A couple of months ago, I attained the status of being called a corper… did I hear “corper wee” or a “corper-tion” ? I hope not; my dislike for that phrase knows no bounds and i have been known to stare blankly and or ignore the “sayer’ of such nonsense. You’ll just be walking on your own, thinking thoughts of world domination and how much force is required to release a fart when some wise ass will start shouting “CORPER WEE!!!” From his car, with a smile on his face, teeth all out like a toothpaste advert like it’s a joke… er… no. it’s not.
But, I digress. My corper uniform is anything that is unattractive. I could actually sew up something cuter but, honestly, who cares?
I have very few i-don’t-give-a-hoot-about-what-I’m-wearing moments and i embrace them like long lost puppies, when they happen. If you happen to see a corper in fab hair, a jean jacket or a sweater over the tee-shirt, jumping or rolled-up trouser and a
once white now muddied white sneakers, feel free to not shout “corper-tion” I will ignore you. Honestly.
That is my basic look on a good corper-uniform-wearing day. I read somewhere about some hormones that run off and trap unsuspecting, unprotected males, drawing them to females. These hormones Are born when you’re 21 and commit suicide at 24.
This, is the only explanation on why I , dressed like a rural monkey, will still gather male attention. One of such males is Ola. Ola will send credit and keep calling like the “no, I am not going on a date with you. I am engaged and no, i don’t want anymore
friends. Thank you” Our conversations were reserved to were code for something else… or he was deaf… or couldn’t process basic English in his head. Whatever.
This particular day, I was lounging on my bed, gathering fat in my belly and jiggling said belly like a clothe in the wind… I think. Or maybe I was discussing relationship problems with Georgina, my 18 year-old teddy, I don’t know. the phone vibrated with a message alert and I saw “Ola”, i thought it was the normal “for the weekend credit”. I ignored it. I usually don’t load it till a couple of days after. Later in the evening, I got another text, opened it, and Ola’s opened too.
I cannot remember word for word what I saw in that text. I do remember: “please Taiwo, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.” “Please 80, 000.” “Anywhere you choose”. “Nobody has to know”. My averagely sized eyes were mango-sized wide with shock and embarrassment. My eeew-meter reader was over the roof. I dialed his number and abused and insulted him… didn’t make me feel any better but mehh… i HAD to vent somehow.
I felt disgusted for days, psychologically abusing any male that dared look or even talk to me. “You’re getting none of this,” my mind screeched at them. I felt like a walking piece of vagina? He had looked at me from head to toe and decided my roof price to get down with him was 80,000. That, as soon as I heard that amount, I’ll leap into bed with him, ready to finally get rid of this load of a hymen that weighs me
down when I fly at night.
Eighty thousand pere. Just four zeroes. That is, apparently, the proposed black market price for a clear pathway into the drunk archer’s vagina. Is that even a VIP ticket? *sigh*.
The future hubby will be really unhappy when the bride-price moment comes though. I mean, if my vagina alone is priced at just 80, 000; imagine what the whole of me will cost.
P.s I’m not engaged. That was a lie. If anyone finds me worthy enough to nag ’em for the rest of their time on Earth, you’d be the first… sec.. no third? whatever, you’ll get to know sha.