where sa-tyres never go flat
where sa-tyres never go flat
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”.
Once upon a happenstance, the people of the valley where the sun rises were beset by all forms of marginalisation, subjugation, intimidation, exploitation and all other —tions that bode despair. They were treated like strangers — nay, pariahs — in their own country. Who would blame them for seeking to break away and forge a new path? There is a limit to what a people can endure.
My grandfather? A jolly old chap he is! But he forbids politics and all government-related palavers. Such things bother him a great deal. Only two things matter to him – pool betting and palm wine. He is simple like that. Anyhow, when I got home and my grandfather pulled me aside to lament how the hardship caused by some imbecile government policies had affected pool betting and the price of palm wine, I knew there was trouble.
Our leader–Man of the Pee Poo pulls out the car manual, but it’s written in Chinese, a language he can’t comprehend except the “one-year warranty” part. So he begins the journey with the words, “We go run am.” But not long after, a stench reaches the noses of the passengers. With concern, they suggest he hand over to Obi, a more qualified driver, as the journey is too far. However, he dismisses their worries with a nonchalant, “Just get me quality diapers.”
The worker ants are those government workers commuting between anthills of metal and glass, wearing threadbare suits and those fancy puppy leashes they call ties. They weightlift crumbs of the national cake bigger than their own financial size to pay homage to the colonial masters before ultimately falling apart, appendage by appendage, to be sustained only by the trickle of nutrients we call pension.
