Prelude To A “Missing Person”

If you won’t be mine
No one else will have you
How can you not love this?
Can’t you see that I love you?

Now look what you made me do
I’m bad when I get upset
Sssh… Stop crying… It’s only a small cut
Stop screaming! No one can hear you!!

You must learn to love me
Or I’ll kill you and still rape your corpse
Don’t worry, pee yourself. I got you.
You are mine. Spirit, soul and body…

Should A Man Ever Hit A Woman?


Hi there!

Been a while… You good?
I’m good… Yeah…
Lovely weather yes?


True story, broad daylight. Busy weekday. Along a major expressway.
Car screeches to a halt abruptly, Driver and passenger doors fly open within seconds of each other.
Guy jumps out of the drivers side, lady tumbles out of the passengers side and he starts to pursue her around the parked car.
His mien darkened with murderous rage. His intent and mission homicidal.
Don’t know how that ended, I witnessed it in a ‘go slow’ traffic from the other lane. Cars in front of me started moving. Cars behind were honking.

Another case in which my neighbors live-in lover casually mentioned that, whenever their home was too quiet she’d “(just) do something to annoy” her boyfriend. That once she got him provoked enough to beat her up, they would have common ground to make up and talk.
They are married nine years now. Three kids.

So, I’ve been hearing of recent that, “men should not hit women” … “Real man won’t raise his hand on a woman” … “Any man that can hit a woman is a coward, weak” … Blah… Blah… Blah…

Lemme cut to the  chase, it is perfectly fine to hit a woman.

Yes I said it!

Bite me!!

Uhmmmm, on second thoughts don’t bite me, I’ll definitely bite back.

Seriously, do, not, touch, me.

There are several instances in which the man has no choice but to hit a woman. No choice whatsoever but to strike his woman.
Thank you for asking, I will mention three possible instances.

The said man is minding his business, or not.
The said woman is most likely not minding her business, or not… Hehehehe…

And then owing to misadventure or a freak accident arising he sees the said woman about to be mortally damaged, maimed or immortalised; he is permitted to violently pull her away, thump or swat, therapeutically slap or suckerpunch her into sanity or silence, clothesline her in restraint or brilliantly tackle her all in a valiant bid to cheat injury or worse to her fair self.

The ‘misadventure or freak accident arising’ situations are, but not limited to :-
Choking, Fire, Unseen incoming vehicle, Child or human bleeding to death, Risk of capture by ISIS, Boko Haram or Al Qaeda, Spiders… etc.

It is wrong to hit anyone. Especially if witnesses testify that you dealt the first blow. In such instances, self defence may prompt response in kind.
If you live in Africa, or you plan to visit in the near future, ladies, my loves, might I suggest that you suppress any (demonically-inspired) desire or notion to strike the average African man? I wager that you would not walk away unaided.

Free tip from locker rooms and gentlemen clubs worldwide, most men generally think that a woman that strikes a man is not a lady. So, they need not be gentlemen around such women. Recent polls show 74% of men would hit a woman.¶

I personally blame gender equality.

All I’m saying is that you ought to objectively expect substantial ROI, when you invest in striking a person. Not every one would shrug it off like I would (wink).

Let’s imagine that you and the woman are getting intimate.
Please, I beg you, work with me here. I can actually spell it out for you, but my mum reads my work…?
So, by reason of perversion and personal fetish, I place you behind her bent-over form.
You are a Male Ambassador, elected by nature (and) or some other power or incentive at that precise point in time to help her value the male species.

If you should happen to hear her scream, mumble or beg,

“Baby, spank my ass…?! ”

Please sir, raise your splayed hand or finger(s) to an appropriate height and in compliance to her wish, strike that woman!

Should You Pay For Sex?

And it came to pass that yours truly,  in compliance with his job description, was posted out to one of the many states in Nigeria.
Forgive the ambiguity. Security reasons.

As the job (unofficially) demands, the powers that be by the powers vested in them by their offices, desired female entertainment.
The onus thereupon fell upon my righteous soul, to cater within the confines of morality, and the existing legislature of the land to accommodate and make possible the said female entertainment.

I liaised.
I conferred.
I reconnected.
I negotiated.
Then I delivered. Yet not I alone!
No my friend, I am not trying to pass blame or share it. A million times no! Here’s why I say we were and not that I was…

When I got back to the opulent lobby of my suite, they were all seated. And there were new faces with them.

Time check, 10:46 pm.

Free facts; a vast array of liquor and a wide assortment of delicacies.

Yes Tommy there was roasted chicken. And yes Tommy, it was peppery. Yes Tommy, just like you like it.

Forgive me friends, my family is ‘complicated’.

The new faces were all beautiful. They were all seductively dressed. They all smelled like an amalgamation of pilfered and then poorly packed perfumes.
It was a lovely and pleasant-smelling atmosphere.

The lush sofas were arranged to circle a low and long tempered glass center table. Ornate, beautiful furniture. Obviously imported from Asia. I do not know how I know this exactly, I just do.

And I knew immediately that I had been set up.

She was built just like I like my women.
And coincidentally the sofa she was sitting in had the only free space left… Hehehe… I lowered my tired self beside her. Smiled broadly and introduced myself.

Her name is Timi. (no Einstein, it is not her real name! From her to me; or from me to you!!)

Introductions were mildly shouted over the cacophony of MTV Base, phone calls, conversion, laughter, et al.

And so I poured myself a bit of bottled water on the rocks (the “no Einstein…” premise as interjected above still obtains here…) and settled down to commence small talk with this ‘unholy set-up’.

Her eyes were jaded.
Don’t get me wrong, they looked alright. But I’ve been here and there, I know torment and a homo sapien absent a soul when I see one.

In fact upon closer inspection I saw that I had been hasty with my accolades. She was what I call ‘F. F. F’…
Fine. From. Far.
Up close and personal, nah…

“I can show you a good time” she quoted by rote.
I smiled thinly in reply.

“But you have to take care of your girl, yes?”

Of course. It’s my sole purpose of existence.

“How much? ” I hate beating about the bush. (Except when I care about you that is.)

“You are a chairman na, I’m just a poor student… You tell me”. She quipped ‘sultrily’.

You may be poor, but definitely greedy I remember thinking. And since I didn’t want to ultimately waste my time leading her on, I diplomatically informed her that I don’t pay for sex.

With a look of disdain she informed me that I was just a stingy man, the sort adept at using love to get sex for free.

My water on the rocks was starting to taste like water.

She then began to cast aspersions on the length and the health of my phallus. Basing her half – baked hypothesis on my 240-pound (muscular) frame.

“Everybody knows that big guys have small dicks!” This lady of easy virtue was a piranhaslashbarracuda!

Suitably tongue – lashed and unjustly emasculated, I quietly arose, picked up a bottle of my favorite water (yes water! What?!) and stepped out onto the porch. I gently pushed the sliding door shut.

I was pondering on why the Taj Mahal had no history of spectres and ghouls when I heard the door slide open, music, noise and her cheap fragrances assailed my senses banishing all my international musings.

“I’m sorry sir. I didn’t mean what I said.”

I turned to face her. Shrugged and tried to dial my thoughts again.

“Peace offering?”

Smoked lion meat! Woman, please leave me alone!!

“I don’t smoke.” I replied instead.

“But it’s ‘S.K’!”

” I don’t smoke weed either Timi, thanks for offering though.”

“Why are you now making me feel like a sinner? You don’t pay, you don’t smoke, and now you don’t smoke S.K!”

(And I drink only water… Wink…)

I am no Saint. Truth be told, I don’t pay for sex because I truly believe that I should be the one getting paid for sex.

For starters I am good.

I court, woo and serenade you.

Then toil in wanton abandon till you reach your zeniths.

Then neglect to traumatize you by not explaining every time that “every male ejaculation, equals seven days nutrition’.

Then in post – coital bliss cuddle, snuggle and whisper sweet words of truth in your neck as I experience them right there. Reinforcing your sense of worth and belonging, lowering your anxieties and stress.

You whore…most likely never trafficked; not a victim of cruel injustice, blackmail, coercion, kidnap, sold or pimped out by your boyfriend, husband, family or parents… or irreversibly addicted to drugs … You are simply a victim of your greed, necessitated by wanting to live and achieve beyond your means overnight.

As long as you trade sex for cash or any other advantageous incentive… Then we are all prostitutes.

So, pray tell, why should I not place a premium on my sexual favors also? Why do you ascribe financial value to yours alone?

But I decided to be economical with my truths, and allow Proverbs 26:4 illuminate my path.

“Chic, I’m no saint” is all I said instead.

Love At First Sight

No words are needed
Our eyes say it all.

We can sense mutual appeal
Our ‘hello’s’ are too throaty
We can scarcely keep still

You demure; I posture
I assess; you caress
You flaunt; I front
I touch; you touch

Mutual respect, hearts hopeful
Motives suspect, loins on fire
Details exchanged, passion stoked
Desire unchained, love in motion
Lust, pleasure, romance, adventure