Please, can someone help me tell Mister Azolibe (for he sends at least one email every day in persistent offer) that, no, I do not want to enlarge my penis. Well, for one, it sounds painful. Is it that you will connect it to some sort of air pump? Or give me a super-mutant version of Burantashi? I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t want. Really! And secondly – because I think it all a bit over-rated, this frantic spamming over size. Honestly.
No, not that I am some sort of connoisseur in these matters. At all! Of the things that precede and follow women, yes. Not these matters. For, you see, even in the secondary school days of communal bathing, we just focused on keeping ours clean, not peeping around to see who’s own dropped all the way to the floor. May God help those with such unusual attributes, what? With having to endure shouts of panic every time you are first sighted. No, my brother, it is really not that I am a connoisseur in these matters. Just a bit of common sense. Or is it careful observation? To notice that so many of the things that give us immense pleasure in this life actually have their receptors in our minds, mind you, not our brains.
Take for instance the simple act of picking up a broom and sweeping the sitting room on a Saturday morning, while the missus is still sleeping. Proceeding thereafter, whistling happily to yourself, to empty the sink of last night’s plates, crack a few eggs, sizzle a few plantains, stir up a few cups of perfectly textured milo. Then – if your desire is to kill tonight, to assassinate, in fact to annihilate and completely obliterate, cause an eruption tonight of such cataclysmic proportions the fabric of space-time itself ruffles gently – yes, then go ahead and wake the little ones (if there are little ones), and guide them to the bathroom quietly. On the way there, do not forget to keep saying, ‘Sshh, let’s not wake mummy’. But say it loud enough for mummy to hear, because you know she is partly awake but lying down still, out of deep, deep weariness at thought of what routine lies ahead.
Yes, I will admit, this is all for her.
So, tip-toe those little rascals to the bathroom for a FUN bath. Did you hear me? A FUN bath! Keep the door slightly open so she can hear you people squealing; marinate in that soul-lifting, mind-blowing sounds of trickling water, and her children laughing in the soapy hands of their father. Sexier than scented candles and Barry White, I tell you. And when you come out – go on – vaseline them yourself, pick out their clothes yourself, dress them yourself, make them breakfast yourself, pick up after them, and yourself, the whole bloody day – and, my brother, you will see, in the night, these matters will not matter.
Because, really, for how long can we go on huffing and puffing, eh? Forgive me, I know you are a locomotive and can travel non-stop from dusk to dawn. Good. But, really, who wants to stay up all night expending over and over again the sort of energy I hear can power a town like Gwagwalada? When we have work in the morning? Honestly, it is not that way between lovers, eh, Mister Azolibe? Don’t you know? Between lovers most of the things that give us pleasure – true pleasure – have their receptors in our minds, mind you, not our brains. You hear?