By Kio Amachree
I was watching our compatriot, the sellout Kemi Badenoch, speaking in Parliament, talking with that phony upper-class British accent she has adopted to fit in. When I arrived in England from New York at the age of eight in 1965, I had a very pronounced American accent, which my housemaster assured me would be gone after two weeks at Holmewood. It was, and I have never been able to get it back. It takes vodka and wine, but I no longer drink, so… I digress.
As I was saying, I was watching the sellout of sellouts, Kemi, speaking, and I noticed that she has a real Nigerian woman’s backside. Only black women have that kind of round backside, and for all her attempts to fit in and be white, the backside was giving her away. I noticed that her male colleagues in the House were glued to this Nigerian backside. Poor Kemi, for all her effort to be white, was the slave of her Nigerian backside—big and firm, nice to the eye.
She kept talking, oblivious to the fact that the men behind her were eying her rear end with lust. Her braids looked in need of work, with a slip-up here and there when her Nigerian accent broke out of jail and made her sound Lagosian, Naija African. I started to laugh, wondering how her English husband was able to manage her backside, my mind making up scenarios of them in bed together—him trying to get her to sound Nigerian while she insisted she was now from Essex. I started laughing to myself, and my dog barked in approval, his eyes glued on Auntie Kemi’s rear end.
I called Nigeria. End of story.
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