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Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:09am On Jan 16 |
Banji has been scamming for well over six
months and he is not far from where he was
when he began. His clients pay cheap money:
two divorced women from Newton Abbot sent a
fifty and a seventy pound itunes gift card,
respectively; a fifty dollar card from a young
woman who works in a mental health support
group in Manhattan; a fifty card from a gay
American man who likes Big Black Cocks. Banji
wants bigger clients, bigger money.
“I want to roll a Benz too, gee,” he says in a
voice to Jide.
They used to be as close as cursed things, Banji
and Jide. They grew up together on that street of
red dust in Bode Olude in Abeokuta. They
attended the same school, dawning white shirts
tucked into khaki shorts. They played football
together. Jide did bad grades, chilled in School
Two with other boys, smoking powdered leaves
wrapped in white rislas or, when they could not
afford a risla, paper torn from their school
notebooks and making out with girls from other
schools who hated school. Now the boy
commands millions. He just bought a Benz. He
recently bought and refurbished a house for his
mother in Abeokuta. His WhatsApp status says it
without noise: On God, caption for a photo of him
in a classy bar, bottles of expensive drinks on
the table, two fingers splayed: peace, eye
clicked, lip fresh—perfect; Oluwa Na My One
Support. OG , caption for a photo of him posing in
front of his Benz, clothed in Valentino, Burberry
on his feet, Gucci band—boy who has it all;
photo of his wallet: $17xxx2 .
“There’s no money in dating, only change,” Jide
tells Banji on the phone. “You should try sugar
baby. I go run you payment. You should be able
to set up a cash app email now—you will just use
a cash app photo, a soft variant of the cash app
usual email address as your daub email address.
You get?”
Banji meets Jide at Denero, one quiet hotel in
Ladi Lak. Banji lives in Aguda but Jide is here to
lay low, one stupid somebody in SARS is giving
him headache.
“I can’t be giving him money all the time. He
doesn’t fight my battles. I’m here to just chill a
little jare,” Jide says. He sits on the bed. He is
leaner, not like in the pictures he has been
uploading on WhatsApp lately. There is a scratch
on his neck.
“Sorry, man,” Banji says.
First they set up the cash app gmail:
cashappservicecustomer@gmail.com. Then Jide
forwards the payment, which can be edited to
the effect, though there are particular features
encoded into the whole thing that runs and runs,
a link that enters the recipient’s cash app: it all
looks believable.
“Believability,” Jide says. “Make them believe
you have money and you can send it to them if
they will let you love them and do them right.
Ask them to send nudes, be commanding. It is a
way to let them believe. If they believe they will
pay.”
Banji spends nights and nights and days and
days running the lines by the women, sending
them dick pictures. My name is Henry
McConnell, he introduces himself to each one.
You have a really nice smile or Sorry about what
happened to your son follows . It is necessary
that a hustler studies his client. He is a writer but
his father was a business mogul who left him an
abundance of money. I just want to love
somebody, he says. He tells them he can send
them weekly allowance if they will let him have
them. He sends the first payment.
On his other Facebook account, the dating one,
he still chats white men who want to jerk off
while watching him dip your finger in your meaty
pussy. To them he is a lady from South Africa,
thick body, huge behind turned to the camera,
with head turned backward, finger in the mouth.
Dollars come in, but it is still change. Two
hundred dollars from a man from Illinois who
wants to hook, who says he likes to bundle his
women like a bag of cotton. Will you like me to
bundle you up, baby? he texts, following a photo
of his dick the size of two candles, the length of
a fifty naira sausage. When you are a hustler you
say yes to the devil. A woman from the
Philippines thinks she’s found her billionaire,
golden key to the door that will alter her life for
all the best. He sends her payment and she finds
the hundred to let her two thousand dollars off
the clutch of cash app. Still she gets no money.
Banji sends her three thousand this time and she
clears it with two hundred dollars, which she
borrows from her boss. Aww. You will get your
allowance soon, love. Sorry for the stress, baby.
I love you to the moon xx , Banji texts. Make
them feel good; a scam is a performer, an
entertainer, only, some songs are entry points
into terrifying testaments.
Banji wants more. Richmond, this boy they
attended primary school together, who was so
small back then anyone could tuck him into their
pocket if they wanted, his client sent him three
hundred thousand dollars, first allowance. Tope
—who lived in the house opposite Banji’s I’m
Bode Olude, whose sister was briefly Jide’s
girlfriend—is now Tope Money, lives in Lekki,
rides a Range.
“I will take you to this alfa, he’ll give you
something to use,” Jide says, when Banji calls
him. His voice is a little hoarse.
“What kind of thing?”
A brief silence. “I don’t know. A soap or stone.”
He laughs. “Soap or oil or he would tell you to go
and give some gifts to some people. Nothing
serious. But please I won’t like it if tomorrow—”
There is talking in the background. Jide is
speaking with someone, but the other person’s
voice isn’t audible. Please I am tired. Can we do
in an hour? An hour. Please. I need to rest a
little.
Banji hears the phone drop, he hears a muffled
cry, the cry continues in his ears as the night
falls outside. He cuts the phone after listening to
the vague drama for about three minutes—out of
curiousness, though also hoping that Jide’s voice
will come back on.
Banji is worried but about what? It did not sound
like Jide was in any kind of trouble. One of those
girls who like you to do and do until your dick
begins to ache, that was what it sounded like,
Banji thinks. Jide likes women. But what is the
statement Banji did not finish. If tomorrow— |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:10am On Jan 16 |
“It is a soap that we will make for you. You will
bath with it at midnight, oru oganjo. After bathing
with it you will stay inside for three days. The day
you bath with it will be the first day. Do you
understand?” Alhaji Gold says, his Yoruba thick
with an Osun accent. There is a lawani looped
around his head. He is in a jalabya, a small man.
There is a tray filled with clean white sand in
front of him, on a polished table. Next to the tray
is a chain of prayer beads. He looks at Banji and
the boy who brought him, Jide.
Jide looks at Banji.
“Yes, Alhaji.”
“You will bring seventy-two tousan,” he says.
“Ah. Alhaji—”
“Ah, kini. Make Alfa no eat? I no get family? My
pikin no go go to school? I no go wear cloth?”
Banji thinks the man should be in his early
thirties, around the age his own father kicked the
stone. The Lizard’s stone. “You Yahoo boys that
when you make it now you will forget the Alfa
that did the work. That did nafillah, burning
incense and dragging tesbiu while begging the
ones who bear fortune to visit you. You forget.”
“Alhaji, I cannot forget you. Walahi,” Banji says.
“I will not be ungrateful.”
“That’s what all of you say. There is one, Shina, I
don’t know if you know him, they call him Shine
Dollahposhi or something like that. He rides a
green Big Daddy and one silver Venza. I did the
work for him. Since the day he walked out of this
place carrying his work in his hand, he went
away and never looked back. No call, no alert.”
“Alhaji, your account number.” Jide sends
seventy-five thousand naira to Alhaji, three
thousand for card.
“This one now is my guy. Confamuni. This one
knows the eyes of his helper. He sends me
money for card everytime. He bought me one of
the two rams I killed during the last Ileya. I hope
you will be like him.”
This is Thursday. Never go to seek a plus on a
Thursday. Alhaji Gold says the soap and other
potions will be ready by Saturday. It doesn’t take
long for money to come.
When they enter his car, everything chill and
clean, Banji noticed another scratch on Jide’s
neck. “Thank you so much, man. I am grateful.
Ajeh,” Banji says.
“All good, man.”
There is silence. Jide loves to play music when
he is driving, Banji wonders why there is no
music playing. And then he wonders about the
last time they were on the phone and Jide’s
phone dropped to the floor and his voice was
muffled.
“What happened the other day when I called?”
Banji asks.
Jide looks in the back seat, as if someone is
seated there. “It was just one of those shepeteri
girls, she wanted us to go another round after
like six. And she don trabaye at the time. She
was in that space when we were talking on the
phone and it was like there was fire burning
between her legs—sorry, that’s not how I meant.
I’m sorry.” He looks in the back seat.
Banji looks in the back seat too. He has never
trabayed, the weed he does is usually ,
sometimes marley kush, and rarely, because it is
not cheap, though it is his favorite, loud. Trabaye
is a water he has never dipped his feet in; he’s
seen videos of how the market ate people who
ate it, this laced weed named after a city in the
US.
“I don’t like to talk about the girl.”
“OK.”
They sit in the silence of the car, the world
dancing past them outside. Banji keeps thinking
of the first Benz he’ll buy when the big money
starts coming. The girls. The life that is possible,
the premium in this Lagos, this life that will be
his soon.
“Yes. Please. I’m driving,” Jide says. “Please.”
He glances at Banji, turns back to face the road,
tries to look in the backseat. “Please. When we
reach the hotel. Please.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Somebody on the phone.”
There is an earpod in his ear but Banji is sure
that Jide’s phone did not ring. It’s there on his
lap, cold. |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:14am On Jan 16 |
On Saturday Banji visits Alhaji Gold.
“Salamwalekum,” he greets. His mother, who
raised him in a pentecostal church, would kill him
for saying “Peace be unto this house” if she
heard him right now.
“Alaykumwasalam,” Alhaji Gold responds. “Omo
ori irin. Your work is ready, and I assure you that
prayers will be answered. I am coming.” He
enters his room.
While he is away Banji takes in the room: the
yellow walls, the white long bulb on the wall, the
table with the tray covered in sand carrying the
manipulation of fingers finding secrets. The
table, polished but old. There is a bottle of water
on the table, Islamic pamphlets and the
Quran.The chairs. The calendars on the wall, all
of them testifying to Islam and the culture. The
faint smell of incense in the room.
Alhaji Gold returns with a calabash that contains
a dark mixture. “Ise ni yen,” he smiles. “Take.”
He places it in Banji’s hand.
The calabash is slightly heavy.
“You will buy a pigeon on your way home.
Slaughter it and spill the blood in the soap. Mix it
with the soap. Buy native sponge too. By
midnight go out and bath with the soap and the
sponge under an open sky. As you bath tell what
you want to the spirits that dance in that
moment, and they will hear you,” Alhaji Gold
instructs.
“OK, Alhaji.”
“You will bathe with the soap at midnight only
once, today. Afterwards you will use the soap to
wash your hand every morning before you start
to hustle. You can use it to wash your face too,”
he says. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Alhaji.”
Alhaji Gold shakes his head, picks up a tiny
bottle of oil. “Take,” he gives it to Banji. “You
will use this to rub your hand and face after you
wash them with the soap.”
“Okay, Alhaji.”
“Now to the warnings. You know everything has
do and don’t do. Listen carefully, so that you
won’t be in trouble. Things can go bad very
quickly if you make mistakes.” Alhaji Gold
pauses briefly. “That calabash in your hand must
not break. If it breaks there will be trouble. We
will not see trouble inshallah.”
Knock knock knock, a hand raps on the door.
“Who is that?” Alhaji Gold asks.
“It is Mrs. Chiwendu. Salamalaykun Alhaji.”
The woman’s voice reminds Banji of Mama Ejiro,
the woman who used to sell rice in their school.
Even Ejiro has lifted now. He thinks about the
pigeon, what should he do with it after spilling its
blood?
“Ah. Madamu. Good afternoon. Just wait small. I
will soon finish and you will enter. Sulaiman,” he
calls to one of his sons. Banji saw the boy when
he first came here with Jide, a really small boy,
maybe nine years old. The boy answers. “Give
Madamu good chair to sit down.”
Alhaji Gold pulls off a cap on the bottle water
and drinks. “Alhamdulilahi,” he says, refreshed.
“Where did I stop? As I said before, don’t let the
calabash break. I beg you with your mother’s orí,
and your father’s. Also, don’t travel for the next
fourteen days. Stay inside your house and sashe.
Client will answer. Inshallah.”
“Alhaji. What should I do to the dead pigeon?”
Banji asks.
“Bury it. Bury it somewhere not very close to
where you stay. Cut its head off before you bury
it. Bury the head somewhere far from where you
bury the body. When the head is far from the
body, wrecking rage is impossible.”
Rage. What am I annoying, Banji thinks. “Thank
you, Alhaji.”
“All thanks to the Benevolent,” Alhaji Gold says.
“Call me if anything if you want to tell me
anything, or if anything comes up. And help me
to greet your friend.”
Jide. Banji has not heard from him in three days,
the last they spoke was the day they came here
together. Banji has dropped him messages on
WhatsApp, but he is yet to reply.
He steps out of the house into the dusk of a new
life. |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:15am On Jan 16 |
The calabash drops by mistake. It shatters, the
shards cast all over the floor, a divination of
disaster.
Banji has just finished bathing with the soap;
water droplets are still scrowling down his body.
It’s 12:43 am. He is returning to his room when
his feet misses a step, and he hits his leg and
the calabash dances out of his hands. Now he
stands here, arms folded, staring at the shards
on the floor, the soap spilled, red-dark raven shit
on the cemented floor.
He took care with the calabash, did the rituals
accordingly. He bought the pigeon for one
thousand two hundred naira from an old Ijebu
woman who shook her head and asked him to
call his mother when he gets home and ask her
to pray for him. She said it without any context,
but the concern in her voice was clear. He
thanked her. When he got home, he grabbed a
knife and spilled the bird’s blood into the
calabash, mixed it with the soap—though as he
held the bird’s throat and ran the knife through it
again and again, a violinist dragging bow over
strings, life leaving the winged cottage, his hand
shook and soon his entire body began to shake.
It was as if a force coursed through him; but
suddenly it all ceased and he was still and
everything was still.
He wonders if to use a broom to sweep the
shards or pick it with his hand. He can’t call
Alhaji Gold now, in the middle of the night—what
if the man is spending this time in a room of
prayer: the small room at the back of his house
or the body of one of his three wives.
Banji grabs a packer and returns outside. He
bends and begins to pick, one shard after the
other. Done picking, he grabs tissue paper to
clean the spilled soap. He sweeps. He takes a
bowl of water and washes the soap off the
concrete. In the morning, he’ll call Alfa.
He wears a Vintage shirt smelling of Premier
soap, fresh boxers, and a short. Twenty-four
people are online; seven of them are target
clients. These ones—he has found out from
studying their Facebook timelines and doing
checks on them—have good money. He chats
with them. Usually, Paulo Bough does not
respond to his messages—there are several
Hey’s and Hi ’s with no reply to them—but
tonight he does. Three of the other seven are
responsive too.
He doesn’t feel sleepy these days, when he just
started hustling he would brew Nescafe and
drink it with only sugar, no milk, to ensure he
stayed awake. These days his eyes know the
deal, they too want the money. But the body still
has its ways.
He enters the toilet. His limp dick hisses urine
into the WC. He will wash the toilet later today,
it’s been three days since he last did.
It looks like a snake, the thing coiled there by his
bed. It is a snake, glistening in the white light.
The yellow and dark patterns that cover it look
like patterns on ankara. Slick tongue slides out
every now and then. Is it a python? Banji
wonders. Or a boa? It does not move its body,
only its head.
Banji grabs his phone and returns to the toilet.
He dials Alhaji Gold’s number. It is 4:17, the
man should be up preparing for morning prayer.
“Hello. Salamalaykum.” The voice is hoarse, the
voice of a man who did not sleep through the
night and closed his eyes to get some sleep only
to be woken by a call a few minutes later.
“Yes, Alhaji. Good morning. There is a snake in
my room.”
“Ehn!” There is a woman’s voice in the
background; a hushed conversation is going on.
“What did you say? How did snake enter your
room; do you live near bush?”
“No, sir. The calabash broke.”
“Which calabash?”
“The one you gave me, Alhaji.”
“O. You are Jide Money’s friend,” a brief
silence. “But shebi I warned you to not let the
calabash break?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t even know how I fell and it fell
from my hand.”
“Ah. Agbako re o. Did you bath with the soap,
did you add the thing?”
“Yes, I bathed with it. I added it.”
“That snake will not go anywhere. You have to
live with it.”
Banji can hear Alhaji Gold mumble words in the
background. “Alhaji, please. Is there nothing I
can do? I don’t like snakes. Please.”
“There is nothing, bobo. You have to live with it.
That is all you can do now. Don’t leave the
snake alone in the house for too long, if you go
and buy something, run back to the house. You
can even take it out with you. You cannot run
away from it. It is your companion now.”
“Companion how, Alhaji?” It is still very unclear
to him that his life has changed, that the light has
come to its brutal mirror and the doors are
sealed.
“Toh,” Alhaji Gold says. “I want to go and pray.”
Banji hears calls to prayer coming from the
mosque on the street that faces the one he lives
on. The phone dies.
Now there is a young woman in his room. She is
petite and pretty, fair skin, narrow eyes, and she
is wearing a patterned ankara gown, the same
colour as the snake: yellow and black. Right
where the snake was, that’s where she is
seated, next to the bed. There are cold moths in
her plaited hair.
Banji does not know what to do or say, he
stands by the door to the toilet, looking. He calls
Alhaji Gold but the number is not reachable. He
tries again, to the same response. He returns to
the toilet. Stands before the WC, looks out
through the small window at the dark light of
dawn. Not thinking. Just there. He sits on the
WC. He calls Jide. There is no response, the
number is switched off. He leaves him a
message on WhatsApp.
He sits on the bed and watches the girl. His
mind blank. Thoughts fly in his head but he is
not paying attention.
“I’m thirsty. Do you have water?” she asks. Her
voice is clean, no hitch.
“Yes. Yes.” Banji stands up. “Lemme get it for
you.” He hurries to the parlour, grabs a sachet of
water from his small fridge and returns to the
room. He hands her the water.
She drinks some of it.
Banji’s eyes stick to her. He doesn’t want to
blink. He feels somewhat calmer, though the
nervousness still weathers his body and the
room, after hearing her speak and watching her
drink water. But why is she here, he wonders,
what business do they have together, this snake-
girl?
And as if she can read his mind, she
shapeshifts. The snake, unlike earlier, crawls
around the room this time. Banji watches. It
crawls on the bed, moves slowly toward him. He
wants to jump off the bed and run out of the
house, but beyond his will a force touches every
ligament in his body and he is dreamily frozen.
He knows what is happening right now, that the
snake draws closer to him, that his life is altering
quietly but not quite nicely, but he cannot move
his body.
The snake crawls onto his lap, hangs its body
over his shoulder, throws its body around Banji’s
neck. It loops itself around his arm, coils in his
lap and sleeps.
Once it falls asleep his body is freed, though he
realizes that living with this thing might include
having to let it sleep in his lap overnight and not
drop it.
It is morning already, though. Outside, a pigeon
is cooing, begging her dead lover to come home.
I have prepared the peas as you like them. I can
feed it to you if your beak is tired, it sings.
Inside the room, Banji is chatting with a client.
He does not want to think about the thing in his
lap, or the things that have happened this past
couple of hours, at least he is alive; he’ll just
chase the money.
Paulo is asking him how much she wants for her
first wardrobe allowance. Banji wonders how
much he should ask, how much is too much? He
does not want to chase this client. But what do I
have to lose?
$30,000, baby, Banji bills.
He watches the dots play at the bottom of the
screen.
I’ll send you $40000. xx
The lights twinkle. Banji opens the calculator,
punches in the numbers: 40000×467. The result
pops: 18,680,000 naira. He smiles, and he does
not stop smiling. |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:17am On Jan 16 |
He forwards Jide’s picker’s details to the client.
In his lap the body is heavier; the snake has
shapeshifted, the light hitting her face making
her glow.
“Hey. Good morning,” Banji says.
“Yes. Good morning.” She sits up. She yawns,
her eyes briefly shut. Banji’s eyes do not blink.
“I’m hungry. I want to eat.”
“Oh.” What will I feed this snake-girl? “What
would you like to eat?”
“Anything. But add eggs.”
Banji thinks this won’t be a very bad suggestion,
“Should I make you noodles and fried eggs?”
“Yes. Fried eggs are not bad.”
She eats very little. “There is too much pepper in
it,” she says.
“Oh.” Banji says.
She stands. Gently she takes off her dress. She
is naked, no pant or bra. Her breasts are small
but the nipples are perky, the first things Banji’s
eyes take in before he shuts them and turns his
head.
“Why are you naked?”
“I want to be bleeped.”
Banji opens his eyes and lifts his head. He
wants to ask a question like “What do you
mean?”, say something like “I can’t Bleep you.
You are a spirit,” and a snake, he won’t Bleep a
snake, what if she turns to a snake right in the
middle of the sex, or what if his dick enters her
and her vagina shapeshifts into a coven of
ungentle teeth; but he doesn’t. He refuses to
listen to the questions, everything inside him
wants to Bleep this snake-girl.
And he bleeps her. And right in the middle of it all
she begins to cry, her sobs deep and dagger-
sharp.
Banji begs her to keep it down. “Should I stop?”
She ties her arms around him, her legs too.
When he comes to shore and pulls out of her,
lays down next to her, she bites him deeply in
his hip. It will not cease to ache. And she blows
him, slowly, then swiftly; and they go again. |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:17am On Jan 16 |
“We all have battles that we fight, Banji,” Jide
says. He saw Banji’s message and decided to
visit; plus, Paulo has sent the money. “Nothing is
free. Money is a spirit—to have it you must dine
with that spirit. You have to dine with yours. I
dine with mine. The first time I bathed with the
soap, I fought with Death himself. He appeared
to me as a skeleton, strong as nothing I know in
this world, man. I fought him for hours. We
fought with sticks. It was like playing Mortal
Kombat, but it’s you inside the screen this time.
The only thing I’m grateful for is that I did not let
him kill me in the dream, if he did I would have
died not longer than a week after. Or even right
then in my sleep. I woke up bathed in sweat.”
“Does this have something to do with the thing
you were speaking with in the car the other
day?”
Jide rubs his face with his palm. “Yeah. I can’t
talk about her, though. She’ll kill me because
she can hear everything I say.”
“But why didn’t you tell me that the
consequences could be like this?”
“I was going to. The day we were talking on the
phone and my phone dropped. She dragged me
into bed and the phone dropped. I would have
said something about what it could be like.”
Banji remembers. “But after that time, when we
were leaving Alhaji’s place for instance, why
didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. I felt you’ll figure it out.”
“Did your calabash break?”
“No. I buried it. I was told to bury it. You’ll learn
to live with it, somehow.”
“We have had sex.”
“Haha.”
“She requested it, but me sef want am bad.”
“How was it?”
“Feels like real honeycomb there, gee.”
“I’ll forward the money to your account. It’s
about fifteen milli.”
“Gee.” Banji covers his mouth with his hand. He
does not want to scream. I’m a millionaire.
“Congrats, man. More blessings.”
After Jide leaves, Banji calls his mother. He does
not tell her there is a snake-girl in his room,
millions in his account, he asks, “Mile, what are
you having for dinner?” |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:18am On Jan 16 |
Banji can only stare at this shapeshifting being.
Snake now, lady the next. Pretty lady, crawling
thing.
“Please can you tell me your name?”
“My name?”
“Yes.”
“What is my name ?”
“What are you called by?”
“I am called by nothing.”
“So you have no name?”
“Yes.”
Banji thinks this is insane, spirits do have names,
even orisas have names. “Can I call you No
Name?”
“Yes. Call me No Name.”
“Or Nona, the first two alphabets from each word
fused together.”
“That’s not bad.”
Banji thinks, says, “No, Nina . I’ll call you Nina.
Can I call you Nina?”
“You can call me that.”
“OK, Nina.” He turns on his phone.
An alert beeps in his phone, a welcome note to
his first millions. He goes on Jumia and orders
orders two he gadgets has always wanted to
have: a Macbook Pro; an iPhone 12 Max Pro.
“Nina. Do you drink alcohol, I want to get
some?”
“Yeah. I like alcohol,” she says. “Saltwater is
what makes me tipsy and unabashed, though.”
“What kind of saltwater?”
“Any, could be tears. I like tears, saltwater of
the eyes.”
They don’t sell it in any market I know, Banji
wants to say, but he doesn’t. He orders bottles
of André, too; a few bottles of Budweiser
because beer is not his thing, though he likes the
soft groove that he gets on after two, three
bottles. He asks Jide for his dealer’s contact,
and orders four bags of loud, two bags of
colorado—he will trabaye today, probably with
Nina, if she doesn’t mind—and packets of ref.
He won’t have the devil’s ice. “How about pizza,
do you mind?”
“I’m fine. Alcohol is okay.”
He sends his mom one million naira, under
Buhari’s weather, this boy who is not even
twenty-three yet, who doesn’t have any degree.
“I just saw alert, Iyanda. Somebody sent me one
million naira, in this economy, out of nowhere,
and that somebody is my son,” his mother says
on the phone. “Oshe, okomi, oshe.”
“Mile, thank you too,” Banji says.
“May God continue to bless you. All that your
father could not do, the world that he didn’t give
to us, the places we never reached—you will
manifest all our dreams and hopes. When are
you coming home?”
“Very soon, Mile.”
“Drop the phone,” Nina says.
Banji covers the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’m
speaking with my mom. Please just a minute.”
He puts the phone back to his ear.
“Banji, did you win—”
The first slap trembles his face, his phone falls
from his hand to the ground. The slaps continue,
on both sides of his face. Pa pa — pa pa — pa
pa.
His entire face hurts, as if pins were planted
under the flesh. She pulls down his shorts and
blows him; at first slowly, but then with rhythmic
speed. She climbs over him and rides him.
Banji can’t stop thinking, right now in the middle
of sex, about how, the way things are going now,
bound already in this communion, he may not be
able to go visit his mother any time soon. He
may never be able to visit her again. |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:19am On Jan 16 |
But there is plenty to gain, compared to what you
lose, when you commune with the powers that
reside in secrets, Banji thinks. The millions are
climbing in his account. He has been cashing out
money that make him smile and dance in the
bathroom when he is alone, Nina not there with
him. Those kind of days are rare, though—Nina
likes to cowgirl in the toilet. She likes doggy in
the kitchen. Missionary on the cold floor.
The mandatory three days of not going anywhere
have passed. He has bought a Lexus RX 350, not
a Benz because for some reason Banji is now
less fascinated by the car. Jide recently bought a
nice silverskin Dodge. Nina in the backseat, Banji
drives his own car, for the first time in his life, to
Hotus.
Nina won’t stay in the car, so she follows him
into the supermarket. He grabs a basket and
scrolls through the mall, picks and drops. The
basket is almost full. What else do I have to get?
Banji thinks. Condoms. He got seven packets of
Durex— I have been fucking a spirit without
protection.
“Dance with me,” she says. She has been
standing behind him, dancing by herself.
Olamide’s ‘Jailer’ is playing in the mall.
Banji doesn’t mind dancing with her, though he
is not a good dancer, but they are in public and
he’ll look like a mad man: this one man dancing
awkwardly in a mall filled with lights and people.
Nobody can see her. “Can we dance when we
get home?”
There are two slaps this time. Banji gives her his
hands, and they dance. Bella Shmurda’s
‘Upgrade’ is playing now.
He knew something could happen if they went
out together. He thought, for example, that she’ll
ask him to drop his pants, that she wants to give
him a head. Or ask for a doggy while holding a
shelf packed full with cereal and milk. But he did
not imagine this.
A small crowd has formed, watching him do his
dance, as they will do theirs, as you will do
yours, as I am doing mine.
In the car, Banji asks, “Why are you humiliating
me?”
“What does humiliating mean?”
“It’s getting a lot more complicated. I just bathed
with a soap. I did not kill anybody.”
“You have killed many bodies,” she says. “Plus,
you wanted money.” She spreads her legs and
fingers herself.
Banji wonders how he’ll live with this snake-girl
for the rest of his life. Will she leave at some
point? For one, he’ll never go back to Hotus,
he’ll avoid any public place, he’ll order
everything. He’ll ask help from Jide for other
stuff.
Her head on his lap, he hustles. Paulo wants to
come to South Africa, to meet Amahle Lowell.
She’ll love to meet him too, to have you Bleep me
till my body is burning bright , but, instead of
coming, he could send her money to come meet
him in Georgia. Amahle says she can fix the
whole process in no time, with good money.
Another client, a middle-aged man working in
Silicon Valley, divorced thrice, wants a video
call. He wants to see her black vagina. He wants
to see her big boobs. He wants to know Amahle
is Ahmale when the body is bare before the
camera. He won’t send any money until he sees
her on camera.
But because soap, even this man, stubborn as
he appears to be, sends seventy thousand
dollars. |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:19am On Jan 16 |
The snake crawls over Banji’s body, now frozen.
It loops its body around his neck, and with its
forked tongue licks a side of his face. It goes on
licking.
It stops licking, narrows its eyes and watches his
face. It pegs its head before his face and
watches his eyes.
Banji’s eyes say Please, Please because
language is lost to him in this moment. His teeth
grit in his mouth. His tongue twists in his throat.
He wants to break free but the spell is a locked
padlock dumped, together with its key,
somewhere in the mirror.
The first bite is at the back of his neck. Several
bites on his face follow. It slams its head into his
side and stabs the tiny knives in its mouth into
his flesh. Again and again.
Banji is released from the hand that held him
and he begins to tremble, and he does not stop
trembling. There are iron spiders crawling inside
his flesh, carving Roman numerals into his
bones. He wants to scream but a hand pulls
back the toad of his voice before it clambers out
of his throat into the box of his mouth.
The spiders are carving with acuity. He begins to
quake. He quakes in this light.
The snake goes on biting. The bites, alphabets of
sorcery, map Banji’s face, his face sowing
darkblue blood. With the blood comes the
spiders, glowing red like embers of the Lord’s
anger.
Banji quakes. He quakes. He dances to the spell.
He writhes. He writhes. The spiders crawl out
with the blood, the sheets are dirty with it. The
spiders line his body like soldiers waiting orders
—from his collarbone, past his belly button, to
the balls of his hips, two lanes of glowing
spiders, burning scars into this body. The spiders
are so close together each lane looks like a long
stitch.
The snake loops around his neck and strangles.
The body tightens around the body. The curse
comes to fruition.
Outside the window on the satellite dish, the
pigeon is perched, watching the ritual of
mangling. It has seen this scene a hundred times
before. |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 10:21am On Jan 16 |
Credit CTTRO.... :::
Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by wis3(m): 10:57am On Jan 16 |
This has been a very interesting. 1 Like |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 11:39am On Jan 16 |
wis3:Thanks. |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by AlluviaUC: 5:03pm On Jan 16 |
Nice one bro. Thanks 🙏 1 Like |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 6:51pm On Jan 16 |
AlluviaUC: You're welcome 1 Like |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by Onechester: 6:51pm On Jan 16 |
Xanz |
Re: Life Of A Yahoo Plus Freak by DeAnonymousGuy(m): 9:55pm On Jan 16 |
Wow. This is one hell of a scary read. Guyyyyyyyy 1 Like |
(1) (Reply)
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