Madam Killjoy

You will not believe what I witnessed over the weekend. I went to the market that fateful afternoon to buy fried rice tins. Dasow one fateful woman stopped to buy plantain in the shed next to mine dragging her fateful daughter along. I didn’t really pay them much mind as I focused on the aboki picking my green peas from the pod. Next I heard was “I am not removing any leg, you will tell me boya you dinnor meet my leg there ni.” The embarrassment was gangster.

This little girl yelling at her mother in public glare is barely 6 years old. Her arms were folded across her chest and her fateful mouth was wrung into a tight pout looking like a chaffed anus. Everyone in the market held their breath and pretended not to look. I started humming Kill Bill theme song under my breath for I knew things would get bloody.

“Haaaa, omo re abi Omo (detergent), I was stupefied. My hairs stood on their ends for the event held the promise of a Greek tragedy. I could’ve sworn I saw the Chorus collecting fresh air around the corner. The woman’s pupils dilated; mouth packed with fangs; claws distended from her fist and the sky darkened and crackled as she flashed a fiendish smile. The type your Yoruba mother gives you and you’re wondering if it’s okay to put the hot pot on her head as requested.

Oh don’t tell me about that smile, I saw it all my life. A word of advice, be sure you are 12 kilometers away when your mother gives you one of those, because the slap that would follow would be in the order of “Lord, give me my last pawa…” Usually, it would come for you in slow motion. In fact, you will see the veins popping on her wrists in painstaking details. And before you can say “SOS” it has landed flat on your face “waaammmmm” and then you are barraged by a myriad of misadventures.

Profile
Crime: Hissing in Public
Verdict: Iforun, igbarun, igbati, abara, chiko, upper-cut (and if your mum is gangster like mine) Back-hand.

Don’t be alarmed if you can’t feel your face the rest of the day, factory setting would be restored by morning.

I’ve been there many times so my animal instinct told me this poor girl would be drawing her last breath in a matter of minutes. At any rate, my enemy was already standing in the witness box, “My Lord, it all happened before my very eyes.” I would swear I saw her blood follow the dagger as she drew it from her daughter’s limb body before crashing on the cold concrete floor in Okomita Market or something like that.

Where was I sef? °¢^&&@©®℅°¥¢@”;;-%%f’xfagsgsg.

Ahhh haaaaa!!!

It was her mother’s smile that told me all will not be well with this little girl in a matter of seconds. But what followed would be the greatest tragedy of all time. I will live with the image the rest of my life. Men and brethren, ashey this woman did not belong to my mother’s school of thought. Or maybe her husband is one of those men that forbid their wives from “touching” their children. First, the woman’s smile lost its venom and then she threatened to tell “daddy when we get home.” And that’s all. I’m like, “CUT! CUT!! CUT!!! Nahhhhhhhhh this is not what I paid for.”

Even a child knows weakness when she sees it. She tightened her arms around her chest and squeezed a hiss through her pout. Pained, I was. Where I come from, that girl would be picking a weapon of her own destruction by now. “What a waste of suspense,” I muttered under my breath. I lifted my basket with an air of injury; balanced it on my head and went my way.

P.S This is a fiction, any resemblance with real people or places is mere coincidence.

Post Author: Arinola Ogunniyi

I tell simple everyday stories we take for granted in ways you wouldn't have imagined them. From dated stories, myths, reviews, "street-lores" to topical issues, these mind bending series will leave you begging for more. And if you trip over my sentence structures, it's part of the experience. You can call me the Last Story Bender. I mastered the rules of language to break them.

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