Fassara Zuwa Hausa

The Prostitute: A story of extreme love, fury and jealousy (Preview)

‘Yes,” Steve had agreed. “But that does not rule out the fact that they‘re potential poisons in a cup of coffee.”

“Man, here you go again, something is not a poison until it has killed you.”

“Do you then have to wait till it killed you before you stay away from it? You don’t wait for an adulteress to prey upon your precious life.”

“Oh come on,” Bobby had said angrily. “Spare me these lectures. Sometimes, you need to hear these ladies out before you begin to hit them with your hammer of judgment and condemnation.’

“I agree,” Steve had said. “I’ve not hit anyone with any hammer of judgment. I’m only trying to do a favor to a friend who’s trying to set his house on fire with his careless adventures. By means of a harlot, a man is reduced to a crust of bread.”

“You‘re a judgmental dictator,” Bobby had said angrily. “I’ve always asked you to look at issues from the two sides of the coin.”

No, Steve Davies said to himself, now almost approaching the main hangouts of the night girls.

He took out his handkerchief, raised his dark glasses and wiped off the remaining sweat that was now gathering on his face. I’m not a judgmental dictator. But I was only trying to help a friend.

“If,” his mind said to him. “You’re trying to help a friend, then why’re you here on this street at this time of the night?”

“No,” he answered himself. “I thought we’ve settled this.”