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.
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.
People are raised to believe suffering is spiritual. They’re told to fast their way through emotional abuse, and to forgive predators if they can quote Psalm 91. We have glorified silence and called it submission. And because nobody wants to offend “men of God,” many people suffer in silence, hiding wounds under long skirts and choir uniforms.
If you’re the smooth talker, your job is simple: form alliances, overuse words like “representation” and “inclusivity,” and write long WhatsApp broadcasts nobody will read. If you’re the tyrant, be prepared to threaten, manipulate, and intimidate—yes, even your own campaign team. Either way, nothing must actually change on campus under your administration. That’s the golden rule.
“Guy, ask about me, I dey craze gan o,” the first man would assert. To which the second man would say, “Na where your madness stop, my own begin o!” That should have been my first clue that something was terribly wrong. How could sane people want to be mad so much?
You know who you must avoid? A woman who does not cook or clean every day, who outsources food and cleaning services regularly, who has a career, who is ambitious, or — God forbid — who hires nannies to watch her kids while chasing her dreams and living her life. The icing on the cake would be an unmarried woman, a divorcee, and a feminist who is also a baddie. LOL! This category of women are tagged “bitter, wicked, frustrated witches”.
