“I’m Usually Inspired by Everything” – Interview with Agbai Ematerry Chinonso

“I’m Usually Inspired by Everything” – Interview with Agbai Ematerry Chinonso

Daniel Ogba

TABLE TALK

“I’m Usually Inspired by Everything”— Interview with Agbai Ematerry Chinonso

Kreative Diadem is known for its Annual Creative Writing Contest, demonstrating our commitment to young writers’ literary growth across Africa and beyond.  We recently chatted with last year’s flash fiction winner—Agbai Emmaterry. Enjoy!

Agbai writes for fun. That’s the core of her writing. She loves writing without the pressure of commercializing it because she begins to worry and already worries enough about people taking a positive interest in what she writes. She finds herself comfortable writing stories that show the dramatic facets of life. Stories that point out both the good and bad parts of humanity, but in reading – she is a sucker for romance.

Kreative Diadem: Who is Agbai? Tell us briefly about yourself.

Agbai: I am a final year student of law at the University of Ilorin. My only talent has to be writing, so it has all the passion I have to offer. But it’s something I genuinely enjoy, right next to sleeping.

Agbai Ematerry Chinonso

Winner of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Contest (Flash Fiction Category)

KD: When did you first discover your passion for writing, what inspired you?

Agbai: I have no idea what inspired me or when I discovered it. It’s something I’ve always done as far back as I can remember. I have so many uncompleted “books” from my childhood that I decided to write only short stories. I’m usually inspired by everything, from what I eat to things I watch, hear or see.

KD: What challenges do you face as a writer in a developing country like Nigeria? What steps do you take to overcome them?

Agbai: Well, most importantly, it is money. It takes a certain skill and level of writing for a person to make writing their full-time job with a consistent inflow of substantial cash. While this is a similar occurrence worldwide, it is often heightened by the nature of our country. So, the only way to combat it is to work at multiple income streams while developing your craft to be worth more.

KD: Who are some of the literary figures that inspire you/you look up to?

Agbai: I admire multiple writers, but two that come to mind right now (internationally) are Sidney Sheldon and Amy Harmon. Sidney Sheldon is a popular author with various thrillers to his name. While Amy Harmon is also a notable writer in the genre of romance. Their use of words and storylines always has me hooked and envious, making me want to be better.

Tons of African writers are amazing, Chimamanda, Bolu Babalola, Chiemeka Garricks, and more are always able to strike a chord with relatable stories that leave you wanting more.

 

“I always say I want to write something that provokes emotion, something that could be a topic of conversation amongst people that others recommend. An anthology of such short stories is one goal I would like to achieve.

KD: In 2021, you won first prize in the flash fiction category of Kreative Diadem’s annual writing contest. How did you feel about winning?

Agbai: Oh, I was quiet for a while. I didn’t even tell anyone. But I was excited and happy and grateful. So, I quietly soaked in the knowledge that I had won, grinning internally. Then when I was satisfied with my private celebration, I eagerly shared it with my loved ones.

KD: Let’s get down to your flash fiction. What was the inspiration behind A MATCHING PAIR? Was there a specific message you intended to pass along to your readers?

Agbai: My inspiration was Twitter. There was a point when paternity tests were trending. With the competition in mind and me looking for a story idea, it just stuck and wouldn’t go away, so I just developed on it. There was no specific message. I just wanted to tell a story of how two bad people deserve each other.

KD: Apart from winning first prize in the flash fiction contest in 2021, what are some of your other achievements? (Awards, nominations, published works, etc.?)

Agbai: There are no published works, works, or any of that. I tend to be shy with my work, so entering the Kreative Diadem competition was quite the step.

KD: What are some of your long-term goals as a writer?

Agbai: I always say I want to write something that provokes emotion and could be a topic of conversation amongst people that others recommend. An anthology of such short stories is one goal I would like to achieve.

KD: Are you currently working on any books now?

Agbai: Not yet.

KD: What advice would you give young writers like yourself, especially in Nigeria?

Agbai: Just keep writing, the financial aspect might not always be encouraging, but once you love writing, it wouldn’t matter. Also, shoot beyond Nigeria as well. The world is your playground.

KD: What do you think about Kreative Diadem?

Agbai: Kreative Diadem is a very helpful and healthy community with contests I look forward to every year. I love how they give all sorts of writers a voice to share their craft on the website.

KD: What’s your writing process like?

Agbai: My writing process is sometimes chaotic, I get an idea from something I hear, read, or even say myself, and it keeps nudging me to write it down. I could ignore it for months because I have no time, but it stays with me, silently judging me until I give in, and the actual writing process is so much fun. The hardest part is building the storyline in my head and also naming the story. I’m terrible with titles.

KD: Any final words?

Agbai: This was an honour that I appreciate. I hope to have more people love the little tales I weave.

“Poetry Has Been a Balm and a Companion” – Interview with Abdulmueed Balogun

“Poetry Has Been a Balm and a Companion” – Interview with Abdulmueed Balogun

Chiwenite Onyekwelu

TABLE TALK

Poetry Has Been a Balm and a Companion” – Interview with Abdulmueed Balogun

Kreative Diadem is known for its Annual Creative Writing Contest, demonstrating our commitment to young writers’ literary growth across Africa and beyond.  We recently chatted with last year’s poetry winner—Abdulmueed Balogun.

Abdulmueed Balogun is a Nigerian poet & a second-year student at the University of Ibadan, studying Biomedical Laboratory Science. He is a 2021 HUES Foundation Scholar & edits poetry for The Global Youth Review. He was longlisted for the 2021 Erbacce Prize, finished as a Finalist in the 2021 Wingless Dreamer Book of Black Poetry Contest, and won the 2021 Annual Kreative Diadem Poetry Contest. Find his work in Journal of Expressive Writing, Decolonial Passage, Watershed Review, The Westchester Review, Short Vine, Subnivean Magazine, Alchemy Literary Magazine, Soundings East Magazine, ROOM, Jmww Journal, Night Heron Barks Review, Bowery Gothic, Avalon Literary Review and elsewhere. He loves you deeply, and you know it. He tweets from AbdmueedA.

Kreative Diadem: Who is Abdulmueed Balogun? Tell us briefly about yourself.

Abdulmueed: I am a Muslim, a poet, a poetry editor at The Global Youth Review, and an undergrad at the University of Ibadan studying Biomedical Laboratory Science.

Chiwenite Onyekwelu

Abdulmueed Balogun

Winner of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Content (Poetry Category)

KD: When did you first discover your passion for writing, and what inspired you?

Abdulmueed: My journey as a poet started in, I think, 2018. I can’t nail my source of inspiration to a definite outlet. I was passing through a lot of things then and urgently needed a way out of the looming wilderness. The numerous unappealing events that clouded the sky of my fledgling life then endeared me to poetry. Since then, Poetry has been a balm and a companion.

KD: What are some of the challenges you face as a writer, and what steps do you take to overcome them?

Abdulmueed: There’s nothing worthy bereft of challenges. Poetry too isn’t an exception. Of the challenges, I  face the most prominent– inaccessibility to the desired books necessary for growth. I overcome them by visiting my Uncle– Fasasi Abdulrosheed– to cart away some books, or download softcopies and occasionally I visit bookshops.

KD: What are some literary figures that inspire you and your work?

Abdulmueed: Literary figures I look up to are Khalil Gibran, David Diop, Oswald Mtshali, Lucille Clifton, Faiz Ahmad Faiz, Mary Oliver, Mahmoud Darwish, Leopold Sedar Senghor, Rasaq Malik, Sonia Sanchez, Akeem Lasisi, Kofi Awoonor…

“To young writers like myself, I say– keep writing those poems, your voice is unique. Don’t compromise the essence of your craft, and dread not reaching beyond the sky.

KD: In 2021, you won first prize in the poetry category of Kreative Diadem’s annual writing contest. How did you feel about winning?

Abdulmueed: Honestly, I was very happy. When I saw the email, I had to re-read it to truly affirm its veracity.

KD: Let’s get down to your poem. What was the inspiration behind IT’S HOPE THAT KEEPS THE FLAME OF DREAMS DANCING? Was there a specific message you intended to pass along to your readers?

Abdulmueed: Primarily, the inspirations behind the poem are my parents. My dad, like my momma, occasionally sits me down and hammers some admonition words into my youthful ears, urging me to never trivialize the dictates of my creator.

Yes. There’s a specific message in the poem. Our society today has become an eyesore. It takes a resolute mind not to succumb to the pressure weighing in from peers who have, in their minds, arsoned morals. The poem is a chant of hope written when I found myself drowning.

KD: Apart from winning first prize in the poetry contest in 2021, what are some of your other achievements? (Awards, nominations, published works, etc.?)

Abdulmueed:

Runner up: November 2020 Reform Naija Writing Contest– Freewill.

Honourable Mention: 2021 Whispering Crescent Poetry Prize.

Longlisted: 2021 Erbarcce-Prize

Finalist: 2021 Wingless Dreamer Book of Black Poetry Contest.

KD: What are some of your long-term goals as a writer?

Abdulmueed: Fellowships, Residency, and lots more.

KD: Any forthcoming works or publications?

Abdulmueed: Yes. I am always working on poems. Right now, I am trying to compile my debut chapbook.

KD: What advice would you give young writers like yourself, especially in Nigeria?

Abdulmueed: To young writers like myself, I say– keep writing those poems your voice is unique, don’t compromise the essence of your craft, and dread not reaching beyond the sky.

KD: What do you think about Kreative Diadem?

Abdulmueed: Nothing below wonderful.

KD: Any final words?

Abdulmueed: Thank you for making this possible.

Winners of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Creative Writing Contest

Winners of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Creative Writing Contest

Winners of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Creative Writing Contest

Here is the highly anticipated list of the winners of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Creative Writing Contest. Now in its fifth year, the prize seeks to recognize the best literary works by Nigerian writers aged 21 years and below.

Our guest judges: Ernest Ogunyemi, selected three winners for the poetry category and Jerry Chiemeke picked the top three flash fiction entries.

Here are the winners with comments from the judges:

Poetry Category

Winner: “It is Hope That Keeps the Flame of Dreams Dancing” by Abdulmueed Balogun

There’s a decay in our consciousness—the individual and the national consciousness—a deep and flourishing decay, and there’s a rot in our conscience: this poem reaches and speaks to that decay, it addresses and peels itself away from that rot. Yahoo (also Yahoo Yahoo) is presently at the heart of Nigeria’s popular culture; consequently, the morally upright young person is frustrated at every turn by his peers. Abdulmueed writes:

[Dear God] Gaze upon me—a poet, 

a pilgrim and dust, with your merciful eyes, I do not want to brew my bliss like birds my

 

age who have murdered their conscience with knives of greed, from the core of what you 

ordained profane, I do not crave to oil my harmattan-bitten lips like my peers with my neighbors’

 

oil, while they go to bed with growling stomachs, with bleeding hearts.

This poetry is not marked by a sense of self-morality, however, but is rooted in a God-consciousness, a knowledge of His commandments for the living and how He has put parents in place as landmarks. And though deeply reminiscent of Khalil Gibran’s poetry (The Prophet), the long lines and the cadence of Abdulmueed’s voice kin the man’s, it is the young prophet Jeremiah, speaking of a nation rotten at the very heart, that I hear in a corner of my head when I read this  poem: “I sat not in the assembly of the mockers, nor rejoiced; I sat alone because of thy hand: for thou hast filled me with indignation.”

This poem sings of hope, and it is itself a thing with feathers. It filled me up with joy; I am glad to have encountered it.

First Runner-up: “Elocutio” by Olaitan Junaid

This poem, about grief and friendship, with faith woven into its fabric, sustains its power despite its length, and no word feels out of place. Its careful lineation and a masterful use of // allow for a containment of the overwhelming emotions that want to burst the poem’s seams. This is why it is remarkable; it holds heart-tearing grief so tenderly.

It’s also wonderful how it moves beyond the self and engages other bodies, even a ghost body and the body of the earth: “but o, i keep screaming/ & screaming // subhanallah // when a termite bites // & now /// my tongue // is lost // to grief’s brutal dialect.” In this way, this poem reminds me of J. P. Clark’s succinct ‘Streamside Exchange.’

After reading this poem, it felt like I had taken a walk with the poet in a park, on a warm afternoon, and we’d held hands and he’d touched my face and opened to me a throbbing, bleeding room in his chest. That’s how intimate this poem feels.

Second Runner-up: “Euphemism” by Samuel A. Adeyemi

Samuel A. Adeyemi is one of the few young Nigerian poets whose sense of observation is acute, and who has a language to deliver what he sees in plain yet highly lyrical lines. 

Here is a surreal poem, bone quietly sharp. There’s a death-sharp tissue; by calling a wound a flower an ache could be tapered. Though dark and brutal, in language Adeyemi makes possible a softening of violence, which is just what an euphemism is. The poet thus employs a literary device as the internal driving force of the poem: ‘Euphemism’ itself is a long euphemistic song.

The poet’s deliberateness makes for a gentle and shocking—at the turn of the lines, which are broken with care—read. I am deeply humbled and honoured to be writing at the same time as this poet, and to be able to share this poem!

Honourable mentions:

“Overuse” by Chijindu Terrence James-Ibe

“Sunrise” by Chinedu Gospel

Flash Fiction Category

Winner: “A Matching Pair” by Agbai Emmaterry Chinonso

I like the earnestness with which it was delivered, as well as the buildup, use of active language, and the narrative voice. It’s a nicely-written story on paternity fraud, infidelity, trust and broken bonds. The final three paragraphs pack the punch.

First Runner-up: “And This is How They Become Beautiful” by Mhembeuter Jeremiah Orhemba

I see potential, and I see what the writer was trying to do by trying to render the narrative from the perspective of the child. It’s poignant, it sheds light on a germane topic, and I like that the end is a little bit open-ended: does the child die??

Second Runner-up: “One Dark Night” by Oloruntobi Ayomikun

“One Dark Night” could have been better written, but it’s not particularly disastrous prose. There is a decent use of dialogue, and the writer manages to build a little tension via the antics of the corrupt, trigger-happy policemen on duty. The prose paints a graphic picture of what it’s like to navigate Nigerian roads, and while there are not many fireworks, Ayomiku manages to tell a coherent story.

Honourable mentions:

“Her Baby” by Ndukwe Uchenna Raphael

Congratulations to the winners!

We are grateful to our guest judges — Ernest Ogunyemi and Jerry Chiemeke– and everyone who sent in their work. Thanks to all our sponsors for their generous donations.

Interviews with the contest winners will be published at a later date.

The maiden edition which held in 2017 was judged by Sueddie Vershima Agema (Flash Fiction) and Okwudili Nebeolisa (Poetry).

 

AND THIS IS HOW THEY BECOME BEAUTIFUL by Mhembeuter Jeremiah Orhemba

AND THIS IS HOW THEY BECOME BEAUTIFUL by Mhembeuter Jeremiah Orhemba

photo of daughter hugs her mother

AND THIS IS HOW THEY BECOME BEAUTIFUL

by Mhembeuter Jeremiah Orhemba

First Runner-up of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Contest (Flash Fiction Category)

The boy wants to cry. 

He sniffs in mucus for the umpteenth time, but his mother holds his arm and tells him that he will have to make a choice. He stares into her face, searchingly. Tears stream out of her eyes. And so he turns to his father, but his father stares into space. Hopeless, he turns back to his mother. “I want to stay with both of you,” he drawls.

His mother’s hand finds her face. She sniffs. She says she can no longer tolerate his father, and the boy shudders. But he cannot deny his mother’s words either. They are fact, and his memories are proving it. In recall, his mother’s wails are loud and raw. His father keeps lashing her. The cane in his hand comes down swiftly, eliciting pleas from her. He joins his mother, pleading, pleading. His father barks at him: “Get away from here, asongo!” 

The boy buries his face into his palms. His father might be wicked, but he still loves him. And his mother—ankara-clad, ginger scenting—he can’t part from her—his sweet mother who kisses his forehead and pinches away his nightmares.

He lifts his face. Breath raspy, his mind tears into a whirlwind. His mother’s countenance prods him and the thought that he will have to choose scatters shivers all over his body. He looks onward. The door is ajar. So he gets up suddenly, chest heaving, and bursts through the door. One thought in his head, he runs and runs. Runs through the sandy street. Past houses. Past Madame Ura’s puff-puff stall and takes a turn around the bend. A tarred road ahead of him, people scream. It teems with vehicles whooshing back and forth, but the boy’s body is no longer his own. Before he realizes, a massive force slams into him and he is not on the other side of the road but rolling and rolling over its roughened surface.

 “Jesus, Jesus!”

“Yesu terem ka tor!” 

“Check pulse, check pulse. Is he dead?”

Everything in the boy’s vision blurs. Mind muddled, he can barely decipher what people are saying.  A sharp pain blazes in his ear, but it is becoming mild because he is growing lighter and lighter. When his father and mother arrive, their faces hover over him, he, however, makes out their faces. He smiles. His parents are here with him and all is beautiful. 

He doesn’t have to choose anymore.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mhembeuter Jeremiah Orhemba (b.2002) is Nigerian. A 2021 ARTmosterrific artist-in-residence and an alumnus of the 2020 AFRIKA-WRITES PROSE WORKSHOP, his works have found a home in FictionWrit Magazine, The Shallow Tales Review, Arts Lounge, Eboquills and The Muse. He is an Editor at FictionWrit Magazine, wishes to attain the serenity of water, and enjoys watching TK and Carlos kiss. 

A MATCHING PAIR by Agbai Emmaterry Chinonso

A MATCHING PAIR by Agbai Emmaterry Chinonso

man in black long sleeved shirt and woman in black dress

A MATCHING PAIR

by Agbai Emmaterry Chinonso

Winner of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Contest (Flash Fiction Category)

“Good night mummy!” Benjamin calls as I walk past their room. 

“Sleep dear, you have school tomorrow.”

“Must we go?” Grace, the 5-year-old miscreant, whispered from the dimly lit room.

“Yes, you must go,” I answer calmly.

“What if Daddy says we can stay?” This time it was Benjamin, a 7-year-old, who always encourages his sister’s mischief a little too much.

“He won’t,” I say with finality. “Now good night.”

I walk away and head into our room. Easing the door open, you hurriedly stand to your feet, blanket and pillow in hand.

“Are they sleeping?” You ask carefully, your eyes watchful of my expressions.

“Not yet, wait a while.” Quietly, you lowered yourself into the couch in our room.

Even though it was more of my room these days. For the past few weeks, it had only acted as a storeroom for your belongings. My nights now end with you sneaking away to the guest room and the mornings had you crawling back in. 

It was a noisy process that always woke me up, no matter how quiet you tried to be. But the sounds of you ‘tip-toeing’ through the house had never woken the kids. That was the aim, to not let the kids know. That was why we were only true to ourselves under the hood of the night, only then could we drop our acts.

Turning off the lights by the wardrobe, I quickly begin to change into my pyjamas. I swing my head backwards to ensure you’re not watching. Testament to your smartness, your gaze is averted. Your eyes pointedly fix on the unplugged television, you understand that you lost the right to see me naked.

My eyes quickly go over your body before turning to unfasten my bra. It was a mere glance but I still noticed the difference, I have always noticed the little things about you. Your white tee, the one worn out from being a night-shirt, now hangs loosely on your frame. You had never been a very bulky man, but you were looking leaner within a month. 

A month of anger. A month since betrayal broke my trust in you. Since I donned on a unique shade of hypocrisy. 

Ben’s question echoes in my memory, “What if Daddy says we can stay?

How could daddy say ‘yes’ when he was struggling to appease mummy? How could he go against her after he had cheated? 

 *     *     *

man in black long sleeved shirt and woman in black dress

One month ago, on a night like any other, my feet were folded underneath me as I worked on my laptop. I had managed to procrastinate another task until the dying moment and now scrambled to compile a report one hour before its deadline. 

‘You say I led you on, you sef dey follow me’ Ckay sang to Ayra Starr on their track – Beggie Beggie, on her new album. My head bobbed absent-mindedly and my lips sang along unconsciously; that was how much I had listened to the album. 

You stirred beside me, over and over again, making me wonder if the music was a disturbance. It never was, you always slept so deeply, only your biological alarm could wake you. But then you stirred again, 

“Maybe I should just turn it off,” I thought.

The silence that descended on the room was comfortable, leaving the irregular tapping of my fingers on my keyboard. But something was unusual, I couldn’t hear your snore. This was not the first time I noticed the absence of that light gravelly noise punctuating the air at night. After ten years of marriage, it was a sound I had grown accustomed to. I had come to even depend on it on some days, to lull me to sleep, my personal lullaby.

“Babe?” I called out lightly to you, unsure if you were actually asleep.

There was no reply. “Babe?” I called again, just to double-check.

“Yeah?” Came the reluctant reply.

“You good?” I asked, already getting distracted by the fact that my report was still waiting.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, my fingers skidding across the keyboard again, “You’re not snoring.” I added.

“What?” You turned slightly to look up at me.

“You’re not snoring,” I repeated, “That means you’re not sleeping well.”

“You know I’m not sleeping well because I’m not snoring?” You asked, your voice sounding surprised.

My eyes were fixed on the laptop as I answered, “Of course.”

“But I thought you hated snoring?” You asked, I could feel you watching me.

“I do, but not yours. I like yours now, I kind of even need it.” 

I smiled at the irony, remembering how I gave you grief about it when we had just started dating. The night I first slept over, it served as the subject of my playful jabs at you the next day.

“Oh.” Was all you said.

“So, what’s up, why aren’t you sleeping well?” I asked again as I flipped through one of the documents, I had brought home.

You were quiet for so long, I thought you had ignored me and tried to sleep again. But when I turned, I saw you blankly staring at the ceiling.

“Gozie what is it?” I was getting genuinely concerned now. Far off wonderment was not your thing, I was the ‘deep’ person in this relationship while you never got bothered or dwelled on one thing for too long.

You sat up and looked at me. Your left eye twitched, in some other people, that may be a sign of anger or dishonesty, but in you, it had always been evidence of nerves. 

“I-” You began to say then stopped, then tried reaching for my hand but stopped that too. 

“Gozie?” My interest was piqued. I set my laptop aside and watched as you sprang up from the bed and began pacing. 

With every step, the pending report slipped further into the back of my mind-forgotten. Your lower lip suffered between your teeth as you began to chew on it like a stubborn piece of ‘shaki’ – this was your other nervous tic. Whatever you had to tell me was big.

“Babe, I’m so so sorry.”

My heart began to slap against my ribcage. The broken look in your eyes tempted me to tell you to keep whatever you had done to yourself.

“What did you do?” I asked carefully.

“Babe, I’m sorry, I promise I love you, with all my heart. I love you, I love the kids, I love you.” You professed on and on until I raised my hand to stop you.

There was silence in the room, quite unlike the one I experienced earlier. This one was thick with unspoken confessions hanging in the air. An open secret I now suspected but you were terrified to admit.

“Did you cheat?”

My eyes followed you as you knelt beside me, holding my hands in yours. “Ebube, my love, please!”

I snatched my hands from yours and scurried away, “Oh my God!”

“How could you Gozie?!” I spat.

“She meant nothing to me, I promise you it was a foolish mistake!” Your words arranged like something in a nollywood script.

Sadness sank in my belly, like boulder thrown in a lake. My eyes glazed over as tears quietly ran tracks down my cheeks.

The kids could not wake up, I couldn’t risk having them witness this, so I swallowed my urgent scream. After what felt like an hour, but could’ve been 5 minutes, my voice croaked out, 

“Why are you telling me now?” 

“Uhm…” You paused, “She’s pregnant and threatening to tell you.” The words ran out of your mouth in one breath.

My head snapped up so fast, it’s a miracle I didn’t strain a muscle. “She’s what?”

“Pregnant.” You repeated quietly.

A peal of sardonic laughter bubbled in my throat and escaped my lips, then ended as suddenly as it began. 

“So, you’re only scared of blackmail, you’re not even sorry,” I stated flatly.

“I am sorry.” You emphasized the ‘am’, your eyes pleaded with mine. 

If there was one thing you knew how to do, it was how to be repentant, apologetic; you were always quick to be remorseful. So now that apologies easily fell out of your seemingly sincere face, it meant nothing.

“Get out.” It was almost a whisper, laced with intense anger and disgust. There was no protest, you slipped out quietly.

I immediately leapt towards the bathroom, the bile I had been suppressing now clawed its way out. The sounds of me retching into the toilet bowl echoed off the tiled walls.

Maybe you would feel the same, if you know that we deserve each other, cheats deserve cheats.

But mine was different. I cheated out of necessity, and that was why I knew your mistress was a lying whore. The child in her womb could not be yours.

The two sleeping angels in the other room were proof, no child could be. 

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