People don’t understand the perils of walking the streets of London sometimes. It may not be dangerous but there are all sorts of nuisances on the streets, my precious. I’m convinced I’ve met most of them.
So there I was walking home along the King’s Road, bopping along to Roachford and contemplating what I was going to have for dinner when a car pulls up. Used to people being lost and being a helpful local busybody I approached said car, crouch and , behold a brother.
I ask him if he’s lost and this is the conversation that ensued:
Driver: I’ve seen you on here a few times. Can I ask where you’re from?
Driver: I’m just asking
Me: South Africa
Driver: Ah! I knew it! Sawubona, I’m from Nigeria.
At this point I realise that it’s a come on and I take a step back. Why me? I’m tired from work!
Driver: So what’s your name? I’m Neville
I imagine it and, no, I can’t see myself getting it on with a Neville. Or a Orville.
Driver: We should exchange numbers. Give me your number and we can meet up
Me: Are you local?
Me: Bye, Neville
Driver: Wait, I,
I go back to my music and minutes later he’s driving past me waving good naturedly. I watched as Neville probably made it home to the unsuspecting bosom of this wife.
Here’s the thing, are we still doing the drive by scrub asking? Is this still a thing because I beg we lose it with bandannas tied at the front tupac style and dances where guys masturbated on you from behind. Not everything from the 90s was good. Is this a way to pick up women though?
Anyway, never trust a man that approaches you from behind. They’re likely to stab you in the backside with their penis. Sigh, I bless and curse these African curves
© Chelsea Black