Adebowale Oriku

Angelina was a university-educated woman. She graduated with brilliant results, but being very ambitious, she wouldn’t mind going out with a sugardaddy or two or three to flesh out a living. Millions of graduates did not have jobs in the country, but if Angelina wanted one she would have succeeded through the say-so of the men in her life. But she was eminently ambitious and would not want money to come to her in trickles. She wanted to hit it big, rake in millions at a time. And how was she going to hit such a big time if not through men, the tycoons, millionaires, military officers, ministers, politicians, contractors she met? These were all pieces of human golconda, pawns on the telluric chessboard that had only a queen. Though most of these men might be as worthless as base metal, dross, they would definitely yield gold for her, they had the philosopher’s stone she needed to achieve her end.

At the beginning she had gone to several jujumen and spiritualists who gave her talismans, amulets, periapts and other luck charms to use in her gold-digging adventure. Although she was not certain whether or not those things had worked, she had succeeded phenomenally. She had built scores of hotels, motels and ‘high-class’ bordellos across the country. Fleshpots Incorporated was the name she gave her chain of brothels. She was doing good business in the flesh trade, but for the religious façade the country wore - still wears - all the time she would of course have pressed for the legalisation of prostitution. As in every prohibitionist situation the illegality of prostitution had worked to her interest in a number of ways. Considering how she had expanded and prospered in the trade, it was easy for her to become the de facto President of the country’s prostitutes. And her lieutenants were equally educated and well-chosen, dishy sophisticated doxies.

Years after Angelina had been making her millions, she had, one morning, achieved a sort of inexplicable satori. It was like religious experience, like an automatic conversion, her soul had become luminescent with benevolence and charity, with dutifulness and altruism. There was nothing christianly about this, she had not fallen down and begun to speak in any sort of tongue whatsoever, something she had faked many times in a Pentecostal Church she attended: the gift of tongues. In the inner-city Church she was usually generous with offertories, she dropped some 20,000 zimbi into the parish purse every Sunday, so it was easy for the social-climbing, forked-tongued Pastor of the church - a man in whose mind moolah rhymed with manna - to overlook the fact that she was a well-known ‘high-class’ whore.

The Pastor always loved to sermonise about Jesus Christ’s friendship with Mary Magdalene whenever Angelina was in the church, he allowed himself the special-pleading of crediting suggestions that the Magdalene was a woman with a past before she ran into Jesus. Even besides Magdalene, the Pastor would easily have found a scriptural loophole that he would use to sanction prostitution underhandedly. He loved preaching about the hypocrisy of those who relished throwing the first stone. Angelina had however not shamed the Devil in the Christian lore by becoming a true born-again bible-clutcher, and if what happened to her would be considered a conversion, it was only spiritual in an earthbound way. It was like political radicalisation, a spiritual heterodoxy, a chic dropping-out. Suddenly she had become repulsed by how so many people were suffering in the country and so few men and their families were living like debauched royalty, worshipping at the altar of the bitch-goddess. Her heartstrings began to thrum a dirge for the many, for the have-nots.

It was not easy for Angelina to convince her top lieutenants in what was to become Whore Army. They thought it was an impossibility, how would they begin to engage in armed combat with male soldiers? They would be mowed down in moments. They had no arms for one thing. Angelina had relaxed her assistants. Allowing for the possibility that they might later need them and some bodyguard, Angelina had sent some girls out of the country to train how to use the gun and grenade. But really they needed no arms and ammunitions to disarm the soldiers. Their own power flowed not from the barrel of the gun, but from elsewhere, places whose puissance outboasts a gun’s. They would use their own instruments, and some other things they knew the men in power were partial to. Alcohol, fruits, Indian films, and of course Viagra. To do away with the Head of State, General Kwabacha, they might have to hire the services of some Indian sisters who needed not to be paid like a male mercenary fighter might be astronomically paid. They should all remember that the soldiers were only toy soldiers, most of them had never fought any war, and they must have become kack-handed due to non-usage of arms. The soldiers, even down to the rank and file, had been softened with life of unspeakable depravity - drinks, dopes, binges, they had been basted, rendered down with living for long in Idle-land. The coup would be an easy one.

The gameplan was simple. There was a quarterly meeting of the ruling brasshats. Most Generals (down to Brigadier-Generals) would be in attendance, all the General Staff and every head of the army divisions in the country. This was supposed to be a meeting in which the state of the economy and other matters were discussed. But the talk was often about personal security, about how the junta should be beefed up against any threat of a coup from some ‘disgruntled elements’ among the officers. After this meeting there was always an informal cocktail party which was only a vinous pickup point. Here the Generals and some lesser officers would, a la carte, cherry-pick from the sprawl of women that were waiting for them. Angelina was the sole supplier of these commmoditised females. On the night she planned to strike, all the women she had readied for the generals were her fellow coupists. She had also sent some of her girls to other strategic military bases in the country. They were all armed with liquor, cocaine, Viagra, a cornucopia of fruits and Indian films, for the Head of State’s love of Indian films was highly infectious.

The coup – codenamed Operation Delilah – was as easy as Angelina had envisaged. The girls had heavily hocused the men’s drinks with Viagra. And on that ‘night of the long knives,’ long needles really, not a single General had one woman, the least that was apportioned to a man were three. The Generals were all impressed when they saw this plethora of fillyflesh, the pornocopia of womanhood. Some of them had neighed with elation like doped-up stallions.

In the event, none of the debauched Generals had the chance to make even a dying sound as the prostitutes jabbed them to death with drugs. The girls saw that each General was tired out first before they began to syringe them with oodles of cocaine concentrate. Their death was easy, and it must have been painless, like morphined mercy killing. The needles were the knives the women had used, and as the needles entered the mostly obese bodies of the men, it had occurred to almost all the girls that they were puncturing overblown egos.

But for Angelina who despatched the Head of State, General Sanni Kwabacha - almost the opposite was the thought that came to her head. Although she alone could take care of the rejuvenated libido of the Head of State, she had three handmaids comprising one of her assistants and two Indian sisters. They had administered heroin overkill on General Kwabacha. Cutting a picture of vampiric witches, they set about him with the needles of their drug-filled syringes, leaving some of the needle on the body as if in some kind of macabre acupuncture freak show. As they did this Angelina had imagined for a moment that the body of General Kwabacha was rising like a helium-pumped balloon, as if their syringes were filled with yeast, she saw the body rise and rise, and at one point she thought it was going to burst like that of dumdum-fed Mr Big in James Bond’s Live and Let Die. The dictator had died an uneasy, pop-eyed, excrementitious death.

Robot  # 1 | 27.06.2009 09:17

Adebowale Oriku Angelina was a university-educated woman. She graduated with brilliant results, but being very ambitious, she wouldn’t mind going out with a sugardaddy or two or three to flesh out a living. Millions of graduates did not have jobs in the country, but if Angelina wanted one she would have succeeded through the say-so of the men in her life. But she was eminently ambitious and would not want money to come to her in trickles. She wanted to hit it big, rake in millions at a time. And how was she going to hit such a big time if not through men, the tycoons, millionaires, military officers, ministers, politicians, contractors she met? These were all pieces of human golconda, pawns on the telluric chessboard that had only a queen. Though most of these men might be as worthless as base metal, dross, they would definitely yield gold for her, they had the philosopher’s stone she needed to achieve her end. At the beginning she had gone to several jujume...Read the full article.