Musings, Short Fiction

Busola Orange Juice.

The emptied bottles of this drink are labelled by the use of strips of white exercise-book paper cellotaped to used eva water bottles. Handwritten with a fading Bic in overt cursive is “Busola Orange Juice”. Those who have bought and tasted of this juice say the girl who sold it to them was a slim thing of about twelve. She is blacker than wet roads and too quiet for their liking. The men who tried to touch her inappropriately as she bent down to pick up the juice, say their hands had barely come close to her waist or yansh when they felt a sense of doom lift their stomachs. It was, they say, as if their entire beings were warning them that they were about to put their hand inside a pit of snakes. One woman who thought Busola beautiful enough to be her housegirl had put her palm on her shoulder and experienced the feeling of leaning too far into an empty well. Busola sold her curious drink to exactly a score of Lagosians.

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