Archive for April 2013
The Friendly Night Guest
T’was late last night when I went to sleep
I’d been so worked up so I slept too deep
I was oblivious of my phone’s “beep-beep”
And I did not know someone’d come to peep
He opened my door and in did creep
He had no idea someone else’d been there
Sitting cool and calm at my bed’s far rear
Watching o’er me like He really did care
Guards around my bed and He on a chair
The later guest, perplexed, became full offear
The later guest was He; who the earth does rule
And he’d used me once as a living tool
I had played along; yes, I’d been a fool
But traced back my steps to the cleansing pool
And the former guest had welcomed me;calm and cool
The later guest is known for untold evil
So craftily, he makes danger beautiful
Oh, how he entices little by little
And often, he traps naïve people
He is none other than the fiend, Devil
He thought he’d been smart but this left him shocked
His plans had been foiled and he was provoked
He would not relent though his way wasblocked
So he told the lies which in him were stocked
And when that failed him, then I he mocked
“Master, Lord” said he, “What doeth thou
This servant of yours is alone but foul
He has done much wrong and kept not his vow
If you’d love to know, I could tell you how
If you doubt my words, check his file right now”
So my file brought they, for my deeds to check
I had done much wrong; my good but a speck
Very many times, I had been a jerk
My sins were so great on a lofty deck
My life- in one piece- was a total wreck
While I deeply slept, my soul was at stake
So much wrong I’d done, mistakes I did make
Few sincerity, so much I did fake
Sometimes I’d been true, severally I’d shake
Most of the time, though, I’d totally break
My Lord said to him, “His sins are forgiven”
He went through my wrongs, and had them unwritten
He took no count of how I’d been living
He let it all go as if it were nothing
Extravagant grace, to me He had given
“Look at this, Oh Lord,” my accuser said
Some journal of my errs from A to Zed
He showed several flops I had long past made
All the dirty words I had often said
Little did he know- my debts had been paid!
My Lord held the book and apart did tear
Cos back on that cross, my sins He did bear
He christened me Free; salvation my gear
And said I could go and be of good cheer
For no harm or darts would ever me near
My saviour looked up at my accuser
“His sins are forgiven, now and forever
By my love and grace, I have made him better
Now flee thee from here and near him never!
I have paid his debts,” said my redeemer.
My foe had lost, and he looked so cheap
He turned to leave and of course, did slip
He bounded away with a odd leap
While God, my soul did watch and keep
Safe and saved, I snored in my deep sweet sleep.
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Thanks For The Birthday Wishes
To those that wrote on my Facebook wall, (about 300+)
But unlike when I turned 18 (old enough to bet the ponies) or when I turned 20 (duh), I don't really care. And like many of us on our *special days*, I got a lot of love on facebook: from old friends, family members, professional contacts—that random guy whose friend request I accepted while drunk and who now invites me to "one event on london" almost every weekend. It's actually quite touching, and I totally appreciate it. But also: a puzzle. How do you properly acknowledge all of this good will? Unless you have like 4 friends, answering each post is a losing proposition.
But thank God for Blogs, I'm going to answer those questions that I randomly checked out here......
So, To all of those who asked “So… how does it feel to be 21?”, the answer is the exact same as it does to be 20.
Believe it or not, not a lot changed instantly the day my birthday hit. Really, the only birthday you can say feels way different is the actual day you were born. Suddenly you are in a world void of amniotic fluid.
If newborn babies could talk, they would probably say, “What was all that pushing about? Can I go back in now?”
To anyone who said “Happy birthday,/HBD” thanks for the thought I guess. It’s nice to know that you want me to have one day out of the year that is happy. That’s almost 0.3% of my year being filled with joy. I guess it would be weird, though, if people just walked up to me the other 364 and said “Happy day.” There is no doubt in my mind that I would feel very uncomfortable.
To everyone who sang me a song, hahaha Thanks. And if you still planning to sing me one..... Unless that song is a brand new birthday composition set to the tune of “Mr. Tambourine Man,” I have heard it.
In fact, I have had this song directed at me at least 25 times already and, seeing as how three of the four lines of the song are THE EXACT SAME THING, I think I’ve gotten the message.
So, If someone really wanted to throw me, they would change a line in the song to something unrelated: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, My socks are a cotton polyester blend, happy birthday to you.” I would spend the rest of my birthday thinking about your socks and wondering how well they hold up.
To the people who stressed on “And many mooooooooooore…” to the end of that Happy Birthday song, just know I hate you. For every second you hold out “moooooooooore,” my hate grew exponentially. Once again, though, you could just change it and I would have no complaints: “Good job not dyiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!”
To those who bought me a present, it is exactly what I wanted. It is perfect. It fits perfect. You did a great job.
That guy, that was bold enough to enter the banking hall and paid N20. into my account..... Loool God bless you!
That lovely Girl that paid for my BIS *kisses*
How will I forget the Coke!! Thanks.... I needed it after that conc exam.
Then Dr. Enahowo for the table water. I almost passed out after that stipple chase exam.. But If you are reading this, you can like to give me an 'A' in that Neuro-Anatomy + Head and Neck Exam.
Also, (Mina, tiffany, Brittany.....) that card you picked out was very funny and/or touching. I laughed/cried. To those whose present was a gift card, good call. There’s nothing that says “Happy Birthday” like a $10 credit to Old Navy.
To those that wrote on my Facebook wall, (about 300+) just know I probably will not see it for at least a week as I tend to forget Facebook exists. This is not a personal slight against you as I replied already to some. But you all were far too kind. I'll still try to reply to more though.
To my BBM family!! I love you guys!
Those that used me as D.P through out the day (Itimi, MJ, Grace, ruki,.....)
half of the day,( Ebode :-) )
Quarter of the day,
1Hour, 30min, 10min you guys were lovely!
To those that didn't....(Mamuzo, Eben, Obi, Jackie, ND, Sara....and abt 20 others) *no Comment*
Those that said "HBD" on their PMs thanks you guys are the bomb.
Inevitably, I got massages about aging. “You’re getting old,” they said. Of course, this is true. I am. In fact, so is everyone. We are all simultaneously getting old. That’s how time works. Imagine how weird it would be if someone wasn’t getting old.
To these people, I say, “No, I’m not. I’m immortal! Long after you are gone and buried, I will still be here!” There is no good response to that, so that will squash that conversation almost immediately.
So! Last but not least, special thank you to my Classmates you guys really surprised me people I never talked to since 100level wishing me a happy birthday and then the gifts. Plus how can I forget you that let me spy from ur work when my head became blank (I dunno if you allowed me spy cos it was my birth day or if you would have allowed me spy any other day.
Obviously, I am not a computer to remember all the names of people that were in particular kind to me on my birthday so.............
To those that I forgot to mention there names here......people that wished me on twitter (@onyix_ @sweetexcynn @delsuinfo)those that remembered but forgot to wish me....... And to those that forgot totally(well)......
Tha Day Jonah Became A Fish
“The Lord sent Jonah to Nineveh to the…the lord sent Jonah to the people of….the lord sent…aaargh!”
I groaned in frustration. This just wasn’t working. I wasn’t cut out for any kind of reading. If it came to looking cool hanging out with chicks,just looking fly with the guys then I’m your guy any day. But having to read? And memorise? Hmm, that was transformer hugging stuff right there. Yet here I was, trying to cram a summary of the book of Jonah, thirty minutes before the CRS paper was about to start.
It wasn’t as if this was one paper I absolutely had to pass. In fact, back in secondary school, I had failed CRS so woefully from Jss1 to ss3 that our CRS teacher was convinced I was from a strongly pagan family and we spent our weekends in offering sacrifice to the gods. The man even predicted (correctly) my WAEC result for CRS.
“If you don’t get an f9, then I will become a Buddhist!” he declared after trying (and failing) to make me understand that Jesus turned water to wine at a wedding at Cana and not a bar in Syria. I decided right there and then that I would surprise him with my result. By the time the results were released, he had better have bought his Buddhist habit and be prepared to relocate to a monastery in Tibet.
I failed the paper, of course; f9 being the particular score.
He was not surprised.
So no, I wasn’t preparing for the CRS WAEC paper, but the third GCE I was writing in a row.
I didn’t care if I failed CRS of course. It wasn’t as if I was planning to open a church any time soon (though that was definitely part of my long term plans). My problem was that I had failed to make any other paper as well in spite of my dashing good looks and smooth talk.
How was I to know that I would be bedevilled with deeper life invigilators for each of the examinations I would write? Besides, my brain is too filled with cool stuff to accumulate boring stuff like how to solve quadratic equations or dealing with set theorems. Infact, the first time we were taught set theorem, it had gone like this;
Teacher: Today we will be dealing with sets…
Me: Sex?
Teacher (fair complexioned woman, blushing visibly): No! Sets!
Me: But what does sex have to do with mathematics?
Teacher: SETS, SETS, SETS, OLODO, SETS!!!!
So you see, I’m really not cut out for all that caper. I was looking forward to a career in modelling. This fine face would be a waste behind a counter in a bank. I would dazzle the world with my million dollar smile and the ladies would just die when I walked into rooms.
My father wasn’t thinking along those lines when he saw my WAEC result:
“CHAIII!!!” the man screamed, giving my mother the impression that his long awaited cardiac arrest had finally happened and the poor woman dashed over from the kitchen to see if she could still save his life.
“What’s the problem?” she asked, partially worried at his scream at that time of the day and partially relieved that he was not writhing in pains on the ground.
“The problem? The problem?” he shouted. “There are nine problems!” He roared holding my result aloft. “F9 in nine subjects…..oh and look, he got an A…..in Yoruba!”
I didn’t even pass that Yoruba on my own effort, anyways. The invigilator had slept off after a large mug of hot cocoa our school principal had served her, leaving the path clear for all kinds of malpractice. Of course, the woman subsequently turned down all food offers thereafter. If she hadn’t, I would probably have made all my papers.
Anyways, that was my WAEC result from secondary school. After the traditional thrashing for failing a major examination, I was enrolled in a summer coaching programme in preparation for the GCE my parents had me registered for.
Need I tell you that I failed that one as well?
“HA!” my father screamed. “He couldn’t even make Yoruba this time. Yoruba!!!”
Again, the customary thrashing was dished out and I collected it in good faith, after all, it wasn’t the first time. Afterwards, my father called me into his room, asked me to sit in a chair opposite him and spoke in a calm, clear voice.”
“I will register you for the next GCE. It will be the last one I will register you for. I have also acquired a large metal basin for you, so that when you fail that one, you can go and start hawking pure water in traffic. Your mates are married with children,” I wondered which of my irresponsible mates would already have kids at nineteen “and you are still here, failing examination after examination. I’ve had enough you fail this one, get ready to join those boys we see in traffic running after cars, okay?”
Whenever my father did this (call you into his room, sit you opposite him and talk in a calm, clear frank voice) he meant every word of what he said. I had also spotted a gleaming, large metal basin propped up under the stairs.
Now this is one thing you’ve got to know about me. I can take a whipping, shouting, punching, head butting, electric shocking, choke slamming,groin kneeing, bi**h slapping, the people’s elbow, The Undertaker’s smack-down, ear twisting, listening to Justin Beiber for nine hours straight and a beat down from a permanently high tout at Oshodi but one thing I can’t take is embarrassment. The very thought of hawking pure water in traffic while the hot sun (that sun God must have specially made for Lagos traffic and nowhere else) bore down on me, then being spotted by the guys or one of my numerous girlfriends was just pure torture. It was time for me to sit up.
No, no, I didn’t fail that examination as well. I haven’t even written it yet, take a chill pill!
Actually, it was why I was here trying to memorise a summary of the book of Jonah, whose story I was quite sure I would have known if I hadn’t spent Sunday school classes pouring powdered chalk in girls’ hair and planting twigs (always with an impressive number of branches) in boys’ back pockets. But all around me was noise. Nobody in the GCE centre seemed to be even bothered that in thirty minutes, we would be starting the examinations with CRS as our first paper.
Over there, a girl was describing a particularly hot mini skirt she purchased the previous weekend. From what I could gather from her description, it was only two inches longer than the thickness of a piece of rope. And it still had a slit at the back. And right beside me,a guy was narrating to the small crowd he had somehow gathered how the last party he attended went down;
“Omo, una for come dat parti! Chei, see as girls just dey twist, dey bend, chai! E be like say I go heaven come back. E come get one girl wey I dey rock, chei! If you see as she just dey twist body…” he attempted a mime of how she was twisting and I was convinced that she must have been a particularly stiff girl. If his demonstration was anything to go by, she was more in need of medical attention than a groove at a party.
Still, it made pretty good listening to but my mind bugged me. These guys had probably not been threatened with metal bowls and pure water hawking so they could afford to make all that noise. Besides, they were probably depending on the N5,000 they had all “willingly donated” to the woman who was in charge of the centre where we were writing the exams, of course, at the woman’s behest.
“It’s not by force o!” she had declared. “I’m not forcing you to give me anything, but if you don’t pay up, I’m not sure the result you’ll end up with will get you into any university.”
The rush to give her money was overwhelming.
Still, I didn’t want to take chances so I continued cramming what I could of the summary. Meanwhile, everyone else felt there was nothing to worry about, that everything had been “taken care of”. What they did not bank on, however, was the deeper Life invigilator that walked into the examination hall thirty minutes later.
“Please remove anything that might implicate you in the examination,” woman said. Have you ever heard anybody with a Christian accent? This woman had it, and it was obvious that no amount of bribing would work with her. Her long, billowing white skirt and shining white head-tie/turban was testament to that fact. The previously noisy hall fell silent. “Hey, you,” she pointed to a guy seated on a desk. “Go and wash your hands and by the time you are back here, everything you wrote on your palms must be gone. That girl,” she pointed at a girl at the back. “If I see that paper sticking out of your hair when this paper starts, I will tear your answer sheet. And you,” a boy, also at the back.“You think I can’t see that Gideon’s Bible you are hiding under your thigh. Keep it well o, because if I see it when this paper starts, you might need it for prayers when you see your result.”
People began exchanging glances and plan Bs were discussed in whispers. Those without a plan B started chewing the caps of their pens before the paper started. I prayed a silent prayer. Lord please; let me see Jonah in this exam. If I don’t see Jonah in this examination, then I’m in trouble.
“Be seated!” snapped the invigilator. “And I want total silence in this hall.” Obedience was absolute and immediate. She immediately began handing out the scripts; question and answer booklets, assisted by other invigilators who looked like they were in awe of her mighty turban. After all the papers had been distributed, she glanced at the wall clock, cross checked it with her wrist watch, then declared “You have two hours and thirty minutes for this paper.” A low moan began to rise “Silence!” she snapped. I kill you! I couldn’t help thinking in my head. The moan died to its roots. “Start. I will be collecting your scripts in two hours and thirty minutes on the dot. May God be your help.”
I immediately skipped the objective part to the theory. Everyone knows the theory part is much more difficult than the objective so I decided to get that one out of the way. There were ten questions and we had to answer five, the first question being compulsory. It read; “Narrate the story of Jonah and God’s mission for him to Nineveh.”
I almost stood up to begin dancing azonto.
I immediately began writing down what I had crammed before it would escape my brain (which, by now, you know can be quite porous when it wants to be). Meanwhile, beside me, party goer (the guy who had been demonstrating what I still wasn’t quite sure if it was a girl dancing or an accident victim trying to walk) scanned his paper and let out a sigh. Then looked at the invigilator. Then at the ceiling. Then back at the invigilator. Then at me. Then started chewing the cap of his pen. Then looked at the invigilator who was now filling something in a form of some kind. Then back at me .
“Pssst. Psssst. Guy!” he whispered. I glanced at him.
“Which one you dey do?” he asked. I paused. Now I didn’t know what to do. It was almost traditional for me to help guys and ladies out in exam halls (yes, I know, I’ve only helped someone with an answer once in all the examinations I’ve written but that’s beside the point. It’s not my fault I didn’t know the other answers. A guy has to help another bro out) but with this turbaned woman looming large at the front of the hall, I wasn’t quite so sure if I was willing to take the risk.
“Pssst,” he came again. “Which one you dey do na?”
“Theory,” I whispered back, an eye on the invigilator. “Number one.”
He flipped pages to get to the theory section and read number one over.
“Pssst. Psst. Guy.” He hissed. “Guy, wetin do…..” he snapped back and pretended to be muttering to himself as the invigilator looked up to peer at us. “Wetin do Jonah?” he resumed after she continued her form filling.
O ga o! I thought. There I was thinking I was the biggest pagan in the world and here was this guy with no knowledge of Jonah. At least I had been familiar with the name Jonah, even if I hadn’t read the story but this guy didn’t even have an idea. Jonah could have been a wrestler for all he knew.
“You dey go church?” I asked.
“Ehn, I dey go church wella na, na wa for you o,”he replied.
“And you no sabi wetin do Jonah?” I asked.
“Eh guy….see ehn…..for awa church, we no read bible reach da side.”
I shook my head. This was going to be hard.
“Okay,” I started. “God send Jonah make im go preach for one place dem call Nineveh. Jonah no wan go so God send fish make im swallow am. For the fish belle im come pray make God forgive am. The fish come vomit am. Im come go preach for Nineveh. You get dat wan?”
“I get am,” He replied, nodding his head vigorously, like an agama lizard.
“Ehen, so just find as you go take write am make im long, ehn?”
He nodded his head vigorously again, then opened his answer sheet and started writing. After covering a line and half, he stopped. Then again:
“Psst. Pssst. Guy!”
I turned again.
“Er, shay Jonah na fish?”
I didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or start crying for this guy. His case was worse than I thought.
“No,” I whispered back. “Jonah na prophet. Fish swallow am. Im come pray….you no remember wetin I talk before?”
“I remember, I remember” he said, nodding vigorously again. Then:
“Psst! Pssst! Guy! Guy!”
This was getting rather tiring.
“Guy, you sure say you no make mistake? How fish go swallow pesin na? Dat wan no fit happen na. You sure say Jonah no be de fish? Or no be Jonah swallow fish?”
I shook my head in exasperation, my voice now becoming squeaky.
“No, no, na fish swallow Jonah, Jonah be…”
“Okay!” he exclaimed the light of realisation dawning on him. I was relieved. Finally, he gets the plot and will leave me alone. “I don get am now. The fish na shark. You for don talk am since na, you just dey here dey tell me fish.” Having said this, he turned away to resume writing.
I was quite speechless.
He had covered another line when he suddenly stopped again.
“Pssst! Pssst! Guy no vex but no be chop shark dey chop person? How person wey dem don chop go dey shark belle dey pray. No be die im don die be dat?”
I was beginning to see myself jabbing my pen in his left eye.
“Okay, wetin happen be dis” I said, calming myself as much as possible. “Jonah na fish. Biiiig fish. One fisherman from Nineveh come catch am carry am go house. And hunger been dey catch dem bad for Nineveh. Na so as the man reach house everybody gather. Na im the man start preach to dem say dem if dem wan catch fish, dem suppose first consult am. Na im the man open church, become daddy G.O. You get dat wan?”
“Ehen,” he replied. “Na now you come. Why you come dey tell me long story say fish dey swallow person, say person dey pray for fish belle. Ehen, I for talk am!”
He returned to writing again. After covering like,six – seven lines, he stopped to survey his work and he saw it was good. And he did give praise to whom ever it was that he worshipped and promised gifts of thanksgiving. Then he turned to thank me as well for the help I had rendered.
“Pssst. Psst. Guy, number two!”
Does murder in exam hall count as a charge in court?
Co Written with: @nadez_
I groaned in frustration. This just wasn’t working. I wasn’t cut out for any kind of reading. If it came to looking cool hanging out with chicks,just looking fly with the guys then I’m your guy any day. But having to read? And memorise? Hmm, that was transformer hugging stuff right there. Yet here I was, trying to cram a summary of the book of Jonah, thirty minutes before the CRS paper was about to start.
It wasn’t as if this was one paper I absolutely had to pass. In fact, back in secondary school, I had failed CRS so woefully from Jss1 to ss3 that our CRS teacher was convinced I was from a strongly pagan family and we spent our weekends in offering sacrifice to the gods. The man even predicted (correctly) my WAEC result for CRS.
“If you don’t get an f9, then I will become a Buddhist!” he declared after trying (and failing) to make me understand that Jesus turned water to wine at a wedding at Cana and not a bar in Syria. I decided right there and then that I would surprise him with my result. By the time the results were released, he had better have bought his Buddhist habit and be prepared to relocate to a monastery in Tibet.
I failed the paper, of course; f9 being the particular score.
He was not surprised.
So no, I wasn’t preparing for the CRS WAEC paper, but the third GCE I was writing in a row.
I didn’t care if I failed CRS of course. It wasn’t as if I was planning to open a church any time soon (though that was definitely part of my long term plans). My problem was that I had failed to make any other paper as well in spite of my dashing good looks and smooth talk.
How was I to know that I would be bedevilled with deeper life invigilators for each of the examinations I would write? Besides, my brain is too filled with cool stuff to accumulate boring stuff like how to solve quadratic equations or dealing with set theorems. Infact, the first time we were taught set theorem, it had gone like this;
Teacher: Today we will be dealing with sets…
Me: Sex?
Teacher (fair complexioned woman, blushing visibly): No! Sets!
Me: But what does sex have to do with mathematics?
Teacher: SETS, SETS, SETS, OLODO, SETS!!!!
So you see, I’m really not cut out for all that caper. I was looking forward to a career in modelling. This fine face would be a waste behind a counter in a bank. I would dazzle the world with my million dollar smile and the ladies would just die when I walked into rooms.
My father wasn’t thinking along those lines when he saw my WAEC result:
“CHAIII!!!” the man screamed, giving my mother the impression that his long awaited cardiac arrest had finally happened and the poor woman dashed over from the kitchen to see if she could still save his life.
“What’s the problem?” she asked, partially worried at his scream at that time of the day and partially relieved that he was not writhing in pains on the ground.
“The problem? The problem?” he shouted. “There are nine problems!” He roared holding my result aloft. “F9 in nine subjects…..oh and look, he got an A…..in Yoruba!”
I didn’t even pass that Yoruba on my own effort, anyways. The invigilator had slept off after a large mug of hot cocoa our school principal had served her, leaving the path clear for all kinds of malpractice. Of course, the woman subsequently turned down all food offers thereafter. If she hadn’t, I would probably have made all my papers.
Anyways, that was my WAEC result from secondary school. After the traditional thrashing for failing a major examination, I was enrolled in a summer coaching programme in preparation for the GCE my parents had me registered for.
Need I tell you that I failed that one as well?
“HA!” my father screamed. “He couldn’t even make Yoruba this time. Yoruba!!!”
Again, the customary thrashing was dished out and I collected it in good faith, after all, it wasn’t the first time. Afterwards, my father called me into his room, asked me to sit in a chair opposite him and spoke in a calm, clear voice.”
“I will register you for the next GCE. It will be the last one I will register you for. I have also acquired a large metal basin for you, so that when you fail that one, you can go and start hawking pure water in traffic. Your mates are married with children,” I wondered which of my irresponsible mates would already have kids at nineteen “and you are still here, failing examination after examination. I’ve had enough you fail this one, get ready to join those boys we see in traffic running after cars, okay?”
Whenever my father did this (call you into his room, sit you opposite him and talk in a calm, clear frank voice) he meant every word of what he said. I had also spotted a gleaming, large metal basin propped up under the stairs.
Now this is one thing you’ve got to know about me. I can take a whipping, shouting, punching, head butting, electric shocking, choke slamming,groin kneeing, bi**h slapping, the people’s elbow, The Undertaker’s smack-down, ear twisting, listening to Justin Beiber for nine hours straight and a beat down from a permanently high tout at Oshodi but one thing I can’t take is embarrassment. The very thought of hawking pure water in traffic while the hot sun (that sun God must have specially made for Lagos traffic and nowhere else) bore down on me, then being spotted by the guys or one of my numerous girlfriends was just pure torture. It was time for me to sit up.
No, no, I didn’t fail that examination as well. I haven’t even written it yet, take a chill pill!
Actually, it was why I was here trying to memorise a summary of the book of Jonah, whose story I was quite sure I would have known if I hadn’t spent Sunday school classes pouring powdered chalk in girls’ hair and planting twigs (always with an impressive number of branches) in boys’ back pockets. But all around me was noise. Nobody in the GCE centre seemed to be even bothered that in thirty minutes, we would be starting the examinations with CRS as our first paper.
Over there, a girl was describing a particularly hot mini skirt she purchased the previous weekend. From what I could gather from her description, it was only two inches longer than the thickness of a piece of rope. And it still had a slit at the back. And right beside me,a guy was narrating to the small crowd he had somehow gathered how the last party he attended went down;
“Omo, una for come dat parti! Chei, see as girls just dey twist, dey bend, chai! E be like say I go heaven come back. E come get one girl wey I dey rock, chei! If you see as she just dey twist body…” he attempted a mime of how she was twisting and I was convinced that she must have been a particularly stiff girl. If his demonstration was anything to go by, she was more in need of medical attention than a groove at a party.
Still, it made pretty good listening to but my mind bugged me. These guys had probably not been threatened with metal bowls and pure water hawking so they could afford to make all that noise. Besides, they were probably depending on the N5,000 they had all “willingly donated” to the woman who was in charge of the centre where we were writing the exams, of course, at the woman’s behest.
“It’s not by force o!” she had declared. “I’m not forcing you to give me anything, but if you don’t pay up, I’m not sure the result you’ll end up with will get you into any university.”
The rush to give her money was overwhelming.
Still, I didn’t want to take chances so I continued cramming what I could of the summary. Meanwhile, everyone else felt there was nothing to worry about, that everything had been “taken care of”. What they did not bank on, however, was the deeper Life invigilator that walked into the examination hall thirty minutes later.
“Please remove anything that might implicate you in the examination,” woman said. Have you ever heard anybody with a Christian accent? This woman had it, and it was obvious that no amount of bribing would work with her. Her long, billowing white skirt and shining white head-tie/turban was testament to that fact. The previously noisy hall fell silent. “Hey, you,” she pointed to a guy seated on a desk. “Go and wash your hands and by the time you are back here, everything you wrote on your palms must be gone. That girl,” she pointed at a girl at the back. “If I see that paper sticking out of your hair when this paper starts, I will tear your answer sheet. And you,” a boy, also at the back.“You think I can’t see that Gideon’s Bible you are hiding under your thigh. Keep it well o, because if I see it when this paper starts, you might need it for prayers when you see your result.”
People began exchanging glances and plan Bs were discussed in whispers. Those without a plan B started chewing the caps of their pens before the paper started. I prayed a silent prayer. Lord please; let me see Jonah in this exam. If I don’t see Jonah in this examination, then I’m in trouble.
“Be seated!” snapped the invigilator. “And I want total silence in this hall.” Obedience was absolute and immediate. She immediately began handing out the scripts; question and answer booklets, assisted by other invigilators who looked like they were in awe of her mighty turban. After all the papers had been distributed, she glanced at the wall clock, cross checked it with her wrist watch, then declared “You have two hours and thirty minutes for this paper.” A low moan began to rise “Silence!” she snapped. I kill you! I couldn’t help thinking in my head. The moan died to its roots. “Start. I will be collecting your scripts in two hours and thirty minutes on the dot. May God be your help.”
I immediately skipped the objective part to the theory. Everyone knows the theory part is much more difficult than the objective so I decided to get that one out of the way. There were ten questions and we had to answer five, the first question being compulsory. It read; “Narrate the story of Jonah and God’s mission for him to Nineveh.”
I almost stood up to begin dancing azonto.
I immediately began writing down what I had crammed before it would escape my brain (which, by now, you know can be quite porous when it wants to be). Meanwhile, beside me, party goer (the guy who had been demonstrating what I still wasn’t quite sure if it was a girl dancing or an accident victim trying to walk) scanned his paper and let out a sigh. Then looked at the invigilator. Then at the ceiling. Then back at the invigilator. Then at me. Then started chewing the cap of his pen. Then looked at the invigilator who was now filling something in a form of some kind. Then back at me .
“Pssst. Psssst. Guy!” he whispered. I glanced at him.
“Which one you dey do?” he asked. I paused. Now I didn’t know what to do. It was almost traditional for me to help guys and ladies out in exam halls (yes, I know, I’ve only helped someone with an answer once in all the examinations I’ve written but that’s beside the point. It’s not my fault I didn’t know the other answers. A guy has to help another bro out) but with this turbaned woman looming large at the front of the hall, I wasn’t quite so sure if I was willing to take the risk.
“Pssst,” he came again. “Which one you dey do na?”
“Theory,” I whispered back, an eye on the invigilator. “Number one.”
He flipped pages to get to the theory section and read number one over.
“Pssst. Psst. Guy.” He hissed. “Guy, wetin do…..” he snapped back and pretended to be muttering to himself as the invigilator looked up to peer at us. “Wetin do Jonah?” he resumed after she continued her form filling.
O ga o! I thought. There I was thinking I was the biggest pagan in the world and here was this guy with no knowledge of Jonah. At least I had been familiar with the name Jonah, even if I hadn’t read the story but this guy didn’t even have an idea. Jonah could have been a wrestler for all he knew.
“You dey go church?” I asked.
“Ehn, I dey go church wella na, na wa for you o,”he replied.
“And you no sabi wetin do Jonah?” I asked.
“Eh guy….see ehn…..for awa church, we no read bible reach da side.”
I shook my head. This was going to be hard.
“Okay,” I started. “God send Jonah make im go preach for one place dem call Nineveh. Jonah no wan go so God send fish make im swallow am. For the fish belle im come pray make God forgive am. The fish come vomit am. Im come go preach for Nineveh. You get dat wan?”
“I get am,” He replied, nodding his head vigorously, like an agama lizard.
“Ehen, so just find as you go take write am make im long, ehn?”
He nodded his head vigorously again, then opened his answer sheet and started writing. After covering a line and half, he stopped. Then again:
“Psst. Pssst. Guy!”
I turned again.
“Er, shay Jonah na fish?”
I didn’t know whether to burst out laughing or start crying for this guy. His case was worse than I thought.
“No,” I whispered back. “Jonah na prophet. Fish swallow am. Im come pray….you no remember wetin I talk before?”
“I remember, I remember” he said, nodding vigorously again. Then:
“Psst! Pssst! Guy! Guy!”
This was getting rather tiring.
“Guy, you sure say you no make mistake? How fish go swallow pesin na? Dat wan no fit happen na. You sure say Jonah no be de fish? Or no be Jonah swallow fish?”
I shook my head in exasperation, my voice now becoming squeaky.
“No, no, na fish swallow Jonah, Jonah be…”
“Okay!” he exclaimed the light of realisation dawning on him. I was relieved. Finally, he gets the plot and will leave me alone. “I don get am now. The fish na shark. You for don talk am since na, you just dey here dey tell me fish.” Having said this, he turned away to resume writing.
I was quite speechless.
He had covered another line when he suddenly stopped again.
“Pssst! Pssst! Guy no vex but no be chop shark dey chop person? How person wey dem don chop go dey shark belle dey pray. No be die im don die be dat?”
I was beginning to see myself jabbing my pen in his left eye.
“Okay, wetin happen be dis” I said, calming myself as much as possible. “Jonah na fish. Biiiig fish. One fisherman from Nineveh come catch am carry am go house. And hunger been dey catch dem bad for Nineveh. Na so as the man reach house everybody gather. Na im the man start preach to dem say dem if dem wan catch fish, dem suppose first consult am. Na im the man open church, become daddy G.O. You get dat wan?”
“Ehen,” he replied. “Na now you come. Why you come dey tell me long story say fish dey swallow person, say person dey pray for fish belle. Ehen, I for talk am!”
He returned to writing again. After covering like,six – seven lines, he stopped to survey his work and he saw it was good. And he did give praise to whom ever it was that he worshipped and promised gifts of thanksgiving. Then he turned to thank me as well for the help I had rendered.
“Pssst. Psst. Guy, number two!”
Does murder in exam hall count as a charge in court?
Co Written with: @nadez_
Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry using MTN NIGERIA.
The Day I Saw The World | Poem-ish
For the first time, frightening, I so feeble,
So wide and big and filled with people.
I, weeping for the loss of the cocoon that shielded,
They, rejoicing for the gain of a one so awaited.
The questions in mind as they hoisted me high,
A doctor, lawyer, writer or why!
Even a president, their dreams did fly.
In the twenty odd years that have come and gone,
And the sorrows and joys I have seen and borne,
In this, I remain thankful, most of all to You,
Lord most high, without you I’d be in a awe.
Even when I am in the wrong,
Your grace is there to keep me strong.
And my family, support of my existence.
Thank you so much for your love and persistence.
I frustrate you a lot. Yes I do.
But then, you’re all my favourite boos.
To my friends both near and far,
Know that you are always dear to my heart.
And though I may not call and text adlib,
I should hope we will meet in a better place anon.
With this I say happy birthday to me.
With hopes and prayers many more to see.
Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry using MTN NIGERIA.
Dear God
Dear God,
We’re tired of praying prayers that have no faith. You know us better than we know ourselves so why do we constantly try to play on Your intelligence? We know that we don’t spend much time with You throughout the day because the duties of life always seem to get in the way. It’s weird because we make time for everything that has nothing to do with You and we don’t even complain about it.
We can stand in a club for hours but it seems like when we get to church, we’re ready to go after praise and worship is over. The preacher is speaking Your words yet our minds are focused on what to do after service. Its so disrespectful how we carry on from day to day without telling You “Thank You”. We don’t make the time to talk to You because our thoughts are so polluted with guilt and stifled by shame.
Forgive us!
Not only do we ask for forgiveness, help us to do better with our relationship with You. Make us put the same efforts that we put into our personal relationships, into our spiritual walk with You. We can’t do it without You. Most of us want to be closer to You, but we’re afraid of change. We’re afraid that walking with You is going to required too much. We’re not worthy God, we don’t even have enough sense to comprehend that You love us even when we don’t love ourselves. Bless us because You are God and not always based on our behaviours.
Free our dear country from the shackles of "backwardness" in which corruption and all other vices have tied us with. Teach our fellow citizens to fervently pray for our leaders, and not rain invectives on them like we often find solace in doing.
Show us the way; surround us with people who truly love You, not those who say what a TV preacher told them to say. Help us to know You for ourselves and not how people feel we should know You. We’ve realised that we’re nothing without Your presence; we just need You to show us a sign. Let us know that You hear our heart desires. We’re ready for a new beginning.
Posted from WordPress for Android
We’re tired of praying prayers that have no faith. You know us better than we know ourselves so why do we constantly try to play on Your intelligence? We know that we don’t spend much time with You throughout the day because the duties of life always seem to get in the way. It’s weird because we make time for everything that has nothing to do with You and we don’t even complain about it.
We can stand in a club for hours but it seems like when we get to church, we’re ready to go after praise and worship is over. The preacher is speaking Your words yet our minds are focused on what to do after service. Its so disrespectful how we carry on from day to day without telling You “Thank You”. We don’t make the time to talk to You because our thoughts are so polluted with guilt and stifled by shame.
Forgive us!
Not only do we ask for forgiveness, help us to do better with our relationship with You. Make us put the same efforts that we put into our personal relationships, into our spiritual walk with You. We can’t do it without You. Most of us want to be closer to You, but we’re afraid of change. We’re afraid that walking with You is going to required too much. We’re not worthy God, we don’t even have enough sense to comprehend that You love us even when we don’t love ourselves. Bless us because You are God and not always based on our behaviours.
Free our dear country from the shackles of "backwardness" in which corruption and all other vices have tied us with. Teach our fellow citizens to fervently pray for our leaders, and not rain invectives on them like we often find solace in doing.
Show us the way; surround us with people who truly love You, not those who say what a TV preacher told them to say. Help us to know You for ourselves and not how people feel we should know You. We’ve realised that we’re nothing without Your presence; we just need You to show us a sign. Let us know that You hear our heart desires. We’re ready for a new beginning.
We know You are not on an internet plan but can surely read our minds..
Posted from WordPress for Android
Poem | I miss
I miss waking up each morning to the message you sent while I slept....
"Stopping by to drop a kiss in your dreams"
I miss hearing your voice when it’s all groggy nd tiny from not enough sleep....
"Hey babe! Good morning… Have an awesome day"
I miss bugging you all day, filling you in on the minutest detail
My course mate just peed her pants! LOL! I crave carbs! Diets suck! Ugh"!
I miss those unplanned visits...
Surprise! Guess who’s in town? Coming to ur house in a bit
I miss the random messages...
You’re beautiful, inside and out! Lucky me
I miss the chastising
"You snapped at your mum?! Why?! Okay, I understand but you have to apologize to her"
I miss making the future plans
"Small wedding, HUGE honey mooning!" Lol
I miss helping you pick out an outfit
You should totally rock the brown shoes with that Red dress(I loved the red dress)
I miss the endless teasing and banter
Your head’s big, by the way.. We both know yours is bigger!
I miss the cuddling even when we fight
Oya shift! I want to cuddle
I miss the pampering
You look tired, lie down I’ll massage. You need to eat babe, please. A kiss for every spoon, deal?
Oh, I miss the deal
I get that school is crappy but if you go today and study enough to impress me, you get a gift.
And of course the bribery…
I miss the impromptu fun games
Let’s make lunch together, over the phone of course. You give the instructions and I’ll cook
I miss… Gosh, I miss everything! I miss the things I can’t have because, well, because I’m alone …And while being single has it’s perks, I miss the things I could have…
I miss my first love.
In reply to
I miss you! http://wp.me/p30ldI-14 twitter.com/His_beloved8
"Stopping by to drop a kiss in your dreams"
I miss hearing your voice when it’s all groggy nd tiny from not enough sleep....
"Hey babe! Good morning… Have an awesome day"
I miss bugging you all day, filling you in on the minutest detail
My course mate just peed her pants! LOL! I crave carbs! Diets suck! Ugh"!
I miss those unplanned visits...
Surprise! Guess who’s in town? Coming to ur house in a bit
I miss the random messages...
You’re beautiful, inside and out! Lucky me
I miss the chastising
"You snapped at your mum?! Why?! Okay, I understand but you have to apologize to her"
I miss making the future plans
"Small wedding, HUGE honey mooning!" Lol
I miss helping you pick out an outfit
You should totally rock the brown shoes with that Red dress(I loved the red dress)
I miss the endless teasing and banter
Your head’s big, by the way.. We both know yours is bigger!
I miss the cuddling even when we fight
Oya shift! I want to cuddle
I miss the pampering
You look tired, lie down I’ll massage. You need to eat babe, please. A kiss for every spoon, deal?
Oh, I miss the deal
I get that school is crappy but if you go today and study enough to impress me, you get a gift.
And of course the bribery…
I miss the impromptu fun games
Let’s make lunch together, over the phone of course. You give the instructions and I’ll cook
I miss… Gosh, I miss everything! I miss the things I can’t have because, well, because I’m alone …And while being single has it’s perks, I miss the things I could have…
I miss my first love.
In reply to
I miss you! http://wp.me/p30ldI-14 twitter.com/His_beloved8
Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry using MTN NIGERIA.
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Move over to MTN Magic SIM post on trueinternetworld blog
The re-programmed mtn sim card cheat works on all devices ranging from wireless routers, iphones, Android, Windows Pc or Macbook.
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*. Mtn Unlimited Download sim card trick requires no tunneling software of any type.
*. ANDROID DEVICE USER’S NO LONGER NEED TO ROOT THEiR DEVICES ( UNLIKE THE FORMAL MTN BIS TWEKS WITH DRIODVPN ).
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2. No hidden charges once you are using the sim.
3. No bandwidth limit[3gb is d limit for those that uses bis u know that]
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Everybody can use the mtn magic sim. No age limit
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Move over to MTN Magic SIM post on trueinternetworld blog
Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry using MTN NIGERIA.
Dear Future Wife | Letter V
Dear Future Wife,
I know it's been a long time I wrote to you. The devil have tried every available means possible to make me forget about you.
For example if you read my "April fools' experience" Gosh! That was the closest I came to cheating on you. But I know you have a kind heart and therefore you've forgiven me already. But sweet heart, don't you think its high time you write me a letter? This is my fifth letter to you(not counting the numerous letters I forgot to publish or the ones I wrote way back in primary and secondary school. Not that I'm complaining or anything. But all I need is just a letter(yes just one) and I'll be the most happiest guy on earth. (My email's "hendrix@doctor.com" incase you forgot)
Anyways cocoa, (you don't mind me calling you that right?) Lately I have been inundated by texts of all kinds, graphics too, addressing me as some sort of coward or shy person who refuses to step forward and take his destiny in his hands. May I dis-abuse that notion and in my own defence say, I am not!
From display pictures (DPs) that read “I wonder what my future husband is doing right now” to the absolutely annoying “dear future husband, you dey mad ni? Must I date every boy before you come?” To the insanely hilarious write by kemmiiii that made me laugh till tears welled in my eyes, I have decided to respond and allay some of your fears.
As confused and angry as you may be right now concerning my supposed identity, please note that I am more impatient to meet you. To see your wonderful face and be lost in your smile. To know you more than anyone else could claim. To laugh with you and lend a shoulder for you to cry on.
Dear wife, understand this, I am impatient to meet you because I would be your boyfriend – your friend, a boy – the trustworthy dependable guy you relax with. The person who you wear no airs around. The one whose number is first on your speed-dial. I will be the friend who makes you laugh until it hurts, be there when you are passing through your phases, a constant familiar face that goes through the darkness with you
.
We will hang out together, go grab amala at Iya Mulika’s joint. Watch Arsenal play, (hopefully Arsene Wenger would have been cured of his dementia) together supporting as the team conquers England, Europe and then the world. Our voices lost as we give ourselves over to frenzied shouts that spurs the team on from a million miles away.
There will be no secrets between us. My eyes will reveal what is in my heart, it will start dancing at the sight of you. You alone will have the access to the codes of my mumu button; still I will be your friend, a boy, and maybe, your best-friend.
Your girlfriends will get jealous of our relationship, my boyfriends will pray for my soul and scheme to deliver me. Yet will our bond grow strong. We will ride the crest of time together, brave the gloomy valley hand in hand trusting each other implicitly and knowing that with each other, we are safe. Still I will only be your friend, a boy, maybe your best-friend.
And as we grow, as you are about to make the greatest decision in your life, as always mine would be the first name you say, the one you come to for advise and as we talk and discuss the subject of marriage your eyes will open in an epiphaneous (pardon the word – epiphany) moment and you will see I have always been there, your friend, your ally, your rock. Waiting, for the time your eyes will open and you will see, I have always been there keeping watch over you till you are ready to admit to yourself that I, I am the one for you.
-your future husband
Hendrix
I know it's been a long time I wrote to you. The devil have tried every available means possible to make me forget about you.
For example if you read my "April fools' experience" Gosh! That was the closest I came to cheating on you. But I know you have a kind heart and therefore you've forgiven me already. But sweet heart, don't you think its high time you write me a letter? This is my fifth letter to you(not counting the numerous letters I forgot to publish or the ones I wrote way back in primary and secondary school. Not that I'm complaining or anything. But all I need is just a letter(yes just one) and I'll be the most happiest guy on earth. (My email's "hendrix@doctor.com" incase you forgot)
Anyways cocoa, (you don't mind me calling you that right?) Lately I have been inundated by texts of all kinds, graphics too, addressing me as some sort of coward or shy person who refuses to step forward and take his destiny in his hands. May I dis-abuse that notion and in my own defence say, I am not!
From display pictures (DPs) that read “I wonder what my future husband is doing right now” to the absolutely annoying “dear future husband, you dey mad ni? Must I date every boy before you come?” To the insanely hilarious write by kemmiiii that made me laugh till tears welled in my eyes, I have decided to respond and allay some of your fears.
As confused and angry as you may be right now concerning my supposed identity, please note that I am more impatient to meet you. To see your wonderful face and be lost in your smile. To know you more than anyone else could claim. To laugh with you and lend a shoulder for you to cry on.
Dear wife, understand this, I am impatient to meet you because I would be your boyfriend – your friend, a boy – the trustworthy dependable guy you relax with. The person who you wear no airs around. The one whose number is first on your speed-dial. I will be the friend who makes you laugh until it hurts, be there when you are passing through your phases, a constant familiar face that goes through the darkness with you
.
We will hang out together, go grab amala at Iya Mulika’s joint. Watch Arsenal play, (hopefully Arsene Wenger would have been cured of his dementia) together supporting as the team conquers England, Europe and then the world. Our voices lost as we give ourselves over to frenzied shouts that spurs the team on from a million miles away.
There will be no secrets between us. My eyes will reveal what is in my heart, it will start dancing at the sight of you. You alone will have the access to the codes of my mumu button; still I will be your friend, a boy, and maybe, your best-friend.
Your girlfriends will get jealous of our relationship, my boyfriends will pray for my soul and scheme to deliver me. Yet will our bond grow strong. We will ride the crest of time together, brave the gloomy valley hand in hand trusting each other implicitly and knowing that with each other, we are safe. Still I will only be your friend, a boy, maybe your best-friend.
And as we grow, as you are about to make the greatest decision in your life, as always mine would be the first name you say, the one you come to for advise and as we talk and discuss the subject of marriage your eyes will open in an epiphaneous (pardon the word – epiphany) moment and you will see I have always been there, your friend, your ally, your rock. Waiting, for the time your eyes will open and you will see, I have always been there keeping watch over you till you are ready to admit to yourself that I, I am the one for you.
-your future husband
Hendrix
Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry using MTN NIGERIA.
Tag :
about me,
future wife
My Birthday Guide
Its Seven days to my bday!!! Yaaaaaayy!!
Unfortunately, I have exams that day. :-(
But notwithstanding, I don't want this bday to be like every other bday I've had for the last 20years. C'mon I officially enter the right drinking age.
So here's a guide for ya'll.......Friends and family alike
*clears throat*
Dear Family and Friends,
I am pretty sure you are all having a difficult time deciding what to get for me for my birthday. Due to my importance to you all, I know the coming ten days or so will be most difficult for you as you decide what is most appropriate for me. I’m a very considerate person, and that’s why I’m here to put you out of your misery (certainly not by killing you). I’m here to help you and offer you some tips on what you can get me; what will likely get you a loud and resonated "thank you" as against a long cold stare.
But before we talk about gifts, let’s get this disturbing issue out of the way. And that’s the issue of electronic messages and other allied matters. These have become a very irritating cliché and as a writer, I have been warned to steer clear of them lest they crawl their dirty way into my work and cause you and me incalculable embarrassment when fault finding critics start pointing them out. So, no to messages like HBD, LLNP etc. What do they even mean?
"High Building Destroyed? High Blood Detected? Long Life No Progress? Love Lost No Problem?"
Do not send me those birthday messages you find in those #20 love message books you buy on the street of Shomolu. I hate them and I might hate you too if you dare punish me with those badly written words from those high school drop outs.
Pleeeaaaseeee. Also, do me a favour and disable your Facebook spam automatic Birthday cards. This is a sure cause of pollution to my serene page. And the last thing I want is for machines to join in the celebration of my day. Human only please. Phone messages are allowed but they must be original and not previously published or simultaneously sent.
Now, in lieu of these messages, we can do the greetings the old school way. Send me cheap greeting cards (#500 own should do; I’m a socialist, remember?). Endeavour to add a personal touch to the card; don’t dare send them the way they are. Write a short poem or message or even testimony or appreciation (yeah, It ake that too, but only from the people in my beneficiaries list) on the card. If your handwriting is like my doctor’s, please do us both a favour and have it typed and professionally glued to the card.
Phone calls are acceptable, but as they cannot be saved for future reference, I will advise you to consider them as only a bonus. Please and please, on no account should you take a page out in the newspaper for a congratulatory message (I certainly do not want my parents’ house stampeded by hungry touts looking for free foods).
Ok. Now that we have cleared that out of the way, let’s move on to more important issue and the main reason why birthday celebration was invented. Gifts! As a socialist, I will strongly advice you against buying me cars and houses. I have been informed that due to my reluctance to join the iPhone class that some of you have decided to buy me one of those stupid smart phones. Don’t! Use the money instead for a good cause (like donating fifty copies of City of Memories or Salute to Bori to schools), but of course in my name.
What do I really want?
Books! Yeah, there you have it. Number one on the list (and whoever gets me this will have his name in my book of life).
Please on no account should you get me a Soyinka poetry or play. No, thank you, ma. I had enough headaches while trying to force him and his crazy pal, Okigbo, on myself
some years back. I will gladly accept any of his prose works. Chinua Achebe most recent book will be highly cherished. Get me one and I will always call you whatever you want. Poetry collection of Ojaide, Esiaba Irobi, Ohaeto, and Osundare are fair game. Spare me Okri and his likes. No to headache, I repeat.
That I’m trained as a scientist doesn’t mean you can go and get me those incredibly dull and migraine inducing science journals. Back to sender is what I will do if you dare do that to me.
For those of you who unfortunately are allergic to printed words, or maybe you hate to be seen entering one of those few poorly stocked bookshops in this country and you don’t know where Online is let alone buy something there, this one is for you: clothes. Due to my recent migration to Delta, the most self-indulging city on earth with the highest frequency of self-deceiving inhabitants, I have discovered that my wardrobe is, to put it mildly, inappropriate for such place. Everybody here dresses like they work on Wall Street or something. Like they are in some winter struck European city and not in a warm savanna city. Three piece suit, tie and the whole nine yards.
My tee shirt and palm sleepers which would have been so at home in lagos (God bless that city that refuses to follow the abnormal formality) look so criminally odd in Delta that I can no longer resist the temptation to join the African European style. I’m no cultural activist; just a young man who does not want to become an amusing spectacle. So if you my comrades feel disappointed, please forgive me. But I need a new wardrobe. So, get your butt off the ground and go shop for your man. Get me nice pieces from nice boutiques. Be advised that I can smell a BK cloth from miles away as I’ve worn enough of those. On no account should you buy me one. I will likely shove it down your crooked throat (**just kidding**).
My people in America (the Nigerian Americans and the American Nigerians alike) are hereby implored not to struggle to get me anything expensive. I perfectly understand the economic situation they are facing in the States and I refuse to allow my birthday to become another burden on them. What I want from them (I understand it would be insulting for me to insist on no gift) and others in Europe (with the probable exemption of Spain, Greece and Ireland) are to send me those foods that make Michele Obama scream all the time. Yes, you guessed right.
I wanna get fat! Being skinny in Delta is a sin against the personality of Madame Dame of Afrika and I certainly do not want to be in her bad book, not with my brewing political ambition (Am I too young for A.S.S.A on Facebook and Twitter Management?).
Send those cheap canned calorie rich foods and keeping sending them. God will help you all and keep Obama in power and chase Romney out of the race. May the gods of the seven rivers truncate that buffoon’s (Romney, of course) presidential ambitions.
For those of you in the Middle East (Saudi Arabia and Kuwait most especially), don’t get smart and send me all those free Quran and texts. Hey, Sheikh, I have enough Moshaff to last a life time. What I want from you are those beautiful Jalabia, exquisite watches, and nice perfume. Get them and send them if you still want me as your ally.
Dear family and friends, I hate to be second guessed and misunderstood. So let’s be clear, I do not want your money. No cash, not even share or stock of companies that will melt down in couple of months. I would hate to become a visitor to the EFCC (those dedicated brilliant Sherlock Holmes have better things to do than waste their precious time investigating how an unknown wannabe writer could make millions from his birthday). Get this straight too, I’m not soliciting or asking you for anything; what I have done above is just to help you in making your choice. Not getting me anything will not mean an end to our relationship (it could cause some appraisal sha).
Wishing myself (on your behalf) a happy birthday in advance.
Cheers!!
Unfortunately, I have exams that day. :-(
But notwithstanding, I don't want this bday to be like every other bday I've had for the last 20years. C'mon I officially enter the right drinking age.
So here's a guide for ya'll.......Friends and family alike
*clears throat*
Dear Family and Friends,
I am pretty sure you are all having a difficult time deciding what to get for me for my birthday. Due to my importance to you all, I know the coming ten days or so will be most difficult for you as you decide what is most appropriate for me. I’m a very considerate person, and that’s why I’m here to put you out of your misery (certainly not by killing you). I’m here to help you and offer you some tips on what you can get me; what will likely get you a loud and resonated "thank you" as against a long cold stare.
But before we talk about gifts, let’s get this disturbing issue out of the way. And that’s the issue of electronic messages and other allied matters. These have become a very irritating cliché and as a writer, I have been warned to steer clear of them lest they crawl their dirty way into my work and cause you and me incalculable embarrassment when fault finding critics start pointing them out. So, no to messages like HBD, LLNP etc. What do they even mean?
"High Building Destroyed? High Blood Detected? Long Life No Progress? Love Lost No Problem?"
Do not send me those birthday messages you find in those #20 love message books you buy on the street of Shomolu. I hate them and I might hate you too if you dare punish me with those badly written words from those high school drop outs.
Pleeeaaaseeee. Also, do me a favour and disable your Facebook spam automatic Birthday cards. This is a sure cause of pollution to my serene page. And the last thing I want is for machines to join in the celebration of my day. Human only please. Phone messages are allowed but they must be original and not previously published or simultaneously sent.
Now, in lieu of these messages, we can do the greetings the old school way. Send me cheap greeting cards (#500 own should do; I’m a socialist, remember?). Endeavour to add a personal touch to the card; don’t dare send them the way they are. Write a short poem or message or even testimony or appreciation (yeah, It ake that too, but only from the people in my beneficiaries list) on the card. If your handwriting is like my doctor’s, please do us both a favour and have it typed and professionally glued to the card.
Phone calls are acceptable, but as they cannot be saved for future reference, I will advise you to consider them as only a bonus. Please and please, on no account should you take a page out in the newspaper for a congratulatory message (I certainly do not want my parents’ house stampeded by hungry touts looking for free foods).
Ok. Now that we have cleared that out of the way, let’s move on to more important issue and the main reason why birthday celebration was invented. Gifts! As a socialist, I will strongly advice you against buying me cars and houses. I have been informed that due to my reluctance to join the iPhone class that some of you have decided to buy me one of those stupid smart phones. Don’t! Use the money instead for a good cause (like donating fifty copies of City of Memories or Salute to Bori to schools), but of course in my name.
What do I really want?
Books! Yeah, there you have it. Number one on the list (and whoever gets me this will have his name in my book of life).
Please on no account should you get me a Soyinka poetry or play. No, thank you, ma. I had enough headaches while trying to force him and his crazy pal, Okigbo, on myself
some years back. I will gladly accept any of his prose works. Chinua Achebe most recent book will be highly cherished. Get me one and I will always call you whatever you want. Poetry collection of Ojaide, Esiaba Irobi, Ohaeto, and Osundare are fair game. Spare me Okri and his likes. No to headache, I repeat.
That I’m trained as a scientist doesn’t mean you can go and get me those incredibly dull and migraine inducing science journals. Back to sender is what I will do if you dare do that to me.
For those of you who unfortunately are allergic to printed words, or maybe you hate to be seen entering one of those few poorly stocked bookshops in this country and you don’t know where Online is let alone buy something there, this one is for you: clothes. Due to my recent migration to Delta, the most self-indulging city on earth with the highest frequency of self-deceiving inhabitants, I have discovered that my wardrobe is, to put it mildly, inappropriate for such place. Everybody here dresses like they work on Wall Street or something. Like they are in some winter struck European city and not in a warm savanna city. Three piece suit, tie and the whole nine yards.
My tee shirt and palm sleepers which would have been so at home in lagos (God bless that city that refuses to follow the abnormal formality) look so criminally odd in Delta that I can no longer resist the temptation to join the African European style. I’m no cultural activist; just a young man who does not want to become an amusing spectacle. So if you my comrades feel disappointed, please forgive me. But I need a new wardrobe. So, get your butt off the ground and go shop for your man. Get me nice pieces from nice boutiques. Be advised that I can smell a BK cloth from miles away as I’ve worn enough of those. On no account should you buy me one. I will likely shove it down your crooked throat (**just kidding**).
My people in America (the Nigerian Americans and the American Nigerians alike) are hereby implored not to struggle to get me anything expensive. I perfectly understand the economic situation they are facing in the States and I refuse to allow my birthday to become another burden on them. What I want from them (I understand it would be insulting for me to insist on no gift) and others in Europe (with the probable exemption of Spain, Greece and Ireland) are to send me those foods that make Michele Obama scream all the time. Yes, you guessed right.
I wanna get fat! Being skinny in Delta is a sin against the personality of Madame Dame of Afrika and I certainly do not want to be in her bad book, not with my brewing political ambition (Am I too young for A.S.S.A on Facebook and Twitter Management?).
Send those cheap canned calorie rich foods and keeping sending them. God will help you all and keep Obama in power and chase Romney out of the race. May the gods of the seven rivers truncate that buffoon’s (Romney, of course) presidential ambitions.
For those of you in the Middle East (Saudi Arabia and Kuwait most especially), don’t get smart and send me all those free Quran and texts. Hey, Sheikh, I have enough Moshaff to last a life time. What I want from you are those beautiful Jalabia, exquisite watches, and nice perfume. Get them and send them if you still want me as your ally.
Dear family and friends, I hate to be second guessed and misunderstood. So let’s be clear, I do not want your money. No cash, not even share or stock of companies that will melt down in couple of months. I would hate to become a visitor to the EFCC (those dedicated brilliant Sherlock Holmes have better things to do than waste their precious time investigating how an unknown wannabe writer could make millions from his birthday). Get this straight too, I’m not soliciting or asking you for anything; what I have done above is just to help you in making your choice. Not getting me anything will not mean an end to our relationship (it could cause some appraisal sha).
Wishing myself (on your behalf) a happy birthday in advance.
Cheers!!
Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry using MTN NIGERIA.
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In other news
RANT | Girls, women, Females...Whatever your problems are!
It’s so infuriating the way most girls think.
They say they are not the weaker vessels, that they are equal to the average man, but then they go around to expect men to open the door for them and wait for them to enter the room before we can, before they can call him the so-called ‘perfect gentleman’.
They go around waiting for the guy to ask them out when THEY like him. They go around playing their feminine charm and if it doesn’t work, they say the guy is insensitive.
They fight for woman rights and all of that unnecessary crap; I feel it’s because they are totally insecure and cannot hold their own and can only find the opposite sex to put the blame on.
This is only because the animals of lesser importance are scary, cute or irritating. Man takes all the blame. I don’t blame them; they have nothing else to do.
They try to hide behind cooking cleaning, child rearing and all that shit that not much people care about. Hell, some are even getting high end jobs, the nerve of those women. They leave the child rearing to others like them who then inflict our children with the pains of child abuse or the evil of witchcraft. And they say we don’t appreciate the fact that “we are trying to add to the money you bring home”.
And then they come home at night and tell us they are too tired to attend to their marital responsibilities and when their men find others of their specie to satisfy them, they cry their hearts out telling them that they “loved you, how could you do this to me?”. Like we told them to go to work and come back home tired, like they didn’t say at the altar to love and to cherish.
And then what’s this thing about them expecting guys to read their freaking minds. It’s so disgusting when they say, “I expected you to…” and then u are like “why didn’t you say it?” and then they would be like (while rough-necking and playing with their annoying fingers that won’t stay still), “a natural person in their right mind…” My left foot!
You can’t begin to imagine the amount of time men would be about to slap into the abyss the freckled face of those annoying… And then they’ll say stuff like you can’t or won’t or don’t understand.
I can tell you without bias that every word stated here is as real as the hair on your scalp [i mean if u actually have your natural strands on! i don’t mean the Brazilians or Peruvians!]…a piece of advice, ladies why don’t you simply cut your hair according to your pocket! It’s simply annoying that every female species can’t seem to feel normal or straight without starving just to afford the almighty weave! For Christ’s sake it’s the remains of another dead woman in a suburban country!
Wake up and smell the coffee… to think another woman who can’t afford a mold of bread in a public Mexican market decides to sell a part of her hair to feed, should make you sit and ask yourself… What do i have on or in me that’s valuable? The response we all know is ‘nothing”.
It’s not always about the physical. Ladies! Ladies! Ladies! When was the last time you sat by yourself and tried applying some make up on your attitudes, disposition and mindset! It’s not always about the ‘victoria secret’… because she’s definitely keeping the truth from you.
Not about the “Mary Kay’… Are you sure you’d rather hide behind another feminine image rather than just be real and clean! And then you make the brothers go through hell trying to please you so you can afford a whole stack of make-up set! I think you should have a handy stack of the scriptures because it’s got all the prescriptions for your confusions.
Bottom line, Work on the attitude and leave them brothers alone… They have their lives to live and you have yours so… Buzz off.
They say they are not the weaker vessels, that they are equal to the average man, but then they go around to expect men to open the door for them and wait for them to enter the room before we can, before they can call him the so-called ‘perfect gentleman’.
They go around waiting for the guy to ask them out when THEY like him. They go around playing their feminine charm and if it doesn’t work, they say the guy is insensitive.
They fight for woman rights and all of that unnecessary crap; I feel it’s because they are totally insecure and cannot hold their own and can only find the opposite sex to put the blame on.
This is only because the animals of lesser importance are scary, cute or irritating. Man takes all the blame. I don’t blame them; they have nothing else to do.
They try to hide behind cooking cleaning, child rearing and all that shit that not much people care about. Hell, some are even getting high end jobs, the nerve of those women. They leave the child rearing to others like them who then inflict our children with the pains of child abuse or the evil of witchcraft. And they say we don’t appreciate the fact that “we are trying to add to the money you bring home”.
And then they come home at night and tell us they are too tired to attend to their marital responsibilities and when their men find others of their specie to satisfy them, they cry their hearts out telling them that they “loved you, how could you do this to me?”. Like we told them to go to work and come back home tired, like they didn’t say at the altar to love and to cherish.
And then what’s this thing about them expecting guys to read their freaking minds. It’s so disgusting when they say, “I expected you to…” and then u are like “why didn’t you say it?” and then they would be like (while rough-necking and playing with their annoying fingers that won’t stay still), “a natural person in their right mind…” My left foot!
You can’t begin to imagine the amount of time men would be about to slap into the abyss the freckled face of those annoying… And then they’ll say stuff like you can’t or won’t or don’t understand.
I can tell you without bias that every word stated here is as real as the hair on your scalp [i mean if u actually have your natural strands on! i don’t mean the Brazilians or Peruvians!]…a piece of advice, ladies why don’t you simply cut your hair according to your pocket! It’s simply annoying that every female species can’t seem to feel normal or straight without starving just to afford the almighty weave! For Christ’s sake it’s the remains of another dead woman in a suburban country!
Wake up and smell the coffee… to think another woman who can’t afford a mold of bread in a public Mexican market decides to sell a part of her hair to feed, should make you sit and ask yourself… What do i have on or in me that’s valuable? The response we all know is ‘nothing”.
It’s not always about the physical. Ladies! Ladies! Ladies! When was the last time you sat by yourself and tried applying some make up on your attitudes, disposition and mindset! It’s not always about the ‘victoria secret’… because she’s definitely keeping the truth from you.
Not about the “Mary Kay’… Are you sure you’d rather hide behind another feminine image rather than just be real and clean! And then you make the brothers go through hell trying to please you so you can afford a whole stack of make-up set! I think you should have a handy stack of the scriptures because it’s got all the prescriptions for your confusions.
Bottom line, Work on the attitude and leave them brothers alone… They have their lives to live and you have yours so… Buzz off.
Posted from WordPress for BlackBerry using MTN NIGERIA.
April Fools | My experience
All I had on my mind was to have a mad night of fun with this sweet girl I had just met and hardly knew.
Slim', was her name if memory serves.( Well you didn’t think I was going to mention her name) She was a lovely gal and I was so happy when I ran into her earlier in the day. I had been on her case for a minute, telling her how attracted I was to her blah, blah, blah. You know how we do.
We agreed to meet up later that night. I was way excited about the prospects of our date, I took her to the most famous restaurant in my area. The evening was great and was getting better the longer the night went. Diner was awesome and I was all pepped up, ready to have a wonderful night.
After paying the bills and all, we ended up in the car park, got talking and we started kissing passionately. BOOM the night was going according to plan. I managed to convince her to move to the back seat with me, which she politely declined to do. But with much honey tongued persuasion she finally gave in.
It was the perfect setting for any mischief. Darkness, No light in the car park area which further added to my excitement. Struggling to find her lips was fun and I got carried away. She suddenly asked me to stop. Which I did, cooled down the passions a bit. We relaxed then continued again.
All of a sudden she started shouting "NO! NO!!NO!!!" I could hear odd sounds, but wasn’t sure it was me? The way she held on so tight to me but was still saying “NO” was not making any sense to me. I thought she was talking to me. But to make the situation more confusing she began yelling “please”!, “please”. That was when I began to realized it wasn’t me she was talking to.
By now it had began to rain outside the car. Am sorry, did I say rain? I mean storm!. The thunder and lightning plus the pitch darkness wasn't helping the situation but I was trying to be a man. As you can guess, my imagination was running in different directions. I asked her what was wrong and she wouldn't answer or talk to me. I was so scared, trying not to shake but very close to tears. Asking what was happening and getting nothing in return.
The next thing she said was...
“don’t move, they are close”.
Gosh!, I almost passed. She said this while I was trying to make my way back to the driver’s seat from the back where we were seated. At this point I knew I was a dead man because she had started using words like “no please, I am begging”. I have never prayed as hard as I did that night. Yes I was now living my nightmares, thoughts of friends and family flooded my subconscious. I was going to die.
The last thing she did was cover both our mouths with her hands telling me not to talk and she kept silent as well. We must have sat down like that for 5 minutes but it felt like an eternity to me, I was sweating profusely and I even made promise to stay away from girls.
Then she said “THEY ARE GONE, WE CAN GO NOW” that was the best thing that came out of her mouth that night. With no shirt on, legs shaking I managed to crawl to the front seat with her. Tried starting the car but my nervousness got the better part of me cos all I had in mind was to get away from that place as soon as possible but the car refused to start. I prayed for forgiveness of all my sins and promised God never to touch another gal again.
I turned around and looked at her, the tears were all gone and she had this big smile on her face. All I heard from her, was Hendrix "relax now", she went further and said that I should take it easy and we should go to my house.
I was lost for words, I quietly started the car and drove towards the girl’s house. She attempted to touch me but I told her I had to concentrate. I dropped her and drove straight to my house, picked up my bible and prayed all through the night.
I saw her the next day in our estate, I tried avoiding her but she walked up to me smiling, laughing more like it and said
“OK come on I was joking”
Well maybe she was joking, maybe it was a spiritual attack, I didn’t want to find out but it had been such a terrible night for my nerves and most especially my heart.
Ever since then I stopped trying to get intimate with girls…..until 2 days later... ;-)
Slim', was her name if memory serves.( Well you didn’t think I was going to mention her name) She was a lovely gal and I was so happy when I ran into her earlier in the day. I had been on her case for a minute, telling her how attracted I was to her blah, blah, blah. You know how we do.
We agreed to meet up later that night. I was way excited about the prospects of our date, I took her to the most famous restaurant in my area. The evening was great and was getting better the longer the night went. Diner was awesome and I was all pepped up, ready to have a wonderful night.
After paying the bills and all, we ended up in the car park, got talking and we started kissing passionately. BOOM the night was going according to plan. I managed to convince her to move to the back seat with me, which she politely declined to do. But with much honey tongued persuasion she finally gave in.
It was the perfect setting for any mischief. Darkness, No light in the car park area which further added to my excitement. Struggling to find her lips was fun and I got carried away. She suddenly asked me to stop. Which I did, cooled down the passions a bit. We relaxed then continued again.
All of a sudden she started shouting "NO! NO!!NO!!!" I could hear odd sounds, but wasn’t sure it was me? The way she held on so tight to me but was still saying “NO” was not making any sense to me. I thought she was talking to me. But to make the situation more confusing she began yelling “please”!, “please”. That was when I began to realized it wasn’t me she was talking to.
By now it had began to rain outside the car. Am sorry, did I say rain? I mean storm!. The thunder and lightning plus the pitch darkness wasn't helping the situation but I was trying to be a man. As you can guess, my imagination was running in different directions. I asked her what was wrong and she wouldn't answer or talk to me. I was so scared, trying not to shake but very close to tears. Asking what was happening and getting nothing in return.
The next thing she said was...
“don’t move, they are close”.
Gosh!, I almost passed. She said this while I was trying to make my way back to the driver’s seat from the back where we were seated. At this point I knew I was a dead man because she had started using words like “no please, I am begging”. I have never prayed as hard as I did that night. Yes I was now living my nightmares, thoughts of friends and family flooded my subconscious. I was going to die.
The last thing she did was cover both our mouths with her hands telling me not to talk and she kept silent as well. We must have sat down like that for 5 minutes but it felt like an eternity to me, I was sweating profusely and I even made promise to stay away from girls.
Then she said “THEY ARE GONE, WE CAN GO NOW” that was the best thing that came out of her mouth that night. With no shirt on, legs shaking I managed to crawl to the front seat with her. Tried starting the car but my nervousness got the better part of me cos all I had in mind was to get away from that place as soon as possible but the car refused to start. I prayed for forgiveness of all my sins and promised God never to touch another gal again.
I turned around and looked at her, the tears were all gone and she had this big smile on her face. All I heard from her, was Hendrix "relax now", she went further and said that I should take it easy and we should go to my house.
I was lost for words, I quietly started the car and drove towards the girl’s house. She attempted to touch me but I told her I had to concentrate. I dropped her and drove straight to my house, picked up my bible and prayed all through the night.
I saw her the next day in our estate, I tried avoiding her but she walked up to me smiling, laughing more like it and said
“OK come on I was joking”
Well maybe she was joking, maybe it was a spiritual attack, I didn’t want to find out but it had been such a terrible night for my nerves and most especially my heart.
Ever since then I stopped trying to get intimate with girls…..until 2 days later... ;-)
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Stories
