Tales from the Village.

Nothing beats village love. It's raw. It's genuine. It's hastily conceived. Quickly sealed. And flamboyantly delivered. The beauty with village love is that it can be promulgated anywhere, anytime. You hear legendary stories of how those two met at a funeral. Or on the way to the river, and three days later she gave birth to a bouncy, healthy village rascal.

Forget this City love, where the price tag of oiling the heart and loins of a daughter of Zion requires an endless carousel of pricey dinner dates, expensive French red wine and counterfeit Louis Vuitton bags. And for foolish men who are yet to learn to carry an icebox where their hearts used to be, before they know it, they literally would have spend all their earthly possessions - worth buying a virgin island in the Caribbean - on her suburbia rent, monstrous weave, raucous laughter, fake smiles, dummy nails, phoney eyelashes and sham stilettos.

Ironically, village love is priceless. Priceless, because you really can't place a price on true love, now can you? Especially if all it takes for that love to be signed, sealed and delivered is simply for a son of Jeroboam to walk around with a sweaty, hairy exposed chest, and muscular thighs juxtaposed with pure African masculinity marinated with a sweet tongue.

Village love doesn't know love letters, or sweet, flowery text messages every two seconds. Or all that bragadicio we perceive to be love. Village love is old school. Ridiculously genuine. Straight talking. Impatient, and for the right amount of flattery - dangerously rewarding. Knows only loyalty.

Village love has never watched the movie, two can play that game. And certainly, can't understand all that nonsense of men running around town picking up loans from every mobile app to impress a damsel. A damsel, whose pursuit of happiness and sense of life involves swinging her loins between a well oiled moneyed mubaba, an adulterous, albeit conflicted married man, and a wretched, broke rascal of a job seeker.