He could eat anything

He could eat anything, just about anything, “as long as it came in a plate,” he’d always say.

He once ate bowl of spaghetti meant for four. He’d probably have eaten more “if he was in the mood,” he had said that day.

He ate a full roast, peppered turkey, once in an eating competition. They asked for a victory speech. “Is that all you’ve got?” was all he said.

He had tried every combo in East London but now he was faced with the biggest thing he could swallow.Back home in Nigeria, he was standing before some enforcers of a ruthless division of the Nigerian Police Force, the MOPOL, the Mobile Police.

The meal was too great to chew, and worse, too late.

He had made the meal himself and offered it to them, and now he had to swallow it, or he would spend a night or two with criminals and equally ruthless mosquitoes.

Just six words long he had served them which he couldn’t take back.

“You all are full of shit,” he had simply said.