I drove into this rugged motor workshop. Most of its mechanics are from the creeks.

So they hailed: Bros done HAMMER! Na tear rubber Bros pilot land for workshop. 

Brossssssss!!!!! Your jungle don mature!!!

The excitement died down. Then the puzzle: But Bros, which work you bring come with this 

747 tear rubber naaa. Nothing for the boiz?

So I smiled and said: I say make I come shake body small for una and download 

kpalakpalas for my guys. This small kpaje na for una to gwinze Tiko and nourish Odeku.

Come and see hailings. The workshop was in an uproarious frenzy, like hooting elephants on the rampage. Spanners in the air.

 Dust stamped into a haze. The Mama-put of the workshop was hurled from her shop, pots, soups and all, right into the centre of the shop. A grand feast.

But then I noticed a huge, burly, fellow. Six foot, seven. Wide as a barn door. Fellow was sleeping on a bench, snoring like a hippo all through the noise and dust.

 So I asked the head mechanic to wake him to join the merriment.

Now this story is really about his answer. It flipped me. Really.

He said: Bros, abeg leave that guy. Na heavy truck him be. Na push we dey push am to start for morning. That fit take two days.

Thereafter, I just waka. 

Written By Ken Tadaferua

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