Saturday, 16 May 2015

Sex And The City Campus (blogisode 13): All Bitches Go to Heaven

[Author’s Note: This post is dedicated to the only Andy who blamed me for something I believe he’s more of than I am when I told him I was quitting this blog due to a crazy schedule. Screw you, Andy! (And if you still wouldn’t allow me? Your loss, Betty’s gain ;) ]

TYPING: They call it ‘victim-shaming’…

Up in a hostel, a girl looked down from her window. She could have counted the people that entailed the crowd below her, but——there came an egg splashing its content all over her window. She sighed, and pulled back the blinds.

TYPING: You would be called all sorts of things for being a victim. “Slut! 

“——You deserve it all, skank!”

She could hear them holler as she retreated towards her bed. This couldn’t be any different from Hell, she thought.

TYPING:  No one gives a shit about the fact that you just got raped and you could do with some support…

She clamped her pillow onto her face and screamed so hard she wished anyone could hear her. Anyone could stop the sounds below. Anyone could stop the noises in her head.  But who would?

Everyone would say she had it coming——

Bash! Shattering glass.

What coming?? A stone. Flying across the room at her, moving in full speed, missing her bed post by her hair.

She was going to bleed. Bleed to death.

TYPING: Sadly, the only people who care… do not care about you.

Twenty-four hours earlier…

“Ready?” Celeste, my self-imposed personal stylist asked, smacking her red lips together.

I loved Celeste so much, I really did. But if only she’d stop picking at her Audrey Hepburn-styled bob every second, applying gloss to her already bloody lips, checking her arse out in the tiny mirror of her make-up kit, I wouldn’t be reminded that I did hate her a little. After all, she’d made so many attempts at ruining mine and my friend’s social life. “Celeste, I’ve been ready ten, fifteen, twenty minutes ago,” I looked at my wrist to confirm.

“Well, then,” she smiled a crafty smile at me. “Let’s kick some fugitive arse.”

The first to enter was Raymond. He looked surprised upon seeing us. “Really, what’s going on?” He darted his baffled expression between Celeste and I.

He’d later find out he wasn’t called at all to the office of the provost of his college for nothing. He’d find out this could be the Spanish Inquisition. And if he didn’t sit up this minute, we might order him to go hang (around campus for a while until he was serious enough to be allowed in).

TYPING: Did you rape the girl?

“Raymond Obeng,” Celeste purred out his name like some sex vixen, taking her role as sexy detective lady all too serious. “Should I repeat the question?”

“You guys think I am a suspect?” He asked in disbelief, then cast his eyes at my corner.
Suddenly my shoes became an interesting subject of study. Black, tiny holes perforated at its front and laces tied spider web style—nice. But if I continued like this, I reasoned, there was no way I’d be portraying an intimidating assistant detective to Sexy Detective Lady who was at the moment glaring at me to get my act together. I stepped off the guilt train, and looked my roommate in the eye. “Normal police drill. We are just asking questions. Nothing to worry about. We just want to rule out all the men present during the first rape incident at Fashion week and the second last week.”

“Oh, no, wait. So you think I am a suspect alright.” He fired off accusingly and turned to Sexy Detective Lady. “Is there any reason you are doing this to me?” He had every reason to be wary since in the past Sexy Detective Lady was his vengeful ex on a mission to ruin his sex life. Things like Raymond’s sex life mattered a whole lot to him.
Celeste eyed me, a signal for me to switch on the torch in his face so we could catch him off guard just like they did in old black-white detective movies (“Take that thing off my face else I’d bash it in yours!”). “Research have shown people who commit rape have more penises than vaginas.” She said in the crisply sharp voice she’d been killing herself to muster earlier.

“Well, same research has shown people who commit rape have killer instincts. And that rules me out because I’m not moving forwards to throttle the Hell out of you for levelling such allegations, Jesus Christ!”

“I beg to counter.” I called out from my tiny corner. And hit the play button of a recorder I brandished at the two. A snaky voice filled up the silence. “Take a look at him, people. Oosh. He’s hotter that a sauna. Aaash. I could make him eat me up. RAAR! Too much sex appeal I could die this minute out of need——“ I snapped off the device before the nasty bits came in. “The janitor mopping the floors, um, so eloquently announced your arrival. You do have killer instincts, Raymond.”
Celeste turned to sneer at him. “So, what’s your excuse now, Mr. Obeng?”

He just sat there and smirked. “The janitor said this?”——

“You think I was sexy enough he’d give me a call after here?” Celeste asked when we were done with Raymond’s session. “I did look sexy, didn’t I?”

“In some circles.” I wanted to say, but I gnawed into my lower lip to shut myself up. This was no time to be sarcastic. Neither was it the time for her to be thinking of running back to my room to get Sexy Detective Lady some good ol’ loving and a few hickeys. I ignored her. “Let’s just be done with this interview, please.”

“He’s going to call me after here.” She said sotto voce, puffing air out of her lips to calm herself down. “I’m going to put my phone on silent now. The more unavailable I am, the higher the sexual tension. Whoo! This room is getting hot, don’t you feel it?” She split open her jacket to reveal a cleavage.

“Next!” I shouted at the door.

Fetish Priest Husband, the spouse of my grandma who was having a blast residing on campus reliving the years they’d missed out since Formal University Education wasn’t a thing in the days of their youth, stepped in. “What’s up, y’all?”

I kept my gaze on my book. Whoever my incidental granddad had been paying to teach him to Thug was doing a good job (at embarrassing me).

TYPING: Where were you on the night of the rape?

“We don’t believe you.” Celeste persisted, leaning against the table and catching my granddad unawares at the sight of her tits. “Do you have any urologist reports to prove this?”

“Perhaps he has a point,” I said from my corner. “Research shows men shrivel all up beneath when…”

“Hey, it gon’ happen to you too child!”

I jerked in my seat in fright. Christ! Forgive me for trying to save his butt from being pinned down with rape. I pressed ‘record’ on the cassette player and resumed taking notes.

“So you are saying…” Celeste began undoing the rest of the buttons on her bomber jacket. “If I take off my bra… you wouldn’t…” She quickly flashed him and raced around the desk to check if he was up. Much to her disappointment she saw no reaction below his belt. “I’ll prove you are the frigging rapist!” Flash, nothing. Flash, nothing. Flash, nothing.

“What are you doing?” Minutes later, Celeste was giving my granddad the lap dance of his life on my watch. I should stop this atrocity right this minute. I should berate her for being a bad cop. I should warn her that this was all inappropriate and if he died from overexcitement she might lose her badge. But… “Oooh!” The old man mouthed with his pupils lost in their sockets, he was clearly enjoying this (“Who’s a bad cop? Who’s a bad cop? Who’s a bad cop?”).

“Aha!” Celeste jumped off his lap, stabbing a finger at his flap accusingly. “Shit! I thought I felt something!” She screamed in horror.

Yeah, she did feel something alright, but—

“Bae, that’s the difference between manhood and oldmanhood.”

TYPING: Do you have an alibi?

Celeste and I walked out of the interrogation room. “Five missed calls.” She smiled, thumbing through her iPhone.

“Raymond?” I asked surprisingly. But she didn’t have the time to answer, because we passed a corridor and heard screams. We run in the direction of the violent sounds. And there in the cleaning storeroom, we watched the mobs, dusters and pans wobbling on the table with the janitor bent across it.

I raced to cover Celeste’s eyes, shielding her from the offensive scene.

“Oh, hi there.” Raymond called breezily from his position. My manho roommate was used to this kind of tedious exercise. I’d always wondered if his butt muscles ever turned sore.

“You are fired!” Celeste yelled at the janitor.

“Oh—“  The sweaty woman spoke through her o-mouth—“this is any reality show but The Apprentice.

TYPING: How do you handle victim-shaming?
You are going fast… but your better half is on the ground… she needs a little pick up… from the treacherous fate surrounding herrrrr…. Herrrrr…

We took our gazes from Maya who had lunchers cheering her (Or ‘herrrrr’, whatever accent you said it with) and turned to Mandy whose words were spilling out of her lips more sombrely than Don Williams’ wife up on the podium.

“Guys, I am begging you. Do not let word go out.”

Celeste touched the petite girl’s arm comfortingly. “We hear you. But why would you take such a risk? It’s always better to report a rape case.”

“No.” She shook her head feistily, leaning in closer on the table. “I called you here because it’s a matter of importance. I badly want to report this. But I can’t.”
Celeste and I exchanged looks, though hers was more of the go-get-it kind whilst mine was just a puzzled one. I took Celeste up on her encouragement. “Mandy,” I spoke softly. “This rape cycle wouldn’t end if it’s kept in the dark. You would help the police by informing them last week’s incident wasn’t just a rare happening and there is a serial rapist on the loose. I know you might be afraid of your attacker but——"

“I am not afraid of him!” She said with a steely tone, her ferocious eyes darting between Celeste and I. “Nina, the girl who got raped last week, is battling victim-shame. She’s all over every social media being hashtagged all sorts of obscene terms. This 
campus would not take it easy on a model, wearing something risqué the night she was…”

Her voice trailed off, and we could tell she was reliving that awful concluding night of Fashion Week.

“Promise me you would guard my confession tape like it was your crown jewels,” She eyed Celeste, because I was sure she had no idea what was beneath my jeans. “If this goes out, I would be completely ruined.”

We sighed defeatedly, knowing very well the faults of our society. It was always easier to blame the raped than an attacker whose identity was unknown.

“I have a class, guys, please.” She gave Celeste’s arm one last squeeze, before dashing off.

Celeste and I stared at each other, silent for a full minute.

“Oh, won’t this bitch shut the fuck up, already?” Celeste yelled at the top of her lungs.

No, she wouldn’t… No, she wouldn’t… No, she wouldn’t.

I smiled, scratching my skull. Maya, my roommate’s booty-call girl who was the constant envy of Celeste, always had a way with lyrics. After determining there was something she could kick Celeste’s arse at, Maya had gone all the way to using her talent to drive campus’ best personal shopper nuts singing at this café by noon and making an appearance at all campus parties at night. The crowd applauded and so did I as her song came to an end.

“Howdy, Kobs.” Maya neared our table with her guitar, completely ignoring her rival, “How is Gestapo duty going?”

“You told her?” Celeste glared at me.

“OK. In my defence she kinda put two and two together seeing in me trying on the Abraham Lincoln top hat you couriered over.” I said in time before she kicked me beneath the table. “Besides, we can trust Maya. It’s not like she’d be guilty of rape.” My laughter came out as a derisive snort.

“I’m not so sure.” Celeste jibed, looking away.

“Oh, really.” Maya banged her guitar on the table in annoyance. “Tell me, Celeste, is it because my index finger is as straight as the girl next door’s? Or is it because having ten fingers——which I see you all do have——puts me in the position of committing gang rape? Even Kobby has a penis, but for some reason you are not placing him on the suspect list.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s Kobby we are talking about. He wouldn’t even be able to locate a keyhole in broad daylight.” The words came out of her lips before she could stop herself.

I gasped at Celeste’s remark. So astonished I wolfed down my burger despite complaining I didn’t have an appetite earlier. “Is that what you think of me?”

“In other words, she thinks you are a wimp.”

“I do not think he’s a wimp.” Celeste tried to amend quickly, though it was obvious she had that idea all along.

“Put me on the suspect’s list.” I interrupted her before she could console me with words she was struggling to find. “Put me on the darn list!” I barked angrily. “Here,” I shoved the recorder I had on the table at her. “Hit ‘record’ and begin interrogating.” When I realized she wasn’t receiving the device any sooner, I stamped the ‘record’ button. “I do can rape a girl. You think I cannot? I could ram her against a wall, zip down my flap, bang her through her pleas and screams, and I wouldn’t stop till I’m sure I have eased out all my, um, juice in her.” OK, so maybe I was overreacting a bit. And what was with the juice analogy? But I am sure every guy would find it offensive if they’d been tagged as a potential non-rapist, wouldn’t they?

“Wow,” Maya drew in closer on the table. “Can I be your first victim? So convenient there are walls all around this place. Oooh.” She shuddered for effect.

 I ignored her, and aimed my wild stare back at Celeste.

“I’m sorry.” She conceded a bit proudly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Just when I could respond——

“She’s lying. She so meant to hurt you.”

“Shut up, Maya!”

“What?” She jerked off the table in fright. “What would you do, rape me?”

First it was Celeste, then Maya followed. I couldn’t help but join the two as they laughed till we all felt in need of the restroom. Oh, who was I kidding? All my life I’d only sexually abused once. I was a horny teenager (——weren’t we all?), enjoying how fast I could make my bed creak. Obliviously, I was lying on top of one of cousin’s dolls. (“’Hello Ken, let’s take me for a ride!... Hello Ken, let’s take me for a ride!... Hello Ken, let’s take me for a—“ Replace batteries to renew subscription——No, thank you.)

TYPING: How do you stop rape-shame?

We stepped out of College of Science’s cafeteria to witness crowds of students marching on to a protest. We exchanged bewildered expressions noticing boards that said “Bitches get raped!”, “Yo Mama did a HELL of a job.” “Suck cock, skank!” Surprisingly all these people mostly men and some women masked themselves.

We spotted Sandra Buttock, the campus celebrity presenter reporting nearby with her crew. Inching closer, we listened to her. “A sexually harassed girl has sparked tensions by, um, well, just being sexually harassed. Crowds and crowds of students are marching towards her hostel to give her a piece, or rather pieces of their minds… Did you get a great backshot?” The presenter spun to her crew after reading out her lines. She high-fived them and they all proceeded to the campus TV’s van.

“Kobby? Maya? Celeste?” She spotted and back-pedalled towards us. OK, so the message should be loud and clear by now—she was flaunting the biggest asset that granted her success on TV. “You heard my report, didn’t you?” We all nodded, before we could fire her with our questions, she raised a palm at us. “I hear you two are going around interrogating some suspects of last week’s incident. Any progress?” Again, that palm at us before we could speak. “Further grapevine tells me you are being motivated by another victim you have on your hands? Who’s this victim?”

“Stop living in your arse, Sandra! We’re not telling you a thing.” Celeste replied hotly.

“I’ll call the police on you three.” She spat back in annoyance, turning her back at us.

“Lemme guess,” Maya turned to me, “your gran is referred to as ‘Grapevine’?”

I shrugged. “At least now I know she hadn’t been kidding when she’d dared to kiss as many butts in order to be campus’ weather girl.”

“Someone tell your gran to get a life.” Celeste said, admonishing me.

“I did. She nearly took mine.”

TYPING: Who is to blame for victim-shame?

The skies were darkening as I walked out of the library. I headed towards my room. Even though it was too early and I knew my roommate would be messing up my bed with Maya or someone with an unfamiliar face.

Surprisingly, I saw no Maya. Yes, unfamiliar faces but I didn’t think (not two, not one, but three) big, burly men who wore dark glasses and had grim looks were Raymond’s thing. But then again, taking a lesson from this morning’s events, Raymond’s tastes ranged from students to non-teaching staff, so you really couldn’t be sure who he was doing favours. And what’s more, he sometimes loved to leave the door ajar when he was messing around. What’s most terrible, they hardly kept their voices down in the throes of——

“Kobby Gyampoh.” One of the men turned to see me at the door.

“Yes?” I wondered if my name was on the list of this male-dominated orgy. Wait, why weren’t they taking off their clothes, or they’d been waiting for—

“We’ve been waiting for you.” The guy who spoke first walked closer. I took surreptitious steps back. “But your roommate here tells me you have a class shortly. So we wouldn’t bother you.” They brushed past me.

My heart rate went to normal. “I have a class?” I cocked a questioning brow at Raymond.

“They are detectives. As in, real-life ones, they are inquiring about the rape and I told them…”

I stopped him mid-sentence as I rushed to unmute the telly seeing the Vice Chancellor surrounded by microphones giving a speech of some sort with the headline: VC Rushes to Create Measures to Curb Campus Rape. “I, the Vice Chancellor of this institution, have consulted all the right authorities to approve a curfew which would begin at eight tonight till we are sure we’ve apprehended the culprit.”

“This shouldn’t be fair.” Raymond moved closer to the TV to protest. “We’re old enough to make our own decisions on issues about our bedtime.”
Before I could comment my phone rang. “Celeste?”

“Some bald detectives!” She spoke in hushed tones. “They’ve come for me to campus’ police station. I’m in the smelliest washroom ever. They heard about the tapes. Kobs, we cannot let Mandy down. Go secure Mandy’s confession before they get to it, I’m pretty sure that booty with a mouth told on us.”

My eyes spontaneously found the clock on the wall. “Celeste, it’s almost eight. You heard of the VC’s curfew?”

“In your defence, announcing a curfew an hour before the set time is sure not going to be effective.”

I ran out of my hostel and waited out for a taxi. Sadly, none stopped as, probably, they’d been warned not to pick up a student around this time. I sped to Celeste’s hostel through sweat. All the way chanting I couldn’t let Mandy down.

Fuck, I cursed silently realizing Celeste’s door was locked. I’m not sure the hostel’s potter would give any spare keys to any strange person even if such strange person was on a mission to prevent a girl from being victim-shamed.

“Kobby?” I spun back to see Sandra Buttock behind me on the abandoned corridor. “I knew I’d find you here.” She smiled sweetly, shaking a bunch of keys in her hands. 
“Being an influential personality on campus has its benefits.”

“Why are you here?” I demanded, eyeing the keys.

“We both want the same thing. Let the lady have it.”

I stepped out of her way, and foolishly she opened the door wide for me to enter. I brushed past her before she could speak, rushed for Celeste’s bottom drawer and took the tape labelled ‘Mandy’, ripped the label off and proceeded to the door.

“You are so clueless if you think I’m going to let you get away with it easily.”

“Sandra, I swore I would never hit a girl, so step out of my way.”

She moved so fast and before I could say ‘now’, she’d already clocked me in the eye.

“Aaargh!” I growled in pain.

“Oops. Sorry. I swore never to hit another sister too.”

I couldn’t think fast enough. I’d watched action movies and the only lesson I’d learnt from heroes, Harrison Ford especially, was to keep the villains talking. “Why are you doing this, Sandra?”

“The media can be a powerful tool for disseminating information, you are not that daft, are you?”

“Right. It’s alright to get a girl victim-shamed just because you want to disseminate information.”

She giggled maniacally. I stared at her as though she’d lost the plot. “All this talk about dissemination brings in mind artificial insemination——OF COURSE, I DO NOT CARE IF A GIRL IS VICTIM-SHAMED! The media must be impartial. Really, again, are you that daft?”

“Yes.” I screamed at her, realizing I had nothing else to say. “I’m… so daft!” By now I was shaking my head like a loony and waving my hands theatrically to act the part. “So very daft! I have no brains. See?”

She stared at me dubiously. And foolishly, she tiptoed. “I really cannot see anything from this angle. Fuck! I do not give a rat’s arse about your brains. Gimme the goddamn cassette, the police would be here any minute.”

OMG, I’d totally forgot! The police!

Sirens blasted through our environs.

“You see!” Sandra yelled at me as though we were supporting the same cause and I was to blame. “Take the tape for all I care, I wouldn’t find myself in jail just because I was confiscating evidence.” She began running. Or walking. Or showing some movement? With a behind like that she brought to mind the fable about the tortoise and the hare’s race. “Nooo,” I heard her cry echo off the walls of the hallway. “God knows I needed the headstart!” Definitely the tortoise.

I run out of the room myself, used an entrance I didn’t think our detective friends would use. The back gate, duh. But of course, who would have thought Ghanaian police were taking smart courses to remind them to always use a back door? Because as I ran through the bushes of the hostel’s backyard, broke through the gate and plunged myself into the road, I was trapped by the headlights of a vehicle.

I halted in my tracks, and stared clueless like a deer caught in the headlights——no shitting. Fuck. I cannot go to prison. My virgin arse! Oh, I’ve heard all those stories! I felt a burning sensation enveloping the area of my body under so much concern.

Honk. Honk. “Would you come in already?” The driver of the vehicle stuck his head out of the window.

Before I could consider whoever my Knight in Shining Armour, the lights illuminated his features. Yuck!

It was the Dean of Students who’s been after my arse (literally) since he ran into me posing as a transvestite by no choice of my own, I assure you! Unless I wanted a taste of what I’d be experiencing in prison before I began jail time, I had to put my strong feet to good use.

(“Hey, sexy thing,” Bam “you sure you do not need a ride?” Bam

I was reduced to tears. “Quit ramming me arse with your bonnet, perv!”)

TYPING: They call it victim-shaming. You would be called all sorts of things for being a victim. “Slut! Whore!” No one gives a shit about the fact that you just got raped and you could do with some support.  Sadly, the only people who care… do not care about you.

OMG, you never know what you have until you lose it, whoever made this statement was pretty accurate, I was thinking. Because as I walked around campus dredged in one of Celeste’s collections——one so showy I decided it was perfect for the occasion, my smile looked like it had been permanently stencilled across my face.

I loved campus. I loved the people. The ones who knew a thing or two about scrubbing up well and the ones who didn’t. I’d have missed smiling at any random person that looked my way. I’d have missed winking at girls hoping I was sexy enough for them not to look back as I walked away and mutter to themselves, ‘What’s wrong with his eyes?”. Not that I’d have done all these things on a normal day. No, I’m too reserved to be branded a loony. But here I was, basking in the joy of the sun, the air, the community, the freedom.


To think at this moment I’d have been at prison being fed shite, forced to plant okra, and worse, being banged in the arse by a guy who hadn’t seen his wife since 2002. (I’d once glanced over the rota of a guy who was under house arrest——“See I am missing a lot?”)

TYPING: The police would be all over the crime scene’s environs, or anyone that knew you, asking such questions as: Did you rape the girl? Where were you on the night of the rape? Do you have an alibi?

I halted in my Yves Saint Laurent boat shoes as I stood on the sidewalk of a T-junction to allow a car pass. I could have sworn it had been the Dean of Students yelling at the top of his lungs, “Hey, Sexy.” as he drove by. But I didn’t bother to check the number plate I’d only memorized yesterday because anyone would if a car was constantly hitting their bum. I was too much in high-spirits to be reminded of campus authorities behaving badly. I was free.

I resumed walking a few feet ahead with no location in mind, halting at an umbrella stand put up by an ice-cream vendor—who thought putting up an umbrella during dry season was the most effective marketing strategy he’d ever come up with—as my phone rang. “Celeste?” I answered, turning my back after glaring at this ice-cream seller who’d proffered a yoghurt at me.

“Nina!” Celeste mentioned the name in an angry hushed tone.

Ping! I heard a loud tone on my phone, and dragged it off my ear to realize a pop-up message had just filled the screen. “Fuck.” I heard Celeste ask what was going on, I didn’t have time to explain so I disconnected quickly and began taking to my heels in the direction of Nina’s hostel.

My heartbeat had slowed to a staccato, and no matter how much I tried, I just couldn’t quicken my steps fast enough. It was as if the whole world had transitioned into slow-mo, and I could do nothing about it. The universe was holding me back every time I tried to put one feet after the other faster than before.

TYPING: The faults in our law enforcement system. Of course, if you demanded why they weren’t after the bad guys, They’d tell you, “This is normal police procedure.”, “We’re just doing our job…”

As I ran, my mind fed me with flashbacks: Nina found naked with obscenities all over her. Nina refusing to talk to the police, but opening up to Celeste and I after sneaking into her room. We inquiring about the rape on tape. She confessing she still sees her attacker in her dreams. “He’s in my dreams all the time he’s so real. He’s the only memory creeping up every time I’m alone. I’ve been raped more than once. In the shower, on the toilet, in my study… He’s everywhere. Do you think he might still be pursuing me?” We told her they were hallucinations. Told her in any case if she ever really saw this killer in real life, coming at her, she could send in an SOS message. And we would be right there to defend her. It had just been a suggestion to calm her down, to stop her from acting too frantic.

But as I was running thinking of all the worst possible scenarios that could be happening to her this second, the worst guilty conscience was weighing me down, making it hard for me to breathe. Had we bitten off more than we could chew? Should we have handed it over to the police? Why were Celeste and I acting as though we could correct all the wrongs when there were institutions set up by humanity to take up this burden?

Sirens blasted my hearing not too long after spotting Nina’s hostel in the distance. I looked over my shoulder and saw a police car.

Fuck. Were they just driving by? Why was I being guilty when I’d committed no wrong? I still kept on running, hoping they were driving their car next to me on the road to just drop in a hi and ask how my day was going. As if the police ever cared of the welfare of civilians.

By now a few students were looking at me, puzzled, not knowing what was going on. But if I kept on running surely I’d reach Nina’s hostel and whatever the police had on me, they could tell me after I’d sorted Nina out. Except someone who would be offered good citizen points by anyone but me, pulled out his leg to bring an end to my progression.

Thud. Thud. I fell on the floor. Before I could say an ‘ouch’ hands were all over me, restricting me. Oh Lord help us all, they really made handcuffs ridiculously tight! I was wrestled, pulled up. But I wouldn’t stop wriggling once I caught sight of Nina’s hostel. I was screaming, yelling, but why weren’t they listening to me? Would anyone fucking hear me out? I had to save someone!

TYPING: The people who are supposed to care most would only be concerned about the things that do not matter most…

I couldn’t hear a thing that was said to me after I was hustled around to face the three bald detectives who I was yelling a whole lot of curses at. I wouldn’t even hurt a fly! Why was I being spoken to by an officer of the law under these conditions? Oh, yeah, I relaxed a bit. I got it all figured out. Perhaps I was being pranked?

Bald Detective One (or Two, or Three, One for all—they all looked the same to me) waved a cassette in my face. All of a sudden I froze, bearing no emotion on my face as my brain took me back to all the things I could never do to a girl said by me, all the things Maya had hit the ‘record’ button and raised the tape in my face. If there was ever a moment to say shit in one’s life, this was it. Shit. Shit. Shit. But of course, everything you say would be held against you in the court of law and shit like that.

TYPING: ... Like leaving you the victim alone, scared, trying to pick up the pieces in a shattered world as…

Another set of sirens yanked me into the realms of reality.


The police door was shut in my face as I watched an ambulance zip by towards Nina’s hostel.

I was going to prison for a crime I didn’t commit. I had failed Nina.

Christ! What are these seats made of? Comfortable! At the thought, I immediately sunk my face into my hands and wept. Me arse. Me arse. My AAAAARRRGGGGHHHSE!

TYPING:as always the police have the wrong guy.


Author’s Note: Catch Sex And The City Campus on this blog every Saturday. I can’t believe I have gotten this far with you all narrating Kobby’s shenanigans. Love you to bits.

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