Man is a predator and a territorial creature. The hunting season is the best of times for a brotha- any brotha and for me. I have clearly defined my own territory at the bar, as the buzz of the party: the small talks, champagne-inspired laughter, the clinking sound of glasses touching other glasses, the overarching sound of sweet music- Dare Art Alade’s rendition of “Sisi Eko”, flowing about, and meandering among the cheerful guests in the crowded room. I have cornered a delectable chic, Alero she said was her name. Putting on my enigmatic Frank Edoho mien, I asked:

“Are you here alone, Ma’am?”

my gaze was riveting between her tempting-to-touch cleavage and the bright red-lip-sticked kissable mouth. The half-empty flute of bubbling champagne gripped gingerly between the thumb and fore-finger of her right hand; her right arm folded across her breasts, pushing and swelling them up.

“Hmmm!” she grunted in reply, sipping from her half-full glass of frothy at that moment. Her eyes narrowed into mere slits, observing me quizzically from behind long, mascara-ladden lashes. I expected her to have flashed a wedding band, or ring-less fingers in my view, like unescorted socialite ladies are wont to do, but she did no such thing. That put me on track, ‘cos I had rehearsed this scene and prepared a 20-strategic-questions-technique of hooking up. I had the presence of mind to throw in some dash of humour and further quizzed her:

“That question is for ten million Naira. So if you’re going to call a friend now, who will you call?

She flicked her hair, and cocked her head to one side, revealing a masterfully sculptured neck adorned with a shimmering gold necklace. She Batted her long eye lashes at me as she blinked rapidly- I know that sign- She Pouted her red lips and I confirmed that she was for the taking. That sign was the “come on” sign. I thought I got myself the hook up alright. So I played my next hand:

“You only got “50-50”. You can’t ask the audience and you can’t walk away now.

She laughed. The tone of her laughter sounding sweet and sensuous, musy, inviting, encouraging and caressingly nice. I loved it.

“Married? Kids?” I asked
“Just kidding”. I interjected to forestall her reply. This technique encouraged her prolonged laughter. That was to open her wide for the hit that was coming at her. I couldn’t have missed.

But her eyes rolled upward and inward as if she was searching for answers in the twinkling chandeliers. I guessed that time that she was only trying to get her champagne-fuzzied head around my seductive overtures. I was just going to go in for the kill when she unexpectedly said, in a rather probing manner I was hardly prepared for;

“Yes, I am married. Why do you ask?” .
Not to be caught napping in the game of seduction, I dropped the Frank Edoho drill, and shifted gear to Brad Pitt mode.

“Of course, I expected you to be… married. Mouthing the last word as if it had a nasty-pill taste. Without waiting for a reply, I continued in the Brad Pitt mode:

“All the good ones are taken. But what kind of “maaaaaarried” are you? Happily, ‘maaaaaarried’?”

Her eyebrow raised in a sinister way that reminded me of the shape of the Question Mark. But I said further:

“I ask you because I need to know if we are on the same page… You are very beautiful and I am not a holy man, yeah?. But we can be on the same page, yeah?” I switched on my killer-smile that time. I do not possess the world’s most perfect set of teeth. But I have spent hours on end in front of mirrors, at home, in the car at the office, and church, and parties, perfecting a parody of the “Knock ’em Dead” Barak Obama smile. It works all the time, and it was working that time. She opened up in a wan smile. That’s how it works- A smile begat a smile. And there is no light greener than a lady’s smile.

“Gotcha!” I thought to myself, and was just about to nail it when Richard M.D. suddenly materialised at her side; a half-emptied bottle of Moet gripped in his left hand. His right hand took her by the elbow, gently steering her around and away from me. The dude flashed a nice set of fangs and said sweetly to me, if you will excuse me, sir, I like to borrow my wife back”.

“Hey, bros na you? Area, I dey hail o!” I saluted him, and he saluted back, rather waved me off. But not before I got the message in his menacing scowl, and the manner his fist closed around the neck of the wine bottle. The coded word was “piss-off, you fucking lecher, I go burst bottle for your head if I catch you”. I watch the man lead the beautiful woman away. Her waistline wiggling ever so invitingly and mesmerising. My gaze was cross-haired on the receding butty, and I had my hand to my pouted lips waiting to blow her a kiss if she would turn to give me a parting look. But she never did. When I lost my visual of her, I quietly slithered away to hunt for some other preys. The party was just starting. It was the hunting season and the best of times.



I just come out of confession, but I still feel the heavy burden of sin weighing me down. I have unloaded as much sins as I could remember- such sins as ogling the delectable Titilayo; such sin as having sexual designs on Linda Ikeji, and some other horrible deeds too sinful to mention here- and the Father, in his mercy, had forgiven them all. I had taken some extra time during my confession, racking my brains, trying get around the cobwebs inside my head, to remember other non-kosher indulgences. Smoking weed? well, the Magnanimous Reverend Father wouldn’t know what to do about that. The Holy Book is silent on dope, and the priests look the other way when cannabis is mentioned in confession.

A gorgeous red lipstick lady walked in the confessional as I walked out. Observing her, I wonder what load of sin she bears. I feel merciful towards her. I wish I was a priest, I could have relieved her of the heavy load she bear. Well, I got me a penance of 10 Hail Marys to do for the remission of the sins I just confessed. But there is something I have forgotten to mention during my session with the confessor.

I am sitting here now on the front pew, in the quiet church. The Statue of the Virgin Mary staring straight at me, knowingly, the beginning of a sensuous smile playing around her lips. The bleeding life size Jesus hanging from a huge cross, is glaring at me as if I was Pontius Pilate- He was supposed to be dead or unconscious, but he looks fit enough to rip my sinful neck from my shoulders. There too is Saint Joseph, husband of Mary, beside her, disapprovingly scowling at me. I am glad that he is only a statue and can’t do shit. “Shit” that reminds me of the forgotten sin. It has to do with (poop). Now I want another session at the confession- it is free afteral. One of the benefits of being a Christian is all your offenses (except sins against The Spiritus Sanctus) are forgiven free of charge. Sometimes playing back the tape of your sinful indulgence is not kosher you know. It is quite a chore to be objective about them too.

So here we are: me sitting my arse on the hard bench, waiting another turn in the confessional, Miss Red Lip seems to be taking forever in there, I wonder if they- she and the father- have both slept off in the confessional. I am all alone with these spooky cold staring statues: the glaring Jesus- the son; his virgin Mother; and Saint Joseph The Father. I wish they would talk to me now. The church is quite enough to hear their still small voices. I can’t remember if I flushed after using the WC yesterday at Titilayo’s office. This unconfessed sin is really nagging at me. I can’t remember if I actually committed that grievous offense sin.

I met with Titilayo yesterday- yes, I did, it was in the open; I shook her hand- yes I did but the handshake didn’t go beyond the elbow; I ogled her cleavages- no I didn’t. She had a pretty string of beads around her neck. Wasn’t she wearing a turtleneck? It was nice meeting her again. Titilayo has the this magnetic aura that envelopes you quickly; and that Angelic face that matches her caressing voice cannot be missed. Just before that meeting I had had the need to go. I asked and the receptionist showed me to the cleanest, best scented, most adequately equipped, and functional Men’s Room I have ever seen in a corporate establishment based in Lagos. The porcelain of the WC was so clean you could eat your dinner in it. It was really cozy with a collection of Magazine to flip through, and music from the speaker streaming in, the sound bouncing off the pure white ceramic tiled wall. I could have stayed in there from 9am to 5pm without being fatigued. No mosquito even bothered me while in there. My poop was almost brimming over by the time I was done. I would still have been there for another hour but my phone had rung unusually loud in that secluded space. It was Titilayo calling to find out if I had left before the recording session. I had hastily wiped my arse. I remember washing my hands because I got back to the lobby with wet dripping hands. But did I flush that toilet brimming with my shit? I can’t seem to remember, and it is a most grievous sin if I hadn’t flushed that toilet.

I have a almost cult like reverent fetish for clean places, person or things. I believe it is a most grievous sin to tarnish clean people- people with clean hands, hearts and conscience; or to desecrate places like that clean and hallowed Men’s Room at Inspiration FM, or a sparkling clean porcelain WC’s, with unflushed poop. It is most likely I had forgotten to flush. there are two things God hates the most: a lying tongue, and an unflushed toilet. I hate these two things too. So I must make a confession for it. But if it so happens that I have flushed the toilet, then this extra Mea Culpa will be a credit I can draw on anytime soon. I wait my turn for a mea culpa.


He had a large wooden crucifix dangling from his collared neck. He’d boarded at the same time I did. He started with greeting the passengers familiarly as if he was the Omini-Scient, and as if he knew everyone. He said his name, but I didn’t get it that time, but I have a name for him now- Hustler. With a facetious smile, the overtly cheerful Reverend Gentleman asked everyone to close their eyes for prayer. I didn’t. He did not wait for any evident response from me or the other passengers before he commenced praying for everybody and the engine and the wheels, even the spare-wheels- as if Moluès ever carry spare wheels. He rounded off the prayer with the wish that our enemies die by fire in Jesus’s name, and he got a resounding “Amen!”. He next opened his tome of a badly dog-eared bible with a sticker on it proclaiming FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN MINISTRIES, and started to read aloud:

“…The kingdom of God suffereth violence, and the violent taketh it by force…” Yada yada yada… “The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want… Yakety yakety yak… Hallelujah”. And he got a Hallelujah response. I expected him, at that point, to demand (subtly) for the inevitable free-will offerings, but he had other plans obviously. He’d started to sing familiar gospel songs, many of my fellow passengers readily joined in. Soon the relatively smoothly coasting bus-ride had become a riotous orgy as the sound of Jesus-praising-and-Satan-condemning singing frenzy kept ascending in deafening crescendos. It was all so confusing and disorienting that I had joined in the hullabaloo, so did the bus driver and conductors.

Only one heavily-bearded Alfa kept his turbaned head and his cool in that bedlam. The kaftan-clad Muslim Cleric was standing by the only exit (which was also the only entry doorway) to the Moluè, bearing a red carry-all bag in one hand, and sliding the beads of his tasbir chaplet through the fingers of his other hand. I have been observing this man with some curiosity, since he boarded the bus at Anthony Oke. I was wondering what he had on his mind, or in that sinister-looking bag with indecipherable black Arabic scripts all over it’s red surface? What was he murmuring as he worked his lips and worked his string of prayer beads? Perhaps the doxology of 99 names of Allah (SWOT) or the Astagafir’llah chant for the remission of some private haram. I am sure other passengers were observing him as well as I was. He struck a curious figure: the six-feet of him, framed by the bus’s doorway- turban and beards and all. He could have been Mr. Bin Laden come back from the dead for all I know. Just after the rest of us have lost our senses to the cacophony of loud singing, thunderous feet-thumping, and bus-roof-raising hollering- I had lost interest in him, I am sure other folks did too, as we were caught in the rapturous holy rocking and rolling started by that Preacher Man. By the time the noise subsided, and the Preacher had begun to accept our free-will offerings, the Bin Laden look-alike had disappeared.

The bus had rolled into Iyáná-Iworo bus stop, and a XL Plus-size woman wanted to alight from the bus, but she couldn’t get over or past the bag that the Alfa had left behind, blocking the bus’s exit. She struggled like a fly caught in a spider’s web.

“Ah, Na whom get this bag o, ah? (Hissed) abeg Come and remove your… ehn… ehn… ehn this bag o! make I pass o! Ah! Omo-Condor, abi na whom get this bag shaa? I wan’ pass make I bolè ni ah”

The large woman was asking, punctuating her sentence with idiosyncrasies that gave her away as a Yoruba, couple with the heavy accent and ample behind.

“Chei! Wia is that Alfa, wey him stand for hia? na him wey get that bag o, for wia him come go na? Nna men all this aboki di kwa stupid o! (Hissed)”

Replied the Ibo-sounding red-lipsticked lady sitting to my left. On my own, I was wondering how could that “rag-head” have alighted from the bus leaving his ominous-looking bag, blocking the only exit of the cramped bus? One other fellow had verbally echoed my thoughts in a loud spine-chilling doomsday voice:

“Kai, kai! Make I no touch am for that bag fa! Wana kaya, akwei bokwo haram, walahi t’ Allahi, this na bokwo haram fa!”

The bus suddenly erupted, much like a dormant volcano, in frenetic surge of bodies: all 44-sitting-99-standing people moved all at the same instant. I made for the nearest window where an Emergency Exit would have been in a normal commuter bus. I wasn’t alone in that scrambling mad dash for safety. But I got knocked down and out by the flailing elbow of that Reverend Gentleman- his hand, still clutching the Naira notes he’d collected as free-will offering, if I had been in my hustler right frame of mind, I would have made a sweeping grab for the money- but Safety First was the code in a Life & Death situation. I landed on my back, a heavy darkness suddenly descended and hit me smack on the face, and I was cut-off from all sound and vision and breathe: I don’t know what happened next, it was a total blackout. I can remember the excruciating pains as a avalanche of seething bodies was pounding and grinding me into minced meat against the metal floor of the Moluè’s isle. I discovered I didn’t have enough adrenaline in my 75kg body mass to have metamorphosed into a Incredible Hulk, to push the mountain of flesh off me. Was it enough adrenaline? Or was it enough faith I lacked to have moved that mountain? I still don’t know, but I know for sure that I could have died of suffocation and splintered ribs, but death would have been merciful in comparison to the gripping fear and helplessness I felt. I couldn’t even cry out in pain, I couldn’t even bring myself to recite the “Hail Mary… pray for us sinners now, the hour of our death”. It was terrible. Hell couldn’t have been a worse off experience than what I went through in those few gruelsome seconds that felt like eternity.

I thought I was dying, or had died and was going to hell, when I’d begun to see some light at the end of what looked and felt like a long narrow tunnel, but just then, the smoldering darkness lifted: daylight returned and so did sound, and breathe of life, but my whole body was numb, especially my face. It was the mountain-size Yoruba woman who had fallen on top of me- we have been lying there in a “69” position- she on top, me under- her very large fleshy bottom had been pressing down on my face, shutting out the living daylight and sound of the world around me. If she’d farted that time, I guess my autopsy would have revealed “asphyxiation” or “poison gas” or a combination of the two as cause of death. Thank goodness, she didn’t let go of a stinker that time.

I realized that the panic had subsided. No bomb had gone off. The turbaned Alfa was back, explaining and unloading the contents of his sinister baggage: A kaftan, a hijab, a pile of unwashed boxer shots, a skull-cap a water kettle, and a prayer-mat, a bunch of chewing-sticks, packs of a camel brand of cigarettes a small transister radio, and some other inconsequential knick-knacks like a half-eaten gworro, and kilichi. He was gesturing and talking fast in a mix of Northern-Nigerian language and broken English. He really looked agitated and harassed. I’m sure he had innocently gotten off the bus to squat and pee at the roadside when the bus stopped to drop and pick up passengers at the bus stop, inadvertently setting off the alarm. Now he’s been made to declare his assets and clear himself. There were really no life-threatening items in that ominous red bag afteral. The dude look vulnerable now, and harmless from an objective viewpoint.

The panic was set off by a false alarm. This is not surprising in light of the bombings and going-ons in some other parts of the country. But it is very annoying to note that we Lagosians cannot conduct ourselves with decorum even in a panic situation. All this happened at a period when Lagos was under “code red” alert. The Boko Haram group had threatened to bomb the Third Mainland Bridge- the bridge connecting the Mainland to the Island of Lagos. The Third Mainland Bridge, spanning the expanse of the Lagos Lagoon which divides the beautiful and the Ugly, the rich and the poor, the uppity and the base, the sense and nonsense, the clean and the dirty of Lagos. Panic had gripped me as well as every Lagosian who ply The Third Mainland Bridge regularly. That incidence has been a wake-up-call to the government and people of Lagos State. Panic creates fear, fear makes cowards of people, and cowards die many times before they meet their maker. Lagos folks should shine their eyes well, well before they fly into panic and send a innocent man to an early grave unnecessarily like they almost did to me.


She was fucking me, fucking this friend of mine, and fucking The Reverend Father too. Now I learnt she’s had three abortions, recently. I’m sure none of us Brothas know whose babies they were. Gosh! to think she calls me “baby”. I wonder what nicks she calls my friend? “sucker” perhaps- and whether she calls The Father baby too? You just never know with these Daughters of Eve.

What does a man think of when’s he’s got a hard on? I know I wasn’t thinking about consequences that time, when I first got her laid. I know also that all the thinking I was doing under the influence of the surging testosterone , were coming from my midriff. When I first fucked Gloria, it was one of those spur of the moment things- when a light just suddenly go up in your head and you begin to see things in different shades. I had visited her in her family home after Church; We got talking about Holy Mass, shit and stuff, and we’d begun to cuddle and kiss passionately. We had a hot sex right on the carpet of her family living room, with the doors and windows open and the kids playing noisily on the veranda. They could have walked in on us, but they never did, or they did, but I never get to know about it. And that was one of my sweetest sexcapades ever, and the beginning of countless steamy and adventurous sex romps with Gloria.

Now women are state of the art perfection. I love women, and I adore them. But I have begun to rethink my sexuality lately. I am going gay, if the bone of my own bone, and flesh of my own flesh don’t swallow my hooked bait soon. I mean this, I have never meant anything more than this, not even the Apostles Creed. Worse case scenario, I will declare celibacy for life. Sexuality has been my one insecure line of attraction to women, I want a sure deal now.

I have always deluded myself thinking that my greatest attraction to the womens’ folk was their intelligence and intuitive perception of what a man wants. Women (most women) are very intelligent and intelligence in the “weaker sex” has great fascination for me- oh lawdy, the inspiring kinks. I saw, or thought I saw, in Gloria the same disposition I saw in Oprah Winfery, in Naomi Campbell or Michelle Obama. I am the most blessed amongst Men to have made the acquaintances of Tosin- my Rocket Scientist Girlfriend, my Wordsmith Genius amor Jumoke, and My Mona Lisa Look-alike chic Aisha, and Nkechi my Quantum Physicist companion, and Comfort The Diplomat. But this Gloria of a girl was a mirage. I wonder what I was smoking when I fell for her ouvres.

It comes to some as a surprise that I love and adore women- intelligent women; me, I am not surprised: I love and adore My Mother and My Sister. Other women are folks Mothers and Sisters. The people who have misunderstand my stand, sadly are women- mostly. But I am not ashamed. I have such great capacity to love, and I have an inexhaustible supply of affection that I need a harem of women of substance to realize my full potentials. But I have never been lucky in my relationships. There is always this Frankenstein complex in the women I fall in love with and date. They always enter my life- coming in gently as doves, and they always exit- slithering away like serpents.

The shock of my recent realization with Gloria leaves me choking on the forbidden apple I have gorged myself on. Gloria could have known better than fuck my friend- same dude who takes tutorials from me on Feminology. She can never commit a more unforgivable sin than fuck The Reverend Father and not tell. Her jealous sister, Sandra, who has a pathological crush on me had blown the whistle on her. The shit hit the fan and some got spattered on my face; ‘cos I was looking up to heaven and asking God “What The Fuck?”


Big ass women are high maintenance, no plaything for a struggling Brotha. Except, perhaps, by special might or grace of the wind falling the apple unto his laps. My friend Bisi is a big ass woman, and I, struggling brotha, fear to make passes at her. Despite the fact that merely looking at those nice booties gives me the woody hard on everytime, I still could not summon the courage to ask Bisi out.

I could be humping another chick, but my staying power would be imagining Bisi’s Big Ass- especially the cleavage. Oh, how I long to take Bisi from behind. I could go on and on and on, huffing and puffing, smilling happily all the nine inch way, in and out, in and out, in and out, for an hour- no viagra, no red bull, no Alomo Bitters, just the sustained mental image of Bisi’s Mightily endowed ass on my mind. It is working for me like mega-hyper aphrodisiac. Even when I jack off, it is the mental image of Bisi’s voluptuous backside that keeps me going like a horny horse, but I want the real thing, oh God, I need to fuck Bisi, and from behind too. Hossanna be the day I will get to lay Bisi, but the fear of rejection is a fucking deterant to my manoevre.

If my fear of Big ass women is a good thing, like the beginning of wisdom, I do not know it. What you don’t know won’t hurt you ai? The absence of hurt is pleasure, yeah? But I still fear for my reputation, as regarding Bisi’s high level of Christian respect for me. All I know is that the deterant is an irritant keeping me back from a great discovery and accomplishment. I have never layed a big ass woman save in my wet dream and lascivious imagining.

Such ample ass as Bisi’s are the territory of money-miss-road aristos, or some highly endowed gigolo. I could be wrong though, and I will be glad to be proven wrong in this respect. However, the burning desire to plunge the whole almost-nine-inch of my dipper into Bisi’s simmering honey pot for a scoop, is a great motivation to hustle. I must make a whole bag of money, like those aristos, soon or die trying. I also must hone my casanova ouvre to improve my chance of getting spotted by a big ass sugar mummy. But how I hunger and thirst and yearn to take a big bite off Bisi’s tempting forbidden apple. How I yearn.


RMD said Aunty Linda Ikeji should go “and get a life.” She neither replied “no o!, mbanu!” nor said “yes, I do”. I guess it is because she got a fab life going for her already, since she has me in her life, as her fbboyfriend, and tweetheart.

If I were Uncle Richy, I will tell her to go and get a husband. Maybe that will make her say “yes I do” to me. With a hubby like me, Linda will get her arms full. Then she will be too busy to poke her pretty nose into other people’s N280 million home affairs.

Linda Ikeji’s blog (amebo blog that is) seem to cause vexation and angry attacks, born of envy and jealousy, from celebrities mostly Nollywoodian celebrities”. Many of them too dumb to run a successful blog like she does. Many don’t even know where the @ key is on the computer keyboard. All they can manage is pinging-ponging on the blackberrys and strutting as if they invented the silver screen.

I like Aunty Linda better than Nollywound people. Those people think they are a special breed, a race more superior to facebook and twitter celebs like Linda and I. Mtssschhewwwww. There are few amongst them I really really love and respect. I wish they will leave Nollywood for Ghollywood, or Bollywood or Hollywood or Yorubawood sef. I wish it, wallahi t’ Allahi: such bright and beautifull stars like Kate Henshshaw Nuttal- whom I still have a crush on since way back in the day of “When The Sun Sets”. Bimbo Akintola- who gives me a woody all the time, and a hug that day; MonaLisa Chinda- whom I can never stop to ogle; Stephanie Okereke- a Diva I will like to have as a siamese twin-sister in my next life (if karma allows).

Now this comes to me as a surprise that my Nollywood constellation comprises of mainly female stars. Well, I shouldn’t be surprise because RMD is the sole surviving favourite male star on my short list (Sam Loco Efe and Ashley Nwosu having gone up to join the stars of heaven) now RMD is going to disappoint me by fighting shamelessly with my sweetheart Linda Ikeji. I will delete him from my list if he don’t back down. RMD, this is a yellow card for you. The next sh!t that comes out of your banga-soup-eating-mouth, your ass gets fired.


Na wetin liers dey do sef? And haf Aunty Linda do for Uncle RMD wey him go carry her go for cot? This is the latest from the shit hitting the fast and furiously turning fan.

RMD “explores legal option” against Linda Ikeji. By Ben Ezeamalu premiumtimes (online news magazine)

Ms. Ikeji’s gossip blog continues to elicit angry reactions from celebrities.

The actor turned politician shot at Ms Ikeji, “If you find a dignified career path and work hard at it you will be too busy and successful to spread unfounded lies about people.”

Popular Nollywood actor Richard Mofe Damijo (popularly known as RMD) has said he is “exploring the option” of taking  model turned blogger, Linda Ikeji, to court.

Ms. Ikeji, on Friday, posted on her popular blog about a “palatial home” in Asaba, Delta State, worth about N250 million acquired by the top actor as he turned 51 the same day.

Responding to the publication via twitter, RMD told Ms. Ikeji to go “and get a life.”

“It has been brought to my attention that one Linda Ikeji character who I understand is a gossip has put up a story about my N250m,” said RMD, who is the Delta State Commissioner for Arts and Culture.

“Ordinarily I will never dignify her type with a response but with the calls, texts (and) bbms I (have) received I’d like to sound a warning to her (Ikeji) to desist from fabricating stories about me and get a life.”

While admitting that knowing the worth of a property is “not rocket science”; RMD advised Ms. Ikeji to find a “dignified career path.”

“If you find a dignified career path and work hard at it you will be too busy and successful to spread unfounded lies about people,” RMD said.

Ms. Ikeji’s gossip blog continues to elicit angry reactions from celebrities.

Tonto Dikeh and Susan Peters are other Nollywood starts who had lashed out at the blogger in the past.

Last June, Kola Boof, best selling Egyptian/Sudanese-American author described her as “a desperate pathetic person who twists her posts into lies.”

Culled from premiumtimesng


Watching Niki Minaj do her thing is so exhilarating. It’s like having sex after a long dry spell. I like it. So is watching Rihanna these days, and Beyoncé sometimes. For the records, I am not exactly a voyeurist, I just like to ogle. I ogle if the thing of beauty is actually beautiful, not just a beauty that starts and end in the beholder’s eye. I watch Niki Minaj for the same reason folks will travel round or half the world to see the Mona Lisa.

Okay. Niki Minaj, Rihanna, and Beyoncé, none of these are exactly The Mona Lisa. None of these divas even come close. With their skimpy thongs and thangs, and the sensual-art oeuvres that get to strumming my heartstrings all the time, Venus De Milo is most like it. I am of the mind that sistahs are more beautiful in their birthday suits than in fig leaves or sheepskin. So to my mind, Niki Minaj is more eyesome than The Mona Lisa, so is Beyoncé beautiful, and my sister Rihanna too. But the mother of them all will be Lady Gaga; and Madonna, their Grandma.


Illuminati is a Renaissance term for “the enlightened”. The people who have left the allegorical cave of the Dark Ages of ignorance, and are now following The Light- are the Illuminati.

Lume is latin for light. The word “luminous” (full of Light) is English, borrowed from the Latin. To be illuminated is to be in the light- to be enlightened, illuminated, not in the dark, but in the light (spotlight, limelight etc)

Like the Holy Scriptures say “if ye are the children of Light, then walk in the light. For ye were sometime darkness but now are ye light in the ‘Kyrios’- (Lord) “walk as Children of Light.” Our Lord did say that “… I am the Way The Truth and THE LIGHT”.

To be illuminated, therefore, is to be in the light. We could safely say we are enlightened because we walk in the light. We follow the light, we follow The Kyrios. The Bright Morning Star, the harbinger of greater illumination.

If ye are in Christ, therefore, Little Children, ye are ‘Illuminati’. The truth is always a hard nut to crack, but if one has got a strong head, cracking The Truth is a cinch. The only fear of condescending to crack open that nut of truth is the thought of what people think of your overtures.

I know of great many Good Christian folks, My Dear Mother inclusive, who will be among the firsts to cast stones at me if I told them that Jesus was not a Christian but an Illuminated One; and that he never founded a religion, but fostered Illuminati Principles. But I am not going to say that openly. I will not offend people’s beliefs, not my Ignorant-By-choice Mother’s Belief. She is a worthy example of a Good Faithful Christian. Talking about Faith and Truth, it will be an exercise in futility if reason is not considered in the discourse.

Faith, I hear, is the evidence of things hoped for, the substance of things not seen. What I take away from this aphorism is what comes to the glaring light that truth metaphorically walks a tight rope between faith and Reason. Now, that is quiet a stunt great many will fail at. Now that the stunt will fail, not if the tight rope snaps, but if faith or reason should shift grounds. Now this may seem a little sticky, but it is all we have to chew on if faith is sandwiched between “evidence and “substance”.

If the truth is blindfolded, we can still be confident that the tight-rope stunt will succeed unless there is a foul play from one or the twain of Faith and Reason.


Her age wrinkles are bellied by the generous dabbing of the Mary Kayish powder compact; the dark rings of her weary eyes are hidden under shadowy mascaras; and the uncompromising set of her hardlined mouth is effectively softened by a rouge lipstick smear. Lagos is a woman way past her prime. The impeccable, genteel, visage of this stylish hag, as seen on billboards and on TV, is a sham. She has a rotten core. Lagos wasn’t born this way, but a lot can happen in a one’s life to make or mar a one’s personality. Rumours have it that she is the bastard sister of Charles Dicken’s London. Like her sister, she’d been born in a Western Mega-City, but unlike her sister, who’d moved up North to live in a Modern Welfare State, she’d gone down South, driven by economic necessity to eke out a living in the in the slums. She had to deal with a hoard some 17 million hustlers, turning tricks. And doing good too.

You wouldn’t blame Lagos. She didn’t chose This life, This Life chose her. What more can you expect of a child abandoned by her parents to fend for herself before she reached the ripe maiden age of “Sweet Teen”. Nobody really cared for her. Forster parents and stewards, with whom she’d lived in her formative years, had subjected her to far too much unutterable experiences. It is perhaps decent to say she’s been serially fucked, gang-raped, and robbed. She had cut her teeth on sevitude- not exactly a Cinderella kinda servitude, no! there’s no happy ever-after in her story. She’d grown up the realization that she could make money and get by, opening her legs and giving up her succulent blossoms to whoever has cash to pay. And she get paid in blank cheques for abuse by Money-Miss-Road Aristos; and in hard currencies for “sucking” up to foreigners. Lagos has a deep enough ditch to accommodate all sizes and shape. One deep ditch, and a pit she is, this Lagos.

Yes, Lagos is a whore. Isn’t “Strange Woman” a christian Euphemism for “Whore”? In Proverbs 23 verse 27 it is written that: “for a whore is a deep ditch: and strange woman is a narrow pit.” Lagos has not always been a “Strange Woman”, at least, we all have sundry knowledge of Lagos. I, and a few who fondly call her Lasgidi, had even had carnal knowledge of her, and are still doing. I don’t think we will stop anytime soon; we always come back to her. Lagos The Whore has got that pull, that irresistible attraction for us all- The Good, The Bad and The Ugly; The Poor, The poorer, and The Poorest.

Spare me your moral uppity, Lagos isn’t exactly a proverbs 31 woman, she is The Whore of proverbs 23 who “lies in wait for her prey”. Sometimes, she sits at the door of her house on “New Grub Street”, like a dragon that guides a treasure trove, calling out to the gullible JJC saying “stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant”. It is her hustle. She has her oga to settle, who also has an oga to settle who also settles other ogas, all the way up to the Oliver Twisted Political agberus who holds the whole city in fiefdom. There is a cabal which run things in the gutter of a city we call home, where the Hustle is actually a battle of survival, where Money and Bullshit work together better than one alone.

Well, to my mind, if Lagos don’t change her ways (as if she can change) and get converted to a Proverbs 31 Woman, she may fall into ruins like ancient Rome, and only attract tourist and oglers. There seems to be hope for Lagos in Proverb 31 which goes, in verse 11: “the heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil”. Talking about “spoil”. Her slogan always is “Eko ‘ni baje o!”