The Wrong-Right Encounter.

Today was his first; he wanted to speak to someone different. Do something he hadn’t done before. He had been freshly transferred as a branch Pastor of the Blood Covenant Church. Life had rocked him like a ship on troubled waters. 

His mother had passed away when he was eight, his dad was an awesome addict. Why awesome? He spoke sense. He once told him, ‘Women would let you down if you give them too much attention’. He had learnt that and it was true. His dad sent him to deliver crack and he provided for him. His dad mentioned those round packs as ‘Cds’ and he had kept them in his mind as compact discs.

  
But these compact discs were smaller, they were sometimes with the pictures of women or men, posed in different positions.

It was eleven in the evening when one of the numerous women who had come to the house was leaving. His dad smacked her butt and said ‘bye whore’. 

She turned back and said no word. Her eyes were filled with tears, she looked only fifteen, or less. She walked out, still fixing her blouse button and watching her back after every two steps.

His dad stood up, he wore a boxer short with buttons in front of it. He walked with a heavy bulge, and his young nine year old son had just seen a lady move out. He took a joint of his regular stuff near the coffee table and sniffed hard. He put his hand into his boxer shorts, felt the texture of his pubic hair and took them out. He moved towards his son, patted him on the head and said, ‘you’ll get all this later’.

After his dad left for his room, he moved to the hall and saw the compact disc, unopened on the floor. He took it, and with his hands shaking as one with an early Parkinson’s disease, he opened it up. For the first time, he saw the real compact disc, it was not what dad had told him. He once read it to him, ‘Dad, it says here, boldly, CONDOM, but his dad denied. He said, ‘This is the only word in the English language you read differently’. His dad always smiled after talking.

He felt the latex he was holding in his hand. It was soft, had a good scent, and he kept it in his pocket. He moved straight into his room, prayed the Lord’s Prayer and slept.

After dad had died, twenty and two years later, he had moved on. One of the fathers of the neighbourhood whose daughter his father had had sex with and paid killed him. Apparently, the girl had told her father she was raped. He found it tough to digest it, because he had told his dad he was going to be back and after he came from school, he saw the police men all around the house. He was soaked in silence. He loved his dad, although he did wrong.
His dad never laid a finger on him. He knew his dad was bad, and whoever killed him would be found and punished. 

They did anyway, that was later and he had even gotten over the pain. He had to be a man. But he still hated the girl who did that; he had vowed he was going to kill her. He knew his dad showed these girls very little respect, but he knew his dad always asked them if they were ready before he had sex with them.

Today, as he went through his old stuff, he put his hand into his pocket. He felt a rubber-like item in his old shorts, his favourite. He took it out and it was the compact disc he had kept that night years ago. 

The memory hit him, as though a water canon had been shot into his tummy. He wept. He missed his dad. Since he gave his life to God, and was ordained three years ago, he had been so occupied he had not had time to think of his dad. He wept more, for six minutes, then wept much, for two minutes and he sobbed less for less than thirty seconds. He kept the ‘compact disc’ in the pocket of his shorts, but still kept it in his suitcase. He prayed for his father’s soul.
 
The night was slightly cold, a result of the sea breeze; she had stood in the street for hours today. She wore a short denim skirt and a sleeveless blue top. Her shape was stunning. She was well endowed; top to bottom. Her physique was different. She was light skinned. Her eyes complimented her beautiful smile. She was a five when standing, her bag had her name customized on it. In well plated braids, she radiated the effect of good make-up. She spent time on it. It was necessary; their magnet. 
Although she had the looks, she had to sell herself well. But what was happening? This week had been good. She had made three hundred dollars since Monday. Her customers were all from the gold mine in the south. Those folk came with real cash. They were rich, but the unfortunate thing was, most of them had big tummies. Not like the regular guys who came and had the muscles. Those bodies that provided enough warmth and passion when the car began to move. They knew how to work it. Their appearance alone was comforting, and after the duty was performed, she wished they wore no protection. At least, she would have had one beautiful baby to herself.

She remembered Jonas, one guy like that, maybe in his mid-thirties. He was dark and tall. He spoke good English too. He handled her with care. He could go three rounds a night. He just did not pay well.

But these pot-bellied men were nothing to talk about. With sticks that could not stake a tomato plant for less than thirty minutes, they wanted to prove strong. She remembered when one day one of the men had locked his waist up in the act. He was doing just fine. ‘Ouch, ouch, yieeee, mmmm’ he had exclaimed. Pain and hurt all through. She had pushed him off her like a ball and taken his wallet. She cared less what happened to him.

Time was fast moving. It was almost eleven thirty and three of her girls had gotten customers. They made for their cars and as custom demanded, girls in the circle had to say goodbye by kissing the cheek of their colleagues before they left. Her third friend just left and she kissed her.

‘Hey, good luck’. Her friend told her. She waved as she sat in the Range Rover that pulled up. She had served this man before. She knew him well, very. She was just not in the mood for his nonsense. He paid well, but he talked too much. He had huge lips too. Ah, she had read about such a person in ‘Possessing the Secret of Joy’. Money, money, money and looks, almost nothing percent.

 As she stood there, about six minutes to twelve, someone pulled over. In the car sat a young man. He spoke gently and calmly. She pulled her neck down and watched him as he stretched his neck towards the co-driver’s seat.

‘Hello dear’, the man said.

‘Yes’, she replied. ‘I see you are new here. You don’t come here and be saying hello hello. You’re not on a telephone call’. She chuckled.

He pulled back in confusion. ‘This would be tough, he said to himself.

Clearing his throat he continued, ‘Alright madam, sorry. How much do you charge for a night?’

She then got angry, ‘Ah, who are you?’ She was almost raising the tone of her voice now.

‘This is business and there are etiquettes. You don’t come here and behave like a bush man. Gentility here is considered bush, I’m telling you’.

‘Okay’, get into the car then.

She hopped in the front seat of the car and banged his door. But this man was different. There was a sparkle in his eye that blessed his smile. He had a scar on his face that gave him a rather calm appearance. She did not know how she came into that zone. But she refused to see it. 

Within the faculties of her busy mind she questioned who he might be. Was he a policeman? Or one of the detectives? There was something just about him that made him seem questionable….Was he here to investigate her or what? She felt scared, her heart best slightly. Was this a mistake? 

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