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.


I don’t know why the word “fake” occurred to me during meditation this morning. Fake, as a word is synonymous with counterfeit and imitation. In the material world there are fake things and fake people too.

False-tooth, make-believe arts, imitation leather, synthetic hair, and silicon breasts- these things and things in their order are the originals of themselves. They are authentic articles, even those fake arse some women wear these days. You can’t mistook those for fakes unless their brands were imitated.

Fake, as the word occurred to me this morning has to do with people. At a subliminal level of thought, there are fake people in the world- fake friends, fake family, fake politicians, fake doctors, nurses, soldiers, teachers; fake businessmen, fake actors, fake writers, fake fakers- people who assume roles they have no training or natural flair for. Such fakes are always found out to be fakes.

Yesterday I was discussing with a group of writer friends, and the matter of who is a Literary Critic and who is a Literary Cynic dominated our discourse. The same yesterday I visited a tailor from Aba and found out he was a faker.

The man makes all class of suits and jackets- there were Italian suits, British Waist-Coats and American tuxedos that could have fooled anyone. It would all have been perfectly original if the labels the man had sewn on his products weren’t “Varsece”, “Galvin Klein”, “Dolcci & Cabbana”. He even had a label that read “Doro Gucci”.

I had a bottle of expensive Italian wine, found at a shop in Alaba where they actually sell fake vintage. The good wine was on the sample shelf, I managed to buy the thing off the dealer when I pretended I was taking it as a sample to my client who was ready to order a 12-feet container of the wine. And now this fake designer pretended I had brought it to him as a gift, snatching the bottle out of my hand and commenced invoking God’s blessings on me for being so kind. I snatched my thing back and informed him that the wine was 12,5% volatile, and too strong a liquor for a good Christian fashion designer like him.

I wonder if he was not a fake man of God too, with his hair styled like Chris Oyakhilomen’s, the verbosity of Okotie, and the dress-sense of Oritsejafor. Certainly, the original is still preferred to the copy.

I got a notification for comment on one of my recent posts on facebook, and when I clicked to read the comment this was what I got:

“Love the way you write… You are an original.”

And that, coming from a trusted writer I wish to be like, is an assurance that I am in order. i want to keep it that way God helping his child.


It is amazing how so much has changed in so little time. Tecno now pings, BlackBerry Z10 now sell for a ridiculously low price you wouldn’t if you are buying chinko. Somebody in Bahrain now shares my yahoo e-mail address with me, and my non-literate mother is now on facebook.

Time has fast tracked. A lot of things have advanced, and a lot more people are being left behind in the rat-race of get-rich-quickly-or-die-slowly.- I missed that tide myself- but I will catch when I start gong out again- that is when I am sure the new Ebola vaccine works better than Salt-Water Bath.

The borders of the global village, where we are exiled, have so shrinked that a disease like Ebola can break out in New Guinea, and some person in Liberia can infest another person in America, and the American can start an epidemic in Nigeria with the viral infection.

It is amazing too how quickly we can take off the hatchtag from #BringBackOurGirls and paste it smack on Ebola. Me, I don’t like that kind of change o. Just imagine: my water closet used to be the inspiration threshold where I meet and romance with the muse; the WC is also where I get the most stable internet connection- being 3G- but I have been here for almost one hour now, after I dropped the last batch of sheet in the commode, and my BlackBerry is still in SOS mode. Good to know shaa that inspiration is not lost on me as I type this rant.

Now, another change that has not gone down well with me, is how more quickly celebrity marriages fail these days. I was the gladdest person alive when the news came that my friend, the ace female comedian, Princess has gotten married. She was growing bigger and her the hands of her biological clock had started to run away from her when her Knight In Shining Humour got to her. I could have married the surplus-size crush of mine if I had a polygamous bone in my body. The woman is equal to four regular-size ones, and marrying her would have been meant having a surplus wife. Now news reaching me says her marriage has failed.

I also discovered that the number of my friends on facebook has dwindled drastically. I am not surprised at this sort of change, because I see it as an evolutionary process of Natural Selection. I see that only those with iron constitutions have stayed to keep sharpening my own iron. Iron sharpens iron, so says the Christian Bible, I am sure the others who fell away couldn’t stand all that chaffing, scrapping, and opposite-way-rubbing.

I am just going to comb through, when I get a good network, and get rid of the remainder of the porous breed of friends. It will be a service, and in accordance with the maxim of my wise friend Charles DeGaulle (1890-1970) that goes, something like, CHANGE YOUR FRIENDS and you will change your world. (The words in lower case are mine, and DeGaulle is not culpable for such quixotic nonsense)

Waiting For Woman

Some of our conventions are so annoying that it will be a greater good to abolish them altogether. One of such convention is that which holds that the lady is expected to be late to her wedding, a meeting, or a date. Today’s woman has so taken advantage of this convention that she only begins to get ready for the occasion when she is sure the gentleman has arrived and waiting.

Most men have very limited capacity to endure a long wait. I am one of such men. I can’t stand waiting endlessly for something to happen- this is why I hardly watch Nollywood movies, nothing ever happens- except for the Second Coming, I also can’t stand waiting for someone to show up.

Waiting have this uncanny tendency to make time slow down while one’s pulse races on at full throttle. Waiting endlessly make me particularly feel like I am aging very quickly and withering away waiting while the life to live hurries away from me. Although that maxim is true that those who wait shall renew their strength; but it is if, and only if, you are waiting upon The Lord and not for a lady.

Waiting up for a lady saps a man’s strength, wear out the sole of his shoes, and add more greys to his hair. My dad before he became completely grey-haired, used to complain about the time my mom spend in the bathroom when he is waiting his turn to use it; and the much time she frit away making up when they were already late for a outing. I wonder if waiting have not driven him to his early grave. May his gentle soul find peace though.

But why do women even have to do that, wearing a man soul thin with waiting?

“There were moments of waiting.” As put by Stephen in the opening sentence of the 5th Chapter of Red Badge of Courage. Enough said already.


You don’t dig for hidden treasures without getting dirty..

Digging in with slow-long-srokes, deep-driving-probes, stopping to luxuriate at the brilliance of the spark coming off my tool.

There is something about that one spot- the golden spot- I discovered that hitting it every time send sparks flying in flashes, and currents coursing through my tool, into my body. The sweetness of the discovery would make even a rock cry out in ecstasy.

To stop before it is right to do stop would have been a waste. No one finds treasures by giving up on digging, I wasn’t about to give up before I was done, even if I had already dug myself into the deep hole.

I was exploring a deep mine of molten gold.

She’d been one hard rock to break, but with a few well-placed strokes the rock yielded water. Soon I was licking and sucking, and my thirst was not about to be satiated until I have done some digging in.

Straddling… while I am perched… was a bit clumsy, but the resounding whimpering and moaning echoing from within as my hammer kept hitting the spot, indicates that the brief moment of straddling, albeit shifting my center of gravity, was worth the cloud of gold dust in heaven.

Being straddled, the probe for what treasures there was, wasn’t as deep as I would loved to go. so, got I down on the floor again, stooped like a dog, and another time lying prone like a missionary… explore all possible angles.

Don’t tell me you are thinking all that dirt; digging for treasure is a dirty job, but one has to do it. I had to do it.


For less than 2 dollars I was treated to a plate of amala, with the orishirishi that makes it sumptuous. Good things don’t come that cheap; so I suspect that Yoruba woman who ran the bukka.

I really am not a bukka person, but the sight, and aroma emanating from her cooking pot was so overpowering that I had this fatalistic thought that I would never again have a restful sleep for the rest of my life if I didn’t indulge in a serving of her amala with ewedu, okra, or gbegiri, and the delectable assortment of meat- brokotor, iishan, kponmon, and shaki.

See, I was only seeking shelter from the pouring rains, and waiting for the ankle-deep puddles of water that had already soaked through my canvas shoes to abate. The warmth and relative dryness of the makeshift restaurant may have been the enticement to enter the place, but whatever the lure was, it was a seduction I couldn’t resist.

There are unseen and unknown forces, beside attraction and necessity, that could constrict a grown man and swallow him up whole. One of such forces was at work and it is simply known as “Longa throat”. The force of longa throat gets you once you sniff the aroma of an irresistible delicacy. I am not a glutton, so, I didn’t give in to the lure of longa throat, it just got to me when my guards were down. That’s all.

I felt like I was going to shrivel up and expire if I didn’t have a taste of that dish, so I did the needful to save my life. I stepped closer, grabbed a bowl from the fly-studded stack of used dishes, hurriedly wash it up and got into line like everyone else was doing. There was no service line actually. The place was crowded and rowdy. Those who were not hunched over bowls of amala, eba or fufu, were either struggling to pay their bills for meals eaten, or scrambling to get served before anybody else.

When I squirmed through the throng to the front line, I handed in my bowl to be served. I told the voluptuous lady tending to the steaming iron pot, to put “amala meji”. Amala meji transcribed is “amala two”; that, translated into English, would be “two amala”. That is two scoops of the scalding hot sticky brown meal. I was only imitating the dude who got served before me – one corporate-dressed-down gentleman with obvious Ibadan tribal scars marking-up his cheeks. He had the Ibadan accent too. I envied the treatment the gentleman was getting- the looks he got from the amala woman, the view he got of her cleavage, and the generous scoops. I thought I might be similarly spoilt but she hitched the sagging neckline of her blouse, and I lost the view.

The lady deftly cut out an impressive size of amala from the pot steaming between her knees. She further scraped bits off the big mound she’d so deftly made, making the thing smaller. The movement was undulating her bulbous breasts that the sweat from her brow and face were streaking into. I couldn’t view the deep cleavage that I knew separated the two watermelon-like mounds on her bossom, when I managed to take my eyes off the pot that sat between her thighs. Why was the amala-woman being stingy when it got to my turn?

After she had scraped and carved away the greater portion, what I got was still sizable enough. She pressed down on the amala inside my bowl with her spatula, making a depression that transformed my scoop of amala into a bowl-like shape. I discovered that the amala could hold the soup when it was poured over it. Otherwise, I like my soup at the side of a plate, if I have to put soup and amala together in one plate.

She handed my bowl of amala to another lady who asked me, “obe wo ni e fe?”

I wished to try out the soup with the seductive aroma that incited the longa throat in me, but since she asked what soup I preferred, I wanted the viscous ewedu soup to go with the sticky amala for better lubrication of the passage of my craving throat. She seemed to discern my thought as she scooped a ladle of the greenish ewedu soup onto the hollow in the brown amala. She added another scoop of yellowish gbegiri from another pot. She was going to add okra to the concoction but I said “e don do”. I wanted her to cease smearing-up the amala with the untidy-looking okra soup, not because I didn’t like okra soup, I do in fact, but besides looking messy, the soup-mix in the bowl was already getting too plentiful and drowning out the mound of amala.

“Abi e ‘o fe abula ni”.

I no want abula, but no worry just hand me my sh…t”. I really can’t stand the sight of abula. That mixture of ewedu, okra, gbegiri and egusi stirred into a helping of danger-red peppery tomato stew is just not so very pretty..

“Eran wo ni e fe?” She asked. I wondered how she could be asking me what meat I wanted whereas she was already dishing an assortment of meat- beef-side (naama) brokotor (cow hoof), kponmo (cow hide), cattle intestines (abodi) and shaki (cow stomach) into my bowl.

I hesitate. She pause, waiting for my response. I hesitate. She hiss and start to remove the meat one after the other starting with my favourite- kponmo as I linger on the choice of meat to order.

“Okay. Bring am like that” I said to stop the further removal of meat from my dish. I agreed with the choices she’d made for me about meat- that decision turned out a wise one- it was the same choice the corporate-looking gentleman had made.

The meal of amala with an assortment of beef and entrails so gorged me up that I felt dazed- like you feel after a good meal. I am not a heavy meal person, especially not in the morning. And, ooh-la-la, Yoruba women can cook. Why don’t I even ditch my calabar girlfriend and hitch up with a Yoruba woman? I can stand anything a non-native can’t stand, like having to wash my soup-stained hands in oily used water, and wipe my hand on discoloured soggy napkins, like the corporate dude.

Paying for the meal was another wahala. I had to get in line again. A still small voice was urging me to walk out and make away with my unpaid bill, into the still pouring rain. But I counseled myself to “do the right thing in The Spirit of Lagos, and good citizenship” to pay up. The iya amala could be using juju, you know; one can’t put that past these people. What if as I step out of the bukka I get hit by the axe of shango the Yoruba god of thunder and of vengeance.

Not really out of fear, but out of certainty that the woman was using juju I resolved to wait my turn and pay up my bills even if the madam and her helper were paying me no mind at all.

Now, I am convinced that the olfacto-sensual seduction was not ordinary because, normally I would never eat in such fly-ridden and overcrowded place; situated over a stagnant gutter to boot, not even if it is The Lord’s Super.


You can’t spot them from an arm’s length, but you can smell them from a mile away – playboys, casanovas, and womanizers. Within ten minutes of meeting him, he had talked to three females – Charity, Shakira, Vera – over the phone. He was pinging and I saw that most of the display pictures on his BBM were of females. I would not have summed him up so fast because characteristically, I am not given to hasty generalizations but the dude got to me. I mean, his charming overtures were ensnaring. The goddamnned rake!

“Good morning…” He said to me, and the morning turned good for me. His smile was the golden early morning sun lighting up and warming Accra. I felt warm and light down to my very core.

He has the aura of a heartbreaker around him… handsome in a rugged way. His gait, when he walked in earlier was gangly and kinda rolling (but sure), like he owned the world and everything within – like he owned me. I distrusted him instantly when my discerning nose could’t even place that bitter-sweet-smelling scent of his. That tells me he is a rogue – you know, the kind who would carve out your heart with a thorn and stuff rose petals in the empty space beneath your breasts.

The permanent smirk on his face I mistook for arrogance, but when I peeked in his Nigerian passport later and saw Lagos, I realized it was confidence and the gidi-ness of Lasgidi. Although, he has this unmistakable Warri accent and the crow’s feet tribal scar of the Delta Ijaw people, the bobo has to be a charmer or a snake or a wild rose with all its thorns in place.

“…morning” I replied(after an awkward pause), smiling back, even when I thought it better to bone my face like ladies do when they are disinterested in a guy or inversely playing the Hard Customer purposefully, to sustain a wooer’s attention.

He was making deeper impressions on me by every tick of the clock, and killing me softly with every Boompeetyboom of my racing pulse, even at half his attention. I guess I would’ve let down my panties… (No, scratch “panties” take “guards”). I would’ve let down my guards if his roving eyes, having scanned my entire frame in that once-over sweep, hadn’t strayed away to ogle a set of very pretty twin girls that arrived with annoying giggles. He has that exasperating manner of checking out every female that passed in front of us as we sat there, waiting, shoulders touching, in the waiting lounge. He even sought my opinion on the passing ladies’ sizes, shapes, smells, garbs and gait as if prospecting to buy a sports car, or some fine mare.

He said his name was Chris, and it was his first time in Ghana.

“I’m Rebekah, studying here in Accra… Two years now… Bored… Going to Nigeria for a break… and some… I need a real guy… (Scratch that)…I need the break… ” I caught myself in time before I started to sound like a sex-starved siren. I could have gisted him about how I am single and searching for a real guy- a Naija guy; how Ghanaian guys no de try at all; about how I have confirmed that Nigerian guys know how to treat a lady like she deserves to be treated, while Ghanaian boys are just too sweet-all-the-time like saccharine. That is if I could have sustained his straying attention.

I hate the rake in guys, especially Naija guys. It makes them so cocky, sure of themselves, making them appeal to you like predators that toy with their preys and leave them dead. “Guy abeg, toast me. No dey kill me die. Abi I no fine reach for your eye?”, my heart kept crying out to him; if he heard my heart at all, then, he’s a master of the art of seduction- a kind of poker game in which all the cards are Hearts and Jokers.

I don’t care for casanovas, but Chris will have to do for this journey, if only I can hold down his straying attention. Thank heavens the Heartbreaker is my co-passenger on this journey. I will catch him and I will cure him yet. So help me God, make I no miss this guy O!