THE STIGMA

‘His skin is the freshest I have seen in years since I began my medical profession, he’s so cute.’ These were nurse Kofo’s words to my father at the time of my delivery at Akiliki hospital. My father was so proud of me from the moment of my birth till this day, despite my morbidity.

Things became shabby when I became 19years of age after my Senior School Certificate Examinations (SSCE) at the Comprehensive secondary school; I was the youngest in my class. It all began during a football game, during my after-school holiday; I had an encounter with a pugnacious opponent who threw a couple of punches at me. Although I was restrained by my teammates against vengeance, surprisingly I didn’t feel an ounce of pain from the punches I received. I continued to experience such painless encounter then I informed father after which he took me to the hospital the next day as early 6:00am; Father didn’t joke with our health issues. In 3hours time we met doctor Kankanawa who affirmed that nothing was wrong, that the symptom is related to a man’s maturity. I do realize why such a senseless statement plunged out of his mouth, probably because of the name of the hospital- Duniya hospitals and clinic.

Following the villagers belief in knowledge and scientifical superiority; my father believed the doctor perfectly. Weeks passing, I began to feel pain around my respiratory tract which affected my breathing, a ‘Samson natured being’ like me began to feel feeble like a septuagenarian , I couldn’t see properly during the day, I felt it was owing to excess intake of garri that impaired my vision so I restrained from the consumption of that commodity. I tendered all these troubling issues to father’s feet. I could sense it that he was in a state of pandemonium ranging from economic challenge to keeping his son ill-free.

God be praised! The World Health Organization (WHO) held a three day health sensitization programme within that period in my locality; they conducted free medical check-up for the inhabitants of that area. We were the first to be attended to by the medical consultant, after the introductory rites I explained all the possible symptoms to Dr. Leon Bourgalia, an Italian medical practioner. He began by telling father and I that the infection present in my body system is called Hansen’s disease popularly called and known as Leprosy, my heart doubled-beat I remembered the biblical Syrian army general Naaman, whose case is about to become nascent through me. Dr. Leon said I was infected with paucibacillary leprosy caused by mycobacterium lepromatosis, these names were a mouth-full, I wondered how big they were and their capability to live inside me. He also said that they were linked to Deoxy-Ribonucleic-Acid (DNA) by polymerase chain reaction. Teacher Pinpin, my biology mistress taught us about genes and DNA, my grandparents and parents didn’t exhibit such symptoms nor acquire the disease, so why me?

Dr. Leon told father to take immediate action to counter the disease before 15-30days else the bacteria would manifest in its full stage through skin reaction, he said I needed Dapsone and Rifampicin drugs for 6months intake daily; when father inquired about the price of the drugs- the price ran in a couple of zeros. Father fell into a mental coma. Where would such money emanate from?

I didn’t find Dr. Leon’s analysis incredulous because tests were conducted and he gave explanations based on the result, unlike that of Dr. Kankanawa. My thoughts began to run wild. Unanswerable questions crossed my mind. How can I get an Elisha of my time to prescribe a miracle resulting therapy? Does this disease automatically make me an outcast amongst the community members? How will I locate my Jesus to touch his garment for a turnaround in my health status? Who would buy these drugs for me? Questions I couldn’t answer.

Isolation between me and the Iyaye villagers started. The doctors told father and I that leprosy could be transmitted through respiratory droplets so the villagers pressurized my dad to separate me from the ‘normal’ people. Although it was somewhat invigorating having a spacious hut to myself but the environment was fun-less and friendless. I was an exemplary child in the eyes of most parents in the community; I had the highest amount of friends and behavioural admirers. Presently a ban has been placed by most parents on their children towards drawing close to me, all of these resulting to leprosy.

Finally, am out of the quarantine zone. I feel that I would face more stigma than my previous indoor experience. My instincts never lie. Father told me that elder Kakarapupo(the man with the worst sounding name) sternly suggested that I should be worn a bell round my neck to send a ringing signal across a distance to tell people about the presence of an unclean individual. Father said he got worse statements from the elders when he went to seek for financial aid to purchase my drugs.

I now look older than the old. My hideous sins have caught up with me. My dirty bad looking skin is associated with evil existing in my family. These are harsh words I live with daily, coming from the mouth of the villagers. I ponder each word gently in my heart; my heart is greatly filled with an unquantifiable amount of pain. I have been hoping for my day of redemption. I am less a human in the eyes of others outside my family. Leprosy has caused me this. Will I continue to live like this throughout my stay in this world?

*Written to mark the World Leprosy Day

SHACKLES OF A PSYCHIC - A FICTION

You perceived that she was kolomental, and her frequent psychic behaviour certified your perception. She moved into the estate fifteen months after you came and a kind gesture from you brought the both of you a bit close. Mysteries began to unfold.

Everyday you wonder why blasting noisy sounds of Tiv traditional music emits from her room as early as 6:00am, coupled with her thin out-of-key voice singing along. You had a good intention of advising her about it but feared that she might pick a quarrel; a loud one for that matter, as she has engaged in such countless quarrels with the estate’s security. When you tried once to calm him down to save the situation thinking he was exasperated, he said to you "brother, no vex o but na so she dey behave, she no get sense kpata kpata." Inarguably, knowing that that was the truth, she simply kept a deaf ear to what he said and focused on the main reason of the quarrel. Whenever the security was asked by a new tenant or a visitor about her; if she is mentally and psychologically balanced, he will say in response "choi this question hard me o! cos even me no know the answer."

Sometimes she looked outstanding; mostly on Sundays probably because of church and few times during weekdays. you'll prefer calling her outlandish make-over, make-down because her style was a thousand miles away from make-up despite the time spent. Annoyance and embarrassment filled your heart when you carried out an investigative check and discovered that her blue tank-top and red faded bum shots was her pajamas and her morning wear; she could wear it daily for a week without a single wash.

She loved discussing marriage, boys and relationship matters with you. She got to know most of her male friends through facebook and the under-standard monotechnic she graduated from in Plateau state, also helped to add a little amount of friends to her zone.

She always complained that she is 27 years old, and still has not found her Mr. Right, after series of break-ups with her ex’s. She keeps running back to her ex's with an apology and a sorry face but "NO!" is always the response from the other end because she always triggered the break-up. You ponder everyday if a man can marry such a lady, who can’t live a day without savoring a bottle of coke, fanta or sprite. She walks around the estate yelling at herself each day, and whenever she’s calm she’s either fiddling with her phone or making a phone call to one of her numerous facebook unknown fiends. Worst of it all, she can’t cook! She is a dedicated food purchaser at pophozot restaurant. You realized this when she pleaded for a visit of which you honoured, after savouring a plate of rice with a glass of chilled juice, you requested for more and she replied that it was finished. You understood what was happening, so in appreciation you voiced out ‘thanks.’

She complains about a lot to you; she complained that the president and his vice were always looking and acting dull, that the reverend father’s sermon always made her sleep, that the bottle of coke of now-a-days are not full to the brim, she complained that okada riders could not do simple arithmetic to balance between the distance and cost, so she started paying bike riders at the bank after withdrawing money from the Automated Teller Machine(ATM).

She came to your room shouting and you thought she was infuriated, then she said "good news! I have gotten a job. After all the congratulatory words, you began to see her often at home than before. Indepthly, you knew that the job news was a loud joke. Another time she informed you that she was about rounding-off her make-up school programme, so surprised you scoffed she asked why, and you replied her "nothing," but deep inside you you knew that even if she had the mastery of the trade like Tara Durotayo, no one would keep a face to be made up by her; Probably because of her looks and her loquacious nature.

When the harmattan season was at its inception, you saw her one morning scratching her hair persistently and she said "oh! oh!! oh!!! harmattan done come oo. Na now my madness go come hot o! e no go easy for me at all." This were the final words that confirmed her psychological imbalance. Now you have to tolerate her madness. What are friends for?

AS THE CAMPAIGN BEGINS..

It was wonderful all through yesterday, the 8th of January of the political year, as the presidential campaign of the Peoples Democratic Party(PDP) flagged of at the Tafawa Balewa square in Lagos state, which caused an undescribable traffic gridlock in most parts of the state. The All Progressive Congress(APC) took her campaign to Yenegoa, Bayelsa state which is the Presidents home base, that same day.

The kunu drinking military Fulani and the ogogoro drinking PhD holder both promised everything promiseable, which of course got loud noise from their individual supporters. The President promised job provision for two million youths(pray to be among) when re-elected; that job scarcity and hunt will be an issue of 'before-before.' He also promised development in all governmental and nongovernmental sectors and agencies. It was quite hilarious when he said that those present should go and ask their friends that work in ministries if they haven't been changes. So my people I ask you have they been any?

General Muhamadu Buhari promised Kirikiri prison for all politicians as a reward for corruptionists, while Goodluck ensured a free living for all and gave his assurance in trying by all means to eliminate corruption. Although APC's manifesto contained some facets that sounds enticing but knowing politicians.. (I comment my reserve).

The best part of yesterday's political campaign were the indirect insults showed back and forth between both parties. When Buhari was busy waving his broom and shouting 'A Fi C..?' Goodluck on his own part reminded us that this is not the 1983/1984 time that students qued up all night in order to purchase just two tins of milk, expressing that those times are gone, that Nigerians should vote away backwardness.
Buhari threatened not to appoint women into political offices like the position of the first lady for obvious reasons, that he is a polygamous man and won't want his wives to be overcaring this period in order to acquire a sit at his right hand. Contrary to this, Goodluck assured the women that they would be remembered in his paradise and won't be left only in classrooms as teachers and in the kitchen as perpetual home cooks and cleaners.

APC musicians were so religious by remixing the popular 'heavenly race' song by chanting 'Buhari race we no go tire, we no go tire!!' Then I saw Buhari heading to the pulpit with a walking stick and I tried to correlate being tired and the use of a walking stick. While he was speaking I liked the continous pronunciation of 'return' as 'retaarn' and 'country' as 'kantry.' I hope 'if' he becomes the President we would have a linguist at the top that would give a daily proper pronunciation of words for all citizens to learn from. I also tried to carry out a population study on the amazing turn up of people at APCs campaign owing to the fact that it is the President's own zone; those (some) which the video camera captured their faces didnt look much like Bayelsans to me but more like northerners. I dont mean that they were exported from other states due to poor turn up, but some things are worth being thought of, knowing that in politics most things are possible.

It was disheartening that Goodluck's brothers expressed a proverbial form of outward rejection at the APC side saying that ' a bad brother is not as good as a good friend.' That was a great height of dejection. When GEJ hears this he would feel peevish but debilitated. Anyways the proverb if thought over sounds plausible.

The part of this campaign from both sides that was uninteresting were those embarrassive distractions and mouth-to-ear messages to the speaker while addressing the crowd. This act displayed a level of indiscipline and an absence of the sense of sanctity.

I must commend APC's presidential and vice aspirant on their bravery in calling out names of their opponents while speaking; they made it seem like a doodle work. I also admire Goodluck' style of indirect call out, he displayed an elderly behaviour.

These two parties lightened up yesterday and we hope for more days of light and hilarious moments within the 35 days to February 14.

A WELCOME ADDRESS

It is pertinent that in this turbulent time, the commander-in-chief of the armed forces, the amiable, caring and ever- forgiving President of this nation, in person of Goodluck Ebele Jonathan(GEJ), GCFR have not given us a welcome address into the 'winter season' which we call harmattan in Nigeria. Since Nigerians will get a vivid picture of harmattan; despite this, Mr. President's forgiving nature will exonerate him from this frivolous act of climatic abandonment of his citizens.


Standing in his place as his representative on climatic matters to usher us into the harmattan season; I'll first of all say that the situation for our President's ignorance should be understood, as his work is very exhausting, especially this period that he is fighting strongly against insurgency, and the struggle to recontest for the presidential seat, amongst other tasking issues must have taken away his sense of concern for his patriotic citizens.

I present to you on behalf of the President an official address to welcome us into the winter season:

Dear Nigerians,

I articulate this speech today despite its lateness to usher each and everyone of us into the harmattan season, which is no respecter of persons; whether rich or poor.

It follows strictly to the principle that "thou shall cloth thyself properly with the right proportion of jelly" or risk having a white and dry skin." This weather comes with early morning dew and late morning dust.

The harmattan haze is escalating as each day goes by and the untiring, loyal Nigerian workers both the civil servants, private workers and buinessmen tend to be caught up by this peril which stands as a hazard to their good looking lips, hands and feet.

I charge all kiosk, shops, supermarkets, superstores and mall owners today, to reduce the price of petroleum jelly commonly called Vaseline to enable every Nigerian purchase the product comfortably for good looks. Citizens of Nigeria, no matter your stratum, apply lip balm or sheabutter on your lips to give it a sparkling look and to prevent dry chapped lips, olive oil should be rubbed on the skin in place of body cream to prevent a dry or white skin, socks should be worn at night before sleeping, a complete dress to wrist length(hand wise) and ankle length(leg wise) and a proper covering socks and shoe should be the dress code for all while stepping out for the days job. Kudos to those who have started, for those who haven't started, start now! A lip balm would be necessary this period for lip refreshment, a pair of glasses preferably sun shades would be necessary as harmattan is often accompanied by dust which affects visibility.

The weather is certain to be hot above 35-65 degree Celsius. It is adviceable for every citizen to move with an umbrella and a bottle of cold water to prevent dehydration. Be ready to feel dry because it comes with the weather.

Ensure to make judicious use of this period in the aspect of laundry, because the maximum time would be 30 minutes for a piece of cloth to get dried. Laundry hour can be any time, just be rest assured that the harmattan breeze would do its work of getting your cloth dried.

This season might be accompanied with some health isues like conjunctivitis, asthma, cough and sorethroat, so it is mandatory that everyone should have a handkerchief to prevent this communicable disease.

Hunters and livestock farmers that have unquantifiable love for meat should create another means to hunt for bush animals other than bush conflagration as it would certainly affect plant growth and food supply. Therefore, I speak with love to the hearts of the middle belters, especially the owners of the food basket of the nation, to control their appetite towards bush meat this period to prevent setting the bush ablaze.

My fellow Africans, precisely based in the Western part of Africa and other few African countries outside the Western region affected by winter. My heart goes out to each and everyone of you. The climatic condition of your country might be higher than that of Nigeria, so there will be a need for use of heaters and geysers to keep oneself warm and this results to high electricity usage. Caution should be applied in using electric power to save up against economic break down and to avoid electric shock.

Nigerians are wonder filled people, they know how to manoeuvre with electricity, and the Power Holding Company of Nigeria(PHCN), the credibility of raw solar energy dwells in the cerebrum of every Nigeian; his water can get hot in the bucket through direct sun power. So do not bother about us because our acclamatic nature is wonderful.

In essence try to keep yourself healthy for your family, friends, community and your nation.

Fellow Nigerians and our beloved regional neighbours feeling the harmattan's taunting breeze partially or in its fullness; I welcome you once again officially to the harmattan season. I charge everyone to get the best out of it.

Great people, great nation.
One Africa for all.
Together we stand forever.
God bless Africa.
God bless the blacks.

THE NIGERIAN TITLE

Most Nigerians, regardless of tribe, religion or ethnicity are immune to the "Title syndrome." These titles ranges from traditional titles to academic titles such as Doctosr, Professors etc, to religious titles such as Hajiya, Alhaji, JP (Jerusalem Pilgrimage), Sir and Lady. In shut, an average successful man in Nigeria is expected to have a Title either as a prefix or suffix. The crave has gotten so bad to the extent that most people, especially the rich ones, pay handsomely to any University willing to confer an honorary PhD to them, just so they can add the title Dr. to their names. Some others also pay to be conferred with a chieftaincy title. Some people even make money from these title holders, especially the traditional title holders, as they greet them with encomiums when they see them, just to get 'tips'. These 'tip collectors' defend their "tip giver's" title in his presence or absence just to keep the tips flowing.



After all the struggle(hustling), for a person from a poor family to make it large, or continue in the footsteps of your rich parents to keep the family name and pedigree going, little wonder why most rich parents stipulate a particular field such as engineering, law, medicine for their little children who are clueless at that stage of life; to ensure that the conventional mister or miss at least must come before the name.

In a Kingless society you will find many Prince and Princess both rich and poor all in the struggle to make the name spicy and give a defined look to that person through the title, the trending title presently is the “DAME” which is an effeminate title that is basically traditional but originated from a Latin- French region don’t search far because that is our first lady’s title which is of a truth befitting.

A Nigerian title is necessary for these reasons:

* Imagine that after all your years of studying, achieving academic excellence in various courses and attaining educational knowledge to its peak, which obviously is a doctoral degree, or being called to bar and ending up as a lawyer and by God’s grace a SAN or a judge, or as a doctor or any other prestigious profession; and you are called upon to the high table at an event or an occasion without a title added before or after your name, it would certainly reduce your dignity to a regular event attendee, it will show those clapping for you as you take your seat that you have not gone far in life and it is probably through the mercy of God that you were invited; because in this present time, for you to be invited to some events you have to be a title holder. A singular title to your name brings an immeasurable amount of honour to you and your name, Nigerians present would understand that you have had fruitful years and your intelligence rate is off the meters. Remember that the longer your title sounds the better for you as a business man.



*As a true son of the soil, after the hustle in the city, you benevolently construct a borehole for free water supply in your community to better the life of the under-privileged village inhabitants, and to show that you have the progress of your community at heart. It is paramount that the King and his cabinet members tender a request of bestowing upon you a title of either a red cap chief, a shugaban, or an Olori to appreciate your sense of concern in developing your village in your own way. The villagers will as well tender their respect to you by paving a clear way for your triumphant entry into all the nooks and crannies of the village, while you are taking that walk ensure to visit your borehole plant, converse with those you see there and promise to build more boreholes and erect more developmental structures within the year; as this will help the more to bring extra titles to you.



*Even a man who has spent most of his life driving a danfo bus or a taxi, who knows the name and road of every street deserves a title such as Baba O, Baba Agba or Baba Ijesha. These names will represent him appropriately in the bus stop and entice travellers to board his vehicle. If after driving for so many years and he gets to the age of retirement, he may even be conferred as the NURTW chairman to regulate road affairs in a particular district and to carry out activities like introduction of new agberos and drivers to the family, registration of new vehicles to the union’s register, conduct meetings for proper behaviour of drivers to agberos and vice versa.



* Alhaji and Hajiya are among the highest and most respected title in the northern Islamic environment. Although religious titles are automatic and not conferred, the money used by the Alhaji or Hajiya to travel to the holy land; Mecca, to and fro including the general expense requires a title; the money spent can amount to the six months salary of an office worker. Note that if any family member, friend, neighbour, or relation of yours is called an Alhaji, Alhaja or Hajiya without a proper visit to Mecca to step foot on the holy land, forget it!! That title is invalid. A visit to Mecca (as a muslim) or Jerusalem(as a Christian) authenticates you as a title holder religiously.`



The Nigerian titles are not to be joked with, as it is seen as a high rate of success.



Until next time, I remain, Alhaji Chief Dr Engr Revd Desmond Mary Uke Amama JP the alawaidiarabadi 1 of Kalabari, dum dum nyom nyom of efik, Onwa 3 of Enugu-Abakaliki, Atah 1 of Kogi and the Omo Aye 2 of Osun Osogbo.

Thank you.

A LETTER TO THE BISHOP

My Lordship,

SITUATION REPORT ON THE JUST CONCLUDED CHILDREN, YOUTH/ADULT  HARVEST AND BAZAAR




First of all, I want to congratulate you for your recent installation as the bishop of this diocese. From your early days as a seminarian and even as a priest, I have known that you will do mighty exploits in the kingdom of God through the Roman Catholic Church, in that regard I say more flame to your fire.

The advent of the bazaar has been in anticipation by the parishioners and visitors for so long; in fact since December of last 2013. Chains of collection were mapped out by the bazaar’s offering architects. Collections were mostly made on last Sundays of the month. As a philosophical man or a salary payer to the church workers you will understand what I mean by ‘last Sunday of every month.’ After salaries must have been paid on Friday and still intact in the pocket waiting to be deposited in the bank on Monday, the catechist will mount the pulpit to say ‘brothers and sisters, glory glory to Jesus’, after our response he will plead with the congregation to generously donate for the success of the forthcoming harvest.

Those sitting in the front row, who may be completely filled with piety extravaganza would always rush out to give to the Lord, even before the announcement ends for the collection. This is usually accompanied with melodious songs from the 8:00am St. Cecilia’s choir. The call for second offertory kept coming on every Sunday from last year until March of this year. The bazaar-know-how committee had earlier addressed the church in April that second collection for the bazaar would be every Sunday and financial report about that Sunday’s collection would be given during announcement of the next Sundays.


His Lordship, after that announcement I bought a big brand new hard cover book and a carton of blue ink pen. I began to take records of each Sunday’s collection. Although it looked and seemed stupid, but I had to keep records because I  perceived a rat far away. I decided to play smart by keeping records for retrieval on the day of reckoning. My Lord, despite the stress of coming to church early and attending all masses every week to get a proper seat for clear listening from the faulty Public Address System for a good record of figures, I still made it. I got a detailed entry of all collections, thanksgivings and pledges that were made. Finally we waited for the day of all days, which was to us the parish’s Christmas.

October 26th’s alarm woke me up smiling like never before, after all the preparations to church; I endured all the sequential thanksgiving. We moved to the church hall which was the harvest event centre for the celebration of the season; although it was hilarious, I still took my record book, from the mass to the bazaar venue. I took a detailed record of sales and finally the event came to an end with the closing prayer by the Parish Pastoral Chairman.


Two weeks later, after all the bazaar trauma, I don’t know if I was in a trance or an illusion but probably it was real, one of the ex-bazaar committee members came out to say "dear parishioners we did not realize enough money from our previous harvest and bazaar, so please we need your unending donation." The whole congregation were astonished, and to my greatest surprise, NOBODY donated. My Lordship, you will probably know why I was day dreaming or startled, because I had the complete record at hand and the total amount of the millions in my head. Highly infuriated I stood up, went to the altar, took a slow bow, and I gave my personal financial records of the harvest/bazaar happenings because I felt  it was time for the congregation to know the truth about the actual amount of money that was realised. while I was announcing it, I saw the guilty ones burying their heads in shame while upholders of the truth applauded me. After my analysis, the Parish Priest ex-communicated me from the church as he considered my act inappropriate and ungodly.

As a man of high theological knowledge, I want you my Lord to be the Judge over this issues and intervene promptly.


Yours faithfully,
Adrian Danbaba.

A concerned ex-parishioner.

LOVE GONE SOUR

Love was the craziest thing that ever happened to me, yes! For starters like me, it shacked me more than star lager beer or Hennessy. You would not blame me, especially when you have a soul mate whom you think blends completely with you and the sight of him gives a cool and sweet flow of blood deep down through your vain that could be felt.



Mr. Tamtopopolis, my papa, who had an immeasurable amount of energy to farm sold all his farm produce and livestock for me to go to school and at least bear the title ‘graduate’ of a secondary school, which most Achinaka villagers couldn’t afford. After six years of rough studies in school and obtaining an O'level certificate, I started working as the community secretary in my village. Whenever I was leaving the house, popsy always told me to be careful; carefulness which he meant was not specific, as being an elder comes with wisdom. Most men were making passes at me, giving me 'dry' compliments, some would say 'chai asamnwa, asam mpete, ada mma', although most of those compliments excited me and even made me walk with my head up high with pride, I still tried to keep papa's words in mind.



Oga Parto liked me so much and he told me he would like me to be his twelfth wife, jokingly saying I would make the family to complete a dozen, but I never liked him. He kept stalking me and his sight disgusted me. I woke up one morning on an Eke market day to the loud noise of the flute and ogene which was playing in my compound, it was oga parto who came with his clans' men to meet papa. They told papa that they came to harvest the banana which papa planted and has been watering for years; with great anger, papa brought out his old gun, which he was awarded with as a colonel in the Biafran army, ordering them to leave the compound before the count of three. Immediately they left, the place became as quite as the Sahara desert.



Vex catch me sha o that papa drove them away, but I realized the real reason for papa's anger. Oga Parto was a sixty five year old elderly man that still fantasised about still being a very young man, perhaps someone in his early 20's. He was forming bomboy, he dyes his hair and applies the white men's cream on his body to look like them. After Parto's issue, I left the secretary work to do something else that would sway me away from men that were drooling after me.



The 'peanut' salary which I saved from my secretary job, and the money I got from my esusu contribution helped me to get a shop where I began to sell sweets, biscuits, gin and cigarettes near the community market to help myself and papa who was an old-soldier-never-die. I also got the shop basically to run away from those old yuppie looking men, that will want to use money to entice young girls, just to get them laid.



Benson came to my shop to buy biscuits, when I first sighted him, my heart skipped a little because he was very handsome, I couldn't even concentrate on giving him what he asked for. Weeks after weeks he came to my kiosk more often. One day he described his feelings towards me, saying he wants to be my nwa bobo. I was so excited, but didn't show it, I just smiled in the usual shy way most young girls do when they are being approached by a guy they like for the first time, and followed the usual girl's principle "let me think about it." Joy untold dwelled inside me all through the day and it showed in my business. Some weeks later I gave him an unspoken reply in agreement to his request.



We started meeting at UCT(Under the Cashew Tree), it was a slang that he used to deviate suspicion whenever he came to the shop and also to deceive papa when we are going out. So love sick and lonely one Saturday morning, I decided to pay Benson a surprise visit at his house and carry out a woman’s function to cook for him and also have a nice time with him. When I got there chai! Nwan nem! What I saw was 'twoderful', I saw my Benson having sex with his fellow man, a man o! What will I call that? Ashawo? I have no name or a description.



Am left with two choices now; either to get him beaten by the towns youth or go to the police… I'm in a fix right now.