The
fiery eyed man came home in frenzy of fury searching frantically for his
punching bag. The target, his frightened wife held her breath as she
hid under the bed praying that their four year old son whose lips know
no lie will not give her away. But that was not to be, for in matters
of seconds the unwavering honesty of their clueless son fished her out
from under the bed. As he dragged her by
the hair, the piece of cloth she tied fell off leaving her naked, but
her oppressor was unmoved and insistent, he began to pound her like
local akuebilisi drum. Having endured these routines of horror for years
the woman has grown used to it, she lay still like a real sand bag
bereft of will to fight back. When he was done he stormed out relieved.
Down to Original Mama’s joint he landed, his mouth filled with tales and
his enticer’s ears eager as hell to hear. He poured it out like the
surge of a mighty flood; branding himself a hero for wrecking his own
ship. Original Mama has been in easy virtue business for ages, like a
professional spin-master she doused his ego, saturating him with
accolades so elusive. He felt relaxed and warmed up to her exhausted
bossom. The old hag welcomed him warmly to her rusty murky well of
expired waters. Alas! He gasped what else do I live for? So quietly he
emptied his whole pocket to her, like a faithful steward he rendered an
immaculate account, offering to do even better the next day. Once more
the old hag
