A well endowed and heavily perfumed lady walked into the banking hall in her pencil-heel shoes that announced her arrival minutes before you saw her, wearing the type of dress that tells you heaven is missing an angel. And the phone she gingerly held to her ear without minding the security guy frantically waving at her that calls are not allowed in banking halls, will cost a small fortune. When she stepped forward, picked a deposit slip and frantically searched for a pen, about five guys offered their pens, but she took mine maybe because I was closest to her.
After a while, or what seemed like a long while because time seemed to have stood still, she stood up, inched closer to me and whispered, “Please, how do you spell thirty?” I then looked at her deposit slip and I was shocked to see that she had written, “tarty tausan.” I exclaimed, “Chineke! Papa God, why?” I hissed, snatched my pen from her hand and added, “Fine face, no brains!” And another admirer added, “All na packaging!”
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