“Straight to the point, because apart from Charles my friend, I don’t want other guys who will join us soon to know anything about my extended family’s hullabaloo.”
“Kay, must you blow grammar over this little quarrel between your sister and her husband? And besides, Kunle, her statutory owner, is a member of our beer parlour parliament. So, your judgement in this case can never be fair. A drunk will always rule in favour of a drunk.”
“Charles, I’m afraid you are a man of little faith. Who told you I cannot resolve the crisis between Mary and her husband? If I am going to rule in favour of husband because he’s a fellow beer drinker, will I not also support his wife because she is my blood sister?”
“You crook; I know you’ll always find an escape route. Okay, before your peace-keeping mission, kindly tell Joy, your tenderly built bar attendant, to give us our drips of beer, criminally cold, mortuary standard.”
“Ah! Uncle, stop saying such a bad thing. Why are you pronouncing mortuary on the drinks you people want to take?” (The men laugh).
“Look, Mary, don’t mind Charles; he is an Ajegunle Boy. So expect any refined gutter word from him…yes, by the way, what’s the cause of problem between you and your husband?”
“Thank you, brother. On Tuesday, last week, I went to see my tailor at Surulere, to gear her up in sewing my aso ebi ahead of that funeral slated for the weekend. So I took another route on my way home, only to see this miserable-looking woman at a beer joint with my husband…”
“What did she do and how miserable could she have looked?”
In this season of anomie? When herdsmen have turned the country to a killing field? And when fuel scarcity is almost grounding the economy? Isn’t this a wrong time for sharp beer appetite
“Thank you Uncle Charles. Can you imagine that this woman was smooching my husband where he sat!? She planted her big-for-nothing, God-forsaken breasts on his neck.”
“She planted…mmm…when she is not a farmer. Anyway, Mary, I know how troubled you could be over this matter. As my sister, I know the extent to which you can get upset over a thing like this. But this woman in question, what’s her age bracket like?”
“I think she should be over 40…And to think that she did not want to let go when I called out on my husband…Oh, I will report her to the God that I serve!”
“Don’t get worked up lady, Kay will resolve it. He’s an expert in that area. But you have been taking your soft drink since, with nothing to tantalise it. Let Joy give you a plate of stock-fish pepper soup; just don’t mind its excessive
pepperishness.”
“Grammatical Charles. You won’t kill us with your impossible coinage. Okay, dear Mary, this is my verdict: Your husband is not promiscuous. That lady that seized his neck with her mammary is well known to me. If I were there, she would do the same to me. She is the owner of the beer parlour. That is her marketing strategy to retain male customers.”
“Through romance with other people’s husbands? So, brother, you are birds of the same feather…in fact, I shouldn’t have brought my case here.”
“You have not allowed me to land…this lady is called Container, a name in honour of her outward endowments, both on the torso and in the waist region. But I respect her for one thing: If you toast her or overstep your bounds while she is playing with you, she will just finish you up, with polite
insults.”
“Oh, you mean it? But she is making a mistake; how many wives will understand that she is harmless? So, I better forget about the issue.”
“Didn’t I tell you that your brother will resolve the quarrel? Kay, please, we need to replace our bottles, they have leaked. And above all, my beer appetite is sharp today.”
“In this season of anomie? When herdsmen have turned the country to a killing field? And when fuel scarcity is almost grounding the economy? Isn’t this a wrong time for sharp beer appetite.”
“Definitely, I know you, you will rather suggest I scale down on my number of bottles from six bottles per day, to three, not to boycott beer in its entirety.”
“Well, your purse will decide that, not me. Assuredly, it is suicidal not to drink at least two bottles of beer per day; embarking on ‘beer’s hunger strike’ is as good as heading toward Third Mainland Bridge, to take a plunge.”
“Ah Uncle Kay, when it is not food? Must you drink every day?”
“Don’t mind your brother, he drinks with timidity. As for me, Charles, I can take a bank loan to be drinking three bottles
per day.”
“Charlso, let’s pay Joy, the skinning beer seller and proceed home. Besides, Mary here would need to rush home, and take a shower for a visit to the other room, for a riotous post-quarrel exercise with her husband.”
“Bad Boy.”
