Warri Boiz?

Warri Boiz?

"Bros nor dey point me anyhow o. As I dey here ehn, head boil o, I nor get joy o"
    That scrupling niggle was the scion of the pressure laden on his lukewarm stoicism. Those phrases ambled out his glottis naked: the intonation and stress placements were sagged beneath the consciousness of eloquencemy. None could think an ant swallowing a lioness, hundred-to-one. But this ant had not only  swallowed the lioness, but alongside all her cubs. Don't slip up sell shorting a restless romper : Let alone a Warri one.
     The subject stood still, measuring the path with his gaze, as the shaver precipitately jerked his consciousness into motion, leaving the annoying man to make meaning out of the eclipse of emotions that'd just sunk his patience.
     Waves of thoughts ripple, rumbling in his medula ken, as he stick, toughing his gaze out, till optics strayed him of the shaver's etching, as he merged with the beckoning trail between a two face-me-I-jab-you apartments.
    Thoughts in frustrating regalia mocked his postpubescence. How could a seven years old boy looked him in the physiognomy, spitting those rude clauses into the phase of his manhood? How could he? What guts had mated thus with him that'd had him conceived indifference, not even only constrained to words, but also enthroned on the multitudinous conduct of If-you-like-kill-yourself. He wouldn't take that, he swore.
     "Abonogah, Kon! Yesterday, I yarn ele you one sey ma'e you mit Osare, colle' Figo ma'e I use control small thing chop, but you Japa. You ehn! "
     Twasn't more than that. That was all. He hadn't ignited the motion of his glottis farther. That was the father that'd donated the sperm of syllables into the mother of the fingers he'd pointed, which after conception had given birth to that shaver's response.
     Perhaps, the life of the romper's action and response were made living souls by the breath given by his father's hatred for him. Perhaps, because he'd gone ahead of the boy's father fortnight ago to claim ownership of the palm wine Jar hung at the entrance of Mma Rukewe's joint. Sincerely, he couldn't puzzle out. All he could agree with his battered instinct was to with jerking spin-off visit the boy's father now and have all panned out: as-he-dey-hot.
     He tucked his frowning leather belt into the laughing strap - to nuzzle there at least for the meantime. His larynx was itching his soles for locomotion. He looked behind, and realised he was occupying the topographical mise en scéne where he'd earlier caught Odion and Tega going and coming out of the holy temple. He dumped that thought immediately it sprung at him. He had to. He quickly reached for his consciousness, girded his lips in soothing syllables, adjusted his Smiling T-shirt in case he accosted his crush, raised his capitulum toward the path the boy had taken, then edged his heart toward the sought track: to have his heart in his mouth.
      19:02:15:13:56

Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. Ancestral Story. Warri Boiz?