Nkechi’s Revenge

Dear Diary,

        Remember the two rats that ravaged my house back then; Chinwetalu (who Jerry killed and his mother called Animal) and Okonkwo (who turned out to be a child-bearing Nkechi)?
Well, Nkechi is back with a vengeance. Hell hath indeed no fury like a widowed female rat scorned and with a deathly appetite for household food and vengeance.
See me here keeping my Agege bread carelessly because I thought to myself “Alas, the breadwinner has been killed, Hence the wife shall retreat and shan’t bother me anymore.”

But alas, I was wrong.
Nkechi returned and ate the entire loaf of N100 Agege bread. She ate it all and left crumbs on the chair, under the chair and in the bathroom. How she did that, I shall never know.
She scattered the contents of my dustbin bag and tore it to shreds. And at sundry times, I see her patrolling round the house.

Dear Diary,

           I am scared. I know how dangerous women are when they’ve had enough. I.e. Tanya Harding, i.e. That little girl that poisoned her husband and his friends at their wedding ceremony in the North, i.e. all the scorned women in the world.

p.s. It rained the day before yesterday and flooded my house and after I’d cleaned it up, Nkechi came strutting in to inspect the house.
p.p.s. She left and returned with a friend.
p.p.p.s. Perhaps she’s already done mourning her late husband. The little tramp. She is already being seen with another suitor.
p.p.p.p.s It rained again today and I’m away at work. I hope I don’t go home to meet disaster.

I hope Nkechi doesn’t attack me in my sleep.

If you’re reading my journal and have any thoughts, please let me hear them. Post your thoughts down below. Thanks.

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My new imitation sunglasses

Dear Diary,

      I am now a proud owner of a pair of Ron Bei sunglasses. They are of course a cheap imitation of the Ray Bans. But really, who wants to spend N5k on a lousy pair of glasses I just might lose in a month…or six?

      My Ron Beis are cheap (courtesy of our brothers in the East…and fake too) and happen to look particularly badass on me. Don’t you agree?

I like sunglasses but I am lousy with them. One time I lost a pair of expensive glasses and almost killed myself!!!
#exaggerated of course.
But that thing pained me Die.

Since then it’s been unapologetically cheap glasses for me. Whoever wants to judge has the green light to do so. When they’re done I will put on my $1.00 Ron Bei sunglasses and with class and walk away.

Embarrassing Butt Falls

HAPPY EASTER Dear Diary,

And to everyone spying on me.

Had a fun ride in a BRT home from church with my friends; Kayito, Ishioma and Akinlowo.

Kayito and I fell on our butts inside the bus.

We were chatting loudly and shouting “HEEYY!!” everytime the driver hit a gallop. And there were many.
He was driving really fast.

As we were approaching Costain, the driver entered one big gallop. Our seats gave way and Kayito landed on his behind.
GBAM!!!!
“JESUS!!!”
“YEEHH!!!!”
All four of us broke into a deep, side-splitting heartfelt laughter. And I of course laughed longer than everyone else. Not at Kayito falling, or screaming JESUS while he did, it was just too damn funny!!
Let’s not forget that this was a full bus, so there were the other passengers who had had enough of our noisemaking and felt our fall was judgement wasn’t enough, they had to add their laughter to our shame. (not that I felt any anyway.)

Reminds me of a time I was buying fruits at Ojuelegba. Behind me was a woman who was cussing the hell out of a banana seller. Next thing I know, she fell IGBAM!! face flat on the ground behind me.
IGBAM!!!!!

I was afraid to laugh at her as it was doing me in my heart to laugh. The scorned banana-selling woman wasn’t even laughing. She was telling the fallen champion sorry.
How would it have looked if I, a bystander, a passerby, and by no means a busy body laughed? It would have looked bad. I had to join in telling her sorry, even though it wasn’t from my heart.
I still have a heart, contrary to popular belief.

Well, Mr Diary. Jesus is risen, Kayito and the abusive-tongued woman have fallen (on their butts and faces respectively). Easter has indeed found expression in my life.

May all your enemies fall on their butts and faces in Jesus’ MIGHTY and POWERFUL NAME!!! AMEN.

p.s. Kayito is a good friend, not an enemy. Just in case you’re asking.
p.p.s. We took a selfie with Akinlowo’s phone but he has blatantly refused to send it to me so I can use it as the picture of this post because he thinks he looks bad. (my phone was dead).

Hot Day, Cranky neighbours and church farts

Dear Diary,
   
          Let me begin by telling you that remarkable things don’t happen everyday, not unless you’re Oprah or Donald Trump or Beyoncé. So I won’t have stuff to tell you everyday.

Having said that, it behooves me to inform you that my neighbours are fighting. Two of the women fought first, then the husband of the darker, fatter woman separated the fight and then turned on the fairer fat woman.
“Woman wey dey tif pant no be better woman” He said.
“Eeehn, I dey tif pant. You wetin you dey tif? You dey carry another man wife dey fuck dey fuck dey fuck!! You no dey shame!! Fucky-fucky!!!”

Fucky-fucky????
I just….can’t…. *faints*

I can’t blame them though. The weather is swelteringly oven-like. The sun is unforgiving. The rain and storm of a few days ago fell a few polls that give us power so we don’t have light…again. To think they just fixed the light only a day before, after the storm of last 2 Sundays did some damage to the poles.

Dear Diary, I have a question about this farting in church thing.

Is it wrong?
What if you have gas and you can’t control it and you are on stage singing or something?
I used to judge people who do that. Then it happened to me. Now I judge myself. Is farting exactly wrong? What if it doesn’t smell? What if it does and you’re really sorry? What if you isolate yourself to fart and that’s when someone decides they want to talk to you all of a sudden, and your fart is beginning to stink?
So many what-ifs about this farting thing shaa.

Logging out.

This is a dead rat

Dear Diary,

This is a dead rat.

(no kidding)

A few experiences I would like to share with you today I have grouped into 3 categories
*The Good
*The Bad
*The Rat

THE GOOD

I got a house!!!! Yaaaay!!! But I won’t jinx it by giving any more detail than I already have.
So there.

Also, remember those vicious rats that have bothered me for such a long time? Well, do you also remember the Word of God that says that (and I paraphrase) “Those filthy rats that you see today, you shall see them no more”?
Mind you, they were two of them, my friend Kayito (please follow him on Twitter @kayitonwokedi) not-so-aptly named Chinwetalu and Okonkwo.
Not-so-aptly because one of them, probably the Okonkwo just gave birth. So except Okonkwo is a male child-bearing homosexual lover of Chinwetalu rat, then I put it to you Kayito that Okonkwo is an Nkechi.

By the way, why did he name those rats Igbo names? (Scratching chin)

Anyway, the good news is that my chivalrous, tall ‘Knight-in-Shiny-Armor neighbor, Jerry (follow him @Bazhead14 who knows what ambominations he can kill for you?) has killed Chinwetalu. He killed the rat single-handedly and courageously!!! Meanwhile, his mother was upstairs heaving down insults on the poor dying rat, “IDIOT!!!” “ANIMAL!!!!”

Ah Ah, Mama calm down, the rat is dead now.

So now Chinwetalu is dead, poor Okonk…..oops, Nkechi is now left all alone to fend for her poor ratlings, or whatever baby rats are called,. I kinda feel bad for her though.

Le Sigh.

THE BAD

Today, God chided me for being stingy and grumpy. I was walking towards the Airport taxi park to take a cab from Ikeja to work. And I passed by a beggar, God told me to give him my cab money and walk to work.

I didn’t.
I passed by the man and kept on walking. God kept calling me back and then I stopped and turned, all the while grumbling in my heart. I didn’t feel like walking to work. And then I gave the man the money, which isn’t very much anyway. The man thanked me very earnestly and then I was pricked in my Spirit. Very pricked.
I felt very bad about my attitude. And I begged God for forgiveness. One should never complain or think twice about trying to make someone else’s day a little brighter considering that we are already so blessed.

And now, a colleague was robbed and I feel no bite giving a little to help…

GOD, forgive me.

THE RAT

Well, haven’t I already talked about the rat? What more do you want to hear?

Oh yeah.

The man sitting beside me in the bus to Ikeja farted on me. Really. He lifted his left side and his behind faced my right hip…
and he farted.
I was reading a book, I looked up at him, his eyes were shifty. He thought I wouldn’t hear the sound or feel the vibration of the seat as he messed. But I did, the seat vibrated. And I didn’t say anything. As a matter of fact I smiled and continued reading my book.

Later on, the bus began to smell like Chinwetalu…in my mind.

The proceedings of the night

Dear Diary,

          I attempted to pull off this look today. But I wasn’t satisfied with the outcome.
No I won’t show you the photo simply because I am angry. On my way home from a meeting and the water below the Eko bridge stinks like a certain sour meal I am thinking of. And also because the picture I have isn’t that good.

Really this smell is affecting my ability to think straight. I need happy thoughts.
Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.

Oh yeah. I co-wrote and was featured in a VJ Adams’ song. My part was small but not too small to pass your ears if you listen. I mean, how could you miss it? I start the damn song!!

Ok it is not a damn song. It is a good song celebrating the Super Eagles and the grand idea and notion and phenomenon of being a champion, a survivor, a hustler, a Nigerian basically.
So it’s me, Yvonne (who?) and Tiwizi the producer-cum-singer-cum-guy who works on my nerves everytime. seriously he is an amazing producer You may or may not know him from that Bez’s Stupid Song video as the guy in a black suit that was dancing like a “what’s that name for people who run mad at moonlit nights?” AHA!!! Lunatic

So download it and enjoy.

http://old.hulkshare.com/dl/f7u84ve8zbi8/champion.mp3?d=1

It has just come to my notice that it’s Akan’s birthday?
          Who?
Akan!!
                  Who again?

My friend!!!! The boss. The don!!!!!

Ooooooohhhhhh!!!

And I didn’t wish him Happy Birthday. I wonder how I would have known, seeing as he didn’t tell me before time and I am not witches and wizards and mammy water spirits. Now he is forming vex for me. Mmsschewwwwwwww.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY AKAN!!!!

I’ve gotten to Costain, my bus stop. Can’t wait to get off. These yoruba men in the bus have been arguing since I got in at Lekki

I just can’t.

Spitting is Gross!!!!

Dear Diary,
The Lord has laid it on my heart to talk about either of two evils.
1. Spitting in public
2. Mariah Carey.

Which would I talk about?
*scratching chin*

Spitting is definitely the greater evil.
Do people know how deeply gross that is?
N25k says they don’t.
I was walking on my own o. One woman was coming towards me, next thing she snorted up all the thick mucus from the depths of her lungs or wherever that filth is produced and spat in right on the patch of ground I was supposed to step on.
And it was too late for my brain to issue an abort mission on the inevitable stepping down of my right foot.
It was like my life flashed before my eyes soooooooooooo sloooooooowly and yet so quickly. I stepped on the woman’s thick yellowish-green catarrh. Automatically I yelled “Uuuurgh!!!! What the hell is wrong with you??”

Mind you, this lady was old enough to be my mother’s big sister. (Ewwww, if my mother spat like that, I would run away from home)
I threw respect to the wind and yelled at the woman for a good minute. And she said “sorry sir”.
I almost felt bad. As a matter of fact, I felt bad for a millionth of a second. But then my brain decided to work quickly and dispel any iota of remorse. I wished it had worked just as quickly to abort the “step on the lung poop” move my right leg just made. Here I was, a dandy finly-dressed 25 year old yelling at a much older lad…….woman for spitting, not on me, but on the ground I was about to step on.

What is the moral lesson of this poetic recitation?
1. Spitting is GROSS!!!!
2. People who don’t spit don’t die. Your body is a haven of all sorts of filth, bile, enzymes, urine, poop….and you ain’t dead yet from harbouring all of that. So please Do us all a favour and swallow your ngwo-ngwo and do not desecrate our streets with it.
3. You know how to swallow, right?
4. What was I going to say about Mariah Carey again?

I can’t remember. All this talk of spit and I can’t think straight.

(p.s. If you view and like this post, do a brother some good and leave a comment, it don’t take 2 minutes….maybe 5 if your internet is bad, no more.)

Self-loathing.

Dear Diary,

           I’m afraid to look in the mirror and see all the flaws that make me me. I hate to feel the burden and shame of my insecurities. Sometimes it hurts to hear ‘it’s going to be okay’ when deep down you just know that it’s not. And when I hear my name with all the scorning and shame, I feel bad things I shouldn’t.

This is not the part where I say “LOVE YOURSELF WITH ALL YOUR FLAWS!” or that ‘NOBODY’S PERFECT’ speech I’m not even going to give.
This is from a place of real pain and hurt.

I hate me sometimes.

TV tells me that I can be whatever, whoever, even however I want to be, yet it only shows me I must be a certain way.
If it isn’t perfect, skinny, macho or pretty, then you’re no one cause you don’t fit.
Boy, that puts pressure on me.

My mother always did say God never makes mistakes. So can someone then tell me why I still hate that I am this way?

And no, this is not the part where I say “LOVE YOURSELF WITH ALL YOUR FLAWS” or that speech about nobody being perfect, which I’m not about to give. Deep down there’s a pain, from all the scorn and hurt.

I hate me sometimes.

I hate the curve between my knees and feet.
I hate the gap in between my teeth.
I hate the look of my face in the morning.
But sometimes the things that I hate the worst and yet the things that I love the most.
Dear Diary, tell me why.
Why?

Why isn’t this the part where I boldly say “LOVE YOURSELF WITH ALL YOUR FLAWS!!” or give a moving speech about the imperfection that is innate in our humanity?
Why this pain? Why this hurt? Why these insecurities?

Why do I still hate me sometimes?

Sad day for Nigeria

Dear Diary,
          A bomb went off in Nyanya park, Abuja and killed a lot of people. A lot of bombs have been exploding in the North and killing a lot more people.
Nigerians are outraged. As they should well be. It is a sad, sad situation. We’ve taken to our knees in prayer way too many times that we have forgotten that power rests in our own bosoms to effect the change we want to see. Egypt had had it with its dictator leader and it took to the streets to fight for its own liberation from oppression. Early in 2013, the Federal Government removed fuel subsidy thereby making the price of fuel skyrocket, then Nigerians seemed to have had it and protested. After little effort, the Government brought down the price just a little bit and all the brouhaha disappeared. Everyone went back to work with their tails behind their legs. 
Later last year, the Academic Staff of Nigerian Universities embarked on a strike because of the dilapidated state of affairs of the Nigerian tertiary education system and demanded for a fair amount of money from the Government to set certain things right. The Federal Government stalled and both parties went back and forth for over 6 months while students sat at home, pining away in desperation and depression. In the end, only a paltry amount was paid in by the Government and ‘GBAM’, everything died down. I visited a hostel in the University of Calabar campus last month. What I saw in all the toilets made me vomit, literally.

With all the corruption and insecurity looming above our heads and coming down fast on us, we are doing nothing but praying and criticising the Government and we ourselves are doing absolutely nothing to remedy the situation.

In the end, all we will say is “God help Nigeria”

Most Eventful Saturday EVER!!!

Dear Diary,

           Today has been the most eventful Saturday EVER!!!

1. House-hunting.
   I am still on that parole my dear. 
Mr Agent took me to the end of Kilo, to Itire. You haven’t seen hood like that hood. I was scared for my life. Those rats that terrorise me at home were just lying dead all over the dirty streets. Even the children are trained hunters. The place was filthy. EVERYONE ELSE was yoruba (I’m not a ‘tribalism’, please don’t judge me. Try to understand. I would live with all Yoruba folks in Lekki or Ikoyi, not Itire). And my house was at the very end of this street, Karunwi.
I just couldn’t.

2. Crazy ex-girlfriends

I ran into this girl I used to talk to back in University. She was a nut case back in the day; all suicidal, low on herself and what-not. I had talked her through a rough spot in her life and she mistook my kindness for affection. Girl started writing me love letters and what-not, but I had to set her straight, I was liking someone else…who happened to be her friend.

Girl was not having it.

she just couldn’t!!!

When I started dating her friend, she took to her Facebook wall and started pouring out all her angst. Called her all the nastiest names you could ever think up. And yes she shut me out, and we’d practically been incommunicado.

Till now.

She wasn’t with her phone so she asked me to get her number (thank God).
I ain’t gon’ call her.

I just can’t.

3. After walking all around Surulere’s thickest hood to find house and an episode with crazy big chest sister, I sure was thirsty, sweating like a whore in church. So I go to buy a drink. The guy doesn’t have change so I have to buy a 1.5 litre bottle of Fanta. There is no way in God’s earth I’m gonna finish that. But mere holding it, I got preached to, scolded, stared at and ‘yimu’d’ by all the people on my way from Kilo junction to my house. People kept asking me “you wan die?” “Do you know diabetes is real?” “God will punish your greed!!” and so on and so forth. It was all really funny. Even census market came to a standstill to watch me straw my Fanta from such a humongous bottle.
Mind you, I hadn’t even gone near half of the bottle and all this negativity I attracted.

I just couldn’t.

4. I decide to go shop for denim. My only pair tore in an unholy place and I need a pair to wear to stand before God’s people and belt out notes to the glory of His name. Hence I decided to go to Yaba to buy jeans. I tag along with my dear friend @kayitonwokedi. We reach the market and the real day begins. We are grabbed in every conceivable part of our body by all the traders hawking their goods. We go to a shop and all the men troop in to sell us their different jeans. They called us ashawo boys.

And once again, I just simply couldn’t!!
Apparently, ashawo boy is a term they use for someone they perceive as fine, fashionable or whatever they think is good. Not the actual meaning of the word you are thinking of.
I kept saying NO to every wash of denim they brought. They were over-the-top, skinny and just plain tacky. We sat there for hours before we were able to find good straight-cut jeans that fit and didn’t look gay as a fruit basket on Christmas morning.
Those men will say or do anything to sell their market. They will stroke your ego by any means possible and in some extreme cases, stroke certain parts of the body. But my God whom I serve did not let me be violated once more after that conductor did that thing I’d love to forget to me.
Yaba market jeans sellers.
I just can’t.

So I am now a proud owner of a pair of ‘Tagman’ jeans. Ever heard of Tagman?
Didn’t think so.
That’s why I am unique.

And that’s why right now, you just can’t.