What’s with short skirts and sexiness? There are sistahs who believed they they start to look, feel, act, and think sexy, therefore they are sexy, when they’re sporting short skirts. While I hold strongly to my viewpoint that the sistahs look most sexy in their birthday suits, I will concede to a knee-lenght evening gown, or a ankle-length dinner dress anytime. I like my gifts wrapped, nicely, and with ribbons too.

Now the only women I have ever thought sexy in short skirts are those tennis-playing queens: Venus, Serena, Maria, to name but three. Man, them gurls- they smoking hot. And I likes them so, but I never get to see them in those revealing flimsy garments off the tennis court. This is painful, but it’s alright, I always survive the tourney.

There is Tayo; the only other girl I think is sexy in a short skirt. But I have not seen her in those sexy shorty thingys for more than once. Somebody must have told her that short skirts make her look like a young lady just reaching puberty. The short skirt actually looked great on Sistah Tayo, but did not flatter her pint size stature.

Neither did a short skirt worked for Funmi. Now Funmi is a 6 feet plus standing, slim diva, with the prettiest face I ever done seen nicely poised atop that lofty height. That day, (I’m sure it was her Short Skirt Day, or she was giving me a ogling treat- which I am grateful for) I could see the inviting Red, hot, tempting-to-touch Vee where those long legs meet, further up the skirt, each time she cross or un-cross those sexy legs. I could still see those panties when I stood very close to Funmi for a parting hug that evening of St. Valentine’s Day at her crib. I got over it quickly, and I formed the opinion that a killer short skirt don’t work for a very tall chic like my delectable Funmi of the gorgeous legs. This is for the sheer reason that I still prefer my gifts wrapped, especially St. V-Day Love Gifts.

Dear Sistah, “as a MAN thinketh in HIS heart so HE is”, is clearly not the same thing as, “as a WOMAN thinketh in HER heart, so SHE is”. There is a slight difference though but it won’t work. So if you ‘Think Therefore You Are’ sexy donning a shorty-skirty-thingy, you might just be wrong. You walk, talk and Stalk in a short skirts don’t make you any more sexy that your birthday suit already made you.

If you won’t stop playing with my tender heart, I will compliment you well, because I love you when you do things to me. Sexy things.




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Time is limited and life is short. There is so much to do and very little time. Spending moments of your life on the wrong people, places and things is virtually like casting your pearls at the swine; The value of such gesture is lost on them. V. C. Andrews wrote in her book “Dawn” that it is a waste to love people who have no use of you. I have committed this nugget to heart ever since, but I have just now begun to mind what people I want to be around, what places I want to spend my time in, and what things I want to give my thoughts to.

I want to be around children, to live in the world of a child, and give my thought to such simple things as the kingdom of heaven. In essence I will rather listen to a child- out of whose 100 words I could take 99- than listen to a preacher- out of whose 100 words I could hardly find one modicum of truth; to spend my valuable time in such place as Inward than such places as ‘this mountain’ or that ‘temple’ where the broadway leads; and to possess such things as wisdom and sell them not for whatever gain in the world.


Mine is a brimming bin of peculiar mess
Mine is re-branding it penkelemesi.
The attempt to purify a pig by ablution,
The imagery of nation as a cauldron in ebullition.

Mine is a country where nothing seems to work
Mine are carapaces amongst whom corruption walks.
The sloganizing of our cut-to-size Lilliputian heights
The irony is, we’re bad example of a Good People.

Mine is the story of some discrepancy
Mine is the obligation to tell it with accuracy
The conflagration and macabre in the hall of shame
The shame of committing the bill of right to flame.

Mine is the wrongly avowed bill of rights
Mine the re-enforcement of the sacred ramparts
The fundamental truth has been made null
The fall and fall of a statute that once stood tall.

Mine isn’t the leadership of meritocracy
Mine is the security that gave room for conspiracy
The un-enforcement was due to my somnolence
The non-ratification is result of my senseless silence.

Mine is the rule of masque and legalese
Mine the protection by an immunity clause
The smoke-screened illusion of rose-tinted views
The concept of servant-king was nought but ruse.

Mine is the country where the rule is obnoxious
Mine are compatriots that are yet gregarious
The grandiloquent autocracy makes me sombre
The people’s vain hypocrisy makes me cower.

Mine is the back-on-the-wall mentality
Mine is so long a suffering with magnanimity
The suffraging of my seared conscience
The desecration of my sacerdotal perseverance.

Mine is representative rulers in the posters
Mine a fruitless palaver with those impostors
The despot comes back in power, with the whole crew
The same gang that worked on our thumbscrew.

Mine is the country where dispute festers
Mine is an husbandry breeding fraudsters
The morality of peace-time beating of war-drums
The harvest of basketful of undue conundrums.

Mine is a disenfranchised order of electors
Mine the teeming stable of impostors
The vote I cast was subject to rancour
The medal I won, surely is of another honour.

Mine are the eyes that have seen it
Mine is the nose that has smelt it
The sight and deeds of corruption
The stench of gamut of bloated putrefaction.

Mine is the shoulder which bore the yoke
Mine is the bent back that yet is broke
The throes, the labour, with much equanimity
The decree yet stripped me of my humanity.

Mine is the broken heart that bore the pain
Mine it was never, ever to complain
‘The die is cast’ and I languish in deep sorrow
The many regrets sting me to the marrow.

Mine is the prison that is congested
Mine the citizens continuously convicted
The antiques of our justice is immemorial
The enjambment of inmates awaiting trial.

Mine are patients dying from fake drugs
Mine the quacks and barons peddling drugs
The suffering of NAFDAC’s trying efforts
The vain unrelenting of Akunyili’s fights.

Mine is upstream sector that’d soon close shop
Mine the down-stream energy flared for chop I chop
The oligarchization of our wealth resources
The abstractization of an economy in neurosis.

Mine is a million megawatts of pipe-dream
Mine is choking cry of up… and down, NEPA!
The maga-mago godfathers and their boys scouts
The idiosyncratization of intractable blackouts.

Mine the slogan of ‘Great Nation, Good People’
Mine the bigots causing goose-pimples
The size of the country is so very great,
The people are yet to get the figures right.

Mine is the wait, like “Waiting For Godot”
Mine the virtue of waiting with clenched teeth
The falling of our eyes’ scales will make us see
The year of rejoicing comes in Jubilee.


See how she is wagging, and gyrating, and winding her fanny in my face. It is not funny, it is seductive. That’s it! I am done! I am never coming back to this church! This is a conspiracy to lure a brotha from the straight and narrow path. This is too much to bear! I find myself humming “amazing grace” when the congregation is hymning “onward christian soldier”

The Church is supposed to be a place of solemn contemplation. It is also allowed to praise the lord in the sanctuary, to offer songs and dance in the beauty of the lord’s holiness. But this daughter of eve is suspect: the uncanny way the temptress gets in front of me every sunday. I know it is her, I recognize that nicely sculptured masterpiece of a booty, Even though she keep changing her attires and perfumes every sunday.

I cannot, by any means of logic- deductive or inductive reason- fathom why I always have Miss Fanny in front of me during church service, especially offering time. I never see her during sunday school, I guess she is in the workers class, while I am still struggling to graduate from the new converts’ class. But once the main service commences she is there. And when it’s time to sing and dance to the lord OMG, I lost my deduction and induction to seduction.

I get completely demoralized when she gets in line, in front of me, and I match behind her to the altar during offering time-blessing time. At this times, I try not to let my guard down: I resist to dance like David danced (King David had thrown all royal dignity to the wind and danced with such sensual reckless abandon, praising God) I will never even get enough space to waltz in because she has this freakish way of jerky acceleration back-and-forth-back-and-forth, that I keep bumping into her rear fenders. Thank God for small mercy, my hard-on flagpole don’t extend beyond my boxer shots.

But could it be I am being set up, to try my faith? Or is it just my imagination playing games with me? Do I need to work out my salvation with greater fear and more trembling? I really don’t want to leave this church now. I got born again and gave my life to the saviour right here in this church. There are so many reason why I should stay on. It is such beautiful and inspiring assembly, and I love beautiful things and inspiring people. Maybe I could get hitched here too, who knows? I have always wanted to hitch-up and settle the hell down. Maybe I should resist the devil, but I am a mere mortal, fallible man that I am. In sin did my mother conceive moi. Such things takes grace, abundant grace. So I am sticking to it. The good book says “no man who put his hands to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom”.


Gimba Kakanda, my very good friend, wrote:
“Is that not a strange case of psychosis, a man asking a married woman out, defying her staid leave-me-alone threats? So, man, if you don’t heed mine too, there’s no better option than having you ‘treated’ by some ‘hoodlums’ if your phone number appears on her screen again. Crass!”

And I replied:
What about some womens wey dey front like say dem dey single and free, dey preen, dey wag their tail, dey blink those forever pretty eyelashes at us unsuspecting brothas? Any of us here can fall prey. So think before you be the first to cast a stone at the poor brotha.

Garba Aliyu, another good friend contributed:
“Prey? Okiri, you sound like a suspect o.. Lol. Wait, why would one continue even when a lady says ‘no’. She’s an honoured housewife and the brotha is a psychopath from his interest in OPP – Other People’s Property!”

Mr. Garba Aliyu had earlier said ” A lady’s display of her beauty is a freedom she relishes. Something that gives her inner joy, it’s not an invitation for flirting. Yes, ladies love their respect. And a man forcing himself on one is one thing I won’t encourage. If it comes to a married woman, I can put a dagger on the chap’s throat.”

Me: never to be shut down in a argument, went on to say:
I am suspect? Well, I am only a man, if I am, then Man is. But I know the limit of flirtation, and that is not when the woman says NO. In fact NO is a “come on” signal. It is a game people play. We all play at it by some primordial instinct.

But if this brotha is a certified moronic sucker for OPP, then I recommend to take him to one of these Cele churches in Lagos where they will flog the devil out of him. Don’t be skeptical about this, it works. A psychopath is not one of us, and not for us therefore is against us, thus we dissociate and distance ourselves from him.

But then, who can resist the charm of the feminine mystique? Especially if she is la “femme fatal”: our progenitor Adamu couldn’t resist Eve. Samson was a sucker for Delilah’s charms, King Suleiman the wisest Man ever lived, who got lured into direpute by the seductive women, how about King Daud father of Suleiman, a man after God’s heart who descended from his exalted position for a quicky with Bathesheba, the wife of his subject? This so called weaker sex could have done the holy prophet Isa ibn Yusef in, if he was a mere man, but he was no ordinary man.

What can a brotha do then, when great men had fallen to the charms of la femme? The stories of Anthony and Cleopatra, Bonaparte and Josephine, Our own Abacha and The-Apple-Given-Geishas, are still fresh on minds. Well, I will stop making excuses for the Male Man’s vulnerability and gullibility, since there is an inexhaustible supply of grace. Did the good book not teach us to pray to the almighty for deliverance from Eve? We can always pray as a diversion from the lust of the eyes.

My advice to Men thus will be “watch and pray that ye fall not into temptation”. I have learnt that in these dire circumstances, the “Hail Mary” is ineffectual. What I do, and I recommend to all men of good will, is cleave to “The Lord’s Prayer” or keep reciting the Al Fatiha aloud until that sweet small urging voice is completely droned out.


I always get nostalgic feelings listening to love songs. The feelings are so heart-rending that I always, always, always, want to cry; sometimes though I come to tears, like right now. I am listening to Good Old Shania Twain’s FOR EVER AND FOR ALWAYS.

I could have written all that beautiful love song, but I have long given up on love poetry to save my fragile heart. Now Shania Twain done caught up with me, reopening the old wound of my broken heart just when it’s St. Valentine Eve. Shall I ever hide from the Muse? How come my shield isn’t stopping any of Cupid’s arrows? I want reprieve, but who gets any from love?

I miss something and it feels like amputation. I know amputation when my throbbing heart got ripped out of my breast. I lost it. No other has fit in the gapping hole since then. I have given up on the Muse’s ministration, it’s all tease and no ease; all flirt and flitting. Many a man’s been lucky in love, but not I. I still hurt and hurt bad.

I could use some balm for this wound being opened again by this love song. Somebody, help me out here! The balm needs a sensuous heart to lovingly rub it all in. It’s time to heal again. Let the love song play on. I’m getting stuck on you, Sweet Balm o’ Gilead, “I am keeping you forever and for always” Forever and for always.


“You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, you don’t flirt, What are you? An alien? I can’t trust you, and I won’t date a guy I can’t trust… (Talk To The Hand)” The chic asserted, leaving the air fuzzy and Brotha Not-I in a daze. A Man with the potentials of “saint” has just been declared a persona non grata: a person unacceptable and unwelcome in society of Homo Sapiens.

Wherever that myth came from that Men (Male Men) are creatures of vices? As a Male Man, is a brotha supposed, by default, to indulge in one or all of smoking, drinking and whoremongery (womanizing to put it mildly)? I think not, but that is my personal bias.

This very decent-looking, Daughter of Eve, condescending in her high-fallutting tone and mien, had asked the puzzled Brotha Not-I

“how do you manage stress?

This question does not seem a brainer, but a brotha must need think before he opens his mouth since whatever he says may count against him. How do I manage stress? How does this question relates to Smoking, Drinking, and womanizing? I can’t seem to get my head around it? I’m sure I have not become such a dumbass, but am I such a throwback to have missed a trend?

I wonder if some smarter ass reading could bring me up to speed on the latest trend in stress management? A brotha don’t need to puff away his tensions or drown his troubles in liquor, or go skirt-hunting for sport, does he? Well, this is Moi searching for an answer now, I could use some help here, if you please!

“Who loves not wine, woman and song
Remains a fool his whole life long.”

That quote is attributed to Martin Luther (a German theologian and christian reformer) and I believe it. Therefore if “wine women and songs” is the way to go, then my work is done. I need not fear or tremble in the face of censorship, if Men are configured that way by their maker. Isn’t life and living all about the pursuit of happiness? We would have attained “the good life” if we are steeped in the sheer pursuit of happiness. Who will crucify a brotha for seeking after the gladdening of his very soul.

Be the foregoing as it may, not all men necessarily indulge in all three: some drink, and womanise and don’t smoke, some drink and smoke and find comfort in the bossom of their legally wedded spouse, there are others who womanize without drinking or smoking (unless it is Alomo or Mary Joana) I know some good christian brothas with whom I contend every time in the endless sport of skirt-chasing. There are born again brothers who indulge in everything moderately: they drink responsibly, they don’t inhale any more fume than second-hand smoke. They chase after skirts only to touch the helm of the garments.

Woe betide whoever denies that Sistahs manage stress better than Brothas. There is Izeta, my old chorister girl friend, whose Doctor recommended Benson & Hedges to help with her asthma. There is also this girl friend I loved, (Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) Teacher, who has a knack for instantly becoming a philosopher-poet after a few whiff from Mary Joana. And there is Comfort (Born Again) who seldom go without little-by-little wine for the belly’s sake at the stroke of 17:59 every blessed day. Well, enough of the sistas, this is about us Brothas.

We smoke, we drink, we chase, but not for the reason The Daughter of Eve thinks we do these things. We do them because if we don’t, we may take out our stress on the weaker sex. We are civilized beings and we are responsible. Lost indeed, is the man who do not The Things Men Do. How can such a one stand up in the midst of his natural peers? I doubt if that man will even be blessed amongst women.

It is not far fetch to occupy the footnote on every page of the bible with the timeless postulate of Saint Martin Luther (1483-1546) that:

“Who loves not wine, woman and song,
Remains a fool his whole life long”

A word is enough for a man who has an ear. Peace!