I met a foxy lady at the concert. Her skin was well fed with melanin, her puffy afro glistened with coconut oil, her face was clear coated and featured a pearly smile, she was a very familiar piece of art.

She was performing Miriam Makeba’s Pata Pata and as she amped the performance, the sound of her swirling hips impregnated the room, rewarding my libido and, at that instant, I unhesitatingly fell in love with her arousing silhouette against the dimming light. Her unkempt hands kept stroking the mic lovingly and every now and then she smirked at her audience. The performance was horribly pleasing.

She was a terrible singer and I tried to hide away the fact that her dreadful voice emptied the room, and all my companionless self could focus on was the immaculate pirouette performance on stage. Eventually, the instruments rested and she came off stage. She was rather an aloof woman, cold and boorish, complacent. I leapt at the chance of conversing with her and at the moment of our mutual gaze, her comely and breathtaking eyes pierced through my ribcage to where my dead heart was situated, and instantly rejuvenated it. It was then that I praised and compared her singing to the melodies of a canary and by the look on her face I knew that she knew that she would end up in my bed.

At the pearly light of early morning I was awakened by a cacophony of rumbling and scraping sounds of my old bakkie revving. As I turned to where her full-bosomed body had lain placidly two half hours ago, I was only caught by her oriental perfume that nicely fragranced my soiled sheets. As my eyes searched across the room for her, I was stunned by the absence of my safe box and all the valuable furniture adorning my one-bedroomed flat. The only thing lying by my bedside was a clumsily penned note.

Still artless and naive as always, nice meeting you again, Ris.
Love, Aurora.
And the bakkie disappeared.

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