Very many years ago when Muni was still a young bride of about six months or so. This is actually a true story some of my friends ought to still remember quite well. One of those stories that wouldn’t die even if the heaven and the earth pass away into oblivion. It’s our usual Àsun and Nkwobi plus Kainkain story.
You all should’ve seen the beauty of Muni in those days! She was the sweetest Blackberry, the toast of the entire Fiditi and Dagbolu. Giwa, Ademola H, Deji Laosun and Lanre Okunola are all here! They are free to approve or disprove this gist!
Don’t get me wrong, she’s still a Blackberry- albeit a well-seasoned one now.
I lived on 2, Werepe Street with my bride in a cosy, little room abundantly decorated with love. We made so much love in that room, so much that Love itself was afraid of venturing outside of it. It so happened a rabid, flea-infested Dog lived with its owner, a local hoodlum at 16, Werepe. That’s the house directly adjacent to the public pump by which Muni at the time frequented. Everyone on my block knew Muni, they fondly called her “Aunti-Iyawo”. Of course this dog and its owner were the neighborhood’s terrorists.
Till one day, Muni was harassed by this frightful dog. She left home that fateful day looking as detailed as any woman from the Buckingham Palace going to the Public Pump. She returned without her bucket and her wrapper, or her Ìró (a piece of garment) looking like a woman hounded by a legion of ghosts, or one that escaped from the bastards in ISIS or those ‘tear-rubber’ sadists of Boko Haram. She was so frightened, all she could mutter out of her mouth caked with fright and cries was “Johnbuulu, or Johnbull”, the name of that terrorist Hound from hell.
I quietly calmed her, reassured her and prop her in bed. I dressed up and put my sawed shotgun under a free, flowing Agbada robe. I lit a cigarette to calm my unsteady nerves. I told my beautiful wife to hold steady, “Mo n’bo.”
I stepped of our one-bedroom apartment with my brain all jacked up! I walked the short distance to number 16, and I sighted JB prancing crazily around his owner like a Dog expecting a biscuit for a mission well accomplished. I brought out my gun, lifted it and took a careful aim, I fired it and “BOOM” JB was knocked clear out of its dirty leash and landed a few meters away from his dazed owner. I lifted my gun again, and I took aim at Jagu, JB’s owner kneecap. I was about to pull the trigger the second time when I heard a familiar voice behind me begging, pleading with me in between heavy sobbing and a pitiful mien.
Odolaye Aremu
Dakun Eranko lo’o mo pa
O’oni paayan!
Dakun baale mi!
Jebure!
E gbami, E dakun e baa nbee!
I listened to Muni! I reasoned with her! Jagu by then had already defecated on himself! The nasty odor of gunpowder, human waste and fear rented the air!
I walked my wife home and I lived on that block for three more years in conjugal bliss with my wife, and in good, and kind spirit with my neighbors.
A responsible shouldn’t go down on all fours and growl or bark back at a rabid dog! It’s the job of her man to walk the distance, take a good and careful aim and shoot that Rabid Dog down!
N-o-n-s-e-n-s-e!!!
