Escapades of Room 113
The crew has, for some reason or another, converged somewhere in the Capital City. Some of the members are here on official duties while others have come for usual social thirst-quenching and adventure.
We earlier resolved to stay in one locality for effective mobility and block adventures. One of the crew members, a new guy on the list, seems to have more lust in his body-closet that he decides to book himself in a lodge somewhere close to the popular social hub of Bwandilo, Area 47.
This character of a person is Dicksley, and we have already nicknamed him Boko Haram for his skills in terrorising skirts.
He has not earned the nick-name out of the blues, and we are now proving that. This man is terrible; this Dicksley is bad news.
“Koma hee! Anzanuwo ndiye hee, atatu one hour [your friend is terrible, how can he pick three girls in one hour]?
Indeed, as we are busy doing justice to the kanyenya and quenching our throats, we have over the past hour observed that our own Dicksley has been in the company of different ladies.
What we had not known was that the company did not end up with the exchange of booze; that all the girls we saw in his company have ended up experiencing the comfort and confines of his Room 113.
No one in the crew has been such bold.
“That man should be a person who lives on top of Mount Mulanje and eats gondolosi after every meal. I have never encountered such strength and skill in my 20 years of being in this profession!” stresses our lady company, disclosing she was the first to sample the ‘skills of our Room 113 comrade’.
All of us are subjected to the five-minute narrative of the said skill by this lady. Her narration dwarfs us as amateurs, despite our long time conviction that the experiences we have had over the years makes us well qualified.
As we are busy keeping abreast with the narration, Dicksley joins us. All of us laugh as he joins us and he gets surprised.
“What is happening here? What have I done that you should laugh in unison upon my joining your company?” he questions.
“Abambo, ntchito za thupi lanu zikukuchitirani umboni (works of your body are bearing testimony)!” exclaims Joe, obviously feeling defeated.
But Happison says: “It is not ‘ntchito za thupi lanu’ but rather ‘ntchito za chiuno chanu [It is not the works of his hands but rather of his waist that are testifying on his behalf.”
“What are you talking about you people?” says Dicksley, obviously shocked that the lady is in our company.
“You think your friends did not notice that you have been entering your room 113 with different women during the past four hours?
You are a machine my friend! After what you have done, where did you get the power to do what you have done to the three others ladies?” she asks, looking more surprised than concerned.
“But did he generously compensate you for the services you rendered?” I ask.
The lady smiles and challenges us: “You think his good skills are minus the wallet? I tell you guys, this man is a surprise in all quarters.
Joe stares at Dicksley and says: “My friend, if the walls of Room 113 had recorders or cameras, tomorrow your wife would be rushing to the courts to file for divorce. No one here has attained such a record!”
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