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Showing posts from June, 2021

WHAT MY MOTHER AND DOLLY PARTON TAUGHT ME

When the cassette tape played, I was seldom interested in the lyrics—how likely was a 6-year-old to care? Yet I could feel sorrow, compassion, and sadness in the singer’s voice. I imagined someone hurting her. Was she hit, betrayed, lonely? Her voice held a mystery I wanted to uncover, but she was miles away from me. Since I could not unravel the enigma, I let the thought go. As I grew older, my mother did not grow tired of playing the cassette tape. I could not hide from hearing it either, unless I could afford a roof over my head. One evening, during the holiday and with no homework to attend to, I had to ask her. ‘Mum, who’s this person always sad when they’re singing?’ ‘You mean all this time, you don’t know it’s Dolly Parton? And who told you she’s sad? When you truly express how you feel, it is not always a sad tale, my girl. Do you even know what this song playing is about?’ ‘Yes, ma. It’s her coat of many colours, just like the one Joseph had, right?’ ‘Eh en. Only hers was give...
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A WASTE OF MANHOOD

  A WASTE OF MANHOOD     “Young lady, are you familiar with the news that the Chinese authorities seized a cargo ship that sailed from Nigeria with 7,200 refrigerated penises? I ask myself why single ladies in Nigeria have not gathered to stage a riot”   “Just like the Aba Women Riot of 1929?”   “Exactly! I mean, the number of unmarried women today is alarming. Yet potential organs are being shipped to another man’s land as what, meat? What a waste of natural, human, God-given creation that would have made many ladies happy. No wonder many of you are on the edge every now and then. Hm, 7,200! And they even tagged it ‘Organ Harvesting' can you imagine. Is it a plant?   As usual, a committee has been set up to investigate this illicit act. Wait, it was first condemned. That is not the end of my point. Young lady, have you visited a prison in Nigeria? I don’t advise you to. If you see able-bodied men locked up, waiting for trial for over 10 years, mo...
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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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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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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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