My friend Marcus is a jealous lover, the overly jealous type that
would ask his girlfriend, Ronke to pass the phone to her friend, just to
confirm she is really at her girlfriend's place. He might even insist on
talking to her pastor when she says she is going for night vigil. A couple of
days back, he staggered into my room with a swollen eye. It was what you could
also call a "black eye", but my friend Marcus is very black so let's
just stick with "swollen".
The way he limped to the chair made me wonder if he fought
with a mob or the mob fought with him. He grabbed the half satchet of purewater
on my table (the last of which I was going to resurrect my already risen garri
I was drinking) and squeezed out the contents greedily.
Last week, he broke up with Ronke because he was "tired". The same
week, she started dating someone else, as soon as he heard he went ballistic
and went straight to her apartment. According to him, he wanted to know why she
got over him so quick. She answered the door wearing nothing but a long sleeved
shirt five sizes too big.
"Where is he!?" He demanded.
"We are not dating anymore!" She replied, defiantly.
"Is that the fool you told me of?" Came a male voice from within.
The door opened further to reveal a shirtless dude. Marcus
immediately recognized Lawrence, the new guy from the gym who recently started
boxing there. Marcus moved forward, ready to strike but drew up short at the
sight of the bread knife Lawrence held in one hand, the butter container in the
other. Throwing fists was not a problem for my friend, but from what he
described, it was actually a butcher knife. He might have still fought but he
decided that he liked the volume of blood he had in his body and its current
trajectory of flow. So he retreated and schemed to meet him in the ring. Having
boxed for three months, he decided he would teach him a lesson, legally.
He got to the gym very early the next morning,
a Saturday, and met with the instructor. A few notes exchanged hands and
he was able to lobby his opponent to be Lawrence. From what he described,
the fight started off well, he underestimated his opponent and started throwing
jabs, hooks and crosses recklessly. The last thing he remembered was the big shiny
red glove that squarely landed on his eye. He paid his ancestors a brief visit
and woke up in an ambulance. After convincing them he was alright, he made his
way to my room.
We decided to get at this guy another way. It didn't take
long for me to bring forth a solution. We were going to blend some fresh pepper
and smear some on his clothes. Marcus still had the key to his ex girlfriend's
place so we went over. I sneaked in while Marcus stood watch across the road,
with my number on speed dial. I set to work quickly, picking up every piece of
masculine clothing and deftly rubbing in some pepper in the crotch area. As I
returned the last of the last of the trousers, an object on the table caught my
eye. A closer look revealed it to be a small photo album. What interested me
were the words on the cover; "Victory is from God alone" The
unmistakable slogan of the Nigerian Army. The first page revealed Lawrence
holding an RPG (rocket propelled grenade), as he gave instructions to a set of
soldiers, all armed to the teeth, My jaws dropped. At the same time I heard a
truck pull up outside. At the speed of light, I dashed to the windows in time
to see a dark green military truck pull away. The flower hedge blocked my view
of the verandah but the unmistakable jangle of keys was enough to tell me I was
in deep shit. Expensive shit.
My limbs went weak and my vision blurred from the excessive blood flow from my
heart.
Thinking fast, I bolted to the kitchen and opened the back
door. I realized there was no possible way of leaving without being noticed.
Honestly, I really was not in the mood for my back to get licked with bullets.
I heard heavy footsteps in the sitting room. I looked left to right, ran to the
nearest toilet, took off my shirt, hung it on my shoulder, rolled up one leg of
my trousers and started loosening the water supply pipe of the WC. The
footsteps kept getting closer. Upon realizing that a disconnected pipe was not
convincing enough for me to pass as a plumber, I raised the toilet seat. The ooze
of stale, caked sh*t made me dizzy. As the foot step got to the door, I ran out
of options. Taking a deep breath, I shoved my right hand into the bowl.
Up till today I was not sure which I heard first, the click
of the pistol or the deep voice saying "WHO GOES THERE!?".
"Plu-plum-plum-plumber sah!". I stammered.
I turned my neck to see endless black hole of a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver.
I wet my pants. Being on the wrong end of a gun was just wrong mehn.
"Who send you?, how u take enter?". He demanded.
"Na-na madam leave me here". I had never prayed so
hard in my life. MFM had nothing on me.
"Okay, quick finish comot". He pulled out his cell
and walked away and shut the bedroom door behind him. That was it.
I bolted from the toilet, shit in hand, crashed through the kitchen net door
and into the backyard at breakneck speed. I ran so fast, Usain bolt had
absolutely nothing on me. As luck would have it, I jammed Marcus. My right hand
flew on its own accord and highfived his face. His very black face turned the
yellow shit to very dark yellow it was almost brown.
"Na thunder go fire you oh, why you no call me??" I
shouted angrily as we were running away.
"No vex, I nor know say I no get credit and I bin dey owe MTN
already".
Up till this day I still have not gotten myself to eat eba or
pounded yam with my right hand, I am now a confirmed lefty at the dining table.
Marcus and I are still at large until the hunt for us settles down.
Word on the street is that a soldier ran out naked from a house, shooting
sporadically and has been searching for two boys since.
Ghana is a nice country by the way, I think I
just might settle down here.
Written by Amerigo Bonasera
Labels: FunnyFriday, Guest post
