THE SPECIAL UNINVITED GUEST

Friday
23 March 2012

18:10

I was ready to leave the central business district but then I got a call from some guy who wanted me to hook his ass up wit some cash so I had to temporize. The dude had to be in another part of the country the next mornin’ and he was way short on his transport fare. So in comes the money man (me) to save the fuckin’ day like a mutherfuckin’ superhero! What? Nah, I’ve not been sippin’ on some of that Bill Gate philanthropic brew, it was all on a business tip!

So, I walked to an acquaintance’s shop to get my wait on. The shop keeper shook my hand without takin’ his eyes off some preacher who was doin’ his thing on the television. Curious as to why this nigga was so captivated by the televangelist, I tried watchin’ too but my interest only lasted for about three minute. I fished out a copy of the Gentleman’s Quarterly’s January/February edition (the South Africa’s edition) from my packed backpack and got lost in it.

Some few minutes, the shopkeeper murmured loudly to himself, “ah, some pastors are not interesting. I tried to listen but he’s not jus catching my attention”

I raised my head to look at the TV, at that moment the camera sweepin’ over the faces of some members of the congregation and they looked very much like they were catchin’ every alphabet of every word the pastor was throwin’ at them.

I thought to myself, are these guys really understandin what the man of God was sayin’ or were they jus puttin’ in an act for the cameras?

Put the Blame on God

God, the devil and love are humans’ favorite scapegoats; we blame all kinds of shit on ‘em. Ask a serial killer why he kills, he’ll pro’ly tell you the devil (or God) made him do it.

Some years ago I read about some infamous late 1970s New York serial killer nick named Son of Sam (real name David berkowitz) who claimed he was commanded to kill by a demon who possessed his neighbor’s dog…incredible shit, huh?

And oh, I know y’all know about all these Manchurian candidates a.k.a brain washed kids a.k.a terrorists who’ve come to believe their own bullshit about doin’ God a favor by killin’ the infidels. How the fuck can you believe a mullah sits comfortably away from harm (he and his fam) and churns out sermon after sermon tellin’ you to go into the world and suicide-bomb everythin’ walkin, huh? These cats even sweetens the whole narrative by tellin’ the would-be suicide bomber that seventy two untouched pussies will be waitin’ on each of their asses in the afterlife! Ridiculous shit!

Jus the day other day, I read about some Man of Dog, oops, meant man of God who set some lady on fire. Nigga claimed that God instructed him to do it cause the shawtie was possessed! Unadulterated bull crap, if you ask me. If I was the law, I’d tossed the man of dog’s ass in the big house (prison) where them brutal gay wolves would build a house in that butt!

And where am I goin’ wit all these tales by moonlight?

Sunday
Church service
18 March

12:15

Sittin’ two rows to the exit as usual, I was tryin’ so hard to concentrate (ok, maybe I didn’t try hard enough) but instead of soakin’ the preacher’s words in, I was busy tryna kill an erection that’d come out of nowhere! I swear I wasn’t even thinkin anythin’ sexual but hey, am not even goin to blame it on the devil…am jus gon’ do like Akon and put the blame on myself. But seriously, who does that? Who gets an erection in church, am I the only one?

Some minutes later, I succeeded in getting myself out that “stiff” situation and it was all thanks to two things, one was me gettin myself to concentrate on singin’ as the congregation sang and the other was a certain gentleman sittin’ six seats away on the middle row.

12:56

I didn’t notice when the young man came in the church (must have been while I was tryin’ to lose the growth in my pant) but I knew he wasn’t there before. The guy was hard to miss. He was dressed like an Eskimo, you wouldn’t be wrong to think that he was would headed for Iceland wit the way he was clad in three layers of shirts, a grey lookin’ pant and a pair of Adidas sneakers (that the manufacturer musta forgotten they'd made ) and guess what? The temperature was about 32 degrees!

The next time I looked his way, dude was almost fallin’ over backward in his chair…nigga was dozin’ and from the way his mouth was opened, I coulda swore I heard the nigga snorin’ heavily!

An usher came and shook him awake (and that was after he realized that ordinary taps on the shoulder couldn’t cut it.) The whole drama of dozing and being told to wake the hell up (by the same usher) continued until the pastor called out that folks who wanted special breakthrough should come to the front so that he’d anoint ‘em.

The young man walked to the front wit about ninety percent of the congregation and I might add that the dude didn’t jus get up and walk willingly to the front, the usher practically dragged his ass there!

13:20

And what about me, did I go to the front for some anointment too? Umm, Nah. truth is, I was ready to get  the fuck out the church cause the service gettin' too long for but one thing kept holdin' my ass back and nope, it wasn’t the holy spirit.

So, what kept me there in?

I wanted to see if somethin’ dramatic would happen when the pastor lays hand on the “Eskimo”. But what was so special about that, you asked?  Trust me; if y’all were in my shoes, you’d loved to see if somethin’ miraculous would go down cause the “Eskimo” was a mad man!

OUTRO

So did the miraculous happen? Nope, at least not the way movies have made us believe…but for me, the real miracle was in the mad man comin’ into the church out of his free own will. Umm, did I say free will? Well, may be an external influence told him to, “get your crazy ass to church today, son”.

THE SPECIAL UNINVITED GUEST

Friday
23 March 2012

18:10

I was ready to leave the central business district but then I got a call from some guy who wanted me to hook his ass up wit some cash so I had to temporize. The dude had to be in another part of the country the next mornin’ and he was way short on his transport fare. So in comes the money man (me) to save the fuckin’ day like a mutherfuckin’ superhero! What? Nah, I’ve not been sippin’ on some of that Bill Gate philanthropic brew, it was all on a business tip!

So, I walked to an acquaintance’s shop to get my wait on. The shop keeper shook my hand without takin’ his eyes off some preacher who was doin’ his thing on the television. Curious as to why this nigga was so captivated by the televangelist, I tried watchin’ too but my interest only lasted for about three minute. I fished out a copy of the Gentleman’s Quarterly’s January/February edition (the South Africa’s edition) from my packed backpack and got lost in it.

Some few minutes, the shopkeeper murmured loudly to himself, “ah, some pastors are not interesting. I tried to listen but he’s not jus catching my attention”

I raised my head to look at the TV, at that moment the camera sweepin’ over the faces of some members of the congregation and they looked very much like they were catchin’ every alphabet of every word the pastor was throwin’ at them.

I thought to myself, are these guys really understandin what the man of God was sayin’ or were they jus puttin’ in an act for the cameras?

Put the Blame on God

God, the devil and love are humans’ favorite scapegoats; we blame all kinds of shit on ‘em. Ask a serial killer why he kills, he’ll pro’ly tell you the devil (or God) made him do it.

Some years ago I read about some infamous late 1970s New York serial killer nick named Son of Sam (real name David berkowitz) who claimed he was commanded to kill by a demon who possessed his neighbor’s dog…incredible shit, huh?

And oh, I know y’all know about all these Manchurian candidates a.k.a brain washed kids a.k.a terrorists who’ve come to believe their own bullshit about doin’ God a favor by killin’ the infidels. How the fuck can you believe a mullah sits comfortably away from harm (he and his fam) and churns out sermon after sermon tellin’ you to go into the world and suicide-bomb everythin’ walkin, huh? These cats even sweetens the whole narrative by tellin’ the would-be suicide bomber that seventy two untouched pussies will be waitin’ on each of their asses in the afterlife! Ridiculous shit!

Jus the day other day, I read about some Man of Dog, oops, meant man of God who set some lady on fire. Nigga claimed that God instructed him to do it cause the shawtie was possessed! Unadulterated bull crap, if you ask me. If I was the law, I’d tossed the man of dog’s ass in the big house (prison) where them brutal gay wolves would build a house in that butt!

And where am I goin’ wit all these tales by moonlight?

Sunday
Church service
18 March

12:15

Sittin’ two rows to the exit as usual, I was tryin’ so hard to concentrate (ok, maybe I didn’t try hard enough) but instead of soakin’ the preacher’s words in, I was busy tryna kill an erection that’d come out of nowhere! I swear I wasn’t even thinkin anythin’ sexual but hey, am not even goin to blame it on the devil…am jus gon’ do like Akon and put the blame on myself. But seriously, who does that? Who gets an erection in church, am I the only one?

Some minutes later, I succeeded in getting myself out that “stiff” situation and it was all thanks to two things, one was me gettin myself to concentrate on singin’ as the congregation sang and the other was a certain gentleman sittin’ six seats away on the middle row.

12:56

I didn’t notice when the young man came in the church (must have been while I was tryin’ to lose the growth in my pant) but I knew he wasn’t there before. The guy was hard to miss. He was dressed like an Eskimo, you wouldn’t be wrong to think that he was would headed for Iceland wit the way he was clad in three layers of shirts, a grey lookin’ pant and a pair of Adidas sneakers (that the manufacturer musta forgotten they'd made ) and guess what? The temperature was about 32 degrees!

The next time I looked his way, dude was almost fallin’ over backward in his chair…nigga was dozin’ and from the way his mouth was opened, I coulda swore I heard the nigga snorin’ heavily!

An usher came and shook him awake (and that was after he realized that ordinary taps on the shoulder couldn’t cut it.) The whole drama of dozing and being told to wake the hell up (by the same usher) continued until the pastor called out that folks who wanted special breakthrough should come to the front so that he’d anoint ‘em.

The young man walked to the front wit about ninety percent of the congregation and I might add that the dude didn’t jus get up and walk willingly to the front, the usher practically dragged his ass there!

13:20

And what about me, did I go to the front for some anointment too? Umm, Nah. truth is, I was ready to get  the fuck out the church cause the service gettin' too long for but one thing kept holdin' my ass back and nope, it wasn’t the holy spirit.

So, what kept me there in?

I wanted to see if somethin’ dramatic would happen when the pastor lays hand on the “Eskimo”. But what was so special about that, you asked?  Trust me; if y’all were in my shoes, you’d loved to see if somethin’ miraculous would go down cause the “Eskimo” was a mad man!

OUTRO

So did the miraculous happen? Nope, at least not the way movies have made us believe…but for me, the real miracle was in the mad man comin’ into the church out of his free own will. Umm, did I say free will? Well, may be an external influence told him to, “get your crazy ass to church today, son”.

THREE SWEETEST WORDS

Tuesday
March 20
12:38

Standin’ outside the tent where I was told to stew for ten minutes.

Stew?

Yep, that’s what it is when waitin’ becomes achingly unbearable. Stewin’ is knowin’ the clock is bout to run out on your favorite club in a championship final while you stand there wit blood rushin’ to your head and adrenalin’ floodin out your mutherfuckin’ vein.

A minute into the stewin’, my head began to pound as if Staff Sergeant Robert Bales (the US soldier who is suspected to have gone on a house to house killin’ spree in Afghanistan ‘bout three weeks ago) had gone berserk in there (my head). For a second or two, I squeezed my eyes tight; tryna rid myself of the wailings that had rented my medulla oblongata. My mind spurn into a free fall and wouldn’t stop weaving up all kinds of Armageddon-ish scenarios (the type them fire-and-brimstone preachers’ been warnin’ pig headed sinners like me about). I tried getting’ my thoughts on a positive track but I failed spectacularly. The ten minute wait was drivin’ nuts.

“These things happen, you know?” the man standing next to me said trying to calm me down. I nodded my head.

Despite the calm front the man was puttin’ up, nigga was sweatin’ bullets. I sneaked a look at his hands and guess what? They fuckin’ wouldn’t stop shakin’! I looked away and smiled to myself.

Earlier
12:25

While I contemplated the pros and cons of what I was about to get my ass into, I amused myself by watchin’ a bleached out middle aged woman (the skin on her face and hands looked like the flag of South Africa…a collage of colors) who was drinkin’ some kinda yoghurt wit a straw. She was oblivious to my gawkin’ as she sucked on the straw wit the resolve of a seasoned blow job veteran!

After about five minutes of bouncin’ the idea around in my skull, I decided ‘’what the fuck, am gon do this shit. Lo que sera, fuckin’ sera’’

So, I threw my brandless shades on my face and walked the short fifty meters to the tent where a group of women chattin’ outside. Truth is, those few meters walk felt like a fuckin’ thousand miles journey to the end of the earth!

 Have I been to the end of the earth before?

Umm, nope but am so freakin’ sure an Armageddon trek would be like that if ever there was one.  After havin’ a one on one wit one of the ladies outside the tent, I was told to go inside.

12:32

I poked my head into the tent, still not hundred percent sure if I was ready to go all the way wit my decision to be there but jus as my brain and legs were comin’ into some kind of agreement about throwin’ up the deuces to the whole thing, the encouragin’ smile of one the two ladies in the tent pulled me in.

“You’re welcome, sir” said the lady in the red top. “Please, take a seat”

As soon as I sat my ass down myself down, she took my left hand in her right, massaged it gently, placed it on her lap and went to work.

12:53

“Sir!” one of the two ladies in the tent called out. I looked at my fellow anxiety-ridden “waiter” unsure of which of the Sirs the lady wanted.

“Form number 33” she added as if she read our thoughts

I dragged my ass in the tent as if both my legs were tied to huge balls and chains. Lady number two motioned me to her side, told me to sit myself down while she filled a form. The red topped lady who’d attended to me earlier left the tent. I held my breath as if a deadly plague was in the air. After what seemed like a lifetime in Satan’s crib, the lady got done wit the forms.

“How are you, sir” she greeted

“Am fine” I croaked my reply. My voice sounded like it belonged to an alien frog. I was fuckin’ unwell and the lady knew it. Nope, I was not dyin’ but anxiety was makin’ my blood boil. I was sweating like I stole some’

“Do you use condom” she asked

Though I wanted joke like, “nah, am a virgin’’ but the occasion couldn’t get the Kevin Hart in me to rise the fuck up, so I said “Yeah, but not all the time” instead.

“Well, you should be usin’ condom at all times” she continued in a perfunctory note. “Don’t you know you put yourself at risk every time you go in live?” I almost smile at the way she said that.

“I know” I said, strainin’ my neck tryna see what she got written on form number 33.

She went on to hit me over the head wit a lesson about faithfulness, abstinence and the importance of strappin’ that dick up every time I wanna get some pussy.

In my head, I was screamin’ “jus show me the fuckin result and end my misery already, you bitch ass lady”

Four minutes later, the lady had gone into overdrive wit her little sermon.

Fuck! I couldn’t contain myself anymore so I cut to the chase, “Madam, please what’s my result?”

She took a deep breath, looked at form number thirty three again and said “You’re negative”

And those three little word right there were the sweetest words I’d ever heard!

THREE SWEETEST WORDS

Tuesday
March 20
12:38

Standin’ outside the tent where I was told to stew for ten minutes.

Stew?

Yep, that’s what it is when waitin’ becomes achingly unbearable. Stewin’ is knowin’ the clock is bout to run out on your favorite club in a championship final while you stand there wit blood rushin’ to your head and adrenalin’ floodin out your mutherfuckin’ vein.

A minute into the stewin’, my head began to pound as if Staff Sergeant Robert Bales (the US soldier who is suspected to have gone on a house to house killin’ spree in Afghanistan ‘bout three weeks ago) had gone berserk in there (my head). For a second or two, I squeezed my eyes tight; tryna rid myself of the wailings that had rented my medulla oblongata. My mind spurn into a free fall and wouldn’t stop weaving up all kinds of Armageddon-ish scenarios (the type them fire-and-brimstone preachers’ been warnin’ pig headed sinners like me about). I tried getting’ my thoughts on a positive track but I failed spectacularly. The ten minute wait was drivin’ nuts.

“These things happen, you know?” the man standing next to me said trying to calm me down. I nodded my head.

Despite the calm front the man was puttin’ up, nigga was sweatin’ bullets. I sneaked a look at his hands and guess what? They fuckin’ wouldn’t stop shakin’! I looked away and smiled to myself.

Earlier
12:25

While I contemplated the pros and cons of what I was about to get my ass into, I amused myself by watchin’ a bleached out middle aged woman (the skin on her face and hands looked like the flag of South Africa…a collage of colors) who was drinkin’ some kinda yoghurt wit a straw. She was oblivious to my gawkin’ as she sucked on the straw wit the resolve of a seasoned blow job veteran!

After about five minutes of bouncin’ the idea around in my skull, I decided ‘’what the fuck, am gon do this shit. Lo que sera, fuckin’ sera’’

So, I threw my brandless shades on my face and walked the short fifty meters to the tent where a group of women chattin’ outside. Truth is, those few meters walk felt like a fuckin’ thousand miles journey to the end of the earth!

 Have I been to the end of the earth before?

Umm, nope but am so freakin’ sure an Armageddon trek would be like that if ever there was one.  After havin’ a one on one wit one of the ladies outside the tent, I was told to go inside.

12:32

I poked my head into the tent, still not hundred percent sure if I was ready to go all the way wit my decision to be there but jus as my brain and legs were comin’ into some kind of agreement about throwin’ up the deuces to the whole thing, the encouragin’ smile of one the two ladies in the tent pulled me in.

“You’re welcome, sir” said the lady in the red top. “Please, take a seat”

As soon as I sat my ass down myself down, she took my left hand in her right, massaged it gently, placed it on her lap and went to work.

12:53

“Sir!” one of the two ladies in the tent called out. I looked at my fellow anxiety-ridden “waiter” unsure of which of the Sirs the lady wanted.

“Form number 33” she added as if she read our thoughts

I dragged my ass in the tent as if both my legs were tied to huge balls and chains. Lady number two motioned me to her side, told me to sit myself down while she filled a form. The red topped lady who’d attended to me earlier left the tent. I held my breath as if a deadly plague was in the air. After what seemed like a lifetime in Satan’s crib, the lady got done wit the forms.

“How are you, sir” she greeted

“Am fine” I croaked my reply. My voice sounded like it belonged to an alien frog. I was fuckin’ unwell and the lady knew it. Nope, I was not dyin’ but anxiety was makin’ my blood boil. I was sweating like I stole some’

“Do you use condom” she asked

Though I wanted joke like, “nah, am a virgin’’ but the occasion couldn’t get the Kevin Hart in me to rise the fuck up, so I said “Yeah, but not all the time” instead.

“Well, you should be usin’ condom at all times” she continued in a perfunctory note. “Don’t you know you put yourself at risk every time you go in live?” I almost smile at the way she said that.

“I know” I said, strainin’ my neck tryna see what she got written on form number 33.

She went on to hit me over the head wit a lesson about faithfulness, abstinence and the importance of strappin’ that dick up every time I wanna get some pussy.

In my head, I was screamin’ “jus show me the fuckin result and end my misery already, you bitch ass lady”

Four minutes later, the lady had gone into overdrive wit her little sermon.

Fuck! I couldn’t contain myself anymore so I cut to the chase, “Madam, please what’s my result?”

She took a deep breath, looked at form number thirty three again and said “You’re negative”

And those three little word right there were the sweetest words I’d ever heard!

STUCK

Thursday

8 March

Johannesburg, SA

The Truck Driver

13:04

The man reached for his extremely loud Nokla phone and said a gruffly hello into it.

Did I mean to write Nokia phone?

Nope! I meant Nokla.

I knew it was a Nokla cause for one, the sound comin’ outta that lil devil could wake a corpse who’s been coolin’ in the grave for a thousand years. Oh, y’all wanna pretend like y’all don’t know a Chinese phone when you hear one, huh?

“Hello!” he half yelled into his Nokla.

Nigga wasn’t about to be kind to anybody for wakin’ his ass up from a hard earned sleep and that is even more so if the caller is reluctant to speak. Why can’t folks understand that in his lline of duty, sleep is hard to come by, huh? He’d driven his Mack truck across three international borders to earn this fuckin’ sleep and he didn’t appreciate anybody buttin’ in on that snooze time.

“Hell ooo!”

Now becomin’ increasingly impatient with the dumb caller who’d cut into his temporary death only keep mute, he drew the phone away from his ear, starred at it as if to look into the face of whoever it was. For a second, he racked his brain for who would ring his phone up and refuse to speak. He came to the conclusion that only ghosts and exes would likely do dumb shit like that this. But then again, aren’t exes are a type of ghost?

Jus’ as he’d made up his mind to press the red button and put an end to the lil ghost caller drama, he heard the caller call his name and for the next five minute, he listened impatiently as the person on the end frantically spoke.

 Any casual observer tryna readin’ the body language and facial expression of this international truck driver would only see a man who was mildly pissed, but them professional profilers would tell you there was somethin’ more, they’d tell you some kinda dark amusement seemed to be growin’ on the man’s face with every passin’ minutes he spent listenin’ on that phone.

Friday

9 March

Lusaka, Zambia

11:45

Good afternoon and welcome to the mid day news, my name is blah blah and here are the headlines

As the newscaster reeled on, the five guys (three men and two ladies) who’d gather round the TV as soon as the shopkeeper told them it was news time started talkin’ excitedly about the strange event they’d heard happened the day before. They were hopin’ to see if the TV station would show some visuals to dispel their doubts.

The Taxi Man

12:05

Though disappointed that the newscaster said nothin’ bout the incident, they carried on talkin’ bout it anyways.

Some guy with a Pro-Specs back pack hangin’ on his back said, “You know, I’ve heard some stuffs like that before but nah, I don’t believe that shit. I need to see it to believe it”

“Believe it” the man standin’ on the other side of the counter said with conviction in his eyes, ‘’I saw the whole incident with my own two eyes‘’ he continued after washin’ down a mouthful of biscuit with a bottle of coke.

“Wow! Are you serious? The back pack man enthused tryna squeeze out some more gist out of the taxi man. Y’all know what they say bout taxi men, bar men and maids, right? No! Anywhere you go, this three set of people are your best source of info, and they always get their fingers on the juicy goings on in the city.

“Yes, my friend. I live just two hundred meters away from where it happened, I saw it” the taxi man said.

Thursday

8 March

Lilai

At Some Guest House

13:04

The visibly shaken guest house manager talked on the phone as he paced the length and breadth of room 102 like a teenage father who’d jus witnessed the birth of his daughter, if the distance covered in those lil back and forth were to be stretched out, nigga would have been half way to the moon! Ok, maybe that’s stretchin’ it but y’all got gist, right?

“Ah! Sunday is too far boss” he swiped a bead of sweat off the side of his face the back of his free hand, “I understand that you cannot leave your truck but we will pay for your flight and whatever expenses you may incur if you can make it here today, sir”

The manager had gotten the truck driver’s SA number from the tucker’s own wife as soon he was alerted to the situation in room 102. But how is that possible, you ask? Well, the trucker’s wife was the “situation’ in room 102!

A Tryst Gone Wrong

The trucker’s wife has got a lil some some on the side, whenever the husby goes on the road, the wife goes on the town feedin’ that pussy to her equally married lover at whatever guest house they choose to get their dirt on but on this fateful day, luck ran out of that ass.

Thursday was a public holiday (International Women’s Day), the trucker man was out in SA hustlin’ for the proverbial bacon and what was the wife up to?

Thursday

12:28

Earlier, the woman and her boy friend had snuck into the guest house separately, naturally the punk ass pussy thief had been there first to pay for the room and get shit ready before the woman’s arrival. When shit was set, he put a call through to her to show up. Shawtie came through, they drank and they fucked.

They drank and fucked, sounds simple, huh? A clean job, bi’ness as usual and nobody’s the wiser, right? Wrong!

Did they get caught? Nope, it was somethin’ more bizarre.

Friday

12:10

The taxi man threw the last crumb of biscuit in his mouth, drained the last of the dark liquid from the deposable coke bottle as we all wait for him to confirm what we already knew.

“I saw the man and the woman wrapped together in a chitenge (a wrapper) as they got into the car that took them to the hospital” he said

Outro

Oh, I haven’t told you what happened yet? Ok, here it is…the trucker’s wife and her lover got stuck! Dick and pussy wouldn't separate...now that’s what I call a fuck to remember!

Apparently, the husband had suspected the wife was kickin’ game on the side so he hooked that pussy wit a deadly voodoo called Magun (unbeknownst to the wife, of course). Magun in Yoruba (a Nigerian language) means don’t climb…well, I guess Mr. Lover boy must not have gotten the memo.

Sunday

11 March

Ok, earlier I said if you want the dirtiest gossip in any city you should make any of these folks (taxi men, barmen and housemaid) your friend…umm, you might wanna add one more to that list, hairdressers/stylists.

Accodin’ to a salon gist today, Mr. Lover Lover died in the hospital!

True Story

STUCK

Thursday

8 March

Johannesburg, SA

The Truck Driver

13:04

The man reached for his extremely loud Nokla phone and said a gruffly hello into it.

Did I mean to write Nokia phone?

Nope! I meant Nokla.

I knew it was a Nokla cause for one, the sound comin’ outta that lil devil could wake a corpse who’s been coolin’ in the grave for a thousand years. Oh, y’all wanna pretend like y’all don’t know a Chinese phone when you hear one, huh?

“Hello!” he half yelled into his Nokla.

Nigga wasn’t about to be kind to anybody for wakin’ his ass up from a hard earned sleep and that is even more so if the caller is reluctant to speak. Why can’t folks understand that in his lline of duty, sleep is hard to come by, huh? He’d driven his Mack truck across three international borders to earn this fuckin’ sleep and he didn’t appreciate anybody buttin’ in on that snooze time.

“Hell ooo!”

Now becomin’ increasingly impatient with the dumb caller who’d cut into his temporary death only keep mute, he drew the phone away from his ear, starred at it as if to look into the face of whoever it was. For a second, he racked his brain for who would ring his phone up and refuse to speak. He came to the conclusion that only ghosts and exes would likely do dumb shit like that this. But then again, aren’t exes are a type of ghost?

Jus’ as he’d made up his mind to press the red button and put an end to the lil ghost caller drama, he heard the caller call his name and for the next five minute, he listened impatiently as the person on the end frantically spoke.

 Any casual observer tryna readin’ the body language and facial expression of this international truck driver would only see a man who was mildly pissed, but them professional profilers would tell you there was somethin’ more, they’d tell you some kinda dark amusement seemed to be growin’ on the man’s face with every passin’ minutes he spent listenin’ on that phone.

Friday

9 March

Lusaka, Zambia

11:45

Good afternoon and welcome to the mid day news, my name is blah blah and here are the headlines

As the newscaster reeled on, the five guys (three men and two ladies) who’d gather round the TV as soon as the shopkeeper told them it was news time started talkin’ excitedly about the strange event they’d heard happened the day before. They were hopin’ to see if the TV station would show some visuals to dispel their doubts.

The Taxi Man

12:05

Though disappointed that the newscaster said nothin’ bout the incident, they carried on talkin’ bout it anyways.

Some guy with a Pro-Specs back pack hangin’ on his back said, “You know, I’ve heard some stuffs like that before but nah, I don’t believe that shit. I need to see it to believe it”

“Believe it” the man standin’ on the other side of the counter said with conviction in his eyes, ‘’I saw the whole incident with my own two eyes‘’ he continued after washin’ down a mouthful of biscuit with a bottle of coke.

“Wow! Are you serious? The back pack man enthused tryna squeeze out some more gist out of the taxi man. Y’all know what they say bout taxi men, bar men and maids, right? No! Anywhere you go, this three set of people are your best source of info, and they always get their fingers on the juicy goings on in the city.

“Yes, my friend. I live just two hundred meters away from where it happened, I saw it” the taxi man said.

Thursday

8 March

Lilai

At Some Guest House

13:04

The visibly shaken guest house manager talked on the phone as he paced the length and breadth of room 102 like a teenage father who’d jus witnessed the birth of his daughter, if the distance covered in those lil back and forth were to be stretched out, nigga would have been half way to the moon! Ok, maybe that’s stretchin’ it but y’all got gist, right?

“Ah! Sunday is too far boss” he swiped a bead of sweat off the side of his face the back of his free hand, “I understand that you cannot leave your truck but we will pay for your flight and whatever expenses you may incur if you can make it here today, sir”

The manager had gotten the truck driver’s SA number from the tucker’s own wife as soon he was alerted to the situation in room 102. But how is that possible, you ask? Well, the trucker’s wife was the “situation’ in room 102!

A Tryst Gone Wrong

The trucker’s wife has got a lil some some on the side, whenever the husby goes on the road, the wife goes on the town feedin’ that pussy to her equally married lover at whatever guest house they choose to get their dirt on but on this fateful day, luck ran out of that ass.

Thursday was a public holiday (International Women’s Day), the trucker man was out in SA hustlin’ for the proverbial bacon and what was the wife up to?

Thursday

12:28

Earlier, the woman and her boy friend had snuck into the guest house separately, naturally the punk ass pussy thief had been there first to pay for the room and get shit ready before the woman’s arrival. When shit was set, he put a call through to her to show up. Shawtie came through, they drank and they fucked.

They drank and fucked, sounds simple, huh? A clean job, bi’ness as usual and nobody’s the wiser, right? Wrong!

Did they get caught? Nope, it was somethin’ more bizarre.

Friday

12:10

The taxi man threw the last crumb of biscuit in his mouth, drained the last of the dark liquid from the deposable coke bottle as we all wait for him to confirm what we already knew.

“I saw the man and the woman wrapped together in a chitenge (a wrapper) as they got into the car that took them to the hospital” he said

Outro

Oh, I haven’t told you what happened yet? Ok, here it is…the trucker’s wife and her lover got stuck! Dick and pussy wouldn't separate...now that’s what I call a fuck to remember!

Apparently, the husband had suspected the wife was kickin’ game on the side so he hooked that pussy wit a deadly voodoo called Magun (unbeknownst to the wife, of course). Magun in Yoruba (a Nigerian language) means don’t climb…well, I guess Mr. Lover boy must not have gotten the memo.

Sunday

11 March

Ok, earlier I said if you want the dirtiest gossip in any city you should make any of these folks (taxi men, barmen and housemaid) your friend…umm, you might wanna add one more to that list, hairdressers/stylists.

Accodin’ to a salon gist today, Mr. Lover Lover died in the hospital!

True Story

DIDELPHYS

 Friday

January 20, 2012

Los Angeles, California

23:41

Deep in thought, Mr. Hirsch walked in to the half light of his study and instinctively flicked on the light switch, he went straight to his extravagantly elaborate oak desk. There were piles of documents and script strewn all over the table, he grabbed what he came for and proceeded back to the livin’ room. He’d forgotten his ipad on the desk ten minutes earlier when he’d left to answer his cellphone which was hooked to a charger in the livin’ room.

He’d been thinkin’ bout writin’ this mail for a week now. Ever since he got the very strange but good news about Ms Jones, he’d be tryin to slip into that godfather mode; he’d asked himself severally, “If Don Corleon was in his shoes, what kinda unrefusable offer would he put on the table for this young lady?”

He shook the image of the godfather off and reminded himself of thow he’d made successful big ass offers to folks like Tommy Lee, Pam Anderson, Kim Kardashian and ‘em before.

He powered on the iPad and started bangin’ out an important business email.

Dear Ms Jones,

My name is Hirsch; I am the founder and owner of a reputable multimillion dollar entertainment empire based out here in the United States and something tells me you most have heard of me

You are obviously an extraordinary woman and I would like to make you an offer to star in an upcoming film production

We would fly you out to L.A as soon as you are available and provide you with first class accommodations

We would pay you $1m for your services and cover travel and accommodation expenses, as the film would be shot in Los Angeles.

Please take your time and get back to me if you’d be interested in my offer.

Hirsch

Today

Sunday

February 26

So, who the fuck is Mr. Hirsch, you ask?

Well, didn’t you read the letter? Dat nigga Hirsch is a big cahuna in Hollywood though not in the class of Steven Spielberg or Harvey Weinstein but he holds his own.

Huh, you still wanna know more bout Hirsch?

Hold your horses, cowboys and girls and wait patiently for me to come through with the big reveal. Uh huh, there I go again tryna hold your asses captive like some big-time thriller writer. There I go strokin’ my own ego again, huh? I knoooow!

Friday

13 January

High Wycombe, Britain

01:33

A couple of ladies dressed in eye-poppin’ getups giggled and hurried after each other to the dressin’ room of a well-known club in High Wycombe, obviously excited about some new gossip they jus heard.

Somebody once told me that some ladies can actually climax jus from hearin’ and sharing hot gossips. Is that truth, ladies?

So, them chicks piled themselves up into the dressin’ room and slammed the door shut behind them. Before this night, small talks have been goin’ around about Hazel and the amazin’ super power she was said to have allegedly possessed and tonight, the ladies were goin to get their confirmation.

Without speakin’, the ladies formed a semi circle about Hazel as she half sat on the wash on basin, her back to the mirror and her knee length skirt slightly hiked up. The excitement in the room was palpable and the ladies, all five of them held their collective breath…

Wednesday

January 11 2012

On a TV Show

A guest on a TV show told the hosts somethin’ shockin’, she revealed that she was diagnosed with ‘uterus didelphys’

What! What the fuck is Didelphys? Men, that’s the kinda word that’ll have a nigga consultin’ Google and Wikipedia. I Google’d it and what I found kinda left my face furrowed wit amazement.

“Once I found out what it was I told everybody” she said wit a smile. “I thought it was amazing and it’s definitely an ice breaker at parties” She added: “if women want to have a look, I’m quite happy to show them…’’

Today

Sunday

February 26

Uterus Didelphys is a condition where a female has got two wombs, two cervixes and wait for it, two fuckin’ vaginas!

Whoa! Yeah, I know…imagine what a pussy hungry brotha can do wit a package like that.

Accordin’ to my own lil research “it’s relatively common to have a septum within the uterus; to actually have two separate uteruses is much rarer. We talkin’ 1 in 3000 women here, how rare is that!

Hazel Jones

Hazel Jones is a beautiful 27 year old blond from High Wycombe and shawty’s got two fully formed pussies and it wouldn’t take a genius to know that the porn movie makers would come knockin’ on her door, right?

Steven Hirsch (the founder and CEO of Vivid Entertainment, a U.S pornography film production company which became the first studio to introduce celebrity sex tapes a coupla years back) has since stepped up the plate wit an offer…a million dollar to get that pussy, umm, I meant those pussies on camera!

“According to This Morning, Ms Jones said: ‘I have never received any offers of this kind of work nor would I ever consider doing it in a million years. I just want to be left alone’”

Imagine

Ladies, are you imagining yourselves with two of everythin required to be pregger for two different men at the same time, huh?

Hazel Jones lost her virginity twice. Two pussies, two virginities! How amazin’ is that. Huh? Imagine, you can mess around wit one pussy and keep the other pussy wit ur weddin’ night or you can jus save the two for a deservin’ bedroom superhero…two for the price of one, boom!

I know a lotta ladies would want shit like that? Well, maybe not cause that would mean two period pains but hey, am so fuckin’ sure some Ho’s wouldn’t mind sellin’ their souls to have two virginas! Imagine what that would mean for their pussy vendin’ bi’ness, jus imagine.

Is there a prostitute readin’ this piece right now? Can I get a witness? Lol!

More that seein’ what Hazel got down there, I’d love to know how the boyfriend feels when he’s getting some from misses Jones.