The tale of a Loose Man

The only thing Kcee ever talks about is women, sex and his girlfriend. With time, conversations with him became boring and monotonous. He would not give you the opportunity to share your own experiences, yet he won't give your ears a break from his chain of monotonous sexcapades. He knew all the girls in the neighbourhood, their histories, whom they had dated, how loose each of them were and how much it would cost for them to spread their legs like butter on your bread. One time, I even saw a very beautiful young girl and enquired about her history from the ladies archives beside me, Kcee didn't fail to live up to expectation as he acutely downloaded the girl's biography, starting from her age, how she used to bathe nude as a child, and how he watched her grow pubic hairs and other good things of womanhood.

Reminiscing what I'm missing

This morning, i wake with my eyes red and my will sore. I had stayed up late into the night, keeping the PlayStation company, whilst denying my eyes of its well deserved closure and the rest of my mortal flesh its needed rest. Its barely two minutes since the rest of my family filed out in disarray, all headed towards the car and Church. Luckily for me, they took all the noise in the house along with them, leaving me with my ever fond companion; silence.

Warning! People are turning into Robots

Mass culture and cliché

Everyone goes to school, everyone wants to sing and make big bucks like wiz kid and Davido, every boy out there wants to play their way through the streets of Berger to the top flight football clubs in Europe, everyman believes most women are in relationships for money, every woman believes that any man who as much as accidentally looks their direction on the street wants to take them to bed, every politician is corrupt, Christians must attend church on Sunday, you cannot succeed in an examination without cheating, men have to ask women out on dates all the time, Women have to stay at home and take care of the children. Please give me a break, I am tired of the Cliches!

If we accept that the Merriam-Webster dictionary is any authority at all on the English language, then we may approve of its definition of Cliché to mean; "Something, most often a phrase or expression, that is overused or used outside its original context, so that its original impact and meaning are lost. A trite saying; a platitude. [from 19th c.]"

Jide Runs Mad - The NYSC Chronicles

The Soldiers couldn't just comprehend how someone could be so lazy and weak. They could clearly remember the years before they joined the military, even as young civilians, they were very hardworking and engaged their youthfulness in physically exhilarating activities. Okon still remember how at the young age of fourteen, his father had already assigned him two acres of farmland in their native village at Cross rivers.

 

Farming and fishing were the predominant occupation of his people, therefore he quickly inherited both occupations from his father. By five in the morning, his whole family would wake up, wash their faces, arms and feet, then head to the farm which was about five kilometers away from their residence. They usually returned just before the sun went to sleep, then spent about  three hours fishing from late night till early the next morning. Okon knew that by the age of nineteen when he finally joined the Nigerian military, he was already a hardened young man, roughened and rugged from the lifelong engagement in farming and fishing, the escapades into the forest for dry cooking wood in the rainforest area of Cross river was an experience which haunted him everyday.

 

The three soldiers just watched Jide, a forlorn expression written on his face, and with a pitiful piece of paper on his hands. He claimed that the paper was proof of his initial claim of feeling sickly and therefore unable to participate in the everyday, early morning parade ritual. This was not their first time of

Ambassadors of promiscuity - The NYSC chronicles part 5

My last post on this blog primarily featured two young men in one of the orientation camps who were caught having sex and were decamped, although in a very quiet manner.

However the case seems to be the opposite in Akwa Ibom state, where a heterosexual couple were caught in the act and were allowed to go unpunished because of the political influence of one of the parents.

It was barely nine-thirty in the evening and many corpers were either loitering around or gossiping at Mami market which was the social hub of the orientation camp. Today was the fifth day since the resumption of camp for we Batch A Corpers, therefore many of us had made new friends from the horde of youths who were sent here for the three weeks orientation course. While some of us were still on the platonic stage of knowing each other, a few others progressed with lightning speed and were already referring to themselves with the glorified title of 'Boyfriend' and 'Girlfriend', i couldn't help but watch in awe, how possible it was for so much love to have bred within the short time frame of five days, especially with consideration extended to the fact that most of the time, we were at one parade, lecture or camp activity, thereby having very little time for socialization and chit-chats.

Sex in the camp - The NYSC chronicles part 4

Sex in the camp - Introduction

It appears that last night, Saturday 9th May 2015, there was a widespread party across many NYSC camps throughout the federation. While some camps such as Lagos were having a fun time, others like Kogi and Abuja seemed to have been grossly disappointing.

The Corpers in Kogi who were all happy at the prospect of an impending party, were disappointed when the barely an hour show ended without them having had any fun at all. In the words of Cynthia; one of the Corpers, the party which lasted between 9-10pm was "boring and stupid". While other camps were graced with the presence of top notch music arts and comedians, those in Kogi state had only the presence of native dancers supported by the merry children of the Women at Mammy market.

Ogun state camp was graced with the presence of Davido and Lil Kesh, while Oyo state camp had Ayo Adesanya, Bash the comedian and Adetoun of project fame in attendance, Davido was live in Taraba to the much delight of the Corpers, while on a lighter note, Zaki reportedly made a torchlight appearance at Katsina camp. I purposely left-out Lagos camp, because it was a huge concert there and everyone who is anyone in the Nigerian entertainment space was in attendance, Basket Mouth not excluded. Just for your information also, Lagos camp is just a scam compared to what other Corpers are facing in other states, in-fact majority of the Lagos Corpers have rightly asserted that they are not in camp, but were in-fact having a 'Faaji' (Festival).

Sex in the camp - full gist

Tonight, Musa could not be swayed by the appealing crispness of five one thousand Naira notes, neither was his ear audible to the pleas of such an atrocious duo. If it were under sharia law, both perpetrators would have been stoned until life exited their immoral bodies, but tonight, that would not be the case.

Can we really trust NYSC food? - The NYSC chronicles part 3

"If i hear say i chop tuwo" was the first thing i heard immediately she picked my call. Upon further enquiry, i realised that she was actually replying one of her fellow Corpers who had asked her if she was interested in the dinner being offered that night; Tuwo.

I don't know about every single camp in the country, but i sincerely hope that part of the acculturation process does not involve forcing Corpers to eat the local dishes of their host communities. Else, why would you offer Tuwo to an Edo girl who had spent a better part of her life in Lagos. I guess this is just one of those dynamics of NYSC which may never be fully demystified.

Today, I'm posting a story centred around the theme of society and prejudice, it is titled "A sound in the ocean of silence"

A sound in the ocean of silence

She put the finishing touch to the blur of red lipstick decorating her lustrous lips, then uses the make-over brush to highlight the pink mascara on her cheeks. At the age of thirty, she was beginning to feel the impact of her ageing skin. Most of her friends were married with kids but it seemed that cupid had a personal grudge against her, and in consequence had effectively sent every man that came her way packing. These days, she no longer put up the coyness which used to pervade her response to any man who approached her for any reason at all. As the years progressed fewer men bothered with her company, it seemed age had put on dog ears around the edges of her beauty and her attractiveness had gradually waned with each birthday she celebrated. Today, just like every other day within the past three years, she had woken up very optimistic about meeting a man of her dreams who would not engage her in a long ceremonious period of dating but would rather find in her a perfect woman worth marrying within a short period of three months. Over the years she had realised that men were more attracted to what they saw more than what they experienced through the other four senses. Therefore, she had learnt to take appropriate and sometimes extreme steps to appear rather appealing both in facial appearance and in her apparels.

The NYSC chronicles - They won’t let me go

They won’t let me go

The Internet Café was fully packed with people, there was barely room for one to shuffle from one end of the small room to the other. shoulders brushed against each other, and foots just scratched the floor in a semi-futile attempt by people to move from their monitor screens to the single central Desk-jet printer which served the whole of the over fifteen computer systems, housed in this public internet access facility, which most people in Nigeria refer to as ‘business centre’.

Although I woke late that fateful Thursday morning, I was less perturbed about time and schedules since I had no structured job to clock into and out of, every other morning and evening. Today, I just decided to rest from all sorts of work whatsoever, I just wanted it to be my personal holiday, the only difference being that I would not be travelling, going to the Cinemas or indulging friends in sports and drinks. Today was supposed to be my personal, sit-at-home, sleep-all-through holiday, the only breaks allowed, being food breaks, but to my utmost aghast I had much more quiet time than I bargained for. Especially from the moment I got that horrific news that the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) call up letter had been released for prospective corpers to access.

Miss Maverick - Biography

Miss Maverick

Guest Post.

She is as radiant as the sun, as lustrous as the moon and as resplendent as the rainbow. She is finely cut, grace-laden, an epitome of glitz and glamour and an unequivocal embodiment of beauty. She's imbued with promising prospects, an houri endowed with succinct elegance plus an exemplar of brainy. She is a product of God's finesse in carving out an alluring being. Her enchanting smiles is capable of melting the "stoniest" of hearts. Her vocals reminds one of the tuneful nightingale. In addition, her fleckless vertical projections depicts the subtle handiwork of Mother Nature. As if all the afore-stated cannot suffice, she is self-acclaimed as Miss Maverick, a sobriquet befitting her eminence.

Cracked Story - This is not a Love story

Note: This is not a love story.

Cracked Story

Sometimes, you just wear your Armour of indifference, making me feel depressed in the process. Whenever i complain, you never bother to usher reasonable responses, you just blab around, messing up the whole situation with a lot of soothing words.

The other day, you came home just when the long hand of the clock consummated with the short hand, both pointing at twelve. What you would never know was that i had spent the past three hours of that evening, nursing my fears, which grew consummately with the thickening darkness of an evening proceeding into night.
You claim to remember only the roaring hoarseness of my voice, the fury and the blinding slap which lightened up your head in a million glittery pieces. Till today, you still claim you saw stars, but all i saw was the errors of your ways.

For once, you never gave change a chance in your life, fool-hardily, you progressed incorrigibly through each day, raising my blood pressure with each of your actions and dipping my soul in the salty ocean of your deprivation. I bore with you, throughout each show of shame, you were hell-bent, never giving up on the error of your ways, i never gave up on you either.

The Story of Stories

THE STORY OF STORIES

I want to tell a story; to grab a pen and sketch a tale in blues, to grab a thought, dole it out into liveable characters and stream their thoughts through my thoughts. I will give it life, plausible existence welling from my imaginations, form a world constructed in words and give life beyond the life I’ve been given. The tale might be beyond or below my existence, but it whelms would be far from the mundanely existences that clouds my bay and I would strive to imagine beyond sight, beyond senses and beyond the natural occurrences of this world, even the mystified ones. Yet my tale must be plausible.

For sensibility, thought is required, as thoughts are streamlined in tunes of senses, emotions and contemplations. But for plausibility, relativity is required, and relativity is self, perception and a merger of senses, knowledge and understanding. Now I wonder if plausibility is beyond imaginations or if imaginations are beyond plausibility, if a man’s believability is relative to his imaginations, or to his knowledge; the scope of his understanding.

How Far would you go to defend your beliefs?

The Bus Ride

The consciousness had never been this high.
People who used to feel detached and unconcerned, now debate in Cafeterias and on bustling streets. Newspaper vendors, never witnessed so much sales and attention, these days, their headlines were flooded with Libels and written slander. Headlines are up for sale to the highest bidder and the mass media are divided along political battle lines.

The circumstances surrounding these forth coming elections are absolutely unpredictable. While some sing of change and the enthronement of a new dispensation, others prefer to water the dying tree of continuity, hoping that another four years would see it finally bearing the much awaited fruits of development and national security. Yet, some others disagree with both aforementioned groups. A third party clamours for a total breakaway from the present and the past. They neither want a four year extension of the present nor a repeat of the past. This third group clamours for the majority of the numerous minority parties, who unfortunately garners the fewer percentage of the electorate.

Somewhere on the corner of a sleeping Lagos street, a grey-hair recounts events of years past. Times when one naira equalled one dollar on the foreign exchange market. His army of young listeners stood attentively,  forming a semi-circle around him, captivated by the educative voice of over eight decades old. The grey hair, sadly recounts years of when his country stood tall and proud among the comity of Nations. He speaks of those years with grave sadness, he remembers them as a mother would, a foetus that was dead at birth.

I board a bus-load of students and youths, all of whom had just left the venue of a town Hall meeting, where smear politics had just been executed by yet another political party. The Bus is filled with silence, but was also as tense as a house filled with petrol, waiting for just a spark to ignite it's ability to explode.

MAJIYAGBE OYINDAMOLA

This is a special feature, based on a request from a very close pal. It seems that these days, people come to me for an in depth analysis of a Babe or Dude they are curious about. See my life sha, i don turn free private investigator.

Although she was not my coursemate, both of us were from the same faculty, therefore it was a matter of time before we ran into each other.

I began to notice Oyinda in our second year in the University. Throughout my first year, i was academically lax and showed to serious inclination for either intensive academic rigours or good scores. However after a very dismal performance in academics that year, my second year, saw a change in my attitude towards my academics. It was during this transition period that i passively noticed Oyinda for the first time.

ADELEKE BABARINDE AMOS - class series

For some strange reason, Amos prefers being called Amosquito. The first time i came across this name was somewhere on my Bbm contact list, i can still vividly remember the way i was fascinatingly   ruminating over the strangeness of such a name. However, with time, i learnt to accept its existence with open arms.

By our second year in school, someone had already been shown the exit door due to his outrageously poor grades. This left our class of thirty-three being reduced by one. Then as if by an act of God, Amosquito came along, a veteran Diploma student, who had scaled through the luxury of Diploma and was now faced with the harsh realities of being a full time student. Amos joined our ranks in year two and the equation was balanced once again.

The Rainstorm - A Short Story

It was mid June, back then when the seasons respected their timetables, the weather was predictable and a fog of dark cloud always gathered to usher in an downpour of rain.
Today, the morning had predictably given way for the afternoon to emerge, the noon too did not deny the evening and its dusky outlook a chance to exist.

The cool evening breeze, caressed our tender skins. The tall trees and thick shrubs danced as one to the soft melodies of the east wind. Gradually, the sky began to dim its smile, darkness approached confidently.

If Grandma was here, she would allude the sudden change in weather to the death of a Lion in the wild. Sometimes she even contradicted herself and blamed it on the death of a powerful chief somewhere yet unknown to us. Once in a while, her later prediction usually coincided with the death of someone prominent. In our infant minds, Grandma was a wise sage, possessing the monopoly of knowledge. This evening, Grandma was not here, she was miles away at our village somewhere in Ibeku.

Early this morning, even before the first crow of the cock, Mother had left for the garden egg market in the heart of Owerri, the State capital. She had left me with clear instructions regarding the feeding and conduct of my siblings and I, while she was away.

I was the eldest Child and in the absence of a Dad who worked in far away Lagos, i became her trusted lieutenant. At the age of ten, i was already a good cook, an expert at bathing my Baby sisters, and the foremost caretaker of our ill-furnished one room apartment.

My Sisters I, sandwiched in an isolated house shamelessly sitting in the middle of a semi-forest had weathered many rain storms together. Although the angry bangs of some thunder strikes sent us into scamper, we had learnt to predict the magnitude of a thunder strike by the length and brightness of the preceding lightning.

Over the years, we had also learnt to expect the mopping which succeeded every rainfall, since the whole floor of our one-room habitation was sure to be drenched in water.

The rains had begun by five that evening, it started on a slow fashion, then gradually grew in momentum and intensity. The Thunder strikes tonight betrayed the warnings of the lightning. No matter how bright and long the lightning flashes were, the thunder strikes seemed to outdo them threefold. The rain kept pelting the zinc roof of the house, deafening us with loud spattering noise, like the beating of a thousand cymbals at the same time . I looked out of the low window, and the flood outside was already rising to a terrifying height, it sped with so much intensity that i doubted if the house would still be standing when this rain's onslaught was over.

What made me really scared however was the thought of the Biblical Noah. We attended the little Church two miles away, the pastor was a very sad man, who derived so much pleasure in terrifying his membership of eight adults and five children with the horrifying stories from the Bible. Whenever he was not talking of the horrendous death experienced by the inhabitants of Sodom and Gormorah at the hands of a fiery conflagration, he would be threatening us with drowning like the world during the time of Noah. It seemed that the only way for us to escape such painful deaths were to pay more into the church coffers, the only problem however was that if we had as little as enough bus fare, we would have preferred to attend the big Cathedral at the City and not this shack for a Church.

So tonight, in my Childish mind, i considered the Pastor's prediction and the possibility of its actualisation. Maybe God was tired of our widow's mite and had come for a revenge mission. I peeped through the window again and this time, was blinded by the powerful flash of a lightning, i cringed, expecting the explosion of a mighty thunder, none followed. At this point, I was convinced that God was surely annoyed at us, the lightning was just him taking a last photograph of me, before increasing the knob controlling the rainfall. The flood outside kept rising.

Both my sisters were huddled up together beneath the bed, i could hear them whimpering and calling out for their Mum; a mum who was stuck in a market somewhere. One a normal day, she never made it home before Ten at night, with the weather condition this night, i did not even bother to imagine what time she would come back home.

Sullen, I knelt beside the bed and started confessing my Childish sins. The other day, i had taken Chidi's pencil without his consent, Chinedu had said my Mum was Mad and i immediately wished his mum same. Today in school, i had admired the small outgrowth of Maria's breasts beneath her blouse, i was not sure if this too was a sin, but i confessed it anyways, i confessed everything that crossed my mind that night.

I turned around when someone insistently tugged at my Shirt. It was Mum, her calm face radiated care and concern. I could see the first sign of daylight seep through the sleeping window. Mum searched my eyes and let a tear escape her sad face. She reached for me and we held in tight embrace. "D'im" she whispered in Ibo, she always called me that in appreciation, whenever i had done something a Child of my age would never have the courage to face. "D'im, Ogadinma" she whispered into my ears once more. "My Husband, things will get better", i held unto her as i would dear life.

Written By Onyeoziri Favour
Email: favouronyeoziri@gmail.com

Pregnancy Test - A story about 21st century teenage girls

Every evening, at about seven , the Family of four gathered in the modestly furnished sitting room to watch Africa Majic on Mnet. This was understandably so, since both parents had to leave for work as early as six every morning, while their two daughters, both still in senior secondary school, also had to leave for school some thirty minutes later when the school bus pulls up into the neighbourhood by six-thirty.

The evenings were the only time when the small family had to spend together. Although both daughters, resented the idea of spending their spare time watching boring indigenous movies with their 'outdated' parents, however making an appearance by seven every evening was not negotiable. It was a family rule, enacted by Mum and ratified by Dad, so, no one dared go contrary to this. 

The deadly shortcut - The Touching Tale of a Single Mother & her Three Children

Although it was very true, She never bragged to anyone about her husband being a Policeman. Maybe in some climes it could earn a wife respect, or help protect the children from bad men, however over here in this semi-thicket of a residential area, no one really cared. In fact a silly divultion of such an information, would lead to instant hatred by the horde of small hard core gangs, who occupied the forested scenery and numerous abandoned buildings in the area.

The small Family of Five had been ejected by a previous Landlord, a man who had been serially accused of being a member of a cult and also a ritualist. Anyone who questioned the rationale behind such grievous rumours against the Landlord would be told that, that was the only feasible reason to explain his disinterest in completing the construction of the House. It was a widely held belief that the members of some certain secret cults like the Ogboni, as part of their initiation rites were required never to fully complete the construction of any of their buildings. At least one or two things should be left out while erecting a building, no matter the size of such an edifice.

A Derailed Future - A story about Love, hate and Patience.

"What's wrong with you?" I screamed over the phone, it took a second for her to assimilate what she just heard. To her, it was very strange and unbelievable. She had never heard me ever raise my voice beyond its natural pitch, not to talk of shouting. She sensed that she must have pissed me off real much for me to respond in such an unusual manner, so in response, she began to sob over the phone. God! how i hate to hear women cry!

I had been in the process of ironing some clothes that fateful Wednesday evening, when she called me over the Phone. We had started off on the usual light note, exchanging pleasantries and enquiring about each other's welfare. Then i proceeded to ask about her Parents and siblings, she returned the favour immediately after responding curtly with the word 'fine'.

Neither of us knew the direction the discussion was going to take, but usually we would let it run its course and at the end of the conversation, we would both be feeling a lot more happy and in love. This particular evening, i was more interested in completing my ironing, especially since electricity supply was very unpredictable. Therefore i was in no mood for a long discourse, instead, i was trying all i could to truncate the conversation as soon as possible. Unfortunately, it seemed she on the other hand was less preoccupied and maybe even bored. She kept pushing the conversation, trying her possible best to prolong it beyond the basic complements and confessions of Love we usually exchanged.

With every passing minute, i became increasingly restless and my patience began to grow thin, little wonder when she brought up the issue of marriage again, i immediately went haywire.

Amaka and i had been dating for over eight years now. We first met during my Jambite years. I was unfortunate to have written the University entrance examination for four consecutive years before being granted provisional admission into the University of Ibadan to study Education and Chemistry.
I had met at the special centre were i wrote my first JAMB.

With time, our friendship transcended the platonic stage, as our emotions blossomed, our relationship graduated into a full blown intimate affair. We had clearly fallen head over heels for each other and in less than two years, our relationship had become a popular example of what a romance should be, both among married couples and dating singles throughout the neighbourhood.

By the fourth year of our relationship, i was opportune to gain provisional admission into the University of Ibadan (U.I). By third year in the University, i was already twenty-seven years old, it also signified my seventh year of dating Amaka.

For the past year, She had been very persistent about the solemnisation of our love through a proper wedding ritual. As the months went by, she began to sound desperate about Marriage, her haste seemed unnecessary to me, since she was barely twenty four years old and yet to gain admission into the University. Countless times, i had explained to her that i had to at the least conclude my University education and become gainfully employed before we could get married.

This evening, She had brought up the issue of marriage again. This time around, sounding even more offensive and even threatening to quit the relationship if i did not marry her soon. Her curt remarks were very shocking and irrational at the same time. To worsen the whole matter, She had no single logical reason for her haste towards matrimony. For her, marriage was a competition among friends, a contest which she may emerge as the loser, since most of her friends had already gotten married. Although many of then were not fully married, but then, they no longer lived in their parent's houses and at least part of their dowry had been paid for by a roadside mechanic here or a Bricklayer there.

After all attempts to placate her and try to explain everything to her all over again for the umpteenth time failed, i decided to give up on the whole exercise. Gradually, my anger built up, until I decided that she could quit the relationship if she wanted, in fact, she could go jump into a Lagoon if she so desired. For the moment being, i was tired and feed up and infarct could use a little peace of mind.

That night, i hung up on her after a lengthy exchange of words. I considered her threats to be empty and baseless, without ever suspecting that She could ever see it through.

"Hello, who is this?" I enquired, this is Amaka, she replied "sorry, which Amaka is this" i asked again, then she went into a short narrative, after which i clearly knew who it was. I was very excited to hear her voice once more after seven months. Since our last argument seven months ago, we had not as much as called or even sent each other a text message.

For a fleeting second, i was happy that my prodigal heartthrob had returned, this time, i hoped she was a better, patient and repentant person. I was about rendering a small prayer of appreciation to God for bringing her back to me, when her next words stopped me in my tracks ....." I was just delivered of a bouncing baby boy four days ago " She said, her voice laced with a weighty amount of joy.

I pretended to be deaf, then requested for her to repeat herself, this time, i heard her very clearly and she sounded every bit convincing.

where are you? Who is the father of the Child? Are you married? When did you get married? Are you pulling my legs? What happened between us? I wanted to ask her all these questions and a million more, but all i could do was to stare at the opposite wall, mouth agape, ears mute, phone clutched feebly to my ears. I stood there, beside the hot Iron, among my roommates, mortified. I stood there erect like the biblical Lot's wife, who was turned into a pillar of salt, for merely turning to stare at a bright future she had left behind at the mercy of a fiery conflagration.

A short story Written by Onyeoziri Favour

This Day, I swear! - A Short Story

The month officially ends today. Many of my friends on campus had already left for home yesterday, even those who normally would resent the idea of going home for weekend had enough sense to go home on these particular weekends. It was not rocket science at all, on the contrary, it was simple common sense, this was the last weekend in this month which of course is the same with every other weekend except for the fact that this weekend usually witnessed the disbursement of funds into most student's accounts.

While some Parents are salary earners who usually looked forward for the end of every month, others are business people who woke up to every other day as a payday. For most students however, this has little or no meaning, whether their parents were salary earners or otherwise, most parents usually made the allowance thing a monthly affair.

Only a few parents would send their Children significant amounts of Money every other day or weeks. They would rather make the transaction an agreed lump sum which would usually be sent at the beginning of every month. Students however have little patience and therefore do not even wait until such monies are sent, they would rather go home by month end to claim what is rightfully there's.