Uta was impossible. His whole world seemed to revolve around sex. I know we were all young undergrads at the time, and our libido was running wild, but Uta was just a problem.
His own libido deserved a research of its own, for there was no way it could have been normal.

He just wanted to fire, and keep firing. He would promise a girl some of the most ridiculous things because he just wanted to lash. How his father was in the Senate. How he was his mother’s only child. How he only came to the Island because he rejected going to the U.S, to avoid distractions. How his parents promised him, if he found a wife, the wedding would be at Santorini, Greece.

He was a stammerer, and sometimes words came out in quick succession, something he turned into strength, allowing the lies blend in smoothly before the girl is able to pick holes in them.

Uta could tell you all of the nationalities you stood a chance with. He told us that the Russians were not too keen, but if they liked you, you may as well start stocking opa eyin or other such performance enhancers. The Turks, he said were a no-go; too conservative. The Cypriots he said were 50-50, but they needed a high level of discretion, lest their friends report them to their parents. American exchange students were a sure bet, if you can spit game. Naija girls were a sure bet too, but the financial commitments involved could build him a two-bedroom house. Which was why he conjured all those lies.

But the Naija girls soon found him out, and so that side became a no-go too.

With a libido that bluntly refused to respect itself, Uta knew he needed to find a supplementary outlet. Strip clubs were the only natural remedies. Again, Uta didn’t like those places too much. For him, it was too much money for a single night, which would not go beyond a mandatory 3 rounds. One before 10. One at midnight, and the third just at the stroke of dawn. And voom; $100 swims the Atlantic. Nwanne i makwa ihe 100 dollar putari na ego anyi? he once screamed.

One chilly December, he was at my house with other friends. It was my birthday, and there was more booze than water. More booze to turn a funeral gathering into a disco joint. You don’t want to be around Uta when he’s high. He confesses all kinds of things. How he once refused to pay a prostitute after the night. How she became angry about his inability to climax, and he promised her there and then, that unless he can confirm full working, no pay. They began again, but good ol’ Uta rode through the red sea, and refused to birth in Israel. The girl said no more. He said that was her problem, if he didn’t come, no pay.

Anyway, Uta asked me if I knew what was happening at the bar near my house. I told him I had no idea. He said he suspected it was a strip club. I said I see women going in there, but I can’t be sure, having never entered there myself. He was the last to leave my house that night, and as I made out for the front door to see him off, he said we should take a look. And right at the door, one of the white ladies caressed him on the chin. He looked at me, and a big smile flashed across his face. Uta couldn’t believe his luck.

I take a sit by the bar, still trying to process the ambience of the place. But lo’ and behold, a petrified Uta grabbed me by the hand, and said “Nwanne, bia ka anyi waa here. Bia ka anyi wa sharply” Come let’s leave here. Come let’s leave immediately.

I’d never seen Uta looked so confused. He said, he couldn’t believe what he just saw.

I asked, what?

“That one that touched my face said she wanted to ease herself, so I followed her. But when she raised her dress, nna lekwa amu o." He said he saw a dick instead.

That was the night Uta’s libido led him into a transgender bar.

I told him it served him right.

He said I should keep it between us.

That was 7 years ago.

At least I tried.

mitterand okorie

when you smoke osogbo weed this is the result

DrinkLimca:
I'm guessing you didn't read the post..

Guy, but you get brain and you no fit use am