where sa-tyres never go flat
where sa-tyres never go flat
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
This pot has seen things. It has seen me boil water I had no intention of using, just to convince my body that life was happening. It has seen me cook noodles with only pepper and pride. It has seen me measure crayfish like diamonds, count seasoning cubes like votes. My pot knows the weight of scarcity. It knows that sometimes, hunger is not a feeling. It’s a timeline.
