The airport terminal buzzes with life, but the world stops for General Oluwa. Stepping through the gates, his massive frame wrapped in the finest dashiki as he surveys the promised land of America.
GENERAL OLUWA: Ah! Finally, I arrive! The land of the free! The home of de brave! America! Where I will be crowned champion of Ultimate Wrestling… And… and…
He suddenly stops, his nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. The scent of fried food and stale cigarettes assaults his senses.
GENERAL OLUWA: What is dat delightful smell? I know it! It is the sweet perfume of capitalism! Cigarettes! An ancient mix of herbs and pesticides! Only de finest American tobacco for a man of my stature! Chike! Get me a pack of dese Mal-bror-o cigarettes! It’s time I embraced de American culture!
Chike, barely managing the General’s many suitcases and one questionable McDonald’s bag, scurries to the nearest kiosk, purchasing a pack of Marlboros. The vendor shoots him a judgmental look.
CHIKE: General… I am not sure dese cigarettes are good for your health…
GENERAL OLUWA: Health? HA! Americans are de healthiest people on de planet! Look at me, Chike! I am strong! I am invincible! I will smoke dese like a true American warrior! A nicotine rush to focus my mind on the task of defeating Mr. Mal-bror-o in my very first match in Ultimate Wrestling.
The General pulls out a cigarette, lighting it with a excitement of a high schooler in a production of Bugby Malone. He takes a deep, dramatic puff.
Silence.
Then, the coughing begins.
GENERAL OLUWA: COUGH– WHEEZE—CHOKE—Chike! De smoke! De American smoke— COUGH—it burns so good!
His face turns a bright shade of red, his dark skin turning ashy. His hacking echoes through the terminal, and a passing family stares in horror as the General collapses onto a bench, cigarette still dangling from his lips.
CHIKE: General! Are you alright? Should I call a doctor?
GENERAL OLUWA: N-nonsense! WHEEZE—I am an American now! Dis is just… just my body adjusting to de increase in productivity! De power of America runs through my veins!
He leans back on the bench, breathing heavily, and flicks the cigarette away with all the bravado of a dying hero.
GENERAL OLUWA: Enough! My neuro-receptors are emboldened! I can feel the tar strengthening the hairs in my lungs! Thick and black inside and out! I feel I could run a marathon Chike!
He hocks up a ball of phlegm outside a Hudson News.
GENERAL OLUWA: Now, we must embrace de fashion! Bring me to a store for de finest in American boots. I must look de part of a mighty wrestler! A real man wears cowboy boots!
They head to the nearest tax-free boot shop, the General still wheezing but pushing forward like a man on a mission. Inside, the store clerk gives them a friendly nod, eyeing General Oluwa’s vibrant attire with curiosity.
STORE CLERK: Howdy! Looking for some boots today?
The General Oluwa eyes a display of a blonde cowgirl showing off thigh-high boots riding on the back of a rodeo bull.
GENERAL OLUWA: Indeed! Show me your finest pair of… what do dey call it…? “Man boots”? De boots of de man. You know, the type of thing the great Mr. Mal-bror-o would wear.
The clerk glances around and hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. Eventually, she picks up a pair of pink, glittery, frilly boots likely trade-ins from Honey Boo Boo's sweet sixteen.
STORE CLERK: Uh… well, these here are quite popular.
GENERAL OLUWA: Yee-ha! Dey sparkle! Dey glisten! Dey are clearly made for a man of power and greatness! Dese will strike fear into de heart of my opponent! I will wear dese “man boots” to de ring and conquer de wrestling world!
He rotates his heel flirtatiously and checks himself out in a long mirror. Chike raises a hand to protest, but quickly lowers it. What's the point?
GENERAL OLUWA: Wrap dem up, Chike! Dey will be my American war sandals!
CHIKE: …Yes, General.
The General marches out of the store, pink boots in hand, beaming with pride and looking like Lil Nas X's uncle. His wheezing has subsided, but his intentions remain strong.
GENERAL OLUWA: And now, Chike, de final step of my grand plan. I will invest in de American market! Show me where I can buy dese stocks and make millions! I must secure my fortune before my debut in de wrestling world! Crypto, low-yield bonds, penny stocks... I need it all!
They head to a nearby financial services and currency exchange kiosk. The General points dramatically at a stock ticker on the screen, selecting companies at random with the precision of a man who has no idea what he’s doing.
GENERAL OLUWA: Dere! Dat one! “Phillip Morris Spit Buckets Inc”! Clearly a company on de rise! Just one puff on these cigarette sticks and even a strong man like me needs a spittoon! It is how they say... evergreen.
He presses some buttons. Beep-boop.
The money is spent, the transaction complete. General Oluwa stands tall, pink boots under his arm, hacking up the remnants of his cigarette, ready to take on America.
GENERAL OLUWA: Now we sit back and collect the dividends! Just like Mr. Mal-bror-o! De General will conquer wrestling, fashion, and finance! Today, America! Tomorrow… Ultimate Wrestling! The day after... something else!
The pink cowboy boots glint in the sunlight as the General marches triumphantly into oblivion.