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!


Power- staying power- is nothing, control is everything.

I thought to stop just before I come, but I drove past the spot. However, I still did not lose control. I was really hitting the G-spot that to stop before she comes would have been a sin. My probing shaft lost some of its stiffness at intervals, but her non-stop squirming and gyrating were giving me the impetus to go on. I kept ramming, and grinding at her till my prick become turgid and throbbing again. With regained power, the cock wouls be pecking and exploring her deep mine of molten gold.

slow-long-srokes, deep-driving-probes- Big Deu’s song was playing on the repeat inside the back of my head:

“I like the way you do me, girl
So nicely
I like the way you do me, girl
So nicely

Roll am
Make you roll am for me
So nicely

Shake am
Make you shake am for me
So nicely…”

She kept winding her waist, and thrusting her pubis back at me. Her pleasurable whimpering and ecstasy moan were almost making me lose the control I was maintaining.

During foreplay I slowed down when she urged me to go faster with the caressing and kissing. I go faster when she’d rather I slowed down with the licking and sucking. She could have been one big warm chocolate bar, or a huge cool candy floss, but she was melting under my touch and tongue like vanilla ice cream. Sweet heavens, her coochie could have been an over-ripe cherry, for all that nectar oozing out, and the sweetness of it.

…So nicely…

Twelve months a celibate was paying off nicely. I had this confidence that I am still the master of the art- I invented sex- hot sizzling sex.

We had it on the hard tiled floor. We went on our knees, playing doggy. My knees hurt (sweetly). I had her off the floor and onto the desk. With her legs on my shoulder, sometimes held back against her bouncing breasts; her butt at the edge (she is a big arse woman) and me standing erect almost on tip toe. The height of the desk was just right, we couldn’t have asked for anything higher or lower. Although, I had to go tip-toe to compensate for a few disadvantageous difference in height between the desk’s top and my waistline. The tip toe mode only added to my deeper reach because I was also leaning into her, balancing my weight with my knuckles on the desk.

WARNING: Please don’t try this at home, office like I did, or school, unless you are en-spused to your sex partner. It is too good a sex to waste on a mere fling.

When I come, I collapsed into her, drowning with her in the profusion of our sweats.
I took charge, and regained control with my hands. The right hand was strumming her nutty nipples. The middle finger of my left hand finished her off by driving into her, nudging her over the peak, and tumbling her into heaven. Then I smoldered her joyous cry of fulfillment with deep soul-reaching kisses.

To cut a sweet long story short. It was the greatest sex I never had since twelve months of abstaining. It was worth the wait.

“I like the way you do me, girl
So nicely
I like the way you do me, girl
So nicely…”


If you have been thinking about penis enlargement, this article is for you. You really have to think critically if you’re thinking to enlarge your penis more than it already is. “The larger a man’s dick, the smaller his thinking”, says the latest research finding about the size of the dick and a man’s thinking faculty.

There is definitely a connection between the brain and the phallus. It could not have come to us by chance that as the size of a man’s prick increases (during erection, for instance) his rationality decreases. The blood, together with his senses, drain from his head to fill up the void created by the ballooning of his manly shaft. Now, whatever takes blood away from your head is not a good thing. You need blood in your head to think, because blood carry oxygen to the brain, and without oxygen, your brain cells wither and die. And you know what follows when your brain dies- you are as dead as a lame dick. So, Do not do penis enlargement, unless you really have no use for your brains or critical thinking.

Does it surprise you that the race of men who rule the world of politics, economics, science and technology are the race of men with pin-size dicks- yes, we are talking about the Hitlers, Bonaparte, Oyedepos, Einstein, Jobbs, Asians and women. Yes, Asians and women have small dicks- and I am not so sure if Einstein and Jobb has any dick to flaunt. Why else, do you think, Africans, especially West Africans, for their natural phallic endowments, reason and act in brute terms like horses, mules, and sometime jackasses? It is the huge dicks and small minds.

It is self-evident that men’s acumen to reason critically reduces with the increased sizes of the penis. Please note that during erection the size of the penis becomes greater than the size of the medula oblongata. Scientists are currently working to expand this hypothesis into a theory. And as soon as they are done, children will be reading it in textbooks, and Sunday School manuals.

It is also a known fact that women have the littlest penises in the world. A woman, no matter her psychological configuration, can twist any man- I mean any sane man- around her little finger, as much as the man keep coming- Try Eve, Delilah and Jezebel; women are wiser than men, and this is so because they have smaller penises than men. Asians, on the other hand, are doing better than West Africans in technological advancement, because Asian men have penises the size of a new-born African male.

So don’t do it, brotha, especially if you are African like I am. No matter WHAT if you need bogus dick to fill the hoe’s hole; no matter HOW desperate you are to feel like a true stud, no matter WHO the expert is, even if it is Dr. 90210; just don’t do penis enlargement. It takes your brain cell to boost your dick size.

A man hung like a horse actually thinks like one. And with that, I hope I have been able to convince you, dick-heads, that the larger penis only make yahoo of men.”Big penis, small brain”, let that be your watchword. Thank you.


“I feel like doing something really crazy, like… having sex on the Beach with you…” says She to me. I spared that suggestion just a micro second, before I replied: ” Me, I want to do crazier things with you than you can imagine”. My imagination shifted into an overdrive mode as I say that. Still images and motion pictures deserving of Oscars, if the day ever comes when pornography wins the award, played through my mind in a crazy-fast reel. The discomfiting bulge of rising turg in My DownThere reminded, me like an emergency alarm, of how long is too long in 12 months of playing celibate.

Define horny again for me. But she had to douse the rising inferno in my core, and put a “stop it!” sign on my re-energized zeal to pick up from where I left off sowing my wild oats. Her next reply did it for me.

She asked: “crazier things like what…?” My on-rushing testosterone screeched to a rubber-burning halt. Logic relocated back to my head, away from my groin. The logicality of rational-thinking hedged out the irrational propensity to think only in erotic symbols. The bubble burst and the cloud cleared as I analyzed the purport of her last reply. And that was only one part of her very emasculating question; the other part went thus: “…having sex while diving from the top of Mount Everest?”

I have never, since my born-day, been to any mountain greater that the breast of a woman. A beach, I am familiar with, having sex on one, even if it is the over-crowded Bar Beach of Lagos, is imaginable. But Everest? Isn’t that more Geography than Anatomy? Anatomy, I know, but wetin concern Geography with getting laid? No go there o! unless na story You dey find.

But, on a saner note, Bungee Sex could be worth exploring o! One may Just discover a fourth dimension to sex, and extreme sports, abi?


Lagos has become so dirty and mean. I have not been away long enough to have lost touch with the erratic throb of Lagos’ hard life, but see what monster she has become this short while. I felt a breeze of encroachment surround me like a swarm of flies on a decayed carcass where I have anticipated the bliss of “home-sweet-home”. Already, as soon as I stepped off the wobbly boat, I missed the gentle air of freedom I have enjoyed at sea since I was gone from Lagos. I had anticipated bliss in the welcoming arm of the city I hate to hate, but no, I was to learn, in sorrows tears and blood, that the city now plays dirty, and has become meaner than I knew her. The general air of disorder did little to hide the ugly, rotten core of the growing-yet-dying ancient dragon, even the worrisome stink of her decadence.

Everything was rotten. What didn’t stink of rottenness had the look of shit; even the monies that were constantly changing hands, were dirty, too dirty to touch. It was as if the avaricious peoples of Lagos have been freely helping themselves from the dump of waste currency notes, for all that filthy Naira notes in circulation. After spending hours in the queue, waiting my turn to use the broke ATM , I discovered that my card won’t woo out money from the mean machine. “have I been defrauded?” Nay, she says that my mastercard has been expired. Indeed, as I disconsolately found out, the validity for the little-bit-of-convenience has expired since September, seven months to date. I changed a few dollar bills in order to have Naira to spend. The aboki ladden me with so much soggy mass of naira notes that you would think the stinking wad of filth was a means of aiding the Boko Guys to rid Lagos of the harams the bastards are hell-bent to eradicate from the surface of the the Nigerian earth. The notes are so sinfully filthy that you could physically see the germs feed on the flesh of your hand at a touch- if you are not too nauseated to look closely. But the scourge could’ve been Sanusi’s way of getting back at the rest of us, who knows? All the shabby BRT, and shabbier danfos I rode on to get around kept handing me changes of similar filth till I resolved to forego collecting my changes from the fares.

Despite the forlorn state I found my dear Lagos in, I had looked forward to some small delights. For instance, I planned to take away with me- when I ultimate extricate myself from the throbbing din, from the urine-cum-marijuana smell that comingle with asphyxiating reek of exhaust fume, from the grilling heat, away from the hopelessness of the surging mass of people milling about like hordes of maggots on the decaying body of a huge predator- such small joys as I could derive from the dung heap. No, I didn’t think to get laid, I only planned to sample the rapturous feel of some of the best coffee, tea, books and relaxation hangouts in Lagos- Terra Kulture, Bogobiri, and Quintessence. Terra Kulture for the great food, arts-exhibition and new books; Quintessence for another discovery of a great coffee blend, arts on exhibition and more books; and Bogobiri, for the good company, enlivening music and relaxation. One can hardly find a better home-away-from-home around the exclusively stiff-upper-lip environs of that part of Lagos. Bogobiri is just the place if you are a lover of art and life. There was Lifehouse too, but I don’t know where they are now, since they moved or were moved from their usual location in Victoria Island.

It was quite a shattering blow to realize that the other haven of bliss at Ikoyi, being Quintessence, has also moved or been removed from the spot they have always occupied prominently, next-door to the book paradise of Glendora. The shopping complex in which Quintessence was located has been demolished- demolished as in pulled-down, pulverized, wiped-out, destroyed. All that remained were rubbles, and debris of the edifice that once beautified the landscape; what a colossal waste? But what can a brother do more than drop a few tears for the memories of great teas, coffee, wine, beautiful store attendants to ogle, the cozy evergreen music playing from the still-functioning ancient turn-table, arty git items, and new books that are in inexhaustible supply at the place. I called to mind the exhibitions and book reading/signing that I have attended at Quintessence in Falomo-Ikoyi. I had a mind of spending some good time and money there, sadly, nobody could even point me to my way in search of their new location. What a loss, what a devastating mean loss.

The devastation so weighed me down that I couldn’t make it to Terra Kulture. I had to alight from the taxi at Silverbird-another change of very bad naira note was handed to me like a judgment-day summon, by the hand of mean-looking, and badly-behaving, deep-scars-face, taxi-driver.

“oga driver, no worry, keep the change” I exhorted, expecting to be thanked in Ijebu language.

“oga, abeg take your change jor…”

“no, I dash you…”

“Why you wanting to be dash me the money, sé I am look like a begger for your eye ni?”

“…no, but the money no good na, too fucking dirty. I don collect too many of them today…”

“Sé na because the money durty…? Dem go take am na, you go take am buy fuel…”

“but, I no get motor na…”

“If you no get mutor nkò, sebi you get generator for house, abi na I Pass My Neighbour generator naa ni”


One would think I know Lagos, but the Lagos I landed in, to spend my 24 hours shore leave was a “changed” Lagos- a “badly change” Lagos. I think all Lagosians must cease chanting the mantra and turn to praying that “Eko ‘oni baje o!”

Copyright by Okiri C.R.