Whenever I Grow UP

When I was a little tyke, maybe six, or seven, my first thought of what to do when I grow up was to have my own cash-dispensing ATM, and stuff that dotted line with more toys than I can carry around, more candies and ice cream and more friends than can fit into my room. But as I advanced into my teens, I shed those childish thoughts. I was even glad that the substance to fill the dotted line with never quite materialised. Toys and friends to share them with was the clueless aspiration of a hapless kindergarten. There was no place for such childish thought in the world of the grown up that teen was.



Teens always think they would never grow old. I was forever young. The fine things I think of doing, now that I had grown up and forever young, as a teen, is to fill that star-dotted line with things, things, things, and more things. Things and never enough of them- fast cars, fine clothes, fine blings, hip-hopping fine women in bikinis and birthday suits, and few troubles for balance- troubles like the nuisance of wake-up alarm, and the bothersome chore of wiping my own arse with silk when I use my gold-plated loo.


I just couldn’t wait to grow up. But that line, like a burrowed pit, never get fully filled with the things I craved as a teen. Mid-life helped somewhat, obliterating my teen dream with grey clouds. And old age helped stuff the dotted line with grey hair, potting-belly, balding hair, and money palava.


When I grow… if I grow up now, I will wake up and give up all the dreams for nothing but fine wine, fine women, fine music, and a few good books, for good measure, to fill-up, press-down, shake-together, and run-over those blistering lines.


I will yet move this Good Old World. Just wait till I grow up, if i grow up.



We were flying together. The gyration that was rocking the whole place had increased in momentum, and I thought it will never- should never- subside when she suddenly straightened up, her entire body stiffening like a frozen cadaver,with her head thrown back like she’d been hit by a high-calibre bullet.

Lips had been locked- mine to hers- tongues had been tangled- worming and squirming around each other- Teeths had been clashing in a sensuous bout of fencing- bosom had been heaving from the pounding of two hearts that had become one- hips had continuously heaved- to and fro- all the while- is the way we were going till she come. She come, I tell you.

She started to quiver in small convulsions. I feared she was having a feat of epilepsy.

A sharp screech that rang out from deep within her throat assuaged my fear- a new fear replaced that, and I feared that my prick had punctured something within her core after all.

If I don chook something burst inside her belle, that go be her fault o- sebi she dey tea-bag me too hard and too fast; like say she get death-wish to impale herself on my blunt-tipped spike.

She muttered a string of incoherence, all in an unknown tongue, very similar to the ecstatic glossolalia pentecostal church people speak in when they are moved by the spirit.

She seemed to be deflated all at once, and collapsed limply on top of me.

She was still breathing; breathing balmy hot air, hard, upon my neck, and her heart was still beating; pounding hard like a Monday Hammer against mine. That was the sure sign of life that reassured me that all was well with us, otherwise I had another fear that she might have passed out, the thing in her core having given way to my hard poking.

She had come twice previously, but not like this- this was earth-chattering. The two previous coming had felt warm; just warm like pee is warm. Those times, she hadn’t reacted with this much drama, neither had she stopped tea-bagging me- shagging the living fuck out of me. But this is quite some come, such come that could take over your entire senses and make your body quake so feverishly.

I have not felt or seen any jeez, just the tightening of the core- constricting my shaft as she touched down and coast to stillness.

Even though she remained still, after the landing, she kept quivering intermittently, I still wasn’t done- because I wasn’t quite come yet. So I kept driving.

I soon hit and rode over a bump. My whole body-frame galvanized with a shock. I jerked like I had touched the main of a naked live-wire.

I kind of lost control, I also lost my centre of gravity, veering off into some thick gold-and-silver clouds. I went somersaulting, tumbling- everything spinning round in a sprinkling of brilliant stardusts. Suddenly, with a “boomsshh!” I landed back on earth in an explosion of rainbow and tingling, sweet sensations

If this was not it for me- the greatest sex never had- I don’t know which one is.


The thin line between being funny and being stupid is so thin that you will cross it without knowing.

Being stupid and being funny are both virtues in the art of this business. The fine art of Madness is virtue too- the expressive type of madness that is. We are talkind about the kind of madness that has a method to it; the kind in which you can only be funny but never smart.

You are really funny when you are funnier than people; but you are not at all smart when you are smarter than people. The reason is this: when you are a funny guy, the world will probably call you a fool to your face, but behind your back they will say: “that dude is a great guy to know”

Ironically, when you are a smartass and you strut your stuff in front of people, showing off, and being in people’s face so much; “the world will sing your hosanna to the high heaven’s, and they will probably raise stones to do so when their own voices go hoarse from cheering you on (to your own destruction). This is when you heed the maxim of “Watch It Before You Wreck It”. For when you are not there, the same people will turn around and say “who the hell does he think he is?…fuck that guy, what makes him think he’s smarter than everyone else?”

Brethren, It is a worthwhile venture, therefore, to ply the art and tact of Madness With A Method. That way, your way is pleasing to the Lord, and even your enemies are at peace with you.

A classical case in point is the story of King David. Who applied Madness With Method to keep his enemies at bay. The man was running from Saul who sought to make kebab of him. When he came to a place he believed he would find refuge, the people pointed him out saying: “look, that is David The Celebrity Giant-Killer”

I am sure the simple folk were ecstatic to have the celebrity among them; but the man, being a fugitive on the run for his life, had not come to sign autographs, but to hide from those who were gonna kick his arse.

Some other of the people only saw the King, not for the Star-studded crown on his head, but for the bounty upon his head, being a wanted fugitive. They was just gonna blow his cover and make some pizza money for themselves. But David perceiving this conspiracy had to apply a Method of Madness to save his arse.

But, wait; why don’t we let the scripture speak on this? The scripture is divinely-inspired and cannot bullshit us on this matter of Method of Madness.

Okay, then, you ask for this. If you have a bible like I do; the story is there in the book of 1 Samuel Chapter 21 verses 11 through 15:

“…and the servants of Achish said unto him, ‘is this not David the king of the land? did they not sing one to another of him in dances, saying, Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousand?'”

And David laid up these words in his heart, and was sore afraid… And he changed his behaviour before them, and feigned himself mad in their hands…”

That is not being smart, in my book.

“…and scrabbled on the doors of the gate…”

That is being funny, in my reckoning.

“…and let his spittle fall down upon his beard”

A king, drooling? Now, that is a stupid thing to do, to my mind and yours. And Achish, his host, was right to say:

“Lo, ye see the man is mad; wherefore, then have ye brought him to me?

Have I need of mad men, that ye have brought this fellow to play the mad man in my presence?” away with his funny-stupid-crazy arse.

And that was how Madness With A Method saved David from being handed over to be kebabed with Saul’s spear.

Now tell me if being funny or being stupid, as the art of Madness With A Method goes, isn’t creative. If it is so or not, I leave you to be the judge, at least, you will be too engaged to judge me.

By the way, all bible quotations were taken from the Authorized King James Version. And I testify to the truth that the scripture is divinely-inspired for your teaching and reproof (and mine too)

P.S. All typos and grammos, and punctuation errors, etc. in the quoted scripture are mine and not the Lord’s; the Lord does not goof or mess with your mind like that..

Thanks for reading.


There has been very little feminism this century. Venus now has all she ever wanted from Mars- A Baritone of Her Own.

Isn’t that scary, that the placards that used to scream “give us, us free” now proclaims “we want back rub!”… we want foot massage!” “we want… ehmm… What A Man Can Do!”

It got me thinking too, that the whole hullabaloo about “Women’s Rights” “Gender Equality” and stuff, has been all about boxing The Man in that corner where he would always play doorman and chef.

While playing the doorman isn’t a bad thing or a big deal, per se- afteral Doorman is a Man, and men make the better chefs- but having to box the man in that corner is to turn the table of gender inequality around, edging him hard against a wall. Don’t be surprise when you shall soon see Martians take to the streets, screaming, in soprano, “Bring Back The Days When We Used To Be The Last to Lay down, And The First To Rise up”

As a Martian, it has been my growing up dream to get to be the first to get back from work, change the baby’s diaper, make dinner, and give that back rub and foot-massage to the wife when she gets home from work. That dream now seems a delusion, because the Venetians have gained liberation from the Martian Masters.

As it is, a today’s woman would rather get served by a male chef at that restaurant or bukka, get her nails and hair done by a male stylist and Manicurist at that salon, and get her back rubbed and foot massaged by a male masseur, than be ministered by to a husband.

Now, should I still go ahead and hitched up to that Sistah, and probably, play a dummy good only for easing off the itch when the itch comes upon her? Should I not rather seek solace elsewhere, and realise my full potentials, coupled-up with another Martian who understands my needs like I want them understood?

The way things are going in this century, many a Man will lose their “Natural Affection.” and if this iniquity abounds into the next century, don’t blame a Brotha if his love waxed cold. I am catching a chill already myself.

So, biko, Nne, you give us us free- the liberty to be your Husbandman- chef, masseur, manicurist, and soul provider, especially for the massaging, biko!


There are life lessons you can learn from the toilet and nowhere else. Not necessarily your home toilet, but public toilets- the free ones divided into the Ladies for women, and Gents for guys.

I stumbled into the ladies- it was a sheer oversight, nothing intentional. The absence of urinals in that compartment should have given me the impression that I was in the wrong joint, but I was too full of shit for the realization to sink in. I was far too pressed to care for urinals or to be concerned about the absence of them.

I could remember what shitty stuff i ate the previous night: it had left me with such bad stomach that at 8:30 am, when most offices were yet to open their doors for the day’s business, I was looking for a toilet. I had to go, and it was not one of those insane days i take my payload to the gutters or street corners of Lagos.

I found myself in a eatery’s convenience. I usually look out for the sign, to inform me and give me a bearing, but there were no signs on the doors. So I barged into the nearest compartment, and dove into the nearest vacant cubicle.

No sooner had I unzipped my jean, and pulled down the waistline, and  boxer short to my knees, that I sat on the commode and gave gravity some helping hand with my shit.

And a great helping of excreta was what resulted.

But this is not the life’s lesson I learnt in that toilet. I learnt that life will be less nasty, less brutish and less short if everyone in the world was a male.

While still on my business on the commode- which I found out later was the Ladies, there was this insistent series of loud knocks on the door of my cubicle. When I would not heed to the knock and kept on doing my shit in there, the querulous voice of a full grown woman came tearing trough the thick door and shattering my peace, saying:

“haba, madam, do quick na, abi you dey born pikin for there?

Funny how it didn’t even register on my mind that a restless lady was impatiently waiting for me to finish so that she might in turn occupy the toilet.

My reply to the banshee’s vituperation at the unknown occupant of the toilet was a muted silence.

The silence seemed to enrage the lady the other side of my toilet’s door as her ill-will imprecation increased in both momentum and heat. She was invoking the fire of the God of Pastor Odukoya to burn me- the “dumb” occupant- in hell “for inside there” for holding her up

another voice that came from my right was admonishing her to lessen the noise “abi you dey mad?” the voice was greeted with a “thunder fire ya mouth for there”. The voice to my right fired back, and the world of human evolution, as I have always known it, nose-dived in a descent into chaos as the women began to hurled insults at one another, and rain curses down on me- the mute – for being the cause of the whole shit.

I realized that I was in the wrong place- a world of women, in which women and their characters hold sway- a sort of unimaginable opposite of utopia. A place not good at all for a man’s peace of mind.

If I had not learnt that before hand, I learnt it hat day in the women’s toilet.

When I finally vacated the cubicle, the women seemed embarrasses that I, the occupant of the women’s toilet was male- a man-male. They remained quiet- if out of shock, I don’t know- because I walked away without a word.


Yesterday I was lost in Accra. I got lost because I had resolved, on the night before, to do all my sight-seeing on foot.

You miss out a lot on the street-food, the arts and culture, and the flow of things if you move around a new city cooped-up in a car; but you feel the vibes and throb of life on foot, tramping down the pavements of a new city.

Walking has its therapeutic benefit, and that was part-reason i had resolved to do most of my waka on foot, by the way.

I wasn’t really lost. I am familiar with Accra well enough for a pleasure-seeker. I only missed my way that time. I had tramped miles in a circle around Ridge in Accra, looking for Parkview Café. I was looking out for the familiar landmarks- the rusty rails with the grounded roller-coaster trains, who’s days of pleasure-rides were long; and the stiff merry-go-round- that looks like an ancient giant abandoned the wheel of his cart in the park.

I was looking out for the wrong signals, instead of simply sniffing the air for the titillating arome of grilling tilapia, or listening out for the riveting wave of Ghanaian highlife music. I was punished for my low instinctive initiative.

The hurt in my foot made me consider taking a taxi. Taxi was the wrong choice. But thankfully, it didn’t happen.

When I flagged down that taxi, I was standing right under a sign that proclaimed “Efua Sutherland Children’s Park”. Parkview Café, which I sought, was situated at the west end, inside this premises; I didn’t know. The last time, that is a month ago, I visited the spot, I had entered through the west gate on Liberia Street, quite unaware of its proximity to the Children’s Park. No wonder the taxi driver had been so confused that he engaged a passersby with the description of the destination I had given him. The kind passerby did help me. He advised I take the taxi to the Nigerian High Commission in Accra as I was obviously lost in Ghana.

To tell a Nigerian, a Lagosian particularly, that he is lost, is an insult that will be responded to with a self-assertion. I asserted myself by waving off the ignorant taxi driver and the clueless passerby. I shall not be a pest in a foreign land. I look out for myself, looking up to God for guidance. And when I did look up, I saw the huge merry-go-round and scattered-about cars of an ancient roller-coaster train. I was right where I was destined for without knowing it. I was back home like a prodigal.

The same I who was lost in Accra yesterday is today given directions to indigents. It is a significant change in status for me. Not because of the transcendental connotation of making restitution to lessen my karma, it was predestined to be.


I was tracing my path of the previous day back to Parkview Café through Efua Sutherland Children’s Park for lunch; one youngster with a Ghanaian-Hausa accent asked me the way to the Ghanaian Parliament building. I was on Castle Road, and I turned around and I pointed down the road. I told him he would find the impressive edifice just before he got to the Military Cemetery on that road.

Just a few steps from there, as I was turning into Gamel Abdul Naser Street that should take me straight to my own destination, one burly very black brotha with his huge and sweaty arm around the shoulder of a pale-face and very petite mongoloid lady, stopped me for directions to the passport office of the Ghana Immigration Authority.
“pachor, e be which way to passport office…”.

I pointed just behind me to the junction of the upper side of Gamel Abdul Naser Street on which the destination he sought was located. He thanked me and commended me for being a friendly Liberian, I corrected him that I was a Nigerian, not friendly… Liberian.

“Oh charlie… e be Nigerians are not…”

I could have asserted that I was not Charlie, that my name was Chris- Chris as in Pastor Chris; or Christ, if he liked. But then I recalled that Ghanaians address you as Charlie to emphasize, elaborate or simply get your attention.

But I could as well have been Charlie Chaplain for the quixotic way I was acting around the trans-racial Ghanaian couple. But we parted ways and got on our different destinations around the City of Accra: I, with this moral lesson, and they with, perhaps, an education on how lost we all are.


My underwear has a tear in its under part. It is a small hole where the stitch has parted. My balls keep going through this hole and dangling free outside the underwear. It is not just any underwear, it is a swimming trunk; and a blessed swimming trunk at that.

I really don’t use underwears, and I dispense with boxer shorts as much as it is convenient for me to do so, and that is always. I hate how those flimsy bits of garments give big wahala, getting soiled too often, and one has to change them everyday till they have become a heap by laundry date. I hate laundry when I am the one doing it. Thank God I discovered swimming trunks. With swimming trunks, you don’t have to keep a stock of them for changing, and a heap of dirty underwear don’t build up. One swimming trunk can serve you as good as seven can. Each time you take a bath, you wash it, and by the time you are done bathing, your swimming trunk is dry and ready for wear again. Great underwear breakthrough swimming trunks are.

I had my first authentic swimming trunk during my seamanship training. Since then, a swimming trunk is a piece of garment I don’t travel without. It has even become the symbol of my profession but I made a mis-take and came on board with only one. This kind of unfortunate development is why I hate packing. I always forget one essential item or the other. And now, this one has spurn a hole, letting my balls out of confinement. I should just discard the thing and go without underwears like I used to, but I can’t; This threadbare swimming trunk has been blessed by our Reverend father.

On December 31st, during the New Year Eve Service, tagged “CROSS OVER NIGHT”, everyone had lifted high the tools and symbols of their trades and professions to be blessed by the Holy-water being sprinkled by the priest. The parishioners had been advised about that prior to the service. I had been confused, not knowing what to present as the tool or symbol of seamanship, and I settled on one of the stock of swimming trunks I brought back from my training in Warri.

Diverse items had been brought to mass. As the Ibo traders made up the greater population of the parish, the church, that night look almost like a shopping mall with all the goods on display. Writers and those in white collar jobs brought pens and papers. Those who were jobless had nothing in their hands but prayers in their hearts (I think writers should have joined this latter and not the former group). Me, I had not gotten my seaman’s passport by that time, so I thought hard on what to present and the swimming trunk came to mind.

When the priest asked us to lift our tools up to heaven with both hands so that the big man up there might see it and reward us, I spread out my swimming trunk for all – both man and God to see. One small Ibo boy, with curiosity written on his face, asked if I was a wrestler since I had a “wrestler pant”. I replied in the negative, explaining to him that I was a seaman; he didn’t get it even when I explained that seamen drove ships. Perhaps he was wondering why anyone has to don a “wrestler pant” to drive a ship, or what a ship was. He only seemed to get my drift when I told him that I roam with sharks and dolphins as a seaman. I ignored his next question about Jonah being swallowed by a fish.

Various automobiles spare parts, and electronic gadgets- brand new and tokunbo- were showcased. There were okrika sellers, polluting the air with the sickening smell those overseas cast-off clothes emit, deadening the sweet aroma of the pastries and confectionery the bakers and confectioners brought. The madam sitting to my left brought jollof rice and fried turkey wings that reminded me of what a sweet-smelling offering was, and why the bible endorsed it in the book of Leviticus. I wonder what hustlers: prostitutes and 419 ers and agberos brought for God to see and bless. Every article of trade was blessed and sanctified – my swimming trunk was adequately soaked with blessings. The drought of holy water sprayed on the thing almost made it soggy. Although, it got dry before the end of service, my faith in its sanctity had remained steadfast since then.

I always wear the blessed swimmimng trunk under my clothes as a sacramental. I can say it is working, although it is not making me the money I need to buy the Hummer Jeep the priest prophesied each parishioner was going to buy before the 6th month of the New Year . I just hope the prophesy comes to pass before my tired swimming trunk give way, or squeeze the life out of my balls.

I am not even considering mending the rift in my underpants. Why? It is a miracle. I believe in miracles now. You will never understand. I didn’t understand too until the parted stitch taught me a mystery. The size of my balls are like perfectly formed chicken eggs. I could have said turkey eggs for exaggeration, but I have to be factual at this point. Why and how those egg-size balls keep slipping out of my underwear through a hole not larger than half a inch in diameter is the mystery: a mystery akin to birth. The head of a fully-formed foetus is far greater than the diameter of the birth canal. But life is possible because, despite the discrepancy in sizes of the foetus and the birth-canal, a life still comes forth.

My underwear showed me a hidden mystery, so I am keeping it.


The School where I had my primary education was as crowded as a poultry range; and as noisy and as filthy as well. The school was a good place to pick up potentially fatal germs and bad habits. However, human-beneficent things can come out of such a dump as where I went to school in my formative years: things like the idea of FOOD BANK.

Ako ile je, which is Yoruba for “eating from the dust” was a pastime for us kids. Me and my gang of alley cats plied Dustbin Foraging to perfection in those days. Ako ile je had great perks and thrills for us barack pikins. It was untill Adebayo- one of our number- died of a disease they told us was diarrhea, that we kicked the habit of foraging in dustbins for discarded lunch.

It started with pooling and feasting on our lunch together. We shared variety of gourmet pleasures with much love and happiness. We were having great fun untill Adebayo started the trend of Dustbin-Foraging when he brought a sand-crusted and ants-infested piece of badly eaten chicken wing as his contribution to our gang’s food bank. In those days Chicken was a luxury that only families of top-ranking officers could afford on ordinary days.

Adebayo was the son of a mere civilian. He was privileged to have gained admission into our school- an exclusively Army Children’s School. Adebayo was in my class; he shared my desk with Bukky, and I didn’t like him. He was gaining too much attention from Bukky, the cynosure of every eyes in the class. The dimpled and neat Bukky was the class teacher’s daughter- another civilian, and Adebayo as a Yoruba was her tribesman. I was from Bendel State and the alien on my desk that sat three. I sat in the middle between the blob of fat that was Adebayo, and Bukky; but they would be chatting across me as if I was not there at all. Although I spoke yoruba fairly well, Bukky and Adebayo always shut me out of their private world. Even during play outside the classroom, Adebayo was always crowding my space, by throwing his weight around around me, stealing the shine of what little spotlight Bukky beamed on me.

The trend of foraging in dustbins became a juvenile pastime of sort- a game of who would come up with the crunchiest or juiciest cast-off, even though the booty from barrack dustbins were mostly rotten and unfit for consumption.

Adebayo started it all, Bukky followed suit. I who had no qualms about doing anything to be in Bukky’s line of vision followed suit. Rebecca the wide-eyed, nose-picking Idoma girl, who would do anything I say or do, followed suit. Sule the lanky chap from Gongola State who was mooning after Rebecca, followed suit. Dustbin foraging became the holy grail for we, fairly odd group of geeks.

Even when I get to the top of the game by pulling out the crunchiest or juiciest piece from dustbins, Adebayo always had a way of knocking my hustle, and stealing my show with his rather gross habit of munching on the craps- maggots and all- to the admiration of Bukky. It became my life’s goal to outdo Adebayo. A tough mental and physical struggle for me, but I gave up contending with the greedy blob when Chukwudi tried and got knocked out, puking all over his shirt front and taking ill for days, and leaving our team.

The game of foraging in dustbins for crunchy or juicy craps never died out until Adebayo passed on. Until he succumbed to diarrhea, Adebayo was the undisputable Champion and reigning King of Ako ile je.

When I consider the contemporary global tradition of #FoodBank I wonder if I may not have helped start it. Maybe today’s tradition of Food Banking has nothing to do with me. Perhaps it was a social norm that I inadvertently indulged in. Maybe Dustbin Foraging, or Ako ile je, is also a global trend today. Who knows for certain?


LAGOS LIGHTS is a new brew of coffee I invented. It isn’t much- in making, but it is a great deal in taste and  and aromé. All it takes to fix a cup of Lagos Lights is a scoop of robusta, half a scoop of arabica, a wedge of grapefruit, and a scoop of sugar if desired. No milk and no cream, please.

If you cannot access freshly roasted beans like I do, use instant coffee. And If you use instant, use the real thing, use the Nestlé brand, thank you.

And don’t forget to steer well of decafe. Decaffeinated coffee is a no-no. There is no sin greater than the use of decaffeinated coffee. Only fakes and bad imitations use decafe.

I will tell you about this fake: he pronounces it “cough fee” making it sound like something your doctor will prescribe for bad lungs and bad judgment. This guy who is a #BadImitation of me is worse off than decafe and those inferior brands of instant coffee that taste   like paracetamol.

Why he tries so hard to copy my style is something I cannot boast to be at home with. In this day when people distinguish  themselves, defining where they belong and how they stand in the tussle for supremacy between the progressives and conservatives, I belong nowhere. This brings me to the question- why do people follow people when they don’t know where people are headed? I think everyone should move their heads in the direction of their hearts, or follow with their hearts where their heads lead. However they do, I say people should just go- like I want this bad imitation of me to just go his own away; he his too much of a dark shallow to be trolling after me.

See how he casts a glum over my light spirit when he start to mimicking me, messing up my style and making a monkey of the thing i like to do. When I vacate a seat- whether to pass water or get some stuff or the other- by the time I return, this bad imitation of me will be occupying my space. His own cup or mug of coffee will be sitting in front of him; his legs will be crossed at the knees as I do naturally. I am not sure anyone else notices, but this development gets me miffed at him all the time. How could be so comfortable being a fake? Ughhh!

There is this unnatural drawl I like to inflect into the tone of my voice when communicating on the walkie-talkie. Scarcely anybody does that at all. I do it a lot, and this imitation of me dude does it a lot too. I hate it when he begins to enrich that baritone of his with a cowboy drawl. He make my own drawl sound like a school girl’s whine or like Mickey Mouse’s hysterics.

He has pink lips and I have black ones. Maybe he hasn’t noticed, he would have darkened his own lips with shoe polish to make them look like mine.

Yes, I will give him that: he has a attributes-to-die-for grace. He has a set of rippling six-pack while I have potting belly; he has a chest that look like a open bible, while I have flabby breasts. I will not grudge him his attributes, neither will I exchange what I have for what he has.

God, let him go and do his own thing and get out of my space. He does not have to walk my  walk or talk my talk or fart my fart. There is enough talent in everyone and enough space on the world stage for we all to strut our stuffs. I am myself imitating Jesus- doing what Jesus would do; a conscious man would not imitate an imitation. Abi?

I could use one less shadow messing up spotlight

PS: The next time you are served a cup of espressos, sneak in a dash of citrus juice. I tell you, no Bad Imitation, not even NEPA, can quench your Lagos Lights


It was Woman Crush Wednesday, and I parted ways with my last One Standing

She said to me: “NO, YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” Then I knew it was an error to hint her that I was going to upload her photo to my timeline and tag her as my ‪#‎wcw‬.
I replied with a lol, and asked her ‘’why not? You are so rich and powerful, with so much brain packed into a beautiful body as you are…”

I really don’t know where or how to stop when I get started like this.
She took her sweet time to come back with a reply. I was so sure she was going to come back to me with a “LOL”, and with such sweet nonsense like her usual tease of “oh, Chris, you are a mess…” Her strokes always come positively like that, when I get silly with her. But what I got was:


She actually said that in those dreaded uppercase letters which signifies yelling, screaming, or the laying of some strong emphasis when a sense is being screwed into some numskull.

I must have looked like that smiley with wide eyes gapping mouth, and forlorn look. I recovered quickly when I saw that she was typing another reply. I checked my ire, reined in my angst, and put a stopper to my draining hope. I really did not need to be morose, marooned as I was, she may have meant for her reply to hit me in a platonic way. It is so easy to read the wrong meanings into well-intentioned messages you know.

I was still staring at her last message; her reply to my own last message was taking too long to come. I ran my fingers over the keyboard with the same speed I could have run my mouth. That was a mistake too. What I said was:

“of course you are some man’s wife, but you are nobody’s property like a piece of furniture, are you?”

I really should have thought that trough before hitting the “send” button.

Her reply came. It was not an apology, it was not an explanation; it was the boot. She said to me “chris, no offense, but I am deleting you from my friends list this minute.” I felt as small as she had spelled my name in lowercase letters. And…

There goes, Lola, there goes Ugo, there goes Tayo, and now another one bites the dust. So much for Woman Crush. I can only hope she regrets her action and send me a friend request before next Wednesday.