The Punnery Within
It was one of those sweltering nights that managed to be compatible with a bottle of cold beer, tasteless music and short-skirted women with tatashe lips. Club Tango was half-full – as the night was yet young – and there were the ubiquitous casually-dressed males with a female slung across their arms (even as the hide of an unfortunate animal slung across said females’ backs.)
An amateur Rn’B singer hoping to blow someday had just serenaded the casual audience, and a few had already managed to cop blowjobs under the table, a feat afforded by the poor lighting and equally poor standards of the motley group of people who patronized Club Tango.
It was against this backdrop of smug filth that Jinodu James came on stage. Of course, no man in the age of Twitter would publicly admit to being christened Jinodu, and as such this man would have you refer to him as Jino. His stage name was Jino Tinto. Dismal, really.
Jino grabbed the microphone and coughed politely. He sampled the crowd, gauging. He winked at a random woman and flashed a smile. Charming guy, to be honest.
“Thank you, thank you,” he beamed. “How are y’all doing? It’s good to be in Lagos. It’s great that today’s Friday. But you know what’s even awesome-r? Knowing that Fashola is hunting down folks who shit in public as we speak!”
There were uncertain chuckles, the kind usually heard when the audience is unsure whether this is the joke or not. Jino nodded smugly and ran his fingers down the lapel of his blazers.
“Uh-huh, yup. You’re drinking a beer and your governor is there, pointing at a hairy butt and asking sadly, ‘bruh why you no shite for house?’”
The crowd had decided that this was the joke, and also that it wasn’t funny. A few slow people chuckled still, but most of the audience just sipped on their beers and conceded another blowjob.
The night wore on, and Jino finally made his trademark joke, the one he only used when he was trying to show off.
“And now, two electrons walk into a bar, have a shitload of drinks and ring up the bar man and go ‘what’s our bill?’”?
He flashed his milky smile. Setup. Time to reel these mofkaz in with the punchline.
“And the barman says, ‘no charge.’”
“Get it? They’re electrons so they don’t carry charge. Get it?” the milky smile soured at the edges.
“Actually,” came a tired voice. “Electrons carry charge. Negative charge. You should have stayed in school, son.”
“The mumu boy made me lose my erection,” grumbled a bearded gentleman as his woman’s head reappeared from underneath his table. She dabbed delicately at the side of her mouth and glared at the comedian.
“Oh, sh**,” cursed the jocular fella. “My bad. Wait. Lemme do it again. You will laugh, I promise.”
There comes a time in the life of a performer where the silence of the crowd can be quite eloquent. More eloquent, in fact, than a homosexual man describing the color of his curtains.
This silence, in club Tango, tonight, suggested – with carefully selected words – that Jino Tinto use the microphone as a suppository.
When in doubt, crack e get wan guy jokes, a famous wise man once said, and Jino grasped at this straw.
“E get wan guy,” he began.
“Yes?” the silence of the crowd said.
“The guy dey waka for road. Na im e see shit for ground.”
“Ah,” said the silence.
“He bend dan, look the shit. He come talk say this thing na shit abi na moimoi?”
“Yes?” cried the silence.
“He lick am, come talk say, na shit. Lick again, na moimoi. Lick again, na shit. Lick again, na moimoi.”
Some people chuckled. Some pretentious women went eeww.
“As he come almost finish the shit, he come smell am come say oomph! (this is not to be confused with 00 miles per hour (mph), #OOMF (One of my followers, or the literal oomph, as it is merely a sign of disgust) this thing na shit!!!”
The crowd waited with bated breath.
Jino Tinto caressed his lapel, twitched his mic as a smarmy smile yanked ecstatically at the corner of his mouth.
The silence sat at the edge of its chair, tense.
“And,” resumed Jino, “the guy said, ‘thank God say I no match am!’”
The crowd burst into tears.
Vunderkind’s End Notes
I found this story half-written in my drafts. See ehn, it’s not good to write a story halfway, fam. I looked at this thing and I had no idea where I was going with it. SMFH.
Also, all ‘gags’ used in this ‘performance’ are unoriginal. I do not know the atcual sources, but the ‘jokes’ aren’t mine.