For the stories you live through but never stop long enough to wonder at.
He was going to be a major pest on a scorching week day afternoon, thought the lady in green jeans. Observing his fresh, pushy attitude she added a second thought, 'And I bet he has never even studied the letters S-T-A-L-K-E-R'. He looked like a hard worker, smelled of not quite fresh sweat. And what in the heavens was that object beneath his left arm? Okon kept up with his rambles. 'I am Okon, and I want us to be good friends. What is your name?'. Smiling politely with closed lips, the lady in green jeans gave her name once. Then twice. Eventually, she had to spell it. As he bungled through pronouncing the mere three syllables to her name, he persisted. 'Can we become close friends?'. Now, if it had been some fancy bloke she had met at some stuck-up law dinner would she feel so hesitant? She thought not. But then, if that had been the case, there would at least be one or two mutually interesting conversation topics they would exhaust. Before she got bored. She really was in a hurry and had no throw-away time. The price to pay for enjoying a brisk, refreshing walk on the streets of Port Harcourt is obviously a lively ten minute period bandying words with any and everyone scurrying along the same streets as you. This 'Okon' character sported a medium-length machete under his left arm. Its newspaper-sheath failed to completely conceal the blade of an obvious weapon, or farm implement - depending on which angle you viewed this scenario from. The day's tasks called for this random detour to the fresh fruit and veg market and no adventures with a blade-wielder.
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