where sa-tyres never go flat
where sa-tyres never go flat
The bullion vans that entered a private bank on Bourdillon Street, your anti-graft agency is yet to probe. Your House of Assembly speaker has about 64 bank accounts, he is yet to be duly prosecuted too. But if the police find more than three ATM cards in your wallet, you are declared a yahoo boy and your trial starts immediately.
In Nigeria, an upgrade, no matter how insignificant it appears, calls for a rechristening. When you roam about Facebook, for instance, you may come across a Kande Kurushepe going by the new name of Yummy-Kandy Krueger-Sheks. Why? She has now acquired a cheap made-in-China Brontel Android phone and has caught up with the teeming webizens of the 21st century on the World Wide Web.
I don’t know why men are so intelligent, I could almost question nature on the subject. Why apportioning so much intellect to […]
Speaking of institutional nonsense, you remember how one of the first things you established was a reformed Nigeria? Ha! Good old days. A Nigeria with a doomed legislative building, sorry domed building called the National Assembly where family reunion is held every now and then between former khaki boys, holders of umbrellas, holders of circled stars (which today is a luxurious broom), and other distant cousins.
This year’s 29th day of May is significant as it is on this day five years ago that Buhari declared the mother of all wars on corruption. His acceptance speech on that historic day in May 2015 marked the gradual death of Corruption. The story was told of how Mr Corruption could not withstand the superior firepower of Buhari’s highly motivated anti-corruption soldiers.
How fortunate one must feel to be a Nigerian, to come from a country where absolute freedom is not a myth and impunity reigns supreme. When a great man (we are not sure which one) famously proclaimed that “your liberty to swing your fist ends just where my nose begins,” he certainly had not heard about the wonderful country called Nigeria. He, especially, betrayed his ignorance of that special creature known as the Nigerian Policeman or the Nigerian Soldier for whom the liberty to swing their fists ends wherever the fists end. Full stop.
First off, I must thank you because you have decided to learn a few tricks about being a woman. Most Nigerian women are often loathe to topics such as this. Conversations that teach them how to be better are often met with disgust and a strong detest. They refuse to listen to the voice of reason and sound opinion, well, except you’re their father in the Lord or spiritual leader, as the case my be.
“Those are just rumours, Excellency. Many of them are our friends, and they have told us they never did any such thing. It is just like Sani Abacha; he never looted anyone, that is just a name. But believe me, if you send us the ventilators, we will soon be curving the flat all over Nigeria.”
Poetry is a threat indeed; it is capable of stirring change, but the time of change has passed. We are in the next level. Poetry is capable of giving voice to the deprived, and that is not what we ought to see in our nation. Sanity is endurance, silence, shuffering and shmiling, injustice and ineffectiveness, and this is what our leaders are committed to ensuring.
Even if they see a ray of hope or interest in something as Haram as Makarantan Boko, a thunder of “infidel” and soothing lashes of loving whips will never touch their backs. What do you need western education for? Without it, the commissioner rose to the top. He loitered the street, begged for money from passersby, almost got ran over by cars daily, ate crumbs from the plate of strangers and, when it was time, he was handpicked from the street and was sworn in as a commissioner the next day. You don’t have to strive; striving is rebellion.
