“Who will fight for you?”
Be unbiased: What will be the first thought coursing through your mind if you see a naked, running young man dashing out from an apartment building.
Out of ‘amebo‘ or righteous inquisition you move close to the scene of this melodrama – a conspicuously beautiful mansion. In the background you hear screaming, shouts and intermittent cursing.
You need to satisfy this intense craving of ameboism. You peer through the window pane and you can see a woman – naked she is. A closer look reveals some torn, probably thorned clothes by her side.
“What evuls!”, you think. Your ears are on “beast mode”. The words are not too clear but you hear something like, “he tried to rape me”. You feel the rage rising. Your enzymes are stimulated to extreme pH levels. You become a born again feminist.
Done and dusted. The evidences are all too clear – J. tried to rape this woman. If not for the remarkably-toned decibel of her voice, this would have been an otherwise gory story.
A voice whispers to you, “But J is a good guy na, how can he do such a thing?”.
“No”, you reply, as you don’t want to back pedal into a blackslidden non-feminist stance.
“But, why was he alone with the woman in the first place?”, you quip. “You can’t trust anybody”, you say. Shaking your head as you move away from the gathering crowd. In your head, you have learnt a lesson of trust.
You go on Facebook, and with astounding bile and vile, you broadcast the ‘misdeeds’ of an unapostolic apostle. “You never know what men are capable of”, you remark. Beastly things, who think with their genitals. Who, for some unknown reason will risk ALL for a well-known stripper.
I choose to believe a stripper over a man who has all but showcase light on many fronts. I choose to believe a loquacious feminine demon, who for the sake of filthy lucre, has collected the accursed mammon.
Where are the evidences? No, there are none. Oh wait, there are pictures – where her distilled boobs, weakened by reason of her lechery and debauchery, peer strangely from within are filthy bras.
Could those pictures be photoshopped? I think not. Why else should I believe the ability of a Computer to super impose one picture on another.
I know what I would do.
I will go on Facebook. I will ‘Follow’, ‘Like’ and ‘Share’ posts about this unfortunate feminine demon. I would warn my friends about a man inly known for his bravery against falsehood. I would choose to believe Jezebel over Elijah. Why not? The power of the vagina can demean the might of Elijah.
Anyone who argues with me, I will point to non-existent facts. Irrefutable non-existing evidences, and scream at the top of my voice of my defence for women.
Oh and again, even though the father of this whore has come out plainly to disavow of his prodigal daughter’s claims, I will choose to believe his prodigal daughter – who sells her body for shillings. It is her body, isn’t it? And yes, her father is not objective. Maybe he has collected a cheque or two.
Friends, even in the bedroom. Even with the evidence of torn clothes, a deed MAY not have been done.
I read the story of a man who was imprisoned for more than 20 years because a girl claimed he raped her – a crime he never committed.
All of his life wasted on allegations based on sentiments.
Who will fight for you when all ‘evidences’ point against you? When, because you wanted to be ‘close’ to that lady, she ‘pins’ pregnancy on you? Yes, there will be a DNA, but that is 12 months of shame.
Who will fight for you when you realise the only evidence you have is God. Where, instead of explanatioms, all you can muster is tears?
Who will fight for you??