OtondoBook Episode Four: Post-prandial Somnolence

by Vunderkind


I would like to inform you all that I am writing this in post-prandial somnolence. Forgive me if my text appears skewed. I am on kitchen duty.

So, erm, it’s been a while, no? I apologize for not updating this blog for some time on my Otondo adventures.

I have been in hiding.

I told y’all about the girl, eh? The one someone said was weird-looking? I shall desist from mentioning names further, but if you want to know her name, read the preceding episode of the OtondoBook.

Well, shortly after our meet, I became an official member of the OBS engineers, and as such I became pretty much occupied in the studio. It did come with its benefits, of course. I got to avoid all those parades in the sun.

On Friday, we have the NYSC lecture in the multi-purpose hall, and my phone got seized by the camp RSM, a man with tribal marks extending from under his eyes to his jaw.

As if seizing my phone wasn’t enough, he asked me to frog jump. I attempted it as much as I could, seeing as it was my first frog jump on earth, but I was awkward and the camp RSM was pissed.

“Yellow,” he says. I dunno why he called me that. I’m Noob Saibot black. “Yellow, If you let me teach you how to frog jump – ” ominous pause ” – if I bend down teach you how to frog jump…your own don finish for this camp!!”

Need I tell you I achieved frog jump perfection instantly?

Bastard still seized my phone for three days.

A depressed Justin made his way around the hall, and that was where I bumped into her – let’s call her Franca this time? I suck at making up fictitious names.

She was all “Oooh Justin, you forgot about me. I can’t believe you did. You’re a bad boy.”

My face was like >>>> (-_-)

I discovered one new thing about her: she can talk for Africa. She kept yammering and yammering. Even when I borrowed her phone to make a voice recording for a friend, she kept talking. So I excused myself, went into the bushes, made the recording and returned.

And she latched on to me again and was all “where did you go? You abandoned me! Why, Justin, Why????”

Sigh. There’s no frustrated smiley on BBM. I found out that day when I was trying to update my status.

Anyway. Long story short. I gave her my handkerchief to sit on when she began complaining of weak knees, and when she stood up? Whazam.

Map of Japan. Literally.

She had a red spot right in the middle of her shorts. I wouldn’t have noticed if the girls around hadn’t called her attention to it. I took her by the hand (brave, chivalrous man that I am) and took her to the soldiers barring our exit.

She was scared to approach. As I was getting close to the soldiers, they were yelling, “kai! Gerrour! Go back! We go kill am for you!”

And still I approached, Django-ly. “Oga, my friend has a little problem.”

“We no wan hear. Go back. I go slap you oh!”

That was when one of the soldiers sighted the Japanese map and yelled “ewwwuuu! I don see am! Kai, come dey go, quick quick!”

Phew. She scurried like a freed butterfly. My work there was done, so I turned – like a boss – to leave.

“You. Come here.”

I turned to face the soldiers again. “Sir?”

“Why you dey talk for am? She be your girlfriend?”

“No, sir. Just a friend.”

“You don impregnate am, fa?”

I laugh at this ridiculous question. “She wouldn’t be bleeding if I had impregnated her now, would she?”

“Kneel down! Now!”

This shit wasn’t funny anymore. I sighed and shifted my weight.

One of the soldiers said to the other: “Leave am. Make e dey go.”

The other soldier yelled: “Oya! Vamoose!”

I strolled away, mentally to Rick Ross’ “Three Black Coffins” soundtrack from Django Unchained.

On Saturday, I called her to find out if she was okay. She said she was. Mission accomplished.

Sunday, I celebrated my birthday gallantly by sleeping in.

Monday, I resumed duty at OBS. In the evening, she called. “Where are you Justin? I need to see you!”

I’m like, chill, ma’am. I’m busy.

She called me up to maybe eight times that day, and I kept making excuses. Truth is, I was indeed busy.

Finally I saw her by eight pm, and we hugged and she began her usual accusations: “you didn’t even miss me” etc.

I was mid-way through my rehearsed “I’m sorry. Forgive your boy. Anoint my ógó” speech when she says “I think I like you.”

Errr. I say “okay…”

“Don’t you like me?”

“I do. I do.” The second “I do” was to cover up the obviously phony first one.

“Then why haven’t you kissed me?”

Na wa. I sigh.

“Well, it’s still kinda bright. People are watching.”

“Just on the cheek, then?”

“Erm. Let’s take a walk.”

And she leads me through the valley of the shadow of death into a dark part of the Pavilion I never knew existed. She straddles me -well, I’m seated- and rests her head on my shoulders.

“Justin, I’m not usually this brazen, but I just find myself strongly attracted to you. I can actually feel butterflies in my stomach.”

I swallow. I am quite the talker, but I must confess, words escaped me.

She was pretty bold, though. She tucked my hand up her white shirt, and I feel a smooth stomach. Obeying a primordial brocodely instinct, I start stroking the taut stomach. She urges me to go on upwards.

On to the breasts.

I fear to say, brethren, I disappointed the brotherhood. See, I had not one iota of emotion for her, and as a result, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Lemme tell you something interesting: she’s the daughter of a top government official. I shan’t name him, lest I be sued to court tomorrow. The girl had spent most of her life overseas, so I couldn’t blame her for being that compulsive.

The problem here is me. As a certain room mate of mine would say, I’m too calculative in these things. If something’s not just right – not in the least bit – I get turned off.

So, I kept hovering around her stomach. She moved her head to kiss me, and I turn away saying, “too fast, Franca. We’re moving too fast.”

She sighs. “I don’t care! I’m crazy for you right now and I don’t care. Touch me all over. Kiss me, Justin.”

Camera Flash. Jesus saved me!

There comes a time in the life of a man when God comes in physically to save him from Hell. That night – last night – was one of ’em. Some random dude took a photo of us (it was supposed to be surreptitious, I think, but he may have forgotten to put off his flash) and Franca started.

“Did he get us?” She asked, panicked.
“Probably,” I’m in a no-fuck-giving mode.
“What do we do?”
“I dunno. Don’t you wanna be a celebrity?” I ask, grinning.
She frowns, then shrugs it off. We leave the valley of the shadow of the death hurriedly and rejoin civilization. I walk her back to her hostel.

“I’ll like to do this with you again, Justin.”

I shrug. Poker face.

“But you’re always busy these days.”

“Yeah”, I reply.

“Maybe Sunday, then?”

“Yes. Sunday it is then.”

We hug and I bounce to my room just in time. Lights out was in about three minutes.

I need to make myself scarce. Especially on Sunday.

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