It’s late, long late
night is quiet n’ still, streets empty
but naught here at 40:40 Junction.
Too boisterous for the hour
odd for a Sunday night
sleep only comes here at dawn.
Indifferent – drown’d in each other’s voice
girls of different shades n’ shapes chatter
under the streetlight’s dim glow.
Focused as a spotlight
their audacity summon passers-by
as they desperately wait for customers.
Their ware: long braid, long lashes
skirt brief as a wink
thick thighs, long legs with heels.
Openly inviting D-curved boobs n’ booty –
a restless mount of flesh
ring glittering navel – their flat belly.
If you’re caught gawking –
“All-night or a quickie in the car?” they inquire
with the right fee, she’s at your service.
She knows how to touch a man
in places his wife or lover wouldn’t
that makes his eyes widen n’ scream.
She doesn’t give a heed, unafraid you could be:
a rapist, a ritualist or a monster
that lives by night n’ sucks blood.
Some are single. Most married,
old enough to father objects of their pleasure
whom they call Ashawo, whom they exploit.
At this spot, their erection would allow
any mockery, any risk – Infidelity n’ AIDS,
to buy sex, to feed their toxic habit.
Ravenous randy men, who care no whit
can a woman be a whore
without you the male whore?
There’s something about this town – Owerri,
about this junction – 40:40
– a supple lure, a destination for fun seekers.
A place where men break every God’s command
pay Devil his care
and lend their masculinity a hail.
Copyright © 2019. Ugo Nkwoala. All rights reserved.
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