Fruits of The loom

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You dey do e dey sweet you. You forget the taste of queen pineapple, forget the taste of ripe American orange. The sweetness made you climb the first time and totally forget to withdraw on time, that same yeye sweetness made you enter her like a possessed idiot without a sheath. Now your opolo eyes are puffy, your throat dry like Sokoto leather, because she tell you say she don carry. Didn’t I warn you about Mary Slessor girls, the ones who tell you “egbon come and have it”? Didn’t I also warn you about those girls that lure you to the back of G.S. building and kiss your brains out abi na the ones that wiggle their breasts before they give you a 360 hug? Yet you learnt nothing! Even when you met this particular girl and decided she was the one, I still warned you. Then you decided to escort them to Grace Manor for her birthday party, as an extra Mr nice, what were you thinking, when she booked a room and begged you to massage her killer legs?

The time you said she told you yes, I knew your blackass was doomed. I knew you would one day come to detest the word “yes.” But your dead brain cells didn’t pause to think, even while she kept saying yes to all your, “did you miss me?”, “do you love me?”. I still prayed for you, prayed the yes wouldn’t change to something more dangerous, but it did. Not long later, the formal “yes” now changed to “come and do. That was when I knew all hope was lost.

She told you to “come and do,” you totally forgot the fact that her father was an army general, that she had four brothers and was the last and only girl, and that she was not sure if her pills were working. Anyway, a group of huge soldiers have been asking for you around school and arresting people who claim to know you. I want you to jejely come and pack stuff in my room, and till this mess is cleaned up, don’t act as if you know me when we meet on the streets. Thank you

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