By Tafi Mhaka

My girlfriend is ugly.
Ooh-ooh, she is ugly.
She has hips the size of Luanda.
A big flat African nose.
Monster thick black lips.
Puffy clean shaven legs.
And a butt about the size of Bujumbura.
Be careful around her: Don’t ask her if she’s expecting a baby.
Her flat stomach didn’t make it past her second year at UCT.
But I dig her, bro.
I dig her.
I dig the fullness of her curves.
I dig the raw touch of her soul.
I dig the authenticity of her emotions.
I dig the infectiousness of her big warm smile.
I dig the feel of just knowing her.
I dig the thought of being around her.
I dig the innocence of her charms.
Ooh-ooh, I dig her big time, bro.
She digs Instagram.
She digs great conversation.
She digs Italian and French cuisine.
She digs Prada.
She digs me.
She digs that chic Jozi life, you know.
We do breakfasts at Father Coffee in Braamfontein.
Eat five star gourmet lunches at the Ante Café in Melville.
Sip virgin piña coladas at The Nine Barrels in Maboneng Precinct.
Hang out at Life Grand Café in Hyde Park.
And hit the dancefloor at VSP lounge in Sandton.
Ooh-ooh, this is the sweet life her mother warned her about.
She has a lovely six-figure job.
An exclusive, spacious loft apartment in Bryanston.
A metallic red Mini coupe S sports auto.
And a big heart of gold.
She’s a big-ass girl.
And they say big is ugly?
Hell no, it isn’t, boo.

 

 

 

 

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