March 17, 2024

A thug in designer clothes is still a thug!

A thug in designer clothes is still a thug!

By Bunmi Sofola

ANY festive period is ideal for coming up with a party you hope with serve as snare for trapping money bags. Having a party to get a sizeable contract or two from friends of your lover seems a bit calculating, but tell them cheerily that you are having a Christmas or New Year party and guests turn up like bees to a honey-pot. Cynthia’s been widowed for almost ten years now.

Not that it bothered her, she had gained tremendously by her husband’s death. He was a foreigner whose contract on these shores was for an initial ten years. Cynthia met him before his ten-year contract ran-out, married him and bore him three lovely half-castes. The man was a bit geriatric and had plans to leave at the end of his term. But Cynthia persuaded him to renew it just for one more term “because of the children.” Using her senses and her natural assets, she pressurized her husband into not only buying a house, when his company was selling some of its assets off, she also bought a little flat in England and another house in one of the West African countries.

The poor husband didn’t last the distance of the second term and was taken to his country for burial. Cynthia in the mean time became a rich widow.

Footloose and fancy-free, she set about enjoying the rest of her life. She was not 40 yet, and attractive with it. She also managed to acquire a cool sophistication that belies her hustling days.

Then she landed another big fish in an engineer who’s worked with various governments for years and is very rich. It was a hot affair. So hot that Rex the poor besotted fool, didn’t know what to do to show his appreciation for all the ‘love’ Cynthia gave him. The woman was happily settled in her lovely Ikoyi house. You don’t tempt that kind of tigress with a poky flat in a run-down neighbourhood. In the end, he started dolling out contracts. But she was gunning for the big league – something to do with oil.

That was how she came to be having this party for her lover and friends who had been nice to him over the years. She made sure her own would-be contacts were on the list. She also chose a neutral ground. Some places where the catering could be easily handled and any man who got drunk could throw up or retire into one of the rooms with a comforter!

Rex was in his element. He wore a casually expensive silk shirt on an equally expensive denim, wafting one of these exotic colognes men drown in these days. He came with a few friends and two of his female cousins that knew about Cynthia. But as the night wore on, he became apprehensive of the guests Cynthia invited. They were roughnecks. There was no nicer way to put it. More like the spare-parts dealer types than the business associates Cynthia said they were. Their expensive garbs made them look even more down market and sinister.

“Drug pushers!” hissed a female guest and curled up her nostrils in distaste. Rex’s friends didn’t show that much enthusiasm about the party as they earlier did. Everyone was on his guard. Then one of the rough-necks, who was the most shifty of the lot, announced that some brands of drinks had run out and he was taking Cynthia to her house to get more. After 30 minutes and they hadn’t returned, Rex sent for suya. Two hours later, most of the guests had gone away in anger and relief.

Then Cynthia staggered in. All her charm and sweetness seemed to have deserted her. She looked like someone who had just spared with Tyson for a few seconds. A few of the guests gasped. But quite a number smirked.

When this type of men invade decent parties, things like this incident were bound to happen. “What happened?” Rex rushed forward, alarmed.

“She didn’t want to tell me what was going on so I best it out of her”,croaked the gizmo who took her to fetch the drinks. “I mean, when I came in, she didn’t tell you people that I was her husband and she just said you were a business partner who was only helping her with her business.” Rex’s jaw wanted to drop in amazement but years of experience came to the fore.

“Of course, I am only a business partner. You should have asked me yourself instead of roughening her up like this,” he said.

“Sorry,” he said shifting uncomfortably, “you people still want me to go and bring the drinks?” “No, no, no,” Rex said quickly, “we were just leaving when you came in. My friends and I have another party to go to. You and your wife can stay on to entertain your remaining friends.”

Somehow, before Rex left, his rival had managed to tell him he was the one who just bought Cynthia her new fancy car and he planned to do a lot more things for her financially – just as he had been doing over the years. “She doesn’t have to do all this business she is doing”, he croaked, “I have money but she said she’s bored just sitting down at home.”

Rex needed no further persuasion to get out of the scene of the party before it became the scene of crime! He felt a bit humiliated as he filed out with friends most of whom he had taken Cynthia to visit, bragging about how clever he was to have landed such a catch. “Some women could be quite a nightmare,” said a much subdued Rex a few weeks later. “Cynthia was very loving and seemingly decent when I had the affair with her, I had known her over two years and had slept in her house on occasions. Shows you how lucky I was. What if an irate lover, parading as a husband, had come in on those nights I was sleeping over the pumped bullets into me!

Naturally, that was the last time I had anything to do with Cynthia. When she called, and I heard her voice, I simply switched off the phone. Girls like that would lead you to the slaughter without any qualms.”

Just What The Priest Diagnosed! (Humour)

A very, very drunk man flops onto a bus seat next to a priest. His tie is stained, his face plastered with lipstick and a half-empty bottle of gin is sticking out of his trouser pocket. He opens his newspaper and starts reading, but after a few minutes turns to the priest and asks: “Hey, Father, do you have any idea what causes arthritis?” “Yes,” the priest replies sternly, “It’s caused by loose living, being with cheap, wicked woman,drinking too much alcohol and having complete contempt for your fellow man.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the drunk mutters, and returns to his paper. The bus carries on its way, and a few minutes later, the priest, feeling guilty about what he has just said, nudges the man and apologises to him. “I’m very sorry,” says the holy man. “I didn’t mean to come on so strong. It was mean-spirited and inconsiderate of me. How long have you been suffering from arthritis?” “I haven’t,” says the drunk. “I was just reading here that the Pope has”.