When it rains

Agnes
Like all days that would change a person’s life forever mine began like an ordinary day would. I’ve thought about that morning countless times. There was no ominous feel to the morning, no hint of what was to come. I’m sure it wasn’t cold through out the night or even when I got up, but for some reason Atiri woke up wearing his united for Haiti black shirt, pink boxers and pink socks – how he’d normally dress if it was cold. I slept while he was still in the shower. So, normal morning, I’m in bed beside him,completely naked but covered from the waist down by a white duvet with big green marijuana leaf designs. I have to cover up no matter how cold or hot it is.

My first thoughts or rather the first thoughts I took note of or better still the thoughts I now remember as my first thoughts that morning were “what a gorgeous piece of man” as I stared at the man whose member I was starting to feel inside me as I remembered last night and the other wonderful nights and days I’d had for the past five years. I remember feeling my erect nipples, I’m sure out of habit I squeezed the right nipple and cupped the left boob while licking my lips and taking a deep breathe. I remember thinking I have to get some before I go to work today as I pulled down the duvet and watched him stir and turn to face me all the while making cute sleeping man noises. As I positioned myself, putting his legs between my spread thighs I said something about his pink shorts and socks after I’d taken dragged down the covers to more cute murmuring retort. I pulled his left leg with my left hand. He chewed on something, rubbed his face with his hand, rolled slightly to my left and settled on his back. Perfect. I expertly worked the fly of his shorts and took him in my mouth.

“Oh, oh Agnes, oh baby, my queen, this feels good” he moan-talked. Did I mention my name is Funmi? Awkward. Thing is I don’t have any non-yoruba names (I hate how Hebrew, Greek,Scottish etc names are lazily called ‘English names’). Alas I digress. You won’t need empirical evidence to assume I was mightily disheartened by this happenstance.

Atiri opened his eyes, looked down, at me, me that was reeling from hearing him call me Agnes in his sleep, me that still had my right hand wrapped against the bottom of his throbbing shaft, me that was feeling my ‘wetness’ dry faster than water during harmattan and for some stupid reason I smiled. He smiled back.

“Baby I was dreaming about us having sex, I was about to cum, then my dream stopped, then I woke up to this, to my queen wanting her morning protein”.

Again I smiled. I filled my mouth with saliva and give him the kind of sloppy blowjob he’d come to expect from me. I couldn’t get myself to swallow his surprisingly large serving of ‘protein’. (After the exhaustions of last night, I didn’t think he’d have so much cum in him). By the time I got back from the toilet, oga was in la la land. My big bear, my beautiful King.

Morning to early evening of that day was unremarkable. The only thing I remember from that time span is I tried to reach Atiri several times but I couldn’t get a hold of him.

Ground zero
After my service I got a job in Benin, he stayed there so I moved in with him. That was over four years ago. He got a job in the university near us barely six months ago. You can’t blame a sister for being a weeny little bit insecure knowing her man was spending the best part of his day around younger,prettier, scheming women. Fears apart, I was happy for him. Genuinely happy for him. Seeing that he’d never worked since we starting dating just after his service year ( I was in my finals then) we were over the moon about his appointment. Moreover, marriage was out of the equation before he became gainfully employed, but now…I saw him browsing through a ring catalogue the other day. Things are looking up. I added my savings to his bulk first three months salary and we got a little car and furnished our sitting room that has been bare for years. Weeping had endured for the night, it was a really long night. Countless times I thought I’d leave him, pack my bags and just walk away, but I did not want to be that heartless woman who leaves a man at his lowest. I kid you not, it is very difficult to love a frustrated man, and nothing frustrates an ambitious man more than joblessness. Everyday I watched my bear suffer everytime I dropped some money with him before I left to work. Although frequent, the dark times didn’t outnumber the good moments, not by any stretch of the imagination. He is a kind, caring, unconfrontational person who loved unconditionally and didn’t know how to say no. A good soul. He was a different kind of jobless man, the type you knew had way too much drive in him to throw in the towel and remain that way forever. What’s not to love about a proud man who beats himself up everyday for being unable to give you the world, whose response to an act of kindness is to feel bad for not being able to reciprocate by doing more. What’s not to love about a man who only cried to you. That flattered me a lot, knowing Atiri would never allow himself cry in front of anyone else. He trusted me, oh, he could thrust me too. Good sex can make you recalibrate your standards.

6:45PM. It all falls down
A colleague’s friend’s friend’s younger sister had invited her to her birthday party. Of course we were not going to stay for that kind of ‘small pikin party’ although we were just a few years older than the celebrant. My colleague, Uyai got her a cake so we were going to drop it off. The only reason I tagged along was because she was going to drop me at home, plus Atiri still hadn’t replied by messages or returned my calls, plus I was feeling one kind after the Agnes gaffe. As we entered the dimly lit hall we heard a loud cheer, everyone gathered around a couple. Lights were flashing from several phones, people were screaming. I stood back, pained. I could tell someone (likely the celebrant, who I had never met) was being proposed to. As the crowd started to spread around the room I saw Atiri.
To be continued
@zzyzx91

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TPL: Please dont slander me today

Truth is I may have exaggerated a few things about myself. Please don’t look at me like that,all of us have lied before on twitter. Its so easy to lie there its criminal to not embellish a story once in a while or in my case some of the time. Its addictive-the lying, one lie has to fall on another,and the retweets and all that glory, I fell, I am only human. At least I’m not a catfish.

That said its not easy being me Leelee Blackson, I’ve been through a lot. While all of you had nice nicknames in primary school (I saw the hashtag and all your cool nicknames) I was called fatty bumbum. Even my mother called me small mummy. Would she have called me small mummy if I was not fat? Did they call any of you small mummy? Oh o. My mother used to sell egg rolls in my school so guess what I had in my lunch nylon bag everyday? Guess who they looked at when someone farted, even if it was loud and from the other side of the class. Could I have tweeted this?

But I’ve come a long way and I am a lot slimmer and prettier now. I found my voice, I found my cause, I found my confidence. Of course I am sapiosexual, and I’ve experimented with my sexuality a little. I will never chase any man. I’m in love with my natural fro even though you’d struggle to see why. You can no longer bully me. LOL who am I kidding, thought I was on twitter, of course you can bully me. Your words still get to me one kind, I’m not as strong as my tweets make me seem, many of us aren’t. If compliments mean so much to us why would you believe we are. impervious to ridicule? On bended knees of thee I plead, do not slander me today.

Oh great twitter lord,
Thee with the beards and matte black car,
B-cupped aunty that can’t be ignored,
Mock me not from afar

I’ve missed all previous TPL events but I’m out of excuses and I have to roll with my clique today, plus there would be jollof rice, fried rice and sharwamma and the clique’s bosslady’s bae would be paying. Please I’m begging, slander is childish and LWKMD-ish. We are adults. Please. Yes I’m fatter than my avi would make me seem. And since I’ve rocked by best clothes on the TL and can’t afford to get something new on such short notice I’m wearing my tried and trusted last two seasons arsenal jersey on black jean pants. (Saying stuff like, oh,na arsenal fan,no wonder, qualifies as slander too) Yes my legs look like two giant black carrots, no,surprisingly my thighs don’t rub against each other so don’t imagine there’s that blackness. Yes my boobs look like they’d fall shamelessly without the bra because they would. I obviously won’t look as rich as my tweets made you conclude but please don’t slander me today. Whatever happens at TPL stays at the venue. Don’t do it for me, do it for the cool people who plan the TPL. If we continue this way many people won’t show up for subsequent editions. Judge me by the content of my really open-minded heart. Please don’t slander me today.

Work of fiction. Any resemblance to any individual,living or dead, on twitter or not on twitter is coincidental. In simple english,I’m not subbing anybody.

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Baltimore: Rioting is plain stupid

Baltimore Maryland is the latest US city- the latest stop in what is beginning to feel like a country-wide tour of heightened tensions relating to police brutality and use of lethal force especially towards black Americans. Baltimore briefly descended into a state of chaos on April 27th after largely peaceful protests following the burial of Freddie Grey turned violent. An investigation has concluded Freddie Gray broke his neck after falling head-first into the back of the police van as it was moving. To some, Freddie Grey’s death was a result of an unfortunate accident. To others, its manslaughter or downright murder on the part of the van driver if reports claiming he gave him a ‘hard ride’ are true. It also goes without saying that as per departmental regulations, Mr. Grey should have had a seat belt on while he was being transporter. If he had, this may not have happened. Either way,another black man is dead in the hands of the police, another young black man, another avoidable death, another episode mismanaged by the police who continue to fuel the growing distrust the black community has towards them.

Unlike Ferguson,Missouri where the blacks were in minority and had to deal with white city officials and an almost white police force who saw them as an avenue for revenue collection, Baltimore has had a Black majority for decades. The major is an African-American woman, the police commissioner is a black man,and the police force has a black majority too. Why is this even happening there in the first place? Mostly black cops dealing with mostly black folks, should be fine no? Its a reflection of where the law enforcement and civilian relationship is at the moment. Law enforcement agents are their own race now but that’s a moot point.

The real issue is people are angry, understandably so. I get the anger among African-Americans, its really disgusting how often this happens. What I don’t get is how looting and rioting helps. How does burning down local businesses that employ you help? How does destroying shops where you pick up your supplies help?

This is a city that cannot afford these riots. Jobs are already at a premium there, unemployment rates are over fifty percent and very few businesses think its worth the risk to do business in the crime rife area. Many of the stores burned would cash in their insurance and leave, leading to more joblessness and an increase in the price of commodities as the remaining stores would face even less competition, who gets to suffer? The residents of Baltimore, the same people who lost one of their own.

Cribs,bloods and other gangs put up an unexpected show of unity to sue for peace in the face of the rioting and looting, that goes to show how far from ‘utopic’ life there must be. As if life wasn’t hard enough, as if losing Mr Grey wasn’t bad enough, you go out burn down your city and suffer even more. Surely there has to be a better way to express this anger.

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This change that we want, do we really want it?

Many of us watched the big hand of the clock tick for the last time in 2014 and in that millimeter long move we officially entered a new year. It’s insane really, a new year, but its thursday of the week that began on the twenty-eighth of last month. I think time is continous not segmented but if you accept that there are seconds, hours, days, weeks and months, then of course you have to accept that even though it feels no different from yesterday, you are in a new year. – Things have changed.

Every day everything seems the same, but we look back and notice that a lot has changed. This is the kind of change that endures, the type of change we humans are comfortable with, change that is subtle, change we barely notice, change we don’t have to change to appreciate.

This new ‘changed’ Nigeria, with zero corruption, no tribalism, nepotism, respect for the rule of law, welfare schemes, constant power, good roads, a diversified thriving economy, five percent unemployment, next to zero crime, constant power, no insecurity, no poverty that we want, is it attainable? Can this Nigeria exist? Do we really want this country?

“The ostrich is a giant among birds, among animals I dare say, reaching heights of over 8 ft, with the ability to outrun Usain Bolt in a short sprint and enough strength to kill a lion with one kick” 1. For one so strong, it is bizarre that when push comes to shove, the Ostrich’s instinct is to bury its head in the sand. Nigerians are like the ostrich; powerful, beautiful, majestic, peerless people.

“…Like the ostrich we are giants of sorts, capable on the odd occasion of delivering a shattering blow to whatever difficult situation we have to face, but most importantly, our similarity lies in our tendency to bury our head in the sand when push comes to shove, the sand of religion”2 amongst other sands to be honest.

We are scared to tell ourselves the truth about anything. Some of our ‘holy laws’ epitomize how stupidly removed from our reality we are. What’s with gay people getting married? Why are abortions illegal when thousands of people we failed to offer sex education and options die annually because of a procedure that is statistically safer than an appendectomy? What makes it okay for these young girls to die, their sinfulness? With the millions the porn industry rakes in annually, why are Nigerians not key players in this sector we patronize so much? There’s even talk of a total ban and online censorship of adult websites. Nearly everyone reading this is aware of a ‘red zone district’ for ‘women of low repute’ in the town (s)he is domiciliary, (if you don’t it’s not because it is hidden from you) but prostitution is illegal. Do we want to pull our heads off the sand and see that our people are not as holy as our laws make us seem? Why can’t we see that there’s a lot more wrong in the fact that spousal rape doesn’t exist by our laws?

We are scared to ask ourselves do we really want this change. Do we want a Nigeria where there are speed limits on streets that are enforced round the clock, country-wide? Do we want a Nigeria where we cannot use our position to help our kin and friends? Where you have to get a job on merit against this system where a signature and the words ‘attend to him’ on the back of a complimentary card is the merit you need? Are we mad that our leaders steal or are we angry we are not part of the gang of looters? How many of you in their shoes would not do what they are doing? How many of you have never bribed? Do you really want a Nigeria without ‘NYSC runs’? What’s the Nigerian dream if it is not to be a ‘big man’ and enjoy all the consequent perks. How many of you used ‘dagbo’ SSCE to enter university. Would our children be keen on a ‘miracle center’ free Nigeria? Would we? Do you truly want to be that big man whose son would be get the same treatment as a poor man in court? Do you want to be the hated ‘Mr. Minister’ who explained to ‘his people’ how it was wrong for him to use his influence to give them the best jobs in the ministry he was heading? How can you be a big man and queue? Why would a ‘small boy’ be able to arrest you or your children as a big man and not find himself transferred to a remote outpost or the front of a battle line?

These cabals we want ‘changed’, these systems we want turned around have existed for years with next to little popular resistance. Multi millionaires with a lot of influence (they contribute to campaigns) import generators yet we want constant power. Would you use your millions earned from selling generators to campaign for a man whose first port of call would be to put you out of business? Do you know how much the average commercial driver in your city pays daily as dues? – At least three thousand naira in most Southern states. Money that is largely unaccounted for, many times collected by private individuals – not the type you want to mess around with. The apple and the seed: rotten, rotten to the core.

Of course there are good people among us, especially me and you, everyone reading this is good, I lie? But I have to ask is there a chance the country is bad/corrupt because we (by we I mean Nigerians) are bad/corrupt? Anyone with a yard takes a mile, anybody with an advantage exploits it but we want our government run by politicians who are generally the worst of a people to be good. How can we logically expect the political dialogue to change when from the NPC, NCNC and AG days our politics has been one of tribe and religion. We continually prey on our dichotomies, our discrimination evident in nearly everything we do. We are bad people corrupted by a bad rotten system we created by ourselves (not without help from others to be honest).

“Every nation gets the government it deserves” – Joseph Maistre

Change of this magnitude would never come until the bulk of society wants it, needs it, and pushes for it. The change that we need would not come from politicians; we have to want this change. I am disgusted by how badly we are doing, aren’t you? But think hard and long, do you really mind when you can give oga Olokpa ‘money for coke’ and drive around without proper documentation? Do you weep for Nigeria when its corruption works for you? Would you reject a job knowing you got it because the boss is your town’s man. You think there are no people who would? That’s how bad we are, we are so far gone some normal, ordinary acts of decency are beyond our comprehension. “Nobody fit do am, no be naija you dey?” We boldly say.

In this country where many ‘elites’ and ‘intellectuals’ have almost double digit children ‘looking for boy’, and insist that their children marry people from their tribe, it is obvious to me that the level of enlightenment, open-mindedness and selflessness required for this change to happen is possessed by too few people. Beyond that, there is no real desire on the part of the ‘suffering masses’ to push for this change because when its stripped down to its bare bones, many of us are not entirely keen on a mago-mago free Nigeria. This change that we want, we don’t really want it because we know we are not ready for it. We can keep saying it when something wrong is done with impunity but as a matter of fact, we are not ready. We are our problem.

Before you comment or share this, Pause and think for a second about how the ‘corruption’ of Nigeria has helped or could help you, and ask yourself, do you really want to lose that edge, that advantage?

Chika (@zzyzx91)

1, 2 are quotes from The Ostrich: an allegory

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Susan’s ‘anonymous’ gift

Na joke I dey o, na fiction be this.

INT: OFFICE – DAY

Susan is in the office toilet, whispering into the phone’s receiver.

Susan: When you get to my office ehn,ask for my table. Drop it on my table and leave. If anyone asks who sent it,say Anonymous. Say it.

Cake guy: It

Susan: No, mumu, say anonymous. Lemme hear if you can pronounce it well

Cake guy: ha-non- e-mus

Susan: Good. Don’t say its me that sent it o. You know I promised to bring plenty customers for you and use you for me and my friends’ wedding. If you like talk.

Some minutes later
Susan is on her desk, pretending to be busy, when her phone rings. Its the cake guy.

Cake guy: Aunty, I don reach your office.

Susan: Did I or did I not warn you not to call me Aunty again? Am I that old?

Cake guy: but aunty,

Susan: shut-up, call me Susan,or Susie. I’m not your aunty. I’m only 29. Anyway, remember what we discussed o. Anonymous. You hear? Anonymous sent it.

Susan steals away into the office rest room. (She’s been spending a lot of time there today a keen observer in her office would have thought to himself, but those morons,mscheeww).

2 minutes later
Susan: OMG!!!! OMFG… What’s this on my table? Is this a cake? Oh, it is a cake. Who brought this cake? Is it anonymous? (Susan brings out her phone and takes a few pictures)

Stupid co-worker that wants to do: A delivery guy dropped the cake, you are right,he said it was from an anonymous Val. Those of us that like you are plenty o,ehn Susie baybee

Susan: What can I say na. But I don’t like this kind of embarrassment. Why would someone send me anonymous present? What if Bae hears about this? He won’t believe I don’t know this guy. Anyhow anonymous should come and carry his cake.
(Brings out phone, opens twitter, twitpics cake and adds caption ” saw cake on my table dropped anonymously if you are reading this, I don’t like cake”).

Later that evening Susan pens a long epistle on how toxic social media has made valentine’s day. Its a classic case of bros see speck for your eye.

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Omo igbo

Its was a pleasant wednesday afternoon, perfect weather if I recall properly when the following events transpired.

Fresh from the canteen where I had my second meal of the day (a rarity for a corper on 0-1-1 attacking formation,if you know what I mean) I decided to check in on Prince-so (my boss, le principal of the school I’m serving in). By the door of his office I ran into or rather practically chest bumped a very pretty lady; one of the hot ones that can pull off jean-esque ‘jergins’ and a gown top. Flushed, she bent down in a half bow to greet and its a double greeting, from her lips and ample cleavage. I instinctively looked back as she walked past and her ‘barcelona’ na die!!! Tiki-tika,tiki-tika the assets swung from side to side, then again,this is Oyo, the land of the kpomo- powered back axles.

Prince-so had a wry smile on his face when I turned to face him. I asked awkwardly, “Sir, is that your daughter?” He laughed, that bad guy marvel super villian laugh and said, “no ooh, she’s one of our ex-students”. At that point as far as I was concerned our conversation was over, I turned to go after her, this might be my lucky day I reasoned,(I’m yet to score my first ‘road kill’, ie meeting a total stranger on the road,walking up to her and setting the damn p) Well, this is not the normal road kill scenario but, baby steps Emeka, baby steps.

For some mumu reason I said, “Sir, funny thing, your ex student just walked past her next boyfriend”. The sheepish grin was still on my face (and in my mind I was feeling like lil wayne after dropping that ‘deep line’) when Prince-so said pitifully “eyah,poor you, Timileyin will not marry omo-igbo”

Naturally I would have taken offense at his use of the M-word, (marry, I hate to explain these things to you guys,it kills me,I swear it does) but this was the proverbial last straw that breaks the camels back, makes it fall down, and kills the person loading the straw on the camel’s back.

Arrrgghhh!!! Call me ‘omo igbo’ one more time and I will… I will… I started to say in a hurry, then I remembered where I was and back tracked slightly
ejoh sir, ema binu, edakun sir, O bi mi ninu..I’m tired of this omo igbo tag that’s all, I’m IBO, omo delta and there is no silent ‘g’…its ibo for a reason,its different. The igbos don’t think we are igbos, why should we get only the stick and not the carrots attached to being igbo?..E ma so bee mo.

And with that I walked out of the room, muttering “like I’d want to marry omo yoruba and be chopping so so red oil and vegetables cut so big if you plant them they would germinate, and all the plenty lying down on the ground during the wedding..hian. Who wants a wife that lists broom as part of her kitchen utensils”

‘Blocking’ Timileyin was easy, all it took was ‘hess’ and the universal come here hand signal and she turned on a six-pence and walked towards me, nice racks and all. Let’s just say Timileyin has nice boobs and ass finish, listening to her speak is up there with the worst things I’ve had to endure, but I wanted to prove a point so I asked her out,or in, asked her to come visit me in my room, my bed room. No seriously,the only furniture in the room was a massive mattress that covered two-third of the entire room floor, we don’t want them girls visiting and sitting on a chair far away,you must siddon for bed.

She came over late that evening so no one would see her come in or she tried to resist my sexiness for hours and eventually succumbed to her needs, I like to think she came for the later reason. Either way, omo yoruba was in omo igbo’s bed and the day wasn’t over yet.

Tired,impressed and cum drained I laid beside the glowing Timileyin, my mind on the random things every sated man thinks about after several spartacus like rumps. She turned to face me and said in thick yoruba accent “corper, I go dey allow you do if you want but I no fit marry omo igbo”. Shamefully I didn’t take offence at her statement, dunno why. Would a black guy have been offended if a white woman he just slept with called him ‘nigger’ during the bus boycott? Maybe, but would he react angrily? I doubt that.
Utonium

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Americanah

Before I say anything else,I want to get this out of the way, I am not Adichie’s biggest fan- but its not because of the quality of her work. She is a wonderful writer,one that would be talked about forever. It is said that a man is not dead if he lives on in the lips and memories of the people who love him. If this is true,and I believe strongly it is, Chimamanda has by virtue of her stunning art achieved immortality. I really do not know why I do not like her as much as I should, but if I’m pressed at gun point with a lie detector for a reason,I’d say its because the first time I heard about her, she was mentioned in the same sentence as the great Chinua Achebe who in my opinion is the greatest story teller ever. I blamed her for the blasphemy even though it was no fault of hers.

Over the holiday, I read Adichie’s The thing around your neck, that featured some stories centred on a Nigerian going abroad or trying to seek pastures in the land across the ocean. In few words, I had grown weary of the Americanah theme long before I picked up Americanah. When the twitter readclub decided to pick Americanah as the book of the week, I felt the exact way I felt when Buhari emerged as the flag bearer of the progressives. Good choice,but one I was hoping would not be made. As I read the book, many things occurred to me and chief of these revelations was the fact that Chimamanda Adichie has indeed influenced a generation of Nigerian women. The new natural hair craze, the bold,chic brand of non-comformism, afro sporting feminists; women who are fighting to be judged by the content of their heads and not their physical endowments or the lack of it are inspired by Adichie’s characters. In another decade or two, when these seeds she’s sown begin to bear fruits of their own, and we move towards full emancipation of women, history would remember her fondly. I cannot at this moment, think of another person of Nigerian descent that has influenced more people. With nothing but words, she has nudged thousands of people unto the path that would produce female leaders who didn’t have anything handed to them because we have to have female representatives in government.

The book had several portions I think went on too long. Describe and describe and describe and describe ad nauseam. What was that boredom after Obinze’s repatriation story? Yuck. One had the impression she had to ‘fleshen’ the story to make it longer, you know how you just add random lines when you have to write a two page essay on something that can be summarised in a few sentences. The end was,bleh. Why did she introduce ‘Fred’? After reading three hundred pages,its heart breaking to drop a book with mental blue balls. If monogamy is your thing, and you like intelligent women,make sure you marry one.

It wasn’t all bad though, seeing I have never been to an airport, I had several ‘wawu’ moments seeing through the eyes of a JJC, how America unravelled itself. I like to think America of the late 90s and the early part of the new millenium is not markedly different from America today, so in my small corner in Asaba, I went to America,and had American-African friends, and joined an African-American group. Of course I dated a white girl, and I was predictably fascinated in no small way by her pink nipples that seemed to glow as they coloured when I rubbed them. As I did all these and more, I dawned on me that the ‘elites’ in Nigeria are almost fully ‘Americanized’. Caveat: Nearly all elites are rich,but not all rich Nigerians are elites. They canonize the poor, are extremely open-minded in public, give charitably and compulsively (quietly and in public), try to be politically correct at all times, and in the most subtle way,bully you if you are not like them. While some of our friends in the diaspora fight to retain their Nigerianness, we are readily gobbling up as much Americanness as we can back home. The Americanization of Nigeria is almost upon us (do not worry if you earn less than 300k a month).

I imagined what it would feel like to be hungry in winter. Wearing all those big jackets that make it seem like you have a full tummy when you haven’t eaten for days. I imagined myself sitting in a small,cramped up space,holding a ketch-up bottle and contemplating pouring some of its red goodness on my leather wallet and feasting on it. Then I promised myself that unless my fortunes change (ie my daddy or mummy gets political appointment) I would be content with doing my ‘post grad’ in Nigeria. After the poor parents have taken loan to send me abroad,I’m sure I won’t get chewing gum wrapper from them till I graduate.

When I got to the part where Nneoma, Obinze’s cousin hooked him up with the Chief, I put my hand on the page and used it as point of contact. Let rich people hit on people I know oh lord. One moment and like that, your life is changed.
@zzyzx91

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Merry christmas

Merry christmas everyone, from the Ekon nke family (Zzyzx,Rumplestiltskin,Spongie). Yes,I am the Ekon nke family. Brace yourselves folks, January 1st,2015 would be the first of the best days of your life,yeah, I called it here first. Feliz Navidad y feliz año nuevo

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Letter from the grave

Last week we brought you the story of the man who killed his wife and tried to kill himself but somehow survived.(Yes, it was our story not Linda’s). Here’s an excerpt of what he thought would be his suicide note.

…… Dear everybody,
This is what I hate about you people, its always black and white with you fellas; you see the police beating a man and you instantly assume he must have done something bad like the police never have the wrong guy. Just so you know the police nearly always have the wrong guy. I don’t get why you find it so easy to pass judgement on people you know next to nothing about. I’m sure by now every one of you is a miniature Sherlock Holmes, even the simpletons, thinking they have me figured out because they’ve heard the story of my last few minutes. Nonsense. I assure you,you don’t know shit about me,about what I’ve been through and the reason I did what I did. That said, let’s be clear on something. I am not seeking forgiveness from you holy,sinless lot, neither am I trying to justify or explain myself or my actions. These are the words of a failed genius- a nobody, who is by nature a compulsive story teller.

Let me ask you this while you sip your coffee and read this on your fancy phones with internet connection (no one buys papers anymore), have you ever been poor? I rephrase, have you ever been manhandled,embarrassed,frustrated and infected by the disease called poverty? I mean really poor – downright,cruelly, hideously poor. I’m not talking about the poverty that is the absence of cash for a fleeting season, the type you arrogant salary earners experience just before your slave master who you affectionately call ‘Boss’ decides what you and your service is worth and hands you a cheque. No, I refer to the type of poverty that robs you of your self worth, the type that cripples and scars you, the type that defines you so no one bothers to know your name or your story, you are “that poor man that lives at the end of the street”. I talk about the type of poverty that makes owning more than one trouser and shirt a luxury, an evil that distorts your anatomy and makes you age, the cancer that feeds on your sense of self- your pride and worth till you are nothing but a brown bag of bones and some fluids. No? You haven’t experienced it? Thought as much. Yet you want to judge me. Screw you.

In my life I heard A LOT of crap; from goody two shoes parents and teachers, from neighbours and coaches, crap from pastors and good priests, from society,mass media (those guys really dole out crap) and ‘holy books’ but nothing annoyed me more than the philosophical drivel some morons use to devalue money or having money. Shit like money isn’t happiness bla bla…lemme make something expressly clear to you in-bred products of incest; nothing is given freely in this world save the air and sunshine. Everything else is bought with blood,tears,groans and moans occasionally but most often with money. Easy for you half-wits to come up with all these ‘sayings’ from the comfort of the little paradise money helped you create. No,volunteering to be poor by deliberately refusing ‘comforts’ doesn’t equate to the scaring reality of being truly impecunious. Sorry Dexter, you cannot recreate poverty conditions in a laboratory.

Its not like I wanted a lot of money, all I wanted from life was just enough money to live comfortably, afford some cute things and send my children to good schools. A successful life for me meant all these and not cheating on my wife. I watched my mother cry many times as a child, and even though I didn’t really like her I swore I’d never cheat on any woman I marry,no matter what. But that’s not what you fucktards want to hear, you wanna hear about Juliet and our macabre romance. I’d indulge you.
In all things but one,the rich man has the advantage over the poor man. For all the benefits money gives the filthy rich he is perpetually distrusting (sic) of love,always suspicious of the people who love him because he cannot tell who the person is in love with; his exaggerated sense of ‘awesomeness’ (rich people always think too much of themselves) or his money and the accompanying goodies. The poor man on the other hand might struggle to find love,but true love is the one luxury he can find in his unfortunate existence. Think for a second about this. An alien thing for you fattened farm pigs- thinking. Try it, you won’t die.

It is quite a feat for any man to get some bearded meat, it is especially so for a poor man but just about any woman can access the ‘coital’ brew, and this is not the only advantage women have over men. With women there is no caste or rank, if you are beautiful,gracious and charming enough you can bed and wed any man. Guy de Maupassant said “natural fineness,instinct for what is elegant,and suppleness of wit are the only aristocracy, and make women of the people equals of the greatest ladies”. The lowliest pauper can become a princess if she is beautiful. Cinderella is the hoisted serpent for pretty urchins seeking nobility and the luxuries that accompany it.

Juliet was beautiful and she knew it. She dreamed about using her beauty as a ticket out of the dirt hole she was birthed in. When that didn’t work out she let herself be loved by me- this I found out later. Back then when I groped in the darkness (for I was blinded by love and lust), I didn’t notice how she resented her plain clothes and felt as though she had really fallen from her proper station among the rich, I thought I made her happy. I did everything I could. Years of masturbation had weakened my member but that old horse had its moments,and they were more often than naught. I like to think she wasn’t sexually frustrated. We tried for years to have children and I consoled her every month when her visitor came. To be honest a part of me was relieved we couldn’t make babies. I thought it was unfair to bring life into our squalid existence. Still I wanted another reason to wake up in the morning and struggle, something beautiful that is mine, something I could get that would never be mine if I had to pay for it. You would never underestimate the value of the things you can possess without money when you don’t have money to possess the other necessities.

Trust emotions to send reason a-fleeing. I did not see the signs, the obvious signs. Is it just me or is it weird that one can go for months without suitors or admirers when you are single only to become irresistible when you are in a relationship. Juliet became irresistible to everyone with a dangler(sic) between his legs- and she was on a mission to sample every ‘meat’. Every one around us knew, except me. She got prettier as her cream got better, they say semen does that too- makes the skin glow but I like to think, no, I insist the cream did that,as I do not want to harbour thoughts that infer all my days working to pay for those expensive lotions were wasted.
When my eyes finally opened I saw everything. When it rains, it pours. No words can describe the way I felt when I saw the drugs she took to not get pregnant. For lack of a better word in my limited vocabulary I’d say I went into a frenzy…I was mad with rage. All these months, her pretence, me stupidly moving heaven and earth to make her happy. I ransacked her few belongings and saw the receipts she compulsively held on to from her fancy rendezvous. I would have forgiven her if I didn’t read her diary- the same one I had out of respect for her wishes never read. If your partner has any diary or journal, read it today. Don’t be the trusting gentleman and pass up on a chance to read her messages. While you are there trusting her, another man is thrusting her. I’ve warned you.

The diary killed me. The details. Her words came out of the pages, picked up axes and pulverised my heart. I cried till my head hurt and my eyes felt heavy. Not the restrained manly sobs, loud,long wailing, the mixture of tears and catarrh flowed down in a steady stream.
I had to kill her. I had to kill her slowly, press her throat till I felt the life leave her as she struggled and begged and fought. I wanted to see the look in her eyes when she stopped asking why I was doing this, when she realised I knew she was screwing around. While she is still warm, I would have her over and over and over again and fill all her holes with my seed,my viable seed that filthy animal made me feel was as poor as my possessions. Another certainty is, I would never give you idiots the chance to imprison me. You guys don’t know what it means to be in love the way I was. Without a gun I have only one option; I’d slit my wrists and hang myself. Here’s to hoping the bleeding wrists won’t get in the way.
@zzyzx91

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Parable of the ten UNILAG virgins

One upon a time(not so long ago actually but all good stories start with Once upon a time,except that lame series. I really want this to be a good story,so) once upon a time in Lagos, there was a rich bridegroom who just got back with the IJGB stream one in the second week of december. Now this bridegroom needed some girls for his ‘bachelors’ eve’ (which he planned himself because,IJGB and dollar is two hundred naira so I can’t trust these hungry Nigerians with my money). He got ten UNILAG virgins (it was an almighty search. The search party numbered over a thousand, and they moved from ‘well’ to ‘well’ till they found virgins someone might not mistake for a heinous African idol). He took the ladies and dropped them in an area where he was sure there was not going to be ‘light’ (which wasn’t hard to find). Somewhat predictably, five of the virgins were wise and the other five were *whispers* typical UNILAG girls, sorry foolish.

The bridegroom was late in coming,so the women began to nod and fall asleep.

“Jacinta, when this man dey come na? Which kind waka be dis one ehn? Na so your runs dey be o, heat wan kill person,see mosquito, ehn, ko like rara” one virgin said to another named Catherine (I’m sure you didn’t see this twist coming. That’s why they call me the plot twist-ist). Bear in mind that some of these virgins did ‘backyard’ runs,if you know what I mean. No, okay,some lived on canal avenue. Still no clue? Na wa for you o. Ask person

It was already midnight when the first phone rang. The virgin listened attentively as the voice on the other end issued instructions.(Always wondered where else would the voice be if not on the other end) She jumped, danced shoki, and ran out of the house. She was wise, she didn’t clean her make-up.

After the fourth call the foolish virgins realised their folly. Then the foolish ones said to the wise ones, “give us your battery na,our phones don die. Abeg”.

But the wise virgins said quoting scriptures “No” (because wise virgins are always stingy. Verily verily I say unto you even the foolish ones are stingy, virgins are stingy). “When we turned off our data services, closed all running apps and dimmed our screens you thought we were foolish abi?Na una play candy crush pass,nonsence. Did I reply my mentions? Did I instagram? Did I? Did I?” The pettiest wise virgin said with a poorly suppressed smile people who are gloating and forming vex at the same time have.
“We would order new, fully charged batteries from Jumia” the real Jacinta said, applying make-up.
“With which phone mumu”, the petty wise virgin said, feeling cool.
“Ntoi, we saw a cyber cafe down the road” Jacinta replied, sticking out her tongue. So the foolish virgins went off to order new batteries;and while they were gone, the cab men came
.
The petty wise virgin scribbled the bridegroom’s number on the mirror by the dresser with red lipstick (somebody say Cliche, cliche. Like somebody say baba,baba)
Later the other women arrived. Turns out Jumia delivers after a few days (plot twist again, I badddd). Luckily for them, Jacinta jerked a guy off in the cafe and he gave them his small nokia torchlight phone. They called the bridegroom and of course oga’s british accent was stronger than the Queen’s, even though he just got back from America. “Oi mate, who is this” the bridegroom asked, “it is me” Jacinta was about to say before all the girls shouted “his hus, his hus oo. Sir,sir,please send cab na”.
“Certainly not, such bollocks, I don’t know you,please fuck off” the bridegroom said. Then he removed the battery of his phone (he didn’t switch the phone off first o,life is too short), and swallowed his sim.

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