The "Holy Prostitute"

The supermarket had several partitions that unveiled shelves of goods in their varieties. And the transparent glass doors enabled incoming customers to view these properly stocked varieties in their distinctive categories. These categories were neatly rowed along fine wooden shelves

that were distinguished by polished tile-pavements walked by viewing customers. There were five shelves in all and each of the shelves had over-hanging plywood that introduced the category of goods in a particular row. At the beginning of one of the rows, the word “Detergent” read clearly, alerting the newcomers of the kind in that category. “Wine”, “Stationeries” and other overhead signs, freely hung at the start of the other rows.

Mulbah K. Morlu Jr.

This was Friday, and the weekend attracted many to this boulevard-situated shopping mall. A few years back, a bulk of the shoppers coming to these no-go-zones-for-the-poor were nationals whose ruddy-faces easily exposed their identities as Lebanese businessmen. But many things have now changed and just as the nation now crawled under the gargantuan overweight of a female presidency, so are there rising superstars of style and flamboyance, clandestinely amassing wealth here and there and leaving poor people spellbound, as they mount luxury Lexus and jeeps, disembarking in well-ironed linen suits! Indeed, these contumelious political mix breeds can be seen in every knock and corner of the best malls in town, shopping not because there is need for provisions but because cash is in abundance in the cliché and the storerooms must overflow though garbage lorries soon hurry to dispose “spoiled foods” while princes become beggars in their fathers’ land of abundance.

Amidst the growing shopping spree, one of the officials of government appointed to head the oil company, climbed down a 2007 model jeep, Lexus LX 470 packed right at the entrance of the supermarket. He looked around and was disappointed that all he could see were people who were less human. Such a perception, to him, was especially true if he were matching himself with the amputees and destitute fast-closing in on him, seeking a few pennies for survival.

“You cannot hide from these useless beggars; they are everywhere”, he thought.

The bodyguards could allow no further advances and the oil manager threw out a few five dollars bill to mostly amputees, the “Freedom Fighters” they had armed, drugged, used and left to roam the streets unprotected under the ceiling of the merciless scorching sun without any hope for the future. Without wasting any time, the beggars put up a fight for the few dollars tossed to them. The oil manager laughed in entertainment and majestically marched through the doors of the supermarket, unsurprisingly realizing that a few members of his political regiment were also pushing carts loaded with goods of diversity. He chose a huge cart and headed down the pavement, instantly meeting at crisscross a very familiar friend. The excitement was one of a cachinnation as the two men roared in the aisle, calling each other buddy names in exchange of a kind of jubilating conversation that men engage when they enter their problem-free circle. Willie, the round face, heavy stomached full-figure man, slapped the palm of his old time friend in hand shake and started the conversation.

“Hey Greev, I thought you were still in Amsterdam and…”

“Oh come on Willie, of course you wouldn’t expect me to spend too much time abroad when I’ve to run an oil show here and, you know Madam expects me to deliver to her office on time…”

“Ahh, mama’s boy Greev, so you are still delivering those fat envelopes to madam as you faithfully did during the beginning of the NPF…, oh sorry, I mean during the planning days of the freedom fight…, Willie joked with wild-eyes staring from its aging socket. He did not wait for answers suddenly realizing his buddy’s embarrassment as supermarket attendants glanced once a while at the two men standing in the bend of two aisles.

He quickly changed topic, tapped the oil manager on the shoulder, and left whispers: “Let’s meet at the club tonight” Greev nodded in a manner that suggested his colleague had a kind of machismo over him in given social disciplines. Greev stood for a while and pull his face in a sour twist as though he had just swallowed down a powerful cane juice distilled by inexperienced brewers. For minutes, he appeared as though worried about some secrets about to leak out to the press. Slowly, he lifted his eyes toward a portrait. It was that of a female president loosely hung from a nearby frame in the mall; he burst up into incessant laugher and walked away pulling his rich-laden carriage, taking solace in his newfound perception.

“The eaglet is always untouchable under the shadows of its mother…”

“Greev” had somehow managed to focus on shopping purposes in the supermarket, trying as hard to blank his memory of the last part of the conversation he held with Willie. The words kept coming back to him each time, dragging painful retrospections along and inflicting damages on his mind; “Let’s meet at the club tonight”, Willie had whispered and Greev knew the club and what happens there. He had once been taken there through the accomplice of an old friend and has ever since promised never to repeat the gesture. Of all the years Greev spent in the States, never has he been a guest of such a bizarre bivouac that hosted men with dual features; Serious “political patrons” in the day and sexual vampires in the night. Though Greev had known Willie for a protracted period, it was this clandestine bisexual bar that unraveled his mind about the true nature in his friend. If you are walking into the bar for the first time, and invitation is of course extended based on one’s occupation of certain social status, you would think “Willie” is the next heir to the throne of the devil! He would sit relaxed with Champaign on ice while recruit boys, sometimes girls entertain him in a nasty scene of sodomy of all sorts. These are the memories that kept coming back to Greev. He shook his head and almost shouted to himself that he cannot enjoin himself to that desecrated orgy climate again. Nevertheless, he knew there was a strong bond that held the fellowship together; a bond so strong that it encompassed everything. Here was Greev’s dilemma. Pressures raining down on him could not resist the repugnant habitués of Bob Willie and so, he was set to be at the “Butt Brothers Bar” tonight. Moreover, he would take along his 14 years old young girlfriend…

Meanwhile, Willie continued shopping and came across shelves that hosted books in their kind. There were several of them ranging from politics to poetry, business to bisexuality, and so forth. He picked up a copy of a “Focus on Africa magazine” that talked something about the president being “one of Africa’s most honest females. Interestingly, the smiles on the face of the disguised female tyrant, which was well revealed on the front cover of the magazine, showed how much she loved the praise.” Willie returned the smile; throwing back the book with lack of interest, he whispered, “I don’t need to read about a praise of honesty lavished on Madam.” Moreover, he was right. He had spent many years with her and indubitably knew these were no appraisals but flatteries! To him, the honesty of Madam could only be equated to the honesty of Beelzebub, if at all. Standing there for a while, he whispered again to himself, “let the public find that out for itself…I must keep my job.”

The man Willie, until recently, proved to be one of the choicest and most valuable political commodities of the now ruling cliché. Just a little over a year ago, his nomination to a strategic governmental position did not go down well with many in whose ears the campaign slogans of the President still sounded loudest. She had promised never to place round poles in square holes. Nevertheless, the Willie nomination had changed all that. Not only were round poles now thrown into squared holes, even hexagonal rotten sticks can be found in many squares. However, though a businessperson, he got a first class ticket to administer the affairs of a technical institution! This u-turn tactics by the female political mischief-maker befuddled many. Whatever infatuations Willie employed to bulldoze the fleshy part of the Madam’s iron heart, remain a part of our political puzzle. Nevertheless, his appointment appeared to be a part of a well-prepared indemnity. Indemnity for what? Even Willie himself was surprised at the level of influence he was now exerting in the presidential bedroom. Was he being rewarded for the few campaign posters he had torn off his wall, posters that did not carry Madam’s youth days campaign pictures?

The secret things belong unto the Lord, Willie whispered to himself, citing a portion of the Holy Bible.

As Willie pulled his carriage close to the cashier’s counter, which had already paused the services of the other customers to enable her, tend to the VIP, he took several steps backwards, immediately attracted to a bottle of Hennessey he would not leave behind. Despite the fact that half of the carriage contents were wine products, he still sought more wine. This was an understandable affair. He was going to be at the Butt Brothers Club tonight, which called for the finest wine for obvious reasons.

The Butt Brothers need wine; it helps them enter the strange mood, doing strange things…

It took the cashier almost 15 minutes billing Willie for goods that were mostly wine items. Three other supermarket security guards had helped him load the items onto a separate escort 4x4 jeep, fully air-conditioned. He gave them LD$50.00 in gratitude. The guards bowed in obeisance even though they had expected more than this peanuts. These men are victims of a twisted society; each of them makes LD$650.00 per month providing security protection for VIPs like Willie who shops here regularly. Now that Willie’s car accelerated at top speed, kicking dust in the air, the guards resigned to their posts awaiting Greev, who could be seen from the transparent glass door chatting with a middle-aged full figured lady.

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It was a busy Friday evening and the growing Liberian transport sector complicated everything. Like someone had claimed, “in a few months, Monrovia may have more cars than human beings…” Willie had argued against this opinion when a colleague from The Club had asserted. Now, he agreed as he saw himself sandwiched in an evening traffic jam somewhere around the City Hall. “Monrovia may have more cars…” Willie thought, smiling. He had just realized this statement was half-true and half lie. To him, there was no need to worry. That is why, as minister of a reconstruction institution, he had refused to standardize the municipal roads, and the roughed and badly holed road network will create the balance. Only a super modeled, well-built jeep, like the one Willie now sat in, would survive it.

“There will soon be more spoiled and parked cars than useful ones.”

Willie contemplated these things and saw himself face-to-face with a sad conclusion. When he was a child, only his father and a few others were capable of owning a car. But now, even Forkpa, once a chamber boy in his father’s household, drove a Kia motor. He frowned at this thought and tried to transit his mind to another subject matter. It was a difficult task as horns blared everywhere. The traffic showed no sign of splitting up. Willie was truly getting angry now; he cursed and decided on an alternative route. He crossed his eyes, starring in the rear view mirror. He grabbed the automatic gear with the huge palm of his right hand, slowly pulling it backwards until it dropped to a red inscription that read “R.” he took one more look at the corner he was about to bend. His eyes widened at a sign that said, Taboo Knite Klub. He laughed and lapsed into an involuntary retrospection.

The shadows of the Butt Brothers remain indelible on the inner chamber floors of many social entertainments.

Willie was grateful he had redeemed himself from this recent traffic dilemma. He pressed on the speed with the weight of a 350 lbs that threw the vehicle accelerating at unusual speed. The manufacturers of his vehicle had worked over time providing for him all the luxuries life could afford, including a super-rated digital stereo system. Willie took advantage of this as he slipped in a music disc. He adjusted his seat belt, waking up slightly, and immediately heaping back into his seat, his soul enjoying the soft rhythm of a jazz song by a South African Saxophonist. Jonathan Butler. He hummed parts of the song with which he was well familiar. On top speed, his car crossed a football field that transgressed a mini road between Tubman Boulevard and the Jallah’s Town link. School kids were playing and Willie recognized a boy wearing a jersey that read, George Weah, 14. He hissed his teeth in a way that suggested disdain for the man many saw as the asset of the indigenous community.

Good grace, thank God madam is now working on him…the child of a warrior must not be allowed to grow up…lest he assume the mantle of his father…

Leaving the football field behind, he was now riding before several beauty shops bustling with young girls plaiting hairs of customers that were mostly of their peer group. His car, due to the bad road condition, decelerated at a no speed rate. He cut to the left and was about to accelerate full speed when, out of errors every driver makes, he splashed into a dish, wetting a hair attendant who had just walked out to buy a gel. This was not his first time wetting an individual and, in most cases, he would not stop. Strangely, Willie drove to a stop and disembarked the vehicle, “I’m truly sorry little girl.”

The girl stood shivering, not that she was so annoyed standing in a pool of water rushing down the half naked mini skirt she wore, the imagination that a high-minded self-elevated don would appear so heart-stricken over such miniature, left her exasperated. Willie was walking now in proximity of the girl-child whose face wore a mask of uncertainty as the shadow of his silhouette sent intimidating waves through her spines. A few more steps would bring the two in arms length. And Willie, wearing an Elton John company designed leather soles gray shoes, impeccably dressed in a silk suit, took the steps. The girl-child was beautiful and appeared to have just celebrated her 16^th birthday. Attempting to shake-off the wetness in her mini skirt, she unconsciously lifted the edge of the jeans, revealing an underlying design work of silky-white g-string, which properly fitted her genitals as though aware it was protecting a holy grail from desecration. Willie’s mouth watered, sending clear messages to his psyche and his manhood responded with speed. He reached out for her left hand, holding it rather tightly as if he had just found his bribe he sought for many years. Many things were accumulating fast in the mind of Willie and he knew this was no place to stand for long.

The power of the Butt Brothers Club richly flourishes every time a virgin is initiated… and behold my Virgin Mary! Willie thought in amusement as he approached the car.

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Greev felt the vibration of an object in the pit of his pocket, or he thought he felt something vibrating. He ignored it and reached out for his purse. He had bills to settle and the supermarket attendant waited with expectation. This was not an ordinary buyer. The man about to unveil the contents of his portemonnaie was the manager of a lucrative oil company who knew how to give offerings, though to shakira girls only. And the cashier here was a business partner. They had met in many hotel rooms. However, that was a long time ago and Greev had many female business partners. He took out US$1,300.00 and handed it to the woman he had been talking to in the supermarket’s alleyway. She was huge and stood camouflaged in artificiality. The make-up, lashes, sticks and facial decorations she wore could not conceal her fight against aging. She was well off in her forties and the fifties already had outstretched arms in welcome. The professional woman she is, she had married five times and the coming marriage was going to be her sixth! At last, she would be relieved. Not that this marriage was going to be to a Saint in St Petersburg, she was about to marry a young female, though secretly.

“Your total bill madam is US$750.00, please.” Without any hesitation, she checked the money and did payment as Greev chatted with the Supermarket’s manager in the distance. Having paid the bills, she gave additional US$100.00 to the cashier, acting carefully to carry out Greev’s instructions. The Cashier appreciated with a “thank you very much” and the middle-aged woman smiled back and gave a strange signal with her head as she stared in Greev’s direction.

Greev felt the same vibration in his pocket again. Apologizing to the manager, he stepped aside and dug into his pocket. With haste, he hauled out a T-mobile V-3 Gold cell phone, a product of the Motorola Company he had purchased while striking a secret oil deal in Nigeria. He flipped it open and hurried to the message feature, realizing a new message, a very important message, awaited him. He pressed the select key, now inbox, he clicked open the information and read:

“Abandon everything you may be doing and come immediately to the Butt Brothers meeting place. Our partners in Europe have requested the documents in two days. Come with the woman. It’s Willie.”

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“Hello, I wish to speak with the Minister of Affairs”, came a voice echoing in rough English sounding like one who had spoken Dutch all his life and was now seeking refuge in another language. Willie’s office attendant who drove the escort car did not know what to say to the foreigner at the end of the line. He has never answered this cellular phone before; it was Willie’s exclusive privacy now forgotten in the back seat of his escort car. Willie had just answered a foreign call, stopped his car and walked to the escort car, giving some instructions. The attendant himself was surprised that his boss would forget such a sensitive cellular phone. From the office attendant’s judgment, the foreigner on the line was a Dutchman; his boss had always discussed Dutch things when talking to certain people. “Yes, this is the Minister of Affairs”, the boy pretended, “how may I help you sir?” Without waiting to scrutinize the voice, the Dutchman fired back “I am under pressure for the pictures. I know you are now at the Butt Brothers Club. Sent me the sex videos. It must be you and a young girl. Moreover, remember, anal sex only. Do not keep the Grand Masters waiting; you know the source of your power and the magazine must be out in days while your contribution remains vital. Do not worry about your portfolio; we will not reveal your face. You will message me the video through your phone’s multimedia service. Tonight.” The line dropped and the boy knew his boss has been clandestinely embroiled in a different line of business for money, spiritual power and fame. He closed the mobile phone and thought of what to do next as he drove slowly behind his boss.

Not everyone in business is a businessperson…many are criminals operating under the façade of professional executives.

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It was going to be a quiet Friday evening for little Finda, or she thought it would be. A day before, she had met her bad luck when her only child was hit by a cabinet minister’s vehicle. She still found it difficult to believe all this was happening to her. She was only 12 at the time she gave birth to the boy who now laid in the SOS Clinic awaiting a major operation in a fatal accident. The driver was a man who did not have the remorse to even slow down, talk less of accepting responsibility for nearly disabling a lad who had to help his poverty-stricken mother by trading cold water tied in plastic. She was at the beauty shop during the accident and only got news of it later from bystanders. The driver had fled, but many knew his name. And she remembered it.

The mother, Finda, did not find it easy growing up either as she constantly recounted the painful memories of that fateful day at the Lutheran Church. It was a massacre she will never forget. She still remembers how it all happened. Her father had hurriedly taken her into his arms and tried to seek refuge behind the church pulpit. Armed men had surrounded the church and were emptying their barrels in violent gun shelling at a defenseless people. Amidst the volleying bullets flying everywhere, shouts were heard and dead bodies littered “Mount Zion.” Many human trees in the church were hewed down leaving their children without shield for the future. Finda’s mother now lied in a pool of blood, totally unrecognizable. She had tried to jump out the window and a broken glass cut clean her stomach to the full exposure of her intestines. That is when the father, in utmost perplexity, took Finda in his arms and ran to take cover behind the holy place, the pulpit. As he took to his heels, he could see a portrait of the Lord Jesus with outstretched arms seemingly urging him on. Come unto me…I will give you rest…I am the way…, he reflected the Lord’s voice through the scriptures. His confidence surged and he grew assured that he would make it. He was just a few steps away to safety, to Jesus. Just then, a man wearing a makeshift choir gown emerged from the main doorway carrying something that Finda’s father thought was a cross. It was an AK-48 automatic machine gun. He rushed forward, took a dead aim. He lowered the gun again and walked some more. He was now on the pulpit and the gun was lowered at the back of Finda’s father who was knelt before the huge Jesus portrait, praying with his daughter stocked to his chest. The Lord is my shepherd…, the man prayed, consoling himself in the verses. The gunman cocked the trigger at point blank range. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death….I will fear no evil…for thou art with me… Before he could say the next line, there was a loud sound and Finda thought she felt something hot splashing down her face. She opened her eyes. She had also been praying. At first, she thought what she saw was a properly boiled cream of wheat scattered everywhere on her clothes. In a flash, she felt herself growing cold, the warmth that her father’s tender arms brought her was no longer with her. He had fallen backwards, his head off his shoulders as he fought to exhale in vain, blood rushing out instead. Finda looked in disbelief as her adrenaline pumped blood faster than ever. She fought to wipe the whitish cream-like substance from her ragged dress. When she realized it was her father’s scattered brains, she screamed.

The jeep Willie drove moved in a steady path for minutes. “Are you alright?” Willie inquired, sensing that Finda’s face flooded with tears. “You do not need to be in tears, darling…” He wasn’t aware that it was her parents’ murder that weighed on her greatly. “After tonight, you will never go back to that filthy beauty shop again. I will help you as I teach you a new way of decent living…” Finda nodded in expectation not too sure what to expect. She did not even know if she should trust such a man who has managed to convince her to follow him only because he was sorry for wetting her. According to him, he wanted to help her with some money but had expended almost everything during shopping. In addition, he now wanted her to follow for a delivery of some kind; give her some cash, change her rag, deck herself in a fashion of some kind, pay the bills, all because he was “sorry for splashing water on her.” An offer seemingly provided on a silver platter! No sweat. Finda felt lucky and accepted the invitation. Nevertheless, who would turn down such seeming reciprocity!

The car drove and came to a slowness now. The escort car had detoured a long time ago and may have offloaded its cargo, Willie imagined. He branched off the main road onto the driveway that led to his home. He accelerated a little, coming to a dead stop as a huge gate flew open by anxious security guards. He looked right at Finda, admiring her thighs and the slightly revealed panties that flashed as she tried disembarking at his gesticulation. He smiled. Tonight will be good. Welcome to the Butt Brothers Club, he said in his heart. Finda got down. She was afraid as they walked into the fence housing the secret cult group called Butt Brothers. It was a cult based on the ancient practice of one of the world’s most flamboyant homosexuals, Leonardo Da Vinci. He was a homosexual who understood how to mystify everything in the expression of his flamboyant and yet, detested lifestyle. Most of his artworks pointed to his epicurean tendencies. For example, a careful scrutiny of the Mona Lisa surprisingly reveals it is neither male nor female. Meaning, in the world of Da Vinci, there are neither males nor females. To him, the simplest expression of this doctrine is that a man is as much a sexual commodity in the anus as a woman is, whether in the anus or the genital. Hence, to men like Da Vinci, Marie De Saint-Clair, Jeanne De Bar, etc, there is another world that many don’t see. And that world has now become Willie’s world. A world of sexual pleasure, experienced in the practice of anal sex.

By this time, Willie and his captive-girl had reached mid-way in a yard already jammed with many cars. They were all here for the party. It would be an all night desecrating orgy affairs with Willie presiding as Grand Master. Greev and the woman with whom he talked in the supermarket had their cars parked, too. Other vehicles were also in full view. Notable were the cars of the woman who runs our monetary policies, the Gender Affairs boss, a top Special Security personnel, and that of a top court administrator. They all had their flashy cars lined up for the all night gay game, a game that brought together leaders in a satanic playboy circus.

Finda, a circumstantial innocent victim who has just unknowingly walked into a den of sexual lions, was about to experience the most brutal form of nasty lesbianism and damaging anal sex initiation in a country that prosecutes only the underprivileged for crimes whilst the higher-ups gain the defense of a female president.

Coming soon:

THE HOLY PROSTITUTE II

-INSIDE THE BUTT BROTHERS CLUB

Warning: for readers above 18