Your matriarch, yet again, assuaged your fears by
pointing a finger at Aunt Maria as
being responsible for your despicability and derision. Forgetting that her four
fingers were clearly marking her out as being responsible – a failure as a
mother but as crafty as the tortoise. Age had taken its toll and soured the
wine, unable to even do the proverbial ‘omuigo’ – I taught you how to bathe
your own offspring but that was not part of your job description. Your fiefdom
was the streets and incessantly it called to you, an irresistible call akin to
the man bitten by the wandering curse. The passport of Mallam Ilia pales in
comparison with your tales and many woes will yet befall you. Like the
priestess, you readily received the blessing of the HIV in 2009 and like a
fool, you wore it like a tiara whilst it ravaged you. Single-handedly you
distributed TB and achieved what no
one had done in the past; declared a work free period for the Lagos call centre
due to quarantine but like the bug, you flittered away like the moth drawn to
yet others. Usman M. whilst
consorting with you taught you a little bit that you swore by Allah that you
would swim in the waters of adultery but only death by drowning awaits those
who venture into those waters.
The church elders intervened
but then it was too late, set on a self destruction course already, you
admitted your amorous sexual relations with Dayo , Alex and Kola albeit in error but
like the fool that goes wondering into the forest with a gun, you only shot
yourself in the foot. Groveling on all fours like a beast in the pangs of
birth, you came pleading for yet another chance but a million chances would be
of better use to a fool than a priestess because your vision in itself is more
than you can assimilate. Your task was to get rid of all the evidence gathered
against you but you succeeded only in crashing a simple laptop. Your nightly
offerings of juice spiked with sleeping pills only helped me sleep better
whilst it offered you room to sneak out to attend to your numerous clients –
like a thief in the night with the gateman watching you in abject pity. The
undeserved gift of a car only made you easily accessible and it served as a
mobile advert to all who waited on you. Otunba,
you so sought after that even he took flight.
Lagos was your citadel, your headquarters, Festac town –
your market place where your wares were so obviously displayed. Eve a helper sent from Janus, together
you destroyed Chinenye’s marriage
and most likely initiated her to your cult. Your nude pictures you sent as
souvenirs to your online clients – a breast sagging but desired by the amorous,
your vagina a sheath to so many swords but well lubricated by the viral load
you struggled under. A free distributor worthy of mention by The Economist, to
as many as sought you blessed them,
amassing an army of destroyers; Dr Bello
rues the day he met you as will many others for your work is not yet done.
And whilst you sit at the windows of your borrowed apartment and exhibit your
wares, that which you have forcibly claimed will be taken away from you just
like every good thing has been and listen ……….the baying of the hounds below
you serve as a reminder that there is but one end to this. You will publicly
ridicule the ones that bore you and shame those who have ever met you but the
hounds are patient as they know that soon their bellies will be filled with
your carcass. There is a way that seems right but alas only one certain end and
that is your end. May God have mercy on your soul, o priestess.
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