The Prostitute: A story of extreme love, fury and jealousy (Preview)
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Along the street corner in the twilight, the darkness thickening very fast into the night walked a young man in his early thirties. He was grey-headed as an albatross and his eyes inside his dark glasses silently looking through a particular section of the street. He looks so well and grimly as if he was out on a gold hunt. His bold and blue face cap did much to cover the whole length of his face. His eyeglasses were so dark that it almost made him look like a runaway criminal. One would have said that he was a high-profile criminal trying his best to avoid the prying eyes of the rule of law.
Just before him, stretched a long, laborious, dry, empty and dark road. The secrecy of this road’s appearance and make-up go a long way to speak volume of its occupation. The popular Allen Avenue, a sprawling metropolis in Lagos, Nigeria housed and harbored the people popularly called the ladies of the night. No one comes here at this period without a secret mission to play the night game.
“Steve, I’m just catching fun with these girls.” Bobby Tamor had said in one of their discussions some days ago.
“Catching fun,” Steve had replied. “With terrible ladies of the night, you must be out of your mind. You can’t walk barefoot on hot coals and not get blisters.”
“Why are you sounding so judgmental,’ Booby had said. “You know it’s not so good to pass judgment on others before you hear them out.”