This story is from my mundane alter-ego’s (Uzo) archive. I’m hoping you guys will pardon me, I lost my laptop and need some time to sleep with as many women as it will take me to buy a new samsung or HP mini. My e-mail address is available for referrals by the way *cheesy grin*. I will conclude “Size, Does it matter?” as soon as I get a new computer, till then, I remain yours sincerely… @yuzedo77 (Follow and get an INSTANT follow back…GUARANTEED).
I present to you…
Memoirs of a Precocious Juvenile – By Uzo Okonkwo
Anayo was a scoundrel! Anayo was a rogue! Anayo was a rascal! These adjectives don’t qualify him adequately. If Anayo had been born before Christ, the good Lord would have given second thought to departing the comfort of his heavenly home to share and save the same world this personification of evil dwelled in.
Anayo was a liar and a thief. His legend was so great; a capital complex of inferiority, accompanied by attendant withdrawal symptoms engulfed in the infamous bandit-kings, Anini and Shina Rambo, at the mere thought of his infinite capacity for rascality and vice. Ma Baker would have dreaded him, as would Billy the kid. Ali Baba of the forty thieves fame would have preached Salvation and repentance to him, the way Homer Simpson and Boris Yeltsin would have tried to talk some drunkard friends of mine into Alcoholics Anonymous simply because ‘their own too much’!
Indeed, Anayo told such tall tales, effortlessly too, that Satan himself in exasperated confoundment, apparated in his deathly awesomeness, knelt down in humble submission, and desperately implored in a grave baritone, “You must teach me your ways”.
Anayo was my uncle’s houseboy. He was gangly, about two years older than me, had uneven teeth, a rectangular head, and snake eyes to boot. The young chap showed little aptitude for academics, he showed great promise in crime. It was said by my aunt (who herself was capable of great exaggeration) that when Anayo was finally returned to his parents in the village, his parents wept. Not so much because he had squandered the opportunity to better himself in the city, but because the evil one was “baaaaaaaaaaaaack”…… wept because henceforth, they would bear the brunt of his ‘abiku’ ways; wept because they were now once again, the recipients of his unholy antics… it was a sad day in the entire village.
But I digress (and exaggerate).
For some inexplicable reason (I flatter myself, like-minds attract), we got on like a policeman and a twenty naira note. At this point, it must be noted that I did not quite grasp the extent to his malfeasance. I, for one, wasn’t evil…. just terribly mischievous.
I enjoyed from his largesse, sharing of his bounty regularly, booty ranging from frozen fried meats eaten straight without defrosting (I didn’t understand till recently why we couldn’t first defrost those tasty treats), a variety of toys bought from neighbourhood supermarkets, noodles, assorted snacks, and once, a crate of eggs, boiled and fried which we split between us…….. i didn’t touch an egg for the next two years after that!
So oblivious and gullibly simple was I to the extent of his guile-filled, wily ways that it was easy for him to lead me on in the most ridiculously-absurd ways. He spurned yarns of deceit about how my uncle loved him so much, even more than his son, that on a trip to Germany, he had asked this houseboy what gift he would like upon his return, perhaps, the latest Sega Mega drive video game console (the one singular dream of young and old adults in the 90s) or maybe a bicycle (another burning want of every young lad)?? He chose the latter. Upon my uncle’s return, I, as the new co-owner of the latest BMX bike in the land, raced excitedly to the house, only to be disappointed by a cheery Anayo informing me that the bicycle was too big to be carried back to the country so had been ditched. Plausible right? Cos I believed him. A con-man conning another, it never occurred to me that my conservative uncle, who hardly even related directly with this houseboy, would find the idea of treating him to an expensive present, a gesture he was yet to extend even to his own kith, perplexing?
Or the time Anayo showed me a stack of pornographic magazines, playboy spreads, yellow pages for hookers, the works, and said we could have any of the girls to ourselves.
Yes! With the simple aid of some futuristic looking, very portable device (I later understood it to be a discman), we could teleport these beautiful daughters of jezebel right into our rooms. My older cousin had been a major beneficiary of such sexually-inspired, technological innovation, he enthused,“and one or two had even been forced to say hello to my aunt downstairs, stark naked, or wearing only see-through fishnet drags”, he completed.
My, oh my! What further prompting did my depraved, perverted mind need? I was excited! I stashed one of the suggestive magazines in my shorts, and raced like the champion sprinter I was to our house on the next street. Calling my brother, Chimezie, and neighbour, Dumebi into the plan, I showed them our ticket to orgasmic El-Dorado, and regaled them with fantasies to be immediately gratified, tales even greater than I had been made to swallow hook, line and sinker.
They were even more gullible than I had been. “I choose this one!” Dumebi crowed, pointing at a cute, young vixen, biting her lower lip and cupping her modest breasts. “Shurrup joo!”, my brother chimed. “How can you choose before your senior?”
“We really should get a move on”, I butted smugly, and maybe a bit authoritatively, being the grand initiator, mastermind, and middle-man between them and Anayo, the original facilitator, who was going to make all our juvenile fancies come through (yes, come through, not true).
“Chime, please nowww? Lemme “choose” that girl? I like her”. Dumebi whined, almost at the point of tears, as we walked eagerly to my uncle’s house.
“Oya take her jare!”, my brother returned most magnanimously, having set his sights on a tremendously buxom lass in fishnets, who, with the benefit of hindsight, looked very much like the American female rapper, Lil’ Kim.
I smiled condescendingly. Thoughts of my plans caressing my mind in pleasurable anticipation. While they fought over ONE girl, I mused, I had already planned out the grandest ménage-et-trois any 8yr old, living or dead, had ever conceived, complete with ketchup (whipped cream substitute), and of course, stolen baileys from my uncle’s wine bar.
We slid into the room where our tryst was going to take place, introductions over, Anayo brought out more magazines, to Dumebi’s morbid confusion and my brother’s awakening delight. The discman was fetched from the drawer, and everyone “ooohed” and “aaahed”, immediately instigating bated anticipation.
Anayo dished out the instructions. You were to select the girl you wanted, key in the page number she appeared on into the discman, close your eyes, and wait exactly sixty seconds before savouring the rich feel of exotic, adult flesh on our young bodies.
Of course, I was given the honours of going first. My threesome fantasies about to be realised, I picked up the machine with both hands almost with reverence, smiled at my ‘number one draft pick’ with reassuring affection, winked at the second broad in unsaid promises, and skipped to track thirteen on the discman…
… Nothing happened.
I tried the unlucky number thirteen again, still no show of my sexy darling. Frantic apprehension began to envelope me, even as my comrades looked on in questioning anticipation. Chimezie briskly came over to “have a look at it”, and proceeded to try and convene his precious Lil’ Kim look-alike into our presence, still nothing…
… Dumebi looked on in morbid confusion.
We tried and tried for twenty minutes, putting to test Anayo’s claims that these nymphomaniac nut-busters would begin to stir in the magazines, slowly shaking their heads in awakening hedonistic glory as the machine summoned them over leagues of unknown nothingness, till they popped right onto your bed in ravenous sexual desire for their ‘summonee’.
Anayo’s claims did not pass a validity test that day.
Perhaps, my cousin had better luck, better summoning powers, or better knowledge of the controls. Or peradventure, the batteries were indeed weak as Anayo suggested. Maybe indeed, thirteen really is an unlucky number and the girls on page seven would have fared us better and countered any jinxing tendencies our “number selecting unsaavyness” might have brought upon us that day.
Whatever the case, it was three crest-fallen boys that trudged back to our homes on Akinfe Street with acute disappointment, deflated libidos, and a further distrust for modern technology.
Anayo was a scoundrel!