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.



To say that 99% of movie piracy in Nigeria is perpetrated by The Igbos is to tow the line of ethnic discrimination and pandering to xenophobia.

The debate is on and raging that the Igbo traders in Alaba International Market, and elsewhere, are culpable for the infringement of the Intellectual Property Right of Nollywood-Movie-Makers. A new contender for the right to be heard in the ongoing imbroglio posited that the “poor” quality of many a Nigerian movie does not qualify them as Intellectual Property at all.

In my view, this contender is right, if not absolutely correct. But I have my own mind in this matter:

I think the Wood should be taken out of the Nolly. I don’t see any other thing anyone can take out of it- not a single quote, not a memory, not a blasted thing of worth.

I watch Bollywood or Hollywood and come away with great quotes, but not so Nollywood. I won’t spend my time or money on Nollywood products; I don’t even watch Africa Magic. If I am not doing Movie Magic I spend my time on CartoonNetwork or Nickelodeon or Boomerang and my pursuit of happiness is less hard-going.

For the absurd I tune in and stick to Sony Max; not Africa Magic. But Nollywood is not all that Bad per se, if you subscribe to Nollywood. The thing has its utilitarian value. At least members of my crew every time snatch the remote control device out of my hand and tune in to Africa Magic as a escape valve to let off some frustration or the other through rants and complaints about the waste of time watching Nollywood movies. I sometimes join in the huff and puff of hewing down and making matchsticks of the Wood out of Nolly.

This is not to say that films or movies produced in Nigeria or by Nigérians are all dust-bin stuffing. To say Nigerian movies are thrash will be unfair to Kelani’s Mainframe products- many of which I never get sick of watching repeatedly. To say Nigerian movies are crap would be doing Emem Isong’s Royal Arts Academy films an injustice for her excellent actors, well-crafted scripts and coherent story lines. I will bypass a pirated copy of these and go for the real thing at any cost. These are worth their salts and a little more. But I will not buy any average Nigerian movie even if their original copies sell at 3 for 5 Naira.

For their thankless effort at popularizing Nollywood movies, I wonder if the maligned Igbo Traders are even recouping their investments, the trying would be a great waste otherwise.


It is another #ManCrush Monday and none of these guys is even seeing me. I am a ManCrush, they don’t know it is why they don’t like me. Thank Goodness those haters are in the minority; it would have been one hell of a task trying to kill all of them- with kindness. I hardly have enough kindness for my many lovers and none to spare for haters.
Why those little minds beef me, I can’t pretend I don’t know- I got abundance of what they lack. I have ten times more friends than the besotted fools, a hundred times more books and CD’s than those clueless dummies, and a million times more brain cells than they do- bloody cretins- even though they have all the Money-in-The-Bank I could use- put together.

I don’t have the easy grace of Tuface Idibia, or the Six-pack of Flavour, nor the biceps of Iyanyan, or the Lady-Killer face of D’Banj, neither do I possess the butter-and -honey voice of Cobhams Asuquo. I myself envy those who do and I, and I will not be slack in declaring such impressive personality my #ManCrush. But what is stopping these haters from declaring me their ManCrush-. it must be a demon to be cast out in Jesus’ name. They copy my style and carry-body like say dem be me but will not come out of their diabolic closet.

They don’t even pretend to like me a bit when they come bothering me with one request or another supplication for kindness. It is either to borrow things- which I never get back, or to steal my peace of mind, to kill my time, and destroy my patience.

Maybe I should start charging them for picking my brains all the time.  They invaded my privacy and murdered my sleep. It is either they want me to help them sort their mobile phones, or they want my assistance with drafting an Application For Promotion, or help fill the form to apply for shore leave- yet they hate me for the ease with which I oblige them.

They want the things I have like a Nigerian lady covets Brazilian and Indian hairs, but pride and prejudice will not let them crush on me openly. shame on them all.


When you can’t find your name on a Coca-Cola can or bottle, know that you have been counted out of the trend. E mean say you no join, as in, you no follow and you no get levels. I am still searching hopefully for my name. The closest to my name which I have found, otherwise, is “Bros”.


Yes I am Bros, no question about that. My sibs and some guys on my street call me Bros. So, yeah, I am Bros. And I found Bros on a Coca-Cola can… on discarded Coca-Cola can- garbage in Bonny Town. I had a mind to write a rant about the haram of it in the Chronicle. But I counseled myself say “no be every time person dey show himself.

The reality is the name you bear  can determine if you sef follow or you be garbage. And the amazing thing is being a Bros I have been counted out, shut down, and shun out of many going-ons. There are things you just don’t partake in if you are Bros. There are things I want do too like toast that fine girl that has just come of age, without anyone raising questions like “habaa, you no know say you be bros?”
God knows how much I long to join the kids during those streetjams festivals to put in a show of my acquired shoki-shoki skills; but I, as bros, am always the one who stays back at home to lock up the gate after the kids, and the to open up for them when they come back from having a good time. The fun of being youthful and free is always had at my expense just because I wear the toga of Bros.

I can’t remember ever not being Bros. It comes with being a first born and oldest cousin. Damn the day that tradition started in West Africa where out of respect or awe, we don’t call older people by their name where we address those older than us as Big Brother, or Big Sister; and as Uncle or Aunty if they are old enough to be our parents, and as Papa or Mama if they are old enough to be our grandparents. In Nigeria, the title of Big Brother is conveniently shortened to Brother (or Broda- if you are speaking Pidgin English) It is Warri, particularly, which came up with the idea if Bros. Now anyone who is your male role model is your Bros- like Alibaba is bros to many a Nigerian ace comedians, and Banky W is Bros to Whizkid, Bros Eghosa Imasuen is my Bros, and I am Bros in my area to the little guys who look up to me as role model.

Big Brosses like us- me, Alibaba, Banky etc, don’t stoop low for every little thing. This is why a Big Bros like me don’t have to date a small girl… like #LindaIkeji .Our elders say na small shit dey spoil yansh.

Yes, I am Big Bros; I jive you not. I searched but couldn’t find my name on a Coca-Cola can, but I found Bros. I have a real name which has a meaning. I just want to live my name and be me; I want to do those things I am really dying to do like not being bros sometime and be free to contend with my younger brothers for the bottom of the beans pot.


My Second Officer has a Philosopher’s Stone. It is the secret of his powers- mystical powers. It is a well-kept secret because, close to him as I am, I have never had a sighting of this Philosopher’s Stone. I long to see it. Even if I may not touch, I still want to touch it.

Who wouldn’t want to wrap his or her claws around that stone that could turn the basest of metal into pure gold? That Philosopher’s Stone of ancient legends and contemporary quests. Even the peoples at Apple Corporation are in a maddened quest against the people at Microsoft to get a hold of The Philosopher’s Stone first.

I want it, and not just because I will like to turn everything, even people’s heart into gold; it is that I have long wanted to play The Alchemist. I am sure, wielding the Philosopher’s Stone I can disprove Archimedes Law of flotation and propound a floatation theory which any one can walk on water who recites it.

My friend, the Pakistani Second Officer exhibits such mathematical acumen you would think he is Pythagoras reincarnated. He thought me the magic of juggling numbers in determining the volume of cargo-in-the-hold without the use of modern gadgetry. I am now very proficient in mathematical calculation- if you are reading this many years from now.

The man, my Second Officer, is also a healer. Although, a Second Officer onboard a Merchant Navy vessel is the ship’s doctor by virtue of his (or her) training and qualification, but this man for his healing gift could have been Jesus come to our sinfully sick age. My Second Officer: With his hair, eye colour that looks like he’s wearing contacts, and full beard, actually looks like those Jesus you find in the illustration of Jehovah’s Witness publications, for a Pakistani. He is that handsome and majestic. From him, I learnt the homeopathic use of tamarind powder- an ordinary cooking spice- in curing bone-deep pains. I learnt many other medicinal uses of spices and cooking condiments, but the tamarind powder cure for pain seem more interesting because it soothes the pains of a broken heart too.

Even more interesting is that he is teaching me Arabic alphabets hoping that I may be able to read My Gift Qur’an in its purest form. In this process, I have learnt the Urdu (a language widely spoken in India and Pakistan) word for donkey. Each time I slipped, which is often, or missed a point, he would get righteously peeved and say “gadda”- The word for donkey in Urdu- it sounds nice, doesn’t it? it is mostly pronounced with a guttural click and hiss.

With this man’s Philosopher’s Stone, a mere donkey- as I believe- can bypass turning into a noble steed and be transformed into a gallant knight. My belief in this man, and his gift- the ‪#‎PhilosophersStone which I hope to get my hands on and wreak the next world wonder, has kept me enamored to My Second Officer.

I want, badly, what this man has. Not just because I crave gold- pure gold; but it is that I have long wanted to play The Alchemist. I am sure, working the Philosopher’s Stone; I can disprove Archimedes Law of flotation and propound a floatation theory which anyone, even with half a brain, can walk on water, who recites it.

There are crewmates of mine who will not stop at walking on water to reach shore to chase some loose skirts, but will go on to turn the whole Atlantic Ocean into wine if they could only possess a ‪‎Philosophers Stone.