The Designer Whore

May 22, 2009


Disclaimer – This is a true story that may have been tweaked a little OR might be completely true OR not BUT don’t get too excited ’cause it’s not about you OR someone you know…I bet you think it’d about you…dontchu, dontchu, dontchu…BUT it’s not Or is it? …enjoy:)

It was not a fateful day; just a day that I would come to remember. I had just turned 18 a couple of months back. The stench of freedom still lingered on me and would for a while. 18; finally I can walk up to the bodega counter and ask for some new ports. No more having Larry buy my sticks. I was grown and I was in a country that acknowledged this. It was August, hot and humid. Kids were out on the street splashing water from the fire hydrant and made a mess of the side walk. There is something about summer that irks me on one hand and pleases me on the other. Harlem is a long way from home. Home is calmer, at least my neck of the woods. I walked past Harlem Hospital northbound towards 140th when I saw him; the designer whore. He was decked in Gucci, Armani, Lacoste and more, a complete mishmash, but I was drawn. He walked up to me and I knew then that it was the beginning of an interesting relationship.

We started kicking it from time to time. When I met him his girlfriend had kicked him out and little wonder why. He just wasn’t. He wasn’t good looking; we never had much to talk about, he couldn’t hold a job for long, he complained about everything BUT he could make a mean ogbono soup and I could work with that. It was a striving relationship because it strived on nothing in particular. He had big dreams about money, cars and designer clothes.  We kicked and pushed for a while…till we became cool enough to coast and pick up where we left off.  And so we left off – I needed to go home and he need to do whatever it was that he did to live his dream.  

The whore – a name I choose to call him for all intensive purposes – called me one day. He needed a favor. He had to get out of town for a “project” and he needed me to help pick his laptop from the repair shop. He would do it himself but the store would be closed by the time he gets back into the city. Cool…what are friends for? …*silence*… “we are friends right?”.…a dry laugh hung on the other end of the line while the inflection in my question trickled off as I took down the information to the shop. Later on I went to the shop with the information that I jotted down… “I’m here to pick up a laptop for …” I sat and I waited.  “Miss, can you come with us please?” two officers beckoned – they had walked in a couple of minutes before. I walked towards them. The female officer started “Miss,  who are you here to pick up a laptop for?”  —  Turns out that the laptop was stolen and I was used as bait to pick it up. Akoba wo le leyi naa? There is no point cursing the day I met him, the issue at hand is how I can get out of this mess. I’m 18 and old enough to be trialed as an adult…though clueless as to what I will be trialed for and if I will be charged. Freedom wasn’t appealing anymore.

Officer: “We need you to corporate with us”.

Me : “Yes officers I’m ready to help out with whatever you want?”



To God be the glory

Watch out for part 2