Kudi, fine-girl-no-pimples, was one of those undergraduates who lived their lives on their own terms on campus. Kay-girl, as she was fondly called, was an ‘aristo’ girl. Small-small boys were not her thing. She liked them known and rich, politicians and business tycoons. The age or size of their bellies did not matter. They just needed to be loaded in their pockets but if they were loaded ‘downstairs’ too, ah, that was an added advantage. Once, according to Kay-girl, she had ended up with a rich, fat ‘sugar daddy’ whose only load was in his pocket. You know those guys who God just blessed with deep pockets because they are neither good-looking nor finely shaped. Their pot-bellies also rob their third legs of length and strength. But they have money and they spend it like it’s from a river that cannot dry. So, their girls ignore their deficiencies and focus on their bulging pockets.
Kudi lived the life and upon graduation, she used her ‘contacts’ to get a good job, nice digs and a fine ride. Then she met the most generous, good-looking, hot ‘sugar daddy’ of her life. Yes, he was hot everywhere, all over. Then came the warnings from everyone about the other part of Big Daddy (BD) that Kudi did not know.
If a young man decides in his exuberant, nothing-go-do-me wisdom to eat food cooked, reserved and already served for the elders, he may lose his teeth or may not live to tell the story of the taste of the dish.
True to her word, Kudi became pregnant again. When she made it to 36 weeks without miscarriage, her friends threw a big baby shower for her. Everybody thought the worst was over. Then, she woke up feeling feverish one morning, went to her doctor and all the tests showed that she was no longer pregnant! Whaaat? Her tummy was still as huge as it was the day before. Kudi swore she could still feel the baby’s movement. All tests and scans insisted she was not pregnant after 36 weeks, after she had bought all baby things, set up the nursery. Long story shortened, Kudi is still carrying around her ‘load’, four months beyond her EDD (Expected Delivery Date).
Methinks, BD’s wife is responsible for Kudi’s endless pregnancy. Superstitious much? Yes, but if you have another explanation for how Kudi landed this hard on a hard surface, I’m willing to give you space to propound your theory. For now, my conclusion is Kudi ate food meant for the gods and now, she is stuck.
There are different types of meat but not all meat is meant for all. Some are meant for the elders and are so not for ‘children’. Some are food for the gods and are therefore not for ordinary humans. Am I speaking in tongues? Let me explain.
Not all fine girls are available for all men. Not all dark, handsome and rich men are for every Tinu, Toke and Titi. Some girls are food for the gods. Some men are food for the gods. Those are the ones the Yoruba call ‘ounje agba’. If a young man decides in his exuberant, nothing-go-do-me wisdom to eat food cooked, reserved and already served for the elders, he may lose his teeth or may not live to tell the story of the taste of the dish. We girls say it more frequently than men especially when we want to scare off a poor or unserious suitor or toaster. We tell him what he’s salivating after is beyond his budding palate, that he is still ‘too young’ to dine at the table of elders.
‘This is food for your elders. Wait until you are fully grown.’
Women, we can be mean, seriously. May the Lord forgive us for all the times we have shot men in the knee on the field of ‘toasting’. Amen? Amen.
However, food for the elders, ‘ounje agba’ is very different from food for the gods. Food for the elders can lead you to the dispensary but food for the gods will drag you to the mortuary. Note the word ‘drag’. Painful journey to Golgotha, that is what any ‘thief’ of sacred food can look forward to.
Take the case of the University of Calabar lecturer who was the toast of the internet recently for sexually molesting his students. A teacher of law who made it his mission to break the law. He deregulated his manhood and put his pen on the inkpot market, dipping, force-dipping and blackmailing other people’s children to open their legs for his maggoty third leg. For years, according to reports, he was Satan’s representative in the Faculty of Law, a law unto himself. Tales of heartrending proportions about what he subjected those young girls to poured in from different platforms. And for what? His third leg must be a pygmy, his self-esteem non-existent if he needed to force himself on girls to feel good. Only sick men use their offices to force women to have sex with them. Only little men with no other gifts or attractive appeal use their positions to get girls to have sex with them. Since the story broke, I have swung from disgust to anger to revulsion and then vengeful anger. I know some people are talking about getting justice for the young women our dense dicky don traumatized, harassed and assaulted. I hope they succeed. For me, I don’t want him to go to jail. Sentencing the little dick of Calabar or putting him in a psychiatric ward would be doing him a favour. I do not believe in such 21st Century justice arrangement for men who sexually assault women. No. For instance, I am an advocate of ‘third leg amputation’ for rapists and child molesters. All that long drawn-out process and proceedings of lawyers using the same law book to both prosecute and defend rapists do not float my boat at all. For me, justice against a paedophile is taking away his weapon of terror. Totally and irreversibly!
