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by Mike Ekunno

Not that it mattered where I sat but the gallery gave a low down on the congregation. My mid-way entry made the gallery my natural habitat. A do-gooder usher downstairs had thought to benefit me with his quixotic cooing: “Got a seat for you here.”

Seat ko, shit ni.[1]Who knows where that’d have had me sandwiched? Between two dudes wearing flowing lace agbadas, my rough denim and white sneakers providing the perfect sore thumb?

Instead I got installed at my favourite perch upstairs with all the options. Jennie stood in the aisle facing me. Did she come with IT? She turned to face the altar as if in telepathic response. There IT was. Jennie wasn’t my First Lady for nothing. What she packed behind was arrogant. Pleasantly so. Whatever the ushers’ uniform for the Sunday, her designer was sure to outfit her bakassi with an obtrusive flair which she carried on 6-inch platforms. And I didn’t complain, really. I could trek behind those curves any distance on the face of planet Ea…

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