Let me tell you a story involving karma and sex. Ehen! I knew it. Children of the world! I know this is the entry you’ll like. I have had to do this because someone came to my inbox and said, “Uncle Stephen, leave all this explanation of offshore life. Give us the juicy stories!”
Ladies and gentlemen, this one is juice, smoothie and ice cream mixed together.
Mr. A had spent seven weeks on the rig. Mr. A was horny. Mr. A’s cup was running over. Mr. A had a mud weight of 25.5. And Mr. A had a young lady in town that had promised to kill him with enjoyment whenever he returned.
Let’s take a commercial break and explain the term ‘mud weight’. During drilling, mud is sent into the well hole (the perverts are already getting an idea now of what it means) to maintain the stability of the well and prevent collapse. One of the roughnecks is assigned the duty of announcing on the rig’s P.A. the mud weight going into the hole and mud weight coming out of the hole. So it isn’t uncommon to hear “mud weight going into the hole 10.5 PPG!” As you can see without trying, the announcement just has an implied sexual undertone. Hence it follows that the longer you stay on the rig, the more people teased you about how thick your mud weight must be.
This is where Mr. B comes in. Mr. B no dey ever let us hear word. Whenever he is on the rig, we were regaled with tales of people’s daughters he had impaled with, as he called his Johnny, Okiemute (Sad name, I know). Mr. B lived and breathed for sex. First question he would ask once you mentioned any babe was “Una don fuck?” If your answer is no, then Ptueh! You were a disgrace to Ojukwu and his manhood that lives on. His phone was a hub of nudes which he flaunted to all and sundry willing to see. In all his stories, he wasn’t an Indomie Noodles man. He was the mascot for Ukwa Achinaka FC. He could be heard saying things like “If you see as I give am ehn” or “Na so I hang am for the burglary dey fire am”. Honestly, I felt pity for most of the babes he rolled with. Every good time Mr. B gave you as a lady was onyinye mami water, because na him type go spend N200 wan straff like N2million comot your body.
So, Mr. A’s run-town babe was anticipating her man. After all their dirty talking and chatting, the day of reckoning finally arrived. Mr. A was going home.
**cue in hallelujah chorus here**
If you looked closely at Mr. A’s face when he came to the tea room during tea break to gist with us while waiting for the afternoon helicopter, you would see the letters that spelt ‘Joy’ etched on his forehead. As was the case, he was on his Sunday’s best, even though his path home wouldn’t see him cross anywhere of note that needed excess baffing-up. But it was the culture here. Going home day is the day for Christmas cloth. Fall out the nice shirt and jeans, the ring, the chain, spray the nice perf. Daddy is coming home!
A WhatsApp message entered his phone. He shouted “Jehovah!” and showed it to me. It was a picture of the babe wearing a low-cut, cleavage-showing, body-hugging short gown with a caption: Come home to mummy.
A lone tear fell from my eyes. I had almost 3 weeks left. But chai! I want mummy too na. Somehow the phone kept passing from hand to hand across the tea room. Horny seamen shouted, screamed and hailed Mr. A. Mr. B, even before the picture got to him across the room, was telling Mr. A to summon his inner Sango and ensure that he fires the babe with thunder, lightning and brimstone. He told us stories of how if na him ehn. He kept telling us various things Mr. A should do, until the phone eventually got to him.
And before he could control it, he screamed: “MY SISTER!!!”
The atmosphere thickened like well-made custard. And then laughter rent the air. Mr. B moved over to Mr. A and began begging him, reminding him of how in primary school, he shared his last akara with him when he was hungry.
“My sister na small girl. No spoil am!” he begged.
“Oh, but other people sister’s wey you dey hang for burglary na Goliath, abi? Eh Spiderman, tell me!” someone retorted.
Another made the sound of thunder with his mouth and told him that Mr. A had transformed already. Sango was in the building. More laughter resounded in the room.
An announcement came from the P.A just then. “All outgoing personnel, please proceed to the helicopter waiting room!”
Mr. A bade all of us farewell. Mr. B was begging with his eyes like “Guy plisdundodis” and the rest of us walked back to our workplaces, bellies aching from laughter. Our allotted 30 minutes for teatime was over. It couldn’t have gone any better.
P.S: Mr. B kept trying to call his sister from the rig’s satellite phone. “The number you have dialed is switched off.”
P.P.S: We never found out if Mr. Sango A actually struck and the sister felt the anointing, because for the sake of Mr. B’s dignity and sanity, he never told.
If na you, Charlie, what you ah gonna do?
My name is Uncle Stephen. This is my Diary.