Randoms

Ripples: The Brute, the Bad and the Snitch

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ripples

My absence on the blog has fetched me several names in the past, but none has been more solid than the one I got some weeks ago.

He must have seen me in his dream or something. I’ll bet he woke up and decided to drag out the object of his nightmare. BBM helped him do that. I’ll call him Brutus.

Brutus: You eh? Na wah to you!

I was waiting for my garri to elevate to the benchmark at the time.

Me: Sir, what I do??

Brutus: You have backslid.

Just like that! Read the rest of this entry »

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Duchess Of The Rings

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It’s late in the month of March in the year 2015. The weather is a little humid and Jonathan is still president. I can conveniently call myself an adult male, but I still don’t fully understand a few “basic” things. What’s the import of the situation report you ask. Chill. This will be brief.

But that’s not a promise.

There’s a difference between dog and dingo (maybe not as glaring as the difference between a cockerel and a broiler) and it doesn’t take understanding rocket science to know, but it’s never a crime if you don’t (lawyers, please cover me if I just lied).

Imagine walking down Thompson Street (go ahead and google the street, inquisitive chicken). You have no thoughts of work deadline making your heart beat rock and reggae concurrently, and your self-esteem cum confidence are really at the level that they should be —full.

Then it happened.

A beautiful daughter of Eve walked elegantly past you and you couldn’t help but to notice (you’re a handsome great grandson of Solomon after all). She walked gracefully and her gentle sashay gave you a vague idea of something you saw recently, but you couldn’t get a grip of it. She looked back at you, as if she could feel your eyes roaming her skin, especially at the area around her waist and a few staggering inches down; and then the eureka moment hit you: she reminded you of the newly married dapper wife of the handsome prince (make no mistake Challey, this is not a Ghollywood script).

Speaking of being married, you realized she could be already hooked to a fortunate Mr. Donald (Seriously? You’ll google him too?). Voices kept telling you to pursue and find out, for it would amount to letting the village witches prevail without stress if you assumed and let her go. What if she’s just so pretty but single like you? So you walked, determined steps after another, wishing it would be the last time your spontaneity in the art of pick-ups would be required.

A few inches away from her, something caught your attention. Pretty ma’am had all her fingers adorned with rings; sparkling rings that would make Frodo and Gollum scream “Our precious” at once. You’re an adult male but you still don’t fully understand a few “basic” things, like meaning of ring placement on different fingers of a lady, apart from the fourth finger of course. She didn’t stretch out her hand for your review (remember nail inspection on assemblies in secondary schools?), but you counted about two to three rings on one hand. You mouthed a subtle “Obaro Cheesox” unknowingly. How do you proceed from here?

You swallowed hard. Your cluelessness grew as the traditional Ndigbo flute started playing in your head, further increasing your confusion. The voices began to speak to you again, telling you how to proceed thence.

“She’s married… no she’s not, they’re just fashion rings,” a voice said.

“Oga you’re only single, not foolish too! Three fashion rings versus five fingers? Is she the duchess of the rings?” Another voice countered.

“You’re not seeing right. There are two rings, not three.”

“Are you drunk or just momentarily dumb? Do the Maths. Two or three fingers out of five, the probability that she’s married or engaged is high!” The educated mathematics-inclined voice finalized.

To approach, or not to approach? You asked yourself.

A fortnight ago you went after a young lady who you later found out was married with the “sharpest” tongue ever. Of course she didn’t call you a blind fool for making such move, she only shook the finger bearing her wedding ring before your face with the look-carefully-I’m-married attitude and then walked away muttering words that sounded Russian to your ears. Maybe she was in a bad mood. Maybe.

Quit the imagination and join me in reality bro. Will you advance against all odds to confirm her status, or move on and watch out for other free fingers? Ma’am, put yourself in bro’s shoes, what will you do?

I’m not sure what I’ll do, I only know it won’t be the former.

It’s in vogue; the fad as far as ladies are concerned. Question is: have we ever thought about the likely implications? I do not plan to argue in favour of a party or judge another, but I think it’s significant enough to be mentioned. Other growing trends include remaining single lady because marriage is overrated or independence is bliss; trooping to religious conventions (relax, I won’t write Shiloh here joor) for the gift, fruit or seed of a life partner; etc. I believe you can link the dots.

You want to rock the rings the way you like? That’s your prerogative. Attempting to point at the fallouts of rocking them in some ways? That’s my civic responsibility.

What do you think? Use the comment box for comments, corrections… and abuses. 🙂

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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The Things We Share

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This piece was first featured as a guest post on Victor’s Thought Process. I hope you enjoy it.

*•*•*

“…the season for kindling the fire of hospitality in the hall, the genial flame of charity in the heart…”

Rosa snapped out of her preoccupation. That was her young sibling reading about Christmas from a little red book. She sighed at the little boy’s naivety; who talks of charity when the situation is just a tad shy of poverty? The atmosphere is already abuzz with the jamboree, but market is still not moving.

***

“Ladies and gentlemen, kindly toss your bags, wallets, smartphones and other beautiful things on you to the front while you remain silent. The guns are real and loaded… but we’re nice.”

There was no objection; apart from the disobedient soft music that emanated from the blinking colourful lights that decorated the mart. The cashiers and shoppers did as told and were quickly relieved of all their valuables.

After years of dispossessing folks of their belongings, Jero and co.—a five-man robbery gang—understands the effectiveness of the combination of kind words and right amount of arms.

“Thanks people. You’ve been true to the season. It’s the time to love and share, right? We’re glad to help you fulfil your duties. Let’s do this again later.”

***

Charles moaned at the peak of his second wave of release; a mutual sensation he shared with Mrs. Coker—his paramour-cum-member of flock of two months and two years respectively.

While Mr. Coker—the politician and top donor in the church Pastor Charles shepherds—was busy generously tipping stakeholders and youths to cast their votes for him in the election, Charles was busy doing something similar: casting his votes in Mrs. Coker’s ballot box, which also doubled as Mr. Coker’s.

Charles attempted to give his usual post-coital mantra about their infidelity but Coker silenced him before he even began. She made him see reason, for the umpteenth time, why it was no big deal. He feeds her spiritually and she does the same, albeit physically. She was sure her husband was with Amara at about the moment.

“Relax man of God! Isn’t it the sharing season anyway?”

***

Jero strolled boisterously down Sekem street; the route he was now familiar with after his girlfriend Amara eloped with the politician. Scantily dressed ladies loitered the street that led to the popular hotspot; the happening zone widely called the Arena. He was shocked at the sight of lights that beautified the entrance to his destination.

“Na wa o. Even ashawo house sef dey get Christmas light! E be like say Brother Jerome go enter Rome tonight.” He smiled as he stared at the swell in his trouser; the device he proudly calls Brother Jerome, or Bros J.

Rosa caught Jero’s attention in no time, leaving Suzie–his regular customer who generously gave him discounts when he was broke–hanging, much to the dismay of the girls of the arena. One thing led to another and finally to a room that enclosed Rosa and Jero entwined in a roll, leaving no room even for the slightest rigmarole.

Rosa sighed in relief, market showed up after all.

***

“We all make mistakes and sin as we strive in our daily living, but the good news is that we can always run to the gracious One with the assurance of His forgiveness… if we are totally willing and determined to let go of the old ways. Today we celebrate the birth of the saviour that brought us this privilege…”

Charles delivered the speech as the congregation listened raptly. He cast a furtive look at Mrs. Coker who was tightly fitted beside her husband, slightly uncomfortable. The politician himself wasn’t so attentive at the moment; Amara was somewhere within the scope of his vision.

“…it is the season to love, to extend a helping hand to the less privileged and to share with open hearts…”

Chinedu stifled the mirth that swelled in him as the pastor spoke. Charles reminded him of the muezzin that wakes his neighbourhood every morning before preaching about love and sharing; a gesture he so well exemplified through coital sharing with the to-be bride of a member. He knew everything, from the Charles-Coker affair to the adventures of Mr. Coker with Amara; the erstwhile girlfriend of his gang leader.

Maybe the season is just so overrated, or abused. All he could see around him was a bunch of folks with laundries dirtier than his, yet putting up jolly façades and superficial benevolence. Even his landlord he gave the moniker “winch” would at least give him a smile, just before showing him the disaster la originale she’s made of.

It’s the sharing season after all!

The season preaches love and kindness, but the essence grows dim; it is outwitted by celebration, deceit and unfaltering crooked lifestyle.

Chinedu’s phone rang in a tone that echoed the voice of the patient madam in Aso rock. He smiled and mimicked, altering a part of the tone to suit the situation.

“Chai! All these things that we’re sharing…”

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Unbridled

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12-5-11-crev-Self-Control

“Ekùn! One-man battalion! The one and only Minister of women affairs of the entire Naija kingdom…”

Tunji smiled as his friends hailed him. He knew the facts behind the words, and he had tried several times to set them straight, but it has been grossly futile.

“…any other Minister of your station is counterfeit.” Mide, the very outspoken one in the group, added the popular line before inviting him to join in the feast of suya.

“Oga, this meat por ground e suweet pha! Musa I don phut am flenty flenty por me!” He mimicked the suya seller the aboki-way.

They’ve been friends since they were children. Right from the times they did the daddy-and-mummy plays as kids with girls (which always caused a fight since they all coveted the role of daddy and not son; because daddy and mummy sleep on the same bed), he has proved himself as a person with keen interest in the mechanics and physiology of the point of intersection of the female thighs.

“Oh! Me I don porget. No be this kin’ suya Tunji dey chop. Na the one wey get…”

Tunji wouldn’t let him finish the sentence before he interjected. “And how many times will I tell you guys I’m a changed person now?”

The laughter that followed was loud; it spoke lots with an undertone of sarcasm. He had said the words without thinking and he sounded like he had used them many times already. Convincing his friends that he has finally changed for good was a tough one, but he hammered it more at the time, being utterly convinced himself that it was true.

Mide coughed in his characteristic mischievous style; a gesture that always suggested that he has a trick up his sleeve. Silence ruled for a moment just before Mide’s voice filled the air.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t buckle,” he glanced at Tunji’s fly, “even if Risi swayed all the ‘real estates’ provocatively before you?” He fixated on Tunji while his hand independently moved a piece of meat into his mouth.

His reply wasn’t as quick as appropriate, but he managed to say a few words to stifle the gathering that was already buzzing with shades of chuckle and laughter.

“I won’t!” Tunji responded sharply, drawing just the right amount of attention he wanted. He furthered to bank on the situation.

“I don’t know this Risi you so hype, and I don’t care how configured… no, sorry, how impressive she looks; all I know is that I won’t falter ‘cuz of her. Besides, staying firm also takes the grace of… of er…”

He stuttered as the weight of a distraction overwhelmed him, leaving the opportunity for Mide to trace his line of sight which settled on a spot. A spot fully occupied by Risi.

“….grace of God!” Mide supplied the words to complete Tunji’s sentence and put him out of his loop.

“Exactly!” He regained focus as he moved towards the spiced meats he had mentally told earlier to get behind him.

“Maybe I’ll be needing suya after all,” he mouthed as he munched.

*****

He exploded with a surge so great he could vividly feel energy flee from him. Tunji rolled over to a side of the bed as he caught his breath. He stared at the ceilings but saw nothing, apart from the faint irregular marks that play tricks on him sometimes. It was the third round of intimate lifting, thumping and grinding with her in just one night. He lied sweaty; spent.

The kissing and sucking insect by the nomenclature Risi had made sure his life never remained the same starting from the day they had had the suya that changed everything. To her, it was another one down, many more to go.

The ceiling smudges gathered before him to form a crooked image of the all-seeing eyed Mona Lisa, which made him feel exposed and guilty altogether. He remembered reiterating “the Lord has done it again and finally” to Mide when he converted for the supposed last time. Now his hollywood movie has a pidgin subtitle:

Risi don do am again.

Whatever grace means without caution?

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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Untitled

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This post is not like my every other regular posts, but I hope it is worthwhile, to an extent at least.

Many thanks to lots of fixing and blending into a new system, I had to put a brief (hopefully it will remain brief) pause to my once in a while scribbles. A special thanks to all who noticed a certain Señor Joe was away. I’ll try to improve, device efficient time management strategy and metamorphose.

Not to grasshopper or butterfly of course.

A while ago I stumbled upon a piece on one of the blogs I religiously patronise, and I thought, “why not try this?” Several cock crows later, I churned this out.

Ladies, gentlemen, and other grossly marginalised categories after the duo, I present to you a 50-word story. One or two title suggestions would come in handy.

*•*•*

John Doe lost balance as the furious slap married his face.

Thick Madam sneered, enjoying the sight of an unconscious man rolling over the parapet of the 3rd Mainland bridge into the lagoon.

“Beautiful dive, loose mouth! That happens when one says my driving sucks.”

Realisation hit; she screamed.

HELP!

*•*•*

I mused on the post and tried to understand the motive behind my action.

Like seriously? A 50-word story? Hian! What was I thinking sef. Testing new waters or copying someone else?

I feel like a Chin Fu right now; like a “China phone” manufacturer, except for the huge revenue not raked in.

Will I change? NO.

I will definitely do it again.

There! I’ve allowed myself another 50-word plain unseriousness. I think “Chinko Technique” should fit.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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The Things In Your Heart

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Foreword: This piece was written a while ago and first published on the beautiful MyMindSnaps. I have finally dragged it here (yes, it’s a stubborn post), and I hope you enjoy it. Please share your thoughts in the comment box below.

*•*•*

It was some minutes into the evening of one of those days the dusk descends earlier than usual. The entire office block was silent; a new building well detached from the clogged campus structures. Apart from the chirping birds and a little whistling of the wind, the only sound left was that of two heart beats; one thumping from anxiety, the other for salacious intent.

The distance between us was just a few meters, a short distance that would disappear within seconds. Three purposeful strides in either direction was all it would take. I could see the bulge in his crotch, and the lustful ember in his eyes as he stood by the cabinet. A number of things he had done to me with his eyes since I shut the door behind me, it was only a matter of time before he acted them out just like he had always wanted.

I moved slowly towards him, my steps deliberate as though I had forcefully willed my legs to move. A lascivious grin hung on his face as he pulled me close to him, sliding one hand over my back down to my derriere, with the other hand mauling my breasts. I felt his warm, foul breath on my neck as he cupped my bottom and gave it a hungry squeeze. Furiously, he swept off his table everything that was on it and shoved me to the desk surface. I was on my back, feeling the sticky leather of the huge office desk as he unzipped his fly to free his pulsing muscled member.

My skirt was yanked up over my thighs and my underwear ripped out of the way. I closed my eyes as he brought the monster home to the centre where my widespread legs met. The inevitable was a cudgel of intrusion slamming through an unwelcoming orifice, not in any way as smooth as a knife would slice through butter. The pain of his repeated thrusts was mine to bear, and the pleasure from the warm almost moist enclosure was entirely his to savour.

The lusty forty-something-year-old lecturer grunted happily as he raped me.

The first time I personally encountered him was a year ago, and a lot had happened in the months that had passed. It was in the second semester of my final year as an undergraduate. I’d felt his heavy gaze on me as he entered the exam hall for a few minutes of inspection of his course. A moment later he had accused me of examination malpractice and then signed on my script. That was the beginning of my private hell.

He brought me back to the present when he stopped his hammering, putting a halt to the crescendo of imminent orgasmic release. He turned me swiftly and made me lie on my belly, backing his phallus, with my legs spread apart and now planted on the floor. He probed yet again, further and deeper.

I drifted off to my thoughts again. An hour after the deliberate false accusation in the hall, I reported in his office as he had instructed. He sat me down so we could have that conversation that changed everything. Mr. Lecturer wanted my body – and a ‘No’ was what he wouldn’t take, otherwise he would fail me in his course and I would repeat the year. He promised that he would keep at it until I consented.

I turned down his offer and had carried over the course.

I felt him spasm heavily on my body as he finally came. His tight grip on my waist loosened gradually as he moaned his way up to his senses. It was over. The price I had to pay to put an end to the delay.

“Now you can have a D,” he said sneeringly as he tucked his softening erection back into his pants along with his shirt. “One more of this and you’ll get a C. You’re smart enough to know what will get you an A.” He winked at me as he carried his bag and retrieved his keys from the drawer. I walked out of the office and he locked his door. Then he started down the dim hallway without a word to me, leaving me to trail behind him.

One thing I had in common with the evening at that moment was the darkness, well wrapped in sinister thoughts of a much darker hue. He was in charge and I knew he would come back for more. The thought of doing what I just did with him again suffused me with its unbearableness.

I sank into my preoccupation as we approached the staircase that descended into the next floor. It was out of use because of the recent collapse of a part of the protective side, but it was the closest to his office, the fastest way down.

He started down the stairs carefully.

I watched him, feeling the darkness inside me rise and eclipse all within. My anger morphed into a vengeful energy, and I leaped after him, my hands outstretched as I pushed at his broad back, sending him over the edge.

We were on the fifth floor.

His scream was a choked sound that was whipped out of his mouth into nothingness by the slight evening wind. The thud that came from his body connecting with the ground wasn’t so loud.

I couldn’t see him but I knew I’d made a bloodied mess on the concrete faculty building floor. No one would see him now, perhaps not even today. But his body would be discovered tomorrow, and they would find his penis still intact. I hated that, but I was grimly pleased that it would no longer lift to molest anyone anymore.

I gave him an F. I hoped he would somehow be smart enough to know that nothing would get him an A.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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The Judge Next Door

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Foreword: This piece is in a way, a sequel to a piece in the Dear Diary category: Sour-prano Untamed. Many thanks to beautiful readers and contributors who instigated this delivery. They triggered the impulse that searched for this memory at the secret place it was hitherto lodged. I hope you enjoy this.

————————-

No matter how much of enjoyment the present presents me, a short mental stroll down memory lane, childhood avenue, always gives me the beams; sometimes a loud laugh LOL would understate.

The exact place it took me this time I’ll gladly regale. Before I do though, allow me to quickly go on a brief commercial of the sponsors of this programme.

I’m just kidding. Please don’t go away.

On that very cold night that was so ideal for a serious slumber, I grumbled and dragged along with my siblings, clutching a mat in my arm and raving incoherence as we trailed behind our parents. In contrast to my unhappy mien was the clear grey star-less sky which shone so effortlessly that it kindled my anger. On nights like that, we would plead with them or feign deep sleep and yawns in an attempt to avoid the vigil, but we hardly ever succeed. By the time they’re done telling us how night prayers are very effective; and how the devil, the roaring lion looking for whom to devour, comes in the night to sow weeds into lives, we would open our eyes wide and drop the antics, pick up our cover cloths and simply tag along.

I had determined to take the tonight-I-must-sleep ministry to the permanent site, but somehow along the line that changed. The pastor-in-charge was particularly so good and vibrant it became hard to slumber, not when he was lambasting witches and borrowing the sword of the God of Jacob every two minutes. Wouldn’t it be so stupid to sleep when witches are vexing and looking for escape routes?

My eyes remained shut as I dragged myself into the spirit by force, lips moving hastily, releasing words of prayer to counter any homeless wandering spirit.

Casting and binding finally stopped. As a small church, the norm during vigil was that the most qualified drummer in attendance would beat the drum. Unfortunately, the role fell on me, leaving me no room for escape at all. I grudgingly motioned to the drum-stand in full realisation of a sleep gone down the drain.

It wasn’t long before my reluctance fizzled and gave way for zeal. Engrossed in the rhythm and melodious delivery of sister Shade in the praise session, I didn’t notice I was hitting too hard. The church was in a frenzy, jubilating and twerking unto the Lord in a new song and with a loud voice. Our loyal reconstructed yamaha speakers at the corners were doing great jobs; booming at a decibel that would put Kenwood to naked shame. The tiny-but-mighty funnel shape speaker on the roof aided by air movement spread the good news more than it was sent. Satisfactory nods came from the pastor every time the drum-set rocked with effect. What better motivation did the drummer boy need?

A gentle breeze swept through the little space of the church just at the time we switched to a song of God’s miracles, reiterating how He made dry land across the Red sea, fell the wall of Jericho and raised the dead. The cold caress of the breeze reminded me of the nap, but I was already in the mood for action.

I noticed a figure from afar but I couldn’t make out the face. The usher at the side of the entrance had somehow disappeared. A man strolled in gently, squinting under the lights with his hands folded behind him as he made his way in the direction of the pulpit. It wasn’t a time for altar call so I couldn’t understand his mission. He became so familiar as he got nearer, and at that exact moment I had a full recall of him and a hint of his likely mission, he switched from melancholic to vitriolic. He dashed and hurled his sandal at the pastor, rushing him in a flash.

It wasn’t the mortal combat game on Play Station. The speed was near impossible!

I was shocked. The whole church was. We rushed to the altar to get a clear glimpse of what was happening, but the deed had gone beyond done. Sounds that managed to echo in the confusion had followed repeatedly. I knew the sounds very well; I hear them often on my way to school whenever garage boys are taking stances in pointless fisticuffs.

At the age a few years shy of 50years, the well-built and very fair Mr Giwa has had lots of health issues linked mainly to his disturbing blood pressure. He was a quiet man; a very gentle man who would do everything to stop anything that poses a threat to his health, especially unsettling loud noise in the middle of the night.

For the love of God and His anointed son, everyone rushed to the rescue and restrained Mr Giwa from dealing the fourth blow. What he lacked in melanin he gained in the strength of Mohammed Ali. Sneaky sister Shade was no more on scene. I knew as a fellow accomplice I shouldn’t be visible as well. Blows that put a grown man to the ground all-mute would surely work a deafening miracle—or anti-miracle, depending on impact intensity—on a boy of my age. I disappeared too, not because I was scared, but because, well. . . I strictly preferred God’s miracles in our last song.

Ambulance would have been too much for the occasion, first and second aid treatments wouldn’t. I remembered one of pastor’s favourite verses that talks about the devil that comes to steal, kill and destroy. As I later watched him cooling at a corner of the building (it could’ve been me), I couldn’t fight the urge to conjure up satisfied smiling witches, and the devil in a flowing black robe with a hood over his head; a familiar devil in sallow Mr Giwa’s image. Indeed, that devil had not come to steal, kill or destroy; he came to deliver a few fist sentences and nothing stopped him. Not even the usher he sentenced first by silently putting him out of service at the entrance.

If I had been told earlier that the vigil would end two hours before closing I would’ve countered in the line of “get thee behind me, satan”. Who would’ve thought that our arch-enemy, the accuser of brethren and tormentor of the beloved, had an ally close by?

Days later Mr G apologised. As you would guess, he blamed the devil and his health concern. I agreed with the latter and kicked out the former just like the rubbish that it was. The forgiveness was quick and both parties, especially the church, learnt a lesson. We all subscribed to the golden quote:

“If you do not make a noise, no class captain will put your name in the list of noise-makers let alone get you flogged—or boxed (ceteris paribus).”Julius Ceasar

Selah.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

image credit: medicinenet.com

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The Cycle

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“Oga ‘My car’ commot there! No try am o.”

I smiled as the bus driver boomed at a man in suit in a neat Corolla beside us, hooting incessantly as though it would clear the road. I knew he had no personal issue with him, it was just a thing they say to private car owners whenever they’re putting their fine vehicles in delicate positions in the traffic.

“Sumall time now I go brush yuar motor for yansh una go start to dey yarn me oyibo. . . no be me o.”

Perhaps from experience, Corolla man listened. He quietly swerved and kept to his slow-moving side, allowing the bus driver squeeze himself into the little spot. He was overtly satisfied at the man’s surprising obedience.

“This one get sense. Some of them go dey struggle with our jagamu for road with dem plastic cars like James Bond until dem hear gbo— ”

His last word coincided with a loud bang that was indeed a “gboosa” at his other side of the lane. He looked at me with a precursor to a smile on his face and motioned me to the exact location of the collision.

“My brother, wetin I tok? Honda don jam aeroplane! Una go hear ogbonge oyibo today.”

A young man stepped out of a sleek Hyundai whose shape truly reminded one of a jet, putting majestic drama to his approach like a Bollywood protagonist maiming the villain in his thought, assessing the condemned bumper of his car with total disregard for the man in Honda who was already apologising.

“I’m really sorry. I’m so sorry. . .”

Sorry unleashed the drama. The previously crawling traffic turned to a standstill with everyone seeing for free in 3D the movie that would’ve cost a ticket—and popcorn, perhaps—at the cinema.

“Are you kidding me? What d’yu mean by sorry? You bashed my car and ruined all this,” he directed him to have a good look of the dangling crushed bumper, “and you’re giving me all that crap?”

Sincere thanks to good diet and exceptionally stretchy ears, I got the audio and delicately followed the video. No static at all.

“You have every right to be annoyed, and that’s why I’m. . . begging. I’m sorry.”

The apologies were meant to soothe him but it was counter-productive; he didn’t want to hear the s-word and Mr Honda wouldn’t run out of its supply. Exasperated, he went on a fast one even my ears couldn’t keep up.

“Mr man I’m sick and tired of this! You’re wasting my time with the sorrys. Tell me, how exactly will “sorry” reconstruct this or solve the mess? Insurance guys just fixed this car so don’t even think in that direction. Capish?”

Mr Honda said more sorrys. Chief Hyundai blew him more words of caution, urging him to stop the apologies and talk in naira. Mr Honda realised that he was losing and had to turn to the popular trick of sharing blames; the no-be-only-me-waka-come approach.

“What exactly do you want from me?! After all, you abruptly applied your brake as well.”

Infuriated by the words, Chief Hyundai dropped all the little semblance of niceties. Being a gentleman in the situation wouldn’t help so he re-strategized. The moment he took off his suit and tie I knew he meant business. The other man got the message loud and clear, but he managed to mask his concern.

“Don’t even try my patience right now!” he inserted some tumbling local dialect and raised his finger, shaking it vigorously as a sign of warning, “keep that to your clueless self and talk to me, like right now!”

The dialectal spices of Chief Hyundai got the bus driver’s attention and he burst into laughter, waking a few passengers from the usual commute-nap.

“Now you’re talking! You think say oyibo fit settle am before? Yarn am correct one from village make he know say you no get time to dey yarn orishirishi english. Even his Honda End-Of-Discussion no go fit end this discussion today. Na only him waka jam for this one.”

The argument escalated just as the hold up began to subside. Mr Driver quipped and ran multiple commentaries as he moved on.

“I pity dem EOD bros people for office today o. Na dem go get the remaining kasala and better oyibo wey e no go tok for here.”

And right there, he struck a chord. He had a very valid point. I easily pictured the duo as section heads or managing executives who would take the frustration to work and blow off undiscerning subordinates at the slightest mistake. Worse still, they could be interviewers or members of a panel to determine the fate of job seekers on that very day.

Unlucky subordinates and job candidates, right? Right.

“Eii! Chisox christ of Tanzania!”

The driver’s exclamation came in the way of my thoughts and welcomed me to another bash involving a tanker and three cars. As the bus sped I could only see different video frames: a tanker driver close to tears, observing the damage he had done to three cars, especially the “Baby boy” car he had hit so hard it linked two more cars; a car owner standing akimbo, watching his car that just got totally crushed and re-christened “Ugly girl”; a work-in-progress infuriated woman dashing past the last silent victim with the tanker driver fully in her sight, with eyes that sparkled in anger.

Only prayers can save a life and make that single event not adversely affect many lives on that day, and I ensured to say one:

Gracious God, spare that tanker driver from the bashed three furies. . . and hint all error-prone subordinates or interviewees to put on their best behaviour today.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

Facebook Like Page || Adewoyin Joseph A.

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Brotherwound

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For years we’ve been as one
As five and six through thick and thin
My real brother from a different mother
Right until he sought another
A quest to be influential and powerful
Everyone wants this he argued
Doesn’t matter how you get it
The end justifies the means

True he got all he wanted:
Immunity to oppression
Shapely girls in all magnificence
Carousing cum jollity at the crest
This is the life!
I envied him at some points
But the voice of Ma echoed in my ear
Remember the son of whom you are

Six goes home today
En route to another place solo
The sky weeping its heart out
I’m doing the same myself
A boom from a barrel took the head off
Inter-fraternity clash victim they tagged
Eventuality was instant
The means ran over the end

• • •

What is the point in a brotherhood that wounds and gives pseudo-status? What is immunity to oppression if you can’t sleep with both eyes well closed?

Self-oppression!

Imagine the grieve, devastation and disappointment loved ones would go through; the deterioration of character, and the deleterious impacts on a potential great life.

Would you rather jeopardize the future to service the present? Tomorrow starts from today.

SAY NO TO CULTISM!!!

Live a good life. You deserve it.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

Adewoyin Joseph A.
Comments and opinions are welcome.

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A Short Stroll From Freedom

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This post is dedicated to a beautiful young ma’am who introduced me to some serious contents on the blogosphere. Picture a chocolate-y African Cinderella Ma’amrella with a diastema just the way we, no erm. . . I, like it.

O ye of salacious mind, hold it right there! Bleach thy thoughts (with hypo) and drink some holy water.

She’s married, with a cute little girl. A friend I call fairy godmother 🙂

• • •

They have been at it for a long time before now. A group of young guys living in the detached face-me-I-slap-you building with me in the remote area of the suburb. Sighting them early in the morning would only make you want to curse all their fellow immigrants from the neighbouring country, go back to bed and then wake up again. They were never up to any good.

From missing phones of neighbours slack enough to leave their doors unlocked to noisy screams from Julie over the victim’s disappearing pants and underwears spread in the enclosed backyard. Pots would go AWOL from burning stoves along with the cooking content, window nets would tear overnight, fuel tanks would dry up like some sort of spirits drink petrol. Lots of other unsavoury acts we had to put up with since our shouts and accusations yielded no result.

They were never caught but we didn’t need evidence to prove them guilty. Most of the times the pots would reappear at the owner’s door early in the morning after a day or two of journeying. They always never miss their owners. Julie would rant and say yee-paripa curses, but she always knew her properties already belong to their female folks. In two hours, power would’ve changed hands.

Over time it all stopped. It wouldn’t have stopped if we had continued with our complains without adapting. No one leaves their doors open anymore, even if the destination is just the general bathroom in the backyard the room must be sealed shut. Air tight. Mama Akpan learnt quickly and started cooking in her room. Julie no longer spread her delicate lingeries in the open and I made it a serious duty to drag in my generator every night before it even cools. Other tenants followed suit.

We had barely known peace for a week before they came out of their shell. It started with indoor carousing. They would gather and leave the building some minutes to midnight and then surreptitiously return into their rooms before dawn. Church vigil doesn’t seem like something they fancy so it wasn’t long before we concluded that their ministry has moved to the permanent site.

Tranquillity returned to the building but at the expense of the entire neighbourhood’s rest. Goats started missing. Sheep suffered more. Parked motorcycles began to “relocate” in soundless manners. Cars lost tyres. Properties changed hands. Shops were burgled.

Suspicion soared. Accusing fingers were pointed but we did nothing. No confrontations or reporting at the police station, we only joined the nagging statistics. After all, we were not at the receiving end anymore.

Dear Brother Obinna from Aba thought otherwise. Never you try the fury of an Ibo brother robbed when he had just returned from market. You know what they say about ekwensu pouring sand sand for someone’s well soaked garri? If you don’t believe me you’re better off not knowing.

I was in my room seeing a season of my favourite movie when the power holding company did their thing, snuffing the life out of my television just when a villain was about loosing his head. I gave a long hiss capable of turning a normal pregnancy to breech and then said some swear words anyone would easily mistake for german. Only God can make PHCN workers live long in Nigeria.

With the heat escalating at each passing second I welcomed the idea of a walk. I changed into a nice three quarter trouser and a t-shirt with my expensive spectacles as usual to add the required effect. You never can tell who you’ll run into, especially the sashaying species of the feminine nomenclature.

The street was deserted but I didn’t give it much thought, I was busy skimming and scanning, bouncing like I just signed an endorsement deal with Mitchelin tyres. A black hilux appeared from nowhere and pulled up just beside me. I saw the familiar faces of some hard guys of the neighbourhood turn sober like they just tested positive for HIV.

It happened so fast it’s hard to remember the details even now. I think someone carrying a gun rudely told me to hop into the van and I was rambling about me knowing my civil rights as a bona fide citizen of — , then a thunderous slap that cut my sentence short and broke my glasses. Earth was immediately without form. . . and odikwa terribly void! Darkness was upon the face of the deep; but the spirit of God was nowhere to be found.

Obinna had reported the burglary at his shop to the police, hence the raid to get suspects. The raid I gallantly bounced into.

My journey to the station still befuddles me, but nothing can erase the two nights I spent in the cell. Two days of no freedom. A concerned fellow tenant, Mr Salako, took his quality time before coming to my rescue on the third day. I don’t blame him. Whoever started the “police is your friend” line must have definitely been taking cheap unadulterated urea-fertilizer cultivated weed, or something worse.

The mosquitoes there were so cool, calm and collected. I kid you not. Very big and safety conscious too. They’ll test your blood first (perhaps for any disease) and then insert their power drill that siphons blood at 0.25pint per second. Multiplied by our numbers crammed in the cell, that’s some serious barrels of blood per night.

The heat, stuffy atmosphere caused by poor ventilation, and my contribution to the gaseous releases thanks to my beans-ey last meal all culminated to a micro-warming—a subset of global warming—just enough to brood chicks.

Though I blamed myself for taking that stroll when I should have stayed put in my room, I blamed myself more for keeping mute when I should have reported them or done something to stop those guys. I called it a harmless silence, indifference. . . but it was my bold step away from freedom.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

Happy birthday to a wordsmith, @Walt_Shakes.

Adewoyin Joseph A.
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