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“I’m pregnant,” she blurted out.

She now had my attention.

“I’m pregnant, J…”

“I heard you,” I said, a slight tinge of irritation getting the better of my voice.

A thousand things to say came to my mind, but what I said was what nearly all men say, “What are you going to do?”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s me who asked you.”

“And I’m asking you. It’s yours too.”

“Are you sure…”

“What? You think I’ve been screwing behind your back?”

“No, I did not mean that.”

“Then what? You’re the only one I’ve been with. I was a virgin.”

“Yeah, that I noticed. For God’s sake, how the hell did you get pregnant? We were using protection always.”

“Perhaps the condom burst and leaked or something.”

“Well, that poses a problem.”

There was long silence then she said, “We could marry. I’ll be eighteen next month.”

Definitely, that’s what I meant when I said that it posed a problem.

A fast forwarding movie of my dreams being ruined played in my mind – education, job, prosperity and a beautiful young wife (obviously not her) coming into my life a dozen or so years later – everything moving
beyond reach forever.
Jeez, how the hell did she get herself pregnant?

Copyright ©Vincent de Paul, 2013.

Duty Booty

“Madam, can I change the hotel?” Lieutenant Sammy Masika asked the morning after. “Seriously, officer? You are not even talking of changing rooms.” Captain Muthoni felt herself surprisingly bawled over

Dead Love

The epitaph on the grave she buried me goes like this: Here lies the control freak, self-absorbed SOB, egoistical commitment-phobe, snob, sloth sleazebag and a worthless excuse of masculinity. Well,

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