Posted in controversial


Sometimes the screams replaying in our minds are deaf-threatening; they are lasting pangs giving cues of impossibility surviving every affliction they bring. Maybe when it hurts, the best defence mechanism is a robust rejoices in the echoes of vile mentality and pledging not to show people your tears, your scars, give up your pride, your…you name it. I chanced on something. The picture was blurry last night for reasons suggesting a soaked or leaked eyes leaving the object in so much vagueness – apparently, no limpidity means I chanced on nothing. But this myopic black ink prefers to glow through the foyer of uncertainties with white hopes to scale through black broken bottles, nurse red wounds. Though no longer a believer of the Black’s curse – the obloquium celebrated like religion or rite by my race ever unburdened by genius.

Blood, what is the biggest question you have faced that threw you into a sequence of non-amusing thoughts? Could it have been the fears of not making material gain in this vain life or just the very lethal question of what is the point? Fam, I just have it dawning on me that homecoming will have me not have you sitting at one of the sofas in my parlour telling me about your ordeals and the vain chase of your future goals. Sometimes I want to stretch a LOL but there is ever cause to reverence James 4:10 despite the silly thoughts of a really broad way of looking at Gal 3:28. I mean, it just seems as though man surrendered their commonweal to a monarch who of course cannot be blamed but thanked even when evil descends on his territorial sovereignty. We are permitted to be angry but not to sin; we are welcome to shed tears (Joel 1:19) for reasons appealing to our individual musings. The monarch is not dead but if he slept after creation, any possibility he encountered one sweet nap while one hustler got slain like a Christmas cock presented before flames like a sweet smelling savour? Can I say rest in peace to a missing body? All I see is ashes. “Nations rising against nations” may just have meant one pauper putting forceful determination of the heart of another boy known by the street – the farce of distributive justice; maybe Aurelius Augustine’s concept of ‘miserable life’ was to the exclusion of the rich, and the error in his assumption of the affluent being possibly encumbered by a mental illness is to the effect that we all are not entirely sane.

So when lil beezy turned 16, he would find solace in the stars – I know Blood, yours may have been some other firmament, your mirror, or the few dollar notes you get from due diligence on your laptop. What is the point? We do not wish to believe that life is run by a dictator drunk by his excess powers and playing us like puns to the mouth of the ravenous queen. Why? The “WE” must be distinguished to shelter the rich and accommodate the indigent. Only the indigent, most times, considers it as food for thought to flashback at their birth and how they cried as babes for different reasons. Many will wear indigence as cloak and that they slumbered and woke no more after one grog too many, is a typical chance on nothing – the Black population needs some purge, population census is becoming herculean. Few blokes will rise above the waters, they will be careful not to tilt at windmills – will they not say that life was initially unfair to them until they took it as an opportunity not an obligation? Will they now pretend that there is no trunk load of beauty in the hustle? Even the rich admire and envy those sweats of the indigent who rose.

Once upon a time, a man must need peace of mind. He will do everything to quell his demons birthed from ancient strings of harp. He will want to be loved and if he is a believer, he will call God his song – but once disillusioned, he will chase the dreamy lilies originally created by his Maker to satisfy his inner conflicts, inner desires, the urges of his phallus (simply, a companionship; the maze of a woman, the detailed rubric, “the necessary evil”).

I chanced on someone; I chanced on nothing…I chanced on nothing, I chanced on someone. Let me pretend Blood not to drag the LOL when you say a quick swallow of chill pills as due relievers are but signs of weakness. There is only need to concur with the definition of “something” if it includes the scribbles ‘something is to chance on someone who leaves no concrete chemistry burning in your bloodstreams and teaching no prospective lessons upon a withdrawal; thus, to chance at nothing’. Feelings are like brown stains on white panties; they are pellucid and could be polygamous in number. I pledged days to the star bottle with wished-for vegetables, and the mockers of my subconscious whispered to my inebriated self, the nothingness so much cuddled by various interpretations of the concept of love by diverse paramours, gigolos, hookers, broken-hearted, hen-hearted, gay, virtuous, and the free-thinkers. Of truth, not all throw caution out to the wind. The serial lovers chose impression and the broken-hearted snuggled the concept of expression. So what happens when two blokes chase a dreamy signora embracing the latter concept, expression, and one is easy on the eyes of the res (the dreamy damsel) on grounds of preference and supposed convenience, what becomes of the paramour whose deepness in expressions were rejected like Cain’s burnt offering? I suggest he applies spirit on his wounds and go for a booze – love is a game; good boys do not make history (if he was the innocuous of the two), they re-write them but at such inopportune time like a second life in the promised paradise.

 Forget the hurts, they are most times the ripple effects of so much cognition; if led by whatever demon to persist and crash the more, it is still nothing. I know, love is warped – everything is. I can only hope to remain light-headed – I even look good with my dreamy eyes.



Posted in poetry


I thought my words were like emollient in your heart,

An arrester of your heart’s hubbubs,

The cream paints on your blank walls.

I thought your bland smile was proof my message had a soul

My confessions flowed like cascade,

I may have felt you saw my cues from the every tossing of your head

With your tress thrown back.

Vixen O my bobby-dazzler! Please don’t let you go.

If you go, I just may perish

Let me die a jailbird in your warm arms

Passion and deep passion of you remain my vices

To say I don’t cherish this kismet would be lies.

But you still loved another

My words came alive but you were dead to the letter

The walls whisper you mourn my tears with locked lips in your lover’s

My heart shreds to crumbs; I hear ravenous dogs now eat them.

Mr Obeezy

Posted in love, Uncategorized


I separate my head from hands and fix my heart on my letter. I listen to my heart’s troubles, fancies, fantasies, weaknesses, and issues. How I have admired my bandy legs for having my height limited like a data plan. I reflect at a height close to the earth in terms of distance, I see the creeping things that the tall man wouldn’t. A lot of heat from the ground leaving the superstition that a curse of the black man has come, remains as an untruth; except the curse hurls into the air at a distance favourable to the tall man’s nostrils. I do not pretend that the ground does not reek of overdue wastes but my intuitions are telling me that there is still hope. The mental picture that clouds me at wee hours remain a revelation where the air is fouled with retrogression that the entire black community spit on the ground – many spitting on the sewage, others trading fists when someone else’s spit reaches their foot. One blame on another; recent events, all blames on our black existence.

My country has accommodated me for two decades and more – some since civil war, some in thirties, a large chunk before her independence. I LIKE TO THINK that where I hail from promises the sweetest things life can offer continents of the world. Inasmuch as hypocrisy, corruption, a splintered system, and poor orientation cripples my fatherland; the pyramid of good hearts, smart and beautiful people that I see and keep leaves me daydreaming. Mitchel said the black brain can’t be toiled with i disagree manchi! and there is ever truths in it as world records have proved that already. I told my small circle that we suffer lack of visionaries. Oh easy to say! Mr possible could not have been wrong to say that what belies us is an influence of a mammoth juju. But where we choose to live by the words the past is history, tomorrow is mystery, then 2018 may work if we have a credo that given the scars our country endures, our image remains in ruins individually. Hence, we could speak into the coming year; work on self-development to avoid being like the vapid victims of hey bro you came out too early!

We are where we are because our leaders are filthy! – Why say things like this if there is no intention to pick a problem identified and seek solutions? “The young shall grow” is for 2017, “the old can relax” is next level. I see a sumptuous 2018 where the black youths stand up for something, remember the struggles  of our forefathers, and revamp the society with voices and action. Being indigent does not necessarily mean your brain is not sophisticated; it is not our fault we are poor by default, but it will be if we do not change the status quo. HOW? is what should linger in our hearts. I saw the feed challenge and more – it tells some people have found how in their little way. I told Favour about the relevance of a visionary – ideas are found in books and we can start next year by proving those who said a black man never reads, wrong. WE CAN’T LEAD WHEN WE DON’T READ – oh of course I am taking notes from my few words.
Poco-a-poco it is. As Possible aired, if you cannot fly, run. If you cannot run, just keep walking. Whichever way, keep moving. It only gets better. I pray it gets better next year for us all. Primary priorities should be productivity and not a hungry pursuit over public attention.If we live in a mask one time too many, we never know what our face looks like — a priority of self discovery pays better than heaping faults on a brother’s head. Tonight should be a reflection from January; are we happy with ourselves? Nigeria needs clean hands and bright heads to make her the true giant of Africa. A dead child is better than a lost child because the heart remains in uncertainty as to the missing child’s whereabouts. But there is always joy in a mother when she finds her lost child. The burden is on us. A food for me; share in my thoughts.


Posted in #law, controversial


“I submit that an individual who breaks a law  that conscience tells him is unjust, and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law.”

                    —   MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.

There is always that appointed time when rules should be challenged. In the event that the rules birth injustice, then the best way to militate against such extant legislation is by civil disobedience. If there is one scribble worth penning, it remains the applauding activism of a moslem – Amasa Firdaus. It is no longer news that Firdaus, a law graduate from the University of Ilorin, was denied entry into the International Conference Centre situate at Abuja on the 13th day of December. The event was one that law students crave to witness as it is their call to bar ceremony – without which they would at no cost be addressed as lawyers. She wore her Hijab as against the rules and refused to take it off; she went against the body of benchers that Wednesday. The bitter truth is that she did not err. Ratiocinations infra will give reasons why.

This writer is not unaware of the fact that the legal Practitioners Act provided for the Body of Benchers; and that this body has provided the code of conduct for law school, is not strange music to the ear of this writer. A close perusal of the Code of Conduct, however, seems to be silent on what a law student is expected to wear during the ceremony. Arguments that convention could suffice is not one this writer has a grouse with. But in the event that an age-long convention kicks the scrotum of the grund norm, then we need only commonsense to understand the urgent need to stop the kicks before it becomes a matter of orchiectomy. Arguments in favour of the Body of Benchers have flown up in the air like the green witch with her mop stick, and having gulped the creaminess of their arguments, there had been due cause to sick out all of it because it is malapropos to devour the succulent orange and chew its green clothing. So the question remains, what age long convention deserved no kneels? A convention that says muslims should not wear Hijab on their call to bar ceremony suffers any good reason. Many based arguments on Section 10 CFRN, 1999 and this writer has cried a million times.

Section 10 CFRN, 1999 provides that “the Government of the Federation or of a state shall not adopt any religion as state religion.” How this proviso becomes necessary to her struggle is amazing. Whether her act was for the struggle to Islamize Nigeria is not one that can be intelligibly confirmed as accurate. It is far-reaching to arrive at such conclusion even, as we would need to first become gifted with the vision of Teresias or experts at phrenology. If arguments having the above section were raised to appreciate a singular reason that the legal profession is not a slave to any religion being that it is secular, then it should be stressed that such a position is not novel. What becomes novel is tying it to the Hijab controversy. Is it to be believed that the convention that muslims wear no Hijab to their call to bar ceremony is to reflect secularity of the noble profession? Whoever thought of such ludicrous pooh pooh idea may have read the Constitution with a bleary eye to have skipped Section 38 CFRN, 1999. Before throwing my legs into the haven the latter section promises, it is not unnecessary to say that the conventional tradition should not be given safe landing into 2018 for few reasons: 1. If the law allows for female moslems to wear Hijab to law lectures at tertiary institutions, law school, dinners, then on what premise should the Hijab not be worn on their ceremony day? 2. Since female moslem lawyers wear Hijabs to court after their call to bar ceremony, there is logically no sense in depriving same moslems from wearing same during their ceremony day.

It has become necessary to have the black prints of section 38 (1) cfrn, 1999. It has that “Every person shall be entitled to freedom of thought, conscience and religion, including freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom (either alone or in community with others, and in public or in private) to manifest and propagate his religion or belief in worship, teaching, practice and observance.” This writer does not feign ignorance at the popular saying that all rights are not absolute – its qualification will be turned to in other paragraphs. If we are to marry the action of Amasa Firdaus to the wording of the section (supra), we may have to nod approvingly when said that her refusal to take off her Hijab was for no other reason than her devoutness to the Nigerian Constitution and the Holy Quran. The constitution said in section 10 that Nigeria shall remain a secular state and because it recognizes the diverse religions in Nigeria, it safeguards their existence to avoid extinction of beliefs of Nigerian people. A thorough reading of the above proviso shows that the constitution allows for freedom of religion, freedom to practice same in public places, freedom to manifest and propagate religion, right to observe it. What this means is that a Christian is free to practice Christianity, and a moslem is free to do same. In public places include universities, law school, market places, and malls, social gatherings, to mention a few.

It may not be known to many but the muslim faith is such that a female muslim who is a believer should not display her beauty and ornaments except in the presence of her parents, husband, children, fellow women in the faith, family, slaves whom their right hand possesses. This is the summary of the 30th and 31st verse of the 24th chapter of the Holy Quran. Why it is to be observed diligently is because the veil is a symbol of dressing modestly as was expressly stressed in the same chapter of the Holy Quran. Why it cannot be departed from is because the prayer offered at the completion of the recitation of the Holy Quran is one that each muslim lives by or aims to live by. It provides as follows:

“O Allah have mercy on me with (the blessings) of the Great Qur’an. Make it for me a Model, Light, Guidance and Mercy. O my Allah remind me whatever I have forgotten of it and teach me what I do not know of it. Grant me its recitation in the watches of the night and in the hours of day. O lord of the worlds make it an Authority for me for my benefit. Amen.”

The ending lines of the prayer has the word ‘authority’ ,hence the reason why a veil cannot be done away with except for reasons that will be highlighted later on. It will matter to drop two decided cases that favours the Hijab controversy – in as much as the cases were not dwelling on the conventional attire for the bar ceremony, its holding covers the field nonetheless. The unreported case of THE PROVOST, KWARA STATE COLLEGE OF EDUCATION, ILORIN&2 ORS V. BASHIRAT SALIU, only serves as a troubleshooter to every verbal ruckus as far as a veil is concerned. According to Massoud Abdul Rahman Oredola JCA, in the case supra, “The right of the respondents to wear their HIJAB veil within the school campus and INDEED ANYWHERE else is adequately protected under our laws. Human rights recognizes [sic] and protects religious rights. S.38 of the 1999 CFRN guaranteed freedom of religion to all and sundry. Thus things that lawfully constitute OPEN MANIFESTATION, PROPAGATION, WORSHIP, TEACHING, PRACTICE and OBSERVANCE of the said religion are equally and by extension similarly guaranteed and protected by the Constitution. Indeed the Hijab, Niqab or Burqa, being part of Islamic code of dressing and by whatever standard a dignified or vividly decent one cannot be taken away by any other than the constitution.” This case supports what has been said in the above paragraphs. A case that adopted the ruling above was Sheikh Oyinwola & ors v. The Gov of Osun State.

Having agreed that Section 38(1) has its qualifications, it is good the part of the constitution that so limits the right of religion be underscored. Reading Section 45(1)(a)&(b)cfrn, 1999, it will be gleaned from its wordings that “Nothing in sections 37, 38, 39, 40 and 41 of the constitution shall invalidate any law that is reasonably justifiable in a democratic society – (a) in the interest of defence, public safety, public order, public morality or public health; or (b) for the purpose of protecting the rights and freedom of other persons.” What must not be done is to commence the reading of this section with the aim of stopping at reasonably justifiable in a democratic society since what follows it stands as the yardstick upon which the justifiability should be tested – in other words, a & b shows specificity of the constitution. Where veil was not allowed temporarily in the country was during the high rise of the Boko Haram insurgency where the insurgents wrapped their ugly heads around a black scarf to perpetrate dark-hearted crimes – this is a typical example of interest of defence. The wearing of veil signifies modesty and as such does not offend public morality which preaches decency; it also does not offend public order which preaches moderation. Until we start seeing or hearing of the necessity for muslims to give up on the wearing of HIJAB because of health concerns, the right to wearing veils by moslem sisters is well within the law and cannot be broken by a convention that was inspired by legal superstition and excessive symbolism unknown to first world countries. Submitted therefore is that this section does not throw stones at the tinted glass of moslems wearing a black scarf.

Arguments that have entered many nostrils which obviously reek of spoilt stew are that if reverend sisters can do away with their white veil and attend the ceremony, Amasa Firdaus has no claim. Some have gone as far as duplicating banters that if Hijab will be allowed then traditional worshippers should dress in their regalia to the ceremony. These arguments are faulty to the extent that it hangs in one corner arousing a religious war that was most definitely not envisaged by Amasa Firdaus. This writer is not oblivious of the fact that nuns wear veil as a symbol of consecration to God and as a reflection of being abstemious. This writer is not also unaware of the truth that many churches have given up on hair covering as some reasoned that ‘a spiritual shift’ occurred. As Femi once said, “you cannot force your opinion down my throat”, it needs be meteorically watered here that the Faith of the nuns is sacral and ever respected, and so is the Moslem Faith – by implication, none of these faiths can be used as a measuring tube for either of them or any other religion in Nigeria. That said, it should be penned also that those arguing for traditional religions should please go ahead to bring authorities that imprints attires ‘they’ are to wear publicly, everywhere and anywhere. Firdaus Amasa’s action merely challenged a rule that did not sink well with her religion; it does not mean she expects Islam to be superior to all others; rather she wants that the constitution be complied with – this does not affect the secularity of the law. For the love of knowledge, the stats of 2016 records that 0.8% form people of other religion in Nigeria which makes it inconsequential if placed side by side with the 47.3% practitioners of Islam, the 30% protestants, 10.0% Catholics, unspecified Christians of 10.8%, and 0.5% other Christians. Idol worshippers are fast becoming Islamized or birthed into Christendom; some others that find it difficult to adjust to Islam and Christianity embraces paganism – if the mental picture drawn here as regards other religion appear as jargons, then treat as by the way.

The spate occurrence that has witnessed Nigeria drink from the copy and paste bowl of the British is one tightly glued to a rigid and familiar love-hate admiration of ancient thralldom. We have virtually embraced every aspect of the British legal orientation like faithful sheep eager to feed from the accommodating palms of a shepherd. On the matter of dress code, Rule 6(b) of the Rule of Professional Conduct for the legal profession here in Nigeria provides inter alia that while the court is in session, a lawyer should not assume an undignified posture and should not remove his wig without the judge’s permission – this is to avoid unnecessary attention to oneself. It is no news that we swallowed as pills the manner of dressing used in England and though this writer is not against a wig and gown, does it not trouble a sane mind that even founders of the age-long practice are giving up on it and allowing the wig and gown only in criminal cases – the reason is fair, the lawyers choose to maintain an unidentifiable identity during top profile criminal cases. Now, the Nigerian Law School Code of Conduct provided for dress code only during the stay in Law School. It did not provide for penalties when dress codes are not met yet Firdaus Amasa was given a kick too hard at the discretion of body of benchers not eager to hear her twists and resolutions. She wore her Hijab and had a wig on her head. It remains two thoughts, are conventions older and weightier than provisions of the constitution? Or are Hijabs too filthy on such a ceremony?

The second question is easy to answer. Of course it knows no filth except unwashed for months – still, this is no yardstick to continue in such convention limpidly lacking merit. To the former question, we keep being choked with cold belabour that rules are rules. Who says rules are not meant to be broken. Intelligibly, she resorted to the constitution and made a valid claim. The grund norm beats any other legislation, talk less of a worn-out convention in need of grease, and as such that convention must lick the sacral feet of the law of our land vide Sections 1(3) cfrn which has that a law inconsistent with the constitution shall be null and void to the level of its inconsistency.

This is not a time to becloud our heads with sentiments. This is not a time to begin to trade religious insults as this remains a struggle for justice and not supremacy of a religion. Firdaus broke no law, she civilly disobeyed and we now water down her intrepidity equating her status to a raca or an unwise youth. She spoke the bitter truth; the body of benchers did not listen.







Posted in #law


It is no news that the air is fouled. As a matter of fact, the foul in the air is attributed to many agents of duskiness. I write to you because you have thankfully been discovered as one of the agents injecting the space with supernumeraries of sins; if today you will receive your miracle, do not forget to testify in your place of worship, and lex vobiscum (may the law be with you).

First and foremost, I must have you reminded that the gentle tone of this letter should not be equated to hush tones or read with bleary eyes – the reason cannot be overemphasized. Having mapped out the exact biome your contagious iniquity resides, it took the grace of God to adopt the etiquettes of a Pharaoh and the tailoring of my ink to discard insulting or bilious commentaries.

Trending today is how teachers remain unpaid, or frustratingly paid a lesser sum initially bargained or a salary legally verboten. I do not pretend to be unaware of the fact that your hands are clean as regards the latter which deals with the legally prescribed floor price any worker should be entitled to (vide Sections 1&3 of the National Minimum Wage Act which frowns at wages below N5, 500 being paid to any worker). But you would agree with me that from the doormat of your home, what reeks forth is the unrepentant delay in paying many of your staff. 

Mr Director, you boast of a very big school in Abuja – particularly, Asokoro. Your school accommodates students and pupils (even Special Needs students); your school fees vary from N430, 000 to other gigantic figures per term. No, I refuse to soak down the pith of plenty that I am against how you bill these rich parents – hence; I do not belittle your standard. What is as the throbbing core is that since last year, you have regularized not the payment of staff. Last year, although you ended up paying every teacher, it had them go one or two months without a penny – this, owing to your promises, delays, and more promises. But this year, the blotches of your iniquity have mixed with treachery. Without omitting even, the wails and laments of the school cleaners of your big school have their tears littered around the earth. The reason being that you have not paid them for “who knows how many months or years.” It is to these sins I assay reasonably and with all due respect.

From gathered facts, a vast majority of teachers at both primary and secondary level got paid for six months i.e. teachers received salary for the first three months of this year, and received salary again for the ninth, tenth and eleventh month of this year. My concern is that you collect a fee so large from the men of means but consider it a big problem to pay up what you owe. It is shameful that private schools are set up every now and then with very attractive designs and appealing mottos but many prefers to use labourers like the slaves of ancient Egypt. The reward of labour is wages. Yet you now let the hardwork of all your teachers become insignificant, and make their every deserved wages come with a belabour of “abeg, abeg” – the Christians amongst them end up giving testimonies whenever their bank account is watered infinitesimally small amidst the drought. This is just disturbing.

These days, I have come to understand that villains enjoy the lamentations of the oppressed. If your refusal to pay salaries for about five months this year is one you choose to term “inadvertent”, then I wonder if you do not only think your workers, slaves; but think them as half-witted living things. The law is curious on your case and it was for abnormalities of this sort that THE LABOUR ACT went ahead to make provisions to govern this discourse. 

The P.T.A meetings spearheaded by your office have brought forth sleepless nights and head-aching expectations; all to abortive ends really. Inasmuch as I do not expressly conclude that you may be senile, I feel it necessary to reproduce Section 1 of the LABOUR ACT, which provides inter alia that the wages of a worker shall on all contracts be made payable in legal tender and not otherwise. The import of this therefore is that after a teacher has fulfilled his/her end of the contract, naira should get to his/her purse. What otherwise portends is that there should be no room for promises in the place of salaries – promises are never a reasonable or plausible money worth for a teacher’s reward after a month’s labour. 

I talked about the irregularities of paying your staff from last year till now. All will agree, hopefully a morsel of your conscience, that it is morally reprehensible for payment of staff to come later than bargained or agreed. The law enforces every moral concern in Section 7(1)(a)(b)(c)&(f) LABOUR ACT. Of interest is Section 7(1)(f) which has that “not later than three months after the beginning of a worker’s period of enjoyment with an employer, the employer shall give to the worker a written statement specifying the rates of wages and methods of calculation thereof and the manner and periodicity of payment of wages”. Having gone through appointment letters, it is unveiled that this proviso was duly complied with and the periodicity of wages, fixed on a monthly basis. The law again considers it an unfair bargain if after the written statement of this sort (supra) has been agreed upon, a fresh written statement is drawn up subsequently to destroy the earlier salary arrangements vide Section 7(6) LABOUR ACT. Good it is that no subsequent null and void written statements were drawn up, so go ahead and fulfil the stipulations in the contract.

Dear Director, it has become legally paramount to imprint the area of the ACT that treats this unrepentant aspect of you not paying up as at when due but preferring to be on their daily prayers and curses. Section 15 LA provides that wages shall become due and payable at the end of each period for which the contract is expressed to subsist, that is to say, daily, weekly, or at such later period as may be agreed upon: provided that, where the period is more than one month, the wages shall become due and payable at intervals not exceeding one month. Distillable from it therefore is the fact that since you agreed a monthly salary with every of your employee, it only sits well with commonsense and due diligence, that you pay all staff at the end of every month. But you have failed woefully in this regard. 

Inasmuch as God will rain a deserved comeuppance on you, the law will not cross her legs on a sofa, and swallow these disturbing smudge you have under your armpit. The teachers can bear the stress of standing and teaching children for hours to make them potential saviours of the retrograding black race. But how can it be understood that they are to embark on a sojourn for five months without water or food. It never speaks well to treat your workers as refuse; teachers deserve to be paid when the salary date is due.

If there is a problem of delayed school fees, it is well within the bounds of business that a change in the salary circle be effected so as to cure losses generally. I do not write to coach you on the best policy to adopt to see that every staff (cleaners inclusive) get their wages — if that was the case, a fee would have been attached as no knowledge is cheap neither free. I write to adjure that inasmuch as God rewards men that ridicules his people, the time of the law is soothingly effective and handy. I will be watching and further reactions stemming from actions and inactions will determine to what level this afoul condition will be so taken. One word at a time, it is up to you to see it indeed makes a difference.



Posted in fiction


Somewhere Far East, a clan was ceded to a blue-eyed seductress after the guillotining of their chief by the same lady. The allegation was strong and the superstition that every blue-eyed lady was a witch, prospered in Mpala. The witches were described to boast of the beauty of a combination of Aphrodite, Hera, and Athene; the rumours that they carried the sigil of the many face gods grew wide and beyond. Their charm was in their eyes. According to the mammoth practice and credo of Mpala, these witches smeared the pith of many chiefs in the East with their alluring voice. The myth and legends I read from the only library in Mpala called the witches, sex sirens habile at dancing on and off the pintle of powerful leaders in the East.

The old scrolls mentioned that Pemphes, the greatest ruler of the East, had used physical lures to tame the last blue-eyed seductress; it mentioned that her charm did not work on him because he was a bastard of the East who drugged his father (the late king) to mount the throne. He became the greatest ruler because despite his truculence, he had driven a blue dagger deep in the stomach of the witch till she chirped like a crow, and lay waste like a stack of red meat. This alone tickled the nine clans and birthed the blue-eye festival for many years.

The festival was almost as big as the red harvest. Some gossipy had that the red harvest was bigger because it fell around the season of reap – “the gods were wise”, as I had always said whenever there was cause to assay reasons for the swell during the red harvest. My brothers loved the blue-eye festival because of its free-spiritedness. Ladies paraded the city unclad covering their eyes with blue chiffon. I watched uninterestedly from one corner when my brothers made advances to those ladies, promising them a royal wedding and mighty princes. Their sugary words were enough to soak the ladies in their own sacral fluids. As the women heard the enticing words, they laughed to the sensual badinages, and were in total glee when blandished to share with my brothers, wine glasses and wild sex. The look on my brothers’ faces always had me giggle till my belly hurts; they would rise from their chambers with swollen faces, their curly hair ruined from too much womenhandling, their breath very distasteful, and there was humour in how long they stayed in the closet vomiting like a pregnant woman. “Can we see father like this now?” they would ask. I swallowed the drums of laughter in me and told them, “excellent! Dad would love to see you now”. It never ended well with father because of how acerbated they made him, yet they foolishly insisted I tell them how smart they looked after wild nights with salacious ladies and strange girls sailing from the North.

A certain month came knocking. The horror in April and the tales of how the mighty Iroko had fallen to the ground to join his forefathers covered the entire East like the blue sky. The native doctors said since the late King had no heir or any worthy bloodline, the most senior of the nine chiefs’ rule the East in the meantime before their god voices who wears the crown. This was how Igolo came to be the ruling clan for many years. But the fear that a blue-eyed witch may resurrect, resurrected because Pemphes had died.

Hundred years later, Mpala remained among the three clans of the East that never experienced a blue-eyed seductress but they overindulged sorely in fear of the unknown. The awoken fear of the clans dwelt even in the heart of the new king, King Jarius. He had a dream one evening, gathered the nine clans, and disclosed his dream to all – the interpreters and clairvoyants were assembled to crack the maze which evinced a boy being swallowed by a black snake with bright blue eyes. They said the seductress would come again at a time unknown in form of a blue-eyed girl possessing the charm of Empusa and parading a tail having a snake head at its tip like Chimera from the legend of Bellerophon at her rear. The seers even said her hands would be aureate like a king’s cup, taking in form a face long and narrow like Cleopatra of Egypt. The seer kept on with every description and followed from his flaming tongue was a claim that the enemy had spies in our midst. He blew out fire from his mouth and called out every male bastard of the nine clans. The king stood akimbo wearing garments of great fear. His silence was so loud that I could hear the trembles in his heart and the jargons his brain struggled to give meaning. He was possibly hoping the boy in his dream was not a sign of his last days.

The bastards totalled thirty-four, me inclusive. I was Chief Mpala’s bastard, weaned by his beloved wife, and had a little feel of royalty in my many imbizo with my father, his legitimate sons, and his courtiers. But that very day of my assembling was one that did not accommodate soft pats; every bastard was held by the pintle and castrated. The blood of our manhood was gathered in a golden colander and not a drop of blood escaped from its holes. A thread ran through our lower body giving our lost part a gash of close semblance with a woman’s vagina. They did this savage act as custom demanded during the hovering of a demonic warfare. We were to watch the nine clans like spirits falling no prey to beguiling words of strange blue-eyed women. I was broken that day. I combated the thoughts of having watched my scrotum pounce on the ground and crushed like spilled raw eggs. I combated the fate my shoulders had signed and worn as signet to its grave. I wept.


Forty-two weeks besieged the East already, and so did loathsome news sidle to every ear of each clan. The king had died of poison, his eyes had turned blue, and his head was carried like fruits by his own hands. The air was fouled and every nose smelt the perfume of a blue-eyed seductress as the decollation was suggestive. Rumours had gone round the nine clans that there was a diabolical forerunner of the ancient witch hence there was the growing need for some of the castrated city-watchers to end their watch on the high walls and join the clan guards in halting the turmoil growing thick like the success tale of a Chinese bamboo.

The following week recorded similar odious news; the heir to the throne had his head rolled out of his body and no mouth told the identity of the killer. The fight for who wields the crown ensued amongst the nine chiefs. Mysterious royal deaths were met with royal holidays and stretchy dirges from mourning mothers. The politics that followed was like the tummy of a wine-obsessed herdsman, its hideous practice spread across the East like a venereal disease. Commoners and courtiers were slain like sheep with dancing weeping blades – their offence was in engaging in one dispute or in assaying reasons why the murdering clan chiefs were incapable of becoming the true king of the East. Many seers took to their heels but the tempestuous waters they journeyed by, swallowed them up before their frail feet witnessed the white sand of the West. Other clairvoyants in the East were paraded naked by the nine chiefs; their heads were for charity to the crows after it was up a spike. The turmoil was in its apogee, the lack of a leader and tussles for which clan rules, reflected in the splintered government.

Two attacks on Mpala had my watch end, and I took to my hills in search of refuge. The lust of the East reeked of greed and animosity – the doom of the scroll was now breathing. “I better throw my legs toward South where my mother lived. But first, I must get to the small house my father erected in my name in Mpala 200kms away from these high walls. I really must go see mother with the necklace she once wore on my neck that she remembers me. I must act fast lest my head be found and severed completely.” I had said to my perturbed self.

Approaching Mpala, I detached myself from the cloak of the watch guard to cause no attention towards myself. My sword remained in its sheath affixed to the leather belt worn firmly on my waist. On my head was a red cap, and covering my tattooed arm was a faded sweatshirt I had worn replacing the cloak. I literally saw people running helter-skelter as though they were chased by something. The transformation in Mpala inundated me, I gasped for air seeing carcasses on the earth with maggots having its great feast all over humans – the rumours of the treacherous turmoil was true and sore. But some news never got to the wall; some news the eyes were ashamed to feed the mouth and mouth, expected not to divulge to the ears.

“Who is it I see, Tika? Behold our bastard brother coming with a sword after hearing our father’s head is up a spike with odour we smell despite the length of the pole of Riotu clan.” Andre said as Tika cackled. I was taken aback at the shallowness of their hearts and the stranger I had become to them. I asked them amidst their giggle, “Can you give me the name of the killer? I want to dismember his head and birch it until its brain’s worms weep for safe exit. I will have Chief Riotu’s tongue drawn out of his piehole and chopped for him to swallow. The baby chicks will chirp piteously at his writhing when I peel off his face with my blade.” Shocked was I at their cackle. Tika babbled something as Andre spoke, laughing so hard that I began to fear he was possessed. “Are you not supposed to be burying your head in shame? You stand here with a gash between your two legs preaching about vengeance. I see you have forgotten that it is verboten for ladies to draw sword. Oh! You still think yourself a man? How dim-witted you have become”. Andre was saying all that before I cut him short asking he saved me the slurs. I walked few kilometres away with a weeping heart handling rejection. There was a loud scream from behind and on turning back; I could see my brothers drop down like they fell under anointing. I ran back to their dead bodies and bleeding eyes, it was a ghastly sight. Strange things indeed were happening.


Whirlwinds everywhere in the East, the unusual occurrences my five senses stomached. The north was known for dryness and the East for its archipelagos, but all that filled my body was dust and the hot air of the sub-Saharan. In bizarre times did the East face. My sweat pore excreted liquid due to my long walk to the house my late father built for me; my sweats bedewed the earth and vanished almost immediately, there was no well to drink from, and my taste bud suggested I bite the flesh of fresh corpses I happened on occasionally. Mpala was splintered. “This is probably the same fate of Riotu. I pray their chief wakes up today in abyss.” It seemed relieving cursing him as it took my mind away from the acridness of dead bodies and the buzzing of overfed flies. 

“Water, water, alas I can drink life into my corpus.” I said faintly. I found the key to the lock used on the tap, unlocked it, and flung its key away with so much desperation like a zombie eager on a kill. Engaging the tap became one of the most horrific moments of my life. Blood flowed out of the tap gently, and on getting to the ground the soil became blue and the withered plants became sweet gales. Sweet gales then turned into creeping things, I could not believe my eyes. I saw my house collapse into a bushy land in dire need of ranching. To have thought that was enough for a ghastly evening, there were voices coming from the ground, “Come home! Come home!” I ran for my life without caring in which direction. 

Just when I thought my end had come. Just when I had cursed myself for being so unfortunate and a limpid obloquy to manhood; just when I could see my wraith walk away from my flesh in tears but thankfully with the lost pride once dominating my lower circumference, my late third leg, I saw a bus driving towards me at breakneck speed. The blue bus parked in front of my lifeless state jamming unfamiliar music unknown to the East. A group of lousy commuters with rascally appearance shouted, “Can someone pick up this fresh meat before familiar birds part with his eyes?” and earbashed loudly about the stories of princesses in the East. They took my sword weighing its cost with their wild eyes, and embarked on fists-fury to determine who keeps the sword. I figured they were jailbirds of the South when two hefty men reeking of cheap liquor pulled me into the bus singing prison songs accustomed to Southerners. They poured water on my face laughing at how I opened my mouth yelping as if a splash of oil had found its way on my arm to cause a pang. I cursed a little but stopped when I could not put up with the heavy slaps and nocent jabs they rained on me like I was the object they could offload their life’s regrets and early shortcomings. I was in a bus filled with hungry savages; I really should have been left to die in the sands than journey back to the hell I ran from, but what did they care?

“But how come they journey to the East? They are not soldiers. Could they just be ignorant set of humans looking for a new place to settle where there were no traces to their criminal records? How did they manage to omit in their grand plan, the important part where the East knew a great curse caused by a blue-eyed witch where the rolling off of heads was the trite occurrence?” I thought inwardly. Night had blinded the drunk driver as the headlights of the bus were faulty. The journey was put on hold for that reason. What troubled the quietness of the night was the babbling and jabs of the Neanderthals amongst themselves. I tried to catch a sleep, before the morrow brought her misfortune, when I heard my name from a mouth – the breath of which was a stone-throw from my bleeding left ear. “Paschal, take me home!” the voice had said. 

The darkness in the bus could blind a man who inexorably widened his eyes to see through the duskiness of the earth. The night permitted only the attentiveness of the ears to connect to a million intercepting sounds. From the cricket sounds to the swear words from drunk lips in the bus at such odd hour, my ears heard all. The voice had come again. From the high walls where only males were companions and foes, to the long sojourn even until my time with the jailbirds, I never lost touch of the voice of a woman. The voice I heard was womanly. She knew my name. My stiffness and silence must have troubled her as she held me by the arm. The grip was firm; I started guessing she was a farm girl or a hunter’s daughter. She said a few more words this time, calmer and alluring. “Who are you, woman?” I managed to ask softly. She retorted that all things would be explained if I took her out of the bus. She said we were riding with the undead and that once the hour mark hits twelve, the skins of the drunks will break and they would grow fangs like sabre-toothed cats. “This repartee of yours is infantile. Can you just help your head with some sleep? I never was a fan of mythical narrations, they bore me.” I had replied harshly. The snoring of the drunken men made my voice unheard. In hushed tone still, she retorted that we would be infected after one bite and become an undead if we failed to run for our dear lives. “The hour is nigh, Paschal.” She said.

I scratched my skin and feared my skin may break soon. I could feel so much fear within me as she kept talking about the undead, my past, and really personal things I never told my brothers – like how I once peed in my nanny’s tea because she spanked me a lot growing up. I then asked her, “How do you know we are soon to midnight? Pardon me; I never really passed the night time sidereal time classes or attend the Big Dipper or Plow lectures.” She giggled slightly and mocked me for being a descent of a pre-industrial clan. “I have a watch, Paschal”. She said still in hushed tone. I asked that I see her watch but she started crawling away murmuring foreign languages. Her voice grew thicker and the night became abnormally breezy. Her eyes turned blue as she screamed on top of her voice. Instantly, the snores became roars and all I could see were yellow pair of eyes from every corner of the bus. She started crying saying it was time to die.

Several claws had gone up my face in the dark. Teeth were all over me and the dark could not hide the sight of the spilling and splashing of my blood all over the bus. The bites suddenly stopped when they reached for the gash between my thighs. Maybe it was verboten to devour a broken man lacking his genitals or maybe they got scared I was a monster in a man’s form but with a woman’s cunt. They all ran out of the bus chirping like birds. I looked back and the blue eyes were no more but quiet sobs gave the conviction that she did not run along with the lions. I managed to sleep despite the lesions I suffered.

Morning came. I yawned and stretched like the night rest was filled with tidings. I flung my eyes around the bus in search of the woman that knew me deep; I clearly had a billion questions for her. She was nowhere to be found. I stepped out of the bus holding my wounded left shoulder and grinding my teeth against each other because of the activities of the night. I stood by the bus and on stretching my neck westward; I saw a naked image rubbing her skin with her hands but shining like kissed by a sun. Our eyes collided and she started a graceful walk out of the woods, walking towards me revealing her full teats and hiding nothing from my fallen eyes. She hugged me tightly and did not mind that my arms on her back had fallen to her rear. “Take me home Paschal”. She had whispered into my ears pressing her breasts against my chest. Her voice was delicate, it sounded different from her hush tones of the night. She was with the most beautiful face I had seen or worshipped. Her looks carried the conflicts of innocence and a vixen. She really wanted to go East, and I figured she was the witch tales sang would come to rule the nine clans. My “who are you”, was met with “you know what I am.” 

But something created a gap unfilled. This blue-eyed witch was using an innocent attractive girl’s body. She attempted bewitching me to play by her rules but she forgot that bastards born of a woman from the South and with the royal blood of a chief in the East is resistant to the bamboozling of sorcery. I played along like I was already bewitched and inwardly thinking of how to free this beautiful girl from the possession of the witch. The best bet was to take this blue-eyed witch to the white temple of the East. I readied the bus and told her it was time to continue the journey.


The sun was scorching and it meant our arrival was in the afternoon. The East was now a dumping site for skulls and fresh corpses. I held her by the hand pacing up that the stench of bloody fleshes piled in a long queue, does not ruin my nasals. Passing the brick walls of the temple, I shouted that I had the blue-eyed witch – it was a big gamble, “what if the priests were all dead?” I feared. She turned at me speaking angrily in foreign dialects and lifted my legs from the ground bashing my head into several rocks she could see. She was very powerful; I had no chance of coming out her wrestles alive. 

My nose sang its farewell song to me as the jabs it sustained shattered every of its bone like the split government of Mpala. The ground trembled as she uttered foreign tongues. The bites were already enough hell for me as well as the castration, but I saw the hairs on my skin rise like a raw yam when the ground started swallowing trees around me. I started crawling and screaming she stopped her chanting but she started causing my skin to crack slowly. Unexpectedly, three arrows had found its way into her stomach. The blue-eyed witch started removing the arrows from her stomach and making scoffing sounds that only meant the wielders of the bows were going to pay dearly for their chutzpah. But more arrows kept going up the air and raining down on her aggressively. It became a matter of seconds to see her writhe and groan on the ground. 

We were taken into the temple where the witch was going to be sucked out from the anus of the woman I had already developed mushy feelings for. She was made immobile with heavy chains and padlocks. Books were opened and chants went on as red-robed priests surrounded the witch holding red lit candles. I watched the clock and the sweats dripping off the seven priests after a futile two hours stared at them and moped at the extant blue eyes of the witch still possessing the body. One of the priests suggested enchantments and after eventual concurrence, they opened a book of dark magic laying aside the book of prayers. An hour more brought some news; the voice of an old sorcerer started to speak through the mouth of the woman of my dreams. The blue-eyed witch was sucked into a jar and sealed with a small fitting wood. I ran to the fair belle lying lifelessly after the priests walked into giant doors in the temple. The blood on her stomach was finding its way back into her system. I saw no blue eye gazing at me, her pupils were black and she opened it wide lucidly because she was afraid. Her beauty was like never before, and her nakedness could fall all gods the East had bowed to. “Trust me. I won’t hurt you”. I said, covering her with a red robe and showing her the witch in the jar that possessed her. She looked at me and said, “Take me home.”

We were out of the temple but had not walked far when hounds started chasing us. We ran a long distance without a stop and gasped for breath after the hounds suddenly stopped chasing us. I wondered what made them stop chasing us, only to realise that few kilometres ahead of us were dybbuks running towards us like four-legged beasts. They were strange creatures having their heads twisted the direct opposite on their necks. She told me her name was Amelia without me even asking; she started a conversation despite the horrific deaths that awaited us seconds away. She planted a kiss on my lips when I apologised I could not take her home – I never even knew her home.

I dragged her to the gate of the temple hoping the seven priests could stop what befell us, but it was too late. The jar was already broken when we got inside the temple, and the heads of the seven priests were separated from their bodies with their eyes, blue. I stared nonplussed. I held her hand looking away attempting to run somewhere else with her to avoid gnawing. But her hands were sorely cold that I had to look directly into her eyes to savvy what was happening. Amelia had been possessed again; her eyes were blue. My eyes became bleary and my head was swollen having seen enough grotesque images. Her cold left hand broke and a golden spear grew out of it. Into my heart did the spear go, I fell, and she climbed on top of me about to use her fangs on my jugular.


With all immediacy, I woke up from the nightmare. It had indeed been a perturbing adventure. It was still very dark and the reading lamp beside my bed was dead. I was screaming back into reality sweating profusely. This was the tenth nightmare I had in six days. The nightmares all began after I saw a scary movie with my former nanny, Talomi. Talomi was fired by my parents when they realised I could barely have a sound sleep after I watched rip my cocks with my head resting on her laps. She cried bitterly when she was paid off and refused me helping her pack. She only kept on with the belabouring, “I have no place else to go, I have no home. Who will take me home?” 

When I had stopped with the screams as the lasting scare lessened, I used my left hand to survey my private part to be sure the mare did not wake up with me. There was no gash but a lot of blood gushed out from my navel. I held my belly dragging my frail bones towards the window to shout for help as my parents had gone on a week trip. She was out there in the woods, staring back at me with shiny blue eyes. Talomi never went home.


Posted in fiction, love


It was exactly twenty years ago. We were five years old, Jill. I remember how our parents celebrated our birthdays with so much love and planted kisses all over our faces – how you used to fake tears just to have more chocolates than me left me amazed; it made me hate you for seconds but love you a mile after your wide smile lit up my smirk. We were like the perfect twins from different families – or maybe that was what our parents thought since we were born the same day. You loved coming around to spend weekends with my family and I, and we always had a reason to hold hands laughing over the oversized pants of a cartoon character or crying deeply when a young child in the movie wept about troubles I do not know now. No, I did not cry; I was like the man in small pants pulling back your long hair albeit gently and attempting soothing cheer-you-up words whenever you had reason to be dismayed.  Age five was one year I can never forget in a hurry. More to the chocolates even, was your love for music – you had me learn by rote, the whole songs used in SOUND OF MUSIC. There was something about you that transcended your purty face, lissom form, and grey eyes; you were the wunderkind I grew to envy.

Jilly Jean, as you had called yourself when we advanced into grade seven. You were only ten years old but almost knew more than our math teacher. I recall how you solved every word problem in our Math texts and sustained that blimp smile when you deliberately missed one but got applauded by the inundated math teacher for that particular one. You were like the genius while I was a fighter of the bananas of our class – but what did you care? I was still your favourite – you may have found me clownish those years of throwing repartees beyond my small brains, and laughing so hard at my stutters. It was hurtful to have been born a dime a dozen, but I learnt to be your number one admirer, supporter, and family during secondary school.

Our first kiss; I remember we were concluding WAEC. If I did the math correctly, we were sixteen years. You remained slim and graceful, you were few inches taller than me – I cannot forget how you kept singing that song in the top floor. I still craze at how you fought Daniella for calling me a tout – I could not separate you from brandishing her cheeks with future-resetting slaps clairvoyants never envisaged. We got home that very day but my eyes watched you weep at what you called “undeserved boil over”. All my attempts to make you stop the tears did not work until I inadvertently sat on the tuffet very close to your revealing thighs, with my right palm carelessly chilling on the spotless tan skin your thigh boasted of. Your sobbing reduced, and your maintained gaze at my hand sent me the cues that I was becoming well-intentioned. The difficulty in removing my palm had me a bit restive, and my act of contrition afterwards threw you into a barrel of laughs. “Jack, what are you afraid of?” You had this gutsy and you clearly had matured in thoughts and motives than my feeble and fearful innocuous proclivities. Those words had challenged me but the whole tension when our faces sought a fusion had my throat dry and heartbeat ceded to my stomach. We kissed that evening. Our tongues became yea-sayers to what our souls whispered but maybe we became randy and fleshy as I beckoned with no staid manners that you take off your civvies so I could grope at your breasts, and taste of your papilla. Our first kiss could have been our first diddle as I strayed into the lonely paths of your body and tickled my thoughts at your willing demons; but you did not budge, you showed you were wiser.

August 2014, I remember the month; you had squeezed a keepsake into my hands. I asked you if that were supposed to serve as a sop as I never since graduation, kissed those thin lips any longer. I wondered why I was supposed to keep your pink lingerie as a reminder of you as you readied for a trip to Ukraine to pursue your career in the medical field. But you knew, Jill. You knew that you were going to tip me a million times embarking on such sojourn. Why were you selfish to have chosen to unite your soul with ghosts on that flight? Now my world remains bleached dust of my red tears, I have become an object of do overs from life’s twist; I have graduated from quad to overindulgence in heavy grog till I behold a view of you giving me those broad smiles and singing the right euphony whilst in the radiance of Heaven. I hope I forgive you for taking the solo route to the land of no return, even as I seethe the flesh of a bullock to celebrate your entrance into the sinless nation smelling of goodness and majesty. 

I will write to you often. Amidst my crapulence is still a bloke with rue at your departure, and deep love for you. Weep not from high up there that I write poems and leave them at your cenotaph as occupation; I have come to understand that the strong wine will be a pang till I am gone in a trice to meet you at the other side. Until then, Jill, I will be a habitué of this carved headstone no matter how frail my legs become; this is my article of faith till I am a part of this world no more.