… where sa-tyres never go flat
… where sa-tyres never go flat
The last time I coughed, I looked around to confirm that Banku was not at my back to demand a tax. Anything you do here, you must pay for it. This is how we live in the Bolebaji community. The only thing Banku and his bloodthirsty boys are satisfied you do for free is shedding tears of agony. Tears of joy are not free.
The one that is still paining me is the way they make rejection emails sound so sweet. If you won’t publish my work, simply say, “Sorry, we won’t publish this. Try again next time.” At least I’d get it straight up. But no, some magazines that love drama will first raise your heart rate with the arrival of the email.
There are many types of Fine Girls. We have the Fragile Princess, the Femme Fatale, and the Fancy Feminist—to mention just a few. Before you start assessing where you fit in, I need you to know that being a Fine Girl will cost you. It doesn’t matter what type of Fine Girl you choose to be. Not being a Fine Girl will also cost you; this one is certain. Remember that you are a woman: everything you do or refuse to do in this life will find a way to pull your wig.
Before long, Nigeria, with its wealth of experience in the fine art of fighting corruption will extend its Masterclass to many African countries—because who is better to lead the charge than a seasoned expert in the field?
when I think about God
I picture his love for me in parenthesis
(a passover meal of burnt beans)
/ mashed into a fillet of leftover alms /
My grandfather? A jolly old chap he is! But he forbids politics and all government-related palavers. Such things bother him a great deal. Only two things matter to him – pool betting and palm wine. He is simple like that. Anyhow, when I got home and my grandfather pulled me aside to lament how the hardship caused by some imbecile government policies had affected pool betting and the price of palm wine, I knew there was trouble.
Many Nigerians, yourself included, have reached the conclusion that our lives can only truly begin at the airport—one hand clutching our suitcase, the other gripping our visas.
To get on the journey towards societal oblivion, you need your materials ready and available. You’ll need some rolling papers, a filter tip, and the most important ingredient: your preferred substance. Now, I don’t know where to get them, but I can point you to people you can get them from. I see them rolling in the gutters (I mean, “roll a joint to roll in a gutter” doesn’t exactly sound bad); some are chained to beds in the hospital; in fact, I saw one roaming the streets fully unconscious, yet mobile. Haq!
Our leader–Man of the Pee Poo pulls out the car manual, but it’s written in Chinese, a language he can’t comprehend except the “one-year warranty” part. So he begins the journey with the words, “We go run am.” But not long after, a stench reaches the noses of the passengers. With concern, they suggest he hand over to Obi, a more qualified driver, as the journey is too far. However, he dismisses their worries with a nonchalant, “Just get me quality diapers.”
The worker ants are those government workers commuting between anthills of metal and glass, wearing threadbare suits and those fancy puppy leashes they call ties. They weightlift crumbs of the national cake bigger than their own financial size to pay homage to the colonial masters before ultimately falling apart, appendage by appendage, to be sustained only by the trickle of nutrients we call pension.
