Written by DiMadWriter
This girl that I met, finely curved like an hourglass. She had eyes like the night skies– she blinks, they twinkle. Her hair like flowing black gold, silky to the touch, polished with elegance. Let’s not get started on her hips, they just make a man scream hallelujah.
I was no preacher of love. I was the war. I killed thousands of people with one bone. I could carry a horse on my back into battle and still win. But this one won the war of my heart with only one smile. Captivated, I was taken captive.
So I told my parents I’d found the one. They disapproved. They did not understand that this one had me in the palms of her hands already. If she said jump, I’d be up a tree in a second. I just told them, “mama, papa, it’s Delilah or I die.” Who knew that this Delilah was a shortcut to dying?
Her house was simple. She didn’t have all the beautiful furniture, but she had a great bed. That was all that I needed. We loved to play on it, like children. I loved to place my head on her lap and she’d play with my hair. Oh, my hair.
Little did I know that she had some sleeping pills and a sharp clipper. Oh, and when she went to the market to buy that fresh scented perfume, she also got a razor in case. And she borrowed that scissors from her friend. She said she wanted to sew a revealing dress for our two weeks anniversary.
She asked about my secrets. I didn’t want to tell her, but she’d tickle me and I’d laugh sheepishly, and spill. She loved to play, so she tied me up as I slept and brought some men to fight me. She liked watching me kill them. It gave her great pleasure.
She said it hurt her that I kept secrets from her. She wanted to know all about me. She told me stuff too. But she didn’t tell me the part where she spent six months in a haircut salon as an apprentice. She didn’t tell me she had received a certificate of excellence and a Masters Degree in head scraping.
She asked again, while my head was placed on her breasts. Brethren, I wasn’t even there at the time. I thought I was in heaven, listening to sweet songs of angels. But there I was, singing my own songs of doom.
She gave me an overdose of those pills between her thighs and I slept like Adam did when he lost a rib without knowing. I slept a lion and woke up a frog. The clippers, the razors, her expertise had all come out. I slept Bob Marley and woke up Vin Disel abi 2face Idibia.
I lost the war. I lost the love. Delilah was a scam. I should have listened to my parents.
Please, storytime is over. I heard them say they want to pluck my eyes out. Na the matter we de try settle since. I need my eyes to see that Delilah later in life. We still get matters to thrash out.
This is the infamous story of Delilah creatively being retold. It opens the eyes of the reader to another perspective — broadening the reader’s imagination. The writer uses current Nigerian phrases and embellishes the story with some humour as he presents himself as Samson. This gives the impression that the tale is being told by the victim himself.
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