On a golden platter, a dessert of two high-class prostitutes was waiting for him when he finished with the virgin. About an hour later, General Kwabacha had tired out the two women and had called for yet another pair. It was after he had gone all the way again with the second set of women that he became sated, slumberously restful.

This was how General Sanni Kwabacha became one of the satyromaniac Generals and State Ministers, and this was when he discovered that all of Ministers and top officers were sexual wolves in respectable well-starched uniforms, and that a good few of the men also loved Indian films and exotic fruits, besides the normal dosage of alcohol and Viagra. Really the large daily dosage of Viagra was often swallowed with beer, brandy or what drink was handy, never with water. He was not unhappy to become one of them. He was enjoying every moment of his resurgent libido. And now he wouldn’t want anything to do with virgins after he had had the one he used one to test Viagra. Virgins were a pain. He couldn’t have enough of prostitutes, though, those who really knew how to treat the smaller man, coddle and anoint it, women with the deft hand of five-star masseuses, with cavernous and kind mouths, urgent, warm and avid as a shark’s maw. These are glorious women, he had commented one day to General Hussein. Most of his Generals and henchmen had the same obsession with prostitutes, a rather reasonable obsession, as only this kind of women could satisfy the voraciously priapic needs of the Generals.

General Kwabacha had gone his men one better, though, and had put into practice a long wish to sleep with an Indian woman. His love for Indian films was the germ that later grew into the wish, the desire, to sleep with an Indian. How he loved the women singing in the pictures! Those beautiful women, seraphic women, the sonorous voices, the silken body movements, the lank locks, the hennaed hands and feet, the kohled eyes, the red mark on the forehead, the intent eyes. He was tantalised too by the near-kisses between dancing women and men.

He didn’t want the women in the films, though, all he wanted was an Indian prostitute, or prostitutes. Not that he could not have any woman he desired from any corner of world, prostitute or prude, but his love for women plying the meretricious trade had for some time crescendoed into an obsession. He had sent one of his underministers to Bombay, the home of Indian films, to get him an Indian prostitute by all means. So far as he was concerned the women would be the equivalent of heaven, houris and peris. The underminister was able to acquire two free, if sumptuous, women. This was to become a weekly assignment for the underminister, who - apart from enjoying the luxurious intercontinental junkets in a presidential plane - was making thousands of dollars from the prostitutes’ procurement budget he was allocated by the Head of State himself.

General Kwabacha’s wife saw things unfolding before her, how the Head of State had completely let go, thrown every matrimonial care to the wind. She protested, but her protests were feeble and inconsequential, ignored and pooh-poohed out of hand.  She had now fully taken the role of the little, invisible, woman, which General Hussein thought was her role in the first place.

Now there was the unregistered Association of Zimbi Prostitutes. The association was in no way political, it was not a pressure group either, it was a sort of curious combination of Ferdinand Tönnies’ Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft. Whenever the police went out of their way to raid a brothel, the association would exert some pressure to secure the release of arrested prostitutes. They could also meet over the blanket increment of the bottom - no pun - service fees, though there was no ceiling to what a prostitute could take from a client. The association would rather live with the hypocrisy and religious posturing of those in power than endeavour to campaign for legalisation.

The president of the association was a big-boned beautiful woman of forty whose name was Angelina, who was rumoured to have pipped almost all government ministers, and had lately made what she once thought was an impossible conquest, the Head of State himself. Each man would gush for long about Angelina. Angelina was rumoured, among the senior soldiers, to have had a massive man-eating appetite and she enjoyed every sexual engagement as if it was the last she could have. She indeed mixed business with pleasure, which was a rare and splendid ability a prostitute could be blessed with. Angelina was enjoying her innings. And her winnings, for she was beautifully paid for what she was doing, she had acquired hundreds of millions of zimbi over a period of time and she was still raking in millions when it came to her that she could unseat the military government and take over power. Of course she had as much knowledge of the sexual habits of the Generals as they had of her. Some of the men were as normal as they could possibly manage, and some were singularly kinky.

One of the Generals was useless at the middle extremities, eternally bedrooped, drink or no drink, though drink must have worsened his condition. He was like a cut he-goat, and just as fat and pursy. Among the fatcats he was the only plainly neutered one. And there was one who was the incarnation of carnal psychosis - whatever that may mean - but it was to Angelina’s relief that he was more masochistic than sadistic, he loved to be whipped and thrashed, to be truncheoned by a woman wearing the army uniform, midi-skirted uniform (never trousered). In other words, he was also a fetishist. But this was not the worst of the men. Sometimes she shuddered at what the Generals would do. It had occurred to her to let on these men to the press, but it was not likely that any newspaper editor would dare publish such matter, and her own life would not be safe either. The contents would not be fit for publication anyway, these were things so way-out that it would take months for the Marquis de Sade and Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, if hired as editors, to expurgate the material to a semblance of normality.

However if there was anything Angelina discovered, it was the pot-bellied vulnerability of these men, they all had terribly soft underbellies. Fat bastards, she sometimes spat on them in her mind, men who were no more than effete and wheezed-out in spite of the Viagra they always overdosed. Dirty aging men who would certainly become old and die before their time, what with their overliquored existence and the Viagra they were all popping like a child choking on stolen Smarties. Many of them sniffed cocaine; all of them smoked grass; all of them were potheads. She held them all in contempt. How empty, thoughtless and swinish these men were! But these were the country’s leaders, viewed with awe and near-reverence. Idle men whose duty consisted in stoking the fire under the cauldron of power, fishing out real or imagined critics and plotters against the junta and strengthening the stockade of authority and power they are building around themselves. Embezzling too, massively.

To be continued

Robot  # 1 | 27.05.2009 20:19

On a golden platter, a dessert of two high-class prostitutes was waiting for him when he finished with the virgin. About an hour later, General Kwabacha had tired out the two women and had called for yet another pair. It was after he had gone all the way again with the second set of women that hebecame sated, slumberously restful. ...Read the full article.