Prize for Satire

Beer parlour talk 

I had joined my neighbour at the drinking parlour the night before. He looked devastated, like one who was about to be drowned in perpetual sorrow. He was rarely like that, so I knew it had to be something serious. I quizzed him till he finally said something. Something that affected him, me, and every man in our community. He initially laughed at my colossal ignorance. ‘You no dey Facebook?’

Prize for Satire

To whom it may concern 

Boys are angels. Men are God-sent. I understand how magnificent the male child is every time my lungs expand and contract. The male child is gratified and society knows why. They have to be sent to school, taught to make money and be go-getters. The male child from the day they are born are raised to believe they can have it all, they should want it all and above all, they can get it all.

Prize for Satire

The Nigerian young adult manual 

God doesn’t make mistakes, at all. And Nigerians are proof of it. In His all-knowingness, He understood perfectly what being a Nigerian would entail, and on the Eighth day, while every other human specie had become ‘up and functioning’, He made Nigerians, with cement and a resilient spirit to absorb hardship, and melanin, lots of it, to absorb harshness from the sun