I know how an orgy goes like. I can vividly describe to you the journey from sobriety to weed-induced highness. I know more about quickies than the originator of the latin root word. I know about infidelity and the nuances of having multiple side-chicks. I know about booze and making punches that knock you out. I know the right words to say to move from brother zone to ‘use me how you please’ zone in one week. I know all these things because I know how to pay rapt attention when it’s story time.

I have my fair share of pious shpiritos sanctus friends, but I prefer those who’ve also been around (NB: Don’t try this at home. It may backfire for you) . I know boys who’ve done things! I know girls who tell me stories they cant ever tell their husbands. Stories so graphic ‘mills & boons’ would pass for a Bible story. So I thought a lot about how come all these people keep confiding in me with all these scandals. Why me? And then I unraveled it. The main ingredient is; Stay calm. Act amused, never surprised. It makes them comfortable talking. I wont tell you the other ingredients because I’m not sure how you’ll use the skill. In fact, I’m writing this minutes after a one hour session of real real stories that brought me super close to losing my signature calmness. Whaaatttt, if I tell you details, I risk turning this from edifying to arousing…but what the heck? Read More Bad Fineboy Confessions

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So the first part to this story seems to have caused quite a stir. It’s been a long wait and i’ve lost count of the number of emails that have come in demanding this. You have no idea how relieved I am that this’ done. You were patient, so in appreciation I have a surprise waiting for you at the end of this read. I promise you never ‘esperred’ it, but you’d love it.

So picking up from where Kingsley sprung up on Maame that he had a confession to make, here goes;

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She arrived at Alisa some minutes late. When he saw her, when he beheld her, she would have been worth many more hours of waiting for.

“Sorry I’m late.” She said, sitting down. She didn’t explain further, she didn’t need to.

“It’s…it’s fine” he stuttered. The waiter came with his plastic smile one, Kingsley beckoned him to give them a minute.

“I have a confession to make Maame. Please don’t judge me.”

“Can I have a drink first?” it was a question, but with the subtlety of a statement.

“Sure.”

Maame wasn’t thirsty, but she’d rather gulp kerosene than be caught unawares. She needed the time to work her mind, to psyche it, to think of all the unimaginable things he could say, to conceive news so terrible that he couldn’t shock or disappoint her. It was one of her many defense mechanisms.

She smiled and took her pretty time to sip on the glass the waiter had just filled up. Kingsley was gittery. It was like being underwater and running out of air; he had only so much nerve.

“I have a daughter, she’s four years old.” He blurted.

She said nothing, her face revealed nothing.

“Last day of Legon, we got too excited. We knew we didn’t belong, but I didn’t see how I could turn away from my responsibility. So four years later, I still think my Lisa is the most adorable daughter ever.”

“I see.”

“Do you? Maame? Because I’m fully aware that what I’ve said could cost me you. It’s possible you’ll decide that this’ just too much weight. I told you because I hoped you’d realize that if at the risk of losing you before I even stood a chance I still came clean with you, there’d be nothing I’d hold back –ever.”

Dang this guy was good! Or was he? By the way, who does that? Lays a ton on a first date? Who told him he stood a chance? O wait, he said he knew he didn’t. Eii, too much to process and look calm at the same time. Time to detour. Read More The Smirnoff Rapist -II

short story

She works at a recruitment agency around South Labadi. It’s her job to visit the eight companies they service and make sure that the secretaries, cleaners and other employees they recruited on their behalf are doing satisfactory work. She’s the fluid bridge between the companies and her agency and she’s good at what she does.

If there’s anything else Maame knows to do, it’s to dress. Not the kind of dressing that commands attention because of its obscene and risqué effects, she dressed like it was a trailer to a movie you couldn’t wait to see in 2016; not too much revealed, but enough to make you press replay.

She has a full backside that doesn’t make you notice her relatively smaller boobs. If there was any flaw on her face, it vanished when she smiled. If she were a mutant, her smile would be her super power. It garnished her with an illusive innocence that was both magnetic and reverential. The first day she walked past the security desk of Amos Financial Holdings, she had that smile on.

“Good morning sir” she said to the security man smiling “Can you direct me to the reception please?” the normally haughty and indifferent security man took it upon himself to make sure that this awesomeness of a woman got the CEO on his knees if that’s what she came there for.

“Thank you so much.” She said when he’d overstepped his powers by instructing the receptionist to do whatever the lady asked.

The receptionist was shocked, not by his effrontery, but because Abu had never done that before.

Maame went upstairs to meet with the Head of HR who had requested for the meeting the previous day. He gave her the details of the four vacancies they needed suitable candidates for, but he would have added his position to the list if she wanted the job. He was as tasteless at flirting as an English man is at eating his first bowl of fufu and palm-nut soup. Read More The Smirnoff Rapist.

short story

This past Sunday was the weirdest Sunday yet. At church, I listened to two exciting sermons at the same time; from the reverend behind the altar and the ‘4 shades of orange’ girl sitting in front of me. I’m not sure which to start with, but you let me tell you about the girl.

The second she sat in front of me, I saw the altar no more; her hair was a crowd! I stretched my neck, leaned left, leaned right but that hair was wider than an umbrella. So I moved one seat to the right and glory was restored. From that seat, I also had a clear view of her phone’s screen. For the next thirty minutes I shared my attention between the message and her sermon; both were so enlightening.

I saw her face when the pastor said “Tell your neighbor we serve a good God!” The brows were suspiciously symmetrical with an inorganic shade of black. At once my mind captured the fact that the shade of ‘fair’ on of her face got darker around her shoulders and then darker from elbow to finger. I could only imagine ankle to feet. But don’t get it twisted, this wasn’t some debu girl, and she has pictures to prove it, about 2,000 of them. How do I know? Over the course of the 30 minute sermon, she sent about a dozen to four different guys. Read More 1 Girl, 4 Boys How?

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