For Jeans | Flash Fiction | Victory Ibobo

They sauntered into the gloom of the desert cave. The blood splatters on the ground made him caress the dagger by his side. Whatever valuable this strange man had found, it certainly wasn’t worth Musa’s life. They found the box with the tarpaulin cover.

“It is there.” The man told Musa, his voice quavering with the timbre of rattling corks.

“Open it.” Musa said.

He drew the tarpaulin away and Musa nearly had a heart attack.

For there in the cage, naked from the head down, vagina splayed in her cowering position, was the first woman Musa had seen in thirty-eight years.


“Jeans and Cigarettes! Jeans and Cigarettes!” Musa called from his shop in the desert city. “Winter’s coming. Jeans and Cigarettes!”

Toju, his apprentice, brought him his water ration in a plastic coca-cola cork. Musa swished the water in his mouth and groped Toju’s ass as he walked away.

“Not now.” He chided his stiffening cock.

He saw the man in the distance. Timid in his gait as he came. His eyes set on the cigarette shop. Musa knew his type.

They came with nothing worthwhile to trade, like iPhones and laptops that didn’t work. The resultant EMP from the nuclear war had fried all electronics. Compared to them, Musa preferred yams or flesh.

And flesh of a rare kind was what the man claimed to have trapped in the desert.


Apart from frying electronics and slowing the earth’s rotation enough to cause six months of winter in Naija when it wasn’t scorching hot, the nukes’ radiation was weakening the X-chromosome in the human DNA. And women had all but gone extinct.

Musa saw the big opportunity presented before him. Apart from sweet carnal pleasures, the vagina offered immortality through progeny. His sole progeny.

He whirled around, dagger drawn, and found himself facing a gun barrel.

“Don’t be hasty.” The man said. “She’s my daughter and my wife is dead. If we must survive, we need your jeans. Fuck her or not, your choice, but friend, we will have your jeans.”

The choice was easy enough.

Musa’s clothes flew off and allahu akbar, his penis sank into his first pussy since forever.

Four rushed thrusts, then release. Musa climaxed like a god.


The girl must have come too. Why else was she biting his ear?

Musa screamed, flesh ripping apart as she bit his ear off.

“E don pour?” The man asked.

“Yes daddy.”

Musa yelped as his own dagger tore through his chest.

Non-existence followed.

“I told you, no raw meat.” The man said. “Spit it out.”

She did.

“See?” He dangled Musa’s innards he’d dug out. “Better cooked.”

“Keep your hips up.” He told her and nodded as she lay flat on her back, hips raised.

Winter might require meat and Jeans, but the future needed babies.

About the writer 

Victory Ibobo when not being Hayzard Solum Chi-olorun (his celeb stalking self on facebook) writes pieces of genre fiction with the hopes of reaching would-be-readerholics who just want to be entertained beyond the confines of strait literary fiction.

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