Tunde Odesola ([email protected])
She could be mistaken for the goddess of beauty, but this early Sunday morning, Beirut typified the goddess of anger as she flung open the bedroom door, stormed down the exquisite hallway into the luxurious sitting room, where Jimblow was ensconced on a green leather sofa with a wine glass gingerly sitting in his palm. “How dare you, Jimblow!” she glared, “How dare you go ahead with your threat despite all entreaties?” Jimblow didn’t look up from the newspaper he was reading; he merely reached for the champagne bottle, poured himself more drink and sipped as his swaying thighs suppressed his anger.
“I want to know why you still went ahead and smashed the gourd after I pleaded with you, Jimblow…,” Beirut continued.
“It’s only my constituents that can demand such from me, and you do not constitute part of them, woman,” Jimblow…
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