Don Kwelu

You can address or refer to me as “The Don” for short, it makes me feel all Mediterranean-exotic n shit (*Disclaimer: Its not my real name but it’s better than the 57 non-English names on my BRITISH passport*).

For those in need of a visual, I am tall, dark and relatively handsome but for the purpose of this exercise let’s keep it modest. 6”6 with my trousers embedded on my belly button like Simon Cowell, a neatly tucked in shirt, hair dripping with juice and oh so Soul Glo shiny like June Sarpong’s lips; in lamerns terms a cross between Arsenio Hall and Cristiano Ronaldo.

“Don Juan Kwelu” translates as luurve doctor in English; the guy your girl dreams of disappearing into the sunset somewhere in Lagos with ‘cause my wooden spoon is bigger than yours (that’s the spoon I use for pounded yam of course) and the guy your boyfriend has picked up the phone bitching to “don’t call my girl she’s mine f*ck you and your wooden spoon”.

That’s the Don or what I think of him after 2 Brandy’s and some of London’s stickiest of the Icky (damn I look good when I’m high).

Between daydreaming of Serena Williams’ booty vibrations and listening to Rick Ross, cigar in hand convinced I’m Pablo Escobar, I’m a part-time philosopher providing my valuable insights on subjects ranging from are Jay-Z’s nostrils real or surgically enhanced? to why girls are basically girls and get on my nerves (pause)….. gotta say no homo.

Peace out bitches!