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…

Click on any of these tweets to see the thread on twitter and feel free to share

🙂

2014: The Review

As has become tradition, I did a review of last year on Efe’s (@hl_blue) site, which is no longer a wordpress blog but now, stories.ng

Which is why I’m not reblogging this, but rather posting it.

Please enjoy…

_____

2014 has been amazing.

That’s it, my review  is done. We can now call it a day.

Okay okay… I’ll continue, but only because you asked nicely…

My mind is so jumbled up right now, for two reasons:

1. It’s 8.05pm on the 31st December, 2015 and I’ve been writing all four of the paragraphs above for the past 3 hours. So now, I’m in that place where I’m pressured to put down only the most vital things in the least possible time and get this done with.

2. All of those 3 hours, I’ve been furiously busy doing a million and one things at the same time, including this. As I was going about several businesses, my mind kept trying to breeze through the year and pick up the high and low points and the milestones… it couldn’t.

For two reasons:

1. I’ve got an issue with storing memories. I’m great at storing inspiration, feelings, nostalgia even; but recalling a clear picture of things I’ve experienced, heard, see, places I’ve been, people I’ve met… those don’t come as easily. The best example of this is books and movies, two things I’m greatly passionate about. I’ll recall exactly how a book or movie made me feel, the plot, how highly or low I rated it immediately afterwards; but I wouldn’t remember the details. I wouldn’t remember whole scenes. Who said what would be completely gone from my memory within days. It’s just the way it is.

2. The second and more important reason I don’t really remember the great or lousy things about 2014 is that, generally, it hasn’t really been that remarkable. However, it’s been one heck of a year end. Glorious!

And this because two things in particular happened:

1. Love happened. Now, I’ve had a one kind year in that regard in that I’d been loving several people in several capacities all year long. I just couldn’t fully commit to any of them for varying reasons. However, in November, almost like magic, stuff happened really fast and really undeniably magically with this one person. And that was that. Several hearts got broken in the process. People were hurt. And I feel terribly sorry about that. But a choice had to be made on my part and I’m really happy with it, despite all the sadness elsewhere.

2. TheDisConnect happened. As an artist, one is always looking for an opportunity to showcase one’s creativity. One project is concluded and the next is already in conception or even development stages. When one’s talents of light are still under a bushel, they’re looking for a way to uncover it and let it shine let it shine let it shine. In September, it occurred to me that I would be turning 30 in December and seeing how it is a milestone of some importance, I realized I needed to do something tangible, yet memorable. I wanted to say something, start something else… become someone. So I had the idea to stage an exhibition. And I did.

In two ways:

1. There was a traditional, live, exhibition which held at my friend’s gallery in Yaba, Lagos. It opened on the 13th of December and it was well attended and a roaring success. I fee gratefoo, I fee foofeed. This one event probably marked the brightest highlight of my entire year. It was the coming together of a full year’s worth of work. It was beautiful.

It IS beautiful.

2. In only a few hours now, all of that work comes to my very own online space, another reason I feel fulfilled.

olatoxic.com is live!

And there, #theDisConnect comes to berth online. For now and for a little while, the site shall be all about this collection of work, which erupts at noon on the 1st of January. Afterwards? I don’t know what exactly, but the possibilities are endless and I’m at least sure that all my various forms of artistic expression will be showcased in that space.

This leads me to two announcements about existing online spaces:

1. I readopt ‘olatoxic’ on twitter and on instagram going forward. I love my present handle but it is time to stick to one distinct identity. On facebook, I shall continue to use my government name. I also have the rights to olatokunbo.com, which presently redirects you to olatoxic.com so that works perfectly :p I shall not be suffering from aunty Linda Ikeji’s predicaments from a few months ago. Lawl.

2. My blog, Nostalgic Words of Future Me, which can be found at olatoxic.wordpress.com, will not migrate just yet. Whether it will in the future, I cannot ascertain at this time.

However, seeing as it is still where it is, it is where two things shall continue to occur:

1. I shall continue to write a variety of things on there. Chiefly opinion, fiction and poetry.

2. Also, #30DaysOfHope shall be holding there all of January 2015. Interesting tale about that. I began that project 3yrs ago after receiving inspiration from this very challenge I’m undergoing now. Where this challenge involves reflecting upon the ending year, 30 Days of Hope challenges guests to pen down their hopes, goals, dreams and aspirations for the blossoming year.

You’re invited to learn more about #3oDaysOfHope and sign up for a slot here

Unapologetic

A month ago, I posted an entry in my ‘Everyday in October’ challenge and it turned out to be the last. It wasn’t even something I wrote. It was @AfroVII’s rejoinder to my ‘Story for the gods’ piece (which was the last piece I wrote here. Sigh). I learnt a lot from the comments and rejoinders to that post. Got educated in the societal context with which Olamide wrote it.

Cool story sha.

I’m not remorseful about falling off with my daily blogging challenge. Things at work got crazy intense towards the end of last month and even though I had seen it coming, I’d envisaged being able to still somehow manage… I couldn’t. That just sounds like a bit fat excuse, doesn’t it? Hehe. And that’s not even the ‘reason’ why I’m unapologetic.

I’m unapologetic because I posted 26 posts in October. There were 31 days in that month. 26 out of 31 seems pretty darned good to me. It’s clearly not the best. Very very clearly sef. But, it’s pretty impressive coming from me, considering my… err… Tendencies. So as far as I’m concerned, I tried. No apologies :p

* * * *

In the next post, a big ass announcement. Brace yourself 😉

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.

Not Just Another Ramble

Because I don’t know what to write and many things are popping all over my head.

Yesterday was #NoHornDay and I’m proud to say I managed to honked my car horn only once all day. Just one tiny little tap which came out of nowhere before I could stop it. But it’s fine though. I said what I think about the #NoHornDay initiative in the previous post which you can read here.

Ooh, I just had an idea what to do with this post. Yeah, I was serious when I said I didn’t know what to write. I’m just going to freestyle the whole thing through. You’ll see what my idea was as I go along.

Today is the 16th day of October, meaning it’s the midpoint of the month. This is the 14th post I’m putting up in this ‘blog everyday this month’ challenge I’m doing. If you do the math, that means I’ve missed out on one day/post. Not cool. Technically, this is yesterday’s post, I plan to post another before the day is done. I’ll make up for the one I missed with two in November 🙂

Before the #NoHornDay post, I reblogged Super Woman, a story I wrote and illustrated not too long ago for Art Stories on TheNakedConvos. That’s something I’m going to be doing now and then going forward, reblogging some of my favorite Art Stories. This way, loyal Nostalgians who don’t frequent TNC get to read them and enjoy the art.

Before Super Woman, I told a mildly mirthful tale of how and when I first met MoCheddah. She’s a doll.

Before that, on Day 10, I shared A Quote I wrote which is the probably the shortest post I’ve ever put up on this blog. I wonder if I will be forced to surpass that brevity before the month is over. Yes, I know ‘surpass’ is used wrongly there. Call it poetic justice. Bite me.

Interesting, but what inspired that oh-so-deep quote was the same thing that formed the subject matter of the two previous posts: The Linda Ikeji/Intellectual property/Copyright debate. Over the previous weekend, there’d been a lot of drama over Linda’s copyright theft of one MrAyeDee (looking back, this might all just have been one huge publicity stunt), which culminated in her blog being temporarily shut down, allegedly by Google. I wrote first about what I felt about the whole drama, focusing on the Intellectual Property/Copyright debate and then about the reality of Cybersquatting, something MrAyeDee has been accused of doing.

Now, I find myself in the predicament I was in at the beginning of this post a little too often. Where I’m saddled with the obligation to write a piece and have nothing to write. Several times when I’ve found myself in that position, I simply write up something about not being able to write, killing two birds with one stone. That was the situation I found myself in on Day 7 and that was the solution I came up with when I wrote a small ramble between 11pm and midnight.

The long weekend of two weeks ago saw me on the road. I took a road trip with old, new and not-so-new friends across several states in south-western Nigeria. Many adventures. The three posts I put up over those days were road inspired. This one was about the toll the journey was taking on my body, this one was about the terrible state of the roads and this one was a little fiction I came up with inspired by a small moment we experienced on the way back.

The night before that trip began, I’d written another piece of fiction inspired by real experiences. I’ve done a little bit of event photography and something I bet annoys ALL photographers who cover events was documented in that tale.

The day this challenge really took off was the 2nd day of October. I reblogged the first Art Story I ever posted on TNC. A touching tale, if I do say so myself, which dealt with the issues of tribalism, age difference in marriage and judging books by covers.

On the first day, I spontaneously decided to embark on this challenge. Probably the second shortest blog post here.

So there you have it. If you didn’t realize yet, this was a recap of the challenge so far. If you look close, you’ll see that there are links to all the posts, so you can click to whichever may have piqued your interest.

Please enjoy 🙂

Honk Your Horn For Practicality

image

Today, October 15th, is Lagos Horn Free Day and from the title of this post, I bet you think you already know where I stand on the subject. Walk with me.

I love scenarios. They make it harder to argue against sensible points and make bad points more apparent. Now, let’s paint a few scenarios:

You live in one of those nice, enclosed estates where the street lights (which somehow exist in the first place) still work and where, on a quarterly basis, they harass all residents for estate dues as they drive out of the estate gate in the morning. Like many people in Lagos, you leave your house really early in the morning, before the sun even comes up. As you drive down one empty, well lit street, you come across reverse lights. They are backing out of the open gates to a residence, right towards your car. You can see the head of the young lady in the driver’s seat swinging this way and that to use her rear mirrors but you can also tell that she somehow hasn’t spotted you. You have only a split second to alert her… and you begin flashing your headlights at her, even though you know the eager street light overhead has swallowed them. She runs into you. It’s Lagos Horn Free Day, so you didn’t honk for her.

Another scenario:

You hit the highway and you’re gunning up one of the numerous bridges when you hit a little ‘hold up’. After years of living and working in Las Gidi, you know now that every second counts and the smallest pocket of traffic could be the one responsible for making you late. You’re growing impatient. You take a peek around the avensus in front of you at the road in front of the danfo further up front to see if you can perhaps spot the reason for the traffic and… Behold, the road is free, bereft of vehicular or human traffic. The danfo is picking up passengers and is neatly parked on the road so no one can pass till it’s done. The avensus in front of you won’t toot his horn to let the danfo driver, his conductor and their passengers know that this is utter madness. You won’t toot yours to let the avensus know you agree. The passat behind you can’t honk to agree with something you haven’t expressed. No one presses their horn because it’s Lagos Horn Free Day.

Final scenario:

You arrive home late from work, tired. You point your car at your gate and pause for a moment debating what to do next. Typically, you honk and the gateman, who knows the sound of your horn like he knowns his mother’s voice from even a street away, scurries to throw them gates wide open like he’s overjoyed to see you. But today is Lagos Horn Free Day. So you throw your car in reverse and proceed to three-point-park right in front of your destination, so you can go knock on the gate or just open it by yourself. Stress.

And those are my scenarios.

I believe the Lagos Horn Free Day initiative is a laudable cause. It strives to reduce noise pollution in Lagos, which is undoubtedly an issue which needs tackling. I doubt there’s any real research out there but I’m sure if there was, we’d marvel at the amounts of cases of stress disorder, mental illness and depression that are direct results of an abnormally high level of noise pollution here. Something is being done and that is good.

However, I wonder at the practicality of driving in Lagos today without the use of your horn. It is widely known that Lagos roads are a place of pure insanity and a school of thought I wholly subscribe to says “Drive in Lagos like you’re the only sane one on the road”. I believe this is called ‘defensive driving’ – a form of driving which involves a mix of paranoia, unnecessary bravadoccio and frequent useless bouts of road rage. Sigh. Why should there even exist a thing such as defensive or offensive driving? Why? Only in Lagos.

Here’s how I see things… Honking is the severely temporary solution to a problem and has now, sadly, become a problem itself. Lagos Horn Free Day brings awareness to and attempts to tackle the resultant problem, which is all well and good, except that the initial problem hasn’t been effectively tackled yet. If this time, energy, funds, publicity, etc were channelled more towards curbing bad, nay very terrible behaviour in our driving, we would hardly need to drive same resources towards changing the adaptive behaviour we’ve cultivated.

Also, and rather sadly, it’s worthy of note that our best changes in road behaviour have come about as a result of perpetual policing and not mere education aka nicely suggesting. Cases in point are our better use of seat belts, the absence of hawkers and road side traders (in certain locations) and the more steady application of insurance policy. We are a hard headed people and the only way we tend to see reason is when it is enforced upon us. That’s just the hard reality.

I’d honestly hate to see such a good hearted initiative as Lagos Horn Free Day go from educative to enforced, especially if the previous issues haven’t yet been properly addressed (Lastma, I’m looking at you) but I also have to admit that that’s the only way this will become entrenched.

So in conclusion, my stance is: In Lagos, the use of horns is a very necessary evil… but only for now. I’ll try my best to adhere though, so help me God.

What’s your stance?

How The Tables Turn

True story.

____________

I peeped into the main office – the one where all the writers sat – and seeing that Bayo, the editor-in-theif, was not in, I allowed the rest of my body and presence be absorbed into the large room. I needed a break from the designers’ office with its over-efficient AC and endless piles of work and it was a delight to see the tv was on.

It was tuned to Nigezie, a travesty. How could staff of Soundcity Blast Magazine be watching the better rival station right in the office. Such a sacrilege. Such an insult. Such… Bravery. Folk weren’t paying much attention to the screen, so I planted myself right in front of it. Some spanking new music video was showing.

I love music videos. When beautifully done, I see them as high art. Music videos present a chance to tell a story within 3-5mins inspired by a song/music you (usually) had no hand in creating. This presents a challenge because rather than creating this piece of film from scratch, you have to work with a canvas which already has sketches by someone else’s hand on it. If you’re a creative of any kind, you know how much more challenging this is. Then there’s the brevity of the time-frame. The music video director and editor do not have the luxury of hours to introduce the characters, breakdown the plot, present the twist and show the resolution. All these must be done withing a very small time frame. And this is why I marvel at particularly good videos, bacause despite all these odds, they still bring that magic to life.

Apologies for the digression. Where was I? Aha, Nigezie was showing a spanking new video from all these new cats. The song was listed as Knighthouse featuring MI, who was making huge waves with his first 2 or 3 singles at the time; Kel, whose smash hit, Waa Wa Alright was still making waves; and a young girl I’d never seen before. Her name was recorded as Mo Cheddah and I had fallen in love. Or crush. Whatever.

I was so much in it that I proclaimed it to all who were in the office that day. I don’t know what it was or if it was an ‘it’ sef. Had to be everything. Her smile, her looks, her voice, her big nose, her charisma. The effect on me was instant.

Someone who already knew about her was like “Ah. She’s a small girl o. She just entered uni sef. Don’t be a paedophile” or something to that effect. I just shrugged.

Fast forward about 2weeks (or so), I need another break and so I poke my head in the writer’s office and the tv is off, Bayo is in and there’s a bunch of strangers he’s having a meeting with. All the reasons I have to turn around and head back to my office. But no, there’s only one reason I cannot do that: the people Bayo was meeting were the (then) entire Knighthouse. That’s Rogba, Sabre, Othello and… Mo Cheddah.

Oh. My. Gosh! I can’t believe this. This goddess was here! This amazing, gorgeous, talented girl. [Insert scream here] But of course, all that was in my head. I casually strolled into the office to one of the writers spots and casually pretended to be in conversation while I casually flipped through a mag or something and casually cast a glance in her direction.

Our eyes met.

She smiled.

I died.

Of course, I didn’t go back to my office. I hung around until that meeting was done. And while her ‘handlers’ gisted with Bayo and the other writers and stuff, Mo walked over to me. I promise, I was not hyperventilating. Not outwardly anyway.

“Hi, I’m Modupe.”

“I’m Toks.”

“Oh, I know.”

I did a double take.

“Wait, what? How do you know that?”

“Ah ahn, shebi you were in Lag?”

“Yeah?…”

“Creative Arts, shebi? That’s what I’m studying. Just entered year 2. In year 1, I used to see you around in school and I used to scope you from far. Plus I watch Shallow Waters, I’m a big fan.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know how I’m writing this now, because I died and went to heaven that day.

A Small Ramble Between 11pm And Midnight

Tis 11pm and not a soul stirs
But the one who his phone presses
He knows not what he writes
Only that he must
Before the clock strike twelve

Fatigue weighs heavily upon his eyes
Another yawn escapes his lips
He scratches that itch on his leg
For only the umpteenth time

He would rather be doing several other things
Than tapping away on his phone

He feels clammy
His eyelids droop
His head and scalp flake
The effect of a visit to his barber
His imagination begins to roam
To the cool shower which awaits
The chance to finally splash water into the eye
Which has itched all evening long

And again, he is sure he would rather not be typing this

He glances down at the word count
And comes to the realisation
That before he began
He set no target
And so could end up typing only a hundred words
Or perhaps as much as ten times that

He bothers a little bit
About the subject of the post
And whether the readers will relate
But about the bloggers,
And the writers,
He is not concerned
For he knows beyond all doubt
That every writer feels this way sometimes

They would rather be elsewhere
Than here writing, which they love so much

For inspiration is priceless
And has us searching for it
Endlessly, daily,
Seeking its direction
But sometimes,
Much like now,
There will be none
And every writer has had to inspire themselves
By themselves

And so this is him trying
Regardless

He has attained some length
Small as it might be
And with it,
He has acquired some satisfaction
Such that finally
All of a sudden
The things he fantasized about
Are now within reach

Which is why this ends
Oh so abruptly…

Roads Best Laid

The roads in the south-west of Nigeria are all bad. Every single one of them.

I know what you’ll say: you know one really good road somewhere on the road to your house which was recently reconstructed by your progressive governor who should be our next president… but no. If you thought about it for just a little bit, you’d realise the really good roads you know have a few patches of resurfaced tar. Then there are the typical long roads layered with potholes, gravel and pools of water, some of which may just happen to have some smooth road between this round of potholes and the next. And of course, it’s worst on the inter-state highways.

I can’t count how many times we would be rolling down the highway and the driver would have to get OFF the darned road because the sandy embankment was smoother than the road.

Talk about an irony.