A Dance ‘pon the TL

The following exchange began very randomly and continued surreptitiously.

The above exchange is a work of collaborative fiction and does not refer to any occurrences in reality, past or present. This may possibly occur in the future, in which case we make no claims of clairvoyance.

These Are The Ways

I’ll kiss you in front of your parents while you’re pregnant with our first child. I’ll remind them of the day I met them and how terrified they were of the idea of me and how far we’ve all come from then.

I won’t tattoo your name on my skin, but I’ll ink the date we first meet over one of my ribs. The one you replaced that day.

I’ll paint you a picture. Not a picture of you, or of us. I’ll paint you a picture of your future. The one with me in it.

I couldn’t possibly sell you a dream. But I’ll embody the faceless person you’ve dreamed would sweep you off your feet so many times. Tell me your dreams.

I’ll write you a song. I’ll write a song only you would ever hear. I’ll write you a song of you. I’ll write you into a song.

When you cry, I won’t make you smile. That’s not my job. I won’t cry with you either. I’m no sissy. When you cry, I’ll understand. If I don’t understand, I’ll help you understand why I can’t. Then I’ll kiss away your tears.

You’re going to get mad at me. A lot. I’ll apologise every time I’m wrong. And sometimes when I’m not. And once in a while when you are. I’ll still let you know you’re wrong though. Just not then. Because world peace is important.

I’ll cook. With you. For you. For our kids. I’ll do dishes. I’ll dice vegetables. I’ll clean up. I’ll turn the amala while you make the soup and grind the beans after you’ve scrubbed off the skin.

I’ll take you on dinner dates. Wine and dine you. Then I’ll silently laugh at you from the other side of the door while your tummy runs because you ordered that lobster we both knew would run your tummy.

You’ll take me on dinner dates. And I’ll let you. Because you want to. And because I like it when you do. Because you like balance. And so do I. And because every now and then, only rarely, I’ll be broke.

I’ll call you sexy. Because you are. Even when you think I’m lying (I won’t be), I still will. Even when I’m mad with you, I’ll call you sexy. I won’t call you sexy when you’re mad with me though. World peace is still important.

You’ll look at me from across the crowded room and I’ll get the message. I’m not telepathic but I get you. Even when I wish I don’t.

I’ll swallow my pride. I’m (a)n adult male hu(man), and that means I’ve got an ego. It’s not big or strong or hard, but I’ve got it. For you though, I’ll put it aside… as much as possible.

I won’t look through your phone.

I’ll let you look through mine, if you care that much. It’s no big deal.

I’ll never lie to you.

I won’t tell you you look fat when you ask if you do. Even if you believe you do and you believe I think you do. That won’t be me lying to you (see above). That’ll be me dodging an obvious trap. Because I’m wise (not a liar).

I’ll break the head of any man who insults you. Except when I can’t or when you started it or when it’s avoidable… Which is every time. Okay, I won’t be breaking anyone’s head on your behalf so don’t pick any fights. That’s not how to love you.

I’ll do everything within my power to make sure you come too. Every time. At the very least, it’ll always be worth your while.

We’ll cuddle.

We’ll argue and bicker and fight sometimes. And when we do, it’ll be your fault. But I’ll never tell you it is. That won’t be me lying, it’ll be me not telling you the truth (at that moment). World peace, remember?

Let me be honest, I won’t be honest with you aaaaaaaaallllll the time. I’ll be entirely honest most of the time and every now and again, I’ll be partially honest. Never dishonest. When will I not be entirely honest? When you don’t want me to. Remember, I get you.

There’s 22 ways to loving you
And I will show them all to you


Watched Bemyoda perform Forever last night and as he sang those lyrics, the idea for this piece hit me smack dab in the face.

ps I created the cover illustration 😁😁


The Bleed

I faltered, I don’t know how
This was not the plan
I choked on the plot
A hacking cough assaulted me
Rattled through my rib-cage
Flecks of pain travelled from my lungs
Mottled my cupped hand
I bled

Bloody ink
Dried up and flew from me
But missed the sheets

I wrote
I scribbled
I dictated
I swyped
I hit send
But the pages of my drafts
Remained those
Never published…

Until now


Story For The Gods – A Deconstruction.

As promised, Tola wrote a rejoinder to my ‘exposition’ on Olamide’s Story for the gods. I’m glad for that because her piece provides context by providing insight into the song as an entirety, rather than just a/the major part like I did. I’ve learnt many things from her piece.

In spite of this though, I maintain many of my reservations. Some of which she shares at the end of her piece.

Please enjoy.


Olamide SFTG

There’s been a theory making the rounds recently, that the club smash by the rapper Olamide, Story For The Gods, is an ode to date rape.

I read Toixc’s views on the joint and I kept shaking my head like, nah….

As with most folk accusing homie of glorifying date rape, dude examined the chorus, which on its own can be rather misleading,

Mo ti mu dongoyaro, dongoyaro, dongoyaro

And monkey tail, monkey tail, monkey tail

Aro bami gbe claro, claro o, claro o

I want to do sina today, sina today

She said she cannot wait o

She said its getting late o

She said she want to faint o

Ah, story for the gods

Now she saying mo r’ogo

O ti kan mi l’apa o

O ti kan mi l’eyin o

Story for the gods, the gods o


(first four lines)

I’ve been drinking (dongoyaro, monkey tail)

View original post 921 more words

Olamide’s Story for the gods: An Exposition

Mo ti mu dongoyaro (dongoyaro, dongoyaro)
And monkey tail (monkey tail, monkey tail)
Aro bami gbe claro (claro claro)
I want to do sina today, sina today

She said she cannot wait o
She said its getting late o
She said she want to faint o
Ah, story for the gods

Now she saying mo r’ogo
O ti kan mi l’apa o
O ti kan mi l’eyin o
Story for the gods, the gods o

Olamide’s Story for the gods is a jam and a half!

It’s also a terribly, terribly inappropriate song.

The song was released a few months ago and like everyone else, I got taken with the melodies and rhythms. Top notch production. I’d hear it come up on the radio while driving and turn the music up. It would turn up on my music playlist and I’d leave what I was doing and zone into it. My jam. Dude’s lyrical dexterity, the way he bandied the words together, his now-typical mesmerising english and yoruba flow. Madness. The many lingo I couldn’t relate to because they were either too street or too deep for me. Those didn’t really matter.

Or did they?

One day, I zoned all the way in and felt the need to know what dude was actually preaching to me in this awesome song.

I was distraught.

It’s interesting that this song is still a hit on the radio while Olamide’s labelmate and protegé, Lil Kesh’s Shoki, which was released after Story for the gods, is getting banned. What is the NBC looking at? What is their criteria for the suitability or otherwise of a song to be aired on radio or its visuals be viewed on tv? They claim Shoki is a street synonym for ‘quickie’, but very few people knew this and it is not a subject matter of the song; whereas…

Story for the gods glorifies narcotic/alcohol influenced date rape.

Let me translate the chorus for you as literally as possible:

I have drank dongoyaro (a local herbal drink)
And monkey tail (another local herbal drink, sometimes used as an aphrodisiac)
Madman, give me the claro (a local slang for weed)
I want to do sina today, sina today (sina is street lingo for adultery or fornication)

She said she cannot wait o
She said it’s getting late o
She said she wants to faint o
Ah, story for the gods

Now she’s saying “I’m in trouble”
“He has broken my arm o”
“He has broken my back o”
Story for the gods, the gods o

“Story for the gods” is street speak meaning “what you’re saying is of no worth or value”. Other iterations you may be more familiar with are “You’re yarning dust” or “Story for tortoise” or “Bull shit.”

Now you know what you’ve been singing or humming along to all this time. What does this make you feel?

Dawning realisation? Anger? Shame? Befuddlement? Denial? Disgust?

What are your thoughts? Perhaps I’m mistaken about something or the other. Or perhaps I did not do the translation justice in some way.

Leave a comment.

Pretty Shitty

My brain goes dead sometimes. Like a light switch, it just stops functioning. Sometimes. Worse, outwardly, everything appears to still be functioning properly, and in a sense, it does. But when things are operating normally without instruction from the control room, that’s far from normal or proper.

I said something I shouldn’t have to someone I shouldn’t have. Some details are still mighty sketchy, but the details I did know should have remained with me. But my mouth was disconnected from my brain, you see, and… blab blab blab.

I’ve irreparably damaged three of my friendships now. A budding one, a long time acquaintance and a bond that goes back over 10yrs now. Not to mention what relationships there may be between these people.

And for that, I feel pretty shitty right now.

Smashed Mirrors

True story.

I’m driving over the two-lane overhead bridge at Jibowu heading towards Yaba last night when I notice the headlamps behind me. I’m moving quite swiftly, yet this dude is determined to edge past me. I let him. Punk ass. He’s a white Honda legend.

He seems to be in a big rush. Or he’s just a jerk. I decide it’s the latter when we reach Yaba bus stop where there appears to be some hold up. I’m not far behind him. Two cars are in a stand still behind a danfo bus, which has stopped right on the main road to offload and pick passengers. And the rest of us, peasants, must all wait till he’s done, whether we like it or not. White Honda legend shaunts himself in between the two cars and I actually see a burly hand shoot out the driver’s window to warn the second to not push his luck. Like I said, jerk.

The first car we met behind the danfo manages to squeeze past and go on, powerless to do anything about the idiot danfo driver. Then white Honda legend proceeds to do same, except he doesn’t. He shaunts in front of the danfo and comes to a full stop as well, such that none of us can possibly squeeze past him. Great, I think. Dude isn’t just a jerk, he’s an asshole.

Then his door shoots open and out comes the burliest mobile police man I’ve ever seen and I’m like. Aha! He’s already doing waka at the danfo driver and gesticulating “I go finish you hia today”. Me I’m just like “Ghen ghen, action feem is about to sele for here…” Mopol guy doesn’t go straight to the danfo driver… He stops at his boot, pops it and out comes a big, big gun. This was no AK47, or those tachere rifles with cellotape and chewing gum holding them together which the ordinary policemen carry when they’re asking you, with their bloodshot eyes and beer bellies hanging well over their belts, if you have anytin for dem for di weekend. Even though it’s only tuesday. Nah. This gun was like something Arnold Schwarzenegger carried in the 90s and with the guy’s build, he looked like that black, muscular guy in the first Predator film. Sans afro.

He cocked the big gun.

I was nearly sure I was about to see blood spray out that driver’s window. I stared transfixed, because I don’t flinch from seeing anything. My mind is constantly in record and analyse mode, can’t be missing out on witnessing any available action.

He didn’t shoot. Thank God. It seemed like he would. Whew.

Instead, he used the butt of his weapon and jammed down on the danfo’s side mirror, only twice till it was ripped out of its hinge and unto the floor. Then he stamped on it with his huge boot till it was nothing but wrangled plastic and a million pieces of once mirrored glass ground into the tar. Then he walked back to his car, entered it and drove forward. To park properly. Uh oh.

No one had to tell the danfo driver, he cleared off immediately, making way for us responsible citizens. As I drove past white Honda legend, I saw him come back out of his car, big machine gun still in hand, and heading towards the remaining headstrong danfos, presumably to herd them into their bus-stop and some sense into their heads.

It so happened that the errant danfo was headed towards the traffic light at Sabo like I was, and I trailed him all that way.

Two things I noticed:

1. The mirror on his passenger side was also gone. I wondered if the circumstances of losing that one were similar to this.

2. I’m not sure the last time I saw a danfo driven in such an undanfo way. So sober and so… sane.