The Sacrament of Penance

Confession heals, confession justifies, confession grants pardon of sin, all hope consists in confession; in confession there is a chance for mercy.
--St. Isidore of Seville

Based on true life events.

WARNING: THE THINGS YOU'RE ABOUT TO READ HAPPENED IN A CITY NEAR YOU AND COULD... Xxivi Jhredl Nisioyafcx JuaaAobd.... (Red Alert: Typo... typo... typo...)

***********
"Father I have sinned," Kelvin said. He kneels in the confession box with both hands locked in a fist.
"Confess your sins son," the Priest said.
"Father I have sinned, please forgive me." Kelvin repeated and continued,
"At my best, I remain a piss of shit; a scumbag; a shitty scallywag; all the S's dines with me" Kelvin said.

"Confess your sins son, the Lord is merciful and just," said the Priest.

"At my worst, the F-word fucks me. We fornicate without reproach. She always win, for I am weak.
Father, I have sinned, please, forgive me."

"Confess son, confess."

"I did a terrible thing Father. I'm ashamed of myself." Kelvin started, his hands quaked as he spoke.
"Confess son, for we have all sinned and fallen short of grace, but the Lord is just and merciful, His nature is always to have mercy." the Priest said with angelic calm.

"I am a teacher, I run a tutorial center. Every young kid look up to me. Parents send their wards to my tutorial and they see the change in these kids lives." Kelvin explained. He gnashed his teeth as he continued,
"I am their role model Father,  they all want to be like me --Kelvin the great." he said with pure sarcasm.

"They all look up to me, and never have I let them down academically. They pass their exams with ease, emerging in flying colours; their parents and guardians even send me gifts sometimes after exams" Kelvin cleared his throat, his voice was beginning to shake. He brought out a newly bought white handkerchief and blew his nose in it.
The Priest waited patiently, without saying a word.

"In the nutshell Father,  I am a respectable and responsible young man.
But... I do terrible things to these kids and they dare not say to a soul, else they die." Kelvin said.

"He is just and merciful. Confess son, confess."

"I was mad in the head Father. I always enjoyed it, and the kids eventually do in the long run." He continued.
"But the last I had I didn't enjoy. A minor. An eight year old. I am ashamed of myself Father,  I am ashamed." Kelvin paused and blew his nose again.

The Priest was touched, he sighed inaudibly and brought out a white handkerchief that had seen good times. He dabbed his teary eyes with the hankie and thought about the broken eight year old girl for a moment before Kelvin's croaked voice ushered him back to the box.

"I am a proud man Father, but for this I am ashamed. I am a pedophile Father, and I molested and raped an eight year old boy."

The Priest adjusted himself on his chair, shocked at the twist in Kelvin's confession.
A boy?! A damn boy?! He wanted to scream, but remembered that the Lord is just and merciful. He was only a witness to the confessional.
What difference does it make? A girl or  boy? A life had already been destroyed and only the Most high can amend such brokenness. He thought.
"Confess son... confess." the Priest said with divine calm.

Kelvin confessed the atrocities he commits with young boys. He was only attracted to boys --tall, short, skinny, fat,  he had no specs; what mattered was that they were boys.

After the confession, the Priest gave his words of wisdom, and prayed for him, and ordered him to go and sin no more. Kelvin came out penance, a new man.

"Look at that fine young guy, can't you just be like that? He even goes to church during the week." a mother said to her son as Kelvin came out of the church. Her son had piercings on his nose, tongue and ears. The ink on his muscled tanned body was enough to write a semester examination; his tinted hairstyle announced to the world that he had no fucks left for suckers.

"Just look at him, looking very responsible" the boy's mother continued.
"Even if he happens to be irresponsible, he still passes for responsible." she added. From the tone of her voice it was obvious she had given up on the boy, but you never know when the Holies of holies will touch a soul.

"So because he's on low-cut and wears a shirt and trouser, and goes to church he is responsible abi?" the boy finally replied.
"What if he is irresponsible? What if he is a woman beater? A drug peddler? Assassin? You don't know these things do you?" he asked his mother. She cleared her throat, pretending to have something there. She wanted to buy herself some time to think.

"But we don't know that, do we?" she finally said after a minute or so.
"...they are just assumptions" she added.

"Yes that's what they are. So let's not judge a book by its cover; let's read the book before drawing conclusions about it being good or not so good." Said the boy.
"You know who I am. Am I not responsible?" he asked.
His mother cleared her throat again but this time she answered promptly
"Yes you are. But..." she was saying when her son cut her short.
"Iya e... leave the buts. Since you know, that's what matters. Leave others alone they can say and think whatever it is they want. It's none of our business. Let them keep judging." he said.

They watch Kelvin cross the road and flag down a bike. The boy's mother still wished her son was like the young man. She silently prayed he would be decent and sane in his dressing and appearance. Because in this part of the world, shirt and trousers with no tattoos mean being responsible, no one cares about your deeds and heart ♥.

©Angel MESSI

Dilemma (2)

Hello there,  welcome back. I'm sorry I went on a week long micturition. I live on the street, and Gov. Ambode's doing some serious restructuring in Lagos, I couldn't even find a toilet!

Now back to our story; Charles and Joy were in love, but along the line they missed it. They miscommunicated almost at all times, and it grew worse...

*********
"Babe do you care for anything?"  Joy asked her husband who sat in the sophisticated living room watching the evening news.
The news headline was as irritating as his wife's question: "Unknown Snake swallows N36 Million at JAMB office."
"To hell with you suckers!" Charles snarled, startling Joy.

"Charles please don't start this evening" she fumed and turned away in the opposite direction like a controlled military robot.
"I'm travelling to Abuja tomorrow for a business meeting," Charles said softly as she walked out. He spoke as though he didn't want her hear so they could argue over it tomorrow morning when he was ready to travel; that was the only thing he now enjoy doing with his wife --arguing. But Joy heard; women, they always hear.  She stopped in her tracks and turned back towards him.
"And how long will you be gone mister?" She asked.
"A week or so..." Charles replied, his gazed fixed on the devil's box as he watched the news of the political demons running the economy like a boy flying a kite.
Joy then turn back towards her room without uttering any other word.

Let's just continue like this, she said to herself. She locked herself in, flipped her phone to check her messages, and creased into a smile Charles would have recognized on their wedding day.

It was a WhatsApp message from one Adewale. Yoruba demons, they are everywhere.

The ambrosial smell of rain on earth plus a cloud curtained sunshine announced daybreak. For both parties, it couldn't come any quicker. Charles slipped out of his pyjamas and into his slippers as he traipsed into the bathroom. He was drained, the night was unnecessarily long. It was one of those nights one prays to fast-forward when there is a meeting with a loved one the following morning.

"I've booked a flight with Solange Airlines, and I'll be lodging at Sheraton." he said to his wife at the dinning as he prepared to leave.
"If you need anything you know how to reach me." he added.
Joy just sat still at the dinning drinking tea and playing candy crush with her phone. Giving Charles the impression she wouldn't need a thing from him.

"Will you be kind enough to drop me at the airport?" he asked. Joy then looked at him for the first time that morning.
"You didn't tell me you'll be needing me to take you the airport. I've got plans already."
"Fine. I'll just call Taxify."
"Nicey"

Some few hours later after overcoming the buzzing traffic in Lagos, Charles finally got to Magodo, his mistress's home.
Onome and Charles had been friends since university days, falling in and out of their relationship like scavenging ants in search of sugar cubes.
She was a blogger and digital marketer who know people that know people.

"So I am your business meeting abi?" Onome said to Charles as she wrapped her arms around him.
"First of,  this meeting will last for two weeks. Have that in mind" she added with a kiss.
"As your lordship pleases." Charles replied with ambitious lust.
Onome deliberately slipped out of his grasp and slowly signalled him to follow her. Charles carried his bag and obeyed, his eyes fixated on her mammoth but shapely behind.

*********
What is good for the gander is good for the goose. Joy had changed into a red lingerie as she cooked spaghetti and peppered chicken stew. She was beautiful and smelled nice; unlike when she was with her husband, wearing baggy pants and oversized shirts, hiding her features.

Adewale would soon be here any moment from now, she thought. They would have at least four to five days of uninterrupted intimacy. The longest they've ever had was a day, now five days together was mouthwatering.
As though to justify her thoughts, the bell rang. He's here!

After the meal, Adewale and Joy cuddled cozily on the sofa as they sipped rum and watch scantily clad girls dance in music videos. It was hard to see a video without these naked girls.
Just then, a breaking news headline scrolled: "BREAKING NEWS: Solange Plane Crash. 79 Feared Dead."

It was Adewale that read it, then he echoed to his mistress. Joy jumped to her  feet.
"Solange airline? What?! Charles is on that plane!"

©Angel MESSI

Dilemma

The atmosphere was serene, it cannot be mistaken, gods live here. And when a god and a goddess decides to live together in love and procreate, what do they birth?

A Saviour? A Messiah? A God?

Aha!

Yes, it's a dilemma, and that's what we'll be talking about this evening, or morning, or whatever time it is you're reading this, because this dilemma issa banger.

"BANG BANG BANG!"

Charles banged the gate with a boulder not minding the sheen. He had tried using the bell and his fist, however the bell seemed to be hanging on the wall just for decorative purposes (this was a revelation because he had never used it before), while his fist ached terribly after two knocks.

He took his phone and ringed Joy again, she still wasn't picking.
Where in the world is everyone? He thought, and gave the gate another round of knock as his blue Acura MDX roared softly.

Just then, the locker was released from the other end and his neighbour opened the gate.

"Oh Mr Charles it's you, I heard the banging from the bathroom. I had no idea it was you" his neighbour said.

"Ha... So you heard since. Na wa oh" Charles whined.

"I said I was in the bathroom. Perhaps, it's about time we considered getting a gate man. You were the one that opposed the motion at our last meeting with the landlord."

"Hmmm... That is why you refused to open the gate on time abi?... Fear God ooo... Well I never knew one could use close to twenty minutes at the gate knocking. Please we have to get a gate man asap."  Charles agreed. He opened the main gate and drove in.

The frustration on his face was evident. He would pour out everything on Joy, but on getting to his block he noticed her car wasn't there.
He collected his things from the car and pressed the  bell. He was sure the bell to his flat was working unlike the shocker he received at the gate. He checked underneath the foot mat and found the key.

"Where dis babe carry herself go again?" he said to himself as he opened the door and entered. His anger left him immediately when he discovered her phones were on the center table. How would he vent his anger on her now? He must have thought.

Some few minutes later, Joy got back from the store as she pulled two grocery bags out of the booth.
Charles opened the door, and seeing the bags he knew where she went.

"Honey I'm sorry I never knew you'd come back this early," Joy said. Charles returned back in, not even offering to help with the bags.
Joy shut the door behind her and head to the kitchen. She was barely disturbed because she hadn't bought the groceries for him in the first place. He seldom ate anything these days. Gone are the days her husband couldn't do without any of  her food, but not anymore. It's been over two months he last ate her herself. She missed him, and she was certain he missed her too. They both loved each other; that was why they got married in the first place, even against the warning of family and friends.
"Love conquers all." they had both said to anyone that doubted them when they made known their intention to settle down, after dating for close to two years. But here they are, thirteen months into the marriage and things already gone terribly sour.

How did it happen? You might wanna ask. The sad truth however is that the love dyad do not even know how it happened.
But I'm the narrator right? I know things, and I'll tell you how it happened.

It started with overlooking things.
Now, I must warn you, it is important that you heed my warning, take it in, soak it in, comprehend: Never ever overlook the things you care about.
Discuss it, spill out your grievances, never bottle it in.

Charles and Joy were in love, I think they still are. But is love enough to keep a marriage?

I'll be right back, let me take a leak.

©Angel MESSI

The Blusher (2)

"Hello Choco, welcome back honey."
Madame Agnes greeted General Bongo as she collected his briefcase, sealing her salutation with a kiss.

General Bongo's little vizsla hopped between his legs  as he held his wife, craving its own attention;  its master however solely belonged to madame on this night. The dog, undefeated and unfettered continue to hop and bark as it followed its master.

"How's my wildcat been today?" the General asked, holding onto Agnes's curvaceous waist a lil longer.
"Grand baby, grand. I prepared your favorite. Go shower let me set the table."

General Bongo then proceeded to his room, leaving Agnes to set the table for dinner. Agnes dropped the briefcase on the glass dinning table and hurried towards the kitchen. Her husband must be extremely famished, she thought.

Some minutes later, all was set and Madame Agnes beckoned on her husband. He called back from his room, permitting her to continue eating as he'd join her pretty soon; but Madame Agnes refused to eat without her husband, so she waited.

She fiddled with her phone in wait, and after a while the thought of opening the briefcase brushed through her. She drew the iron briefcase closer, fiddling with the handle and lock.
Madame Agnes examined it for a while and without opening it decided to take it upstairs to her husband.

All the while the dog sat still under the center table, it focused on the television as an animated cat and mouse kept setting traps for themselves and killing each other; only to come back alive in another episode. Occasionally it would bark when a  bulldog scene comes up.

"Yes come in..." General Bongo answered a knock on the door. Agnes stepped in with the briefcase. Her husband was still in the bathroom so she sat on the bed waiting.
Then it came to her again like a bad dream that needs interpretation -the briefcase.

She caressed the handle, and like a woman, she unlocked it.

"CLICK"

The briefcase swung open and she saw in it a neatly arranged spiral-bounded document, a pistol and two packets of bullets (real and rubber baton rounds).  There was also a clean Gerber mark II dagger with black rubber handle safely sheathed in a military sheath.

She perused the documents and realized it was the old General's will.
"Chinekeme" she muttered softly as she read the document. She discovered there and then that General Bongo had two more wives in the states, and even his late first wife had a larger percentage of his properties willed to her children.

She was doomed; and for no reason, the book, the doomsday conspiracy came to her mind. What am I doing with this aged nincompoop? She thought.
"This is insane. I've been used." she said out loud absentmindedly.

General Bongo came out from the bathroom just in time to see her talking to herself.
"Honey are you okay?" he asked.

Madame Agnes took a while to process her thoughts before she replied
"Who's your honey?" she retorted as she flashed the documents before her husband.

"Please put those stuffs back I don't want it flying around." The General said and walked towards his wardrobe. He slipped into his pyjamas and left his wife in the room which drove her nuts.

"Good grief! What in the hell is the meaning of all these nonsense?!" She exploded and jumped to her feet, and carrying the briefcase along she went after him. She slammed the door behind her, and hurried barefooted down the wooden stairs.

"Mister man! Don't you walk out on me! Don't you ever walk out on me!"

(To be continued)
©Angel MESSI

The Blusher

"I killed a man,"
"I killed my husband, and I plead not guilty."

These were the exact words of Madame Agnes Bongo, General Bongo's contraband sweet heart, when she pleaded her case before the magistrate.

"General Bongo was a scumbag. A scallywag. A rascal."  the retired model opined.

"Madame Agnes Bongo, would you tell this honourable court what metamorphosed between you and General Bongo?" Barrister Aje said, he was representing the defense counsel.

Madame Agnes sighed, flushed by bittersweet emotions.

"He was the funniest and sweetest man I'd ever seen..." Madame Bongo started, and creased into a radiant smile.
***********

Sporadic gun shots could be heard from a distance not too far away. It was a ball of ArmaLite AR-15 rifles, Ak47s among many others. General Bongo could pick the sound of each gun from years of war. He was unfazed amidst the threat and this calmed his soldiers.
Then an explosion shook the forest. Birds took flight, abandoning their nests; even bats left their coven. The sky was saturated with fowls of the air, bats and birds alike; this, in itself was ill luck.

"Guns don't kill people..."  General Bongo said and puffed thick tobacco smoke into the air as though to reference the aves. His left hand and face were scarred from years of protecting his country. General Bongo was a man of the people; thrice he had surrendered his life to protect his country,  and thrice he'd miraculously missed the icy kiss of death.

"...Mofos kill people." he said coldly. His full hair grayed, and his moustache curled to the heavens at both ends. General Bongo wasn't the strongest of generals at his time, but he was every soldier's dream soldier. They all wanted to be in his brigade. They wanted to be led by a man whose witticism and luck had saved him thrice in the enemy camp.
His ideas and speech gave even the fiercest of foes goosebumps, hence the crescentic rise in his career.

General Bongo was a hard nut with glyphs of wrinkles carved on his cold face. He never smiles. A true African man is a hard man who buries his emotion in the abyss of thingamajig. Then an African man in the military is harder; dead to emotions. This was General Bongo, dead to emotions, and he carried this demeanour to his young wife at home every night.
**********

On the night of General Bongo's death things were as normal as they usually were. Miss Agnes was in the kitchen cooking her ass off to prepare General Bongo's favourite meal, Afang soup and foofoo.
The stress of pounding the vegetables, cutting and washing the periwinkles, preparing the foofoo among others was more than enough to keep Agnes away from the kitchen. She loathed cooking, which happens to be a prime mover  in her career choice. She thrived on junks as a model until she met General Bongo at Lagos University Teaching Hospital (LUTH), some six years ago after a surgery.

The General was adorable, affable and amiable, and that was just the As. He was all she had ever wanted in an ideal man. He doled out jokes with such seriousness she almost returned for another surgery.
How can a man be this funny and not even laugh while saying it? She had thought. Her curiosity caused them to exchange numbers, and the rest they say is history.

History however would be made on the night of General Bongo's death as his black Honda Pilot pulled into the garage. He turned off the ignition and decided to take a quick smoke. He checked his pack of Benson Switch, he had four sticks left and resolved to taking two. The remainder he would enjoy before going to bed, little did he know there was no going to bed; that night, he was going to hell.

(To be continued)
©Angel MESSI

Ali had a Dream (4)

His uncle had spent most of his life abroad, so calling him a name he didn’t bear did not quite go down well with him. People who called him by his children’s name ended up being frustrated because uncle Kamal will not respond to such calls.

“Say my name! I am Kamaldeen, and not Baba Shade! What in the world is wrong with Nigerians? Aaarrrgghhh!” he once charged at his friend while at a party; his friend had brought to the party three hot dames, and anything near “Baba whatever,” was bad for business.

“Ali! So of all the shirts and polo shirts in that wardrobe it’s this one that caught your fancy right?” he said, “you too like better thing. See your head.” Ali turned around one more time so to send a message to his uncle that that would be the last of the shirt he would be seeing in his house. “Who doesn’t?” Ali grins.

Just then, Ali proceeded to the refrigerator -that was his favourite place in the house, followed by the kitchen- he brought out four cans of beer and returned to the living room.
On seeing the beer cans with him his uncle said, “Hmmm… EeekkaaA! I trust you.” And they both laughed yet again. Ali was his favourite nephew, and he loved him so much.

*****Definition of Term*****
EeekkaaA: someone or a group of persons very good in doing ‘bad’ things. (It can be used as a noun, pronoun, verb, adjective and adverb.)

Ali passed his admission letter to his uncle, “What’s this again oo?” he asked, as he read the letter, “Oh… finally…” he said, “…your dream course… congratulations boy. Your father would have been very proud.” And he raised his beer to the lad.
“Thank you sir.” Ali beamed; just then one of the ladies joined them in the living room and settled beside uncle Kamal. She was scantily-clad and had helped herself with some chocolate ice-cream.
Uncle Kamal then introduced her to Ali, who to his greatest surprise didn’t believe it. 

“This is Ali, my nephew I do talk to you about,” he said, and she faked a smile. Then he turned to Ali and said, “Ali this is Jenifer, she’s a sophomore student of Obafemi Awolowo University, your school.” Ali mouthed, “Hello,” but the actual words didn’t quite come out.

Jenifer was the lady he saw on his way to his uncle’s place who he had tried to talk to only for her to tell him his clothes are torn and he needed clothes not girls in his life. She then flagged down a bike and sped off. Jenifer however was suddenly interested in him, pretending not to remember a thing.

“Oh oh… Great Ife!” she said, as she held her spoon in a fist.

“Eeerrr… actually I just got admitted…” Ali stammered. 
“Oh that’s nice, congrats. What course were you given?” She asked coolly in the most sonorous voice Ali had ever heard, just then uncle Kamal cuts in “His dream course of course! He’s the one I told you about that rejected your school on two different occasions when he was given Medicine and Computer science have you forgotten?”

“Ahan… uncle Kamal…!” Ali said embarrassed, “you don’t have to be a whistleblower, you won’t get paid” and they all burst out laughing.

Ali peeked through the corner of his eyes as they watched TV and caught her staring. What could she be thinking now? he thought, and then he turned to her as though to say something. His opened mouth however would birth no word. She smiled and winked at him, and then proceeded into the other room.
So shapely she was even the number eight had fewer curves. The bum shorts she wore gave him enough room to take in her straight hot legs.

“WOW!” he suddenly said absentmindedly, before he realized he shouldn’t have said that.
“Hey! Young man… get your eyes off that girl.” Uncle Kamal warned and creased into a satisfying smile. Ali smirked and relaxed into the armless arms of the cushion chair, “Obafemi Awolowo University… here I come.” He said to himself.

Angel MESSI

Ali had a Dream (3)

(CONT'D) 

Mama  Ali’s  moniker  also  varies  due  to  the  flexibility  of  her  ever  changing  trade. Mama  Ali  being  the  most  popular,  to  the  less  popular  ones  like;  Iya  Gbenga  (No  one ever  called  her  Iya  Aishat,  firstborns  and  lastborn  are  the  main  children,  second-borns are  almost  invisible.),  Iya  Alata,  Mama  Melo;  while  the  kids  mostly  called  her  “Mama Boda  Ali”  (simply  put,  uncle  Ali’s  mother).  This  is  Nigeria  and  respect  is  a  thing  that flows even in the bloodstream  of  unborn babies.

Mama  Ali’s  shop  was  one  of  the  shops  that  occupied  the  ground  floor  of  the  two storied  building;  other  shops  includes:  a  barber’s  shop,  a  boutique,  a  bet  shop/game house,  and  a  shop  that  housed  an  office  desk,  two  blue  plastic  chairs,  a  bench, typewriter,  desktop  computer,  and  a  whole  lot  of  files.  A  placard  was  pasted  on  the  door with  washed  off  writing:  “ESTATE  AGENT.  To  Let,  2  &  3  Bedroom  flats  for  lease.” The  shop was perpetually empty. 

************
Baba  Ali  owned  a  mechanic  shop.  A  school  certificate  holder,  but  he  somehow managed  to  speak  Queen’s  English  (I  am  sure  you’ve  met  people  like  that).  He  served as  a  cook  to  a  British  couple  at  a  tender  age  of  twelve,  and  went  on  to  live  with  them  for twenty  four  years. 
“Tunde  boy,”  as  he  was  fondly  called  by  his  master  went  on  to  learn all  he  could  from  the  Briton  who  was  a  qualified  mechanical  engineer  that  worked  with Volkswagen at  the  time,  until  his untimely death alongside his wife  in  a  motor accident.

Baba  Ali  was  the  best  mechanic  there  was  in  the  busy  city  of  Yaba.  Ali  however wasn’t  interested  in  his  father’s  trade,  and  upon  his  father’s  death,  the  shop  was relinquished to a stranger.

Baba  Ali  was  a  generous  easy-going  man  who  worked  for  free  most  of  the  time, and that  invariably  left  him  broke  and  at  the  ire  of  his  wife.  He  didn’t  care  less notwithstanding;  as  long  as  he  could  provide  for  feeding,  and  his  children’s  education and  shelter,  he  was  satisfied.  The  issue  however  was  the  occasional  luxuries  his  wife wanted  to  enjoy. 

“We  must  be  frugal  in  spending,”  he’d  say  to  her  whenever  she  came crying  for  money.  He’ll  then  give  her  the  money,  and  ask that she  used  it  to  buy  whatever  she wanted; or  to  buy food and also  stock her  shop.  Yea,  you guessed right.

************
“Ahan?  Ali  what’s  wrong?  Why  is  your  shirt  torn?”  Uncle  Kamal  asked,  surprised as  he  opened  the  door  for  his  nephew.

“Uncle  it’s  the  bus  I  entered  o!”  Ali  lamented.  “As I  was  about  to  drop,  I  had  no  idea  that  my  shirt  was  being  held  back  by  a  knocked  out screw…”  he  paused, took a brief look at his once lovely shirt and continued,  “…all  I  heard  was  the  sound  of  the  tear  and  people  telling  me ‘sorry o’.  I was embarrassed.”  He hissed.

“Eeyah…  thank  your  stars  it  wasn’t  your  trousers,  that  would  have  been  the  peak of  your  embarrassment,  and  hope  your  boxers  are  clean?  ‘Coz  you  never  know,  the  next bus  you  hop  on  might  chew  your  pants.”  uncle  Kamal  laughed  at  his  just  concluded hilarious  joke,  but  Ali  didn’t  find  it  near  funny,  he  only  managed  a  grin. 

He had spotted  a beautiful  girl  on  his  way  to  his  uncle’s  place  and  had  hoped  to  get  her  mobile  number only  for  her  to  embarrass  him. 
“Why  must  it  be  today of  all  days  that  I  now  see  someone attractive?  My  God!”  He  said  to  himself  as  he  watched  the  girl  and  her  friend  stop  a  bike and  disappear  into  the  noisy  chatter  of  Lagos.  He  stood  for almost twenty minutes, speechless  and  defeated  at  the bus stop.  

“Check  my  wardrobe  and  see  if  you  can  get  something  that  fits,”  his  uncle  finally said  amidst  laughter  as  he  picked  the  channel  changer  and  buried  himself  in  his  couch. Ali  let  out  a  wry  sigh  of  relief  and  gratefully  dashed  to  his  uncle’s  room. 
Uncle  Kamal lived  alone  in  a  3-bedroom  flat  located  in  Ogba,  in  the  city  of  Lagos.  His  two  wives  and five  children  lived  in  Boston.  He  was  a  promiscuous  man,  so  it  was  no  surprise  when  Ali saw  the  silhouettes  and  backs  of  two  ladies  --who  he  guessed  should  be  in  their  late teens  or  early  twenties--  stroll  from  the  kitchen  to  the  other  room  in  bum  shorts  and  tank tops.

Some  minutes  later,  Ali  joined  uncle  Kamal  in  the  living  room  dressed  in  a brightly  coloured,  flowery  blue  shirt.  He  announced  his  presence  with  both  hands  wide apart  like  a  peacock showboating,  “Uncle Kamal how do  I  look?”  

(To be continued)

©Angel MESSI