The Kiss of Turd

Mia Tagoe’s eyes were like the night’s sky, wide and starry in the warm moonlight glow. Her skin, translucent, glistened with mosquito repellent and shea butter to ward of the nocturnal insects and the dry force of the northeast trade winds. The man standing in front of her, Kobby, was exactly how she liked her coffee: tall, black, no sugar, no cream and if she played her coy cards right, she would be able to claim him like she drank her coffee: hot and fast.

Their night was about to take its final bow but they bargained for an encore, lingering outside the restaurant’s premises a little longer in a comfortable silence. Then he leaned in and cupped her face and Mia was overcome with excitement. She thanked the entire cast and crew of every 90s romance movie she had ever watched. She definitely knew what came next. He stared intensely into her brown eyes and moved further closer. Like it was an awards night and she had just come away with a coveted statue, Mia subsequently thanked God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit. Oh, how He had come through for her like an epipen to an allergy victim. How many intercessory prayers had she recited the same prayer? She had forgone congregational prayers for the nation, continued peace and for the church’s organist, Mrs. Amissah, who had been recently hospitalized after the ancient dilapidated organ had decided it was enough, played its last chord and promptly toppled on her. Instead, Mia favored steadfastly praying for Kobby to notice and consequently court her.
His face was merely an inch from hers; she could detail every contour and fading acne scar on his perfectly symmetrical face. When his lips touched her nose in anticipation for the final destination, Mia felt a sudden jolt shake her to the core.
But this jolt was different from the ones described by damsels in novels and movies, that shock of blissful awareness. No. The type of jolt Mia felt was the one people should only experience in close proximity to a toilet, preferably in the comfort of their own homes. It felt as if a dozen manic chefs with faux French accents were having an intense cook off in her stomach. There was a lot of chopping, churning and overheating, the latter of which was causing Mia’s sweat glands to work overtime. She knew exactly what the French chefs were cooking: the beans stew she shouldn’t have had the previous night. The beans stew that suspiciously looked like horse manure with chunks of corn bits in it. It was a different shade of brown, smelt inedible and was sold by a woman who looked dangerously unhygienic but it was cheap and sometimes when poverty strikes, you make hasty unreasonable decisions like putting too much faith in your immune system.

Another inch closer and Mia could now smell every spice used to season the tilapia Kobby had for dinner. It was a heavenly smell mixed with something minty and fruity. While trying to decipher what flavor of breath mint Kobby had swirling in his mouth, there was another jolt, stronger than the previous one that almost had her buckling to the ground. Cursing silently, Mia wondered why situations like this were not taught in schools. What does one do when she needs to defecate midway into a kiss from a potential soul mate? She found her answer when the third jolt hit. When the anal kegels fail to work and your stomach starts groaning louder than a toddler who needs to be put on antidepressants, you follow these steps:
1. Break away
2. Avoid said potential soul mate’s lips no matter how tempting
3. Make up an excuse of needing to use the ladies room to “freshen up”
4. Power penguin walk to the ladies room like a pregnant woman in her third trimester.

They say Mia spent 37 minutes 18 seconds in the restroom, the longest any customer in the restaurant has ever spent. The waiters at the restaurant would know this because they had a distasteful habit of tracking the time and duration customers spent in the restroom and betting on whether they peed or took a dump. Mia would never be able to confirm or deny the time stipulated. All she knew was that had she thought she could get away with a quick squat, drop and go, she would be gravely mistaken for she experienced one of the most violent shits known to mankind. It was the kind of shit that had you holding on to the toilet seat, the water tank and air for dear life. The kind that made you unpleasantly aware that it is very possible to die from pooping. The kind that made you weak afterwards and rendered your legs useless as if you’ve just ran a 10k marathon without any prior training. You try to stand but your legs give out and you end up sprawled on the cold ceramic tiled floor which was where Mia was found after 37 minutes 18 seconds. She was found face down, butt cheeks facing the ceiling with a dribble of fresh brown faeces running down the back of her thighs like an extra layer of skin. As Mia, destitute, pale and smelling like an abattoir, was stretchered away into a waiting ambulance in full view of the other diners and a baffled looking Kobby, she thought about Mrs. Amissah, the church organist. Maybe she should have spared a prayer for her.

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