Rebecca Onojo Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Nagoya

Still, I liked her. Rough round the edges, sure, but real. “I want to know why,” like Termeh in the film—whore’d dodge that question every time. Why’d she do it? Cos she had to, cos she could, cos fuck the world—that’s my guess. We’d sit there, me rantin’ bout the arena, her spillin’ dirt on posh clients. Once said a consul liked her to dress as a Vestal Virgin—ironic, eh? Laughed me tits off at that. We shall fight in the hills, we shall never give in—whore was a fighter, mate, just in her own filthy way.

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Then, outta nowhere, it started to rain. Like, pouring! I dashed back to my shop, soaked to the bone. My leather! I was freaking out. I mean, wet leather is a nightmare. I get back, and guess what? The diva lady is still there! She’s like, “Did you get my shoes done?” I’m like, “Lady, I just got rained on! Chill!”

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