How We Did in 2015, Guys!

I would like to thank everyone who read – and commented- on this here bloggy thingy!

I have been the most ungrateful blogger – repaying your readership with stony silence, but I promise to be better next year.

(Oh and in case you missed it, I am now writing at Let’s do awesome there too!)

Compliments of the season!

Without further ado, here are the stats-straight from WordPress’ HQ, that you helped create!

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 23,000 times in 2015. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 9 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

A Bucket of Crabs

Vunderkind’s note: I wrote this long ago as a sort of self-test, after the style of Tai Pei by Tao Lin. I must warn you: it is pretty long and round-about.


I used to know a guy named Lucky.

He worked at one of the barbershops in Downtown, a part of town where parents would rather shave the heads of their children with blades than patronize the barbershop. Haircuts were a luxury here, and people tried as much as possible to squeeze in the longest possible time interval between their last haircut and the next one; here, afros and dreadlocks were more an economic necessity than an actual fashion statement.

If you have a fresh haircut here, people would ask if you are going for a job interview and when you say no, they’d call you something along to the lines of “rich,” or “enjoying” (they would say you are flexing, a counter-intuitive word used to mean one is living the good life), alluding to your having enough money for such luxury as a haircut, but they may also be heaving an internal sigh of relief, subconsciously thankful that there are no job interviews in your immediate future and no upsetting change of status (on your part) is to be anticipated. The crab mentality is reflex for most.

Seeing as I religiously keep an afro, I mostly visited Lucky’s for the newspapers and the gist.

He had a lot of stories, mostly gossip he picked off while tampering with the scalps of his clientele. He was a funny man, Lucky was, but this was not unique to him.  The barbers I knew were all funny. Humor seemed prerequisite for holding this job.

One day, I was browsing, distractedly, reading the cartoons in a two-day old edition of The Vanguard, when I heard Lucky tell me he was going to quit working at the barbershop.

My first question – reflexively – had been “why?”

We were alone in the shop, and he was polishing a mirror, his back turned to me, but I could see his face reflected off the mirror he was currently burnishing.

I don tire for this place,” he said in pidgin English. “Everyday somebody dies in this area, and it affects me. The other day I was talking with one of my customers and he told me his uncle died in the gang war between Black Axe and Buccaneers last month.”

“This place has been like this even before you started working here. You shouldn’t have moved here at all if that’s how you feel,” I said, then realized I was defending  Downtown and all it represented. I wondered at that.

“I know. I thought I could cope. Tough man, me, I thought, but this city kills, man, and I’m not just talking about the gangs. It’s something in the air,” and he waved the towel vaguely in the air, “it feels like everybody here is not part of anything, you know? Like people are just living, but not really living.

“I have told my oga that he should start looking for my replacement in the shop. I will work for him and train his new boy in the next few months, then I will leave finally.”

I had laughed. “And do what, after that?”

“Become a taxi driver. Drive big people around. I’d own my own car,” and his face shone in the mid-day heat.

I laughed again.

“Why do you laugh? You don’t think I can do it?”

“You can’t afford a car, Lucky. You’re just a barber.”

“I’ve been doing this for four years,” he said, smiling like he had won a personal victory. “Four years. I barely touched my earnings in that time. The money is now enough for a small car.”

“Good for you,” I remember saying, feeling vaguely envious and upset that he was really going to buy a car off cutting hair – I remember thinking, stupid, foolish hair! – and I was here, reading a newspaper in his shop, my life a shabby mess that pretended to look better because I spoke better English than he did.

I felt vaguely betrayed; by life, and by him: here he stood, day in, day out, every year, unobtrusively performing a menial service with no indication of ambition. That was what upset me about his life. There was no reason for him to be ambitious, yet here he was, leaving me blindsided.

“In three months’ time, I will quit and start my new business!” he beamed. “When I told my mother in the village, she prayed for me and told me to drive the big men sofri-sofri.”

“Good for you,” I said again, hurrying to read the stale newspaper and ignore his offensive happiness.

Less than two months after this conversation, I stood with four friends outside Lucky’s shop, now locked, and we talked in somber tones about the man who used to work there. A gang war had broken out between two vicious gangs in Downtown and Lucky had had the singular misfortune of crossing the road on the wrong side of town at the wrong time of the day wearing the wrong color of shirt.


When you drive down Old Badamosi square, straight down, past the brown-roofed houses with their doors left generously ajar to stave off the oppressive heat, past the dirt-caked roads with pavement shrubbery so heavily cassocked in dust that you wouldn’t even notice the shrubbery at all, and further down, past the morose silence of a handful of people seated, or standing, swaying, inevitably lethargic in the desiccation of the February air, when you have passed these, you can then make a turn, left or right, for West Mission Road, or Downtown.

If you pass through West Mission Road, you would be reconnected with the Lagos the media falls over itself to show you, the beautiful parts of Lagos, where the foliage is always green, the roads always paved and the hum conveniently a backdrop to the strident tunes of ‘Eko o ni baje, Lagos will not spoil’. Old Badamosi will quickly become a bleep in your memory, a hastily receding blur that you would never have to remember, mercifully, maybe.

But if you go into Downtown, it would be surprising, as very few people ever go there willingly; most of the people there have been thrust there, irreverently, by the vicissitudes of fate. I say most, because I do not live in Downtown, yet I visit it willingly.

Downtown is where mothers warn their children not to visit beyond a certain time, and as soon as dusk begins to have the day in its thrall, stalls are shut and houses are reluctantly locked, trapping the safety-conscious inmates with the eternally pervasive heat. Here, Downtown, is what the oyinbo people would call the ghetto. The oyinbos have the ghetto classified under a media-friendly taxonomy, separating it into factions: East Coast, West Coast, the Crips and the Bloods, tag teams of violence, an urban mafia for people of African-American descent. For us, here, it is a lot less complicated.

Downtown is, quite simply, where the recalcitrants come to die.

I watch Mensah, the Ghanaian boy cough after taking a few drags from the joint currently passing round. He is dark-skinned as most Africans are, yet we insist on calling him Blackie, because his skin is significantly darker than ours, his melanin pigmentation going beyond what we can observe without recourse to humor.

“You smoke like a girl, Blackie,” jeers Jasper. Before he can finish speaking, Onome cuts in, her voice raised, as she says, “you are a sexist pig, you know that?”

“Oh look,” Jasper says, pretending to peer at her through a microscope. “A feminist. One of those rare illogical creations of nature. Like BigFoot. I must examine this specimen. Much study is required,” and he lets off a bark of laughter.

“You’re always an imbecile. Eternally. Until God returns. An imbecile,” says Onome.

Bobo is quiet, like the rest of us, and he silently takes the blunt from Blackie’s offering hand. Blackie is wiping his watering eyes against the back of the sleeve of his free hand.

Jasper blows Onome a kiss and bursts into laughter while she rolls her eyes. I am almost certain the two of them are having boisterous bouts of unbridled sex behind our backs. When I close my eyes sometimes, I can imagine them, daytime enemies, nighttime lovers, sweating, bouncing, in a nondescript shack, their passions and frustrations dissipating in a clandestine fusion that finds fuel from their anger at the world.

“Hey bro,” says Bobo, still holding the joint. I can see he is being careful, speaking to me, concern etched so deeply in his face I feel the crazy impulse to start laughing maniacally. I know what he will ask next.

“Hey bro,” he says. “How’s mumsy coping?”


How’s mumsy coping.

About three months ago, we had lolled, just like we are now, in this abandoned building that belonged to a nice man, we were sure, but just didn’t care enough to know his name, passing the pot as usual, talking about life in general. I remember that day because Onome and Jasper had been having their usual quarrel (about dressing decently, I think, with Onome saying a girl had the right to dress as she liked, Jasper saying it wasn’t an ideal world and rapists were everywhere and a girl owed it to herself not to draw unwanted attention) but this time Bobo, who was the most phlegmatic of the group had snapped and told them to shut up and fuck or something.

Jasper had grinned grandly while Onome expressed disgust, saying she’d rather be boiled alive, or maybe dragged across a bed made of glass shards, but I had picked up something in her body language that told me she wasn’t exactly averse to the idea. Mensah had then cracked a dirty joke, and Jasper started laughing and Bobo joined in and Onome said “you guys are pigs,” and the laughter had gotten louder, and it caused a dull ache I could feel in my brain. Something about the laughter annoyed me, and I remember gritting my teeth, a deep sadness and anger engulfing my chest.

It was in the middle of this disturbing laughter I had told them my mother was dying.

The laughter had transformed from disbelief to sympathy, and they had flocked around me, asking questions, and I had answered as best as I could. What kind of cancer? Lung cancer. Does she smoke? No. Don’t be stupid. You know my mother; she’s a deaconess. Can she be cured? How much do you think it’ll cost to treat? Questions…

The questions were easy to answer. They were dispassionate enough, but the emotional undercurrents had been too much for me, and shortly after, I half-regretted telling them. I wondered if they saw the irony in it, that it was I who smoked, who did ecstasy and who consumed any and every dubious chemical cocktail that was within reach, but it wasn’t I, at least not yet, who was dying from cancer of the lungs. My mother is a good person, and I am not, and life does not know what it is doing half the time.

The guys had mumbled words that were deficient in meaning but rich in intent, statements which were in the ballpark of sympathy, camaraderie and clumsy empathy and I realized that life, this one we lived, prepared no one for grief. We just made it up as we went along. I briefly considered the hilarity in that, because life is a concatenation of grief.

Onome had stared at me, her eyes reddened, partly from the weed and partly from her overworked empathy. When she walked to the end of the building, I knew she had gone to cry.

I would have wept with her, had I not done all of that days ago, when the doctors had made the diagnosis, and now I was just a stripped soul, naked and raw, a hollowed-out container of a boy caught between childhood and adulthood, with a mother fated to depart the world not with a bang, but in a drawn-out nightmare, one that would drain me of everything: tears, happiness, funding, warmth and finally, in a sinisterly epic crescendo, of the only person on earth for whom I was no burden.

While my friends lived in Downtown, I lived around Old Badamosi square, the go-between for West Mission and Downtown. My mother, a single woman who worked as a secretary in a quaint organization in West mission, wasn’t quite rich enough to afford a home in the neighborhood she worked, and (mercifully) wasn’t exactly poor enough to warrant living in Downtown, but, by God, we were close.

Sometimes I think she rebelled against our lean purse, fighting not to relocate to the significantly cheaper houses in Downtown because she didn’t want me influenced by the despondency, the low quality of life, the general apathy and lack of desire to rise into betterment that characterized Downtown. It was a bit ironic, and perhaps ungrateful, therefore, that I spent the days when she was at work – when she could still work – Downtown with Jasper, Bobo, Mensah and Onome, four lost kids who, while not exactly the most morally compliant friends I could have chosen, were completely harmless.

The company where my mother worked had sent her home, brusquely, when her condition was realized, with a severance pay that, while it looked impressive in light of my mother’s salary, gave one the queasy feeling that it could have been better. My mother had, afterall, worked there for 15 years of her life.

Now that my mother was sick and bed-ridden, I spent most of my time with my friends. My mother’s sister had been invited, and she was taking care of my mother and simultaneously whispering to her that I had become such a bad boy, smoking weed and hanging with “children of dubious morals” from Downtown.

“Your mother worked everyday, and every night, to see that you lacked nothing, and this is what you do?” she had shrieked at me one night, when I had returned particularly late.

The cloying, pervasive odor of sickness hung in the air. I had read once that animals could sniff out cancer in humans, and I was convinced, sometimes, right before I slept, that I could pick up the smell in the air, a yellowish smell (words are terribly poorly-equipped for me to describe the olfactory experience) that drifted about in trace amounts, and sometimes I wondered if inhaling this meant I would have cancer, too? Then I would chide myself, knowing I was smarter than that, to be thinking like that, because whoever got cancer by breathing in the air around a cancer patient? Then I would think about more illogicalities, such as, might the particles in the air be sentient and, realizing I can sniff them out, seek to terminate me in the way they have now laid waste to my mother?

Some nights I would lie still, really still and try to listen for my mother’s breathing in the other room. On really silent nights I would hear it through the thin walls, and I would wonder, in curious awe, how many more breaths she would draw before she finally died and my aunty (who hated me, I knew) would leave and I would be truly, and finally all alone.

Most mornings, I woke up crying, without remembering why, but feeling weak and tired all the same, like I had run a metaphysical race and lost, a fatal loss with implications beyond my mortal comprehension.

On mornings like those I would listen again for my mother’s breathing.


How is mumsy coping?

Ever since I told them about my mother’s condition, they had taken to referring to her like she was their mother too. I found it strangely patronizing, offensively so, but also felt it would be in poor taste to ask them to stop. I realize, on some level, that they mean well.

She’s fine, I say, because there is nothing else to say. Were I to give a truthful answer, it would elicit a tangled mass of verbal shoulder-pats which would achieve the unwitting effect of reifying my woes. She is fine is the answer they would expect me to give, and maybe the doctors say she’s getting better.

The joint is now with Onome, and I wish she would hurry it along, After Jasper, it gets to me, and I am not sure I would be willing to hand it over to anyone else.

Bobo, 26, has a situation of his own.  After impregnating the daughter of the chairman of the bus drivers’ association, he had been forced to arrange a marriage to the girl. All his savings, he says, have been hijacked, and he is still running about, trying to get more money to appease the chairman.

When he had told us his story, we had laughed. Jasper had told him the wages of sin is death, and the wages of dancing in the rain without a raincoat on was kids, and Onome had told him it served him right, and he had just held the blunt and smiled weakly.

Bobo rarely speaks much, or shows emotion, and I find it disturbing most of the time. Mensah once told him, “you’re the kind of guy to kill yourself and not leave a suicide note.”

Bobo had asked, “why would I do something like that?”

“You wouldn’t do it to achieve any effect,” Mensah said, his accent splashing over his words. “You’d just do it because you’re you, Bobo. And you’d leave behind many sad people wondering what upset you enough to do it.”

And Bobo had sat silently, thinking it over, then he had keeled over, laughing the loudest I had ever heard him laugh. Mensah had mumbled “idiot,” but I had found Bobo’s reaction disturbing.


Lately I’ve been thinking about Lucky, and how he was killed just as he was about to say goodbye to Downtown. I think about crabs in a bucket, the crabs at the bottom unwilling to climb out of the bucket, pulling down the ones attempting to escape. I think about my friends, unambitious men and a woman, willing to smoke and philosophize and question life without taking action to correct their fates.

I also think about myself. I am not much different from them, afterall, or we wouldn’t get along so well, but lately a glow has started in the middle of my heart and it becomes brighter everyday.

My mother’s illness is fated to engulf all her finances, an exercise in futility as it would kill her still, in the end.

I have been suffused with growing discontent with Downtown and Old Badamosi square; I feel the spreading desire to go out, past West Mission road, to make something of myself, and with that desire comes another which I have considered as disinterestedly as possible, as a surgeon might consider, without queasiness, an eye gouged out of its socket.

I look at my mother in the mornings when I wake up, after wiping fresh tears, and in the moments when my aunt leaves us to be together, alone, I stare into her pale, wrinkled face as she attempts to smile, to reassure me, that we would beat this illness, telling me she is a fighter, and I would smile back, seeing past her bravado, seeing past the reassuring lies, and in those mornings, the word euthanasia comes to my mind unbidden.

I realize, daily, that my mother is gone already, but her savings may yet save me, and it would be unfortunate, for me, if our financial stash were to follow her into the great beyond.

The joint finally gets to me and I take a drag, allowing the smoke cloud my vision of the four, permitting myself to think about my mother, knowing, finally, the exact date of her demise.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: A Latecomer’s Note

There are classics which are alluded to in contemporary culture, often referenced in today’s literature and are often effortlessly summoned in arbitrary verbiage that, for the present-day man, it may appear as though he knows everything about aforementioned classic without having ever consumed the classic in its original form.

One of such classics is Robert Louis-Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

For years I have heard, and used, the phrase “a Jekyll and Hyde personality,” and I have used it well, context considering, without having actually read the book. Such is the beauty of communication: the ability to transmit the implications of exhaustive text into the mundane hustle of day to day conversation.

I do not read much lately, I am shy to admit, and 500-paged literature have me fleeing for dear life. I blame my ruthless work schedule for my departure from my childhood haven – reading – but there’s much to be said for my surrender to the contrary tides of life.

Enough about me.

The fact that this book measures a modest 93 pages was what lured me into it; I mean, here was a book that wouldn’t lock me in a lunar matrimony! (I thought wrong, for it took me well over a month to read this book. I must add that it was no fault of Louis-Stevenson’s, but the blame should be cast resolutely upon me.)

One of the things that had me fascinated with this book was the language. Sometimes I appreciate the deviation from the essentially simple language with which today’s books are written. In this book I found new old words and new usage for old words.

It was especially interesting, the dramatic style with which texts from that age were written. I might remark that the exclamation mark may have been overworked then, and the semicolon. Interjections too (‘ay!’).

There were points in the book where I felt it would have met with scathing criticism from today’s critics, where I felt reviewers would have said, Robert Louis-Stevenson expended too much emotional energy in sections, and spared none for places where it was in dire need. I can’t, right now, recall those sections, but I remember feeling that way in the process of reading.

I would like to comment wryly on the fact that the events which caused Dr. Henry Jekyll much horror and consternation appear quite mundane in today’s world. Seeing as books are designed to charge the era in which they were written, it is obvious that at the time it was written, such a transfiguration might have come off as something verboten, Satanic and reserved for burning at the stake. In today’s world filled with literary mutants and other otherworldly beings, only the most removed persons would shudder at the events in the book.

Nevertheless, it doesn’t detract any from the power of this book. One mistake I made recurrently – which was cleared up upon reading the book – was assuming Dr. Jekyll was the ‘good’ personality, and Edward Hyde the ‘evil’ one. I assure you that I was positively impressed to discover that while Hyde was indeed the evil side of Dr. Henry Jekyll, Jekyll himself was but the ‘human’ side, the multifarious polity consisting of both good and evil in disproportionate amounts.

This book posed as a moral experiment in a soup of science fiction, and it was simply a dabble into old questions. Would life be better if we were entirely good or entirely evil, divested of conflicting emotions and free to do either good or evil as we desired? Louis-Stevenson took great pains to explain that Dr. Jekyll, for the purpose of the narrative, was what the world would call a ‘good’ man, so it is quite instructive the side of him that came to be hewn from him after the experiment. Does man tend towards good or evil? Would man, stripped of such encumbrances as a conscience, seek light or darkness?

Also, the fact that Hyde grew in stature and strength as he, so to speak, flexed his muscles in the outside world lent further ‘meat’ to a story expertly written about 2 centuries ago. I was at once respectful of Robert Louis-Stevenson and annoyed with myself that it took me this long to read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Would I recommend this book? Absolutely. Would you enjoy it? Perhaps, but what is life without trials?


NB: I have spent the last eight months at and it is immensely fulfilling. If you ever need an affordable hotel room, visit and make a booking or just give me a shout out on Twitter. I’ll be sure to fix you up! 🙂

The Awakening of Lord Disdick [Erotica]

[DISCLAIMER] – If there was ever a need for a disclaimer, it’s now. This story will not appeal to the variety of my readers, because I’m writing in a subgenre that isn’t popular (and is actually infamous.) If, per chance, you were ever in the humor section of Literotica in 2008-2009, chances are you read one of my stories there. And if you did – and if you liked them – chances are, you would like this one too.

With that said, I am writing this story simply because I want to write something different from what I usually do. Got any critiques? Please leave them. Namaste – 


If you needed justification, Chuks had them aplenty.

You see, the sun in Lagos was no natural passage of solar radiation from energy orb to grossly overrated flora and fauna, but an intelligent, malevolent thing that smote (what a word, smote!) with a vengeance all Lagosians who dared to travel on foot or (in the case of those proud Volvo owners) those who dared to have vehicles without such luxuries as air conditioning. The Lagos sun left its signature wherever it went – a painful redness at the back of your unprotected neck – and kept on bridging the gap between albino and Ghanaian.

As if that wasn’t enough – mate! – there was the serpentine arrangement of vehicles which every Nigerian had to bravely surmount to and fro daily. Most people erroneously referred to it as a “traffic jam’ and sent tweets to Gidi_Traffic, with something as ludicrously tepid as ‘6:00pm: Traffic around the bottleneck at Iju-Ishaga road.’ The truth was that this was no mere traffic, but the Curse of the Iron Serpent inflicted on Lagos for being the hosting place of FESTAC, many years ago. All literature supporting this has been mysteriously omitted from all respectable libraries and as such it shall remain a myth.

Factors such as the above have, over time, transformed the average Lagosian in his natural habitat from a kind, genial citizen of the republic to a feral beast, quick to froth at the mouth at the slightest irritation. Rumors circulate in insurance circles that IGI is planning, in the second quarter of 2015, the roll out the “Accidentally Stepping on the Shoes of a Fat Black Lagosian Woman” insurance plan.

These things are only easily understood by true Lagosians, and you don’t get any more ‘Lagosiany’ than Chuks on this momentous Friday night.

In the ridiculous premeditation of ‘turn up’ endeavors, Chuks had sprayed his armpits generously with some air freshener that pretended to be perfume and donned his favorite jeans. He had just finished his day shift at Zenith bank, and after hiding his uniform and night-stick, stepped out into the dusky streets.

(One would expect that Chuks, being a family man, would return to the family he had last seen on Sunday last week, but, as explained earlier, Lagos has lots of sun and traffic and as such he will be perfectly justified for his next decision. It is not good that a man be stressed every time.)

Whistling a tune from Burna Boy, he turned into a residential area, and proceeded to knock on the gate of a seedy compound that boasted of being the “Den of Swag.

Three smart raps and the gate was opened by a woman as shabbily costumed as her morals, which was really advantageous in this situation for Chuks  fancied her especially because she would let him do things Mama Chichi (that’s Chuks’ wife) wouldn’t. Like stick it in her brown hole.

(No, seriously. She had a brown hole in the middle of her room, and Chuks often dipped sticks in there. Haha. Who are we kidding?)

Quickly they locked the doors behind them, making haste, for the fuckening is a very urgent endeavor indeed, as can be deduced from the potpourri of copulatory videos flooding the internet.

Clothes were discarded vehemently, and soon nakedness descended upon them. Foreplay was employed and soon it was time for Chuks’ bald man to go for a swim.

Alas, Chuks stared upon Caro’s (for that was her name) happiness (for that was what she had christened it) and found, for the first time since he had entered into a contract of lust with her six months ago, that her happiness bore upon itself the countenance of an impoverished snail that had recently completed a 40-day dry fast.

He prodded it with his fingers and it did not moisten in reaction, but drooped sadly, a parched kitty refusing to drink water or make its own.

Caro was embarrassed. Chuks was horrified. Had he lost his sexiness? He wondered briefly about his moonwalking hairline and wept bitterly.


The Brotherhood of Men Called an Urgent Meeting.

It was generally agreed that it was a most disastrous development, and the sooner it was reversed, the better for everybody.

“I climbed my wife today,” screamed a man (who, in all fairness, had a really fat wife at home), “and she wasn’t interested! I huffed and puffed (which is ironic, because that’s really her specialty), but she just lay there, incapable of arousal!”

“Same here,” said Biodun, another man (who, like the man above, has been randomly generated for this singular statement, after which he will be discarded and never mentioned again.)

A quiet voice at the back stuttered: “It was horrible.”

The men hushed up, listening to the new voice. It was Chuks.

“I…I tried to do it with my girlfriend, but she was so dry. I ran out of her bedroom in shame. I didn’t stop. I ditched my phone, throwing it into a LAWMA truck so she would never be able to call me again. Then I went home. Home is nice, I said. Mama Chichi loves me for me, I said. Then I tried it with Mama Chichi – “ he whimpered, then blew his nose loudly.

“ – BUT SHE WAS DRY TOO!” and he bawled.

The Brotherhood of Men all began to talk at once. “What is happening? Are our women losing interest in us?”

Then – (to further the plot of this tale) – a mysterious dark figure appeared in their midst.

“Calm thine hearts, young mortals! There is great evil awake within thine midst!” the new visitor said.

“Who is that?”

“Why im dey speak King James?”

“Abi na Macbeth.”

“Must be Shakespeare.”

The visitor dramatically stepped forward into the light, and a light was cast upon his face, only it wasn’t a ‘he.’ It was a she, and she had a scar running diagonally across her face.

“A woman in the brotherhood!” a man cried.


“Be calm,” said the woman. “I am no mere woman, but I am Multiplunt, Immortal and Arch-Enemy of Scott.”


“Scott Disdick.”


“He is the one who causeth thine women to no longer water for thine underperforming dicks. He is a malevolent beast, one that has been awakened by the superimposition of Jupiter and Mercury.”

“The superwhat?”

“It is written in the Old Scrolls, that in the September of the 14th Year after the new Millennium, Scott Disdick shalt arise and harvest for himself ten million mortal female orgasms and destroy thine planet.”



“But it is November though.”




“Okay,” said Chuks resolutely. “What then shalt we do?”

“Doth thou mockest mine language?”

“I mocketh it at first,” he nodded. “But then I proceedeth to think about it, and I findeth it cool as fucketh.”

“Very well then, saith I,” said the woman. “I shall teach thee to subdue Disdick.”


Six men and a woman crept through Obalende in the middle of the night. They passed the bus terminus and proceeded in the direction of the place referred to as ‘under bridge.’ They passed druggies calling drowsily ‘bros, how far? You wan ssss-?” and emerged in another corner where the world’s abokis appeared to be congregated, ready to change your money.

They moved on, past this adventurous section of Lagos that was oblivious to the meaning of the word ‘midnight’ (or ‘sleep’ for that matter) and went down, down, dowwwwwwnnnn into a koro where no light shone.

There the men stood, with the woman in front.

‘What now?’ whispered a nervous voice.

‘He’s in there,’ said Multiplunt. ‘I sense him.’

‘Let’s get the bastard,’ coughed Chuks. He had been feeling sickly since his women rejected him.

Multiplunt lit a candle, and it cast weird images that merely served as fodder for the overactive imagination.

‘I see him!’

‘He looks like a dinosaur!’

‘It’s only just a shadow,’ muttered Multiplunt, who kept slipping out of her Shakespearean English. She lit another candle and said a chant. ‘Now you see him.’

Out of the shadows appeared a huge man, nude and covered with long, floppy worms. It was a disgusting sight, so disgusting that it caused Chuks to cry, “is this what snatched my women from me!?”

“He’s covered with worms!” yelled Biodun (I lied about using him only once.)

“Silence!” Multiplunt barked. “Those are not worms. They are dicks. Once they hardeneth, thine women shalt orgasm, and he shall acquire unto himself more orgasms which he stocketh up to destroy thine planet.”

“Kill him!” yelled Biodun.

“Did you bring guns? A knife?”

“Uhm. No.”

“So how do we kill him?”

“We punch and strangle him, I guess.”

“I’m not touching a multi-penised guy.”

“Ugh. No homo.”

“Me neither. Can’t be brushing accidentally against another man’s junk yuno.”


While the men reinforced their heterosexuality, Scott Disdick’s numerous dicks hardened, and even in this recess in Lagos, the men heard their wives moan and gasp in the throes of orgasms they knew they would never have been able to give them.

“MAKE HIM STOOOOOOPPPPP,” somebody cried.

“Very well then,” said Multiplunt.

Multiplunt took off her dress, and the men saw that she was naked underneath, and she was covered all over with vaginas. On her breasts were two vaginae™ (word trademarked by this author, in case of future legal disputes), and when she moved, the vaginae all over her body sighed moistly.

“Wow,” said every man.

“Multiple cunts.”

“I suddenly get her name.”





“NO!” yelled Multiplunt, and she pounced upon him. Each vaginae trapped a dick and soon they were rolling about.





The men stared stiffly at this cosmic battle.

Soon, Disdick yelled.



Then there was a bright light, and when the light was gone, the men unshielded their eyes and found Disdick and Multiplunt gone.


“What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” said Chuks, feeling obliged to say something quotable. “But this I do know: we just got saved by the power of the vagina.”


“That’s what he said!”

“Come on guys. Let’s go home.”

  • End –


Lo, He Cometh, Cap in Hand…

(Before we begin this armchair discussion, gaze upon this link. It will come in handy as we go

I literally expected to find roots and herbs at the bottom of the can.
I literally expected to find roots and herbs at the bottom of the can.

Yesterday, I drank Orijin and passed out. I had a very weird dream where I traveled into an alternate plane of reality and my mission was to save Ned Stark’s life. The man was as annoyingly oblivious as ever, and it got even worse when he became Goodluck Jonathan. I think I took over the management of his Twitter account, only I was using it to cop a few chicks.

Long story short, Ned Stark/Goodluck Jonathan died, and it’s all because of Orijin.

You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you about my dream. The thing is, I needed an icebreaker. It’s been a while since I’ve been here, eh? I’ve had some remarkable writers over here during the time (keeping you entertained is what I try to do) but I’ve been depriving you of the delicately suntanned body of He Who is Vundie. And that, my friend, is unpardonable.

But – wait – before you yell “OFF WITH HIS HEAD!”

I’ve not been entirely the lazy-ass you know me to be. Contrary to popular expectation, I’ve been doing a bit of writing, just not on my blog. I am writing a scifi book, a fantasy book and another…uhm, thriller concurrently and I’ve been making guest appearances on blogs! Neat, huh? I think it’s neat. Pretty tidy.

I wrote a story on Boko Haram (and I was all serious and no-jokes. Wow. Believe that!) on Comrade Zzyzx’s blog. I titled it “The String that Binds” (in my defense, I was lined up with a series of really uber-serious writers and I couldn’t get away with naming it “Pseudo-Morose Tales from the Land of Indeterminate Longevity.”)

I also have a sci-fi short coming up on Jeremy Targert’s blog. I can give a little spoiler. The title is: “Hey, OmniTerrans, That’s MY Parking Space!”

Now, that’s a title after my heart.

Okay. Update done. Now, to cut to the chase.

I finally entered for a writing competition. This is officially my first writing competition ever, and I feel really way out of my depth. I’ll tell you why.

1. I used to be a pretty good flash fiction writer. 300 words? Hah. I could spin yarns, nugget-sized and ready to serve for the jittery commuter. However, since I began extending my words and adding more descriptives and imagery, even as I began writing short books and all, Short Story Justin went on an indefinite holiday.

One day, someone on Twitter sends me a DM asking me to enter the Etisalat Competition for Flash Fiction and I suddenly try to get Short Story Justin on the line and I discover he’s moved to Maui.

2. It’s voting-based. I mean, it means that even if my story is the best thing ever written on earth, I don’t get to make momma (and you fellas) proud if it doesn’t get voted above the competition.

And that’s why I’m here, cap in hand ___O_


I promise to update this blog on schedule for the rest of my life if I win.

Okay, maybe not the rest of my life. How about half of the rest of it? Or one quarter of twenty percent of two-thirds the square root of it? Thanks. I knew we had a deal.

So, here’s the link: Click here to vote TheVunderkind

Please, read the story (I’m currently, and quite surprisingly, anticipating constructive critiques and reviews of the piece) and vote for the story. Share with your friends too, please. Let mommy and daddy read it too.

If I win, I’d be able to update my bio. Imagine that? “Vunderkind. Maestro. Entrepreneur. Winner, Etisalat Flash Fiction Prize, 2014. A world without a sense of humor is the zombie apocalypse.”

Are you giddy with me already?

Thanks guys. I knew I could count on you.

You’re just the best.


Seven Point Agenda, by @GenghisKent

Ladies, gentlemen. Vunderkind again. WHAT’S GOOOOOOOOOOOD? Haha. I’m hoping you aren’t noticing my very loud absence on this here blog. I told this guy @uluthrix to handle things while I was away but what happened?



In his defence he has a girlfriend and this thing called a job. Ugh. 

I opened a new blog about a week ago (stop what you’re about to do; just…stop) on That’s basically where I go to be all serious and boring. This is the good place. On the plus side, the beer is free on The BlankCzech. 

I have with me this man known to all as Genghis Kent, a pretty cool name if you ask me. Go ahead, ask me. It’s a pretty cool name, if you ask me. Go ahead. Ask me again. It’s a pretty cool name if you ask me…

His handle on Twitter is @GenghisKent, and he titles this one Seven Point Agenda. (Aside: notice how ‘agenda’ sounds like what your Yoruba neighbour said when he woke up to find his generator missing? Moving along…)

You know the drill. Words in red belong to Vundie. The next voice you’ll be reading is Genghis Kent’s – 



A girl from Twitter sent me a message the other day, very early in the morning. Around six.

“What’s Oritsefemi’s handle?”

Naturally, when someone comes in my DMs to talk about Retweet-for-Retweet, or to ask for the link to a sex tape, or anything remotely as stupid as this, I intuitively block them, report as spam, and stay off Twitter for some weeks. But this was a little bit different. It was too early in the morning. Although I felt the natural urge to log off and go back to sleep, a question kept ringing in my head: why would anyone wake up that early to look up a Twitter handle?

Oritsefemi’s Twitter handle.

I opened Miss ask-me-stupid-question’s profile. She was lightskin has bleached, and her avi revealed a lavish portion of her breasts. I decided, out of stupid curiosity, that I needed to see what it was with Oritsefemi. Perhaps I could even make this girl go on her knees soon. (For prayers, of course.)

“I don’t know.” But Twitter’s search engine isn’t just for leaked nudes. I didn’t include the last part because, I mean, who goes on Twitter looking for nudes?

“Aww. What a shame,” she replied. “I wanted to hype this new brand of his.”

“What new brand of his?” I asked.

“Duh! Have you been on this planet?”

I didn’t mind her being rude because she looked so hot and I thought I could learn something from her.

“So you don’t know what everyone has been on about?” She continued.

“Humor me.” I implored.

“Okay, I’m sure you’ve heard of Beliebers.” I still didn’t mind her tone because this dick will not suck itself God asked us to be patient with others.

I said yes.

“And you know Korede Bello’s fan base is Bellovers?”

I said yes. Again.

“Okay, well, Oritsefemi now has a name for his fan base. It’s called Feminism.”

I have now deleted my Twitter.

And Facebook.

And IG.

Because enough damage has been done to my IQ.

Anyway, I digress. I’m not about to bother on the follies of Nigerian social media, or even feminism for that matter, although it’s very probable that I got inspiration from these two aforementioned. (Please, pretend like you’re about to read something meaningful.)

You see, on this same Twitter one day, I came across a quote by a British novelist, Sir William Golding. (Ghen-Ghen!)


Bruh, this quote made me realise what my life purpose was. (Although, I felt the same way when I first saw boobs.) I realised that in the actual sense, it was men, and not women who needed to fight for equal rights. I mean, who runs the world, right?

Thus, I proclaimed myself, Alaadin, the supreme masculist.


Yes, you guessed it. My mission is to fight vigorously in support of men whose phalluses have been denied eternal access to their women’s oral cavity. In the same vein, I envision a world where men can stand on a podium and point out members of the opposite sex with whom they’ve had a coital relationship, without fear of stones, or guns, or spiritual problems.

The following is a list of my demands from the general public, tagged: Seven Point A-gender. (Isn’t this the best pun you’ve seen in ages?)

  1. Firstly, I demand the rights of a man to have his meal well prepared by his wife, or any other form of female companion, as and when he deems fit. (Even at 3 AM. Because some of us like to eat when we can also hear our stomach grinding the food particles.)
  2. Secondly, I demand for the rights of a man to stack up side chicks. The latest stastistical research by (insert statistical body of choice) puts the number of women and men three to one. It’s only natural, therefore, that a man, in his humanly love (or whomanly, if you’ll indulge me) volunteers to help organized society out this delicate position.

yekeen 3

  1. I demand for free and exclusive rights to boobs. Yes, It’s very essential to the psychological advancement of a man that he squeezes boobs anyhow he likes. The claim by women therefore, that a man who squeezes boobs anyhow wants to slack it for the next boyfriend is bogus, and only a plot to hinder their mental well being.
  2. I demand for the rights of a man to, at his disposition, safely request a threesome scenario, which will involve himself, his wife, and any other female (preferably one of the wife’s hot friends) without fear of consequences and repercussions. Also, women who demand for a threesome with their husband and another male are a threat to society.
  3. I demand a change in our music videos. The demeaning act has perpetrated for too long and has rendered the music scene morally reprehensible. We’re tired and sick of music videos with just four or five men in the midst of hundreds of women, majority of whom are almost naked. I mean, It’s very shameful because, WHERE ARE THE MEN?!! Why aren’t there as much men in the videos as women? Is that to say men are apes? (Wipes off tears.) That no one needs their faces in music videos? This is an injustice, and I’m taking the fight to social media. Please show support by tweeting with hashtag #BringBackOurMenInMusicVideos. Thanks.
  4. Yes. I demand the rights to tap ogo. This is the bony prominence at the back of the head, and we believe girls with big big Ogo are usually stingy, or heartless, or both. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they let us tap this divine manifestation of God in form of an occipital protuberance? (Lemme tap your ogo so I know it’s real.)
  5. Finally, I demand that when a beautiful woman is looking for a job, and a man decides to hire her, she will not blackmail him by refusing to take the job unless he sleeps with her. This sexual exploitation and molestation at its peak. Please, help create awareness. All a man wants is to employ hot beautiful women who will not end up asking him for sex.

Thank you gentlemen and ladies, (because men come first.) I have absolutely no idea what I’ve been smoking too.

Guest Post 2: She Lied to Me

‘Tis me again. I hope you enjoyed the first Guest Post? Because I have another one. The writer calls it a poem, but I think it reads more like lyrics to a song. I’ll let you be the final judge.

Lest I forget, I opened a new blog today. It’s called: “The BlankCzech” and it’s basically me trying to blog like I originally planned. A.g(r)eek will still be my prose place, but BlankCzech will be me just…talking.

About…well, stuff.

This basically means I’ll be talking in real time, giving a social commentary on life as it affects me and the people I can connect with. I have a post up there already titled “A Case for Humor” where I revisit my obsession with the Singer Brandy (but that’s just the side deal; I had something serious to speak about in the must laid-back way possible.)

I’d really appreciate it if you subscribe to The BlankCzech’s mailing list. I’m working on a cartoon strip section, but that happens when I get my tablet. All in all, I look forward to doing significantly better content-wise, with a lot less smut.

And now, the guest post. Remember, you can always follow the writer on Twitter (his twitter handle is at the bottom of this here post)



You say you still love me
But it’s hatred in disguise
I ask you to come clean
But you tell more fvcking lies

Now you blame it on the devil
But you are gracefully even more evil
You lie like it’s fueled by diesel
Bitch! You ate through me like a weevil

Truth, lies and then more lies
Just tell me what it is you despise
You maneuvered me and thought it wise
This you did for what prize?

You took me for a fool
Your lies was the tool
You took my heart and slowly ripped it in two
You think you got away but you’ll dance to Sir. Karma’s tune

You deceived!
Damn your infamous ‘white lies’
You keep the truth hidden but:

– Timi

Twitter: @Certified_Timi

Guest Post 1: Brew

If you can imagine me cartwheeling, that is how you should imagine my entry into this blog today.

So I’ve, over time, accumulated a number of guest posts, and I’ll now drop them here arbitrarily. (Damn, I totally love that word. Arbitrarily. So arbitrary.)

Today I bring poetry from a friend (I want to say brother too) and one of the people I looked up to when I first began blogging. You know the guy, but I’ll let his piece do the introductions.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Brew.

(Yes, I am cartwheeling out of the blogpost as well)



– BREW –

Music breeds clarity

Clarity berths the clandestine,

And often more superfluous clarity.

It’s a peculiar conundrum

This is a product of one of those.

Pay me no heed,

I reach hazy realizations,

Based largely on imagined epiphanies

Absolutes that never mate oxygen,

You should however listen to my pen

It is after all always right.


I ponder

Almost capitulate

At the irony of it all

That my prized jewel

Is another’s to cast away.


Hilariously paradoxical.

I wish my mind were beautiful

So I could truly appreciate Mona Lisa

I want to write songs

Of love and of conquest

Of pride in oneself

Of innate ability

Of happiness

Of nirvana.

Do you dare dance in the light?

You sons of Cain

And daughters of Jezebel?

Would you trade your soul for a kobo?

If it could purchase the key famed to unlock the very secrets of the universe?

What would you do for a glimpse through the creator’s eyes?

Or is your soul worth more than one kobo?

Journeying traveler

Finds purpose in journey

Hence no destination.

Feeble mindedness,

Characteristic of nomads

Wondering wanderer.




Ah ah.

Seek depth in simplicity

Be blind to multiplicity

Teaming with audacity,

I ask that you take responsibility,

Of your affairs.



Words elude me

Evasive as ever

Running in circles

Haughty circumferences.

The scribbles of my mind

Pious, logical,

Sold to conflict,

And irony found in the profound.


In often conflict with the heart

Willful and easily swayed,

This is a war that must be waged.

I search for meaning in existence,

Like looking for hydrogen in water,

Failure is inevitable,

I am no chemist after all.

Oh what impossible odds.


(Twitter: @paetir)

  The End of All Things

He was interesting because he had that drive, that passion peppered with a dash of adventure that told me that while this was business for everyone else, to this kid – this black boy with the yellow wrist band – there was only fun to be had here.

selling gala


“Why should I employ you instead of the 23 other people currently waiting outside?”

Because I will fondle your breasts for free, is what my brain said. Luckily for me, my mouth was acutely in favor of my getting employed as soon as possible, so I delayed in responding.

I raised my eyes a bit and was mildly surprised to realize that the breasts interviewing me were attached to a woman, and she appeared to have a face.

Not a bad face, considering. But the breasts, guy.

“Mr. Salami?” (Yes, my name is Salami. In 2014. My parents and I are still not on speaking terms)

“I have the skill set this company requires for the position advertised.”

“But you have no experience.”

“Which is to your advantage, actually.”

She leaned forward and I actually heard the breasts call me. On speed dial. Guy. I leaned closer and pretended it was because I wanted to hear her better. Continue reading ”  The End of All Things”

#ThrowBackThursday: For the Lovers of DOOD! [Free Download Here]


Photo credit: Shutterstock (duh)

Gracias, gracias.

First, I must apologize on behalf of me for the tardiness in posting today. It is easily explained, but I’d rather not. Instead I’ll blame some random unconnected entity (GEJ, anyone?) for the series of events that have led to my late post.

(I’m a night-loving creature. I could start a disquisition on circadian rhythms et al, but an Ekene or two is already drooling on his smartphone.)

On the plus side….

I have another book! (sorta) Unfinished, and done last year, back when I was just stirring from my Dood-induced slumber. You remember Dood, right? The story that wouldn’t let me write it? Well, I had originally written something – and this something had me so dismayed that I quit it before you guys smote me with hailstones.


This is it: Dood and the Agent of Darkness (Aborted Version.)

DISCLAIMER: It is, at best, playful. Sometimes I read it and wonder why. Like ‘why?’

This is for the people who ask me about Dood. This is for them. FOR SPARTA.

Click this link to download and be blessed: Dood: The Watcher of the Gods

#ThrowBackThursday: BloodSport, Nipples and Dimes and the 12-Hour Challenge

Hello, guys. Me again. I finally figured out a way to keep my blog ‘active’ – it’s a cheat technique, but I’m hoping you’ll enjoy it. Basically, I found a memory card of mine where I kept most of my writings from years ago. Found some old books, too and Facebook notes.

This means every Thursday, I’ll be doing a throwback of those old posts. It was really interesting for me to see how much progress I’ve made since I began writing. Whew. And we aren’t even halfway there in this writing cycle. Whew.

You can critique, but note that these are old works; I’ve probably learned the lessons already. This is basically for your amusement – and mine.

Also, I have attached a little .pdf erotica ‘book’ I wrote for a client. The only awesome thing about this book is, I wrote it in under 12-hours. I won the contract and the client gave me 12 hours to turnaround. I started writing- no plot, no nothing. You should read it and lemme know what you think of me.

[Click here to read the The 12-hour Challenge] – (My bad. I never titled it, so 12-hour challenge is just as well, I guess…)


I also wrote a supposed-to-be action story titled BloodSport. Download here: BLOODSPORT

(A little BloodSport backstory: I wrote this coming down from my Suicide Samuel high, and it is rife with ‘showing not telling,’ ‘adverbs and adjectives’ and ‘unlikely events.’ Still, it felt epic back then.)


And now for an actual blog post from years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer you: PAUSE Continue reading “#ThrowBackThursday: BloodSport, Nipples and Dimes and the 12-Hour Challenge”

Maiduguri Roulette

“Looks like we have ourselves here a Mexican standoff, boys,” River said in his irritatingly condescending tone. The ugly blade of grass was still in his mouth and he moved his tongue, transferring the blade from one side of his mouth to the other.

I kept my eyes on River, all the while aware of the tingling sensation that told me that Sparrow’s eyes were bored as intensely into me as well. Even though it was the middle of December, the room had become hot enough to induce premature labor in feeble women.

The light of the candle on the table burned feistily, flirtatiously patronizing moths and casting frantic shadows all around us. On the table lay a half-completed game of Scrabble. The three chairs which had circled the table now lay sprawled all about the floor.

I had been the first to draw my gun. My nickname is QuickDraw, after the character, and I could have quickly finished off the two idiots had they not been my friends. Now here we were, in a deadlock and I was already beginning to curse my delay. Continue reading “Maiduguri Roulette”

The Punnery Within

melondramaIt was one of those sweltering nights that managed to be compatible with a bottle of cold beer, tasteless music and short-skirted women with tatashe lips. Club Tango was half-full – as the night was yet young – and there were the ubiquitous casually-dressed males with a female slung across their arms (even as the hide of an unfortunate animal slung across said females’ backs.)

An amateur Rn’B singer hoping to blow someday had just serenaded the casual audience, and a few had already managed to cop blowjobs under the table, a feat afforded by the poor lighting and equally poor standards of the motley group of people who patronized Club Tango.

It was against this backdrop of smug filth that Jinodu James came on stage. Of course, no man in the age of Twitter would publicly admit to being christened Jinodu, and as such this man would have you refer to him as Jino. His stage name was Jino Tinto. Dismal, really.

Continue reading “The Punnery Within”

Repost: Continuity

About the Author banner

The enthusiastic teenager wrote in his jotter. His fingers shook with barely contained frenzy as he hurried to capture the contents of his heart within the sheets of paper. No one would read his story willingly; his language was ‘unstructured,’ ‘juvenile’ and ‘politically incorrect.’ But his mother would wipe her hands dry on her apron as she stood over the porridge in the kitchen, read his ‘manuscript’ and beam: ‘my boy is going to be better than Charles Dickens!’

Charles Dickens was the only writer his mother knew.

The teenager’s story was of a boy who stared yawningly into his father’s face as his father read him a bedtime story. The boy, feeling his bladder constrict, begged to go take a piss. There, in the bathroom, he found his father dead, with his head chopped off and mounted on a pole. His father’s face, in death, was a leer. The boy turned around wordlessly, and returned to the bedroom, and found his father there still, smiling benevolently.

Continue reading “Repost: Continuity”

The Excursion From Now Avenue to Memory Lane

Ah, a new month and a fresh Sunday. It doesn’t get better than this. It doesn’t, that is, unless you are me.

I like to appreciate the little things, and I’m not even throwing shade at Tyrion. With that said, I looked up my blog’s stats today and what I saw made me cry. This little blog just crossed its 40k – hits mark and I’m feeling very emotionally unstable right now.

(‘Cos I’m happyyyyyyyyyy!!!!)

Batman is still angsty because his parents never came for his school's PTA meeting.
Batman is still angsty because his parents never came for his school’s PTA meeting.

This is a thank you note. To you, reading this right now. Yes, to you. These blog hits don’t make themselves, yunno? My happiness is your happiness (I want to say ‘take ye my flesh, and eat it,’ but I’ve been watching Hannibal and so…no.) Continue reading “The Excursion From Now Avenue to Memory Lane”

#Recipe: One Insecure Prick, One Social Media Account, One Boobvatar and Catfish is Ready!

DISCLAIMER: One, there is no shred of seriousness in this post. If you are the kind of person who isn’t interested in reading something unless it’s a thesis on Quantum Physics or contains words like cornucopia and malodorous, eeyah. I’m really sorry. Two: The writer is a nice person, and any resemblance to any person dead or alive was obviously not intentional.

Really. Seriously.


Once upon a time, in a world not so far away governed by IP addresses and Smartphones, there lived a girl called Efemuna. This handle, which her parents had so generously bequeathed upon her seven days after she poked her head out of her mother’s vulva, had since assumed various transfigurations.

You see, Efemuna among friends was referred to as simply Efe, but when she found herself in the pleasantly surprising company of a (rich) handsome guy with (wealth) a sense of humor and (money) a bright future, she suddenly became “Effy,” a name which, to the author, sounds like the last words of a dying ostrich (hypothetically, of course. Aforementioned author has had no cause to see an ostrich , whether dead or alive and seeing as the author hasn’t visited the zoo and rarely watches National Geographic, the author is unlikely to have a papyrus stashed somewhere documenting the final words of a deceased ostrich. Sometimes these disclaimers are necessary. Anybody can sue nowadays, it seems.)

Continue reading “#Recipe: One Insecure Prick, One Social Media Account, One Boobvatar and Catfish is Ready!”

Sermon on the Mound

Now this…


This is one of the most outstanding stories we have for you guys…saving the best of the best for last….



“FATHER, MOTHER AND SON COMBINED! YOU DON KILL ME TODAY!” came the voice of Mama Derpina, and it quickly bounced off adjoining walls in the face-me-I-face-you network of this compound in Agege.

Nobody ran to her rescue. Nobody pricked their ears and said disapprovingly “Why that man dey too like to dey beat hin wife like that?” Mama Kelechi, however, shook her head, her face contorted in prudish revulsion. Nobody heard her, but she mouthed “harlot” (she pronounced it “allot”) before crossing briskly into the soot-blackened communal kitchen to give the akpu a few last turns.

Papa Ebuka cleared his throat as he moved his draughts piece across the board, noticing amusedly that Chidi, his neighbor, was distracted. Chidi crossed his legs (which is really funny, if you imagine…

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(B)itch by the Beach

UluthriX’s note: I want to write the simplest quasipoem ever in the history of man. Loool. No, but really. I don’t want to use imagery or anything. God bless you as you read. 

Also, Justin has an announcement to make, and I’m making it on his behalf: OUR (YES, OUR) SERIES IS ALMOST READAYYYYY. WE ARE DOING IT THIS WEEK. (FRIDAY WILL BE THE ‘PILOT’ EPISODE).

I’m basically in the loop so I know a few things about what it will entail:

The title is going to be “Straggler’s Inc.” and the plot blew my mind. I’m doing shameless advertising here bros. Now chill and read this poem. Tanchu.




A crab said to the sea, in the morning of the day of Thor

Ladies claim to have me, and then they are sore

The sea waved a little, and then roared

That’s silly, said the sea, you silly, silly sod.


You sound sea-sure, said the crestfallen crab

But I’ve only just seen a woman in a cab

She packed her load, you can ask the toad

Then sat by the beach, and scratched an itch

And scratched (oh Lord!) until she was red

Then yelled ‘I have crabs!” and I shook my head


The sea munched on some seabiscuits and sighed wearily

Si, see, sea, urged the crab. A lot is at stake!

For if I can’t own my own monicker merrily –

What shall I then go by, for goodness’ sake?

In My Shoes: Sweet Pain

FedUpLad technically put me on blast. Eesolgood.

For The Ravenous

Hey everyone, another weekend. Today I have Rihanna Justin (@TheVunderkind) here with a piece. Reader’s discretion is advised, and please do not try this at home, people. DISCLAIMER: He’s disturbed:

Tokunbo once told me, ‘when you are old enough, you’re going to have a dream. In that dream, your crush will do some things to you – things your mind can’t even understand right now. And you know what? It will feel good. So good you’ll pee in your sleep. Only it won’t be pee. You will understand better when your teacher starts giving Sex Ed lessons. What I’m trying to say is, when that happens, clean up immediately you wake up. If mommy finds it – your pee – she’s going to be very angry.’

I was ten then, and Tokunbo was eighteen. He was my older brother, and while the age gap between us didn’t permit our hanging…

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Paetir and Vunderkind have a serious discussion on Colorism

Paetir is awesome. I don’t know mehn…


So in preparation for the muser’s Book  Meet which you can get more information about by clicking here #TheDarkSkinProblem, Vunderkind and I decided to goof around. You probably shouldn’t read this if you’re having a good day and don’t want it ruined but what the hell, I’m pretty sure you’ve read far more disgusting blogs.

So this is how it all started.

Paetir: Yo We have a meeting with destiny.
Vunderkind: _O_ I like that Babe Destiny.
Paetir: Just thought that’d be a cool thing to say, I’m about to have dinner by the way; Pounded yam and egusi, Gimme a few minutes sensei.
Vunderkind: LMAOOOOOO. Bloody show-off! I’m having the next best thing, plantain with no back up. No rice. No beans. No stew. Just lone, glorious plantain.
Paetir: Loool, Chill, I’m coming
Vunderkind: #Pause.
Paetir: Yeah, Destiny tinz

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Fortune and the Straggler


Fortune and the Straggler

There are those who believe in the Language of the Universe, in the existence of the soul, the ones who pursue alchemists (of sorts) and the ones who believe that not all teaching ought to be done with text and pictures, but that there is a place for the spoken word, for although the best form of communication is in the unspoken – the Language of the Universe – there is fascinating beauty in the spoken word.

It was the concept which Paulo Coelho once coalesced into written form (which is quite ironic once you think about it) when he wrote of the coming of age of a young boy, the heroic realization that once you want something ‘badly enough’, the whole universe conspires to see it done so.

Another young boy, or young man if we are to settle into the nuances of age demarcation, was coming of age in a dark alley, and he would have laughed anyone to derision if they had ventured quoting words from Paulo Coelho’s bestseller. Solomon Grundy was a grimy-faced, malnourished young man with a face so sallow, it made people wince just looking at it. Solomon Grundy was at once beggar, thief and resourceful lock-picker, and in a few minutes, he would also be very dead. But this tale is unbridled, and we must now re-introduce Solomon.

Continue reading “Fortune and the Straggler”

First Post, and only by Brute Force

Hello, family.

I did not abandon my blog. I heard your voices, and I hid in the bush, because I was naked.

I’m still naked as I type this, come to think of it…

Truth is, I’ve been battling with a severe case of The Writer’s Block. Bruh. That stuff got me by the testes and refused to let go. For three months fa.

That is why I have done this. I have written a very short story. Short enough to be called a ‘short story’, but long enough to dissuade me from making it a blog post. Please download it, and please read it. Na God I take dey beg so.

Click here to download: [Download Life Support]

It’s very short (16 pages, not counting the cover), so it shouldn’t take too much of your time.



Wasteful with Words

VUNDERKIND’S NOTE: “I am not going to take anything away from this piece with pseudo-funny anecdotes. The author of this post craves anonymity, so his name shall be signed ‘anon’ at the end, but he is someone you and I know so well. You are invited to hazard a guess as to who this is…”



Red stains where blacks fail

There is power in blood

Seeping through the black ink of quill

Flow of nature energy, chi

Poetic mimicry

Of sounds

And of darkness

And of blood

And countless wars

They keep me up at night



I find that in all sincerity

I am wasteful with words.


Songs soothe by themselves

Trees tilt slightly

Tug of breeze

I hear hushed melodies

The faintest of exaltations

The voice of God

Lacking in logic, obviously

Full of purpose, not apparently

Scorned by the wise of the land

I am proclaimed insane

For I claim to hear when God speaks

They say isn’t it a dream?

Faint constructions of a feeble mind?

They clerics laugh at me

For they say God does not speak in the decibels of men

What is all this profanity you speak? They ask

They mock and goad, much like the Jews did Jesus

But severely lacking in understanding, father forgive them

I am cursed, for I am wasteful with words.


To be a connoisseur of words,

Is no small deal

To shape

To create

To think

I thought and so it was

As near to God as gods claim to be

Capital differences, all semantics in the end

Sacrificing reason on the altar of political correctness

I have a library full of books up there you see haha

There as in right here, in the towers I built

Through mind’s eye I see clearly

I see what you must see

You see it too don’t you?

Surely everyone must

Is this presumptuous of me?

But it is glaring

Right there for the taking

Surely you must see

They look upon me with disdain

But you do, you see it too

Why oh why

Why do you close lips?

But your eyes, they betray you

You see but you do not speak of,

Is this wisdom?

Am I stupid?

Oh God I’m stupid

Forgive my profanity

For I am wasteful with words.


Burning in a time of blinding peace

Seeping rather rapidly like bursts of steam through volcanic rocks

Temperatures that put the fires of hell to shame

To destruction I am sired

Inhibitions the devil’s to tame (Can you imagine? Gosh)

Call me stupid ‘cos I believe in God

Call me plebeian oh great hedonist sir

For you devote your life to the pursuit of sin

Color me fanatic but you will all go to hell while I make heaven

The last days creep on us, at lightning speed

The perfect paradox to an end destined with irony

I preach apocalypse

I fear death, so alive I live in fear

Waiting for the day of reckoning

Pay me no mind please

For once again I am wasteful with words.

I find that words escape me when I need them the most

For how else will I declare love to my beloved?

Words should hang for their crimes

But the infiniteness of words make this almost impossible

Antonyms tell of opposites, words negate words

Synonyms deal in solidarity

Sarcasm masks scorn in fur

Puns tell truths, half-truths and lies,

Oh how I marvel at the beauty of words

For words are implicit in meaning

Words are defined in words

Words stay eternal by association

For a word is a definition in itself

I am a writer at the greatest disadvantage

For there is just no winning against the tyranny of words

I will never win,

The most I can do is be wasteful with words.


Create a Compelling Animation Video for Your Business – For Just $5!

[VUNDERKIND]: This is officially our first blog post in 2014.
[ULUTHRIX]: Damn. And it’s past valentine. That was a long break.
[VUNDERKIND]: Indeed, it was.
[ULUTHRIX]: So. Are we back in business?
[ULUTHRIX]: *sighs* I thought so. Anyway, why have you brought me here?
[VUNDERKIND]: I thought you’d never ask. We’re going to do a showcase.
[ULUTHRIX]: Go on…
[VUNDERKIND]: This here’s Mr. Godwin. You should know him. His handle on Twitter is @gawdwyn. He’s – wait for it – an industrious person.
[ULUTHRIX]: He invented beer?
[VUNDERKIND]: Even better. He will advertise your business for you, using creatively designed video animations.
[ULUTHRIX]: Damn, animators. Expensive lot. I know someone who told me he would run an ad for my business for N60,000. And it was just a one minute ad laasan. One minute, guy.
[VUNDERKIND]: Wait. You have a business?
[ULUTHRIX]: Your surprise speaks of the years of condescension you have put me through. I feel like Lupita Nyong’o, but a little finer.
[VUNDERKIND]: And more light-skinned.
[ULUTHRIX]: That, too. So, you were saying? About the animation? How expensive is it?
[VUNDERKIND]: That’s the awesomeness of this business guy person called @gawdwyn. For just a fiver (that’s $5 dollars), this guy will run a powerful, compelling ad to make your business heard in the sea of businesses out there.
[ULUTHRIX]: In other words, in the sea of businesses, your business will see customers. It will sea men.
[VUNDERKIND]: People will come quick.
[ULUTHRIX]: All it takes is a prick…from his video advertising.
[ULUTHRIX]: You are just useless.
[VUNDERKIND]: So. For just five dollars (less than a thousand naira, bruv) you can have your own professional, riveting animation video. It can come with infographics detailing your business’ growth and sales projection, tell the story of your business, give your customers a reason to stay –
[ULUTHRIX]: I want you to stayyyyyyyy –
[VUNDERKIND]: Have you no shame?
[ULUTHRIX]: Exactly what I ask Mikky Ekko whenever that song comes on.
[VUNDERKIND]: AS I WAS SAYING! You can watch the video we have been kind enough to attach here. If you’re convinced enough, hit Mr. Godwin on twitter ( and let a niggah hold five dollars. Five dollars, and you have your own customized video. What deal is sweeter than that?
[ULUTHRIX]: None whatsoever.
[VUNDERKIND]: My thoughts exactly. So, viewers/readers, you’re welcome. Go make your video and make your business prosper. This blog is returning to hibernation.







[ULUTHRIX]: But what exactly was Mikky Ekko thinking?

Drunk Archer: The Twelfth

VUNDERKIND’S NOTE: You know the drill by now – words of the Vunderkind appear in red.

So, here I was, this innocent Saturday, you know, doing my own little thing – working, tweeting and sweating dutifully in the heat – when The Drunk Archer hit me up with this piece. I checked it out, and agreed with her: it should be on my blog.

Gentlemen and ladies, please read: a piece by one of the loveliest people I know, Taiwo the Drunk Archer. I give to you, The Twelfth. Enjoy.


Vultures and flies alike encircled the tree,

Feeding on the decayed body, hung taut by the rope.

Robes gathered in the distance, far from the putrid odour

And sent a man to the gathering of vultures.

“His guts were spilled before we arrived from Golgotha,” the vultures announced in defence.

“But look, those shiny bits on the floor are not food at all, for Victor took one and look at him now, quite dead like this poor robed fellow.”

The man spared not a glance on their fallen comrade, but picked the shiny bits from the floor.

“Coins,” he told the robed men, “thirty in all.”

“Thirty?” A robe questioned. “It must be one of the twelve.”

The land was cursed, the talking robes agreed, the traitor had made it so.

The rope bit deeper into his neck,

Questioning his decision… making him doubt

He kicked and tugged at the rope,

Struggling for life,

Struggling to take back time,

Struggling and wondering, “why me?”

Forgetting what he had done, sentencing an innocent man to death…

Forgetting the kiss,

Forgetting why he had to do this.

As he lapsed into darkness, from the corner of his eye,

A vulture landed close by.

It winked and it smiled and it said cordially,

“Good evening sir, I’m Victor. Hope you don’t mind, I’ll nibble on those shiny bits till you are good and dead… you look real tasty too… I’m sure you work out.”

He looked at him from a far corner of the table.

He was talking. As usual.

About things no one could understand or piece together.

And washing their feet like he were a common slave.

3 years on and nothing to show.

No mansion,

No vineyard,

As the group’s treasurer, he could count on their money as his.

It was the least they owed him for wasting his years….

But as for fame?

He had seen the posters put up by synagogue police…

Warning people about their little gang.

The robed ones didn’t believe in their cause. All was lost.

The people still came… to be healed and stuff.

He couldn’t care less…

He hadn’t signed up for this struggle pot of burnt beans life.

“Do what you have to do,” the teacher now said to him.

And was he ever happy to do so…

With a kiss and a hug he sealed the teacher’s fate

The robed ones will teach the teacher good sense now.

The robed ones will show the teacher the errors in his teachings.

… make Him see reason.

The robed ones had no such plan, he soon realized.

“Too late,” they said, malice in their eyes “by tomorrow, your teacher is dead.”

And tossed at his feet, a bag of coins.

Not three years before, in the land of Kerioth, there lived

A young well-read Jew.

The laws of Moses and the ways of Israel

were embedded deep before he turned 13.

The Pharisees and Scribes and Sadducees, he respected

The law in human form, never wrong.

But still, like all Israelites, he awaited the promised Saviour…

The one to ride into Jerusalem on a noble steed

and seize Israel from the Romans,

Drive away and slay the uncircumcised dogs,

And restore Israel to wealth and strength,

Just like in the times of King David.

One eve, his father came from the synagogue.

“There is a man that spoke this day, I say,” Simon told him,

“They call him ‘the Christ’. He is wise beyond his years.”

The Saviour has come!

Oh! What it must be like to be a leader in his army!

He would be rich!

A mansion in Jerusalem and one in Bethlehem.

… some vineyards as well, of course.

Gold would line his pockets and women would swoon at his feet.

… and so when one day Jesus tweeted,

“@Judas, kindly follow.”

He knew his fortune had come.


[Here’s a link to the original post here]

Come on fam, you know you wanna comment on this…


As the evening dust settled and as children reluctantly unglued themselves from the seats of their neighbor’s houses, as the penultimate piece of meat was chased down unaccustomedly over-pampered throats by cheap wine and even cheaper fruit juice, and as the Noel blared relentlessly through badly-tuned speakers (the same speakers that played Obesere’s “Apple Juice” a night before”), Maravilloso coughed harshly, his eyes watering as he emerged from a thick cloud of smoke – the result of a backfiring Pepsi truck.


He squinted through puffy eyes – eyes that were tinged vampire-red by the conjunctivitis that was going around with all the Christmas cheer – and inhaled the toxic air. He rubbed callused fingers together, trying to force heat into his arthritic phalanges. His lips were badly peeled, for divorced of the soothing protection of a lip balm, his lips had presented themselves unwittingly to the rape of the harmattan wind.

Maravilloso began his walk in boots that had soles so thin he probably could have told what part of the city he was in, even if he had been blindfolded. He heard a man call through the fog, and he stopped, cocking his ear to hear better.

“Merry Christmas to you. God bless you.”

Maravilloso stared at the man. He was blind, and there was a plate beside him on the floor. People streamed past him, hurrying home, generally ignoring the blind man (some actively so, for they feared that if they stared at the man, they would be weighed down by crushing guilt), with only a few people stooping momentarily to drop some change in the plate.

Maravilloso approached the man, unobtrusive in the crowd. Even though he stood out from the crowd – wretched he looked – he easily looked like an assistant to the blind man.

He stretched his hand, and his fingers lightly touched the gritty forehead of the blind man. He felt a surge of power, but then he withdrew his hand.

It would not be right, he thought. I have people who should be doing this. This is no longer my job. Sighing, he reached within his multi-robed person and produced money – good money, an observer might add.

Pressing the wad to the blind man’s hands, he whispered, “Merry Christmas to you too. Go home and be with your family.”

There was a fleeting look of confusion in the blind man’s face, but that passed quickly, and it was replaced with an understanding. The blind man smiled, picked up his cane, and began the tap-tap, cane on concrete that heralded his return home.

Maravilloso turned and immediately saw a man stab another man and make away with his wallet. The sky darkened a shade, and there was a humanly imperceptible rumble overhead.

“Forgive him, pa,” Maravilloso mumbled. “Forgive everyone.”

He sat in the shadows, watching the stabbed man, fighting the near-overpowering urge to go touch the bleeding man. He breathed into his stiffened palms, his heart racing.

He knew he could not do anything anymore for the people of the world. He had given the power to his disciples. He had to respect his own principles.

But it was so hard sometimes.

It was hard when his disciples staggered about, with vacant eyes, apparently unaware of the urgent task they were commissioned to do. It was a physical pain building up between Maravilloso’s eyes, and it hurt to watch, to supplicate daily, to grip his pa’s hand as his pa gritted his teeth. His pa’s fury escalated every day, and it was all Maravilloso could do to say “forgive them, pa. I am the one who has a right to condemn them. I bought them…”

Here he was, in an uncomfortable body, sensitive to every stimulus the city brought, staring at a dying man in the shadows…

Someone came along. Maravilloso’s heart skipped a beat. The dying man may yet live, and he thought fondly of a story he once told – that of a Samaritan, and he settled in for an “I told you so” story he could tell his pa. This passer-by will save the dying victim, he thought excitedly, and pa will remember once more the good that resides in the hearts of these children.

The newly-introduced character in this story – the passer-by – noticed the dying man, blinked excitedly, looked about and took – literally – to his heels. Maravilloso saw his heart, and he knew the man was afraid. Afraid that he might be somehow implicated in the attack of the dying man.

Maravilloso came out from his hiding place, and sat beside the dying man. He held the man’s hand and was once again enthralled by the perfection of his own design. The old grief hit him, and he sighed.

“Mary did you know/

that this child you delivered/

would one day deliver you…?”

The carol brought tears to his eyes.

Once again the world was celebrating his “birthday.” Once again, the world had neglected to give the celebrant a birthday gift.

Songs About AIDS (Free Comic Download)


Salaam Aleikum

Greetings to everyone here today, as we celebrate World HIV/AIDS day. There is a reason why this day is a pretty significant one for me, at least. I lost an aunt to the virus, you see, and I will not turn down an opportunity to campaign for HIV/AIDS awareness.

This is why it is my immense pleasure, honor and joy to be doing this today in conjunction with Mr. Seun Odukoya. Today, in commemoration of the people we have lost to that deadly virus, and with hopes of enlightening those still with us about the dangers and consequences of HIV/AIDS, Seun Odukoya and Samuel Achema have created an 18-page comic titled “Songs About AIDS.”

Songs About AIDS is a free 18-page comic, created by Samuel Achema and Seun Odukoya and released in commemoration of the World’s AIDS Day. It is about a number of characters who have AIDS and the consequences for them and their loved ones. It is a small contribution to the on-going efforts to educate people about this deadly disease and inspire people against discrimination.

It is our hope that this will, in some way, touch the reader in whatever capacity they need to be touched.

aids song two

Download the comic book free here (PDF): Songs About AIDS 1

A Guide to Critiquing Amateur Writers/Bloggers

Vunderkind’s Note: I do not often write like this, so now that you’re here, you might as well finish the post.

Pen and paper

I started blogging earnestly in December last year, even though I have been writing for much, much longer.  If you are curious as to why this was the case, I’ll allow you a glimpse into my soul – I live for money, and I just didn’t see blogging – in this case, for creative writing and spinning yarns – paying my bills. So I rationalized: why blog when you no go get money from inside am?

Things were to change for me, however, when DankarO of the NaijaDude Blog asked me to do a short skit on his blog. As I recall, what I sent him was about three paragraphs long and hurriedly written on my BlackBerry’s note app, and after I sent it to DankarO, I thought nothing of it. This is where it gets interesting.

I was on twitter one day when a handle called @TheBawdyPaet mentioned me and said “you are a great writer sir. Just read what you wrote on NaijaDude’s blog” (I am paraphrasing; I can’t remember the actual words of the tweet).

I was elated. I cannot describe how I felt then, but that was officially the first time I was being praised for my work. Most times I just got paid with the promissory note of more jobs when they were available. But here I was – getting praise from a total stranger over something I wrote!

That stranger is no longer a stranger today, by the way. He’s @Paetir with the DISCLAIMER: NOT HUMAN blog. Paetir, DankarO and I are part of a team that manages WahalaCentral.

Why have I told this story? I’m not sure, but seeing as my blog today has crossed its 100-post mark, has close to 16k views and more than 1,500 comments – I even have a co-writer now – I daresay I have had time to reflect and ponder: what got me here?

It’s simple. It was the power of a comment.

It’s the little things that count, and I’m not talking mathematical dwarfs. With just one comment on a fledgling writer’s piece, you can either uplift, crush or make no impact at all in the life of that writer. There is power in your keypad, people.

For the purpose of disambiguation, I will like to define the terms for which they will be used in this post. When I call someone an amateur blogger, I mean a blogger who hasn’t “hit jackpot”, the ones who are under the radar of the Omojuwas and the Linda Ikejis. I am talking about the bloggers like me, the ones who still say “Please Read and RT” on the TL. The polite sons-of-a-gun.

By bloggers, I do not mean that brand of chaps who copy, paste and share “See what Wizkid Tweeted Last Night” posts. I am not talking about the Tweetfeeders. I am talking of honest people, who huddle in front of their laptops and phones and type out stories, poems and monologues for us to read.

When they write, they expect us to read and to leave a comment. Most times we do, and we unwittingly contribute to the development of that writer – for good or bad.

I have had the pleasure of discussing with several writers who have had to talk about receiving critique in their careers – Dunni, Janus, Trimia, UluthriX, Walt_shakes and others, and I have extracted some nuggets from what they have had to say and included my own thoughts and here it is:

Everybody’s Guide to Critiquing Amateur Bloggers

The writer is not your enemy: I have seen cases where a writer makes a post, and someone comments and says “Better stop writing – this is rubbish!” Come on…there is no monopoly on writing. If someone wishes to express himself via the written word, why should you stop him? Why not try another approach, such as pointing out what exactly you don’t like about his/her writing?

Writers are, as a rule, insecure: Very few writers put up a post and boisterously prance about expecting the praise coming in. I know a few writers who literally tense up after dropping their links on your TL. Why then, you ask, do they put it up if it scares them so? My reply would be: maybe because they need your honest, polite opinion on the piece, with complimentary suggestions about how they can get better? The writer’s ego is a sensitive thing – if I say so myself. Nurture it. Someone may one day look to you and say you were the reason they kept on writing.

Can you take it private? Call me a hypocrite, but I believe in publicly praising people and privately chastising them. If someone makes a post that is below your standards, to what end is it if you lambaste them on the comment page? Don’t you think that, if you mete out harsh criticism on the comment page, the writer may reject it and end up hating you, even though you may have – wisely – commented anonymously? Don’t you think it would be better to hit up the writer (via email, Twitter DM, etc) and gently tell them what you felt was wrong with the post? I believe that if your critique is not merely to come off as ‘smart’ at the expense of another, this would seem a better alternative.

False Praise is as dangerous as heavy criticism: I have seen it all, fam. Your friends who hop on to your blog and go “WOW. Nice”, “Beautiful piece”, “Impressive”, dropping shallow comment after shallow comment (in some cases, I believe the generic comments are as a result of their not even bothering to read what you wrote), inadvertently ruining you, because they do not know that by inflating your undeserving ego, they are making you (the writer) position yourself on a pedestal that you are yet to even start climbing.

Be specific: You do not like a writer’s post? Fine. It’s a free world. But you should tell the writer why you don’t ‘dig’ his/her post instead of giving a vague, denigrating statement. Instead of saying, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think there is anything particularly great about this post” and leaving the writer guessing and confused, why not say something more specific, like “Your post was too wordy – cut down on the adverbs – and you should really check your tenses”?That’s better, no?

Tone it down: Yeah, I know we should speak up when a piece is terrible, but we forget that these writers do not think themselves perfect. I always say this: my blog is a training ground for me; the day I feel I have gained mastery of writing, I’ll ditch it. If they thought they were that great, these writers would be somewhere else forcing their 25th manuscript down the throat of a harassed publisher. They are here to hone their skills – and they are writing for free, no one here is paying them. The least you and I can do is tone down the criticism. Let us give the heavy blows to ‘established’ writers whose egos and bank statements justify the rough tackle.

Thanks for reading. I really hope this speaks to someone.

Horseman 4: Aisosceles II

The last horseman, clomping down the last of the cardinal points

Doing the bidding of no man, ignoring the places where the Cardinal points

Mummifying men with a single stare – he possesses the eye of the cockatrice

Introductions are for mortals, yet I indulge – I. Am. @UluthriX


And so our tale begins

In the city of Lagos, city of the busy and the harassed

Oshodi is the geography specific

In the cradle of the commissioner – who was, and is not

The man wrote

Murder, he wrote.

Aisosceles, the young forensic psychologist, was awoken quite annoyingly this selfsame day. Swearing colorfully, and in six different local dialects, he opened the door to reveal a swarthy policeman. “Wetin happen again?” he asked, quite rudely.

“Murder,” said the policeman. “The commissioner has been killed.”

Aisosceles smiled.


The commissioner hath written in blood,

And now four men were with the cops

Suspected criminals – with unhelpful alibis

For they all lived alone, and could not account for their whereabouts

On the day the slain man was, well, slain.

“The commissioner was found dead in his home, with his face severely disfigured beyond recognition,” Swarthy said. Aisosceles nodded distractedly, for he wasn’t really listening. He stared at the commissioner’s body, and he smiled.

“Where is his mackintosh?” he asked.

“What mackintosh?” the bewildered policeman had a question for Aisosceles’ question.

All four men proclaimed innocence

Their artificially grey-haired attorneys formed a phalanx

And the baton carriers were kept at bay

They are innocent, Aisosceles said.

We are? Involuntary questions.

Yes, Aisosceles replied. You all are, that is, excepting one.

Caro Ada-Ada was the name of the commissioner’s handmaid, and it was she whom had caught Aisosceles’ eye. She fidgeted underneath his insectoid gaze, and she cast furtive glances at the door of the interrogation room.

“The commissioner, he was a good man, wasn’t he?”

She nodded jerkily.

“It is easy to see why you would empathize with him?”

“I don’t understand…what empathize means.”

Sure you don’t, thought Aisosceles as he pulled out a dictionary from underneath his agbada.

The commissioner is a lover of art, he observed.

Yes, gushed the gap-toothed servant. Yes.

Said he – Everything he owns is a masterpiece

Tell me now, how far with your master piss?

I comprehend not, the exasperated subservient sighed.

“Your master was a bed-wetter,” sighed Aisosceles. “I observed the faint rings on his old bed sheets. I expect that you changed the sheets yourself, seeing as we found his mackintosh in your room.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with anything,” the handmaid said.

“Ah, come on. We know your master’s bed was freshly pissed in early this morning. Now, it leaves me confused: Do dead men take bathroom breaks even when they’re dead?”

Caro paled worse than an anemic albino.

Aisosceles smiled triumphantly. “Your phone, Miss? I want to make just one call.”

Simplicity in complexity is the mantra

Owing money, the commissioner needed to disappear

It was only a small matter to find a man of similar build

– And have him killed, his face mangled to prevent recognition

The people who needed to be bribed had been bribed

All of them, that was, except Aisosceles.

Only one person had the commissioner’s new number

And it was his girlfriend, Caro Ada-Ada



Horseman 3: A Man’s Addiction

Svelte stallion stolidly shouldering saddler

‘Tis the third horseman, riding from the West

‘Tis a horsewoman, if the truth must be confess’d

Charging through, neither last nor first

Draped in sunset, ensconced by oak

Bringing forth retribution that was fore-spoke

With a quill…

‘Tis @i_am_doxa


I would marry you if I wasn’t already in love with your words. Those little, yet mighty pieces of magnet that attract my metallic soul to the depths of your mysterious soul, submerged in grief and depression. I would marry you so I can be the light to penetrate your darkness, the gentle rod to break through your walls of rock, creating streams of joy that will gush out words which will refresh my yearning soul like living waters. I’d teach you the true art of addiction, the craving of love and me, its human embodiment, able to fill up the void that yawns wide in your heart.

I would marry you so I can watch you commune with alcohol every night just like a drunken sailor. I will drink of every bitter truth emanating from your clueless lips, as I sail with you on open seas of love, propelled by the wind blowing from your mouth. Then one night when jealousy pushes me to the wall, I will hide every bottle that lies in your cellar, and lock you in, your car-keys finding rest in my bosom. When you’re sullen, I will uncleave your tongue from the roof of your mouth with mine, so that it can loosen under my influence, that we may quench our thirst with sweet truths.

I would marry you so you can listen to my voice every day, even more than you listen to your favourite rap artiste. I know little about rap but if you can deftly smear my face, earlobes and body with chocolate using your hot tongue, then I can definitely spit some sweltering bars. Words praising the dexterity of your hands will flow with more speed than Eminem’s, more brashness than 2Pac’s, more vulgarity than Lil Wayne’s, more sonority than Drake’s. My rhythmic prowess would make our hips hop. My moans would tell tales of your manhood, your raspy breath serving as the beat, each sound being recorded in the album of love that I will debut to the world. It will be a bestseller of course, making 604,800 hits every week, because you’ll be my faithful buyer every second of the day, every day of the week, all through the year. I would win Grammys all the time for your sake, an award for your virility.

"What do you see?"
“What do you see?”

I would marry you so I can plunge you into a field of hysteria and adrenaline-pumping expectations faster than your football players. I’d amaze you with the skill of every part of me, for Nature would be my only coach before the match. I would score multiple hat tricks as I cry out your name while we make love. I would tease you with my slow slides, and listen as your heart beat soars when I near the goalpost, and as pleasure spreads across your being when I score. But it’s just going to be you and I, no other teamplayer or opponent. No coach standing in the sidelines guiding our every move and ruining the peaceful moment with noise. Nature will only watch her children do her will, she will express her motherly pleasure through mild showers, serenading us with pitter-patters on our window panes, a love song more beautiful than Whitney Houston’s; or golden rays of sunlight awarding us for taking first place. Whatever the weather, we still would play. We, and no one else, would be our competition as our only aim would be to beat our previous records in love.

I would marry you if I wasn’t already in love with your words, and you in love with mine. I would marry you so we can resurrect the Dead Poets’ Society where you’ll rule imaginary subjects as king and I as queen, with words of justice and order proceeding from our lips, sharper than any double-edged sword. The only language we would speak is love. I would watch you as you bend low over midnight candles, writing sonnets, haikus, free verses and even poems of one hundred and forty characters. Then I’ll lull you to sleep and traverse the dreamworld with my ethereal voice as your compass. I’ll steal your pen from your ingenuously ingenious hands, and complete your unfinished poems with the other half of you awake in me, for “the two shall become one”. Our words shall never fight on paper nor will our ink smear each other for they shall be the same thoughts bearing upon our yoked spirits. And then when you wake up each morning with your completed poems staring into your face, you’ll sing of how blessed you are to have me over all those other things, after which you’ll scribble your gratitude on my body.

I would marry you so my immortality can rub off on your pen, so that her words about you and I will never die even when death parts us here on earth. She alone can never incite my jealousy for she is my friend, my accomplice, the amused onlooker who will write our biography. She is the only other thing permitted to share your addiction to me.

Inspired by Sizakele Phohleli’s “Dressed in Tattoos, Piercings and Cigarettes.”

Horseman 2: Aisosceles

Hark, look out

The horseman’s out South

Taking that deathly route

Beneath yonder hooves, tendrils doth sprout

It is @TheVunderkind.


“You see, the isosceles triangle has two sides of equal length, leaving one irregular. It is my firm belief than when the regular has been accounted for, the irregular must now take the centre stage.” —– Aisosceles


It was Yaba market in all its raucous glory.

Right in the middle of the market, amidst the ‘buy ya jenew swade! Very original! Very jenew!’, a young man was having his pocket picked.

If we are to be honest with ourselves, there is nothing extraordinarily eye-popping about having your pocket picked. Many of us have had our pockets picked. I, for example, have once bought N3,000 worth of fufu, although, admittedly, at the time, I thought I was buying an unbelievably cheap phone.

No, there was nothing extraordinary about this man’s pocket being lightened of its burdens.

As the light-fingered thief extracted his hands from the bespectacled young man’s pockets, his heart jumped for a minute, for firmly clamped upon his wrist was the hand of the bespectacled man.

“Wetin you think say you dey do?” asked the eye-glasses.

The thief smiled, and assumed the braggadocio of one caught in the act of trying to steal the baby’s lollypop.

“Yer wallet fall for grand. I don dey run con gif you since,” and he frowned here, to show how hurt he felt at being wordlessly accused of theft.

“Sharrap,” said eye-glasses. “You think say I no cash you?”

The thief frowned. “You jus’ be bad market. Na you go be di fest pesin wey go cansh me. Thank yer luncky stars,” and he made to saunter off.

But eye-glasses’ hand was still firmly gripping his.

“Take,” he said, handing the thief a second wallet. “Na yer own wallet be dat.”

The thief was, understandably and with no pun intended, robbed of speech.

“Wait – you tiff my wallet as I dey try tiff your own?”

Eye-glasses smiled for the first time. “I no be tiff. Anyhow sha, when you wan tiff wallet, you no suppose dey waka with your own wallet for your pocket.”

“Ah,” said the thief. “Ah.”

“Secondly, I see the picture of you and your babe for your wallet. Yes, she dey cheat on you. Na your best friend, Paul, dey do am.”

“How you take kno…?”

But a train was approaching, and amidst the confusion of women yanking their precious bales off the tracks, Eye-glasses was gone.


His name was Aisosceles.

He once told me his name was a portmanteau, a blend he had derived from the words “Aisosa” (his given name) and isosceles, as in the triangle.

I had asked him about his fascination with the isosceles triangle, and he had said, “You see, the isosceles triangle has two sides of equal length, leaving one irregular. It is my firm belief than when the regular has been accounted for, the irregular must now take the centre stage.”

He had an elder brother in jail, whom he rarely visited. That is understandable, of course, once you realize that he had been the one who put his brother in jail.

Aisosceles believed that the world was hinged upon logic, and that when something could not be logically comprehended, one would be wise to flee from it. He described illogic as a house with an unfathomable foundation – the house would constantly shift, settle, leaving its occupants tense and gripped by trepidation because they could not understand nor see what it was that kept the house standing.

Strangely, for one so sworn to logic, Aisosceles was a devout Christian. He once told me, “logic itself is overenthusiastic to show that there is, indeed, a Creator. Look at this place. Look at this place. This is no mistake, my friend. Someone created it all – and that someone is highly intelligent. And you know me by now – I always defer to the higher intellect.”

Aisosceles was my best friend in the world. Bespectacled, thin and with a full head of hair. We were quite the pair – Sherlock Holmes and Watson for the Nigerian people dem.

“I am better than Sherlock Holmes, though,” he had bragged.

“Oh?” I had enquired, humoring him. “What makes you say that?”

“For one, Sherlock relied on Sheer Luck – hence his name. Secondly – and probably my most profound argument here – I am a living, breathing masterpiece of life. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a fictional character.”

Aisosceles was a very interesting man. He was also my best friend.

I say ‘was,’ because Aisosceles is no more. His body is currently at the Modupe Memorial Hospital, undergoing autopsy.

I watched him die. 

Horseman 1: Shower Beiber

Who is that galloping from the east, raising a cloud of dust. The hoof-beats strike a tattoo against the parched earth, and any man learned in Morse code would realize that it spelled only one name….@djay_prinze…


He sang with great gusto. Gripping the microphone with vice-like force, he poured out his heart, reeling out the lyrics of his classic and ridiculously popular hit song. He could feel the electricity in the crowd as they screamed and sang along word for word, lyric for lyric with him. It always excited him when the crowd connected with him on any of his songs; makes the singing very easy and relaxing.

He performed more songs, hit after hit. Virtually all his songs were hits – yes he was talented like that. He liked to think God had given him this talent and it would be incredibly selfish of him to keep hold of it to himself.

 As with most of his concerts, the crowd wanted an encore and as was his usual reaction, he duly obliged ’em – hell he loved it when they wanted an encore. He sang 3 more songs and wrapped things up. He took in the adulation of the crowd, some screamed his name and some of the ladies kept screaming ‘Will you marry me?’ – Most were with their husbands.


He could only smile. He knew the men loved his music as well but mess with one of their wives and he would probably be in a coma for the rest of his life and even a plastic surgery wouldn’t hide the damage done to his face. As such he could only admire from a distance. The whole concert had been a remarkable success,12 cities visited and all sold out, lasting for 3 weeks and now he was going back home to New York to get some well-deserved rest. When was the last time he had gotten a good night’s rest? Being a celebrity had its perks but privacy and luxury of time was and would never be one.

Getting back to the dressing room, he took a swig of mineral water and sat down to give thanks to the Almighty. He was a Church-goer and believed in the Concept of God and the devil, though he felt the white beards, pitchforks and horns were overly dramatic. Closing his eyes, he imagined New York and home – his apartment. He missed it all like a baby missed its mother’s titties.

Soon he promised himself. Soon.

And soon it was: he flew into New York late in the night 2 days later and went straight to his apartment. Having had to sign autographs and take pictures, it had taken him longer than usual to get there but luxury of time, remember? Unlocking the door and stepping into his living room, the first thing he noticed was the answering machine blinking furiously like a troublesome wife awaiting the arrival of a late husband. He clicked the ‘play’ button and discovered Kanye West had left him a message about a possible collab. He snickered in part disgust, part humor. Kanye ‘Proud Son of a Gun’ West had actually called him? How freaking Karma-ish.

He remembered how as an upcoming he had approached Kanye and asked for a collab, Kanye had looked at him disdainfully and said ‘Yo man, I don’t get down with y’all fresh faced niggies, if u don’t got at least a Grammy nomination to yo name, don’t be approaching Yeezy’. He had left in shame and had vowed to be successful or die trying. 12 Grammies and countless awards later, the conceited hippo was calling to do a collabo? He’d rather do a feature with 2 Chainz.

Taking his favorite bottle of whiskey out of his carry-on bag (the whiskey followed him wherever he went; others had dogs, he had his whiskey), he poured himself two fingers and settled down in contentment.

He, from a humble beginning was now one of the most recognized artistes in the world, awards so many he was thinking of converting a spare room into an award room, several endorsements, a new album making waves across the country and internationally. What more could a bloke ask for?

Then he turned off the shower, sighed and stepped out of the bathroom, back to the anonymous life he led.

It had been a wonderful dream, it really had…..

INTRO: Four Horsemen

Hey, guys. UluthriX here. How’s your day going? It’s been a while since anything important has happened on this blog. Justin has been writing a book (and flooding the blog with his updates) and so he really hasn’t been able to make a meaningful post.

I, on the other hand, was supposed to keep the blog alive, but I’ve been pretty busy. This is a collective apology from both of us. We did not abandon the blog, neither did we abandon you guys.

That said, I have the epic pleasure of introducing The Four Horsemen. Who are the four horsemen, you ask? Well, we are going to be treating you to four days of posts on this blog, each day handled by one horseman.

Allow me to introduce the horsemen and the titles of their posts for each day:

Djay_prinze: Shower Beiber

TheVunderkind: Aisosceles

I_am_doxa: A Man’s Addiction

UluthriX (my humble self): Aisosceles II

“Four horsemen: It’s the sign of the end of the days, but I’m still gonna put my pen on a page…” – MI Abaga.

It starts tomorrow.

Stay tuned. God bless…

four_horsemen_logo copy

NaNoWriMo is Here and I Have a Book to Write

“Impeccable timing, your majesty,” Zazu said in the opening scene of Lion King, and I echo the self-same sentiment as I write this.

It is with much despair that I admit that since the last Dood update I haven’t penned a single sentence in the book I am supposed to complete on Christmas day. Sigh. I am becoming a problem. 

Ah, well. On the plus side, I have finally been able to grab my story’s plot by the tailcoat, and it is pretty interesting. I am almost confident that anyone who reads the story will give me marks for effort, at least.

So, NaNoWriMo is here, and even though I am four days late, I am going in hard (no testicular cancer). Meanwhile, NaBloPoMo (which is pretty hilarious to say out loud) has started on the same relay as NaNoWriMo, and now is a good time for people to have their blog challenge.

NaNoWriMo means “National Novel Writing Month”, and it is a self-discipline exercise for the distracted or otherwise occupied writer (I fit both bills) to finally get his ass of the whatever-it-is and finally write. 

So, here’s the plan. I have decided to write a minimum of 1,500 words daily. I can do this *breathes hard* yes, I can.

As surely as the minister of Goa compared Nigerians to cancer, I can do this.



BTW: NaBloPoMo Means “National Blog Post Month”

Clash of the Keyboard Warriors

Vunderkind’s Note: I am writing my note in a different color so you can differentiate between what is mine and what is today’s author’s. Like Jesus in the bible, words of the Vunderkind appear in red. In the house today is the HNIC (Head Niggah in Charge) of Naija Dude enterprises, @Volturi_Lord, giving a very interesting story. Allow me to say again, I am not “infofd” in this story. I wasn’t even around when it happened. He says he wasn’t too, but seeing as the story is written in first person, it’s kinda hard to buy it. Almost as difficult to buy as Stella Oduah’s N225m security cars.

Cheers. Happy Sunday too.

(Remember: if it is not written in red, I did not write/say/think it.)

Keyboard warriors - 'cos talking shit in person is too damn dangerous
Keyboard warriors – ‘cos talking shit in person is too damn dangerous

I had searched for him all day long. Missing him by an hour or so at his office. I had tracked him to the laundromat where the cashier said he had left a couple of minutes ago. A futile trip to the bank and another one to his apartment later, I finally caught up with him.

He was at the bar. The time was 17: 59. The time of the day when all the functional alcholics come outta the woodworks and flooded the nooks and crannies of the various bars across town. I had come to the bar with the bests of intentions. I wasn’t looking for trouble, I didn’t want a fight. I just wanted us to talk thinks out. He had done the unimaginable the previous day and I just wanted to hear his reasons.

I noticed him before he did me. I strolled down the short steps at the entrance of the bar and walked slowly up to him. I could see he was well on his way to the “high-land”. I could count 4 empty bottles of le Tusker on the table and he was working hard on the fifth. He didn’t say a word as I sat down. We stared at each other malevolently as the waitress came over and I ordered a bottle of what he was having. You know, for cultural integration.

” I just need you to tell me why you did it, man, I don’t want no trouble. Just gimme a good reason and I’ll be outta here”. I told him softly. We had always been cool, both on Twitter and off it.

” Ion’ gat your time mayneeee, go chill with yo clique”, he shouted at me, drawing the attention of the whole bar to our table. I continued watching him as he waited, hopefully, for me to leave. On noticing that I had no such intention, he then stood up and attempted to leave himself and that when things got outta hand.

As he walked pass me, I laid a hand on his shoulders and shoved him around. “Dude! You owe me an explanation.” As usual with him he went overboard. He laid a right hook sucker punch across my face and I went down. Faster than a stone.

All would have been well if he had stopped there, but he got down right behind me – Just as I was trying to get up – and clamped an arm across my wind pipe like an iron bar. No one moved to intervene as he slowly choked me to death. Increasing pressure on my neck by the minute. I began to shake, my head swelling like a balloon and the roar of the crowd was as the sea pounding in on some distant shore. I flung myself backward, suddenly shifting the weight of both our bodies on his arm. He cried out and released pressure on his arm enough for me to wangle myself out of his grasp.

I grabbed a chair and smashed it across his head and shoulders. The chair splintered on impact. I raised it high and brought it down again and it splintered as its support cracked. He cried out in pain and started towards me. Blood trickled down his face from a scalp wound. I threw what was left of the chair in his face and backed away.

He came in a rush, hands reaching out to destroy. I dodged to one side and kicked a chair into his path so that he stumbled and fell heavily to the floor. There was a bottle of McDowell’s whiskey on the table at my side and I grabbed it by the neck, smashing it across the edge of the table and had a knee on his chest before he could move.

The bottle made a fearsome weapon and I shoved the broken end up under his chin, the jagged, splintered edge drawing blood from the taut flesh. One push and he was finished and he knew it. Fear broke out through like scum to the surface of a pool. I stared at him with hatred and asked him what I had been dying to all day.

“Why Los? Thought you were a cool niccuh Losgiddy,  Why gon do me like this?? I cri mahn, I cri everitiem. Tell me bruh, or things gonna get awks to be honest. I finna do you right now and that would be uncool.

His further existence depends on his answer.

(._. )

( ._.)

If you’re confused about what that was all about, you may want to check out the ‘inspiration’ for this post here

The Dood Fantasy eBook Project: An Introduction

(Vunderkind’s Note: This is basically FYI.)

I am lazy by default. If there are ten ways to do something, I’ll pick the seemingly easiest route (which, I have come to realize, usually ends up being the toughest.) In a way, I have my laziness to thank for my ‘creativity’. It’s a long story explaining just how laziness fuels creativity in my case, but I hope someone gets the idea already.

On that note, I have been meaning to write this particular book since 2011, but…yeah. Laziness happened. The story has potential, the writing style is uncommon (for a Nigerian, that is), and I have very good Feng shui whenever I talk about it, but I have never been able to set pen to purpose to actually write the book itself.

A few months ago, I put up an intro to the book here, and the comments were amazing. It spurred me to write the damn book once and for all.

However, this push was momentary, and I relapsed into my blissful lethargy again.

But this time, thanks to Enajyte and Janus, I am actually going to do this for real. Ena gave me an idea to post each chapter as I write it on my blog (it’s supposed to keep me going, since readers would egg me on to complete it), and I think I like the idea.

I added her idea to Janus’, and this is the outcome:

I am going to be updating my blog with occasional and arbitrary status reports about my progress on the book.

I will also be tweeting matters related to the book with the #DoodProject hashtag.

I will like to thank everyone for their support, both spoken and unspoken. I know you all love me. Compulsorily, you love me. 🙂

And I love you too >_>

How far have I gone today? I’ve only written the plot, and that is basically only three chapters long so far. I have tipped the book to be 20 chapters long, and I’m gunning for 80,000 words.

I am right now working on the characters and their names and also the ‘world’ (where the story is set, since I have created it out of thin air to suit the fantasy requirement.)

If everything works out well, I will be ‘launching’ it free on Christmas day and making it available for free download from December 25th to January 15th, 2014. After that, it goes on to becoming my second book on Amazon 🙂

Thanks fam.

(I don’t even know why I’m saying thanks, but thanks. Seriously)

Operation Oshogbo

Vunderkind: I first wrote this for boss Damstylee’s blog.  He asked me to write the “Perfect Love Story”, and voila, here it is! Read and you’ll be shocked to find out I can be romantic when I really commit myself to it.

Meanwhile, I copied this Android Sketch app from a friend’s phone today, and I’ve been messing with it throughout today. All illustrations on today’s blog will be courtesy me, via the aid of the wonderful app. I hope you like it. If you don’t, here’s a very photo-realistic sketch of Rihanna I drew for your pleasure:




He stared deeply into her eyes, and they shared a line of communication and understanding.

“E dey pain?” he asked.


“Make I comot am?”

“No, I go manage am so.”

Beneath them, the bed springs creaked.



10:00am. Unknown Location. Status: Debriefing.

“We have intel on Trace,” the commandant said, as soon as they were all seated.

“About time,” Matt groaned. “Where’s he holing up nowadays?”

“In a shack in Osun state.”

Everyone groaned audibly at this.

“Osun state. Seriously?”

“Of all the places in Nigeria…”

“The goat to human ratio there is in favor of the goats.”

“Kogi state is probably better.”

“Please, Jack, don’t insult Kogi state.”

“Or you’ll do what? Make me cry?”

“Nah. I made your mother cry last night – she kept saying too big, too big…”

“You obese motherfucker!”

“Please, I’m not obese. I prefer the word corpulent.


The voice of the commandant cut through the argument, and the two agents who had been about to leap from their desks at each other’s throat fumed uselessly for a few seconds before sitting back down.

The commandant’s huge head swiveled back to the centre of the table. “Trace knows too much about us, and every second he spends alive as a defector exposes us to serious security risks this department is not ready to speculate.”

The room waited. They knew the commandant’s annoying habit of speaking, pausing for effect, and resuming. They waited.

The commandant cleared her throat. “Jack. Matt. Carl. Rick. Alex. You are the only Nigerians on this team, and so you all will be assigned to retrieve Trace – “

“Because we are Nigerians? You racist!”

“Shut up,” the commandant looked flustered. “Are you really as stupid as you look or have you been putting in extra practice lately? This operation is going to take place in Nigeria. Don’t you think it will be a little suspicious if our white guys patrol a shack in Osun? Think,” and she tapped the side of her head with her brand new Tecno F7.



“Commandant – “

“You are so smart. You think of everything!”

“IKR?” she said, batting her eyelashes.

“So, what will the name of the secret operation be called?”

“Operation Find-And-Retrieve-Trace.”


“Totally Lame.”

“What would you prefer then?”

“Operation Oshogbo. You know, because we are going to Oshogbo.”

“Where the goats are more populous than the humans.”

“I know. You said that before. Let it go.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that…it saddens me so.”

The commandant cleared her throat again. “Any questions? Who is the team leader?”

“Matt, naturally. He’s our big boss.”

“AKA Fat, Obese, I-cannot-see-my-preek boss.”

“Heeeyyyy. I’m corpulent, bastards.”

“So that settles it then?” this, from the Commandant.

“I guess.”

“Remember, we are a secret agency. Keyword: secret. You shouldn’t tell anyone about our operations. It jeopardizes our mission.”

At the back, Rick said under his breath fuck this, and deleted an email he was composing titled “Guess who’s going on a Secret Mission, Honey?”

The commandant put on her best deadpan. “Dismissed.”

As the agents filed out, Alex lingered at the door. Something had caught his eye. He turned around to see the commandant snap a pen cleanly in half. Her teeth were clenched.

Damn, he thought, and that was a Leo Smart pen.

But he was worried for other reasons…


Night. Undisclosed location.

The masked intruder paused in front of the door. He was counting under his breath. As he got to the number ten, a sentry came out through a door, and the masked intruder melted into the darkness, sidling away from the sentry’s line of sight. When he had come almost around the sentry, he crouched and stole into the doorway the sentry had just appeared from.

He kept tiptoeing until he got to the elevator. Disregarding it, he took the stairs. Taking it two steps at a time, he kept checking back for a new guard at each level.

He finally got to the door of the room he sought. Rapidly keying in digits he had stolen earlier, he easily entered the room.

He ran to the file cabinet and searched as soundlessly and carefully as he could. He couldn’t rifle through – there must be no sign of his breaking and entering – but he also needed to be done with it in less than four minutes thirty seven seconds, when a new sentry would walk down the hall.

He was in luck. He found the photograph stashed somewhere in-between two boring files he got sleepy reading the titles of.

Pocketing the photograph, he made his way gingerly out of the room.

A week later. 09:00am. Status: Commencement – Operation Oshogbo

”Viper to Mamba. Come in.”

“Why the fuck are you called Viper? It just doesn’t suit you dude.”

“What do you mean?”

“Vipers are wriggly, scaly and disgusting to look at. Oh…Never mind.”

Viper sighed audibly. “Ha-ha. Nice one. Now – report?”

“Subject appears to be static. No movement detected. But of course…” and he snorted.

“What do you see?”

“It’s porn, man. P. O. R. N.”

“What do you mean?”

“The subject is fucking.”

Viper groaned in the parked van down the street. “How come I always get the sucky jobs?”

Meanwhile down the road, Weasel, Lynx and Fox were having coffee and playing cards.

“Weasel. Come in,” Viper called through their audio devices.

“We’re still maintaining status quo. Awaiting deployment.”

“Go in. The subject is defenseless and unguarded. This should be easier than we thought.”

Weasel, Lynx and Fox jogged out of the restaurant without paying and made a beeline for the house.

Within, the man stared into the woman’s eyes, and they shared a line of communication and understanding.

“E dey pain?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Make I comot am?”

“No, I go manage am so.”

That instant, their door was kicked open to show three masked men in suits shouting, “KHONAAAAAA!”

“What is this?” the man asked, tucking in his penis.

“Trace, we have come for you,” Weasel spoke.

Fear and comprehension dawned in Trace’s eyes as Weasel and Fox made a grab for him.

A gun went off, and Fox grabbed his knee. He turned in anger at Lynx, “what the fuck man? You shot me in the knee.”

“I’m sorry. Big mistake. Wrong aim,” and Lynx shot him in the heart. Weasel turned too late – Lynx shot him too, right through the head.

Lynx stared unblinking at Trace and the naked woman.

“There are two others waiting for you outside. Take the backstreet. No one is watching the alley.”

Trace nodded numbly and clambered through the window. The woman was trembling feverishly. Lynx looked at her for one brief moment – and their eyes locked. Then he tore his gaze away and made for the door.

I have to defect too. The commandant will kill me for this, he thought. Running down the corridor, he collided with a stomach and passed out.


Same day. 2:00pm. Location: Commandant’s Office.

A jolt of electricity shocked him awake. He found Viper (Matt), Mamba (Carl) and the commandant staring at him. Matt was brandishing a taser.

“Why did you do it, Lynx?” the commandant asked the instant he opened his eyes.

“Utunu,” he mumbled. The commandant was nonplussed, but Jack was laughing.

“HAHAHAHAHA! Epic. Lynx Utunu. Jollof music. HAHAHAHA Brilliant…uh…ah…” he hurriedly added as he saw the commandant’s murderous look. “Not good. You killed your team mates and let Trace escape. Not good mate.”

“I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn’t been for that pesky stomach over there,” Alex (Lynx) pointed at Matt.

“HAHAHA, bitches!” Matt yelled.

“Obese bastard.”

“I’m corpulent! Say after me. Cor-pu-lent.”

“Why did you do it, Alex?” the commandant asked again.

Alex coughed lightly before speaking. “I never really liked Trace. Hated him, actually. Arrogant prick. But I couldn’t let you kill him, Commandant.”

“I never said we were going to kill him. We were only going to bring him in – “

“ – And kill him,” Alex winced. He had a headache. “I saw you snap a Leo Smart biro in half after the meeting and I knew you were going to kill him when we brought him in.”

“What? Because I snapped a pen?”

“Yes. Anger. Bitterness. Frustration. The things that can lead you to snap a tough Leo Smart pen easily like that.”

“That was very presumptuous of you!”

“Was I right in my deduction?” Alex asked. “Were you going to kill him?”

“Yes. I’m just shocked you deduced that from my snapping a pen.”

“I’ve been reading this book. How to Read Between the Lines, by Justin Irabor.”

“Nice!” shouted Jack and Matt.

“Sweet! I’ll check the book out on Amazon later,” the commandant grinned, then frowned again. “But why? If you hated him, why did you want him spared?”

“I broke into your office last week, Commandant” – the commandant gasped at this – “and I found out you and Trace had a secret love affair in Poland.” He retrieved the photograph from his breast pocket and showed the guys in the room. “How do they say it? Hell hath no fury like a bitch scorned? Yes. I knew you were so pissed he ditched you for some Osun chick and so you were gonna kill him.”

“Oh. Ah. I see. Yes, I understand, but what is it to you?”

“Well, you guys were so busy gathering intel on Trace and didn’t bother to gather any on his female friend. That woman, you see, has always had a hard time finding love. Trace is the first man who has ever loved her for who she is, and for the first time, she was really, truly, happy.”

“Yes, but – “

“ – As I was saying, if you had done enough research, you would have discovered that this woman’s name is Alexandria.

“Yes, people,” Alex raised his head to stare at them all. “Alexandria is my twin sister.”


Vunderkind’s End note: I don’t really have a book on Amazon titled How to Read Between the Lines.


Photo Credits? Vunderkind 😀

“The Optimist”

The governor’s hands trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips. Sweat had gathered quickly at his brow, and his lips quivered sickly.

The glass was filled to the brim with a clear liquid. It could even have been water. Some of the liquid sloshed at the side of the glass, and the governor’s unsteady hand brought the glass level with his face.

Tears were streaming down his face as he took the first sip.

Hope say d feem go sweet?
Hope say d feem go sweet?


“…in pursuance of unity, solidarity and team spirit. We shall strive to be better than we were yesterday. As a nation, we will work together to promote the kindred spirit. It is all for one, and one for all. I have a dream where a fellow countryman would be ready to lay down his life when the need arises for the good of the many…”

Marcus Ikoli glared at the screen. “I have a pimple. Why did no one tell me I have a pimple?” He felt vaguely around his face with his hands.

“Just look at that,” his wife began in a mock sneer. “You just gave the greatest speech in Nigeria’s history, and you are worried about a bloody pimple. Later you go argue say you no dey vain.

“I am not vain,” Marcus snapped. “Am I vain, John?”

The man named John stood with his hands at his back, his legs spread theatrically apart. He wore dark glasses, and the bulge in his black suit told the world he was packing legal heat. He turned his head slightly left in deference, letting a small smile cross his face.

“Vanity is a luxury I am sure the president can afford, sir.”

Marcus smiled. “You should run in the next poll, John. You’re such a politician.”

“Me? Run, sir? And leave you without a chief of security?”

Marcus sighed, and turned to his wife. “These bloody terrorists. You’re right. I need you to cover my back. Come, Rebecca.”


“Good afternoon, and welcome to News Central at six. I am Jumoke Olaitan. Following up to the unfortunate demise of governor Richard Chidiebere of Rivers state, the first stage autopsy reports have revealed that the governor died by poisoning. The composition of the poison is as yet unverified, but interesting forensic reports indicate that the governor may have committed suicide. A half-full glass cup was found beside his dead body in the early hours of the day.

There were no witnesses to the death. The IG of police has released a statement indicating that the Force would be taking the governor’s death as a suicide and advices the nation to do the same.

Was the responsibility of governance too much for governor Richard Chidiebere to saddle alone? Whatever the case, we grieve the loss of one of our finest leaders….”


Rebecca was massaging Marcus’ shoulder absent-mindedly while he poured himself another scotch. A discarded newspaper lay strewn on the floor beside him, and he heaved in his chair.

“It’s alright, Marc. Calm down. You know you think better when you are calm.”

“Two of my most loyal supporters. Dead, and a little less than a week apart. Who is the mad man killing them? I want his head on a platter!”

John stared ahead. He had a team of five in the room with him, and the president’s security had tightened since news of the death of Governor Rogers Aswani reached Aso Rock.

The Nigerian Police Force had issued another press released saying the case on Richard Chidiebere had been reopened in the light of the death of governor Rogers. The same glass of clear liquid carrying the poison had been found by Rogers’ body, although there had been no sign of breaking into the governor’s quarters. The case was now being treated as assassination.


Jumoke Olaitan gave her signature smile at the camera. It was almost a smirk, but not quite. It said two things at once: it said that she took immense pride in being among the first people to know the news before almost everyone else, and that she considered everyone else ignorant bastards. Fortunately for her, she was a very beautiful buxom woman, so at least the majority of a certain gender of the Nigerian people hardly noticed the condescending smile.

A recorded statement by the IG of Police, Mohammed Saraki was playing for the benefit of the news viewers.

“…we believe that whatever triggered the ingestion of the poison by the two governors is linked with the phone call they received. They were found dead with their phones in their hands, after receiving a phone call from a withheld number. Preliminary investigations are ongoing…”

Her phone vibrated, and she saw that she had received an SMS.

“Tell your crew to tune in to freq. 106.5. You just might get promoted.”

She was only stunned for a few seconds before she realized this is a lead! and ran towards Tom, the pink-faced Australian in charge of technical stuff.

They broadcasted frequency 106.5 (it turned out to be in UHF) first in the studio, but when they saw what it was showing, they broadcasted to their live audience.

Nigeria was watching with bated breath.

The president was on the big screen, receiving a phone call.

And he looked afraid.


“Mr. President, you do not sound too happy to hear from me,” the mysterious caller drawled.

Marcus pressed the phone tightly against the side of his suddenly slick face. He snapped his fingers at John, and John, nodding, disappeared into the shadows.

“What do you want?”

The voice at the other end laughed sweetly. “No, Mr. President. You have it all wrong. The question is: what do you want?”


“Trace the caller! Trace it, dammit!” John snarled into the phone.

All network operators in the country had been alerted. They were already tracing the anonymous caller.

It was only a matter of time…


“I’ll have you know that the federation does not negotiate with terrorists.”

“Ah, Mr. President. Do you remember these words? “I have a dream where a fellow countryman would be ready to lay down his life when the need arises for the good of the many…”

Marcus nodded numbly, a nod that was instantly relayed to more than 80 million TV screens nationwide.

“My words. In the speech at the Nigerian Unity Convention last week.”

“Your memory is unsurpassed, as is your governance, your Excellency,” the voice chuckled.

The call terminated abruptly.


“What do you mean you lost him?” John was in a full rage now.

“Sir, we were able to confirm that it was an MTN number, and he was calling from Lagos – somewhere in Ikorodu. But he terminated the call before we could home in on him.”


Conversation had started in beer parlors and homes. The president had effectively been threatened on national TV, and the caller had abruptly disappeared. Speculation was rife. Nigeria was mildly disappointed.

“I bin think say na one kind 24 steeze bin wan happen so,” Ohis, an engineer said to no one in particular, as he clutched his bottle of odeku fervently.

But that was not to be the end of the tale.

The president’s phone was ringing again.


“Sorry about that, Mr. President,” the mechanical voice spoke again. “This hide and seek tires me too.”

“What do you want?” Marcus asked again.

“What was that you said? The Federation does not negotiate with terrorists? You’re right, Your Excellency. I am not here to negotiate with the federation. I am here to negotiate with one man

“Marcus Ikoli. It is time for a man to lay down his life for the good of the many.”


The world gasped.


“Mr. President. Your wet bar. Third bottle to your right. That’s a special drink from me to you. There is a glass cup in your second bottom left drawer. Please pour yourself a full glass. Drink to your heart’s content.”

One of the guards yelled, “There is an unbranded bottle where he said it would be, sir!”

Rebecca shrieked.


Aso Rock had been infiltrated. A camera no one was aware of was broadcasting the most powerful room in Nigeria. A glass cup and an unmarked bottle of a clear drink had found their way into the building. Aso Rock had been compromised.


“What the hell do you mean you lost him?” John was even more livid than he had been five minutes ago.

“I’m sorry,” the operator was speaking. “It was a glo number this time. The call was traced to Kano…”

“Wait. Kano?”

“Yes sir, and indications show that…”

How the hell could he have been in Lagos and in Kano in the split of a second?

“…we are sorry, sir. The time was too short for a distinct trace.”


The president picked on the first ring.

“Would you drink, Mr. President? A toast to my good health, perhaps?”

“This is the last time I will ask this: what do you want?”

The president was silent. It’s a waiting game, terrorist. We will come down on you like a plague.

The caller sighed audibly. “You need persuasion, I see. Turn on the news.”

The call ended.


“In an alarming turn of events tonight, the president received a phone call that climaxed in the detonation of a bomb in Kaduna. Reports are still coming in, but from all indications, the loss of life is monumental. It would appear that this terrorist has played his hand.

It remains for the president to play his.”


“You bastard!” Marcus was sweating and gritting his teeth.

“Good. Emotion is good, no? I wouldn’t know of course. You have seen what I can do, Mr. President. Let us turn the negotiations around. What do you want?”

“I don’t understand, but please stop this. The Nigerian people don’t deserve this.”

Around him, the guards were searching the room, looking for the mysterious camera filming them.

“They don’t. And that is why I offer them redemption. The life of one, for the life of many.”

“Marcus. Don’t listen to him,” Rebecca shrieked again.

“Have a drink, Mr. President. It’s actually a nice-tasting brew. That is all I ask.”

The president stared sadly at his wet bar.


CNN was reporting. “The terrorist who shockingly patched through to the president of Nigeria, Marcus Ikoli, has stated unverifiably that he has enough bombs to level several commercial cities in the country. He has given the president an ultimatum: drink from the bottle, or watch people die.

“Tough decision for the president. The president has issued a standing order to bar all suggestion of help from foreign bodies as, in his words, it will only “muddy the waters” and interfere with negotiations with the terrorist. Meanwhile, President Barack Obama has said that negotiating with terrorists is never a good idea as it only strengthens the opposition’s stance…”


Though the rest of the world didn’t know it, Only Jumoke had a direct line to the terrorist. The number that he had used to text her.

She knew that she should call the police, but on a whim, she dialed the phone number.

“Hello. This is – “

“Jumoke, from News Central. Why did you call a known terrorist, Jumoke?”

“I’m sorry. I…”

“I know why you did. The need to know. The curiosity. You cannot stand to know the story from someone else. You want to be the first to know.”

“Again, I’m sorry but – “

“Do you know why I chose you to broadcast tonight’s events, Jumoke?”

“I’m not sure I – “

“Twelve TV stations and eighteen newspapers, Jumoke. That’s how many media sources carried the news about the dead governor Richard Chidiebere. And do you know what they said? They all reported along these lines: “A half-empty glass of a suspicious clear liquid was found by his body…”

Jumoke paused. She didn’t understand.

“You were the only one who reported it as a half-full glass…”

Jumoke sighed. “News reporters do not usually write their news stories. They just report what has been written.”

“Yes. But you wrote that story, didn’t you?”

Jumoke closed her eyes. “Yes. Yes I did.”

“I am an optimist, Jumoke. The glass is always half-full.”


Forty-seven minutes had gone past. John was no closer to finding out who the mystery caller was.

Marcus Ikoli sat alone in the room. It had been cleared of everyone else. Even Rebecca had been taken away from Aso Rock.

The mystery caller had ordered the president not to take down the camera beaming him to the rest of the world. “They are my eyes on you, Mr. President. If my eyes go blind, I’ll kill a large part of Nigeria.”

The thought nagged. How can I be sure he isn’t bluffing? How can anyone have that much bombs around the major cities? The reports indicate that there’s no sign of explosives there. What if he’s lying…?

But the mystery caller’s voice had been calm and almost playful. “Heads and tails. Half-full and half-empty. A game of chance. Would you take the risk, Mr. President? When the hour is up, would I really blow Nigeria up? Can I even blow it up? Two possible outcomes, Your Excellency.

“One. You don’t drink. I blow up Nigeria. Or I don’t.

“Two. You drink, and you die. And I don’t blow up Nigeria. The choice, as they say, is yours.”

Fifty minutes. Ten minutes to a decision.

The president poured himself a drink.



I really hope you had popcorn while you read this.

The Really Cool Dinosaur with a Remote Controller

Vunderkind’s Intro: It’s been a while since I wrote anything here, fam. I apologize. Here’s a little something I wrote on a whim about thirty minutes ago. I hope you like it. UluthriX, my partner in crime, will be handling a lot more of the posts on here, so I would also like to formally introduce him! He has an “about” page too, so you can check it out! He’s good folks!

It’s probably cool to note that this post was inspired by Samsung’s #samsung1000words competition. If you are interested in participating, click here

All the best.


And now for the post.


My name is Justin Irabor.

I pride myself on a lot of things. I pride myself on being able to drink atrociously peppery and hot soup in one gulp without my eyes watering. I pride myself on being able to wear my pants with one hand, while the other hand is shaving my beards. I pride myself on living life on the edge – which is probably not that impressive once you discover my friends have 3G.

Still, it came as more than a shock to wake up this morning to see a Tyrannosaurus Rex blinking at me. You see, I also pride myself in my security measures. All doors were locked. My windows, too, and the burglar alarms were activated. So how had the T. Rex broken in? And the T. Rex wasn’t wearing a ski mask or a balaclava or something. I could ID the T. Rex. Dumb burglar – this would be easy for the police.

I wondered distractedly if he had a gun, but when I looked in his face – he had a wide grin – I could see how he wouldn’t really need the gun. The teeth spoke to me.

“Good morning, Justin,” is what the teeth said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

I looked around. I wasn’t in my room. I was in a forest. I mean, there were green stuff everywhere and trees and stuff. The sun winked at me. I winked back, not having a choice in the matter.

“Hello…er…sir,” I greeted the T. Rex. My mum taught me politeness. “Where am I?”

“Where you were before you woke up.”

“You mean…this is my street? This is my house?”

“Ah, well, technically yes. Everything is just as it is before you slept, with a little omission.”

“What do you mean? A little omission? Looks like the “omitter” must have large hands. My house has been “omitted”, my car has been “omitted”, even my Xbox!”

“Ah.” The T. Rex attempted to clasp his hands together, realized the impossibility and swung his hands uselessly by his side, hoping I didn’t notice his embarrassment. “Ah. You see. Only one thing has been omitted.”

“What is this little detail that has been omitted in my life? That teensy weensy thing that has made me wake up in a forest?”


“Uhm. Okay. Technology. Yeah. Of course,” I stared blankly.

“Mr. Justin, welcome to a day in your life without technology,” and he grinned in what he probably hoped wasn’t predatory. He failed to inspire mirth.

Backing politely away, I asked, “So…like, no technology?”


“Like…no television? No DsTV?”


“Wow. No internet?”

“Nope. Nada.”

“Digital music? Videos?”


“Pictures? Games? Cars? Air conditioning? Electricity?”

“No. Nothing. Nothing remotely related to technology.”

“Oh,” I whispered. “Cool, I think.”

Mr. T. Rex smiled. “You are taking this a lot better than most people.”

“Ah, well. I reckon wiping my butt with a leaf isn’t so bad now, is it? Who knows, my butt-hole may even absorb a couple vitamins from the leaf.”

“Is that sarcasm I detect, sir?”

“Absolutely not.”


We were quiet for a couple minutes. Then I looked down to see I was wearing my pajamas.

“Aha!” I yelled. “Got you!”


“You say this is a day in my life without technology, eh? Why am I wearing my pajamas then? They are made from the finest of cotton, weaved from – “

“Oh. Damn. My bad,” Mr. T Rex. reached behind him and produced a remote control and clicked it in my direction and zap, my clothes were gone.



“I’m naked.”

“Indeed you are, sir.”



“Don’t I get a leaf suit or something?”

“Ah. Sorry,” he said and clicked the button again.

In retrospect, I should have just shut my mouth. The leaf suit itched like hell.

I decided not to mention the irony in using a remote control to get rid of my last shreds of technology.

“How long am I going to stay without technology, sir?” I asked.

“A day, as I have said earlier.”

“So what do I do for fun until then?”

“I dunno. Eat cattle?”

“Uhm. You are a dinosaur. I am human. My jaws are quite notorious for being incompatible with eating whole cattle.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll swing from tree to tree for fun until day is done.”


“You watched the movie?”

“Yes. Too much film trick.”


“What I mean is, if you try to swing from tree to tree here, you will snap your neck.”


“And you will die.”


“Like. Dead. Great Beyond and stuff.”

“I know.”

“Okay. Just making sure you get the idea.”

“I do.”


We sat on a log close to a sleepy river, and the T. Rex kept trying to crack his knuckles. I would have laughed but something told me the T. Rex hadn’t had sautéed human in a while.

“It just occurred to me,” I began again, “that if I don’t have my phone, then I don’t have access to my mobile videos.”

“You are pretty smart, sir.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“So I can’t watch cat videos on YouTube throughout today?”

“No, sir.”


“Calm down sir.”

I was trembling all over. This horror has to end. Yet…I wondered…no, it cannot be…

“How about my thousands of twerk videos?”

I looked up to see that Mr. T. Rex had tears in his eyes. “The twerk videos, sir…you cannot watch them until the day is up…I am so so so sorry…you have no idea how sorry I am…”

We hugged as we wept under the winking sun.


Vunderkind’s Endnote: Check out the awesome WahalaCentral too

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Vunder’s Purge

The Scribe. My Purge. I hate – hate – hate talking about my emotional ordeals, and this will be the closest I’ll ever get to doing justice to the subject.

Flexible-Minds; The Mind's Eye

This is Vunderkind’s Purge.

All rights reserved.

Send entries to


The Scribe


Only the soft scratch of quill against parchment, as The Scribe wrote determinedly on the roll of parchment in front of him. His forehead was cut open, but he paid no mind – although he had to pause occasionally to irritably wipe blood from his eyes. Nothing would distract him – not even the silhouetted woman at the other end of the room.

“A shadow you have become, Manuel,” she breathed.

Icy mist swirled around her mouth in the cold November air, quickly thinning and disappearing as soon as she shut her mouth again. Manuel didn’t hear her, or if he did – he ignored her.

Still he wrote.

His tangled mane hung wetly against his sweaty face, and blood and sweat dampened the parchment he was so bent on filling with words. If he cared about the mess his blood…

View original post 803 more words

The Reaper is not Grim

I see you...
I take such joy in watching you crawl…

I see you as you walk around;
None of you escape my gaze.
I take such joy in watching you crawl
Along your pointless ways.
You never see me watching you
As you live your useless lives;
Little bugs on their little jobs,
Worker bees in hives. Continue reading “The Reaper is not Grim”

Spit. Or Swallow.

He was sat across from her, easy like Sunday morning. Black suit. Politically correct bow tie. Dimples. Robert Downey Jnr-ish beards. She wondered, not for the first time, why he was still in the ‘singles market’.

He, on the other hand, was preoccupied with trying to chew in as civil a manner as possible. It wouldn’t do to make a faux pas. He knew her social crowd. The “yes, please, and thank you” and the “just a soupçon of garlic, Monsieur Goulash” crowd. No. It wouldn’t do to make a faux pas at all.

“Do you spit or swallow?” Continue reading “Spit. Or Swallow.”

Dood: The Legend (An Introduction)

The Forest of Gueth rustled in the uneager morning breeze, and it tickled the ears of the antelope as it munched arrogantly on the leaf of a plant, without giving much thought to how the plant felt about being eaten.

If the plant could talk, it would probably have said: Hey, you brown shitbag. I haven’t been standing here, absorbing sunlight and being all green and shit for the last three months just so you could come snack up on me whenever you feel like. Get your teeth out of my life!

But that plant, like every other plant, could not speak, so it said nothing. Continue reading “Dood: The Legend (An Introduction)”

HNIC Buffdae MixTape – Volturi_Lord

 HOV (That’s Jay-Z to you non-MCHG lovers) : [#mylaugh] Yo, Timberland, hook me up with something to get the system revved up

[Timberland gets to work on making a high-octane beat]

**Twenty minutes later**

[Beat is pounding furiously, and HOV LIL WAYNERICK ROSSEMINEM and MI ABAGA are nodding lizardly. Well, it is Timberland afterall]

[MI ABAGA: (thinking) Omo, these oyibo pipo dey try for beat sha… (<_<)]

EMINEM: Well, lemme give the intro and the lot of y’all will come on and start your verses

LIL WAYNE: Naw. Naw, niggah, naw. You’ll be going all emo and shit. Let Rozay do it. He gots grunts and stuff.

HOV : But I have [#mylaugh]

RICK ROSS: Makes you sound like a shy pompous prick.

HOV : Good point.

MI ABAGA: Guys, guys, guys. I’m good with intros in Nigeria. Lemme do it.



**Beat starts**

RICK ROSS: (hunh)…Maybach Music, YMCMB, Rockahoes’ n’ Rockafellas, Gat Slim Shady and The Short Black Boy…reppin’ Choc City…put the beat on a hover pattern, no pun intended, cos HOV ’s bout to crash that plane… Continue reading “HNIC Buffdae MixTape – Volturi_Lord”

Wendy Echaka: For Your Special Day

She doesn’t like poetry, so I wrote the next best thing:


There lives in Calabar a lass

In medicine she took her class

She said she ate

Continue reading “Wendy Echaka: For Your Special Day”

That Obrigado Moment When The Big Blog Theory Ends…

Narrator One: And so it was, that the goo was rank, bubbling malevolently, spewing little air-pockets of oppressive fumes into the already dour atmosphere. Underneath roiled pieces of flesh, disturbed, but beyond the stage of being perturbed. The metal scraped against the underside, a long-drawn, muffled grind that set the teeth on edge. The goo, which once stretched in pride, extending its elasticity in all horizons now dripped in gobs from the metal receptacle. The pieces of flesh roiled underneath.

Narrator Two: In other words, the okro soup e don spoil.

Continue reading “That Obrigado Moment When The Big Blog Theory Ends…”

Challenge Thirty: ThisIsBFG

**This niggah is just a pavat. End.**

Mastermind: @ThisIsBFG

Domain: ThisIsBFG


I got up very early;

I woke up with the sun.

Today would be a glorious day;

A very special one.

Continue reading “Challenge Thirty: ThisIsBFG”

Challenge Twenty Nine: Aunty_HotStuff

**Allow me to greet Aunty HotStuff fess: _______O__ Oya, make una read**

Mastermind: Miss Awosika

Domain: SoulCaste


The day was already coming to an end, but work wasn’t over.

It never was. Especially when you had your time invested in your passion. The feeling of accomplishment, that surge in your heart when you reach every milestone, knowing you are making impact – it never got old. Nothing gave me better satisfaction.

Continue reading “Challenge Twenty Nine: Aunty_HotStuff”