“Mama was my greatest teacher, a teacher of compassion, love and fearlessness. If love is sweet as a flower, then my mother is that sweet flower of love” – Stevie Wonder


“No man succeeds without a good woman behind him. Wife or mother. If it is both, he is twice blessed indeed” –Godfrey Winn


“She is the creator of life, the giver of life, and the giver of abundant love, care and protection. Such are the great qualities of a mother. The bond between a mother and her child is the only real and purest bond in the world, the only true love we can ever find in our lifetime” – Ama H. Vanniarachchy


Three days ago, the world celebrated International Women’s Day. Across the nation, many churches also celebrated Mother’s Sunday or Mothering Sunday, as the case may be. It was an occasion when kids and men all over the nation did their best to appreciate their mothers and all the women in their lives. It was an opportunity to call them on the phone (no matter how far away they were) to tell them how much you appreciate them and how great your love for them was. Even if na lie wey you lie, e no matter. Just call them and appreciate them...that’s all. And maybe afterwards, go back to your godless ways. Na between you and God jor!

Now mind you, this is not a typical ode filled with elaborately structured poetic verses and lyrical stanza. Naa, naa, naa...this is just me writing paragraph after paragraph about the wonderful things mothers did (and still do) for us. So pardon me if the title is a bit deceptive.

I have a thousand reasons for writing this ode to our mothers. It’s not as if I don’t have other things I could write an ode to. I could write an ode to my favorite whiskey, I could write an ode to the dog I ran over a week ago, I could write an ode to the Qu’ran...but C’mon, mothers deserve this ode. On a more serious note, they deserve an ode every single day. But we’d just leave the ode for today, alright! So here I am, on a cold night in a police cell, scribbling notes on a piece of paper, writing an ode to the remarkable people that brought us into this godless world.

Mothers are amazing, they have outstanding powers, they can multitask without batting an eyelid...I could go on and on and on. One time in the past, I called my mum aside after watching her move so effortlessly from doing one task to another, without caring so much how stressed-out she was. I wanted to know how she managed to do those things. She just smiled, told me to leave her alone, and continued working. It was the best decision she took to continue working because if peradventure she answered that first question, I would have gone ahead to ask other questions over the next couple of minutes. Incredible Me!

I feel God made mothers on the day he planned to rest. He wanted to chill after creating other things but on a second thought, he realized he hadn’t made mothers and decided to do so. In the presence of the cherubs, Angel Michael, Angel Gabriel, Angel Mgbirigba and the others, he proceeded to carefully and meticulously create them. And what was the product? An outstanding piece of creation.

Child rearing, to me, is the most important job in the world. I also guess it is the hardest. Yet, mothers are amazing in doing this tough job effectively. Kids get dirty and soiled every freaking day yet the mothers make sure to clean ‘em up everyday day so they’d stay fresh. One time, it was raining cats and dogs and there was this kid jumping up and down, running around and playing in the rain. As if that was not enough, he rolled over in the mud and seemed to be having fun. He was smiling from cheek to cheek until the mother came out. And what did she do? After staring at the kid for long, took him by the arms and walked him into the house. A few minutes later, the muddy kid was all fresh but wasn’t smiling anymore. He wished to go back into the rain and continue playing. If na me, I for beat that pikin well well dat day eh. And na him go wash him cloth. But as I sat there watching this scenario play out, I realized this was what the woman would be doing over the years until the child became wiser and older. Kai, e no easy, aswear! And with that, I doffed my cap for the woman and proceeded to pour some of the beer I was drinking on the bare floor, as a tribute to strong women everywhere.

When a child is ill, a mother doesn’t care what the consequence of what she plans to do is or what effect it would have on her. As long as the child would be okay, she would proceed to stick her mouth over the baby’s little nostrils and sucks the mucus out. As long as it would bring relief to the baby, she would do it. Isn’t that amazing ?

Mothers have been puked on, spit-up on, and peed on, while changing clothes up to six times a day. Mothers have changed diapers twelve times a day almost without swearing; they have folded loads of laundry everyday for years while throwing their hands up in despair. Isn’t that amazing?

Mothers would sit on the couch watching the Teletubbies, Barney and other boring kiddies’ shows, while pretending to enjoy themselves. As long as it would make the kids happy, she would do that. Mothers would gladly sacrifice any of the pleasures of life just to carve out the best for the family. They invent meals, they work magic, and they discover new ways of doing things. Isn’t that amazing?

In the morning, mothers dress up the kids, knead bread, sweep the kitchen floor, and clean out the junk drawer, in all of 20 minutes. And afterwards, pack the kids' lunch and drive them to school. And all the while, the husband is either reading a newspaper while taking a shit in the loo. Or he is watching the news on TV, while eating bread toast and sipping coffee. And in the afternoon, she diligently picks up the kids from school at the right time. I mean, mothers literally know how the kids are doing at every single moment. Isn’t that amazing?

The kids grow up and with that comes a lot of bullshits. But the mamas are patient as always, realizing it is part of development and are always at hand to offer their invaluable advice and help. They cry and shed a tear of joy with you; they share in your sadness and hope. And for the families that are unfortunate to have lost the breadwinner to the cold hands of the Grim Reaper, a mother assumes the role of the father, nurturing the kids in the right ways and bringing stability to fragile homes. Isn't that amazing?

It is a pity I have to end this relatively short ode at this point. Most times, I still marvel at mothers – I call them superheroes in disguise. They double as best friends, counselors, therapists, costume-designers, hair stylists, coaches and all-round-solver-of-every-freaking-problem. I repeat, they are simply amazing. And the funny thing is, I don’t think they would trade all these for anything in the world.

So as mothers all over the nation (and maybe, all over the world) dance around in celebration of motherhood, let us all raise of glasses of our favorite drinks, doff our hats and make a toast to these incredible women – Our Mothers. We wish them more happiness, love and joy as they celebrate.

Oh, I just realized I am in a police cell and there is no freaking glass to toast with. Damn!



PS: Please, this article is what it is. No be say the fathers no dey try o. So on Father’s day, I promise to also write an ode to them. Abeg, fathers...make una no too vex jor! Ifee baalu abago!


culled from: www.feelgoodinconline.com/blogs/

Forget what the priest told
you during catechism. Forget
about the epistle Sister Nkiru
preached to you in Sunday
school. The truth is –
everyone lies ! Yeah, you
heard me – every freaking
person you can think of.
Women lie, men lie, Politicians
lie, Pastors lie, Imams lie, the
government lies...everyone
lies! And lying doesn’t make
you the child of the devil.
I’ve been told a ton of lies
since I was brought into this
world; lies about the
boogeyman, lies that kids came
from heaven, lies that orange
seeds grew in one’s stomach
and many more. And when I
came of age and realized that
all those were lies, I decided
I’ve had enough.

Women lie!

They lie about their age : she’s
22, come carry all that nyansh
with a freckled face, walking
like a granny – LIAR.
They lie about being in a happy
relationship : but the last time
you were seen at a soiree, you
had a black eye. Who come
give you the black eye? – LIAR.
They tell their hubby money
isn’t everything : but on
Instagram, you secretly admire
Bunmi’s new birthday gift
from the husband; a brand
new Kia Optima while you still
walk around the streets of
Lagos in a 'Leggedes benz' –
LIAR
They lie about their hymen : oh
baby, I am still a virgin. The
hymen broke when I was
climbing a cashew tree as a
kid. I wonder when cashew tree
don turn to prick – LIAR
They lie about cumming: yes,
yes, yes, chi m o, hit it, yea,
yea, obu mi o, ori mi o, I don
die o, na so, I am
cummmmmiinnnngggggggggggg
...and the guy go dey feel
like Captain America or
Commando – LIAR

They lie about virtually
everything. One time, we were
in a commercial bus and there
was a flashy chick in the front.
I won’t lie, she looked gaudy,
fly and fabulous. Then all of a
sudden, she started answering
a call and told a thousand lies
that would even make the
devil envious:
“Yes o, I just landed in Lagos 2
days ago. Our plane stopped at
the airport in Lekki. Yes, the
one on the island. The journey
was fantastic. I didn’t even
know it is very cold in the sky
o. As I brought out my hand
and was touching the clouds, it
started raining. So I had to
bring in my hand and wind up
the window”, she said to the
other seemingly bush and
ignorant person on the other
end of the phone.

Men nko!

They lie about their bank
accounts : you get 500K for
your GTBank account, na em
you dey borrow the girl phone
to make call – LIAR
They lie to their friends about
how pretty their babes are: but
the last time she came with
you to the beer palour, na laff
your guys take comot. Because
dem never see that kind
baboon before – LIAR
They lie about not telling lies :
YES, they lie about this all the
time.“Oh baby, c’mon, don’t
you trust me again? That
person that called my phone –
Waitress – yes, that is the pet
name I gave my little cousin. I
can’t lie to you na. Trust me” –
LIAR
They lie about understanding
what you are talking about
when they obviously don’t :
especially on those weekends
when a derby match is taking
place. You keep on ranting
about your evil colleague in the
office and how you would
gladly strangle her. He claims
he understands all you are
talking about when his eyes
are fully glued on the TV –
LIAR.

One time, when we were
teenagers, young boys gathered
at Mama Emma’s shop in the
evening, to buy akara balls and
bread. Lasso, the fine boy,
started bragging about
smashing the new girl that just
moved into the neighborhood.
He claimed the girl couldn’t
get enough of him. He told us
the chick came over to his
place during the weekend and
as she entered the room, she
didn’t waste any time and
proceeded to grab his man
shaft and stick in her mouth.
Boys hailed Lasso; we called
him the gladiator and asked
him his secrets in scooping
these fine babes.
Now, instead of stopping at
that particular lie, he
proceeded to swear on his
grandfather’s grave that the
chick came a second time and
he rode this chick for forty
minutes non-stop. At that
instant, we spotted the new
girl in the neighborhood
approach Mama Emma’s shop.
We made signs to Lasso to stop
but he didn’t decode. He kept
lying and lying and lied the
more. All of a sudden, he
turned around to collect his
change and met the eyes of the
new girl in the neighborhood.
Omo, see gobe o! Lasso quickly
dropped the money and the
akara balls he was holding.
“Nne, I can explain. It is not
what you think”, he said. Boys
burst out laughing at the
bloody liar. Throughout that
week, nobody saw his sorry
ass. He stayed indoors so the
shame would subside.

We all lie every now and
then...it is inevitable. But
always make sure the lies are
very necessary ones! Capisce!

culled: www.feelgoodinconline.com/blogs/

PS: This work is a satirical
one! No Love Lost, No Love
Found! So don’t feel bad for
anyone! All the names no be
so e dey o! Eee speak lee
kwe!

My tailor finally picked my
calls. After two freaking weeks
of ceaselessly disturbing him
with phone calls, he got sick
and tired of me. In short, he
stopped picking my calls. I
knew his phone battery would
literally wish death on me. But
the tailor dey craze big time.
For wetin, ogbeni calm down
jor, okpolo eye no be open eye
o . When he eventually picked
my call, I told him how
phucked up his attitude was
and promised not to bring any
more clothes for him to make
for me again. “U no know say
na big traditional wedding wey
I dey attend so? U no know say
the person wey dey marry the
girl na from abroad him dey
come so?” I shouted on the
phone. He dismally apologized
and quickly blamed it on the
devil. Chai, the devil don suffer
true true.
On the wedding day, I wore
the cloth the tailor made for
me and joined my colleagues in
a chattered vehicle – a
commercial bus – and
proceeded to the bride’s
hometown. The road leading to
her home town was dusty and
brown grasses adorned the
entrance to the village. As we
alighted from the bus, Maggie
saw us and came towards our
direction. ‘Congratulations’
filled the air and she told us
how happy she was to finally
be getting married to the man
of her dreams. I knew her
story well; she has had about 5
or 6 heartbreaks before this
one finally clicked.
By 1pm, the ceremony
started. The live band
continually doled out some
boring gospel songs while the
MC told outdated and mind-
numbing jokes that would
make you feel sorry for
whoever paid for his services.
Drinks were served and
sumptuous dishes were also
presented to the guests. When
it was time to break the kola,
the in-laws chose the eldest
man in the kindred clan to
perform the traditional rites.
He spoke at length about how
it would be well for the bride,
the groom and all the well
wishers. He then broke the
kola nut he was holding into
two and dropped one half on
the ground. This was meant
for the ancestors! I saw a man
collect two kola nuts and a
garden-egg from the tray; and
another, a woman, reject the
kola. According to her, she
would not accept any offering
that was meant for demons. I
wondered when the ancestors
turned to demons.
All the while, I never
realized I was sitting on a
dusty seat. Holy Mary , I
exclaimed. I turned around
and asked my colleagues how
bad the dusty stain was and
they said it was pretty bad. My
goodness ! I walked away from
the venue and went towards
the bus to clean the dirt off
with a piece of cloth. I tried
my best but I couldn’t get all
the stains off. Well, e no matter
jor. In a worst case scenario,
people go laff me and
afterwards, would forget about
the whole event . I decided to
walk back to the venue.
By the time I reached my
seat, the bride was already
dancing. Boy, she looked
ravishing and beautiful. Her
stylist should be given an extra
token for the good job she did.
She had orange beads on her
neck that complemented the
orange wrapper she wore. Her
voluptuous boobs were held
firmly by a small piece of grey
sequin material festooned with
ornaments and rubies. For a
second, I wished that tiny
piece of cloth would fall off so
I’d behold her big breasts. She
danced gracefully to the tune
of Flavour’s hit track ‘Ada
Ada’.
But something was amiss!
She was dancing alone. As she
danced, she held the portrait
of a smiling man. The man was
dark and I quickly guessed he
should be in his early forties. I
hurriedly turned to one of our
colleagues, Ebere and asked
innocently:
“Eby, you people didn’t tell me
we were attending a burial.
Una no try o”.
“Baruu, which kind talk be
that. Abeg, I no get time for
your jokes”, she replied
innocently also.
“But look at Maggie na, why is
she dancing with the portrait
of her dead brother”, I replied.
“Hahahahaha. Oh, that! This
guy Baruu, you no well. The
guy is not her brother o. That
is the husband’s picture she is
holding. The guy stays in
Malaysia and couldn’t attend
the wedding so they had to
arrange it to be this way”, she
answered.
A picture of the groom!
Gracious Lord, what has this
world turned to? I promptly
realized this was an ‘ Arrangee
Marriage ’. Na wa o, eee speak
lee kwe! I decided not to say
anything stupid or negative
throughout the occasion. I even
walked up to the dancing floor
and sprayed a couple of naira
notes on the bride and on the
portrait of the groom. When it
was time for the bride and the
groom to kiss, Maggie brought
out the portrait once more and
proceeded to kiss the picture
of the husband. Pamurogo !
Eventually, the ceremony
came to an end. Maggie
thanked us for coming and told
the ladies she intended joining
her husband in Malaysia
within the month. Most of the
girls pretended they were
happy for her. Zeeny, the
parrot-girl, told her she was
already feeling jealous and
they laughed over it. It was
this same Zeeny that started
all the snitching when we
boarded the bus and started
our journey back home. Evil
Zeeny ! She even went as far as
stating that she heard the
husband was locked up in a
jail in Malaysia which was why
he couldn’t attend the
wedding. Chai, women and
ratting !
Fast forward to a year later,
and I was having lunch with
Zeeny before we went back to
the hospital. Omo, Zeeny na
my person jor. I always enjoy
her company. Anytime I want
to have a dose of laughter
while listening to well
packaged gossips, she was the
girl to be with. And on this
occasion, I made sure I did
enjoy the gossips. She talked
about Maggie and the
Malaysian husband. She talked
about how the husband turned
her to a punching bag and how
Maggie was always spending
nights at the hospitals as
doctors attended to her bruises
and lacerations. Her words:
“Baruu, I dey pity Maggie well
well o. Seriously, I dey pity
her. Me and her, we always
chat on Facebook or Whatsapp.
She is always bitter and
crying”, she said.
“How do you know she cries?
Does she cry through
Facebook”, I asked
sarcastically.
“Haba, Baruu. No na, she sent
me pictures of her bruised and
battered face. She is not happy
at all o. She says her husband
is a bush man with a stinking
breath and eats like a pig”, she
replied while requesting for
another bottle of Orijin.
“Chai, Zeeny. She told you all
this? Ok, so when last did the
two of you talk”, I asked.
“Yesterday o! In fact, you won’t
believe the one that happened
yesterday. The husband was
drunk and after he finished
eating, says to Maggie: “Baby,
ngwa, over to the bedroom...let
us Bleep”. And as they reached
the bedroom, he just threw
Maggie on the bed, turned her
around and savagely entered
her. He didn’t even last long
and dumped his goods inside
of her and thereafter, pushed
her aside as he slept off”, she
said while mimicking the act.
“Hahaha, she told you all that?
Na wa o”, I replied.
Alright, I won’t post the
remaining conversation. But
throughout that day, I kept
thinking how unhappy Maggie
would be. And she is not
alone; a lot of ladies marry
guys they never knew out of
desperation. In a bid to join
the league of married ladies,
they resort to accept any
marriage proposal from any
one. Any one at all, it doesn’t
matter! And what do they get
afterwards...a life of endless
misery and gloom. Theirs is a
melancholic abode.
Marrying someone you
barely know is a big risk. I
understand all those stories
about the biological clock
ticking and stuffs like that. But
it won’t make sense to get into
such an Arrangee Marriage and
be getting knocked at like
Floyd Mayweather battering
his opponents. It is important
to combine patience and
wisdom in choosing your life
partner; someone you’d always
wish you could marry over and
over again.
And besides, not all
‘Arrangee Marriages’ turn out
to be bad! Capisce!

Thanks Rita...gratitude

The past won’t rest until we
jump the fence and leave it
behind - The Arcade Fire

On a sunny Sunday
afternoon, I left for the car
park. I was also saying my
prayers of forgiveness for what
I did in church that morning.
While the choir was busy
singing songs of praises to the
Almighty, I was busy spying on
a black chick with a big butt. I
tried to bind the devil but I
couldn’t. I never knew the
devil sef dey enter inside
church on Sunday. After all,
the good book says if you stare
at a woman lustfully, it is the
same thing as the main thing.
Alright then, p amurogo !
So there I was on top of a
bike saying my prayers to God
for forgiveness, while also
praying not to fall off the bike
and die. This okada man dey
speed o; I for carry car go the
park o . Anyway, I was the one
that told him to drive fast
because I had to reach the car
park on time and follow the
first bus to Kano.
Upon arrival, I hopped off
the bike and paid the guy. I
also gave him an extra 100
bucks for bringing me to the
car park safely and right on
time. He thanked me and I left
to purchase my ticket. At the
counter, I handed over the
cash to the attendant and
promptly got a ticket. With the
ticket and my bag in hand, I
headed to the bus. It wasn’t
filled up yet and luckily, no
one was in the front seat too. I
quickly sat on the seat and
wrote my name on the
manifest.
There was a burly guy
beside the bus selling some
products he had in his hands.
He was busy telling the
occupants of the bus about
how powerful the drug was.
This drug would cure any
disease one could think of,
though he didn’t mention
cancer. A frail elderly woman
in the bus called him to come
closer and she proceeded to
ask him, “Nwa m, would this
cure my sugar disease”. “Ehh,
that one na small thing na. For
sugar disease, just put the
drug on your hand and pour
inside your mouth. Do this two
times and your sugar problem
will go kpatakpata. If you have
sugar problem again after
taking this drug, call me
bastard”, he said with an
Onitsha accent. The woman
asked how much and he said
500 bucks. The frail woman
bought two. Another man in
the bus asked whether the
drug cured typhoid, and the
dogga-man replied in the
affirmative. “For typhoid and
malaria, just put the powder in
a spoon, mix am well with any
bitter drink and sip it. After
one hour don pass, your urine
go dey green. That green
colour na the typhoid wey the
drug don kill”, the dogga-man
replied. The gullible man
handed over 500 bucks to him
and promptly got a bottle of
the elixir. Within 30minutes,
about six other gullible folks
have gotten their respective
bottles of elixir. A young guy
bought three bottles – one for
himself, one for the girlfriend
and one for the sick mother at
home.
All the while, I stayed put
and keenly watched the dogga-
man. Some even called him
doctor and he gladly answered.
Gracious Lord, have mercy!
Now before you judge me and
condemn me for not
confronting the merchant of
doom, calm down first and
hear me out. In all honesty, I
respected the guy’s hustle. It
is not easy to convince a bunch
of people to buy a bottle of
powder that could cure every
single ailment they could think
of. To do this, you really have
to be a wise guy. So let’s give
props to the dogga-man for
coming up with such a cunning
scheme. Ogbeni, e no dey easy
jor !
OK, back to the matter...on
a more serious note, that evil
dogga-man should be hung on
a cross by his balls upside
down till he breaths his last.
My God, what kind of
wickedness is that ! At a point, a
woman that was complaining
of toothache got the elixir from
the dogga-man and applied on
the aching tooth. After a
couple of minutes, she shouted
‘ Praise the Lor d’ and
proceeded to give a quick
testimony of how the toothache
had ‘disappeared’ within
minutes. Chai! I shook my
head and pitied the innocent
woman.
After the bus got filled up,
we left the park and
commenced our journey. And
then I wondered how many
naïve people this dogga-man
had succeeded in ruining their
lives. Why would a grown man
or woman believe that a single
drug could cure every ailment?
I think there are a thousand
and one reasons including
poverty, poor education/
enlightenment and the greatest
reason is SHEER STUPIDITY. I
mean, c’mon, it is like still
believing the Boogeyman really
exists at the age of twenty...or
a grown man believing in the
tooth fairy!
One time, I was
participating in a medical
outreach in a rural area and a
patient came in for check up.
He gave me a piece of paper
on which was written his blood
sugar and blood pressure
readings. They were
alarmingly high. I asked him
whether he had been
diagnosed of the diseases
before and he gave me an
affirmative reply. I then
proceeded to inquire why he
hadn’t been on his medications
and he gave me a pitiable
answer: “my brother, to be
honest, I don’t even have
enough money to eat not to
talk of buying my drugs”. It is
a pity! Now I wouldn’t blame
this kind of patient if he
eventually falls victim to the
dogga-man’s lies and
deception. As long as there is
poverty in the land, people
would still fall victim to such
antics.
Eventually, we arrived Kano
safely. We were told a bomb
had exploded at the car park
few hours before we arrived.
Thank God for that dogga-
man jor! Na the guy wey
delay our movement and as
such, prevented us from
getting bombed to pieces.
When next I see him, I’m
gonna give him a handshake
and buy ten bottles of the
elixir. I’m gonna make him rich,
I swear.
That night, I had a dream.
In my dream, I was a dogga-
man selling roots and rat
poison at a car park in
Ogbomosho. And the worst
part of the dream was that I
had tribal marks on my face
and spoke with a thick Ijebu
accent. Olorun maje o!

*And lest I forget, have a
happy and fun-filled
Valentine's Day*

culled: www.feelgoodinconline.com/blogs/

“The past won’t rest until we
jump the fence and leave it
behind” – The Arcade Fire

It is not easy surviving in
the township. If most people
knew what lay in wait for
them, they wouldn’t have
taken the leap of faith to leave
their respective villages to
come and hustle in the
townships. Personally, if I
knew what lay ahead of me, I
would have stayed back in the
village. By now, I would have
finished my apprenticeship at
the Babalawo’s house and
opened my own shop, pouring
libation to the gods every
morning and doing other stuffs
that Native Doctors do. Or in a
best case scenario, I would
have become the village town
crier. Or something else! But
as for life in the township,
forget about it. It’s not just
about the hustle and bustle
every freaking day. Naa,Naa,
Naa...that’s not the point. I am
talking about the Suburban
War that most people in
township consciously or
subconsciously engage in; the
battle of lifestyles. This battle
drives people to do anything
possible (without giving a
thought to the repercussions)
just to belong to the acceptable
class in township.
I was chilling at the bar
after a tough and stressful day.
Now this bar wasn’t my usual
local spot. I got lucky that day
and made some extra bucks, so
I decided to treat myself to a
lavish meal and drinks at a
classy joint. I decided to make
the outing quick because I was
expecting an important mail
from an acquaintance – a detail
of a new website she wanted
for her clothing line. I gently
walked into the bar, sat down
and crossed my right leg on
the other. I wore my new pair
of shoes so I decided to show
off a lil’ bit. No blame me jor,
that shoe cost me an arm and a
leg . The waitress walked up to
me and asked what I wanted
to have. I requested for the
menu and to my surprise, a
bottle of Star beer was sold for
one thousand five hundred
naira. My goodness, which kind
trap be dis na ! I wanted to
sneak out of the place guyman-
ishly but decided otherwise. I
mean, C’mon, there was no
harm in spending that amount
on a bottle of Star. But na the
first and last time I go try am , I
swear. So I asked her to get
one for me. Maybe na the blood
of our Lord dey inside the
bottle , I wondered. She asked
whether I wanted their special
fish barbecue to go with the
drink. This girl na real winch o,
I swear . E be like say she see
me for dream, wan come milk
me dry. I reject it in Jesus
name ,I said silently. Politely, I
declined the offer to purchase
the special fish barbecue and
any other thing they had to
offer. Just get me the bottle of
Star beer make I drink comot
from this place .
All the while, my neighbor
Nelly, her boyfriend Tonye and
two other people were seated
in the same bar. I saw her and
walked up to exchange
pleasantries. It was also an
opportunity to say Hi to her
boyfriend and remind him of
my five grand wey him dey
owe me. Ever since he lost the
bet we staked during the
match between Manchester
United and Arsenal FC, he had
been dodging and avoiding me.
As I reached their table, I
couldn’t believe my eyes. On
their table was a bottle of
Ciroc vodka, two mighty fishes
on a big plate well garnished,
a bottle of Hennessy and some
bottles of Coke. Omo, I use my
brain calculate how much wey
dey that table. This place wey
one bottle of Star na 1,500
bucks...na em be say one bottle
of Ciroc fit pay that guy house
rent na . Him come add
Hennessy join am. I finally said
Hi and asked after their
health, jobs, landlord and
anything else I could think
about. I called Tonye out and
we went towards the main
bar.“O boi, wey my money na.
You no dey try o”, I said
angrily. “Bros, abeg, no vex for
me. Try understand. No reason
all those things wey dey our
table o. All na magic. Na Nelly
and her friends say dem wan
chop all those things. Wetin I
go do na. I suppose live up to
expectation na. No worry, I go
drop your cash next week”, he
humbly explained.
The waitress eventually
called my attention while I was
haggling Tonye over my cash
and when he would pay up.
What could I do na? I finally
left him to go back to his table
while I proceeded to mine. At
my table, I thought about what
Tonye had told. Now before
you call me old school, please
hear me out first. I have no
reservations over treating
oneself to a great outing once
in a while. There is no
problem in that. But when one
consciously and consistently
indulges in a lifestyle that is
way above what he/she can
afford, then it becomes a
freaking problem. This no be
the first time Tonye dey do dis
kind thing. And it is a pity; he
is a normal hustler like me
doing his best to make ends
meet in township. I knew how
much he earned monthly.
The Suburban War! The
Battle of whose lifestyle is the
best. The battle of who has the
phattest bank account. The
battle of who has the latest
designer gadgets and
accessories.
One time, I knew a teacher
in a public primary school
married to a banker husband.
Together, they had 2 kids and
lived in a Suburban
neighborhood meant for the
rich. They had 3 cars and paid
up to 1.2 milli annually on
their apartment. I was
fortunate to be invited to the
birthday ceremony of the
youngest kid. Boy, I had me a
lotta fun. I must confess those
guys are living in heaven on
earth. But then, I started
thinking...how they could
afford all that. I mean, I knew
what they paid teachers in
public schools back then and
her husband was a regular guy
counting money in a bank. I
eventually realized this was
the effect of The Suburban
War. In a bid to live up to
expectations, they had to do
what they gotta do to be on a
similar (or even higher) level
as their contemporaries. This
was a lady that spent a lot of
guap on expensive spa visits
and the family took regular
vacations to exotic places. I am
not in a position to judge but
in all honesty, e be like say
dem get juju inside house wey
dey vomit money for them.
Last time I talked with them
over the phone, they no longer
stayed in town; they’ve gone
off to some village in the
Middle belt and I understood
the reality of life had set in. I
realized all those while, they
were living on borrowed cash
and loans meant to service
their lavish lifestyle.
I couldn’t stress more on
the importance of REALNESS.
The Suburban War is a battle
we chose to engage in; it is not
a compulsory fight. There are
many more important battles
we partake in on a daily. Life
itself is a freaking war so why
occupy ourselves with a
meaningless war. It’s a pity
that is what our society has
turned into. People would
gladly brag about who has the
most expensive Mikano
generator instead of focusing
on how the government would
provide stable electricity for
the populace.
Do your best to focus on
saving for the rainy day and
not on trying to outshine your
contemporaries. Because in all
honesty, no one really cares!
The Suburban War is a
battle that can never be won
by anyone. It is therefore
pertinent not to engage in it
at all. Capisce!

first published: www.feelgoodinconline.com/blogs/

@DeHero1...na so...GRATITUDE

Some years ago, I witnessed
a local match organized
between my neighborhood and
another hood. A local councilor
had organized the match as
part of his Youth
Empowerment Programme. All
these politicians sef; wetin
concern youth empowerment
and football match? Anyway,
everyone looked forward to the
D-day when the two hoods
would clash. It would be a
clash of the titans!
I volunteered to be on the
coaching team of my hood. We
gave our team a worthy name
– The Indomitable Rabbits. Some
of the players felt the name
was demeaning but we finally
decided to stick with it. I
mean, C’mon, who cared
whether we were called
rabbits, squirrels or
earthworms. What mattered
was winning the match by any
means necessary and getting
the 100 thousand Naira grand
prize.
So we started preparations.
We went from house to house
requesting for players. Kalu
accepted the invitation; he just
came back from a trial at
Rangers FC. We also invited
the hood weed dealer, Okwe
for training. He was stocky and
about 5ft 8inches tall. We
decided he would be the best
guy to marshal the defence.
We also invited Sammy, the
fox. We called him the fox
because his speed was out of
this world and he could
maneuver his way around any
defence. Drogba, the Chelsea
fan sold cement at a shop in
the neighborhood and we
invited him to partner Kalu up
front in the attack. Emeka, the
chemist was going to partner
Alibo, the barber in midfield.
We invited a total of 14 people
and training commenced –
serious and intensive training
three times in a week. After
two weeks of rigorous training,
we were ready for the match.
On the D-day, we arrived at
the Layout, where we would
play the match. Many people
from our neighborhood came
to cheer us; Mama Nkiru
prepared moi-moi and akamu
for our players while Theresa
bought ice cream and pure
water for the team. The other
team was ready too –burly
men wey no dey laff at all.
Men paa ji na okpa !
By 3:30 p.m., the councilor
declared the event open. The
referee was a man we knew –
he ran a brothel not far from
our neighborhood. Two of his
friends would perform the
duties of the linesmen while
the fourth official was the
councilor’s driver. By 4 p.m. on
the dot, the referee blew the
whistle to signal the first half
had begun. Kalu raced towards
the enemy’s goalpost and took
a shot which deflected off the
defender and we had the first
corner. Everyone cheered our
players. A couple of minutes
later, Kalu was at the heart of
our attack once more and he
combined effectively with
Drogba who took a shot outside
the 18 yard box and we scored
the first goal. There was
jubilation everywhere. A lady
ran up to Drogba and planted a
kiss on his cheek. The game
resumed afterwards and we
kept shooting from every
angle. Shouts of ‘ mercenary ’
and ‘ meeshii ’ filled the air.
The opponent’s coach was
visibly angry at his players and
the councilor seemed to be
having fun. By the time the
first half was over, we were 3
goals up while our opponents
didn’t have any shots on
target. We were happy.
The referee signaled the end
of the first half. We were
already basking in the
euphoria and joy of going home
with 100 grand. I turned
around to check on our
opponents but they were
nowhere to be found. I only
saw their coach talking to the
referee in a friendly manner.
Anyway, that one no concern
me sha.
Later, the second half was
about to resume. Our players
were back on the field but yet,
the opponents were nowhere
to be found. The referee
threatened to end the game
and award the win to us if
they didn’t show up in the
next 10 minutes. All of a
sudden, we saw them
emerging from the nearby
bushes, jumping up high in the
air and shouting on top of
their voices. Smell of weed and
skunk filled the air. Their eyes
were bloodshot red and it
became evident that they were
busy getting high during the
half-time break. A few minutes
after the restart, Kalu was
hacked down from behind by a
defender on the other side.
Chaos erupted and the referee
didn’t issue any cards. Soon
the opponents scored a goal; a
player visibly pushed our
defender out of the way and
took a shot. The referee
allowed the goal to stand
instead of awarding a free kick
against them.
Frantically, I looked at my
watch; we still had about 2o
minutes left. No problem sha,
we could still hang on till the
end. But the referee and the
opponents had other ideas and
evil plans. It was clear the
player on the opposing team
scored their second goal with
his hand but the referee yet
again allowed a dubious goal to
stand. About 5 minutes to the
end of the second half, Drogba
was unable to continue
playing. Two of the opponents
intentionally went for his legs
and succeeded in crippling him
for the time being. Yet again,
no cards were issued to the
culprits. In the extra time, the
referee awarded two quick
penalties against us and the
opponents won the match. It
was 4 – 3!
The councilor handed the
cheque of a 100 grand to the
opponents amidst joys and
celebrations. Unsurprisingly,
the referee was also rejoicing
with them; he had murdered
the game for a fee. He was
Judas! He sold the match. But
we had other plans for the
referee. After the opponents
had entered their bus and left,
the councilor did same and the
referee left too. We traced him
to his compound that evening
from the field and gave him
the beating of a life time. We
also carted away with some
valuable property which we
sold and got some cash for. It
wasn’t up to 100 grand but at
least, it was compensation
money.
Throughout history, the
outcomes of a lot of football
(soccer) matches have been
decided by the incompetency
of referees. Just last year, I sat
watching Manchester United
and Liverpool play and Mark
Clattenburg was really making
wrong calls. I wished I could
be able to magically land at the
field at that moment and
knock the referee out. It was that horrible and
my beloved club lost that
match.
Just this weekend, Africa
witnessed another daylight
robbery on the football pitch.
The referee who was in charge
of the match between Tunisia
and Equatorial Guinea at the
ongoing African Cup of Nations
awarded a doubtful penalty in
favor of the hosts and another
unsympathetic free kick. The
hosts eventually won the
match and advanced to the
semi-finals. There I was at the
bar watching the match and
wishing the Tunisian players
would gang up and beat the
hell out of the referee.
Inglorious ones!
It is high time FIFA and
other continental soccer bodies
established sets of rules and
punishments for referees that
don’t do their duties
effectively. And I suggest the
punishment for awarding a
dubious penalty would be
stoning the referee from behind by
the affected team. Ouch, that
was harsh!

On Monday, the 25th day of
December, I woke up to the
early morning harmattan
chills, with my teeth clanking
together and my skin as white
as Snow White’s. Our
neighbors were preparing for
church service while Christmas
songs blared loudly from their
stereo systems. Suddenly, I
remembered it was time to set
off to my hometown. Some
weeks ago, I had discussed the
best and most suitable
destination to spend the
Christmas holiday with my
elder brother. After a few days
of serious arguments, we
finally decided it would be the
village; after all, that was the
only opportunity to visit home
throughout the whole
year.Traveling on the bumpy
road that leads toward home
had always been a bad
experience for me. I realized
that the solution to this
persisting problem was always
to keep myself busy; so this
time, I loaded songs of
different genre into my iPod
(omo, this gadget chop my
pocket moni no be small) and
placed the ear phones firmly
over my ears. I guess the trip
was better than before!
As we entered our hometown,
we could sense Xmas
everywhere; the nicely
decorated shops, the well
dressed kids in their
‘Christmas clothes’, the smell
of fresh air and the
masquerades trying to scare
everyone. All these made one
reminisce on the memories of
past yuletide seasons. Soon, we
beheld the sight of our old
uncle, Dee Gregory. He had
worked at the railway
corporation and always tried to
reflect the lifestyle of the
colonial masters both in the
way he dressed and in the way
he spoke. We genuflect on
approaching Uncle Gregory and
he gushes out the yearly
utterance, “You guys have
grown so big, welcome!” I
shoot a disapproving glance at
my elder brother. For God’s
sake, we knew we had never
added an extra pound since we
saw Uncle last. Anyway, we
forcefully smile and walk home
with him while inquiring about
his health, chickens, goats and
everyone at home.
On Tuesday, the swooshing
sound of the harmattan wind
wakes me up yet again.
Nobody needed to remind us to
cut down the overgrown
grasses, clean the hall for
kindred meetings and buy
some fresh palm wine for the
elders. Of course, we’ve been
doing these ever since we were
young; it’s a pity we didn’t
have any sisters to take over
the tasks. In the afternoon, we
had many visitors and Uncle
Gregory called us to say hello
each time a visitor came and
also to say goodbye when they
left. In some cases, we would
be summoned to partake in the
traditional breaking of kola
nuts. In the evening, we finally
had an excuse to go visit some
friends and eventually chilled
at a local bar.
The next day seemed as long as
the word ‘Wednesday’ because
we had a lot of activities lined
up, both tiresome and
interesting ones. We visited
our mother’s town, watched
local matches, and eventually
attended the local church
bazaar. The church officials
mistook us for some rich
fellows that came back from
‘overseas’ and called us up to
the‘high table’. Thanks to God
for eventually providing an
opportunity for us to sneak out
of the premises undetected
(after wining and dining with
the rich) without donating a
dime.
On Thursday, we literally spent
the day resting at home and
deliberately didn’t entertain
any visitors. But we didn’t
miss the ‘custom’ of hanging
out with a few friends in the
evening. On arriving at the
local bar, we discovered a lot
had changed at home. Instead
of enjoying the tingling taste of
palm wine while watching the
theatrical displays of the local
artistic dancers, we found
ourselves watching a bunch of
rapper wannabes as we were
served bottled beer.
Friday ushered in a new and
better day. A friend of Uncle
Gregory’s got some bush meat
minced into small pieces,
together with a local delicacy
we’ve never tasted. As it was
the custom, the man tasted the
meat before anyone else. We
waited patiently for any
sudden jerky movements and
the screams that would follow.
Eventually, nothing happened
so it was safe for the others to
do as he did; we all partook in
enjoying the lavish meal.
Saturday was nothing
compared to what it would
have been in the city; it was
just like any other day in the
village,characterized by hard
work and visitors trooping in
to say us well. A lovely lady
came to our house in the
company of an elderly woman
and we all spent the next
couple of hours discussing
different issues, together with
Uncle Gregory. Before they left,
uncle (in his sly manner) called
the lady aside and did an‘extra
introduction’ between the two
of us. I understood what the
‘extra introduction’ was all
about so I complied by
collecting the lady’s mobile
number, with the promise of
calling her and probably taking
‘it’ to the next level. After all, I
was an eligible bachelor and
she was single.
On the final day of the year,
we all prepared for the
traditional ceremony of
ushering in the New Year. The
kids were busy breaking their
piggy banks and buying
fireworks with the money, the
women were preparing the
food and dishes, the kinsmen
were holding meetings for the
welfare of the kindred clan
and the young men were
buying the drinks for the
'ichu-afo' ceremony. In the
evening, the merrymaking
commenced amidst fanfare.
Enemies rejoiced with friends,
mothers hugged stubborn
children and fathers shook
hands with 'godless' sons. The
celebration lasted well into the
night and at twelve o’clock
midnight, the sound of
firecrackers, bangers and
gunshots were heard in the
distance. It was another year.
A few days later, we packed
up to leave for the city. Uncle
Gregory was at hand to offer
an impromptu advice to my
brother and I – the type a
father usually gives a child he
won’t be seeing for long. At
that instant, it crossed my
mind that a lot of families
across the nation would be
doing same as we were doing;
leaving their respective villages
for the city. Soon, the whole
villages would be left desolate,
like war-torn areas.
I never regretted the time I
spent in my hometown. This
particular yuletide season
could be termed my best
because I really came to terms
with my people’s tradition.
Exposure to the city life at a
tender age and the stress
associated with work doesn’t
allow one time to ponder deep
into his roots and traditions.
But this special season made it
possible for me to do so.
Most Africans do not realize
that part of civilization,
refinement and development is
in coming to terms with their
traditional values. A person’s
tradition is his, no matter
where one finds himself and
nobody would perform
another’s traditional duties for
him. Indifference to one’s
traditional values is a never
ending character that eats
deep into a lot of lives.
Someday, the necessity of
coming to terms with one’s
traditional values would be
glaring and obvious to
everyone. It is therefore in
every individual’s interest to
make sure that the day would
be a remarkable one.

I walked into the ward; the
female one, headphones firmly
glued over my pinnae.
Kendrick Lamar’s Money
Trees was playing. On the
other hand, I was proudly
showing off my new Beats By
Dre headphones (I had to give
up on alcohol for two weeks to
save money to purchase it). As
I walked in, I went straight to
the Nurse’s cubicle. ‘How far,
how you dey?’, I inquired.
‘Funky doctor, na now you dey
show’, Nurse Titi replied. We
exchanged more pleasantries.
‘Abeg, arrange the swab, a pair
of gloves and syringe for me. I
suppose don collect this sample
since’. In ten minutes, I got
what I asked for. All the while
Money Trees was oozing out
of the objects over my ears.
I headed to where she lay. I
tapped her right shoulder. Her
eyes opened. The ghost of a
smile played around her thick
dark lips. ‘Funky doctor, na wa
for you o. You just bone my
side’, she said. ‘Amaka
township, no be so na. I had to
go to the bank. You know say
bank alert just show yesterday
na’, I replied. She smiled again.
‘That means say I go get better
take away fried rice from you
today. You know say na
Tantalizer own I dey like’, she
said. I gave her the thumbs up
and she nodded.
She saw the syringe. And the
wet swab. Her eyes became
weak and exhausted. She
sighed and turned her head to
the left and stared at the
distance. She stared at nothing.
Her thoughts must be racing
quickly like the stallions at a
horse-racing joint (doing their
best to earn money for the
greedy gamblers). ‘Everyday,
una dey collect my blood. Test
today, test tomorrow. Test no
dey finish?’, she retorted. I had
to explain all over again.The
investigations had to be done
again before administering the
second phase of chemotherapy.
I promised it won’t be painful.
I would be quick and I would
sing a special song for her
while at it. What was her
favorite? She laughed heartily.
‘Golibe’ by Flavour N’Abania.
Or ‘Yori Yori’. The one wey
Bracket sing’, she replied.
Unfortunately, I didn’t know
the lyrics to the songs so I sang
another one for her.
In a few minutes, I was done.
‘Hold the cotton wool well o, so
blood no go comot’. She did as
I requested. As I turned to
leave, she held the edge of my
ward suit. At that moment, I
felt like Jesus and she, the
woman with the issue of blood.
‘Funky doctor, tell me the
whole truth as a child of God.
Would I be OK? Will this
sickness go away? Am I going
to live?’, she asked. I paused
for a moment. I had to be
professional this time around. I
had to be a wise guy. ‘Amaka
township, haba? Of course na.
No worries. God is on the
throne. The plans of the enemy
will not work. After the whole
chemotherapy, you would be
very OK’. She smiled once
more and reclined in her bed.
She felt relieved. I dropped
the tray, washed up and said
my goodbyes while promising
to be back with her tantalizer
take away fried rice .
I knew I lied. I felt guilty. The
light at the end of the tunnel
was closing fast on her; the
cells have metastasized. I am a
child of the devil. He is the
father of all liars. I am a
godless soul. Soon, I’d have to
redeem my soul. I would tell
her the truth. But ‘soon’ may
never come.
At the door, I flipped out my
iPod and changed songs. Iris by
Goo Goo Dolls. I pressed play
and walked through the
corridors into the sunset.
Straight on to the laboratory.
WHAT IS TRUTH? WHAT IS
HOPE? WHAT IS HAPPINESS?
WHAT IS LIFE? WHAT IS
DEATH?

PS: Please, say a prayer for
a cancer patient today. They
need our prayers!

It was going be a good day. I
had many reasons to be
optimistic and happy. First, I
got some extra bucks designing
a campaign poster for a
prospective candidate for the
Hall Governor elections.
Secondly, tonight, I hoped my
beloved club – Manchester
United (the Red Devils) would
crush Chelsea F.C. for good.
It was the Champions
League Finals in Moscow. I
already felt I was in Russia so I
bought me a bottle of Smirnoff
Vodka with the cash I made
earlier in the day. I would use
part of the cash to also pay Dr.
Wood, the campus carpenter,
to repair my shelf that was
about falling off the wall. The
remaining cash would be able
to keep me alive for about a
week before I got my monthly
upkeep allowance. What a
glorious day!
I didn’t attend lectures on
that day so I spent the
morning outside the campus,
making sure the printer
finished the job I had given
him earlier because I had to
deliver the posters to the
client. Afterwards, I spent the
afternoon at the toilet end of
our hostel, smoking some
joints with men and discussing
how the evening would pan
out. Cristiano Ronaldo would
score at least two goals , I
bragged. Big Joe would have
none of that. Nonny-042
nodded in agreement and he
whistled to the tune of Lucky
Dube’s Prisoner playing from
a stereo nearby. Mucor swore
the Red Devils would not even
have a shot on target. Nobody
tried to argue with him; we
knew the substance was
already having an effect on
him. “O boi, this guy don dey
dull o. Just one wrap of nri
nnunnu , him don dey
misyarn”, I said. Everyone
laughed at the joke.
The Hall Governor had
already told us he planned to
show the match on the outside,
just in front of the hostel. We
would help him arrange the
chairs and set up the stage and
white screen, on which the
visuals would be projected.
By 4pm, I had already
placed bets with two people on
what the outcome of the match
would be. I bet that the Red
Devils would score first and in
the other, I bet the first yellow
card would be shown to a
Chelsea F.C.player. I couldn’t
bet what the final scores
would be; in as much as I
wanted my beloved team to
win, I still knew Chelsea sabi
put sand for person garri.
After setting up the stage in
front of the hostel, I proceeded
to Nwanyiocha ’s spot to buy
my meal for the evening. I
couldn’t eat a lot so I just had
some boiled potatoes and fried
plantain. I still discussed about
the upcoming match with some
guys at her place. Another
person wanted to place a bet
but I was short of cash. After I
was done with the meal, I
finally decided I couldn’t watch
the match inside the campus. I
would go off-campus to New
Berries Garden, where it would
be easy for me to destroy some
properties in case the Red
Devils lost.
I left the campus about an
hour before the match started.
I needed to reach the place on
time so I could sit at a very
strategic position and also get
chilled beer. When I arrived,
Chelsea fans had already
brought a cow and placed at
the corner near the suya spot.
They painted the cow with the
colors of the club – blue and
white. They were singing and
shouting on top of their voices.
Noisy fellows!
I took my seat and watched
the match preview. I saw the
Luzhniki Stadium and the
history of both clubs were
revealed, including their head-
to-head standings. It was the
first all-English finals in the
history of the competition. I
saw the lineup and I cursed
out. Why would Owen
Hargreaves play on the right
wing? I prayed the decision
wouldn’t come back to haunt
us at the end of the match. I
also feared Michael Essien
starting out as a right-back for
Chelsea would cause some
troubles for our wingers.
Another issue I also had with
the lineup was Ryan Giggs not
starting. Well, nothing spoil
sha; I’d have to trust Sir Fergie
as always.
The match started. I felt we
controlled possession fairly and
Hargreaves was performing
better than I expected. All of a
sudden, Scholes and Makelele
clashed in mid air. Holy Shit! I
hoped the later was injured
and that Scholes could
continue. Evil Me! In a couple
of minutes, we were rejoicing;
Cristiano Ronaldo had scored
from a Wes Brown cross. I
requested for another green
bottle and some cancer sticks.
I felt good.
But it didn’t take long for
our joy to be cut short. Almost
be cut short, actually. I
thought the ball had entered
the goal area only for Van der
Sar to pull off an incredible
save. Wow, the World Best
Stopper! We were still in
control of the game. Peter Cech
pulled off spectacular saves at
the other end to deny us extra
goals. Wicked Keeper!
All of a sudden, Lampard
had a simple finish and the
scores were level. The Chelsea
fans that were quiet all the
while erupted in jubilation and
didn’t allow us any rest during
half time. Chants of
Abramovich, Lampard, Drogba
and Terry filled the air. These
guys no go fit shut up for once,
I thought.
The match resumed some
minutes later; I was on my
third bottle by then.
Throughout the second half, I
was literally on my feet. O boi,
Chelsea wan finish us. I almost
fell off my seat when Drogba’s
shot hit the post.
Extra time came and tension
filled the whole arena. Any
phuck up from any team now,
na serious gbege. Lampard
struck the underside of the
bar and I screamed “Jesus”.
The wicked John Terry almost
broke my heart by clearing the
ball off the line when I thought
Giggs had scored. Later, Drogba
was given his marching orders
but it didn’t do us any good.
Penalty beckoned and
eventually became a reality. I
couldn’t bring myself to watch
the shootouts. But hey, does it
matter anymore; I wasn’t in
the mood to destroy any
properties again sef. So I
chilled and had my fifth green
bottle. Tevez scored, Ballack
scored, Carrick same, then
Belletti......and then the chosen
one missed. Chai, Ronaldo
why? I buried my head in my
palms. So this is the end, I
thought. Lampard, Hargreaves,
Ashley Cole and Nani all
scored. Then it was time for
Terry, the Wicked to take his
spot-kick. He adjusted his
captain’s armband and then all
of a sudden, lost his footing. It
was all a dream. Chelsea fans
cursed at him; we rejoiced. At
least, this was a life line.
Anderson then scored, followed
by Kalou and then Giggs.
Anelka stepped up; I prayed to
God to please grant me this
one last wish tonight. Van der
Sar dived to the right and
saved Anelka’s shot. We had
won!
There was jubilation
everywhere. Bottles were
broken, chairs were smashed
on the bodies of enemies, and I
ducked as a green bottle flew
in the air. The supporters of
the two clubs clashed and
were exchanging blows. Some
sharp Manchester United fans
rushed towards where the
Chelsea fans kept the cow to
slaughter the poor animal in
anger but faced stiff resistance
from the enemy line. There
was chaos everywhere.
I escaped the venue by
scaling a tall barrier set up by
irate Chelsea fans. I went back
to the campus that night and
saw Dr. Wood dejected.
Chelsea fans were mourning
their loss. This was the final
blow to those loud-mouthed
folks, I thought.
That night, I had a dream. I
was in Moscow getting a
winner’s medal together with
the Manchester United players.
Mine was given to me after
Ferdinand had collected his. As
I was about to collect the
medal, I suddenly woke up. I
realized I was still in my room
in the hostel and that my
phone had just been stolen.

published on: www.feelgoodinconline.com/blogs/

It’s the season of the
witches. This couldn’t be a
coincidence. A day before I
saw her face, my PC fell down
and crashed. I heard my name.
I was sure I did. Someone just
called me. It sounded like a
distress call. I stood up
abruptly and rushed towards
the door. Suddenly, I heard a
sound. “KPAAAA!!!” Ol' boy,
my PC had fallen face down
and the screen shattered. I had
tripped on the cord connecting
it to the power pack.
“God”, I exclaimed as I
picked up the object. I stood
speechless for a couple of
minutes, staring at my PC,
shattered in my hands.
Afterwards, I quickly dashed
to the living room. Tunde and
Edet were on their third card
game. Linda was acting as
a board man , keeping the
cash as well as providing
refreshments. Or board-lady in
this case. Five grand was at
stake.The smell of mary jane
filled the air while four empty
bottles of alomo bitters
loitered on the floor. The gods
should have pity on these two,
I thought to myself. “O boi,
who call me?” I asked. No
answer! “I say who shout my
name, two of una keep eye like
pigeon wey wan delete?” “O
boi, why you dey shout.
Nobody call your name na”,
Edet exclaimed, his blood-shot
eyes turning towards me. “Una
sure? But I been hear my
name. Which kind thing be
this. I don break my laptop as
I dey rush make I answer una.
Mscheeeww”. I walked back to
my room. Inglorious rats!
The next day, I saw her in
my dreams. The Witch. Yes, I
did see her face; her beauty so
pure and her eyes as radiant
as a young moon. She had
wings that flapped like
blossomed lea in the winds. In
her left hand, she held my
other phone (my only source of
communication with the world)
and held a magic wand in her
right hand. I woke up,
sweating and panting. I took
my chaplet and hung on the
door. I sprinkled the olive oil
on the four corners of the
room. Afterwards, I recited
Psalm 91 from the first verse
to the last.
The witch was still at work
the next day; my tablet fell
inside water. It was raining
heavily. I was trying to jump
over a gutter and it fell inside.
Gracious Lord, this must be
the season of witches indeed.
In the evening, I got a
notification on my blackberry.
I hoped it wasn’t a message
from the witch? Alas, it was a
Facebook notification. I was
tagged in a picture posted by a
friend. “Pamurogo”, I
exclaimed. I’ve been mourning
the death of my tablet since
morning. The last thing I
needed was another friend
tagging me to a recent picture
of his wedding. How I detested
seeing such pictures. They
served as a reminder that it
was time for me to get
married and settle down. But
how poor church rat like me
wan take pay bride price na ?
Pamurogo, I exclaimed once
more.
Grudgingly, I clicked on the
link. Network reception was
poor so I waited patiently for
the contents on the page to
load. Lo and behold. I saw the
picture. The one I was tagged
in. It was the picture of a
young girl (not more than six
years old) with multiple
stitches, a rigid neck collar and
bandages on the upper and
lower limbs.
The title of the post was:
DON’T IGNORE THIS !!!
Content: “ A girl was sent
packing from a house because
she refused to have sex with the
landlord. She had no money to
pay for her rent so the landlord
gave her a chance that unless
she sleeps with him before he
would allow her live in the
house. Later, the landlord killed
the girl because she didn’t want
to sleep with him…Now I
declare to your life that any
untimely death that would come
when your good news arrives
will be destroyed in the MIGHTY
name of God. Just type AMEN to
claim it ”.
I looked below and saw that
the post already had 913,234
likes and 32,477 comments.
Everyone typed “AMEN” or
something similar. Kai!
I’ve been gullible in the
past. About three years ago, I
came across a post: “ If you
can type ‘AMEN’ with your
mobile phone, before 11:59pm
tonight, someone you don’t
know will call you and favor
you ”. Boy, I was dead broke
then. So I took a leap of faith
and typed ‘AMEN’. I guess I
was the 1,000th person to
comment. I waited patiently
from 3pm, hoping a miracle
would happen. By 1opm, my
phone rang; an unknown
number called me. I gladly
picked the call, hoping to
receive some good news.
“Hello, Baruu…so you dey
dodge me since, abi? You no
wan pick my calls since…na
now wey I use number wey
you no know, na em you pick. I
just wan tell you say make you
arrange my cash…otherwise, I
go show for your area, treat
your phuck up big time. Shey
you don hear”, Walter shouted
at the other end. Phew, so
much for a miracle!
And the cycle continues. On
social media (especially
Facebook), such peculiar
stories abound and it baffles
me why people are so naive to
even care to comment on such
posts. Pardon me if I sound
like a ‘condemned sinner’, but
in all honesty, I don’t think
miracles do happen by such
means. A lot of individuals
resort to creating fake social
media accounts of well known
ministers of God and post such
stories. I wonder what they
stand to gain by doing so.
Maybe the number of ‘Amens’
that are typed would
determine how many years
they get to spend on earth or
how much cash they would
have in their bank accounts.
Who knows, everything is
possible to them that believe.
I think the probable reason
why this scenario plays out
most of the time on social
media is this: there is so much
suffering in the world and
people have no other option
but to resort to any means of
obtaining miracles from God.
That is why a congregation of
individuals created by the
Almighty would hearken to the
words of their pastor and
gladly eat grass in a bid to be
cured of certain ailments.
Young women seeking for
husbands would willingly make
their bodies available to
receive lashings of the cane by
the eager prophet. Any means
of achieving the miracle is
accepted once the name of the
Lord is mentioned.
There exists another
category of posts on Facebook;
the ones I call ‘Hint’ posts. I
coined this term to make
reference to that magazine
every teenager read while
growing up – Hints Magazine
. Yes, that magazine with fake
love stories. That magazine
published by folks as dumb as
their readers. It’s a pity
Facebook is gradually falling
prey to such shameful stuffs. I
came across one sometime ago:
TITLE: Please, don’t neglect
this !
CONTENT: Hello, my name is
Peter. I am living in the same
house with my stepmother and
my dad. My dad traveled for a
business trip. On this fateful
day, my step mum came into my
room. I was naked and didn’t
want to do it. But she removed
her clothes and we did it. Now,
she is 4months pregnant. What
should I do ?
It would be a great phat(sic)
lie if I say I wasn’t puzzled by
the comments that rolled in. “
Chai, I understnd ur plight
young man. Tk it easy. Just
pray and tell ur dad”. Another
person commented: “Don’t
worry, ur stepmom wud lose the
baby and u wud be free”.
Another one wrote: “Tell ur
pastor and then run away frm d
house” …And the comments
kept rolling in.
Trust me now. I wasn’t left
out. So I wrote: “ Dear Peter,
just take a deep breath.
Afterwards, get a rope and a
brick, then take a walk to the
third mainland bridge. Wen u
reach there, jump inside the
lagoon and drown. And if
peradventure u survive, enter a
church knack head for pulpit, u
pathetic lazy f@#k” .
I am not disputing the fact
that people actually have
serious and worrisome
problems that bother them and
affect their peace. But on social
media, it is really a tough task
to decipher which of them is
true or just some bored
teenager somewhere across the
world seeking for attention.
So last week, as I sat down
in the barber’s shop waiting
for my turn to cut my hair, I
came up with a plan.
Tomorrow, I’d post a story
about the witch:
TITLE – Please, don’t ignore
this !
CONTENT – Hello, I am a 14yr
old boy living with my evil
aunty. At night, she turns into
a witch and appears in my
dreams chasing me with a
machete. What should I do ?
First comment : Dear child of
God, make sure you pray before
going to bed and tell your
pastor about it . I burst out
laughing as I read that.
Second comment : Are you sure
you are born again? because the
devil has no business with a
child of God. Give ur life to the
Lord . Ok, fair enough.
Third comment : Boy, make
sure u keep ur bible beneath ur
pillow when you sleep and also
soak ur chaplet inside the water
you use to bath .
I almost fell off the seat as I
laughed out loud. The barber
thought I had gone crazy.

Disclaimer: This is a work of
fiction mixed with a little bit
of reality. Any similarity with
the names mentioned and the
circumstances are highly
regretted.

culled from: www.feelgoodinconline.com/blogs/

We were all seated on the
white chairs, facing the pulpit.
Something is different today.
Beautiful flowers adorned the
pulpit, ribbons were used to
decorate the whole chapel; red,
yellow, blue and most
definitely, white. Sometimes, I
wonder why I’ve never seen
them adorn the chapel in
black. Oh, I get it. Black is evil,
the devil is black, charcoal is
black and everything about
black isn’t right – black sheep,
blackmaria, black book, black
magic.
Bro Mike was standing at
the pulpit. He was going to say
the opening prayers first
before Sister Comfort took over
for praise and worship.
Secretly, I hoped Bro Mike
would make this quick. He is
notorious for spending endless
hours to say a prayer to God.
Instead of making intercession
for Nigeria as a single prayer
point, he would proceed to
pray for the president, the vice
president, the first lady, the
senators...then the women, the
men, the children, the
pregnant women...then the
black men, the tall women, the
fat traders......Chai! Usually at
the end of such prayers,
everyone would be exhausted.
But on this day, I guess a new
spirit overtook him; he spent a
couple of minutes thanking
God and praying that the
revival service would be a
success.
Sister Comfort took over.
Boy, I swear this girl has an
angelic voice. Na these kind
girls go sing better songs when
they reach heaven. She would
be adorned in white garment
with a gold crown on her head,
singing and clapping, day and
night. My type of person
would sing small and take
excuse; I’d tell the angels I
wanna find something to eat.
But on this day, she wasn’t
adorned in all white. Rather,
she wore a long brown gown
that made her resemble a 16th
century nun. Or worse, a
trader in the 70s. No single
flesh was seen as the cloth
covered up every available
space. She wore no jewelries.
Then her shoes...a pair of
black akpola you’d think she
just left an orthopedic hospital.
Lord, please have mercy on
me. Instead of focusing on the
worship session, I was busy
sampling the sister’s archaic
fashion.
Time passed and she was
done. I looked at my watch.
Na wa o. In two hours time,
Manchester United would play
Everton. I no fit miss that
match o. I’d have to give the
brethren an excuse to leave.
Just as I was about figuring out
the best excuse to come up
with, he mounted the stage.
Yes, the most revered preacher
– Bro Titus. He had an orange
pair of trousers on him, a black
shirt, red tie, and a brown
coat. His shoes were grey in
color and the tips pointed to
heaven. He was the minister
on this third day of the revival
service. He started off by
shouting: “someone would
have a new story to tell
today”. And the congregation
shouted AMEN. He repeated
the statement three more
times, each time changing his
style of saying it, while the
piano man played special notes
to fit into the whole style.
He told us the topic for
discussion: Attaining Holiness
by Resisting the Devil. That
was OK. I guess I liked the
topic. So I sat back and
relaxed, getting ready to know
the techniques for avoiding the
devil. He talked the more. He
was a good teacher, I must
confess. He knew the right
words to say to get the
audience hooked and attentive.
A sister at the far right side
was already shedding a tear.
He proceeded to mention the
vices we should avoid in order
to resist the devil: smoking,
drinking, lustful looking at
women, lying...Hold up, e be
like say this guy dey target me
o? How come he is just
mentioning all the vices I
engage in? He continued:
wearing evil clothes (which one
come be evil cloth?), gluttony,
listening to worldly music. And
then he stopped. He wanted to
stress on the last point. He
spoke at length on what he
meant by worldly music. He
talked about Beyonce, Nicki
Minaj, Reggae, Pop...and then
he said what got the blood in
my veins boiling. “All yea that
listen to Rock and Roll, get
ready for damnation. Rock and
Roll is the most evil of all these
worldly music. All yea listeners
have a place in hell. If you
rock and roll, then you lose
your soul”. O boi, this preacher
don touch the tail of a python
o. Which kind talk be dat one?
He continued saying that Rock
and Roll originated from the
devilish dances of the West
Indies. At this point, I’ve had
enough. I stood up abruptly
and headed for the exit door.
This is pure heresy! Sister
Uche blocked me. I made a
sign indicating I needed to
urinate. She allowed me to
leave and I headed straight to
the main road, flagged an
okada man down and went
home. I left behind my hymn
book and tracts. When I
reached home, the match had
already started and it was half
time. I took a bottle of chilled
Coke and proceeded to listen to
Californication by Red Hot Chili
Peppers, one of my all time
favorite rock bands. Phuck that
preacher and whatever he
says!
Rock and Roll (often written
as rock ‘n’ roll) is a genre of
popular music that originated
and evolved in the US during
the late 1940s and early 1950s,
primarily from a combination
of African-American genres
such as blues, boogie woogie,
jump blues, jazz and gospel
music, together with Western
swing and country. When have
any of these turned to devilish
dances of the West Indies?
There is the Rock ‘n’ Roll dance
which is an acrobatic dance
routine (Lindy Hop) involving
two people (a couple). I never
knew the devilish dances of
the West Indies involved only
two people. Over time, the
genre evolved around the
world to give rise to the more
encompassing international
style known as Rock Music.
The fact that there are crazy
rock stars that would gladly
pull their pants on stage,
smoke a blunt in front of the
crowd and speak profane
words about Jesus, doesn’t
mean every rock star is the
same. Neither does it give any
preacher any right to twist the
history of rock, just to achieve
the singular aim of
discouraging their followers
from listening to the genre of
music. I mean, for God’s sakes,
there are crazy musicians in
other genres of music too.
It is imperative for
preachers (or public speakers
in general) to do adequate
research before mounting
stages and podiums to speak to
an audience because in all
honesty, not every member of
the audience is easy to fool.
Eventually, Manchester
United won the match. I
celebrated the victory by
treating myself to a meal of
fish barbecue plus two bottles
of Star Lager Beer while
listening to In The End by
Linkin Park. And before I
went to bed that night, I also
listened to Toxicity by System
of a Down. If I’d have to lose
my soul by listening to rock ‘n’
roll, then I’ll gladly part ways
with my evil soul. Capisce!

published by: www.feelgoodinconline.com/blogs/

“I know the police cause you
trouble. They cause trouble
everywhere. But when you die
and go to heaven, you find no
policeman there” – Woody
Guthrie
“When you have police officers
who abuse citizens, you erode
public confidence in law
enforcement. That makes the
job of good police officers
unsafe” – Mary Frances Berry


Let the title of this article
not deceive anyone. My first
visit! It wasn’t an excursion
neither was it a social visit to
the police station. I sleep 4
sanko , walahi ! And I swear,
it was my only visit there. Not
twice. Not thrice. Just once!
It’s nothing to be proud of.
But honestly, back then, I felt
like a rapper thrown into jail.
The hood loved me. More
street guys paid respects to
me. I walked around the area
with a swagger. I got free
booze because I didn’t snitch
on people at the station. I also
got free akara balls from
Mama Chikezie after I was
released.
It was the 10th day of
January, 2003. It was a Friday.
I had just showed up from the
village after the Xmas holidays.
The nation felt good. I felt
good. Everyone in the area felt
good too except Chikwe, whose
car was vandalized a couple of
weeks earlier. Okpolo had just
won 30 grand at the polling
house and planned to purchase
a new motorcycle. Ebere
recently gave birth to a
bouncing baby girl. One could
literally term my hood the
‘Feel Good Boulevard’.
Everyone felt good, I reiterate.
In the evening, I decided I
needed a new haircut. But I
was dead broke. Broke already
in the New Year? Of course na.
Money wey I waste for Xmas,
no be small o. So I got 100
bucks from my neighbor and
promised to pay back in a
week.
Walking to the barber’s
shop, I never envisioned the
evil that would befall me. If I
knew, I would have stayed
back to watch the F.A. Cup
match going on at a viewing
center nearby. But I needed
this new haircut so I had to go.
Upon arriving at the barber’s, I
hailed guys around the place.
Now this particular shop was
notorious for having a
gambling spot in front of it,
owned and run by the barber
himself. People usually gather
around the large billiard table,
staking cash, jewelry and any
item that could be staked.
Surprisingly on this particular
day, I discovered that there
were only a handful of men
surrounding the table.
Somewhere not too far away,
people gathered around in a
circle, shooting dice. I went
close by and beheld my
neighbor, Izu.“O boi, how far?
Na here e dey happen now?”, I
inquired. “Baruu the king, how
far? Na here e dey happen, my
brother. Na here o”, Izu
replied. “Why una run comot
from David snooker table na?”,
I asked. “O boi, this dice game
dey easier o. This one na quick
cash. Just throw dice for
ground, u don make moni be
dat.Nobody wan stay for two
hours dey play snooker. At the
end, na only small money u go
make. Na one sharp guy start
this one o. I hear say David sef
don dey vex say men no dey
show again for him snooker
table. But nobody send am.
Him don make many money.
Make him go rest joor”, Izu
explained.
I thought briefly about what
he said. There was a little bit
of frankness in what he just
said. I stared at the 100bucks I
came with. As usual, impious
thoughts took over me. They
say when the gods want to
kill a king, they first make
him mad . I finally
decided to shoot dice with my
100bucks at stake. E no
matter, I thought to myself.
After all, if I lose the
100bucks, nothing spoil! I go
still cut my hair later. Now,
that’s the devil at work.
I shot the double dice. Lo
and behold, I got a 6 and a 5.
Men hailed me. Five other
guys shot the double dice
when their respective turns
reached. I got the highest
combination. Gracious Lord, I
just made me an extra
500bucks. Izu was very happy.
He encouraged me to try a
second time, this time
increasing my stake. Izu is
surely the devil’s vessel, I
thought.
Alright then, I decided to try a
second time. My stake was
200bucks. Lo and behold, for
the second time in a row, I
chop all man money. Kai, this
one better pass snooker joor.
I tried a third time. But this
time around, I staked 500bucks
and lost it. “Baruu, try again
and get back your lost bounty”,
said the devil to me. I
hearkened to his voice, that
ancient serpent.
As we waited patiently for
the fourth person to shoot the
double dice, men started
running helter skelter. It was
as if a demon was unleashed
amongst us. I felt two hands
grab me from behind. At that
moment, I saw some plain-
clothed men running after my
co-gamblers. “ Ekelebe atu o
down oh, ekelebe o ”, shouted
young men scurrying to safety.
I was unfortunate to be
backing the main road, so I
didn’t see them coming. Two
more cops joined my captor.
“We don catch their leader”,
one exclaimed. They mistook
me for the owner of the joint
because I was huge and bigger
than everyone. Or so I thought.
They captured four of us and
bundled us into the bus
waiting by the roadside. They
kept me in the front seat with
a policeman beside me. He had
a gun. And so began the
journey to that dreaded city;
the journey to the police
station. Okoro’s son was
sobbing softly at the back. I
felt pity for him; his dad was a
retired technician. I wondered
how he would be able to raise
the bail money. I stared out of
the window and wondered
what went wrong. How could
the cops raid this new joint? I
had the answer. Someone has
snitched. David was the rat!
At the station, we were
taken to the interrogation
room and kept separately. An
officer was assigned to each of
us to take down our
statements. I saw Ekene at the
other end telling the officer he
didn’t do anything. He refused
to sign the statement the cops
had already prepared. He said
what they wrote down there
wasn’t what he did and as
such, won’t sign the document.
I saw the officer bring out an
object tied around his waist. It
was a whip. And with it, he
gave Ekene the lashing of his
life. No one told him to sign
the document quickly. I turned
around and stared at the
officer assigned to me. He had
a wry smile on his lips. He
gave me a pen. I didn’t
hesitate to sign the document
after I saw he had a whip tied
around his waist also.
Afterwards, we were made
to remove our clothes and
belongings. We only had our
shorts and briefs on. Before
then, I saw my fellow
‘prisoners’ exchanging money.
Ekene gave the guy with an
afro 5obucks. He had120 naira
left. Okoro’s son begged him to
give him 20bucks and he
obliged. Immediately, we were
taken to the cells.
There were two cells; a big
one and a smaller one. There
were around 9 or 10 inmates in
the big one. They were
screaming and banging their
fists against the iron bars,
asking for ‘fresh meat’. Wisely,
I withdrew to the back. The
first two guys – Okoro’s son
and the guy with an afro –
were pushed into the big cell.
There was no room to
exchange pleasantries. Hot
slaps landed on their faces,
followed by severe beatings. I
made a sign of the cross. But I
didn’t know what would befall
me in the smaller cell.
We were calmly shoved into
the small cell. It smelled of
urine and weed mixed
together. On the walls were
scribbled different words and a
picture of Fela was on the east
end of the room with the
words “Kalakuta Republik”
written on top of the picture.
There were five guys in the
room plus an elderly man who
lay on the floor. He had grey
unkempt beards and wore a
red cardigan. Ekene wasted no
time; he quickly brought out
the 100bucks he had on him
and handed it over to the
chairman. “Na 100 naira u
bring come for us? U hear say
na begger dem full cell? Boys,
make una begin am”, the
chairman shouted. I had to
stand and watch in horror as
the other four beat up Ekene.
After a couple of minutes, it
was my turn. Immediately, I
sensed an overwhelming power
overtake me. It was like the
spirit came over me. I quickly
fell on my knees and with
arms stretched out wide, I
pleaded with the chairman
that I had no money on me. I
told him I was an innocent guy
who sold recharge cards when
the cops picked me up. My
pleas fell on deaf ears as I had
to go through a thorough body
search, followed by candle wax
poured on my bare back and
an extra few minutes of
beating and battering before
they left me alone. I promised
heaven and earth. I told them I
would make sure I got some
cash from my relatives (when
they come to bail me) and
hand it over to them.
Eventually, kalakuta republik
became calm again.
We all struck up a
friendship. Each inmate told
tales of their struggles. They
all were normal hustlers. One
inmate had a weed farm and
sold the product to support his
parents, five siblings and a
grandmother. He wondered
why his 90year old granny was
still alive while he lost one
sibling a year ago. “I swear,
that women na witch wey dey
suck children blood”, he said.
We all laughed at the silly
joke. All the while, the old
man lay on the floor,
motionless. The chairman
assured us he wasn’t dead. We
all smoked some joint
together. We all felt like
victims of the system; victims
of police brutality.
At about 11pm, I heard an
officer call my name. I stood
up abruptly. He came towards
our cell with a bunch of keys
and opened the cell door.
“Your people don show. Comot
make you dey waka”, he
exclaimed. I felt relieved. “Hey
you, remember our agreement
o. Just bring my dough”, the
chairman said. Evil man, I
thought to myself. I thought he
had slept off. This guy head
strong o. After two wraps of
kpoli the guy eye still clear. I
promised him I would be back
with the cash once I reached
the counter. I left the cage and
walked towards our lawyer,
mother and elder brother.
They were standing at the
other end of the counter.
Mumsie gave me a stern look.
I didn’t care. I didn’t give a
phuck. All that mattered was
that I was finally out.
These days, whenever I am
in an unholy place or an
unholy situation, I am always
on the lookout for cops; those
evil beings and harbingers of
doom for young men seeking
whom to devour. They won’t
catch me again, I’ve sworn.
The snare of the fowler shall
not behold me again. Na so!

“I came seriously close to
getting married four times, and
each time I backed off in fear
or for one reason or another.
Each occasion was different,
but in hindsight when I look at
the people involved, it wasn’t
a bad thing what I did. I think
it may have been more
complex had the marriage
taken place” – Ratan Tata
“You know it’s never fifty-fifty
in a marriage. It is always
seventy-thirty or sixty-forty.
Someone falls in love first.
Someone puts someone else up
on a pedestal. Someone works
very hard to keep things
rolling smoothly. Someone else
sails along for the ride” – Jodi
Picoult
“Men marry women with the
hope they will never change.
Women marry men with the
hope they will
change.Invariably, they are
both disappointed” – Albert
Einstein


The friends had arrived. The
cake was neatly placed on the
small table in the middle of
the living room. Whoever made
this cake should be shot at the
back of the head, Tunde
thought. Very horrible! There
were cans of malt and other
beverages too. Bose was
getting ready to dish out the
meal of rice and stew. It was a
simple get-together organized
by Tunde, his boyfriend to
celebrate her birthday.
It was now a cliché – for the
past three years, this ritual has
been performed. This time
around, she hoped it would be
crowned by the surprise she
had always wished for; that
ring she had longed for. She
hoped Tunde had a surprise up
his sleeves. She had discussed
with her friends earlier that
day about the issue bothering
her. “Don’t worry. Maybe he is
gonna propose today”, Nkechi
said. Jibola, the gossip girl
followed suit, “Of course na,
hmmm, he has no option but
to propose. Bose has tried for
him o. Staying by his side all
these years no be beans, yet
there is no ring to show his
commitment to her. If he
doesn’t propose today, buy
your own ring and propose to
him”.
The party started and
everyone was happy. The MC
proposed a toast. He wished
Bose many happy years ahead
and prayed that her
relationship with Tunde would
grow stronger. Tunde was
laughing heartily, and touched
the left breast-pocket of his
shirt. Bose felt she saw
something like the shape of a
ring inside the pocket. Yes, she
said to herself. Today, he
would propose.
After the toast, it was time
for Tunde to sing a special
birthday song for Bose. She
was giggling like a happy baby
as her bobo held her left hand
and proceeded to sing John
Legend’s All of Me. Bose shed
a tear as she looked into
Tunde’s eyes.
The room was hot so almost
everyone was sweating. Tunde
was sweating too so he put his
hand into his left breast-
pocket. Bose’s heart was
beating fast. Yes, please
propose now, she thought. But
alas, Tunde brought out a
white hankie and cleaned his
sweaty face. She cursed
bitterly. The gods must be
crazy indeed.
A lot of women find
themselves in this familiar
situation. She don tire to dey
attend other people’s wedding.
The biological clock is ticking
fast. At every occasion, she
grabs the bouquet of flowers
when the bride throws it up
into the air. She has become
brides’ maid emeritus. If the
habit of attending weddings
was a course, she would have
gotten an A-plus. She can’t
even count the number of
weddings she has attended in
the past. She goes to Mandilas
almost every week to purchase
clothes for her friends’ baby
showers. But ironically, the
right man never shows up. She
always meets the wrong
people. It is either an
immature fresh graduate who
is only after kpanshing and
lanshing , who doesn’t think
about settling down in the near
future. Or a pot-bellied
married rich man who wants
to take her for a second wife.
Or even a third one!
Why is my case different,
she thinks? Pastors have
prophesied endlessly on my
behalf. More than 50% of my
monthly salaries go towards
sowing seeds of faith and
special prayer sessions. I buy
chickens and turkeys for the
pastor on Sundays. I have
grown lean from fasting
endlessly such that people now
call me bonga fish . Visions
are seen on my behalf at every
revival service in church. The
mummy of the church knows
my case specifically because I
am always the first to show up
for meetings involving
spinsters. God, why me?
This is the same situation
Bose has found herself in. But
this time around, she has to
take the bull by the horns; she
would confront Tunde with the
question that has got her
wondering where her life was
headed to. So at night, when
all the friends had left, and
they were the only ones left in
the house, she requested for a
sit-down. The discussion lasted
for some hours. She cursed,
she shouted, she wept, she
reminded him of his promises,
she reminisced on the special
moments they shared
together...bla bla bla. Tunde
kept staring at her. After she
was done, he just gave her a
simple explanation: “Babe, you
gotta understand. I am not yet
ready to settle down. I don’t
even have a decent job. You
are unemployed. You and I are
managing to survive in this one
room apartment. This is not
the life I asked for. This is not
the life I want to have for the
two of us, and our future
babies. We can’t start a family
in this condition. Just trust me.
Everything good will come and
we would get married”.
For where, story for the
gods! She packed her stuffs the
next morning and left him for
good.
My people, this is not a
Nigerian film o. This happens
in our society on a daily basis.
Most ladies have become
victims of clinical depression.
But where are all the godly,
handsome and tall men
hidden? I feel this is really
complicated. In all honesty,
financial stability (to a great
extent) is an important
determinant in a man deciding
to settle down. Correct me if I
am wrong but it doesn’t make
any sense taking a leap of faith
and marrying a lady when you
can barely cater for the two of
you, not to talk of the kids
when they arrive. Because in
most cases when this happens
and shit eventually hits the
fan, it is the same lady that
was pushing you towards
marriage that would be the
first to remind you how your
mates are providing for their
families.
On another note, I feel most
ladies are gluttons when it
comes to the type of man they
want to settle down with. The
lists they present to God
during prayer sessions are
really baffling. I don’t think
the type of men they want
have been created yet. It is
therefore important to look
beyond the fleeting qualities of
life and focus on the man that
would complement you and
make you a better person. The
man could just be the young
hustler that just opened a
barber’s shop at the end of the
street, or the young graduate
that recently opened a car-
wash joint in the
neighborhood. He mustn’t be a
‘made-guy’. What matters most
is whether the guy has a
bright future ahead of him and
loves you unconditionally.
So dear single and searching
lady, when you find such a
man, don’t hesitate to walk
into that fabulous jewelry store
on your way back from work
and purchase an engagement
ring. Because if he doesn’t
propose to you, then you
should. Capisce!

published on: www.feelgoodinconline.com/blogs/

“But in the end, one needs
more courage to live than to
kill himself” – Albert Camus
“Life is a series of experiences,
each one of which makes us
bigger, even though sometimes
it is hard to realize this. For
the world was built to develop
character, and we must learn
that the setbacks and grieves
which we endure help us in
our marching onward” – Henry
Ford
“Sometimes, even to live is an
act of courage” – Seneca
“A challenge only becomes an
obstacle when you bow to it” –
Ray Davis


It is almost impossible to
survive as a BROKE man in
Naija. It is even safer being a
dog. Or even a rabbit. In fact,
any animal that can run fast.
But a BROKE man, forget about
it. It is really tough. Pheeww!
If it were possible, a lot of
Nigerian BROKE men would
have talked God into dropping
them in another country before
they were born.
“ Baba God, abeg which country
you wan send me go? ” he
would ask.
“ My son, Nigeria of course ”,
God would reply.
“ No be that country wey light
no dey and dem dey chop
corruption like food? ” he
would ask.
“ Yes, my son, that’s the
country. You’d enjoy your stay
there ”, God would reply.
And he would proceed to
beg God to change his
destination. Cuba or Haiti
would even be better. But not
Naija, at all!
A BROKE man grows up in a
crowded neighborhood,
somewhere in the ghetto, with
other BROKE people, raised by
BROKE parents. He only gets
breast-fed for about 2 weeks
and afterwards, he starts
eating strong fufu and soup
like the other kids. Attending
nursery school is out of the
question so he starts his
academic pursuit at a nearby
primary school at the age of 7.
He spends the day at the local
school, and comes home to
have lunch with 5 other hungry
siblings. They all feed from a
single plate because the BROKE
parents couldn’t afford more
plates. Afterwards, he sets off
for the afternoon hustle –
washing car windscreens
during hold ups in the traffic.
His sisters have other hustles
too – selling cashew nuts at the
car park, oranges on the
streets or mangoes in front of
the house – depending on the
season.
BROKE guy grows up further
and it is time to write JAMB. O
boi, nothing dey BROKE guy
head o. So the guy connives
with a couple of ‘correct’ men
in the area wey go help am
write the exam. Viola! He gets
admitted into a tertiary
institution to study Psychology.
Upkeep money doesn’t come
from the parents so he resorts
to selling recharge cards in
front of the hostel. School life
no easy at all; apparently,
almost every color is the
adopted ‘flag’ of one cult or the
other.
No wear red and black o! You
know say na dem get school
now.
Hmmm, this your yellow shirt
fit put you for problem my guy.
Shoo, na wa, this ur black and
white today o! You be law
student?
Dis kin socks wey you wear
today, I don dey suspect you o.
And it goes on and on. So
what does BROKE guy do? He
resorts to wearing safer colors
like lemon, orange, lemon-
orange, pink and brown. Wetin
man go do na? To chop sef na
wahala so BROKE guy adds an
extra hobby to his already
filled resume – snatching
phones from unsuspecting
scared girls buying mishai
beside their hostels.
After school, NYSC beckons.
Chai! BROKE gets posted to the
North and there, befriends a
Fulani girl. That one better sha
because BROKE guy gets free
food to chow and free
kpanshing too. He starts
adding weight and sends his
pictures back home for his
people to view. Since he has
added weight, it is assumed
that things don better for am.
This translates to more
demands for cash from the
BROKE parents and siblings.
Na wa o, these people no know
the difference between
ACTION FILM and FILM
TRICK?
After NYSC don finish, then
comes the endless days of
wearing ties and walking
under the scotching sun in
cities, looking for a job. Come
today, come tomorrow – is the
response he gets in every
office. After spending 8 months
in the township without
success, broke guy goes back to
the village to hustle. At least,
he would have the luxury of
staying with other BROKE
people who understood his
condition better.
There, he knocks up a
village mgbeke and starts a
family unprepared. Pikin go
chop na so BROKE guy decides
to try another means of
‘hammering’. Omo, na rituals
be the way o. So he proceeds
to the babalawo’s house where
everything is set for the
rituals. As he faces the mirror
(with a dagger in hand) to call
his mother’s name, a heavy
hand appears from nowhere
and slaps the hell out of him.
Ewooo! So much for making
money!
BROKE guy goes back home
and after taking a final glance
at the wife and kid sleeping on
a mat on the floor, proceeds to
the backyard, with a black
rope in the right hand and a
stool in the left. Before he
takes his life, he pauses for a
second and wonders how his
life would have turned out if
he were born in another
country:
If na the UNITED STATES, he
would have been murdered by a
cop for being black.
If na AFGHANISTAN, he would
have been massacred in a
suicide attack.
If na JAMAICA, he would have
overdosed on weed and passed
away. Or rather, gone mad.
If na JAPAN, he would have
died in an earthquake.
If na SOUTH AFRICA, he would
have been slaughtered during a
mine riot.
Finally, BROKE guy realizes
it is not easy surviving in any
country. He has to take life the
way it is and turn it around to
be the way he wants it to be.
He has to give life another
chance. So BROKE guy goes
into the house, cuddles his
wife and kid, and hopes to
wake up tomorrow to start a
journey towards changing his
destiny and making his life a
better one.
Hasta la vista !

culled from: www.feelgoodinconline.com/blogs/