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Showing posts from 2022

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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Obalende

Bridges fly over this town like birds. You see workers – white collar, blue, brown, purple – walking like the earth would collapse under their feet whatever time it was of the day. Obalende wakes up to the honks from private and public vehicles with passengers who are in a haste to meet up with work schedules. The yellow public buses make passers-by sneeze from black fumes, cursing the air at the slamming of their brakes. Although they are scrappy in nature, they serve us who can only afford a single meal per day. Don't throw a stone here; it just might meet one of your own.  Obalende welcomes you with the smell of food varieties from different local shops to the jamming of fuji music, to the preachers of eternal life, to the blaring of advertisements through loudspeakers well positioned on the ground. Those vendors, they sell drugs for multi-purpose functions. You will hear them marketing:  “Have you tried Egba Ijebu ? This drug can cure your stomach aches, your headaches, yo...
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ARE YOU QUALIFIED?

"I write to notify you that I will no longer try to convince you that I am good enough to be an employed citizen of and in this country. How many times do I have to state that I have my PVC, NIMC, International Passport, Driver’s Licence, Birth Certificate, LASRRA, NEPA/PHCN bill (even though I am still unemployed I pay my tax), Waste Management bill, Water bill, and so on?” "Do you not know I have been to primary school, secondary school, and university? Do you not know I have a masters degree plus a PHD? Add to the fact that I never failed any subject or course in the four walls of all the schools I have attended. You can take that to the bank!" "You are all making too much noise. Say I take all your claims to the bank surely, I will not cash out. My great grandfather was a farmer, and so was my grandfather. My father died farming and now I have inherited the family heirloom. I am sure my son will also take up this inheritance. With all the experiences we garnered...
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WHEN IT RAINS IT POURS

In those days, when it rained we would stay by the window and watch how the trees danced to the beats of the wind, the singing of raindrops and thunder. The lighter the music, the closer our legs would get to the door post, quietly watching the eyes of our mother; and waiting for an approval. When she wiggled her legs, it was a negative signal. But when she praised the beautiful works of God in the rainy moment, it was a positive sign. Note, there was no going outside when it rained in the night. That was why Joseph composed the song: Rain visit us when the sun is not old Rain sing for us when the moon is not young So that mother will open the door for us to play with you So that papa will come home dry and happy. Rain visit us as we sing to you. Rain oh rain oh rain. That particular day, the rain was deaf to our singing, or calling and yelling. We became frustrated because the sun was kissing the lines of the sea, workers were returning home while livestock owners were gathering their...
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WHY DO YOU WANT TO WIN?

He was seven years old, in basic 2 when his mother dragged him across his primary school hall because he attained the third position in his class out of 30 pupils. On their way home, she yelled, hit, blamed and threatened that if he dared to come third again, there would be no more privileges like tv, games, sports, swimming lessons, etc. When they got home, she summoned his private tutor, passing the leftover anger and frustration on the man who had been tutoring her son for the past six months.  “If you think that calling you three times a week to teach my son is a joke, you are the joker here. I pay you better than any of your clients, yet my son still comes as the third-best pupil in his class. Is it that those who came first and second were created specially or, do they have seven brains in one head? You better fix this in the coming term because there is nothing meant for my son than to be the winner. No place for third or second place in this house!” “Why do you always want ...
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I DON’T WISH TO BE GOD!

  I DON’T WISH TO BE GOD! He spat the above words like they were a fire in his mouth, hoping to find peace afterwards. U nfortunately, the cries, complaints, demands, declarations; all in different languages, from diverse places, in many corners, from so many places of worship, by different age grades; kept tearing his eardrums. He was approaching insanity.  On the 20th of September 2021, my friend was still in search of that dream job, that ideal wife, that gigantic mansion, that visa, that latest car but all seemed to hate his gut. Life had not been sunny with him but the hope was never quenched, even after losing a job opportunity all because of his state of origin as revealed by the interviewer. My guy kept the faith; attended all vigils heard of, googled all prayer points relating to breakthrough, fasted till his ribs shouted out aloud and sent out his CV to as many firms as possible. But… Mary-Amaka as she was called did not want to receive his calls anymore so she gave ...
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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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