The Nomination

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It was on a beautiful cold morning. Nah, make that three beautiful cold mornings. The weather was breezy and the sky azure…

Biko who send me story? *smiles*

About a week ago I got a shocker from a wonderful mind and blogger, Sheedart. I was still in that state of mild electrocution when I got another zap by a very revered blogger, Topazo. Recently, Zika shocked me the most! (I’m a secret admirer of her art, don’t tell nobody).

Senor Joe’s Blog was nominated for Lobsters Award!

Oh shoot! I made the mistake again! I mean SJB was nominated for Liebster Blog Award.


Dumbfounded is just a little close to how I felt. It got me “flowing” like Divine Oduduru.

I was like…


I never expe-rred it!

“…God gave it to me!  I’m grateful to Him…. although the wind was very muwsssh!”

I could go on and write a piece just to tell all what these people do with their respective arts, but it won’t make them more awesome than they already are. Besides, I fear the blogger ma’am, Sheedart–who strikes me as a romantic *coughs*–could be prone to beet-red kinda blushing. I’m sometimes allergic to red. 🙂

Thanks for the nomination. Thanks for the honour!

The basic rules are as follows:

*Acknowledge the person(s) that nominated you.

*Answer the questions asked by the blogger(s) who nominated you.

I’ve got three sets of questions to answer here (this should qualify me to at least have triplets twins with bae in the future, right?), but the spirits told me there will be similar questions.

*Nominate other blogs with less than 200 followers.

The third rule is quite simple, but I won’t follow it to the letter. Matter of fact I won’t follow it at all!

*Ask the bloggers you have nominated eleven (11) questions.

*Let your nominees know you have nominated them.

*Add the Liebster award badge to your blog.

Here are the questions and my answers. The madams go first.

Sheedart’s questions:

When and why did you start blogging?

SJB would have been in existence for two years in the next three weeks. Yeah, it all started on the 19th day of January 2013.

I started blogging because facebook (then) wouldn’t allow me express myself satisfactorily; I was always exceeding the word/character limit. I wrote a couple of facebook notes just before I “PORTed” to wordpress dot com.

What inspires your writing?

Anything and everything! A school of thought believes that means nothing though, I disagree. You get the drift.

What or who could stop you from blogging ever again?

Busy life schedules could be a threat, but I won’t give in very easily.

Would you rather read a book or watch a movie?

Assuming that they carry the same weight, a movie I shall watch! After all, a movie is a book in motion/on screen.

What is your most awesome/proud moment? Share if you will.

Quite a difficult one with the ranking. A moment involved helping someone out of a dire strait. I’ll write about it someday, perhaps.

If you had the opportunity to choose the country to be born in, would you still choose Nigeria? If not which will you choose and why?

Who does this?! Sheedart, you seriously asked the obvious? Without being hypocritical, following the crowd or embracing BS, I won’t. I’ll choose Iraq or Pakistan because I’m a rational human being! Seriously now, Iceland sounds cool in my ears. It’s my choice ‘cuz I love ice :). I think you know the exact reason actually.

If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be?

I’ll effect a change towards achieving equality among all, to a very great extent but not absolutely. Absolute equality is also a problem.

Where do you see yourself in ten years?

Now I feel like I’m in a job interview session *straight face*. I’m not clairvoyant or psychic so it’s kinda hard to be precise here… but I know where I wanna be, God helping me. I wanna be already well-placed in my career; a very good son to Ma’ and Da’; a responsible husband to my wife and father of my twins and erm… never mind. I wanna be lots of good things beneficial to those around me.

What is the first thing that would likely attract you to a potential friend?

You want the truth or the near-truth? Character and all the abstract stuffs can’t be assessed quickly, good looks can. If the dude is good looking or the babe is…you know, Joe is more inclined to bond quickly. Judge me and call me names my pastor won’t like o, I just told you the truth.

What do you think of the blogger who nominated you?

One of the attracting things about her is her style of writing. She writes freely. Sheedart is quite a liberal and funny ma’am too; her blog reeks of these. Thanks for nominating SJB, I really appreciate it.

Zika’s questions:

What inspired your writing?

Methinks we’ve addressed this. 🙂

What do you think about writing as a way of expression?

It’s one of the best free gifts ever! It’s that mighty voice in prints (often deeper than spoken words because more time is invested), even when the individual behind the pen or idea ordinarily wouldn’t be very articulate through some other means.

Which is your favourite kind of music?

I’ve got quite a handful, depending on the version of me in question. Pop/Soul. Other stuffs that make me wanna dance real hard too.

If you could change one moment in time, which would it be?

Adam shouldn’t have eaten that apple! I’d gladly go back in time to that moment and murder a serpent. I’ll try not to make any apple juice.

What makes you happy?


Sir Topazo’s questions:

What made you start writing?

The yearning to let out my thoughts, imaginations… and share the fun.

Who is your favourite author?

Really, I think I’m too adventurous to have something like favourite or best. I love a lot of different stuffs.

Early bird or night owl?

Both. Praying for a moderately long life span.

E-books or paperbacks?


Mountain or Beach?

My acrophobia has a PhD! Beach it is.

What project are you working on?

It’s a matter national security. I’ll have to kill you if I tell you.

What are your plans for your writing in 2015?

This is fast becoming a cliché, but in my case I mean it. I don’t really see myself as writer (I believe it takes more than having a blog and writing stuffs on it to be one). However, I enjoy blogging with its attendant fun and therapy. I’ve got no big plan, besides trying to update often.

Favourite relaxation spot?

As of this moment my bedroom has no rival. There are lots of relaxations that can be done in that space of mine.

Share something embarrassing about yourself.

I found a way to evade this :). Will I share something embarrassing about myself? I’m not sure I will. So you wanted to know if I snore or lick my thumb? LOL

Favourite colour?

The fiftieth shade of grey. 🙂

White and blue are perpetually in fisticuffs on that. I hope one wins soon.

What do you fear most in the whole wide world?

Ojuju! Yes, Ojuju Calabar :). I kid.

The idea of leaving when I’ve actually not started or achieved my purpose scares me shitless.

Topazo didn’t ask me of my opinion about him regarding blogging, but I’ll visit it anyway. Who’s suing?

I think he is one of the very versatile bloggers I’ve come across. He chose prose over poetry in a question about his choice between the two, but I think he should’ve just packed the two, look Amity straight in the eye and say “I’m walking away”. He should force it out in Craig’s voice if he could. Thanks for the nomination Doc.

I finally get to nominate! Here:


Here are my questions. Feel free, no negative marking please.

  1. Who inspired you to start blogging?
  2. What inspires your writing?
  3. If you were asked to choose a song for a loved one (boyfriend, girlfriend, fiancée, spouse, etc.), which one would you choose to pour out your emotions aptly?
  4. What’s your take about love?
  5. What’s your dream travel destination?
  6. What is the first thing that would likely attract you to a potential friend?
  7. Poetry or prose and why?
  8. In one word, how would you describe your first kiss (I believe you’ve had one)?
  9. If you had one wish, what will you wish for?
  10. What do you do for leisure?
  11. Are you sincere in all the above ten (10) questions? 🙂

Season greetings everyone!

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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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Dear Diary: Blend Or Bend

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Stipula_fountain_penDear Diary,

It’s been a long while since I wrote to you, and yes, I know I write this line very often. It’s so bad I have run out of who and what to blame for the disappearing acts.

Here I am, pulled out from under the unknown—maybe unnamed—rock I’ve been hiding under all these while, typing out my heart content. I know you won’t be bothered about cohesion of thoughts, flow, organisation and all other stuffs critics subject writers to, because if you do I’ve got this stand-by good news: I’m not a writer.

I’m naturally very rebellious when it comes to statements like “all Ijebu people/ladies are stingy/bad wives”, “Ibadan people are very local”, “fat ladies sing well”, “flashy fair guys are Casanovas”, bla bla and bla. I was particularly against the “what you do consecutively for twenty-one (21) days becomes a part of you” statement, because I “worked-out” for more than a month to maintain what was left of my six-minus-one packs, but I skipped the routine for a few days and I didn’t revisit it again (by the way, there is a faster way to achieve that: shed a ton of weight first. Mail me for the remaining tips). I’ve got a few packs left though. Methinks.

Like I wrote above about the statement, I was against it.

Reality set in and taught me some really cogent lessons. Real life is way different from the fancy things we cook in our minds. In fact, reality is more of the old black-and-white TV and far from the 75” LCD TV one wants it to be; it’s just left for one to put on one’s multi-colour lens of choice to view the moving pictures, or throw in some modifications, if one can. Maybe I’m just rambling; perhaps this is the part where I should write “Selah” in a large font. You choose.

My piece of reality was set before me recently, but I erred by buckling to its dictates, instead of viewing it with my very own lens. I got busy with important things, but I let go of other things that make me happy; things I enjoy doing. I felt working a little harder to get things done in spite of myself would make a huge difference, and I was right; I got used to living without the fun. It-stucks-after-twenty-one-days ideology set in.

A really huge difference isn’t it?

When it comes to reacting to the sight of backlog of mails on someone’s device (say some sixty-something unread mails), I think I’m a screamer. I was a screamer. I would look the person in the eye and give the “dude! Like seriously?” face. I think karma hasn’t had my time just yet (busy packaging crash hampers of retribution for better crooks I guess); else someone should have as well looked me straight in the eye—and my nostrils down to my toes—screaming to the brink of asphyxiation at my very own one hundred and forty-two unread mails.

Yeah, it was that bad. And I hate it.

I skim through the mails and disregard the low-ranking ones on the priority list. I could dish out blames at the inadequacy of the 24 hours I’m entitled to daily—approximately 29.17% of which is embezzled by commute time (I kid not), largely Lagos traffic; but I won’t. I shouldn’t. It’s all on me for being just one-directional. Letting go of the things I love to do temporarily sounded like a good plan, but it dawned on me that there will never be enough time, except I create one.

Things should change, and the first step to achieving that is writing this. Now I’ll be reminded of the things I’ve written on the need to put balance in the picture. I will put it as a colour in the lens with which I view and handle life; the aid to my very own box of black-and-white reality.

I wish someone in my shoes—or probably wearing a larger size—would read this and do the needful. Read the mails, reply the pings, read that book, see that movie, holler at the pal, talk with Ma and Da’, hangout with the ma’am… whatever makes/will make you happy. Arrive at a potpourri that has bits of what you want; maybe not everything but most of it.

I almost forgot; I never said it would be easy. I’m not sure it would be very tough either, but I’m about to find out. I hope I stick to my own advice.

Hasta la vista D.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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“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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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.



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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Dear Future Bae

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Foreword: I find a disclaimer distinguishing the writer and the character in this piece unnecessary, but really (as an advice now), it will make more sense reading this with absolute neutrality. In other news, happy independence-plus-two-days… and happy birthday to me. I’m excited! Please waka come and share in the excitement. Bring a gift or two along. 🙂


Dear Future Bae,

I wish I know an appropriate quote by a great philosopher—or someone of immense reputation, living, in comma, or dead—right now to express how I feel in the shortest possible way. Unfortunately, I don’t. Fortunately though, I have something almost nice and equally brief:

Brevity be damned!

I will try to be coherent, but I can’t even assure myself that. So I’ll rant, ramble, rumble, and tumble if necessary till I let it all out— white, black and the shebang. I hope this gets to you somehow (probably in your dream) before future competing lady, if any, intercepts it.

Scattered all over the internet and every other places information can lodge in or perch on, even if it’s for a moment barely long enough for me to ask “what exactly is it sef?”, are statistics and supposed facts about humans of my kind (I hope): the XY species with healthy body system. I mean the reproductive system and its major organ, to be near specific.

Some random websites or publications tell me with authority the ridiculously unbelievable number of times I put sex in the front page of my mind; as though they are privy to my thoughts and always alerted on every bulge against my trouser fly. I have no problems with the figures. They’re absolutely free to adjust the rate to as high 30 times per hour, or something close to the safe speed limit of an empty fuel tanker on the expressway. The one thing that I sure won’t be quite comfortable with, however, is a (judgemental) speech on why I shouldn’t think about women, especially now that it’s not one woman but many.

Isn’t it strange that I’m writing this to you without trying to hide the fact that I think about lots of women in a similar way? Please try not to hurl a stiletto or break something for my annoying audacity. Don’t be quick to call me unserious, strongly possessed, flirty… or a to-be polygamist. I’ll tell you why I do the things I do.

There is this young lady I see every night on my way home. It has almost become a duty to always look in her direction, and she never disappoints. She’s always there; eyes well located on a welcoming countenance, wide open to stare right back at me. She’s of average build, slightly fair, well-carved face beautiful enough for me to see in the dark… and a structure that tends towards the eight. She’s blessed, but not so blessed. She’s about two inches from the category “short”. I’m not very tall myself, and I won’t like to be blamed by my offsprings for their inherited “brevity” (“short” is derogatory!). We kept staring, but I’m never going to make the move.

I made a new friend not so long ago. The way she talks is like music to my ears. Momma would always lecture me (as though I’m so dumb not to know these things already) that choosing a bae isn’t totally about beauty, but also about other qualities like intelligence, good nature, and all other things eyes even behind Harry Porter glasses won’t see. She’s got all that too. Irrespective of how you view her—with a magnifying spectacles or discerning church mind plus a touch of wizardry—she screams “hawtt” through and through. You probably know already, but I’d like to explain “hawtt” according to a trusted dictionary. A hawtt lady is one who makes men whistle unconsciously, twist their necks at odd angles, and fall into gutter like dominoes when she passes by. The ma’am, however, is 2.688years (yes, I like figures) older than me. Age is just a number right? Hian! Puhleease! In this circumstance, age is also a bucket of cold water that dilutes all “hawttness”. Yes you guessed right, another no-no.

The stranger-turned-friend from the bus the other night is another great handwork of God. You know what they say about the Creator moulding some creatures with so much attention to detail, interest, and patience on a day likely to be a weekend in heaven? I kid you not. From the way she picks her words, to the disarming smile that reveals her well-spaced gap teeth (this is the part where I’ll hold my head and scream “ojigbi-jigbi!”), down to the other “God-given features” that adorned her here and there (the little the description the better, don’t you think?)… she’s the full package! Nay, I mean she’s almost the full package. I found out about some little things later and ratings took a sharp and disappointing dive into nothingness.

In case you’ve got your analytical game on, trying to establish a trend to arrive at my type of girl, please bae, do not filter by colour. Yellow bus or red BRT, they both transport. Dora is many nautical miles away from fair. She’s a quintessential pretty dark lady Sir Don Jazzy himself would gladly dub the Doro title. But then, Doro is a useless title—and I repeat, a VERY useless title—if the ma’am is so impressive only to the eyes, but with a not-so-desirable attitude (I can almost hear momma’s advice ringing in my ears, again). A crush could be in existence, but it would remain a crush and nothing more. Hopefully, it won’t crush this son of man.

There is also the mulatto on my device’s messenger, and the very responsive cute belle I met on the Badoo I never use. What of the radiating Clara that sparkles all the time from the choir stand? I dare not forget the beautiful almost albino chic beside the confectionery, and the unbelievably “tush” walnut babe (*shudders* What was I thinking? Bae, scratch out the last part, that was a joke). The more I add entries to the list, cutting across boundaries, tribes, colours, heights, ages and temperaments, the more I nail myself to the cross of likely infidelity. I don’t want to make the wrong impression.

So here goes the right impression.

Right now right here, I don’t know who you are bae. In fact, you could be anywhere on the surface of the planet. You could be in Czechoslovakia or France right now (Syria is not your portion IJN); or doing some stuff only you understand in an Indian village somewhere (no offence); or even close to home hanging out with a boyfriend (a boyfriend you’ll have to break up with soon by the way) some few miles away from here. What I know and sure of is that I want the best; an outstanding woman I’ll gladly spend the rest of my life with. I picture you at every attempt I get, bringing up images of the lot of things that thrill me in a woman.

Is it now a crime to think of you? Will it be so difficult to understand how all these ladies get into my head any time I try to think of the perfect you? Is it an offence to picture you with the eyes of Kemi, amazing “wicked” structure of Tola (jcheesox!), the radiance of Clara, disarming gap-toothed smile of Lara, the pretty cool finesse of Sandra… bla, bla and more bla? Believe me, I’ve considered this a problem and tried so much to find a remedy, but I’m not doing so well at achieving the desired result.

A friend once told me I shouldn’t bother looking for the perfect one—since I won’t even find her—but rather, find one I’ll be perfect with. Besides, I’m also not even close to perfect. She implied that I shouldn’t center my idea of perfection on the stuffs I read in books or see on the big screens (you know the sharp bright eyes, firm jaw, curvy this, supple that thinggies), but rather face the plain reality. She said a lot of sensible things, but it didn’t change much. Not yet. Perhaps I’ve got a very weird and rare strain of perfectionism affecting me. Perhaps I need the service of very good and experienced shrinks (I fear one would turn out to be inadequate).

Getting to you eventually depends on this; I’m sure you have your own flaws too. Perhaps I’ve found you already, but putting you in a no-no zone because of a little “but”; flaw(s) I have as well.

I’ll try harder to get better and come for you (definitely not on a horse nor in a shiny armour; preferably in an S-Class Benz), but while I do that, try not to listen to that guy sending you messages, calling you angel as though you’ve got the halo and wings, and bombarding you with pseudo-affection. We know what he wants, and NO, we… no, I mean you, are not giving it to him. He won’t like that, yes, but friend zone doesn’t kill… it makes one stronger. (Unknown author)

I know I’ve got no right or say now, just try and consider the advice.

I’ll anticipate a reply, if by any weird but fortunate means you get this.

Yours truly,
Imperfect Future Hubby

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


I am @jossef69 on twitter.

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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.

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Dear Diary: Sour-prano Untamed

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Dear Diary,

Something happened to me recently. Something that involved my subjection to a loud discomfort in an enclosed space, with my freedom and power to object strangled by a general mindset; a religious mainstream.

As a violation of my fundamental right to peace of mind, it would’ve taken a much different turn if it had happened in a developed country. I’m of the certitude that the source of my unrest would’ve been made to stop, sanctioned, sentenced, or a combination of the three. In utmost sincerity, I prefer the mix.

As if waking up thirty (30) minutes to 5am—in a bid to leave home on the hour, beat traffic and get to the island as quickly as possible—was not enough, every variable I must have contact merged in a conspiracy. Excruciating hooked pain as I sat beside an annoyingly annoying passenger. You’ll understand me soon enough.

This passenger—a woman quadragenarian I’d like to name Mrs Brutus Melody—was a typical pain source (in the rump, neck, and other strategically important body parts) that starts little, gathers momentum inch after inch, arrives at a crescendo and finally, explodes. All in a drab unmelodious tone. I had once imagined Mr Ibu singing Kumbaya; trust me, I prefer the imagination to that reality.

First, her lips began to move like a squirrel munching kernel after a week of fasting and no prayers. I cast her one of those quick glances that carry a c’mon-stop-this-your-nonsense-before-thunder-strikes-you message, but she didn’t move a muscle. Not even a fibre. Continue she did.

As a general rule I follow, I never expend a molecule of glucose let alone a negligible amount of energy on matters that neither affect me/people nor pose a threat to national security, so I relaxed and occupied my space while she continued munching. I went over my laid plans for the day.

But then munching became humming. Hums that can irk the deaf, not at all like that of the sweet humming bird.

Livid as I was, I didn’t bother to turn to her since I already could imagine the woody mien she would have installed on her face; the face that got my vote of immense hate—or hatred, whichever is more caustic—within just a few minutes. I tried to suppress my anger but I noticed my face was also contorted in a way Mr Bean would envy.

The noise from the bus slightly muffled her voice and I was relieved. None of the noises was desirable but somehow I—and other passengers I can assure you—preferred the former to the latter. The relief was however short-lived. The engine revs eased upon gliding into traffic and Mrs Melody took that as a cue to go up at least two notches, shifting into gear her musical explosion.

And she blew our minds to pieces. Nay, scratch that, she blew us to smithereens.

Prior to the moment I had no idea what she was up to but it started making sense to me seconds after the burst. Mrs B. Melody had hitherto prayed (the munching), worshipped (the humming) and then on the main songs of praise (the outburst). All faces turned to her with several frowns and contortions communicating disapproval, but the gestures proved futile as she was deep gone in the spirit.

What can the faces of the disturbed do to a disturbance whose eyes were firmly shut? We didn’t even seem to amount to a mountain before the wicked Zerubbabel in skirt. She delved deeper into the songs which were grossly loud and incoherent, and then spoilt her face like she was trying so hard to weep or stifle an emotional breakdown. It is better depicted by the countenance of one who crunched alum or rushed near-ripe agbalumo (Chrysophyllum albidum).

She shifted through various kind of gospel musics—rock, reggae, high life. . . even pentecostal hymns and many others yet to be discovered let alone documented—in terrible treble and catastrophic tenor that was pure tremor-inducing terror. Yes, frogs croak and it’s annoying, but even the slimy croakers are often rhythmic in their business.

As you would expect, I dubbed her the owner of the most horrible voice mankind has ever heard, and imagined. Whoever beats the record should be shot. Close range. In the head.

The traffic lasted for over an hour and Mrs Melody didn’t pause for once; she had the strength of at least two horses and one black cow. In between I had developed migrane, murmured, hissed severally like others, and a pregnant lady by her other side had changed seat. My anger stemmed from the fact that nobody complained; not even a word to the effect. We all sat and listened compulsorily while the lone mass choir did her morning devotion, more like a mini church service aided by a made-in-Obudu public address system that has seen better days.

Diary, do you know why no one stopped her even though we all would unanimously agree to toss her out into the lagoon if presented the priceless opportunity?

Fear. Fear of stopping someone praising God!

It is ridiculous! You may not understand that. I doubt if you really understand religion, especially in the way we handle it in this clime. I doubt if you know a thing about Sunday school either. The thing here is this: nobody wants to be dealt with like a certain woman was, for mocking a king praising God in his own way, in his own palace. I refer to the King David versus Michal case contained in the holy book here (around 992 BC).

Notice the bold words above? She got served because she mocked him, not complain of disturbance; and he praised in his palace, his royal space, not in some fancy chariot with others or a full fourteen (14) passenger bus.

It was a violation and she was wrong (my opinion). No one should disturb the peace of others all in the process of praising God. What if I was meditating and communicating with my God as well at the moment? What if I was churning in my head ideas on how to cure ebola without a salty input, or better ways to relate with Bola?

With these valid points of mine I have convinced and not confuse myself on the subject matter, right? I’m justified and should be bold to caution her, yes?

Wash! Iró nlá!! Terrible lie!!!

I didn’t. I couldn’t. It was a risk I wouldn’t take at that moment. The believe had eaten deep into me and obviously my other comrades-in-discontent.

So we suffered. In silence. Enduring our collective malady; none willing to risk the possible consequence of stopping the ma and her brutal melody.

I am @jossef69 on twitter.