Category Archives: Discussion

There Are No Alternatives

On Monday morning, I woke up to some amazing news; Governor Fashola had set up a new law which banned commercial motorcycles (what we call okada), from moving about on the major roads in Lagos.

A lot of things came to my mind when I heard; first of which was “Panda, why’re you just hearing about this? Which kind of last lifting behavior is this?” but well, I thought to myself “let’s see how this pans out.” That morning, it took me at least twice the time and twice the amount it normally would to get to work. I had to get o more buses and I also had to walk quite a bit (and almost got hit by a bus along the way), just to get to work.

Later in the evening, on my way home, it was pandemonium. There were more people on the road, and with no okada to take them to their destination, everyone was forced to squabble for buses. Of course, the laws of demand and supply came into play, and the bus drivers & conductors put up their prices by 50%.

On Monday as well, a lot of people said a lot of things about this ban. A lot of people were for Governor Fashola’s decision, while a lot of people were against it. One thing I noticed though was that most of the people speaking, were speaking with a lot of emotions. People who had been through bad experiences with okadas, people who were being terribly inconvenienced by okadas, people who don’t even get on okadas and couldn’t really care less about them… everyone had an angry word to say. So I kept quiet. In my honest opinion, it’s almost impossible for an angry person to be rational.

Two days after this ban was put in place, I have a few things to say.

First of all, I understand where Governor Fashola is coming from with this; for one thing, okadas have been, over the last two decades or more, being a public nuisance. Most of them break traffic laws all the time, endanger the public, and cause a lot of trouble. As much as I use them, I myself have sometimes referred to them as “pests on two wheels”.

However, even though I can honestly understand his point of view, I do not believe the implementation of his plan is sensible.

Transportation in Lagos, as with most of the infrastructures put in place in Nigeria, is broken. We have no railway, or waterway transport system to speak of, and so we’re left with roads. These roads are in terrible shape dues to being overburdened and under maintained, so plying them takes more time than it should. Okadas have become an important means of movement to the average Lagosian. They help people get through hours of traffic, making it easy to meet appointments and get things done in the shortest time possible. Also, this means of transportation has become a source of livelihood for thousands of people who have mouths to feed.

And Governor Fashola has taken all this away.

There are no alternatives for transportation, none at all. Many people have mentioned BRT Buses as an alternative. Well, even before this ban, the BRT buses were insufficient. A lot of the time, people would have to queue for at least 45 minutes before they’d be able to get into one. So no, I don’t believe they are “the alternative”. Because there are no alternatives, the cost of transportation, like I said earlier, has gone up. Please note that in Lagos, this is the third time in the last ten months that the cost of transportation has gone up. The first and second times being when the cost of fuel went up, and when Third Mainland Bridge was partially shut down for repairs. Unless of course, I’m missing something, the earning power of the average Lagosian has not gone up, meaning that life has become financially harder for the average Lagosian, due to this fact. Because there are no alternatives, there is more traffic on the roads. People, who normally would leave their cars at home and just take okadas about to conduct their business, have to drive. Meaning there are more cars on the roads. More cars on the roads is more stress on these under maintained roads. Because there are no alternatives, people who have appointments to keep, and would normally just go by okada and be there in minutes, have to leave their locations hours beforehand, just to make these appointments in time. Now, a lot of people would say that complaining about this is what a lazy/slothful person would do. But as a person that actually has a job, I don’t see that as the case. Time, is money. If I have to sit in traffic for two hours just to get somewhere it would ordinarily take me twenty minutes to get to, that’s time wasted. I could be doing so much more in the 100 minutes extra that I’ll need to sacrifice to make an appointment. Because there are no alternatives, working individuals now have to leave their houses much earlier to get to work, and get home much later than they normally would. As for the okada riders, what alternatives do they have when their source of livelihood is “banned”? What are they meant to tell their wives and children when they need to put down “money for soup”? How are they meant to explain to their children that they can’t send them to school because they have no money?

Let’s not forget that with this ban, the police and other enforcement agencies have found a new way to extort money from individuals. The police have extended the ban, and are arresting okada men anywhere they see them, taking their machines away, and making them pay ridiculous prices to get them back.

I think Mr. Fashiola needs to have a rethink.

There’s a common saying that goes “when God closes a door, he opens a window”; you don’t fix a problem by making a bigger one with the mindset that says “the people will adjust”. All that does is show that the people are not cared about, and that you don’t have their interests at heart. What happens to the people of Lagos now?

I don’t want this post to simply be one where I just rant and rant, so I’ll try to be silent. It’s quite easy for people at the top to make decisions, but do they (Governor Fashola, I’m looking at you) actually realize the effect of these decisions have on the common man? Are leadership positions meant to be used to proffer solutions, or to cause more problems? Yes, everyone wants Lagos to become a mega-city, but is this really the way? If people spend a third of their day in traffic, how is business meant to be conducted, and how is money meant to be made so that Lagos as a whole can prosper? Yes, I agree that okada men have been a thorn in people sides, but still, is banning them the right way to go? This is simply a case of throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

*sigh* … I don’t even know why I’m bothering with this. As with everything that happens in Nigeria, people will read, and move on. They’ll take the bulls**t that our leaders give us, complain for a little while, but still, they’ll get used to it. Because that’s what we do; we suffer and smile.

I can’t even be bothered anymore.

What Real Men Do

Hey people.

Been a while, eh? Yes yes yes…

Anyways, I’m taking a few minutes off work to ask y’all something that’s confused me for quite a while. But before I get there, lemme give y’all the background story.

Please, put your winter jackets away, this isn’t going to be a Chilly Monday Morning Tale.

So, most people that know me know I don’t watch soccer. For me, it’s a pretty drawn out and boring game, and I don’t see the point in watching 22 men brimming with testosterone chasing themselves all over the field like that rapist Pepé Le Pew (yes, I think that little bastard is a rapist) chasing Penelope Pussycat around the field (I know, this is a crappy comparison, but bear with me).

Now, over the years, I’ve met a lot of people that go into shock when they hear I don’t watch soccer. Some of them take it so personal that it worries me. And then some of them take the high road and ask stupid questions like “What kind of man doesn’t like soccer?” & say shit like “So what do you watch on TV, Fashion Week?”

This post is about people like them.

Some more background stuff.

This morning, an unattended septic tank whom I have the displeasure of calling my colleague (from here on referred to as “B”, called me and someone else (here on referred to as “N”) out in our department, because, (and I shit you not) our discussions are usually things he can’t relate to, and because they’re not “masculine”.

I’m a bit confused here.

B complained that N and I are always talking about things he can’t relate with. N & I talk about music, literature, movies, series, websites, blogs… etc. But according to B, our discussions aren’t masculine enough.

So I ask him, “What exactly do you consider masculine then?”

B: “I don’t know… I mean, the stuff you guys are always talking about doesn’t even fall in the top three masculine topics available. How come you guys don’t talk about sports… or women…?”

And so I ask, “Who creates the rules for what masculinity should be?”

Should real men be like this guy?


And that’s what I want to know.

Who defines what a man should or should not do? Who decides these things? I mean, as far as I’m concerned, the only thing I think should define a real man is whether he’s a boob man or an ass man (real men love boobies. Don’t argue, just accept it). But saying I’m not a man cos I don’t watch soccer or cos I don’t talk about women all day long? Eez ga o.

I don’t watch soccer; I think it’s a rather boring game. I read books as much as I can. I watch movies and things. I listen to music a lot. When I do watch sports, I watch basketball, tennis when I get the chance, MMA and UFC, boxing, etc. I don’t see the point in sitting down and talking about some babe’s behind or how I got or am trying to get into some other babe’s panties. But as far as men go, I think I’m pretty masculine. I mean, I wake up with a morning wood just like every other guy (TMI? Yes? No?)

Shouldn’t we decide what defines us? I may be taking this a little P, I’m not sure. So lemme stop rambling. If you haven’t gotten bored yet, help me out in the comment section belooooow…

When was there a consortium of men from across the Atlantic, and when did they draft out the rules and guidelines as to what is considered masculine in terms of behavior, discussions, likes and dislikes, etc.? What are these rules, & why didn’t I get the fucking memo?

The Audacity To Breathe

On January 1st 2012, the Federal government of the Republic of Nigeria gave its people the biggest New Year’s gift it could imagine; the subsidy on the importation of PMS was removed, causing the price of fuel to go up by about 115% (rough estimate).

The chaos that ensued almost immediately was to be expected. People crammed themselves into the fuel stations, in an attempt to get fuel at the old rate, and of course, people started talking.

As a young person, most of the information I received about this issue came to me through Twitter, and I saw what we all had to say about it. It started out with complaints, but there were more jokes than anything. The youth made the most ridiculous and hilarious jokes, while some sat back and asked themselves how it was that we could joke about that kind of situation. I have two explanations for this:

Firstly, we have taken so much punishment as Nigerians, that we have developed tough hides; and so when faced with a catastrophe, it seems much easier for us to laugh about it, than to be somber. Secondly, the realization of what the full effect of this subsidy removal would bring had not yet dawned on us.

Today, the 3rd of January, protests have begun all over Nigeria. Amongst the people protesting are market women, carpenters, commercial vehicle operators, newspaper vendors, mechanics, and every other manner of the common person that you can imagine. People have taken to the streets, putting their lives on the line as the police have been ordered to break up these protests in as violent a manner as possible. People have been beaten bloody; the police have thrown teargas and fired their guns right into the middle of the protesters, all in an attempt to stop them from marching to protest the injustice. The stark reality of it is, before the end of today, many people will die. Some people (such as myself), sit and monitor these activities, and try to supply as much information as possible. Some have mocked us, calling us “armchair activists”.

Some however, have said a lot of ridiculous things. I’ve seen statements on twitter that amuse me. Such as, “I don’t see why you people are complaining. Petrol is so much more expensive in Ghana and the UK”. Some are even condemning our right to come out and protest the increase.

It is them I address.

Unlike Ghana or the United Kingdom, Nigeria is one of the top ten producers of oil in the world. I will not attempt to go into the facts and figures, but by the workings of common sense, it is common knowledge that we should not be paying such a steep amount for such an essential commodity. Articles by educated people such as Mr. Lawson Omokhodion, Izielen Agbon Izielen Agbon, and Professor Tam David West have shown that we do not need this supposed “subsidy”, and that we’ve been suffering for no reason. We have been shown that our existing refineries are quite capable of producing the amount of PMS we need for local consumption, and even above it. The price of PMS by any standards, should not be above N40.05/liter, yet the local refineries have been crippled and we’ve been forced to import this fuel which some “individuals” seem to be profiting from, whilst the rest of the Nigerian populace suffered for, because we were forced to pay N65/liter, when it should be N40.05 if we produced it ourselves. And now, the government has removed this “subsidy” (which in essence never existed), and instead of creating an alternative to importation, have forced upon us the price of their incompetence and corruption.

And we are not to complain?

In countries like Ghana and the UK, putting aside the fact that they do not produce even half the amount of oil that Nigeria does, we must also remember that things work in those countries. They do not require PMS to power electricity generators because they have constant electricity, and also have functional infrastructure. So the price of PMS is offset by the fact that things work. Unfortunately, the same hasn’t been able to be said about Nigeria for a few decades.

With the increase in the price of PMS, a resultant increase in the price of… well, everything has occurred. Transportation, food, accommodation, goods and services… everything has gone up. Making it twice as difficult for the average Nigerian, who already struggles, to survive.

And we are meant to keep silent?

I refuse to believe that there are some people out there that can be so insensitive that they would not understand what this action by our government is going to do to Nigeria. No matter who you may be; Nigerian or otherwise, rich or poor. It is obvious that the entire nation is going to suffer if the government is permitted to place this manner of injustice on our heads like trays of fruit. Have we gotten to the point that the legendary Fela Kuti spoke of, simply accepting orders like zombies? Are we meant to watch our people degenerate even further as it becomes even more difficult to survive in a country where there is so much? Are we meant to watch our leaders sit back and remain the fattest and highest paid leaders and officials in the world, while the average Nigerian struggles to make less than $1/day, and then cry helplessly because the little made isn’t even close to enough for them to get a simple meal to eat every day? Amongst the people who supposedly deliberated on the rationale behind removing the “subsidy” without providing a means of making up for it, how many of them actually know what it’s like to not have any fuel at all? When was the last time any of them knew the true meaning of the word “lack”? What we have in Nigeria are rulers who are grossly insensitive to the plight of the common man, sit behind the confines of their havens, and make up laws and policies that make me question their sanity and quite honestly, their intelligence.

How? I ask you; how are we even meant to stay silent in a situation like this?

For too long, like a poet Amir Sulaiman said, we have been dead men walking, mute men talking and blind men watching our people die. It has gone too far. Some say words are little, but they are more powerful than many understand. Ask the people of Libya. They’ll tell you that their protests may have been painful and bloody, but they got what they wanted in the end. Some would argue that the way to do this should be via negotiations and nationwide strikes. And while I agree with that, at this point, we must do something. We should not sit and take it, just because we can. We have every right to speak out. We have every right to cry, scream, kick, bite, make a ruckus and fight for what is our right. And if the time is now, I believe that there’s never a better time than the present.

For those who do not understand why we protest, for those who are comfortable and question our sanity, I will say this; questioning our right to protest evil when it is thrust upon us, is like asking us why we have the audacity to breathe.

Asking us to go back to our homes and accept this yoke that our president and the rest of his government wish to thrust on our heads, is asking us to dig our graves, buy our coffins and clean our best clothes for our own burials.

I may not be out in the thick of things, shouting in protest with the rest of my brothers. I may be an “armchair activist” because I’m sitting on my bed typing this for whoever seeks to know the truth. But I will for no reason under the sun, ask anyone who wishes to protest, to stay at home. I will not be a party to this evil. I will not help the government kill us.

I’d rather die.

This post does not solely reflect my views. It’s also supported by other writers such as ‘Dania Idam, Wale Adetula, Joseph Parker, Martins Ekwe, Kelvin Steve, Efeoghene Ori-Jesu, Festus Okubor, Terdoo Bendega, Oluwafemi Adebule, Dare Falowo, Coco Anetor-Sokei, Jibola Lawal, Oyebowale Odutola, amongst others.

When Never Reverses

There’s something that just gets me about the streaks of sweat on her back.

It reminds me of a chilled bottle of Coke on a table, on a hot sunny afternoon. Imagine this: the bottle is fresh from the refrigerator so there are still tendrils of mist around it. In moments, the sweltering heat makes the very chilled bottle of coke start to sweat. The first drop of cold perspiration slides over the curves of the glass and down to the table.

If the heat doesn’t make you parched, staring at the bottle surely has, by now. There is more sweat all over the coke now, ripe all over it like mango trees in November. As you stare at it, you shift uneasily and your leg hits the table so that you upset the balance of the drops. The cold sweat already craving to fall, slides slowly down to make bigger drops, and then these drops slide down to a puddle around the coke bottle. The table is wet.

And so was she.

I think it’s because I had my hand balled into a gentle fist in her hair. I hadn’t done that to her before, which is a surprise with how adventurous we are. I’m glad she kept her hair virgin, or I’d have been telling another story. Her moans were becoming even, so I pounded her hard at an angle. The drops of sweat on her body were jolted, but because she was bent over, only the drops at her sides, slid down to the bed.


No puddle. Ok I lied, there was a big wet spot at the center of the bed. She raised her head, with her mouth open like “Ah!” but without the sound. No, she didn’t call out my name. I actually find it very pretentious, especially as we’re not in a cheap porno. The soundless “Ah!” Is better. It’s easier, more convenient and believable.

This time, it’s her sweat moustache that’s jolted as she tries to comb her hair in front of the mirror. I look on intently. I don’t know what’s sexier, watching a woman take off her clothes or watching her put them back on. There’s something about the way those panties slide reluctantly over her thighs till they come to rest at home on her bum; or the magician act of clipping the bra hooks and then adjusting her breasts to fill the cups (depending on how amply bosomed she is). Watching the jeans come on can be a bit amusing. But some women, like Bisola, are a bit touchy about it.

I want more

It’s a short distance to her. The nape of her neck is exposed, the epitome of Japanese sensuality. I build up, kisses become nibbles on the path from her left shoulder to the top of her spine. I start to trail little bites to my goal – just where the hair starts “Goddd, Tolu, you’re insatiable!”

“I don’t get enough of you joo”

“Shut up there! Fucking slut. That’s what you tell all those girls abi? I’m supposed to be your friend, you shouldn’t pull those cards on me. Shame on you” Slips on her jacket with a huff and turns around to face me.

“What cards? I really do want you…” and then I add reluctantly, “…to be mine”

“Tolu…” She says with a hand on my chest, pushing me back a bit.  I hold her hand, trying to find her eyes, but she is looking away. She turns back to the mirror and reaches for her lip gloss from her open little make up bag.

“I’m serious… I want more than all this… sneaking around-”

She cuts in as she piles on one layer of lip gloss. “Surely, you’re well versed at sneaking around, ehn?”

“Mehn, fuck that. If my friend judges me based on my past then what is to become of me?”

“Oh please, you have a history a mile long, that’s a bit hard to forget”

“That’s not the issue here. I’ve wanted to make this real for-”

She cuts in with a smile, “Tat mah fucking name on you boy so I know it’s-”

“Shut the hell up and let me talk jare…” I hold her hips, and she stops to look at me. It could be something about the way my hands mould her flesh through her jeans. But she knows I’m serious.

“See, you’ve told me to chill, and wait till you figure things out. I did. I was a good friend. I won’t bring up the number of times I cradled you to sleep or how many times you passed out on my couch from trying to drink the pain away. Or when I nursed you back to health when HE whooped your ass. If that doesn’t say something, then I don’t know what will.”

She says nothing. The silence is palpable. She can’t match the look in my eyes, she looks at the flint on her ballerina shoes. Finally, she reaches for her bracelet that is spread out on the dresser. It’s the final piece, and then I know she’ll be gone. The ritual dance of the awkward goodbyes will commence soon.

With her bracelet on, it seems her dressing up is complete, then she withdraws the true final piece in her ensemble.

Her engagement ring.

She slips it on with a finality. With that singular action, I know she has made her decision.

“Are you coming for the wedding?” She says as she reaches for her bag.

“I have no choice, he’s my brother and I’m his best man” I said, like she had somehow forgotten. What did she care about my welfare right? I shrug as I reach for the pack of Benson and Hedges and pad out to the balcony. She knows her way out.


I’m Jiibola L. Read my tapestry of thoughts HERE

Okay people, so last weekend, and into the beginning of the week, I talked about people catching feelings when P goes wrong. Started out with a man’s perspective when the woman wants more than he can give (read about that here), and then Moyin helped me out with a woman’s perspective when she’s been kept on tenterhooks (read that here). Today, Jibola was kind enough to put out this piece on what happens when the dude catches feelings he’s not supposed to. The end was just such a shocker, I had to put this up for y’all.

So, what y’all think bout this situation? Leave your comments in the discussion box below. 🙂

P.S. I’m off to NYSC camp in Niger. Fear not, I’ll be back in three weeks. Y’all that love me, pray for me. I need a lot of things to work out. But I won’t leave completely. Posts from Remy’s Fourth Day will still be coming up, & Moyin will be putting some of her stuff up from time to time. I hope the silence that comes with no internet and other forms of entertainment will help me write. I’m carrying notebooks and stuff to keep a journal and for creative writing. My birthday’s on the 28th, so if y’all like, don’t find ways to call me.

Peace, love, and Ijebu Garri.

Waiting on Never to Happen

Hey y’all!

First off; Happy Eid el-Kabir to the Muslim fam that read my blog. I’m waiting for y’all to bring my ram over o! Don’t dull me! I hope everyone’s enjoying this long ass weekend we’re having and all.

So I put up a post on Saturday called “[Not] Yours Truly” (if you’re carrying last on that, please click here) and it got a lot of good reviews. I’m glad y’all like it, and I may be trying out that writing style more often.

Anyways, after that post, I got into discussions with some people, and one of the things that stuck out was that, most people would never come out and tell the person they’re setting P with, that there was no hope for them. More likely, they would probably keep giving them hope and letting them think they’re willing but just not able to get into a relationship with them. More than likely, the person who’s been hoped upon would probably still have a significant other, and be telling the person who’s hoping, that (s)he just can’t make up his/her mind.

I’m still not sure how that works, I haven’t been through that, where I’m letting anyone choose between me & someone else. It’s either me or nothing. But, listening to Adele’s “Best For Last”, I realized it’s more widespread than I thought. So, I asked my darling Moyin to write a poem, putting the feelings of a person who’s being kept on a string out there. Here’s what she came up with. I hope y’all like it.

Dashed Hopes

Hope deferred makes the heart sick…” – Proverbs 13:12

I’m tired of waiting
It’s been 525,600 fucking minutes
That maybe it would be me
Maybe your list would change
And somehow I’d top it
Waiting for that ‘soon’
The soon you promised me
The soon your lips spoke to me
When they glided ever so softly
Over my lips, my mountains, my mound
The soon your fingers spoke when they
Stirred up things I didn’t know I was capable of feeling
Waiting for the time when you recover
From the heartbreak and want
And see that what you’ve been looking for
Has been here…
In me.
Waiting, hoping, praying, longing, pining, crying
Oh the pain, the anguish, the hurt, the tears I cry but they don’t show
Waiting. Waiting for that day,
When that smile…
That smile was because of me,
Your eyes linger on me a bit longer.
And I understand that every emotion
Every frigging emotion you feel was put there/ controlled by me
I’m tired of waiting
Waiting for our own ‘happily’
Waiting for you to make a decision
Tired of waiting for you to make up your mind
Do you want her or me?
Tired of this cycle where
She breaks your heart you come running to me
I’m not your fucking shrink
I’m just someone who genuinely cares about you
And wants to share your life
Can the waiting end?
Will it end?
Will you stop playing with my heart?
Kicking it like the dusty old football?
Because I’m done waiting
I’m fucking done waiting…
Fuck you!
So, what y’all think of this situation? Leave your sensible, and not so sensible comments in the box below. 🙂

She’s Such A Lady

Hey there good people…

Yes, I know I abandoned everyone. I’m terribly sorry. I’ve been kinda down with a selective form of writer’s block, and as such, I couldn’t write anything till I was done with the story I was writing. Thankfully, I’m done with it so I can think and put out stuff. I’m doing writing exercises to help me push the block outta the way so I hope things should go back to normal soon.

Alright then… y’all know it’s usually when something happens to catch my attention that I decide to write so… wait first… lemme play one jam like this…

*NP “Lady” by Fela*


If you call am “woman”, African woman no go gree.

She go say…she go say “I be lady o”

I heard this song a long time ago… and when I was old enough to make some sense of it, I just thought it was a song that was poking fun at babes. It was silly and all, but I didn’t really pay it any mind… until recently.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to one of my female friends, and I called her a girl. But then I apologized and said she was a woman. Now this babe, to my surprise, looked at me and said “I’m not a woman o, I’m a lady. I’m too young to be a woman. I mean… I’m only 22.”

A few days later, I was talking to another chic friend, and when the same thing came up and I called her a woman, she told me that she’s “not a woman o…” So I asked her if she was a girl. And she said no. And of course I asked, “so what are you?” and she says “I’m a lady”.

At this point in time, I burst out laughing and she has this bemused look on her face wondering why I’m laughing my ass off. So I ask; “Babe, are you saying that the transition phase between being a girl and being a woman, is being a lady?” And she looked at me and said, “ehen now.”

O ga o.

I’m confused as to when this happened; when “lady-hood” suddenly became the transition phase where members of the female specie nestle on their way to womanhood from girlhood, sort of like the cocoon that shields the phase between caterpillar and butterfly. As far as I know, “lady” is a title that was used to address women of noble birth or some other form of superior social standing back in the day, and now is simply used as a polite way of referring to a woman and the only “women” that try to claim “lady” by force are really just peasants trying to feel noble by force. But of course, a lot of Nigerian babes just love to go the hardest when they’re displaying ignorance. I mean really. Can you imagine a dude saying “I’m not a boy, but I’m not a man; I’m a Lord.” Or saying, “I’m too young to be a man. I’m a gentleman.” (I’m going to assume that there’s no dude out there with the IQ that God gave gravel that would be dumb enough to say that so…) How stupid would that sound? That’s basically the same thing going on here.

And then, I just don’t get it. Do these members of the female race imagine that a man would want a “lady” and not a “woman”? By the old meaning of what a lady is, these were just women who were high born, most of them couldn’t do a single thing for themselves besides maybe knit and (if they were exceptional) cook. They were mostly of no use to their fathers than to hold their virtues with all chastity, be pretty and get married to some lord who would pay a handsome bride price for them. That is all.

Now bring that to modern times; that kind of woman would be a liability in all senses of the word. I don’t want that kind o. I want a strong woman that I can count on to help out when there’s trouble. That can look out for herself when I’m not there and watch my back when I need it. I don’t want any woman that’s just fine for nothing (although I do want a fine woman *winks*) and I’m sure my brothers agree with me.

So why do these Nigerian women place so much emphasis on being “ladies” and not “women”? I have absolutely no idea. Maybe somebody can shed some light on it *shrugs*. Women complain about how there many good men aren’t left in the world. My sister Sisi Ijebu in her Last Post claimed that for every correct woman out there, there’s only 0.67 good men. And I actually can’t disagree. My lot is a rare breed *DodgesSlippers*. So how do you think we should manage when the women actually believe that it’s better to be a “lady” than to stand queen like a real woman?

Anyways, I still have to work on bringing my writing back out, but this is kinda just an FYI thing. My sisters; “lady” is a title. It’s not who you are. You can be a lady if you behave like one, you can act all lad-like i.e. noble, self-respecting, etc… but that is not a substitute for being a girl, or a woman. Quit being ignorant okay?


O by the way,

The Ugly Side Chic

Well hey there people, how’s that grind going? Good?

First of all, I just want to remind y’all that voting for the 2011 Naija Blog Awards is on and all that, and that I and some of my favorite bloggers like The ThinkTank, KevinWithAnL, Afrosays, Ms Dania, and The Toolsman were nominated for awards so… if you could take a few minutes to VOTE, that’d be very cool.

Moving on.

I woke up this morning to a post from former heavy weight ashewo and my very good friend, DOJ. His post basically took a geek’s look as to why a dude shouldn’t cheat on his woman, especially with two kobo babes, comparing them to Diamonds and Graphite. I had to smile when I read it, cos I’ve had the post that I’m writing about right now in my head for a few days, and it just felt very odd that our thought patterns are so similar sometimes.

Anyways, so while he went in on why men shouldn’t go for the two kobo babe, I still have the question stuck firmly in my head like pieces of white house meat wedged in my teeth.


No, not why do men cheat. I’ve thought about that a bit a long while ago, and was gonna write on why both men and women cheat, but I was advised not to look for trouble.

No. What I wonder is why when most men cheat on their woman, in terms of simple booty calls or “P”, they do it with a babe that, in DOJ’s words, is like a “Ms Taraba” compared to their girlfriend’s “Oluchi”.

I remember this question entered my head a few years back, when Hugh Grant and Elizabeth Hurley were getting divorced. I heard that he’d cheated on her and at first, I didn’t wanna judge him. I mean, no be small thing. Money, fine boy, etc…
And then I saw the Hollywood prostitute he had been caught with. The first utterance from my mouth was “ANYAMAAA!!!” I mean really? Your wife was Elizabeth Hurley! The beautiful devil from Bedazzled and you went to cheat on her with a woman that looked like all the dazzling in the world wouldn’t save her devilish look? Haba!

But I’m older now, and I’ve seen a general pattern with my brethren.

How? Well, even though I’ve never been unfaithful (Call it my being dull, or proud, or respecting my lady too much, or just God not wanting me to walk that path. It just hasn’t happened and I hope it never will), the babes who gave me the most grief in terms of temptation, were girls that just couldn’t step to my girlfriend at that time. Plus, I do have a lot of friends who have played the field a bit. And with the exception of maybe two, every single one of them whom I know has done some by the side P, usually does it with some random girl who couldn’t hold a candle to their girlfriends’ fire. Take for example, on Friday I was at this bachelor’s pad where I crash sometimes, there’s like six dudes living there, and one of them had this babe he was kpanshing. Now if you look at his girlfriend, who is so very pretty, and look at this girl that he was with ehn, you might have felt like flogging him within an inch of his life.

I couldn’t understand it. I still don’t. So, I asked for the opinions of a few guys that I felt are very different individuals so I’d get different opinions. Here’s what they had to say.


I’d have to say it’s sex and ‘fitness for purpose’. A man wants sex and not much else. She doesn’t need to be smart or pretty or witty. If she has the equipment and is willing to play her role, she is then ‘fit for purpose’. If I wanted a wife I’d be more discerning than I would if I needed an itch scratched with no drama on the regular.


Some men  cheat because the other girl gives them something in bed they don’t get from the main girl. I know someone who was cheatin with a butt ugly chic because his fine girlfriend would not give head. Usually when the side chic is not as fine, either her sex game’s wicked, or her cooking’s amazeballs or she treats him like the center of her world. What man doesn’t like his ego massaged?


I think it’s debatable to say the side chic is almost always not as hot as the wife/girlfriend. I have dated/set P with chicks that could stand close to my wife in comparison but at the same time, I have set P with others that couldn’t even be in the same room and I think in these cases, what comes to mind is that sex at that point is not about physical looks but appeal. The possibility of thinking of banging a chick and making it happen can be overwhelming, hence one tends to overlook other things that one would typically pay attention to when considering a more long term relationship…


The 80-20 rule. There’s nothing like a 100. It’s a myth created by men who haven’t had sex in ages & are trying really hard to get one lady in the sack. A man would usually go for a woman with 80% of what he desires in a woman. The one with the 20%, he will try to keep around to fulfill his selfish desires. Usually these 20’s aren’t that sexually-attractive when compared to the 80’s but there’s always something that the 20’s have and the 80’s don’t have. The will to submit. A 20 knows she doesn’t have us but is willing to stick around because of her willingness to submit to our needs. An 80, on the other, feels too comfortable so she would let some things slide since after she has us. At the end, we, men, would stray away & get that 20. And cheating is born. “Never stone a stray dog without asking where the master is”


I suppose because it’s easier to go for a 6 than an 8. It depends on what the girlfriend is not providing for them. If it’s just sex, then they find someone willing to provide it. She doesn’t have to be a beauty queen. In fact, having a side chick that’s not as beautiful as the girlfriend makes it easy to break away when the time comes/when the girlfriend resumes her duties. If the side chick was prettier than the girlfriend, then she would be a replacement for the girlfriend, not a back-up player. So guys that cheat as a means of getting a new girlfriend, usually go for someone prettier. Guys that just want extra action, go for lower. 

Okay. So I think I understand.

  1. Sometimes it’s just about the sex.
  2. Sometimes it’s just much less stress.
  3. Sometimes, the ugly chic may be giving the guy stuff that he’s not going to get from the main chic.
Alright. Now even though I understand all that, I still think there’s something odd about it. I mean, I’m a proud dude. Every dude usually wants to be able to go out with his woman and know that every guy is wondering how he landed a girlfriend that hot (at least I think so). So why shouldn’t the same thing apply to the side kpansh?
I hoped y’all would be able to give me a few more opinions and all so, ladies, fellas, let’s talk.
Shouldn’t a side chic be, at the very least, nearly as hot as the main chic?

All About Outer Beauty

“I believe beauty is invested in the soul within, and not in the hues with which God may choose to paint your skin.”
These are some of the many beautiful words Jimi said to me in our many conversations. Conversations that would go on for hours and hours as we learned the intricate details of each other’s very existence.
I loved talking to him. Smart, witty, charming … he was everything I’ve never had in a man.
We started chatting two months ago, after I put up that post on my blog. He followed me on Twitter, said he liked the way my mind worked. Well, I followed back. The DM’s began, and very soon it transcended to phone calls. No, I do not use a Blackberry. I find the constant BBM thing annoyingly impersonal and frankly, I can’t afford the 5k per month & I’m not a fine girl so there’s no maga lined up waiting to pay for me.
Yes. I said it. I’m not good looking at all. I may have a good body, slim waist, round behind & nicely shaped breasts, but I found early in life, that it’s not enough to make any guy wanna look at me. And the ones that do, don’t want to be seen in public with me. Don’t worry, I know. And I’ve accepted it. I don’t bother with the “created in God’s image” crap that everyone spews. I don’t want to believe God has a face that never inspires any other sexual position besides “doggy”.
But Jimi was different. He said he loved my mind. He said he didn’t care how I look. I tried to warn him, but he kept saying he wouldn’t focus on outer beauty. He refused to let me send him my pictures. He said he’d “rather let your voice and your written words paint a portrait on the canvas of my imagination”
*sigh* such beautiful words…
We decided to meet, after like 3 weeks of talking everyday. We made plans to catch up at E-Center, and then go to a bar somewhere close. He said he looked forward to it… so did I. Finally, someone who wouldn’t be ashamed to be with me.
The day came, I did the best I could to look really good (fat chance), and set out to meet him…
I got to E-Center, sent him a text.
Me: “sorry I’m late. Just got here, where are you?
Him: “I’m on the cinema floor with a friend. Come up 🙂
Me:“Okay, what’re you wearing?… so I know who I’m looking for.”
Him: “Red & blue T-shirt, black jeans.”
I saw him immediately I got up. Casually good looking, tall, nice body, amazing smile… I walked around so I could come up behind him. I heard him talking with his friend… that voice! The voice that had kept me awake for so many nights…
I tapped his shoulder. He turned around…
“Hi, Jimi. I’m Rolake.” I said with a smile.
The smile left his eyes. Replaced by… shock, dawning recognition…and, as he looked at his friend, embarrassment.
“Jimi? Rolake? We spoke on the phone? I just texted you?” I said …wondering what was going on.
And then he said it; “Sorry, I don’t think I know you…”
Nothing could have prepared me for this. “Jimi how can you not know me? Abi, isn’t your name Jimi?” I asked him with obvious confusion on my face. He looked at me, & I could see the shame on his face as he said “Yeah, I’m Jimi. But I really don’t know you. Maybe you havr the wrong Jimi. Sorry, we’re late for our movie. Tony let’s go.”
And he turned and left me standing there.
He sent me a text 5 minutes later, with only two words; “I’m sorry.
I never heard from him again.

A lot of times, my friends and I have joked about meeting a girl for thw first time, and she wasn’t good looking, we’d form not knowing her. I thought about that recently, and the sheer superficiality of it worried me. So this, this is the possibility of how the shoe might feel on the other foot.
So what do you think about all this? Rolake, Jimi? Share your comments, and if you have any similar experiences you wanna share, please do.
Have a good weekend people.

Posted from WordPress for Android®

It Was the Househelp

“Shhh! No make noise. You know say your papa dey house.”
She took her hand off his mouth after she was sure he wouldn’t make noise. She’d startled him when she tapped him to wake up.
She sat down on his bed, giving him this odd smile that his eight year old mind couldn’t possibly understand.
Anwuli had come to the house three weeks ago after Tayo, the last househelp, had left…to get married…that’s what mummy said… Tayo had taken care of him since he was two years old. So getting used to Anwuli had been a bit difficult.
But Anwuli was nice to him. She always added an extra piece of meat in his plate when his mother wasn’t looking…and she didn’t tell his daddy that he was watching TV when he was supposed to be doing his homework. And she was very friendly too. All the male househelps and the guards in the neighborhood were always coming to say hi to her when his parents were not at home. And they would all play together when he got back from school. There was always one man or the other in the house when he got back. Sometimes they would look sad when he came in, he never understood why.
But he liked her. She was his Aunty Anwuli.
That evening, after dinner, she told him he didn’t have to help her wash the plates. That he could go watch TV a little before he went to bed. Then she gave him some biscuits before he went upstairs to sleep.
There was still sleep in his eyes when she untied her wraper. He thought maybe she’d dropped it by mistake again, like she did last week when he walked past her bathroom as she was coming out. So he turned his face.
“Rogba why you dey turn face? Look me joh.” She giggled. So he turned. She had big breasts, and a lot of hair between her legs. How come he didn’t have any hair down there?
“Rogba, shey you go fit help me? My body don dey do me one kind since morning. I just want make you help me do some things.”
“Ehm, Aunty Anwuli I don’t know… I’m tired…”
“Rogba so you no wan help me abi? Me wey I give you biscuit this night when your mama talk say make you no take…”
Well… she was always nice to him so… “Okay Aunty…” she smiled again. “You be good boy. Oya. This my breast don dey pain me since morning. Help me rub am.” He wasn’t so sure he liked touching her like that but well, she needed his help. “Harder na…you be strong boy. Ehen! Ehen… pinch am for here…use your two hands.” He looked up at her. She had a big smile on her face, so he continued.
“Oya come.” She leaned closer. “Put am for your mouth.” He stopped. “But Aunty I don’t wa—” She looked at him. “I go tell your papa say na you break that plate yesterday o! Oya suck am. Bring your hand.”
She took his hand and put it in that her hairy place. It was very wet. He didn’t like it. But she was smiling as he was rubbing it…she was his Aunty Anwuli..
And then, he felt it. His “John-Thomas” (that’s what mummy said it was) started doing somehow. It was getting hard…it was painful…but it was… good… Aunty Anwuli noticed it and laughed quietly. “So you sef you like am. You be bad boy.” She reached out and started rubbing the little thing.
“Oya put your hand inside. Oya commot am. Oya put am back. Ehen. Like…like that.” He was moving his little hand in and out. Faster. She was covering her mouth and moaning. Was it paining her? He wanted to stop but she told him to continue. She was shaking. And then, her eyes rolled back in her head for a little while.
“Aunty? Are you okay?” His hand was trapped between her legs. Then she relaxed again and let him go… she got up and put her wrapper back on and rubbed his head. “Good boy. Oya go and wash ya hand and come sleep.” As she tucked him back to bed she smiled at him again. “Rogba Rogba…I go dey help you, you go dey help me ehn? Make sure you no tell your mama and papa ehn? Next time, you go lick am well well.”
She was his Aunty Anwuli, and she was nice to him. He just wanted to help her.

“That was 15 years ago. My first sexual encounter.” Rogba told his new shrink, Tracy. “And the first of many over the three years that Aunty Anwuli was with us.” Tracy looked at him with sad eyes. “Now I see why you have troubles with relationships…that was your first one. But didn’t you ever tell your parents?” He smiled bitterly. “I tried. But they were always ‘busy’ most of the times when I would help Aunty Anwuli, that would probably be out at work somewhere…” Tracy just stared at him…. “They never did find out… I was her little secret.”

So last weekend, I wrote First Date Force, dealing with rape issues. And some people said that guys never suffer through rape or abusive relationships. Now while I’ve never heard much about guys being raped (except for the odd stories of security guards raped in Queens College. Lol), I know that many boys suffer abuse as kids. I do have many friends that were abused by their househelps, kinda like I’ve written. And it really messed up their perception of how relationships and sex should be handled.
So, what’re your opinions? On lil’ boys being abused, on inattentive parents under whose noses it happens …
Please comment below, and feel free to subscribe so you get my updates as they are posted.
Happy New Month everyone.

Posted from WordPress for Android®

Things These Girls Do…


So… as everybody knows, I never complain about things until they start to vex me too much. Oya I’m vexed.

I was reading @thetoolsman’s blog post about women who show too much boob to attract guys (which I totally encourage *singing in 50pence’s voice* look luv I’ll give you 5h it you let me see your jugs), & about women who show ass crack (which absolutely disgusts me *ugh* I have class you know)

Anyways, so I wondered to myself, what other stupid things do women do these days that they think is sexy but is just retarded.

I thought it would take a while to find, but as I looked at the avatar of a new follower, I saw it.

This babe took a pic in the bathroom of some club looking like Amy  Winehouse surrounded by 4 empty bottles of Premium Whytes & Mackey. And the girl was pouting!

Yes. She was doing like somebody was forcing her to kiss transformer.

And I just have to wonder to myself. When did this pouting thing become legalized by the tri-state consortium of Heffers, Skanks & Blackberry Babes as their global “peace” sign. Cos it looks like somebody’s splitting their lips apart with two fingers…

Okay wait, that came out wrong.

No …wait…so did that….shet.

O…! Grow up joh!


I really don’t get it o. I don’t even know who the babe that started this pouting picture is. I’m sure it’s Nikki Minaj. She should be tried for war crimes against mankind.

Because I think I speak for myself and the rest of the men that I know, then I believe I can tell you that it is very disgusting!

It’s as irritating as babes that expose ass crack all over the place.

But I may be wrong. Some guys may think that a girl looking like Angelina Jolie on crystal meth is sexy. Good for them. But this is my opinion sha.

(Ladies please don’t kill me for this though. Remember you love me ❤ )

& as if it wasn’t bad enough that she looked like she’d been frenching SpongeBob SquarePants, she was taking it in a club bathroom.

I don’t get, is a picture of themselves in a club bathroom, among womenfolk, now the equivalent a picture of boys popping bottles in the club?

Why do they do this? Is it that they can’t afford photography studios, so they create the studio effect with the bathroom walls?

I’m getting a lil sick of it o.

Abi, am I the only one? You tell me.

Posted via Blogaway on my Android® Device.