BLABBERMOUTH: Desperate times call for desperate measures

 

WHAT is this that we hear about this other old lady, assisting young women to get male partners of their choice, as well as boost their business endeavours?

Just when Blabber thought he has seen it all, boom, there is a new development in our beloved city in the form of a female n’anga that is being consulted by some women in the city, especially the rich and the famous.

The old lady resides in that other high density suburb whose name is derived from an old traditional leadership, and her place is located in that other street, whose name has something to do with a mountain that belongs to rock rabbits.

Word reaching Blabber is that some desperate women have been flocking this neighbourhood in a desperate bid to get assistance from this old lady.

Indeed, some of them have been assisted, at least judging by the type of cars they are now driving and partners they suddenly fall in love with.

After all, Blabber is watching every step.

Soon and very soon, Yours Truly will actually expose each and every one of her clients so that all and sundry know that all that glitters is not gold.

In the same vein, Blabber is reliably informed that this other city socialite, who once made a fortune and later went broke, is back on the fast lane.

 

I mean this other pint-sized fella, who once delved in borehole drilling business, before he lost his marbles and started mixing and mingling with street urchins.

The boy, when things got worse for him, had no choice, but to return home in that other densely populated suburb on the periphery of the city.

Gentle reader, we all saw him as he went through very difficult times, and also witnessed how he would usually go on tirades, naming and blaming each and every one of his former business partners and friends for his sudden downfall.

Word reaching Blabber is that the boy is financially back on his feet, and things have greatly improved for him.

However, the sad thing is that he openly tells anyone and everyone who cares to listen that he had no choice, but to consult a traditional healer to find his way back into the game.

The n’anga, according to our dear borehole drilling fella, is said to be located in that other small farming town that has always been known for such larger than life spiritual shenanigans.

 

Such is the life we live gentle reader, desperate times, call for desperate measures.

I rest my case!