressway looked as empty and dark as the plains of Mor…

A figure slammed against her driver-side window. Mrs Adebowale let out a shriek. Her hands flew to her gear lever, and she almost zoomed off then. She wondered why she didn’t later on. But at that moment, something stilled her hand, and her heart.

The figure outside the window was a woman in her late thirties, (young by Mrs Adebowale’s standards). The woman was dressed in a dark green tracksuit, and she looked about to die. The suit was torn in several places and dark red blood stains coated her face, her clothes, and matted in her hair alongside a bramble of twigs and leaves and sand.

A madwoman?

Please help me! Please!” The woman said. Mouthed more like, because the heavy density glass partition between them, allowed very little sound to filter through.

If one had asked her, before now, if she would stop on the road for a random stranger, Mrs Adebowale would have replied in a vehement negative. But here she was at 8:05pm, parked right in the centre of the Benin-Lagos expressway, at the section that leads through the Ovia forest, considering whether to wind down her glass to talk to a total stranger, who not only seemed mad, but was also probably dangerous.

But then Mrs Adebowale never did anything ordinarily.

Only a few hours ago, she had been rounding up a lecture on ‘Mis-accountancy and the future of Nigeria in the Global market‘ in Akure. The lecture had started later than scheduled, and at the end, she had to choose between sleeping in a hotel in Akure and entering her car for the two hour drive home.

Mrs Adebowale had driven into a hotel and asked the manager if they had a room with a big TV. The surprised manager had replied “Of course!” She had then asked if they received TVTV, to which the even more surprised man had replied “No. But we have DSTV”

Mrs Adebowale had walked out. Bad enough she wouldn’t be able to watch her TV show with her daughter in the comfort of her home, but not to watch Jumong at all?

She had entered her car, and called her daughter. “Hey, I’m on my way. In case I don’t get back on time, record the Jumong oh!”

Then she put her headlights on full beam, and drove into the road.

*****

Mrs Adebowale wound down her window.

“Please, madam! Help me! Kidnappers!” The woman in the tattered tracksuit blurted out, tears and mucus running down her face.

At that moment, a shot rang out in the darkness. The report all the louder in the stillness that was the lonely night. The woman in the tracksuit let out a short squeal and made to dart across the road to the other side. Mrs Adebowale made her decision.

“Get in!” She hollered.

The tracksuit lady needed no further cajoling. Jumping in through the open back door, she lay flat on the seat.

Spinning the car around in first gear, Mrs Adebowale once more pointed the nose for Benin as she stepped hard on the accelerator. The vehicle jumped forward, and not a moment too soon. In her rearview mirror, she could see two men run into the road, long, dangerous looking weapons in their hands.

Mrs Adebowale flashed instantly to the Korean TV series she watched with her daughter. What was that action one? Bridal Mask? Twisting the steering as she saw the muzzle of one of the guns flash, she tossed the nimble car to the left and then back to the right. The gunshots seemed louder and more ominous. From the back seat, the tracksuit lady was sobbing and praying, but it seemed they were unhurt. The kidnappers kept shooting, but the car was out of range.

The speedometer needle climbed up to 100mph, then 110mph. Mrs Adebowale held it there for five minutes. Then as the adrenaline supply began to taper off, she eased to 70mph.

“So talk to me! Who are you? What happened just now?” Her normal calm voice came out as a high-pitched cry.

“My name is Mrs Roberts, and those men kidnapped me.”

Jite Roberts told the story of how she had come back home from the gym after work (Mrs Adebowale nodded appreciatively), and while horning at her gate for the kids to come open, a trio of gunmen had suddenly appeared at her side. Wrenching open the door of her vehicle before she had time to react, they had forced her into theirs and drove off.

They blindfolded me. My neighbours couldn’t help me! Everybody was scared. The kidnappers shot into the air.” Jite Roberts said.

While she talked, Mrs Adebowale listened, and kept a sharp eye on the rearview mirror. While she had no fears that the kidnappers couldn’t run her down, not while she drove this six-cylinder monster at least, she was however concerned that they hadn’t given chase. There were no tell-tale headlights in the rear. It raised questions, and whatever raised questions didn’t go well with Mrs Adebowale.

“Have they demanded a ransom?”

“Fifteen million,” Jite replied succintly. Her voice clearer now as the sobs subsided.

They had extracted her husband’s international number from her and demanded the sum. The man, his voice breaking in panic, had insisted he needed time to wire the money from the UK. So they had roughed her up, while he listened, till he almost cried over the phone. Satisfied he was going to pay up, and that she was comatose, the kidnappers had retreated to a corner to smoke a joint. That was when she crawled away.

Mrs Adebowale admired her courage, but a question nagged at her.

“How many of them where smoking when you ran?”

“The three of them.”

“But only two were shooting at us earlier.”

“Maybe the other went into town to get…” Her voice trailed off into despair.

At that moment, the roar of a powerful engine tore through the quiet night and powerful headlights, beaming at full intensity, cut a swathe in the darkness barely ten metres away on the right shoulder of the road.

There was no time to react, only action. Old age they say blunts one’s reaction time, but intuition is honed by years of experience.

After lifting her foot off the accelerator just a moment, her naked instincts urguing her to stop the vehicle, Mrs Adebowale stepped harder on the throttle. The big car lurched forward, the HEMI engine churning sparks from the exhaust. But it wasn’t fast enough. The front end of the Toyota Hilux slammed into the back of the Chrysler with enough force, it seemed like the clashing of rival Transformers. The Chrysler spun in a screeching circle, the women inside screaming for dear life. The Hilux went on, the engine barely clacking now, to smash into the median. The force of the impact caused the truck to roll back, headlights casting crazy shadows in every corner. Instantly two men jumped out. One of them, the one on the passenger side, was cradling a rifle. He stepped right up to the driverside window and smashed the glass in with the butt of his gun. Mrs Adebowale tried to drive off, but the crash had totaled the rear axle and some function that caused the vehicle to rise on its haunches had been disabled. The Chrysler merely groaned.

“Get out now!” The kidnapper yelled.

In the back seat, her passenger side door mangled from the crash, Jite had powered down the window and scrambled through it, all her thoughts on escape.

“Hey!” The gun man yelled to his accomplice who rather than be dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, was wearing a stylish-looking blazer over plain trousers. “She wan’ run!”

His accomplice darted around the car in pursuit of the rapidly fleeing Jite.

In the moment his attention was split, Mrs Adebowale had another of her Korean flashes. Unlocking and opening the door in one smooth motion, she slammed all of her 98KG weight behind the heavy steel door and into the knee of the kidnapper. She heard a satisfying crunch as he yelped in pain. Quickly, she drew the door back as through to shut it. The kidnapper, his gun harmlessly at his side now, reflexively bent to massage his hurting leg.

“I go kill you to…” He never finished the sentence.

Propelling forward again, all of her fear and anger, at the smashed Chrysler no less, converted into fury. Mrs Adebowale let out a war cry as she swung the door into his head. The sound was like the thud you hear in a gym when the weights are dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

Gboom! That’s the sound that best describes it.

The kidnapper crumpled to the floor. Stepping out of the vehicle, operating on pure instinct and healthy doses of epinephrine now, Mrs Adebowale picked up the fallen rifle. He assumed it was an AK-47, being the only rifle she was familiar with from the movies. On the other side of the car, dragging Jite by her hair was the well-dressed accomplice. His face slightly sweaty from the chase and oddly bewildered by the turn of events.

“What are you doing with that gun?” He asked stupidly.

In the spill of lights from the reflections cast by the powerful headlamps of both vehicles, it was easy to read the shock and confusion on his face.

“Let her go!” Mrs Adebowale stammered. “Please, for God’s sake, let her go! Or I will shoot you!”

Her words, perhaps the faltering nature of them, seemed to have an awakening effect on the kidnapper. Her tightened his hold and dragged his captive closer to himself. Jite yelped in pain.

“Let her go!”

“Hand over that gun.” He said calmly. “You don’t even know how to operate it.”

From his calm, measured tones, Mrs Adebowale surmised he was the leader of the operation. She panicked then, and very nearly dropped the gun. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Why are you doing this? Why? I don’t want to die,” she sobbed. “I didn’t want to have anything to do with this.”

In instant solidarity, Jite burst out in fresh tones of brand-new tears.

The man inched closer, oblivious to their cries, his eyes on the gun. He was around the boot of the Chrysler now, still holding Jite, barely five feet away.

“Just give me the gun, and then you can go your own way. This is not your problem.”

Jite started wailing. “No! Nooo! He will kill us!”

Mrs Adebowale gripped the gun by the barrel, her knees shook, fear in every fibre of her being. She extended it slowly, her hands unsteady, ready to hand it over to the kidnapper. At that moment two things happened, without which this story would have ended quite differently.

The first one. The kidnapper, in a definite state of amplified hubris, said; “No. Nothing would happen to you. Too much wahala this night sef. I just want to take my man and go. Both of you can leave too.”

Now, Mrs Adebowale held a position in Management at her company, and she had heard just about all the usual lies. And that statement was right up the charts with, “My car broke down” and “I think I came down with something last night“.

The second thing that happened was; the partner on the floor, the one with a broken knee and a crack in his skull wide enough to fit a Tecno Phantom®, suddenly stirred and muttered something. His well-dressed colleague glanced down and Mrs Adebowale’s hand swung up and sideways.

Now, the kidnapper had solid reflexes and a well-built physique, and his gaze was in the direction of the gun. So he saw it coming well in time. Time enough to raise his left forearm and absorb most of the (painful) shock on his bicep. He pushed Jite to the ground with his other arm and took a step towards Mrs Adebowale before the woman had time to take another swing, after all, she was probably in her fifties and a rifle is quite a heavy toy. It was impossible for him to know Mrs Adebowale plays squash every weekend at The Benin Club.

The rifle flew backwards and swung back in a two-handed swing that had all the ferociousness of a Nadal serve. 120 pounds of pure motive force swung into Kidnapper no 1, shattering his left radius and gouging a deep crease into the side of his skull. The man slammed against the side of the Chrysler and slid to the floor unconcious. Whirling around, before she had time to reconsider her options, Mrs Adebowale knocked the butt of the rifle into the groggy, unbelieving head of Kidnapper no 2 in a very familiar pounding motion and shut his lights out for the last time that night.

It was over. Eight minutes and forty-three seconds from crash to rifle-butt-in-head-of-woman-kidnapper.

Adrenaline still surging through her veins in quick bursts, she almost slapped Jite when the woman grabbed her from behind, and in between prayers of thanksgiving, began to cry and weep profusely.

“It’s alright. It’s alright, Jite. It’s alright.”

***************

In GRA Benin City, Candy Adebowale tapped a button on the remote control and the PVR TVTV decoder started to record the lates episode of Jumong. She wondered how long it will take her mother to get home.

Mrs Adebowale notified a friend at the Department of State Security (DSS) over the phone, about the events of the night, and a team was immediately dispatched in assault gear, and armed with FN F2000s, to the scene at the Benin-Lagos expressway, where a nervous and drawstring taut Mrs Adebowale stood sentry over two slightly comatose bodies of well-built men and a weak-at-the-knees, completely relieved ex-hostage.

After some cajoling, Jite Roberts directed the men of the DSS to the spot where she had been held captive, where after a very brief gun-battle, the kidnappers surrendered, bullets haven been exhausted anyway. The rifle found in Mrs Adebowale’s possession was found to contain only two shells in its clip and was identified as an AKM.

Mrs Adebowale got home safe the next morning at about 3:00am, haven been escorted home in an unmarked white police Hilux, her statement received and sent to Abuja. The Chrysler was taken to Lagos (causing a two hour traffic jam the next morning at it was lifted by crane) where repairs are currently ongoing. Jite Roberts began preparations to move with her family to the UK from where she would maintain a steady correspondence with her saviour. Both Saviours.

Mrs Adebowale looks forward to her next adventure!

THE END..for now.

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Disclaimer

  • Based on actual events
  • I do not aim to make light of the situations depicted in this story. Kidnapping in Nigeria is a very real and present danger, and my heart goes to any and all who have experienced or known someone who experienced a kidnapping. We’ll get past this scourge I tell you.
  • The Chrysler 300C has been renamed the Lancia Thema but still remains the car I drive in my wettest fantasies
  • The constant repetition of the name ‘Mrs Adebowale’ is deliberate, a throwback from the old Mrs Pollifax stories and my amusement with Lee Child’s Reacher novels.
  • Mrs Adebowale drives a Toyota Rav 4 while her Chrysler is being repaired.

Don’t forget to follow the blog by clicking on the button at the top of your screen. Also follow on Twitter @janus_aneni and do well to like our Facebook page.

Peace to Nigeria.

PS: Abi you see now, nobody died in this story! Before you people would be commenting on my psychopathic tendencies.

Peace.

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Raymond’s challenge

So I discovered I had a Youtube account last night. I mean, you have no idea what feeling this gives. I can upload videos and..and..share! I’m so happy. I love the internet. GOD is wonderful.

Anyway, I was err..reading and listening to music, when out of the corner of my eye, I…hell, whatever, this is amateur video time. please enjoy.

NB: The following video was filmed with the utmost seriousness. [I had my glasses on]

Disclaimer

  • I actually filed this under the ‘Action’ category

Peace.

A Myth and Ciprofloxacin

No, not a true life story.

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I looked at the man pointing the gun at my head with bulging eyes. Sweat was further darkening the ski mask he wore on his head that left spaces for his two eyes and mouth. His nostrils, though not visible, were flared in anger as I sat firmly on the bench of the danfo bus, not moving or even planning to move. I knew his nostrils were flared because his chest rose and fell rapidly and of course, I could see them expanding with each second I remained on the seat. I also knew he had not pulled a trigger before. I would be dead or seriously injured if he had. But all this did not count. Only in death would people know my shame.

See, it is not my intention to continue to aggravate this thief. On a normal day, when I am with my dignity and senses, nothing will make me more obedient than seeing a masked man wielding a murder weapon and pointing it in my direction, threatening to end my life with a twitch of muscle.

“GET THE FUCK DOWN FROM THIS FUCKING BUS OR I WILL FUCKING BLOW YOUR FUCKING BRAINS ALL OVER THIS FUCKING BUS!”

I did not move. Tears clouded my vision as I pointed my bag at him as I had done for the past two minutes he had been raving.

“Please, I beg you in the name of God, take my bag. Everything is inside.”

Shame is a serious issue for me. Even slight embarrassment. Once, I had fallen terribly ill to the bafflement of the school nurse who found nothing to be the cause of my illness, just because a boy in my secondary school four years ago had told me that my skirt was unzipped. I had thought the whole thing through a million times in my head, wondering if he saw the holes that stood as Winnie the Pooh’s eyes on my panties (which my mother had promised to replace the next visiting day) that showed clearly when I turned to look at my open skirt zip. So, you see, I might just slump and die if anybody discovered me now, no need for trigger-happy fingers.

The driver had fled earlier at the sound of gunshots, just about two minutes after the conductor had left for the nearby bushes to ‘ease’ himself and left five frightened passengers struggling to open the door of the rickety bus to no avail. The moon and the stars had fled too, leaving us with no option than turn on the flashlight applications our mobile phones for illumination. There were no passers-by at this time and most especially in this location where the driver had passed to cut corners.  The driver side of the bus was demarcated from the passengers’ side by a metal sheet with a window too small for any of us to fit through. The fair guy that sat beside me had begun to whimper, all thoughts of collecting my mobile phone number completely forgotten. The mechanic in his dirty overalls had fiddled with the door, cutting his fingers in the process and when he finally got the door open, the masked man was there waiting patiently, pointing his gun at the entrance. The middle-aged woman sitting at the last row had screamed and the boy with a wooden tray on his lap that had probably held agege bread in the morning had begun to cry. The thief had ordered us to lie face flat on the floor of the bus, gotten crazy when I refused to move as others were lying in awkward and uncomfortable positions, and exploded when I continued to plant my buttocks on the seat. This is where we are now and my mother’s voice is ringing repeatedly in my ears.

If you have sex, you will die.

Sounds stupid, doesn’t it?

Just three days ago, my boyfriend of two years dis-virgined me. He had waited long enough and I knew all the love he showed was no joke, (marriage tinz). It had been planned and I had taken the Postinor 2 he bought as he told me to but pregnancy was not what I should have been worried about. I had noticed an infection yesterday. Not sexually transmitted, no. I dis-virgined him too. Apparently, he pushed bacteria from my ‘backward’ into my ‘frontward’, at least that was what the pharmacist with the pitiful look on her face told me.

E. coli belongs in the rectum and goes crazy elsewhere. The female reproductive tract included. The trip from the first point to the second is very short in females, thus, we are very very susceptible.

I had spent about two thousand naira to purchase the drugs I needed to get well and I had called my boyfriend and told him. Of course he was sorry and felt guilty but I shushed and assured him I knew precautions for next time. Looks like there wouldn’t be and my mother had been right after all.

I had started taking the drugs immediately; the pharmacist even gave me the water I used for my first dose free of charge. Urination was frequent and painful. Thank heaven I was home due to ASUU strike. All those busybody roommates of mine would have asked me questions. My mother had sent me on an errand to Oshodi and traffic had been bad as usual, resulting in this situation. The noises in my stomach started shortly after my fourth dose this afternoon, right before I left home, and just like the ciprofloxacin leaflet said, my stool was loose. So loose, it felt like I was urinating via my anus. Four more days, I thought to my self, four more days.

I remembered the first time I wet myself during the journey home. The fair boy had faked a British accent and I had burst into laughter despite my state of duress. The smell of antibiotics filled my nostrils and I bit my lip hoping he was as stupid as he sounded. Subsequent ones had followed which I couldn’t help as the traffic dragged on. I was comforted by the fact that I had a permanent scarf in my bag. I would wrap it around my waist when the time came for me to get off. And I also thanked heaven for the darkness, I would walk the short distance home from my bus stop in the shadows. I would tell mom that her vegetable soup did not go well with me today.

It was when the rumbling began that I knew I was in trouble and told the idiot to leave me in peace. I resorted to insults hoping he would change seats, but he just sat there, giving the condition that unless I gave him my phone number, he would not leave me. As horns honked and drivers screamed, I let out a fart whose sound was drowned by the ongoing noise but whose release brought my doom for it was accompanied by loose stools. And that, my friends, is why I cannot, must not, stand from this seat.

“I WILL COUNT TO FIVE.”

“Please. I beg you.”

“ONE.”

“Please.”

“TWO.”

“I am sick. I cannot stand.”

“THREE.”

“In the name of God.”

“FOUR.”

“JESUS.”

My mother voice was the last thing I thought of.

 

 

Pick ciprofloxacin.
Pick ciprofloxacin.

 

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Maybe a Rubberband story

First off, no, it is not a true story. I was ehm..researching some stuff and err..I discovered something. Anyway, it was worthy of a story so..

Secondly, it’s the Nigerian Blog Awards, and ehm…a bit late, but I would love to appeal to all of you dear and beloved readers to nominate us! Scroll down the page for the direct link to nominate! Thankee very nicely! 😀

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Maybe a rubber band story Ah whatever.. Maybe A Rubber band story.

You go tie am with rubberband...”

“Hehe..are you serious?”

“Yes na! YOU GO TIE AM WIT’ RUBBERBAN’!

“Is that what you do?”

“Yes na! See, e even dey help you two ways..”

Femi looked incredulously at his friend. They were sitting on a bench in front of his compound watching the day as it crept closer towards sunset. And as is common when young men in their early twenties sit together, the conversation had gradually drifted to girls and sex.

“Let me tell you something,” Ade, his friend was saying. “I’ve been in this situations many times. These days, condoms are not properly manufactured. They no longer cover the entire penis. So what do you do?”

Femi was tempted to remark on the fact that perhaps, as he had grown up until ‘these days’ maybe, the size of his phallus had grown also, and perhaps the inability for the condom to completely cover his penis didn’t depend on the manufacturers. But he thought better of it.

The topic at hand was quite simple. Femi had been narrating a tale, an unfortunate event that had occurred to him just a few days ago.

Ada had come to visit. For the first time, after many failed and broken promises, she had arrived at his front door. As is customary with such assignations, he had bought her a plate of fried rice and chicken from a quite reputable eatery, stocked his fridge with every kind of suitable drink, and then placed a six-roll of condoms in the bedside drawer.

The conversation had been pleasant, and he had been at his most hospitable, gregarious and seductive. Soon she was moaning under his kisses while he fished about in the near darkness for the packets of polyurethane that ensured impervious ecstasy. As usual, after rolling it up, the rubber came up, or down, only halfway.

Femi slipped in nevertheless. Or, he tried to slip in, and despite having no claim to her virtue, found his passage into Ada to be not only decidedly furry, but also quite incommodious. But he was a man of action, and restrictions be damned, he went on.

Friction, physics and the natural laws of adhesion and cohesion came in to play, and while Femi hammered, all thoughts to the wind, he came to realise that the slip of impregnability that lay between himself and Ada’s innards was quite literally rubbing off.

But with the drums of perseverance roaring, quite indulgently, in his ears and varying sorts of madness pulsing through his veins, he kept on, pushing and pulling, ramming harder and harder, noting with amazing clarity and as yet unconcerned mien that the passage was suddenly, infinitely more pleasurable, that every sensation was utterly more vivid. And a nagging thought at the back of his mind that perhaps, something was amiss.

Then Ada went from, “Oh..ahh..” and the names of various persons and phrases from her native tongue to, “Ouch! Stop!”

And Femi did, or at least slowed, confusion and disorientation fighting a battle with lust upon his face.

“You’re hurting me!” she screamed, not quite loudly, but loudly enough. Perhaps insistently is a better word.

And so, Femi pulled out, and realised to his shock that he was bare. Not the sense of being unclothed or the cool consciousness of the cold air against his exposed buttocks made him note this; rather it was the simple absence of the condom from his erect member. Startled, his eyes searched the dishevelled sheets for the yellow piece of rubber that would confirm his sanity, but he could not find it. In those seconds, his thoughts went from amazed to bewildered to scared.

Again, Ada said, “I’m hurting.”

In that instant, comprehension descended like the beam of a high-powered halogen bulb.

“Can you open your legs a bit?” he ventured tentatively, his penis now a shrivelled piece of flesh.

And therein began the longest and weirdest procedure he ever [and he hoped, ever will] had to perform. After explaining to an astonished and almost enraged Ada, he dipped his index and middle fingers into the cavern which formed her centre. A place which was, for quite obvious reasons, now shrivelled in size and a dry as the crook of an elbow. He began to probe as gently as he could. Finally, thanking his stars, his long fingers and quite ironically, his Creator [Me, of course], he felt the polyurethane constitution of the condom deep within her.

Slowly, in order not to hurt Ada, who was resting on her elbows, her head angled over her waist, trying impatiently to peer into herself, he eased the rubber towards the opening. All the while, he cursed at his fate, the makers of condoms worldwide and thought about how he could remedy the failed situation with Ada. With these thoughts rattling about feverishly in his brain, it was hardly surprising that he managed to lose his hold on the condom more than a few times, having to remove and reinsert his fingers all the way into the female, again and again. It also did not help that quite amazingly; the tunnel began to secrete moisture afresh, resulting in his losing hold more and more often. It did help though that Ada no longer peered over his shoulders, but instead lay almost motionless, her head lolled to a side, her chest heaving in panting spasms.

Finally, after maybe fifteen minutes of gradual pulling and prodding, he had the condom out. Both of them examined the material for signs of blood or any other suspicious fluid or tissue. There was none. Ada whereupon left his house, after dressing up and consigning the rubber to the toilet of course, her ears deaf to his entreaties, apologies, jokes and apparent concern for the pains in his testicles.

So it was that his friend, Ade, visited the next week and while the discussion drifted on a myriad of topics, he asked:

“How far Ada?”

Wherewith this story was told and his friend had exclaimed:

You go tie am wit’ rubberban’!”

Initially, in compliance with the naïveté his friend constantly accused him of; Femi had assumed Ade wanted him to tie the girl with a rubber band, and he had almost laughed at the apparent attempt to make him laugh. One look at Ade’s face however, stripped him of his mirth and reaffirmed his belief in his friend’s insanity.

“Hehe..” he managed weakly. “Are you serious?”

“Yes na! See, e even dey help you two ways…”

Whereupon Ade explained that in order to prevent a condom from slipping down (or up as it should be), the length (or head) of an erect penis, one had to fasten the open end of the condom with a rubber band!

“E dey also help you preserve your stiffness even if you come quick.”

The evening sun waned in the west, the orange glow disappearing over the top of the building in front of them. On the street, young girls walked by, legs wrapped skin tight in material almost as tight as a condom, or perhaps tighter, Femi corrected himself. He caught himself wondering if he could casually sidle up to one of the girls rub her legs, and watch the material run downwards to her toes.

Those girls wey dey tight wella, na dem dey cause this thing pass. And most of them no dey wet,” Ade went on with his recondite air.

For his part, Femi wondered. He wondered as it struck him at how close they had been to a quite unfortunate complication. What if the condom had stuck deeper into her and a surgical operation had had to have been carried out to save her life? What if the situation had degenerated into a form of Toxic Shock Syndrome? Ah well, no time for that now. His attention was drawn to a figure that approached down the road.

Those people wey dey fuck nyash, e dey happen well well for their side. The condom always dey fall inside. Me I no fit fuck nyash oh!

The figure drew closer. Femi smiled.

Some people even dey lick nyash! Which kind madness be that? Cool down carry your mouth put am for nyash…

“Hi,” said Funke as she stopped in front of the two men, her buxom figure blocking out the rest of the twilight.

“Hi,” smiled Femi as he stood up. “Nice hairdo.”

“Thanks,” came the soft voice. Ade was shocked into silence.

Femi waved a goodbye to his friend as he opened the gate. Ade smiled to himself, his grin widening as he heard:

“Your braids, how d’you hold them up? Rubber band?”

LOL.

(<_< )...
(<_< )…

Disclaimer:

  • Nope. No resemblance to persons living or dead. Though I admit, I do know a buxom Funke.
  • Condoms really do fall into vaginas. Hell, in perhaps 2% of all sexual experiences worldwide.

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Peace to Nigeria.