I come, crestfallen, with a bruised and battered ego from years of pillage and plunder to ask for justice. Many think I’m mad to demand reparations from a generation that has been my worst offender. Indeed, “How could the cockroach ever expect a fair verdict in a court where the fowl sits in judgement?” they ask. Nevertheless, it is far much better to die fighting for justice than to wait to be consumed by the ravenous fire of an impending catastrophe with my arms strapped by my sides, helpless and hopeless.
Even as my life hangs thin on a fleeting thread at the mercy of a heartless generation, I shall fight with every breath left in my grossly abused life. I will fight, not so much with the conviction that my life could be any better under the watch of this wayward lot, but in resolute hope that Posterity shall document my efforts at finding justice for the generation next.
Without gainsaying, from the first day Osanobu’a first created man, and for him, a help meet; from the day He assigned man the divine task of continuing with His creation through procreation, I have remained the sacrificial lamb. Like the oilfields of the Niger Delta, my vast lands have been drilled dry by a constantly adventurous generation of perverts. As a matter of fact, I used to think I had seen it all; that I had suffered all abusive exploration and exploitation known to man, but the millennials and lately the Gen-Zs have come with an aggressive template that has rivalled all indignities recorded in history in their vicious quest to utterly demystify every aural of pride that once clothed me.
Surely, I may not look like what I’ve been through, but beneath my yielding smile is a deep-seated pain that only I can relate. Sometimes, I feel I could just end it all. On many occasions, I felt like flipping over from the precipice where I hang dangerously endangered, yet, to give up is to willfully offer myself as dead meat on the slaughter slab to these desperate army of unconscionable marauders.
I was born on creation day, at a time when men would go to war to earn my companionship. Those were the days when true beauty was characterised by a thick, dark shimmering of lush vegetation shielding the face of sweetness. Yes, my ugliness was the hidden secret of my celebrated beauty. I was content with what I had. Well developed full lips, enough to cover my tongue that was hardly visible except to a worthy visitor to my hallowed chambers, but the modern woman in her madness would rather I bear a chunky face with much of my tongue jutting artlessly out between my lips like mangled beef pictured in an accident site. Many of them have even had to employ surgical manipulations to alter my natural physiology, leaving me a squirting bald head.
Oh, how men loved to wade and wander in the thick forest of dark Bahama grass to discover my ancient homeland watered by nature’s own ointment. My natural odour was an irresistible turn-on for men, equalled only by the bee’s attraction to floral scents. Gone now are the days when a finger that strays into the chambers of life’s gateway would forbid a bath for days, savouring instead only the sweet stench that made men sniff and sniff. The intense fragrance of my natural ooze, a special blend of sweat and feminine release, brought kings and nobles to their knees begging for a chance to cum, but today, I’ve lost all to countless chemical baths, leaving me dry, trite, and tasteless.
What infamy have I not suffered in the bedroom of the modern woman and her lecherous, depraved accomplices; her male collaborators? From a shy, naive, and self-assured damsel, I have become a notoriously popular wayfarer, a tattooed temple of transgression.
Narrow was the road to Jerusalem, and men took pride in thrusting and squeezing through in passionate mixed grill of pleasure and pain. I recall with nostalgia the fulfilling sense of pride and conquest each time I left bruises and scratches on their screws. Shamefully, what was once the eye of the needle has become hollow entrails akin to the tunnels of Hamas in the underbelly landmass of Gaza.
I have been serially robbed of all of my possessions. Not even my beautiful name christened at birth by the creator Himself have they left for me. They prefer a sobriquet fit only for a pussy cat. Oh, how I miss my humble origin. I was born shy, perhaps timid even, yet, I was cautious of my self-esteem. I didn’t have to sell my pride in the open market or bore no inhibitions in spreading my wares in the open square. I guarded my privacy with utmost jealousy. You would literally have to tear through multiple layers of clothing to break through the fortified fortress of my territorial defence, but today, the modern woman has left me unprotected and vulnerable. In fact, you would have encountered me first before you got to the tiny strap like the string of a toddler’s catapult buried deep in between the walls of my flabby lips…the shame they call a G-string!
