Vengeance of the Vagina

Daily Independent (Lagos)

Henry C. Onyema

21 May 2011

analysis

If there was anything Aliyu Kazama loved as much as he loved power, it was a tasty vagina. For him women were meant to be conquered and the art and act of conquering them thrilled him. He often told his like-minded friends that John F. Kennedy achieved his feats because he adhered to the rule of one woman a day. “How do you think the Roman Emperors kept the empire going? Coups? Assassinations? The Praetorian Guard? Goodness, no. It was sweet pussy that empowered them. From Julius Caesar to Caligula, their strategic secret was between women’s legs.”

Like his heroes the fifty-five year old president of the African republic of Giberia was equipped to pursue his joys. He was tall, handsome and well educated. A scion of one of the notable families from the Kipo nation in the Upland region of the country, he capped a blazing political career three years ago with victory at the presidential elections. Only the most stupid woman could ignore him.

Fortunately majority of Giberian women are not daft. They knew where their bread was buttered and were untroubled by the irrelevance of Kazama’s married status. Thus, he enjoyed his cornucopia till the day his libido’s tax collector went crazy.

Kazama’s first duty for the day was to read his emails. In this hypertech age even presidents lived by and on the internet.

He had five email addresses. Only his closest associates had access to one of them. Three were for different categories of people who had anything to do with the President and his administration. To give the impression of a new age democrat who valued feedback from his people, the last email address was posted on the National Palace’s website. Kazama only read the feedback when he wanted comic relief.

His fingers flew across the keyboard of his laptop. He opened the exclusive email. There was only one message. Nothing to make this bright Monday morning a pain in the crotch, he hoped idly as he moved the mouse unto the inbox. An invisible man somersaulted down his spine as he saw the sender and subject of the message:

Marie Kosa. PAYBACK.

The invisible man’s brothers joined in the somersault as Kazama’s frantic clicks of the mouse revealed a gloriously sharp photograph of the President and Anita, the stunningly beautiful usher his aides ‘commandeered’ for him at Senator Boyo’s high-powered birthday party yesterday. Both were naked and energetically engaged in extraordinary erobatics.

Fighting back the deluge threatening his head, Kazama scrolled. The message beneath the photograph was pointedly satanic:

Darling, perhaps now you will realise that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Though, to be honest, we never loved each other.

You could have saved yourself this grief by turning over the Ojati oil bloc to me. A signature would have been enough, after all, you are also the Oil Affairs Minister. Perhaps I would have remained in your bed. But your appetite for cunts made you give it to Amina Takum, my arch-rival.

Killing you is rather unfashionable. So be content with the destruction of your political career and the ‘gutterisation’ of your image. This work of art and even more lovely ones have travelled near and far. You may call the chairman of the leading opposition parties for confirmation.

Good luck.

Kazama wondered if the Last Day had arrived. He stood up and sat down three times in rapid succession, sweating like a goat in the Sahara Desert despite the air-conditioning system.

Marie…the elegant heiress to the Kosa conglomerate; the woman who made love like a possessed lioness. Before her all men bowed. Kazama had thought he was the exception. He grabbed a bottle of cognac in his drawer and tried to think.

Call her. That was the only option. He dialled her private number and she picked at the first ring.

“Good morning, Your Excellency.” Her voice was calm and devoid of gloating.

“Marie,” Kazama’s voice cracked. “Why, oh why?”

“Nobody toys with me. Not even you.”

“Marie, please we can work things out. I will give you anything, any oil bloc. Just save me.”

Marie replied softly. “I don’t need it anymore. Just got a bloc in Kuwait this morning and I did not have to sleep with anyone for it. Bye.” She cut the line.

Kazama was struck dumb by the click’s finality. After what seemed like ten years, he put down his mobile, laid his head on the desk and wept.

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