I am an Ajebutter. Not by birth, or by formings, or by swag – I am simply an unapologetic ajebutter by default. I didn’t choose to be born one. God, without seeking my opinion (because He’s God, I guess), gave me the genes of an Ajebutter and a funny BriMericana accent . By luck or some twisted work of fate, fortune, karma (I might have killed ten defenseless puppies in my past life) or destiny, I have found myself in Lagos, crazy Lasgidi, and this is my story…
The world hates me. I stroll by the streets of Lagos every evening, and apart from the menacing touts that stare at my wristwatches and phones, there’s also the invading smoke in the air, and the occasional display of madness (“Weyrey”, as the Yorubas call it). I ignore them all, content to put my nose in the air and walk with my bow-legs, around like I own the streets.
But then, there’s the sight of 2 lovers, strolling, arm-in-arm, whistling sweet nothings into their ears, oblivious of the world around. Just talking, and gazing, and smooching, and…..Argh!
It’s official, I’m envious. Jealousy is doing me. I don’t have a Lagos girlfriend, and it’s not my fault. I have tried so hard, worked my socks and my pocket off, just to get a lady say ‘Joey darling, my sweetie cutie ajebutter. I love you plentiful’. But no. No ‘Joey darling’, not even ‘Joey dearie’. Talk more of ‘sweetie cutie’
I have gone on over 25 first dates, one of them even involved me showing off my ‘Uncle Joey’ skills by babysitting her little brother who had diarrhea, and always took long toilet breaks. I spent the major part of my date wiping the poop from his bum, and the other half, trying my best not to call down Amadioha to strike the girl with thunder for punishing me. A whole me.
I have suffered. Wooing a Lagos girl is not easy. It’s more like a herculean task. Except if you want the cheap, unrefined ones, without a command of English. They’ll be too happy to oblige. But for the ones that make the most sense, Hian! That’s an article for another day; “How To Woo A Lagos Chick”. Remind me.
I know I’m not too ugly. Neither am I piss poor. I don’t have sweaty palms and smell of old socks and stale fish. Neither do I snore, act insensitive, or speak too much big grammar. I’m sweet, and I’m compromising (I wiped a kid’s shitty bum, remember?).
But somehow, with all my fine-boy-rism, Bri-Merican accent, and not-so-empty pockets, I’m still not able to hear the words, ‘Joey my love’.
The world hates me. Even the Lagos Chicks.