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Typically, that’s the life-cycle of a corruption saga in this republic: money changes hands, a whistleblower sounds the alarm, the band of thieves pick a sacrificial lamb, and somehow the masterminds get to squirrel out of trouble, and that’s the end of that. Right there is how the crooked prongs of our justice system work. When the next scandal happens, press repeat!
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As soon as you swing the door open and hop out of the enclosure of the car, the first thing that hits you is a heavy aromatic wave of roast wafting through the air. In no time, your brain dispatches a memo to the oral juices alerting them to prepare for deployment at the frontline. The regiment down in your belly is on standby too–ready for battle!
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Samalie then issues the first instruction. “You have to take off the towel!” She says. Trouble is that with the towel off, I’m totally bare. My personal belongings will be on full display thenceforth. But let’s see how far this goes. Tell you what: if playing with fire was a person, that would definitely be me! So, I get onto my feet and I’m set to drop the towel.
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Argue all you want to, but it’s general knowledge that every woman has got a minimum of two birthdays. Yet it’s only on one of those birthdays that you’re permitted to compute a plus-one to their age; and—wait for it!—you’ll still not know how old she is! Tell you what: it’s probably easier to discover the whereabouts of Cleopatra’s tomb than it is to establish a woman’s actual age!
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