Wednesday, September 19, 2018
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What Happened At The Beautiful Island 

By Azore Opio

There are so many complaints to make about young women these days, particularly about their sex appetites and dress code. Sometimes though, one derides any attempt at such an absurd project as trying to right the wrongs of the opposite sex. I have also learnt that the line between a man and a woman is hard and clear. And that a man’s work belongs to him and a woman’s belongs to her; the woman to set snares and lay traps. The man to get caught.
 

Despite the advice of several worthy persons like pastors, health experts and even peers and glaring examples of big-headed women-in-waiting going down under the unbearable weight of obstinacy and defiance, many young women, and even men, still indulge in emotional binges.
Zongo was an extraordinary spectacle. He was enveloped in a sparkling grey suit. He sipped slowly from a glass of beer. Tapped the heel of his highly polished leather shoe to the beat of a makossa hit.
 

He first had his great moment when his girlfriend walked out on him, leaving unprintable expletives in her footprints. But she walked right back into his arms. She was going to learn a hard lesson. He pulled the rug from under her feet and threw her straight out the door. Then she texted him a billet-doux at New Year that ate 500 megabytes of space in his mobile phone. He was tempted to call her.
"Do you still fry?"
"How man go fry, wey mangri don hold me so?"
 

With great tact, he wiggled out of the mangri conversation and turned his attention to the woman who sat facing him. He took stock of the woman. She bore titanic beauty; she had on the gorgeous look of a hot sex machine. She drank beer as if it was going out of fashion. She was a dangerously fascinating woman. And every centimetre a whore.
 

Zongo had started a thread of a joke about a fling in the hay and slowly he was being asked to pander to "half sleep".
"Make we go sleep?"
While Zongo shifted gears in his head, four young women huddled in a taxi cab, talking nineteen to the dozen. Destination – anywhere.
"Massa, I go Mamfe inside Man No Rest truck…"

Mamfe road na wetin? Have you been to Mundemba? Hmm."
"Who needs a smooth road in Mamfe or Mundemba? Pot holes are good. Mechanics make money. Tyre repairers make money, spare parts dealers make money."
"And there are fewer accidents because drivers drive slowly."

"You know, if the roads were good, politicians would have no reason for sending motions of support."
"I say, the way I de hungry pork. Who go buy me pork eeh?"
"Wan Otomashi. Yi di spin now wit new Rav."
"Ha! Rav 4!"

"Otomashi na very stingy man."
"Otomashi? You no know Otomashi."
"You know, I discovered long ago that most of these men who drive cars are tight-fisted. They don’t even have money most of the time. They drive you around and round the whole day, buy you ordinary fish and end up giving you only FCFA 5,000. If you are lucky."

"The days of roosting in the front seat being seen driven around are gone. I learnt my lesson. I prefer to look for a man who doesn’t have money but can cough up twenty or even thirty thousand."

"Why don’t we call Zongo, he is not very mean."
"Call him, I don’t have airtime in my cell."
"You are the heartthrob, you should call him."
"Give me your mobile then."
They came.

"We want to eat pork," they greeted.
Zongo was on the balls of his feet. Feeling wanted. He ogled at the pairs of brown thighs, displayed by the brief skirts and shorts, to his heart’s pleasure. And the fleshy milk bags peeping over the Vs of the tight tops.
"Eat your fill."

Each beautiful girl ate two slices of pork, as they call it. As they masticated, Zongo thought. It is not strange that these days, youthful women habitually use the repulsive goddamned four-letter words that have become part and parcel of the current vocabulary. The word insane is comically inadequate to describe the young devils. Without caring to show a little breeding, they dress as if to torment men.

You’ll see their pantaloons pulled down over their bums to show off just the beginning of the crack, which is emphasized when they sit down and the tight tops ride up their waist. They walk the streets with their heads thrust out as if eyeing carrion. A stifling mix of disregard for human dignity and a desperate desire to catch the penny, if not the p***s.

The banquet had started.
"Is that Congo meat? Let’s have some."
The girls each chewed six skewers.
"I feel like eating boiled eggs."
"Barman, you have boiled eggs by any chance?" Zongo called out.
"Sure."

Hey, mama mia, dey di sell boil egg for here? 20 eggs left the plastic bottle to the gullets.
"Me, I won’t drink. I wan chop me na chicken."
"Eh-eh, chicken be dey here?"
"I wan me na pork again."

The buffet was on. The yo-yo was between slices of pork, chunks of chicken; two pieces each, nyama ngoro and boiled eggs. All chased down with copious guzzles of beverages.
"You aren’t drinking, why?" Zongo asked the one who had been concentrating on Malta. She had drained six bottles. She was on her seventh. She released a loud belch.

"I don’t want to touch alcohol."
"One won’t hurt."
"Why not try a Guinness?"
"No, I di go me ooh."
She rose. Belched

"You no wan go how, you wan shit for here?" the other girls chorused, burst into laughter.
They rose in unison, said goodbye to Zongo, leaving him 12 thousand, five hundred lighter.
It is true that we are part of the brutal process of creation. Perhaps it was all a mistake. Men are like children; they have to learn everything in life, over and over again. Over a long time. Some remain children all their lives, groping, feeling, getting burnt.
 

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