where sa-tyres never go flat
where sa-tyres never go flat
As a toddler, I barely cried. I loved breast milk. I took it exclusively until I was three. My favourite colour has always been blue—navy blue. I preferred football to cartoons. I hated cartoons. By 15, I could hold live chickens, start the generator on the first try, and wash my dad’s car all by myself. My uncle said I was already more of a man than many grown-ups. My friends called me “King Kong.” Life was good.
If we chop once a day,
Na privilege.
If you do the same thing,
Na intermittent fasting.
It starts immediately after university graduation. You are not allowed to be confused because confusion is for unserious people. You must find a high-paying job, even if the only work experience you have is editing your friends’ CVs and making Canva flyers for your cousin’s catering business.
A woman’s heart is not like a man’s heart; instead of being made of veins and muscles that can be penetrated by a simple stab of a knife, the woman’s heart has special sensors connected to the stomach, a path that can only be opened by the taste of a man’s good cooking.
We are not like those places where a father rules from his thirties till his death and then hands over to his son. Our dictators here fuck you up nicely; they would put on a smile that would make you disbelieve the evils they do in secret.
You hear fuel price is dropping by ₦10 and instead of relaxing, you rush to fill your tank and your two yellow jerrycans — because you know it’s only a matter of time before they “correct the mistake.” It’s not a celebration. It’s preparation.
Where are the stories of confusion? Of loneliness? Of soft heartbreaks and awkward conversations? Nowhere. They were arrested for loitering. Instead, we get the same thing every time. A woman who cannot cook. A man who cannot zip his trousers. A mother-in-law who came to Earth to destroy joy. And somewhere in there, jazz. Because why not?
It is often said that governance is about roads, security, and economic growth, but that is the thinking of mere mortals. True immortality is not only built with cement and policy; it is also constructed with plaques, marble signs, and rebranded signposts. A monument does not become national until it answers to a name worthy of national awakening, preferably in capital letters.
Of course, some “critics”, the usual people who don’t appreciate excellence in ego, have called it “sycophantic,” “tone-deaf,” and “grossly undemocratic.” Imagine! Just because we renamed a road or ten! These people clearly don’t understand that Nigeria is now a brand, and every brand needs consistency. Especially when the roads are not.
Two years ago, we welcomed His Excellency, President Bobo the Bold, into the sacred chambers of Aso Rock. A man of vision, they said. A builder who has built the best state amongst its contemporaries. A man of action, they proclaimed. And indeed, action we have seen, though perhaps not the kind we anticipated.
