It is very sickening the way Nigerian bloggers carry on as if they have the whole world at their feet. Not all Nigerian bloggers, but a uppity few who have made fame and fortune from blogging, and have let all that get to their head. They feel they are too high up on the social media food chain to care about those at the lower strata. They hold their parochial world in fiefdom, lording it over us zombies.

They no longer remember you as a chat mate of those early days of tweeting and facebooking. They find no cause to reply your messages. When they care to give you any attention they spill their spleen on their status updates about friends clogging their inboxes with all sorts of unsolicited messages. They don’t respond anymore when you tag them to a note. They manage to send you expletive dotted message to stop tagging them to your stupid notes. When you add them to a group, oh how they curse you silly for taking such liberties. They delete your arse if you dare try to reason with them. They have more friends and followers than they care to know. They are famous, and if you’re not Barack Obama, Donald Thrump, or Steve Jobs come back from the dead, you’d better go down wind. You would think they have Mark Zuckerberg eating out of their hands, you would think they just aquired Google and Yahoo, and Microsoft the way they strut their stuff- these “famous my arse” Nigerian Bloggers. They don’t seem to need anybody, but the whole world need them.

The foregoing does not come to me as surprise. It is The Nigerian Syndrome. Popularity breeds fame, fame breeds certain measure of power, and power corrupts. I have since stopped following many of these morons. They have nothing to offer anybody. They have great popular following is what keeps them up there. But there are others who still manage a kind word to individuals and groups in their network.

This is salute to you Myne Whitman of Naijastories.com; Pa Ikhide R. Ikheloa of Xokigbo.worpress.com; Tosin Otitoju of realbubbler.blogspot.com; Linda Ikeji of Lindaikeji.com; Bola Essien-Nelson of thediaryofadeparatenaijawoman; Umari Ayim of Umariayim.com; Chuma Nwokolo of African-Writing. To name but few good ones I really respect.

And one word to the others with bloated egos “Be kind to those you meet on your way up, as you will meet them again on your way down. And certainly, no matter how high your head is in the clouds, you will come down some day”. Even if I’ve not stopped following your blog, you have lost my respect, you fucking-shit-talking-ass.



“Love swells like the Solway, and ebbs like its tide…”
~Sir Walter Scott~

Our love was so real we could practical feel each other’s heartbeats; it was so sweet we could actually taste each other’s kiss; it was so thorough we virtually saw the sun rise and set in other’s eyes; so divine we truly took each other for the center of the universe; the waves of that love practically swept us off our feet. We fell in love, and rode the crest of the waves, but we crashed out when the tide ebbed.

The Story of My Girlfriend And I is not the story of a love scam, it is the Story of What Goes Down When The Tides Ebb.

It all started with an Idle banter on a friends facebook wall. A friend (chuks) posted on his wall that studies have shown that men with big dicks have small brains. My comment disputing that claim earned me some acclamation, and I made new friends. Bandile, Adrian, Tselane, and Yewande. I accepted all their requests pronto. I had commented that I was endowed both at the up and down stairs. That “I have made great investments up North, yet my assets down South wasn’t doing bad at all”.

Yewande did not become my friend until we met again on another friend’s wall. It was a discussion about food. I had commented that I was a good cook, and I like to tease and please with my culinary skills. Yewande replied that she will marry any man who can cook, then I said “marry me, and I will serve you breakfast in bed for the next 100 years happily ever after.” As at that time, she had the picture of a pretty young woman as her profile picture.

She later made me understand that she is married, but we become good friends. We could chat about anything and at anytime and at any length. She made me understand that she was in an abusive marriage. I counseled her to work out her relationship with her husband. She said no, that she was separating from him. I turned around and encouraged her to leave for the reason that abusive relationships don’t improve. And she told me she intended to never reunite with Musa- the Gambian Muslim, she had married. She had had previous unsuccesful marriages, and several lovers before Musa. We are both Nigerians, She lives in London, and I live in Lagos. We closed the gap (nicely) with a digital bridge we built all on our own.

I had become her counselor and guide. She trusted my judgments. They seem to always work for her. We exchanged telephone numbers, Email adresses, mailing Addresses and residential addresses. We talked about anything and everything that catches our budding amorous fancy. I was lusty and she was too. She send me a message on my facebook inbox, that she’s going to take me on the “dinner in bed for 100 years” offer. I saw that as a come on sign. A little internet flirting won’t hurt anybody, and I am not such a cad to spurn a lady’s romantic overtures. I obliged her for a online dating. It was a beautiful experience for me. I was learning a lot of things I never new was possible. We had fone sex many times. We meet in dreams at night, my days are filled with thoughts of her. I tell you, it was a profound amorous experience for me. I discovered a lot of new things about myself that period until the bubble burst.

She is a good hearted woman. She love africa and everything africa. She has values for books, and respects me for being a writer and researcher. She loved my poetry and I wrote her loads of them. We exchanged some books and CDs. But we have irreconcilable differences. She hates white people, and I don’t; she likes voyeurism (pornography) and I loath it; she smokes weed, I don’t smoke at all; she is a far older woman (than she pretended to be). She is the mother of a full grown and independent man, the mother of a married young lady, and carer to 12-year old Gbenga (her last born son) who suffers from autism. She wants no more kids, I want to get married and have kids. She wanted me all to herself for keeps, but I have a life I am just starting to live.

She started having problems with my female online friends. Nobody (especially white females) dare say a kind word to me. When she chats at me and I don’t reply quickly enough, she says I am chatting with my KKK whitechicks, when she calls and I don’t receive the call on the first ring, she say I am busy fucking some woman. When I fall asleep during late night communications, she says it is deliberate.

Then she wanted me to install a webcam so she could see me live. She sent me £25 to procure a internet modem and a webcam. I got the modem but no webcam. She sent another £22 for webcam and internet subscription. But before I could do that, she further instructed to used the money to conduct some research into some historical facts about African history, and african deities. This was to help her get stuff to post on her new facebook page on negritude. I did. And it was a continuous project. She liked the research stuff I was sending her and she was using them as her own. She also sent me a BlackBerry fone to improve chatting between us. But our differences got in the way of our otherwise fine romance. Communication started breaking down. She want my every second of the minute attention (bad connection was no acceptable excuse)

She had some problems with the British authorities which, I believe totally unhinged her. The British Government wanted to put her autistic child in a special school, so he may learn such basic life skills as using the potty, wiping his own arse, and feeding himself, and walk straight and stop banging his head on the wall all night. But she will not have it. She contracted a attorney to plead her case. She wanted the boy with her always (the government actually gives welfare packages- money, and traveling allowances to carers: carers are citizens living with invalid family members) the boy was her single source of income. If Gbenga is taken away, then she will have to find work and fend for herself. That was not what she was ready to do. I offered to help at that time. The offer blew up in my face.

I offered to be with her to help raise the boy, whom I had fallen In love with- poor little boy. My family had always wanted me to go back to school (I am a university drop out). My sponsor wanted me to secure a overseas admissions in America. I had previously turned down that offer before I met Yewande. But now, I want to use that offer to get into University of East London to study journalism, and be close to her and her son, since they live in East London. She said It was a good thinking, she liked it, and will do her part to see that I achieve my goals. And we will be together. But a little later she started asking what happens when I wish to get married and have kids of my own? I said I don’t know, that when the time comes things will take care of themselves. We had a long argument. She ended up disagreeing with my proposal. And now she accuses me of being like every other African who wants to get out. That I was trying to use her to get a British green card. That is not true! Our relationship started going down hill from then. She had always warned me to never conceive traveling to the UK, that it the UK, especially England, was one racist plantation, where black people are forever subject to slavish servitude. I broke the creed. My objective viewpoint on the issue of colour separation. I am one colour-blind artist. She is an artist too. She mess with colours- she paints.

My mom took grievously ill sometime last year. She was diagnosed with a blood-sugar related ailment, and was admitted into the Emergency Unit of the University of Benin Teaching Hospital. There was an intense pressure on me as my mom’s eldest child and her supporter. I turned to my dear Yewande in trust for help. There has never been such embarrassingly inauspicious time to turn to a friend for help. She responded by calling me liar and scammer. She said she’d watched some vidoes on YouTube interview with Nigerian scammers. She said she is wiser now to my tricks, eish! “There is no trick here for christ’s fucking sakes” That was when she took to the internet to warn the whole world about me. Sending inbox messages to all my female friends. My very good friends told her off. And scorned her, and stuck to me more, even if I was the very devil.

Things got so bad. I struggled to redeem her image of me. Even if she cannot have a love relationship with me, I wanted to be her friend. But no, she’d had more than enough of me, and from me. I had to return the books she’d given me before. She asked for her BlackBerry, but I don’t have it, since I lost it. I proposed to replace it ASAP, but no! She wanted her BlackBerry back. I was a thief, I had robbed her. I can as well keep it. That is the last time I spoke with her. She no long take my calls, or return my missed calls, or reply my SMS’s and Emails. I still want her for my friend, in a new understanding. But I am the fool. She’d had enough of me from me. She’s moved on. I am the fool.

The moral of the story is: The Devil don’t only wear Prada, The Devil is your Online date. Keep your head, be yourself, if you are honestly in love with this friend don’t make it a life career to prove it. The short of it is: online love, like most unproven conjectures, is real. It is like a knife. If you think it is not real, try cutting your own throat with it.

The Devil Rides In Buses

I think I really should consider driving in this hectic Lagos traffic. Bus-ridding is no longer convenient and cheap for me. Everyday I am compelled to put up with bull craps. Rubbing shoulders with the wrong people; getting smeared with other people’s sweat; having to endure and not drop dead from Mr. StinkBreathe’s endless chatter; inhaling putrid farts in airless spaces, and the verbal abuses of arrogant conductors, who pretends they don’t speak a word of English. Lagos bus conductors, they hate you on sight if you’re wearing pressed, clean shirt or polished shiny shoes, or if you’re holding a book, or have a pen stuck on your breast-pocket.

I wonder if this lady has a boil somewhere on her hind as she cannot seem to sit still for more than 2 seconds. Her constant movement is just chafing away my left side ribs, and trampling on, my already fired, nerves. Every 2 second of the long dragging hot afternoon hour, she turns left, or right, back and forth poking my ribs every so often. At every 70th beat of my racing heart, she changes position and virtually sits her big arse on my already sagged shoulder. She knows what she is doing, as she turns her head to face me- looking right through me- I don’t even like her face… now she done it again… Eish! If she was a guy, I will never have forgiven her misdemeanor. It is not her fault. I have no cogent reason other than lack of audacity to drive my self- with all the space I need, breathing my own fart, in the factory-fitted a/c, Nissan Sentra idling away at home this minute. Eish!

*shhh* she’s dozed off. The mass of her body seems at rest, but, blimey! Her head rests on my shoulder. Now I dare not move, else I arouse her and the onslaught starts over again.

I guess I should just tune off, plug-in my ear piece, and start to count “one thousand sheep, two thousand sheep… Three thousand sheep…” better still, I should be counting my blessings and naming them one by one. Most life’s troubles come as blessings in disguise eh? I will remember to do that the next time, or when Miss mill-stone eventually gets off this bus and let me enjoy my ride. I may have to get down sooner to preserve my sanity, anyhow. Eish!


I am not exactly a techno geek, and I am not a complete bimbo either. But there’s this uncanny experience I have every time I deal with cybertech things. Such things as Mobile phones, laptops, palm tops, TV remote controls, game pads, light switches even door knobs, and such things as elevators and automobile (unless it has no wheels) I can’t even manage the zippers on my pants. Such experiences like forgetting to press the red button to end a call unless you made the call; such things as using the phone’s backlight to search for the same phone in the dark and throwing tantrums and things, when I can’t find it. I always find the missing phone when I discover I have thrown it against the wall. such experiences as collecting the components and taking them to the phone repairer at the computer village at Ikeja who does nothing more than couple the parts to make it work again, and I had to dole out monies for that simple service.

Well, I am not exactly a moron; even if I am, I am not the type that will seat on the TV and watch the couch. I know what end of my anatomy my head is screwed unto. I am not an ass. I know what an ass is, and I am not it. But I guess such moronic acts like pointing the VHS-player remote control at the Home theater and complaining that “these chinko gadgets don’t work” is telling. You wouldn’t hesitate to label me, would you? But that won’t help, unless you leave me be. Good christian folks leave me be.

Currently, I am faced with a new kind of threat: CASHLESS SOCIETY. There are no other words or words combination in the universe that has inspired insomnia, and nightmares in me. The circumstance of a cashless society would have been different and happy for me if not for the fear of ATM, which has been my wisdom till now.

My ATM cards have minds of their own, otherwise, they are possessed. The ATM that is the joy of Banking ease, is nightmare to me. It has never worked, it doesn’t look like it is going to work for me in this new order of cashless society. My financial institution never seem to be available when I needed to withdraw cash. All I get is a ticket for trying. But I am smart enough to hand my card, together with the PIN code, to the next user to help me withdraw cash from the machine. It works all the time, till I forgot to take back my card from one good samarithan. It was just my good thinking, more than luck, that I had withdrawn everything down to NGN 0.86 that one last time. So I forego the blasted card. Good riddance.

I opened a new account with a new generation bank. I didn’t ask for a ATM card, but I had one foisted on me, my name boldly engraved in block, gold fonts on the sky blue surface of the card. My account manager handed me the card with so much inflection you would think he was doing me one mighty favour. Inside me I was screaming “chei, chei, cheiiiii! Not another one”. Now the card is never at hand when I needed it.

I always, always, always forget my ATM card at home. To arrest this development, I bought a wallet and have the card stuffed permanently in the wallet: I started forgetting my wallet at home. I resort to always keeping the card in the pocket of the dress I planned to wear: I always forget and wear another one, leaving the card back home: Weird. I did the weird thing to have my ATM card under my control. I punched a bigass hole in the middle, and tied it with a shoe laced around my neck. There was no way I was going to forget the little imp at home that time. I lost that ATM card pronto.

The ATM machine proclaimed “please insert your card” I did. It said, nicely, “please enter your sacred number: I typed 0803 (the first four digits of my mobile phone number). I pressed “proceed”, next I pressed “withdrawal” next I entered the amount I needed. Nothing happened. I tried again, nothing happend. The machine asked if I would love to perform another operation? I had started punching the buttons on the keyboard with a mind to type “give back my fucking ATM card, moron!” when I realized the keyboard had only numbers- no Q-W-E-R-T-Y. What cretins these mindless robots are? Then I pressed yes, it “said again in that same nice voice “please enter your sacred number”. This time, I used my middle finger to type the secret PIN code: 0803. Then I pressed inqury to find out what was wrong with my card. Nothing happened. I waited for something to happen. By now, the queue behind me had gotten longer, and has formed a “M”. It was just begining to form “M-O-“. I wasn’t going to stand there till the ever-lenghtening queue spell out my name. Tempers were running short. Patience was in shorter supply. Goodwill was fast running out. But my ATM card of a devil seems to have found a new home. I felt like a big fat “O”: not O for Oprah, but O as in Oaf. Standing at the head of a long coiling, twisting, name-spelling queue, a looped shoe lace hanging from my neck like a goat that has broken free of its tether. I Stood there, forlorn, in front of a dumb Automated Teller Machine, screaming unprintable vocabulations, holding up traffic, breaking out in a profusion of cold sweat. I don’t remember anything afterwards.

Now the premonitions for CASHLESS SOCIETY have transmogrified into a big fat-ass monstrous fear. I can no longer rest easy as more gadgetry has been imposed on us cyber-challenged folks: some look like scorpions, some others looked like giant spiders- ain’t scared of those critters in their God-made-nature forms, but when they transform to cyberthings, I shit my pants (metaphorically speaking)

There is one particular new gadget- a mobile-phony-looking thingy mingy. It is called PUS, POS or something like that. It has a slot where you swipe your card. I hear it don’t dispense no cash, but depletes your account balance like zip. Now, ain’t gone and like this pussy any better than the ATM. You see? it get’s worse. Cashless Society don’t work for the greatest happiness of the greatest number, unless it is just me. There is a OCCUPY CASHLESS SOCIETY COMING SOON TO LAGOS, and at the head of the long line of protesters will be yours sincerely.