Spit. Or Swallow.

He was sat across from her, easy like Sunday morning. Black suit. Politically correct bow tie. Dimples. Robert Downey Jnr-ish beards. She wondered, not for the first time, why he was still in the ‘singles market’.

He, on the other hand, was preoccupied with trying to chew in as civil a manner as possible. It wouldn’t do to make a faux pas. He knew her social crowd. The “yes, please, and thank you” and the “just a soupçon of garlic, Monsieur Goulash” crowd. No. It wouldn’t do to make a faux pas at all.

“Do you spit or swallow?”

He choked on his veal. Mini-tears sprang to his eyes, and he blushed as much as his black skin would allow.

“Sorry. I beg your pardon. I didn’t quite hear what you said…” he trailed off.

“Your wine tasting. Do you spit or swallow?” she asked sweetly again.

These tush people will not kill me, he thought. “I swallow, of course. How about you, Victoria?”

“I spit. And I do not allow the wine stay a fraction longer than it takes to appreciate the flavors and richness.”

“Oh,” he said, unsure of what to say next. “Why’s that?”

She laughed again. It was reminiscent of playground chuckles. “I’m just a social snob.”

You know this, he thought. What you need is a long, hard –

“You thought I was referring to blowjobs, didn’t you?”

For the second time that evening, his cheek skin attempted the impossible feat of blushing.

“Of course not,” he deadpanned.

She laughed again. She was hysterical. “You did. Admit it.”

“Okay,” he allowed himself an easy chuckle, even though it felt like Dwayne Johnson was reaching down his throat. “Maybe I did. A little. What does that make me?”

“A man,” she said. Her face was straight.

“A what? You sexist, you!”

“I know!” and she threw up her hands in laughter.

This babe has drunk too much, he thought with much consternation. He didn’t like the looks their table was receiving.

“Did you notice…there are no Nigerian serial killers?” she asked, out of the blue.

His surprise registered immediately. Where did that come from?

“No. I never really thought of it. But now that you mention it…”


“Technically, Clifford Orji was a serial killer.”

She laughed again. The laughter was beginning to irritate him. And it wasn’t even 9:00 pm yet. New record.

“Clifford Orji was a human parts dealer. Hardly a serial killer,” she sighed. “He had strong political connections too, I heard. Like, he was the departmental store of body parts for essential power-retaining rituals.”

He chuckled. “I hear what you’re saying Victoria. Still…to actually procure his prey, he had to use the basic serial killer techniques, I expect.”

“Basic serial killer techniques? What would you know about those?”

I dey jack novel. I dey wash feem. Which kain kweshun you come dey ask? “Ah. I have my ways…” he winked conspirationally.

She leaned back in her chair and raised an eyebrow. “Hm. I’ll bite. What are the basic serial killer techniques?”

He smiled. Time to go in for the kill. “Identify. Befriend. Alienate. Terminate. The IBAT  principle.”

She cackled. “You totally made that up just now!”

He smiled. You have no idea, Miss. “No, I did not.”

“You definitely did. I saw you pause to think up the acronym when you were done.” Her eyes drooped monentarily, but she recovered quickly enough.

Clever. “You never know. Like Clifford, I may right now be refining my hunt.”

“Oh? And I suppose I am your prey, being female and by default in the vulnerable demographic, eh?”

He laughed. “Precisely so. I am currently in the Befriend phase with you, although as we speak, we may be shifting gears into the Alienate phase.”

“Oh?” she said again. “I seem to have missed the Identify phase. How did I become a suitable target in the sea of defenseless females all around Abuja? Surely, some more ‘eligible’ should have caught your eye?” Her eyes dipped again.

“Ah, don’t demean yourself, Victoria. You live in a hotel. Sheraton. You never get any visitors. Estranged from your father. Your mother’s dead. You own your own business. You keep a low profile. The paparazzi doesn’t know what you look like. You are popular, but invisible. Now, why would a serial killer looking to kill himself some popular chicks without being spotted too soon pass up on that buffet?”

She was stunned, he noticed. Good.

“Okay. I’ll bite. So you want to add me to your ‘collection’, and we are well acquainted. So we’re almost past your befriend phase, right? I mean, we’re probably going to end up fucking tonight in your room, are we not?”

I take it back. This chick is not gold. She’s priceless. “Yes. The rules dictate that we should be in the alienate phase right now…”

“…I don’t feel pretty much alienated right now.”

“Oh, but you are. You called your hotel to tell them you’ll be arriving late tonight, because I told you the restaurant had changed our dinner time. We signed our names here as Mr. and Mrs. Chibueze. As far as this restaurant is concerned, you are my wife. As far as I am concerned, how can you be sure you know my real name?

He could see the first tendrils of fear twisting round her heart. Brilliant.

To her credit, she didn’t pick her keys off the table and run squealing off. She had a glint in her eye, even though her lips trembled a little.

“So what now? Wait. Am I…am I drunk?” she whispered, but her words still came out slurred.

“Your drink. I spiked it with Rohypnol. You should go under in a few seconds.”

“You…bastard.” Her head lolled to the side, and she regained composure momentarily. Without warning, she fell forward, upsetting her half empty plate.

The waiter came rushing over.

The man smiled. “Sorry about that. Well this is embarrassing – my wife – she has had too much wine.”

The waiter smiled in understanding, and helped the man hoist his ‘wife’ up and out of the restaurant.

When they got to the car, he tipped the waiter and delicately arranged his ‘wife’ in the front seat. She was drooling on her own shoulder.

He sat at the driver’s seat. The key was in the ignition. The car was idling. But he had one more journal entry to make.

Opening the pigeonhole, he retrieved a leather bound diary.

On it was written:

Project 6.

Identify. Complete.

Befriend. Complete.

Alienate. Complete.

Pen poised over the journal, he looked at the woman at the other side. God, she is so beautiful. So perfect.

He wrote.

Terminate. In progress.

The car came to life.


71 thoughts on “Spit. Or Swallow.

  1. But….it was brilliant…from the ‘spit or swallow’ τ̲̅ȍ the teasing τ̲̅ȍ the actual weird serial killer ish..okay….I’m talking too much….well…technically…I’m typing..anyways..twas..very good…:)


    1. LOOOOOOL! It would have been scarier, had I continued. In the longer version, it is pretty gory, but in this shortened-for-wordpress version, I had to let go of the creepiness.

      I try to be funny, most of the time, but sometimes I do this…

      Thanks for visiting!


    1. Ah…*sweats from beneath moustache* where do we meet? Where three footpaths meet?

      Thanks for taking time to come, Vani

      [#NP: I’m Glad you Came]

      Nothing sexual about that… (>_>)


    1. Whoa. I’ve not heard of a true Nigerian serial killer though. One who follows the IBAT principle, that is.

      But then again, there’s our Nigerian police, and I suddenly see why I may just be delusional.

      Thanks for reading, Miss!


  2. I want to hashtag something.. #Something

    Brilliant, Justin. The slow unravelling..that’s what got me.

    PS: You see now, you young gehs..when man wii tell you, let’s roleplay..I’ll be Mr..you be Mrs..ON FIRST DATE! Smh..
    #TeamNoFIRSTDATES (˘̯˘ )

    I had to hashtag something remember.


  3. Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant. Now I wanna be a serial killer.

    No, not really, ladies. Please continue sending your nudes.


    1. Jesus. This is…like the first time you’re actually using the exclamation marks. Lord, you said in your word…


      …okay, I forget my scriptures.

      Sha, anyway (like yoruba gehs like to say: “sha, anyway”) Tens for coming.

      #NP again: [I’m glad you came]

      **bobs head**


    1. Thanks! Thanks! Thanks! And twitter suspended me for sending unsolicited @’s, so I was pretty sparing with my mentions.

      But thanks for coming though. Thankkkkkkssss!!!!


    1. Niggah. I preferred your name when it was “Fed Up Lad”. Pronouncing it “FUL” is just…idk. Go ahead, pronounce it and lemme know what you think (._. )

      Thanks, mahn! Bro fist.


  4. Wow. Note: Ways to get peeps to read your blog.

    2) CREEPY Content.
    3) Comedy.

    Read all the statements in italics again….
    But seriously, the title alone won my heart.
    Dunno Why you had to spoil my expectations by inserting wine tasting into it. That was just mean 😦 . Like seriously, who has time for wine tasting in Nigeria when they haven’t sorted out their power problems yet. *sigh
    *Goes back to pound yam*


  5. I think am in…nvm. Like serial killing stories. What does dat make me? Wonderful write up.
    *going back to sleep* #nightmares


    1. Quote: “I think am in…nvm.” Unquote.

      You are in…what? Malaysia? Paradise? Atop a hump-backed giraffe with Parkinson’s? Love? Help me here….

      And you like serial killer stories? Ooooh baby, we should taste wine some time!



      1. LOOOOOL!!!

        I imagined the hump-backed ungulate [#teamWeBadt #YesWeUseBigwords #itsAllScience #WikipediaKids #hashtagCrew ] it looked like camel with arthritis and a bad case of the itchies..smh


      1. But then again, I wonder. If I had to die by serial killer I think I’d rather do it in a Mustang with a South American. Abi how u see am?


  6. That is why he is still available
    But I think if STV, NTA carries the woman’s face
    The waiter should be able to remember his face
    Because they did draw a lot of attention

    I am a writer! *amused laughter*


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