In a village far far away lived a writer, his name Samson Omusafesafe. He used to write every time and almost on everything he found. He could write on the papers, in books, on tables, on the ground and anywhere he found space to write. Samson Omusafesafe couldn’t do without writing literally writing was a part of him.
Many times when the men of the village went to cultivate their farms and work, Samson omusafesafe stayed home and wrote. He could as well write in other men’s books in their absentia. When the men got back for their farms they found the books written in all over and many used to wonder who wrote in their books.
One day the men organized a village meeting to know who usually wrote in the men’s books. In the meeting they asked “but who writes in our books when we are away?” when everyone in the meeting looked curious and bothered, Samson Omusafesafe looked relaxed and calm –not bothered at all. Everyone got eyes on him and Samson Onusafesafe broke into a song
‘You all don’t know how to write
You all have poor handwritings
You all can’t write in a book cover to cover’
The meeting closed and Samson Omusafesafe was warned about his writing. A few days when the men went to their farms again, Samson Omusafesafe went to their books and wrote and wrote. This went on for many more weeks. The men again called for another meeting to put a stop to this practice though Samson Omusafesafe wasn’t bothered, walked away from the meeting with his chin high.
Samson Omusafesafe continued with the writing every day, then, one day his pen stopped writing. He shook the pen, the pen would not write. He shook the pen several times and still the pen would not write. He shook the Pen again and again but still the pen would not write. Samson Omusafesafe got so furious and for the last time he shook the pen with all his mighty and energy the pen finally wrote but this time it wrote in RED. He cried and called for help but no one would help him.
Samson Omusafesafe later died because he suffered a lot! Though as he died he made a wish in a soft tiny voice “I wish I didn’t use my ink, writing on every…” he died before completing the wish and it was too late for him.
Moral of the story
This story is not actually about writing, a book and a pen, NO! For the quick thinkers you got it right, Yes it’s about sex. I thought I would share it now since we are heading into a festive season well known for all kinds of festivals and happenings. I just wanted to remind you to take of your pen and those who have books, take-care very good care, because STIs and STDs are real!