where sa-tyres never go flat
where sa-tyres never go flat
There’s no prestige in dying in Gwarimpa General Hospital. If you want a proper state burial, the type that pauses governance for 48 hours and halts businesses in the name of a public holiday, you must die abroad — ideally in London. That’s where the real state funerals begin. The mystery of flying out sick and returning only in a body bag allows the state to control the story.
In the beginning, there was earth. Then came the first Nigerian governor, who looked upon this earth and said, “Let there be road.” And behold, there was road. And it was good. For exactly seventeen days.
In the last few weeks, slanders have been hurled at me. I released the results of 1,969,313 candidates, and only 753,642 (38.32%) obtained credits and above in at least five compulsory subjects, including Mathematics and English Language. Shouldn’t I be commended for this amazing feat? It might be lower than last year’s figures, but to me, it is progress. Our efficient systems are only providing evidence for what we already instinctively know: the children are getting dumber.
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?
