Wednesday, November 21, 2018
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I was in Morocco for a two-week seminar on fisheries. Participants came from all over.

Moroccans can be very diplomatic; to the point that, whether they like you or not, you will not know.
There was this sharply intelligent Moroccan girl, Fatima, who was interested when I introduced myself as from Cameroon. She changed her seat after coffee break and sat by me. She talked so much about Eto’o Fils. She was only 19, so I went along with her youthful exuberance.

She inquired about youth leadership in Cameroon. I told her that in my country, youth leadership is simply given lip service. I explained that, though Cameroon has a Presidential system, it is governed like a kingdom.

She marvelled when I told her about the rich human and natural resources Cameroon is endowed with. She said she would love to come to Cameroon to eat banana, mangoes and oranges.

After a week of very intimate discussions, I made her to know how I am feeling about her. I told her frankly that I have never made love to a Moroccan. Am sure she perceived what I was driving at and said I shouldn’t go there. Then, I stopped talking. I could feel her eyes on me.

After minutes when we quietly sipped our coffee, she said; “Ok, I will direct you where to go. But you will pay to get what you want. Fatima hailed a taxicab and we jumped in. She looked quite disappointed in me.

“We will drop at a joint in central town and I come back here. You know the name of your hotel so you can find your way back,” she said to me.
After cruising for about 20 minutes, she indicated to the cab driver to stop. There were many people, men and women, in evening dresses.

“See red light there?” she said to me, “follow it.”
I opened the door slowly and before I closed it, the car jerked into motion as if dashing away with someone that had just been kidnapped.

I moved into a lobby and saw a man, a black African sitting behind the desk. Without looking at me, he pulled a gold coloured photo album and said; “Make your choice.”
I opened the album. There were pictures of girls marked between 17 and 19, between 19 and 21, between 21 and 23 and so on, both black and red skins. I wanted something fresh so I schemed through the under-19 section. Some of them looked quite innocent.

There was one with a long nose, looking soft and innocent, tall and slim. My thoughts made my groin bulge. I put my finger on the picture.
“It will cost you 100 Dollars.,” he said.
“For the night?” I asked.

“No, one session,” he retorted with an East African accent.
As I took out my wallet to give him the money, I asked, “Can she join me down here?”
“They stay in their rooms.”
I counted 100 Dollars and put on the desk and he took the intercom telephone and dialled a number. After rattling in some strange language, he told me to go up to Room 110, right hand side, and showed me the staircase.

I climbed the stairs and landed on long wide corridor. I passed doors on both sides and imagined what could be happening behind them, my blood rushing, my heart pounding and my groin aching. I rapt on the door marked Room 110, the catch was released and the door opened and I saw a pearl, she looked even younger than her picture in the album.

She closed the door behind me and said in an angelic voice, “You are welcome.”
She was so beautiful that I thought of taking her to my hotel room. But she said she doesn’t leave her room.

“What is your name?” I asked.
“No names,” she replied curtly.
When she undressed, I thought of eating her instead of making love to her. She dropped on her fours and waited for me. I almost tore my clothes off rather than removing them. She gave me a cream and indicated that I should apply it to my truncheon.

When I directed my truncheon towards her urethra, she directed it into her rectum. I tried the second time and she slapped my leg and shoved it into her rectum. I was already there, so with a few times of to-ing and fro-ing, the world around me collapsed.

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