where sa-tyres never go flat
where sa-tyres never go flat
In this part of the world, practising a religion is evidence of virtue and also a campaign strategy. Just to be safe, you could enable the three-factor authentication—go to a mosque on Friday, to church on Sunday and then pay a courtesy visit to Professor Fajemilohun’s shrine before major rallies.
However, some countries and other international human rights organisations have raised concerns about free will and the principle of non-interference. According to the ambassador of a country in the Middle East, “While peace is beautiful, it is important to let the countries involved resolve their own issues. You can’t just pick up your phone, tweet and interrupt an issue without understanding the full context.”
Yes, things are hard; that’s undeniable. But if we ignore our empty stomachs and empty pockets, we can see that our country is actually better off, as our beloved Tinooboo said.
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.
