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Showing posts from October, 2020

WHAT ARE YOU THANKFUL FOR?

As the final hours of the year slide quietly away, it is only human to look back, tracing the paths of our days, sifting through moments that have shaped us. With the twilight of 2025 upon us, will you gather at a humble or grand table, surrounded by laughter, silence, or absence? Perhaps you have already counted your blessings—each one a dim light in the dark. Or maybe your mind is busy weaving hopeful blueprints for the dawn of 2026. Just the other day, I watched the children in CoComelon sing their gratitude for life’s simplest gifts—things we often overlook, absorbed as we are in our hurried routines. How easily we forget that wonder. If we slow down, just for a little time, we all have so many things to be grateful for. Even the most ordinary blessings are worth our quiet thanks. In this spirit of reminiscence, my heart swells with gratitude for more than I can name, but here are a few gifts that shine especially bright: Sanity Good health A job/craft The gift of memor...
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WE ALL CAN’T BREATHE

  WE ALL CAN’T BREATHE Your world is not safe when many around you cannot breathe freely. It is even worse when you try to find air but die in the process. If you ask why you can’t breathe perhaps you will blame yourself for voting in thugs to see to your interests. You will be angry at your father for not fighting against bad governance when it was still a 101 course. You will scorn your ancestors for allowing a stranger into their land and telling them that Sango and Amadioha were the bad guys. But the pressing issue is finding air. So, you do not want the blames to keep tormenting your sanity and chance at life. Thus, you protest, peacefully. Without guns, swords, machetes, you match to various centres in the country, seeking everything that would make you find peace; seeking a good life because you know how blessed your land is. You are proud of what you are doing, you see the future in front of you, the revival of the green land and the peace that would reign. You see your c...
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MORALITY IN TRANSIT

It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
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IF HAIR COULD TALK

  “You know, I get nervous by the sight of unkempt hair” “And why’s that?” “Well, it makes me imagine the worst of the man or woman in question.” “But you can’t always have clean cut or well-made hair. It’s hard work and who has time for such beauty strife. Or why do you think Beyonce sang that beauty hurts?” “I’m not talking about beauty. Rather I mean responsibility. Bad hair must surely birth a bad day. Look, I hate seeing my wife without her hair done or at least covered. I blame it on Medusa. Should have never seen that movie, T he Clash of the Titans .” “Hahaha, that’s just cracking! Now you blame your sick theory on a movie? Buddy, your wife must be tolerating a whole lot of shit from you. Cut her some slack and leave her hair alone. If you continue shaving yours all the time, you’d be bald before you’re even 40, man.” I’ve been thinking. A thousand tongues there would be if our hair could talk. Imagine, a million heads would have a zillion tongues and more! The ...
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MAKEOVER

  When she realized her hair was gone, the barber had increased the volume of his radio and India Arie’s ‘I am not my hair’ filled the room. ‘If I can manage the situation like a professional, my construction contract with her father will hold tomorrow,’ I thought. I breathe in and out, a logic that never works for me, but I do it anyway. I rehearse my words, changing each sound to a softer version of the previous one - aligning my looks to the words so that my eyes become half closed and there is a faint smile on my face. I wait for the explosion. All the while, the barber is busy touching what is left on her head with his clipper. He says it is the final addition and calls it the moon look. He fumbles with the chair, turning Stella from left to right like a child’s play. The large mirror in front of us escalates the mishap and the fumes on my girlfriend’s face seem to be burning the white walls. It was meant to be a makeover since her 25 th birthday was the next day. Now it...
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