I am really worried because just the other night I did not really enjoy Rosco’s big thing inside me. For the first time I was happy he finished quickly and got off me. Immediately after, I went and threw up beside one of the parked buses where he will not see me. What could have caused this tummy upset and feeling of nausea? And what is this ball-like thing growing inside my stomach? As I pondered over this, my attention was drawn back to the events unfolding beside me by that Lacasera woman.

She has finally stripped herself bare and her breasts are really to die for! So round and succulent looking and sitting high up on her chest. At the moment they are bouncing up and down. She seems to be doing a funny dance of some sort and singing out loudly. By now there is a large and excited crowd. I could feel their energy in the air. I can hear people giving different analysis of her obvious state.

Suddenly, a shrill shout breaks through the already loud fracas “Mulika! Mulika! Help me! ” an older woman with mismatched clothes cries and runs forward. She unties one of the many wrappers she has on and one of those men that smoke Indian hemp collects the wrapper from her. He makes a loud whistling sound and three other boys join him. He gives an order which I can not hear and they all pounce on Mulika.

Mulika!what a name. It does not sound as sweet as mine though nobody has called me by my name in a long time and especially not around here. The woman who I presume to be Mulika’s mother  just weeps non-stop, holding her head in her hands and calling God’s name. She should stop calling that name in vain after all that is what the Holy book tells us.

The boys finally overpower Mulika after much drama. They have fondled those juicy breasts all in the bid of holding her down. They tie her up with a rope that seems to have come from nowhere. I can hear the short, stumpy one with bloodshot eyes ask the mother “hope you know how much you go pay?” the woman nods her head sadly still weeping profusely. The tears just flow non-stop like a public tap.

The Mulika girl is still singing and wriggling on the floor. By now her drinks are scattered all over the ground. Some little boys and a few older ones pick the bottles and scurry away. The crowd starts to thin out as the boys carry her tightly bound and follow the woman into the streets.

I feel a pang of pity for her. What a horrible thing to go mad like that. I go back into my house as I now notice the scorching sun. Thank God I am not a mad woman.