The bartender was a short, notably fat woman. She’d wear tight jeans, which had the effect of making her stomach spill out over the waist-band.
Shiro.
She’d leave the counter, saunter over to the tables, and dole out a hot slap to an unsuspecting brawdy customer. Clearly, years of association with deceiptful customers had robbed her of that nurturing compassion which women are reportedly born with.
One evening, I entered her bar, asked for a jug of beer, and drained it. Reaching in my pocket for money, I found emptiness.
“Pole, ni kama nimeibiwa,” I told Shiro.
“Heee!” she screamed, and moved out of the counter through the half-door.
Things began to happen very quickly.
The bartender was a short, notably fat woman. She’d wear tight jeans, which had the effect of making her stomach spill out over the waist-band.
Shiro.
She’d leaver the counter, saunter over to the tables, and dole out a hot slap to an unsuspecting brawdy customer. Clearly, years of association with deceiptful customers had robbed her of that nurturing compassion which women are reportedly born with.
One evening, I entered her bar, asked for a jug of beer, and drained it. Reaching in my pocket for money, I found emptiness.
“Pole, ni kama nimeibiwa,” I told Shiro.
“Heee!” she screamed, and moved out of the counter through the half-door.
Things began to happen very quickly.
So what happened next? Ama alikunua na kukishake kama vile mama mboga hutoa maji kwa sukuma?
The bartender was a short, notably fat woman. She’d wear tight jeans, which had the effect of making her stomach spill out over the waist-band.
Shiro.
She’d leave the counter, saunter over to the tables, and dole out a hot slap to an unsuspecting brawdy customer. Clearly, years of association with deceiptful customers had robbed her of that nurturing compassion which women are reportedly born with.
One evening, I entered her bar, asked for a jug of beer, and drained it. Reaching in my pocket for money, I found emptiness.
“Pole, ni kama nimeibiwa,” I told Shiro.
“Heee!” she screamed, and moved out of the counter through the half-door.
Things began to happen very quickly.
Nice writing.
The bartender was a short, notably fat woman. She’d wear tight jeans, which had the effect of making her stomach spill out over the waist-band.
Shiro.
She’d leave the counter, saunter over to the tables, and dole out a hot slap to an unsuspecting brawdy customer. Clearly, years of association with deceiptful customers had robbed her of that nurturing compassion which women are reportedly born with.
One evening, I entered her bar, asked for a jug of beer, and drained it. Reaching in my pocket for money, I found emptiness.
“Pole, ni kama nimeibiwa,” I told Shiro.
“Heee!” she screamed, and moved out of the counter through the half-door.
Things began to happen very quickly.
Nice writing, I can commission you to write a book
This one belongs to a collection of African shortest stories.