Here. And There.

I’m afraid.

I thought I needed a change of environment. I needed some fresh air. I was so sure I needed a fresh start. But more, standing on the threshold, I’ve come to realize that…

I’m afraid.

I’m the one who is wont to go out on a limb and seize the bull by the horns, wrestle him to the ground and be the victor when I plant the dagger in his heart. But when you’re the bull and that red flag is waving in your face and you know you must charge, no matter how hard you wish you didn’t have to…. It becomes frightening.

I want to stay here. I can admit that to myself now. Here is safe. Here, I have family and friends and a network and confidence and history and people who owe me favours. I don’t want to leave all this security behind. I don’t want to go there.

But I do want to go there.

I want to go and do bigger things. I want to make things happen. For others and for myself. I want to validate certain dreams I woke up from too long ago. I want to re-find the spark it seems I’ve lost. I want to capture things I’ve never seen before. I want to embark on an adventure. I want to breathe fresh air.

I only wish I could do all of those here. But I can’t. Not right now.

I need to go there… Even though I don’t want to.

There is scary. And the more I look around me, the more I come to the realisation that here is scary too. Here, a stagnation reeks. Here, stress levels soar to an all time high. Here, opportunities abound, but mostly at the expense of one’s soul. It’s scary here. As it is over there.

So it appears I must choose my scare.

I choose there. I chose there ages ago, but that was before I actually had to go there. It felt good to talk about going there. Telling some folk I would be going there made them envious. And telling others, I could see how delighted it made them. Delighted for me. That made me delighted. A warm fuzzy feeling spread from my chest to my back where they patted me when they hugged me and to my face in a warm smile which must have radiated forth and affected everyone it was beamed at.

But today, it’s dark and cold and alone where I stand. On the threshold of the abyss in which there lies.

I know not what lies in there. And I am afraid of my ignorance. But my ignorance will not hold me back. Nor will my fear.

I shall step, nay… I shall dive into the abyss.

I am leaving here and going there.

And it shall be beautiful.

The Demystification of the Yoruba Boy

There’s a storm sweeping across the world. From Ibadan to Kotangora. From Harare to J’burg. From Tokyo to Alaska. From Mercury to UrAnus. A consensus has been reached by pretty much all females. Somehow, without holding an international retreat, a conference call or even running an angry feminist group on Whatsapp, these women have come to the conclusion that…

“Yoruba Boys are demons”.

This is a decision that every member of the weaker sex who has ever dated a male person who hails from south-western Nigeria has unanimously arrived at. This is an undeniable truth. It’s a statement of fact. And it comes with an immovable, unshakeable mountain of evidence which spews from the charred lips of every woman (and some effeminate men, I would assume) who has ever tasted of the sweet demonic poison which erupts from the lips of a furiously persuasive son of Oodua.

Yoruba Boys are Demons.

Every Yoruba Boy who has ever walked the face of the earth is a son of the devil. They specialize in finding the finest specimen of a daughter of Eve and proceed to acid-uously break down her walls of defence against his irresistible charms until he has invaded her castle and gobbled her virtue, dignity and self-confidence up. Big bad wolf style. Following which he goes forth to roam the earth, looking for another female to devour. Of course, there’s no shortage of these women. Thusly, all across the world, and I daresay, the universe, horrific tales of Yoruba Demon conquests abound and the skin colour of the bearers of these tales vary very widely.

Yoruba Boys are demons.

Beware of them. Fall for them at your own peril. Dine with them with a long ladle. See them and run. Kiss them and burn thine tongue. Let them ravish you and their all consuming fire shall ravage you from within and without until all that is left is a smoldering heap of bitterness. The bitterness that comes with tasting poisonous nectar and savouring it until the taste goes from sweet to flat to sour to blinding pain.

Ladies, these are the things Yoruba Boys aka Demons will do to you:

They will kiss you and they will tell.

They will kiss you and moments later, kiss another.

They will kiss you and deny ever kissing you.

They will kiss you and make you fall in love with them. Then not love you in return.

They will kiss you and drive you crazy.

They will kiss you and make you feel indebted that they ever laid lips upon you.

They will kiss you and make you beg for more… then deny you of any more.

They will kiss you and you will just die from pleasure.

They will kiss you and you will end up hating them for it.

They will do all these with no guilt whatsoever.

This is what every Yoruba Boy will do to you, ladies (and gentlemen of that leaning). Every last one of them. No exceptions. This is how they operate. This is the model which is hardwired into their very DNA. It is the blue print every male with yoruba blood coursing through his veins will follow. This is the one generalisation that is not a generalisation. This is true. This is fact. This is Yoruba Boy policy.

Now, here’s the most intriguing part…

This demonic behaviour inherent in all Yoruba Boys was discovered by and is most loudly spoken against by Yoruba Women. This behaviour is also instilled in every Yoruba Boy and encouraged by… Yoruba Women!

Everyone, give a big and resounding round of applause to Yoruba Mothers!

These Yoruba Women have handed down this conundrum from one generation to another since Oduduwa’s chicken first laid the egg from which the world as we know it today would burst forth.

Yoruba Women, on one hand, educate their daughters of the dangerous nature of all Yoruba Boys. They drum it into the young ladies’ ears how they suffered greatly at the hands of Yoruba Men – first their fathers, then their husbands and soon, inevitably, their sons. They motivate their female offspring to beware of Yoruba boys and ensure they never suffer the same fate… All of this while insisting they must not bring home “omo Ibo” or “awon Fulani” or “Kalaba” or “oyinbo” or, God forbid, a lesbian lover! Who come remain?! Oh, the confusion these young girls suffer.

On the other hand, these same Yoruba Mothers are grooming their young sons to be the perfectly typical Yoruba Boy: An arrogant, entitled and self-sufficient son-off-a-gun who sees himself as a gift to all of womankind and is determined to pass that gift around to as many recipients as possible. Because he is Father Christmas. Or more aptly, Broda Christmas. All Yoruba boys are the way they are thanks to their Yoruba Mothers. These women will treat their sons as the kings they are until the poor boy must believe it and goes on to preach this gospel to every feminine ear that will hear it. A king must be paid homage after all, and for that to happen, he must have loyal subjects. Many of them. So how can you blame him when he goes forth to sow the many seeds (usually wild oats) of this truth in every fertile ear and heart he can find?

The great irony herein is that when these Yoruba boys bring their Yoruba girls home, it is the Yoruba mothers who give their potential daughters all the headache in the world. They grill them, stress them, prick and prod them and carry out background checks to ensure this unworthy commoner is worthy of their little kings. The girls who are strong enough to weather the storm survive the baptism of fire and eventually, inevitably go on to hate their mother-in-law, as is typical, while trying to wrestle the heart of the men they love from the vice-like grip of her wrinkled claw. The ones who cannot run screaming to the world and rather than apportion the blame accordingly, the one thing you hear over and over again in their tirade is…

Yoruba Boys are Demons.

These girls eventually marry someone – perhaps of another clan, tribe or race – but more often than not, they end up with another Yoruba boy and bear their own offspring and teach them the truth about Yoruba boys, graciously contributing to the vicious cycle which knows no end.

Now, seeing how I’ve laid down all the realities in this situation, you tell me: who are the real demons?

The Yoruba Boy Conundrum

The term ‘Yoruba Boys’ might seem self-explanatory, right?

Well, it isn’t.

Please, allow me educate you…

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