Funny: Fuel Service

Jane was upfront.
‘You wan do? 20 LITERS OF PETROL.’
Ogba could not believe his ears. He looked
at this 21st century Nigerian reincarnation
of Cleopatra; her almost bare breasts
threatening to smash his eyes. Her lips
were an invitation to s*xual paradise. But
her eyes were cool with determined
demand.
‘You must be kidding,’ he croaked, unable
to control the lust choking his voicebox.
‘Am damned serious,’ she said quietly. ‘I
like you and I know this is the big day. But
we must be realistic.’
Ogba’s head went hot but he remembered
the even hotter demand of the bulging rebel
in his shorts. To be held at erotic gunpoint
at this damned time. He dared not grab her
even though she was barely a fist away,
practically undressed in a strapless
‘spaghetti’ top and bum shorts. The jigging
of her jugs indicated that a bra was not
part of her wardrobe.
‘Be reasonable,’ he almost begged. ‘After
all I have done? The gifts, the dinner?’
Jane barely heard him. How to keep life
moving without petrol had engulfed all her
senses till Ogba resumed bothering her. He
had not let her be since he saw her at
Shoprite five months ago. Initially she had
given him the brush-off. Although he was
good-looking she had a good thing going
with Ibrahim, the married son of her
father’s friend.. But the guy showed up
three weeks ago, dropped a fat wad of
cash on her table and told her to forget
about him. He was through. Jane had been
deeply hurt and contemplated revenge. But
sanity prevailed after she cried through
three nights and talked matters over with
her intimate friend, Funke.
Trouble was; she wanted a man’s body like
mad. Yet a woman must take advantage of
opportunities that come her way. And this
fuel scarcity was biting hard.
‘Ok, tomorrow morning. Thirty liters, I
swear.’
Jane was not impressed. ‘ After you fuck
me finish? No, lover-boy. I don’t need the
cash equivalent.’
Ogba scratched his head. ‘How do I get
twenty liters at 11p.m?’
She smiled. ‘Simple. The black marketers
at Aina Street, opposite Mobil Petrol
Station, are busy around this time. ‘ Before
Ogba could protest she raised her right
hand and pouted in a manner that made
Ogba remember the first time he saw Linda
Lovelace in the classic 1970s American
porn movie ‘Deep Throat.’
‘You told me you had a contact there.’
Ogba swore at that moment never to open
his big mouth wide before a woman again.
It was one of those conversations during a
softening-up process at the bar of Kongo
Hotel. As she moaned about the fuel
scarcity alongside other patrons he let slip
his contacts with the black marketers.
Ogba sighed deeply. There was no point
cheapening himself any further. As his mind
raged Jane pressed her body against his
and gently took hold of his zipper. Ogba
moaned, almost unhinged by desire. Jane
stepped back abruptly before his hands
could get busy.
That settled it. Ogba picked up his mobile
phone and dialed a number. It was one hell
of a haggling. Obele, the one-eyed black
marketer, would only do business for forty-
eight thousand naira. He had to supply the
stuff sharp-sharp at Ogba’s place and
there were risks and expenses involved.
Finally, they agreed at forty-five.
‘I will kill you today once the Jerry can is
here,” Jane whispered in his ear.
Obele’s man arrived twenty minutes later
to meet an anxious Ogba waiting
downstairs. Money and Gallon exchanged
hands.
Jane threw herself in her man’s arms as
soon as he secured the precious liquid in
the empty storeroom. ‘You are the man,’
she cooed sultrily.’ Come.’
Ogba’s bed broke that night.