was told you can find love anywhere, so I went on TikTok to find my life partner. I had envisioned the kind of lady I wanted in my mind, and I was so certain that there was one for me on that black and white app.
One fateful day, after making an MTN subscription of 2.5GB for 100 naira, I opened the TikTok app on my iPhone 7 Plus and began to scroll, looking for the mother of my unborn children.
Many irrelevant contents popped up before me until I saw one that caught my attention. A tall black lady with a pink wig, dancing like a victim possessed with a demon of infection. I was told it was a South African dance, and the demonic vibe it was giving was trending.
I don’t know if it was love at first sight or if I was malfunctioning, but I knew I had to send her a message, and her quick response solidified the thought that we were meant to be.
Fast forward, we had gone on six dates, and each date made our love stronger. But then, there was something off about her. Each date, the same pink wig, and it triggered my curiosity.
We had graduated from the talking stage, and it was time to take things further. I invited her over to my place, a decision that almost cost me my life.
She appeared at my doorstep at exactly 9 am, two hours earlier than our agreed-upon time, and my fear intensified.
“Hello, sweetheart,” her smile overshadowed my reasoning, and I soon found myself smiling uncontrollably.
“You’re a little bit early,” I finally said as I broke loose from her enchanted smile.
“Yeah, I know. I just couldn’t wait to see my baby,” she said, running her hands across my beard. I melted with unbolted emotions and ushered her into my apartment.
She immediately felt at home, taking off her wig. Yes, the very pink wig I knew her with. I stared at the wig like someone expecting an answer or a movement from it, but it did none of that. Little did I know I would experience a shock from the land beyond.
She asked to use the toilet, and I directed her to one located in the master bedroom.
It was just me and the wig left in the living room. I kept looking at it, and thoughts began to crawl up into my head.
“Maybe this girl uses this wig to steal people’s glory. Why only one wig, and pink for that matter,” I pondered.
“Touch it,” my conscience prompted me.
“No, I shouldn’t do that,” I shrugged off the thought.
“Feel it at least to find out if it’s real,” my conscience insisted.
After resisting for a while, I slowly reached for the wig and touched it. Behold, it was as thick as a rug.
“What in the world is this?” My face bore a mixture of surprise and anxiety.
“Smell it,” my conscience advised me.
“No, we’ve gone too far. I can’t smell this thing,” I revolted.
“If you don’t smell it, how will you know what it smells like?” My conscience indulged me.
How I wish I had not smelled it. Probably, I would still be alive to see my children’s children. But life is too short, and curiosity only makes it shorter.
I brought the wig close to my nose and inhaled the body odor of a million dead bodies. I lost my sight and my sense of taste instantly. As I struggled to gain my balance because of the toxicity that had taken over my legs, I began to see visions.
I saw our president, Tunubu, in a bikini and crop top, among many other strange happenings. I fell to the ground, drew my last breath, and whispered, “Women, learn to wash your wigs.”
THE END.
- EddyPaul
- StoryVest
