Potiphar’s Wife

You had gotten an ‘F’ again. You stagger away from the notice board. This is your fourth ‘F’ this semester. The first you had, you ran to your fellowship’s secretariat and almost knocked down the rusted door. You cried before the fellowship’s president and he told you, God is alive.

So He’s now a magician eh?

You got the second one. You forced control on yourself. The third one, you cried before the altar in the chapel, reminding God of His promises to the people of Israel in the Bible. You had probably forgotten that while Chike and Bimbo, your group mates, read you were walking about looking for laptops to borrow and films to watch.

Beggar!

You have gotten the fourth one now and almost tumble down your department’s balcony. Your father’s sad face plagues you. Your mother is dead otherwise, she would not hug you. Nor would she kill you a chicken.

You have to rectify this. Through the back of course! So you enter her office.

She is called Madam Potiphar for a reason. She is about sixty years old. Her body is like a humanoid cluster of fish bones and the thick make-up she wears makes her look like Jezebel’s grandmother. You know what you have to do. She has the power to reverse your ‘F’s’. So you blurt out your proposal ignoring flatly the voice telling you, where are you keeping God?

See you at Hecate Hotel by 6. pm, she tells you with a wink.

You leave her office sick with the prospect of what you are about to do.

After that night, you would confirm that she was wholly made of fish bones. It would not take long for a new result sheet to be pasted. You would walk away from the notice board nursing the pain in your organ. Where once weak ‘F’s’ had stood, strong ‘A’s’ would stand smiling back at you. You would confirm that she is indeed Potiphar’s wife.

Then two weeks later you would be in great pain. You would rush to the Medical center.

What happened?

Gonorrhea!


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