JOLLY BOY
There goes the story of a certain commercial motorcycle rider in Port Harcourt who was overly fund of ladies. Each time he carried a lady, he would start persuading her to go with him to his apartment at the outskirts of the city to spend some time with him, promising her heaven and earth with his sugar- coated tongue. Sometimes he succeeded, but whenever he failed till late in the evening, he went to the Red Zone of the city and picked for himself a good- looking prostitute, one that looked equal to the function of pleasure for which she was being hired. Thus, what began as a flimsy pastime became over time a compulsive habit.
He had in fact been in that habit for many years, for which everybody who knew him called him Jolly Boy. But some people told him, rather jokingly, that he might be burning off his destiny in the constant steam of pleasure, and others warned that he would one day pick one of the many ghosts, witches, and marine spirits parading everywhere as beautiful ladies. But Jolly Boy did not believe in the existence of ghosts, witches or marine spirits. He actually believed in nothing but constant enjoyment. So, everybody knew that nothing short of an unforgettable experience could make him drop that habit. That experience took long in coming, but it surely came at last.
One Sunday afternoon, he met a girl in a restaurant where he had gone to eat. Something about the girl struck his mind. She was dark in complexion, with a small face and large, hazel eyes. Her face was not particularly beautiful because her mouth was long and pouted, and her nose was rather flat. But whatever she lacked as beauty on her face was given to her body, for she had beautiful round and high shoulders, ample breasts and voluptuous hips, and her legs were dainty and almost imperceptibly bow-shaped, with dimples at the two sides of the back of each of her knees. She was of average height and weight, straight like bamboo.
She was moving about listlessly, as if something bothered her. Her eyes seemed to be dilated in fear. Joly Boy called her and began to talk with her. She finally agreed to go home with him, but pleaded with him to take her to somewhere in town for her to drop an urgent message. Soon they rode off in his motorcycle.
Jolly Boy was turning on a roundabout when his subconscious mind perceived that the atmosphere was rather quiet- eerily quiet- even though there were many people and vehicles on the road. But because his sensitivity had been benumbed by being focused constantly on sensual pleasure, he could not make proper use of his cognitive senses. Otherwise he would have consciously noticed that something was definitely, strangely bizarre about the atmosphere of the area.
It seemed as if a dark cloak had been placed over the sunshine, which made it look like the grey face of a mourning widow. The girl was slapping Jolly Boy on the shoulder and frantically shouting:
“Stop! Stop! Stop me here!”
