where sa-tyres never go flat
where sa-tyres never go flat
The guy turns to you and asks, ‘Are you a feminist?’ And right then you know the conversation is about to go south, not just because yes, you are a feminist and have been around long enough to predict the sudden downward turn of his lips. He is not as friendly anymore.
Men are simply too handsome and distracting to be ignored; it’s impossible to see a random man on the street as a woman without picturing them naked.
Massacres or genocides, nothing is happening in my country. In fact, I get so bored with the nothingness, I vacation every other month. Will I lie to you?
When people from the Middle Belt and the North Central complained, the political dogs accused them of attacking the President politically. Today, these same dogs are screaming that both Muslims and Christians are being killed. Wow, I thought the killings were political propaganda.
With each inciting piece you write, your friends whittle because you’ve become a vibe-killing thought police, telling them what movies not to like, and why not to like them.
My own ticket burns in my pocket. Five matches, all carefully selected. I’ve done the math, checked the form, analysed the statistics. But I know it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters in this fluorescent-lit tomb where hope comes to die.
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.
