A man who does not read

A man who does not read
Is not just an empty head
When he is called upon to lead
He is just as good as dead

A man who cannot read
Is just that car without wheels!
Hardly ever, will he succeed
Cos’ he can’t move an inch

To the mind, Reading is
What watering is to the plant…
If a man must grow to ‘bliss’
It is with what he has learnt

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A Tang of Misfortune

Read an excerpt from my recently completed book: THE UNDERGRADUATE It's fiction. It's adventure. It's for you. Drop your comments and be honest please. I'd hope you enjoyed the story!

A Tang of Misfortune

QUARTER PAST FOUR in the evening and Mirabel Adams still waited, and waited in vain. Marvin Chuks, her boyfriend would not just appear. For weeks now, he didn’t call—and wasn’t bothered at all. He has become a lying mirror; he was hiding in the shadow of his excuses and would readily reject her calls, each time she dialed him. This overwhelmed the girl as she hovered in a downbeat feeling. Barely two days ago, Marvin had sent a message to her and it confirmed her suspicion:

Mimi, I’d understand if you stay on your own. Stop calling me. Stop seeing me. Please! I’d love to be alone.

At first she couldn’t accept those words, and the very notion behind the voice. It was a terrible, powerful twinge; one she felt like a deep knife thrust in her delicate skin. She rapidly started to have a misgiving that she had somehow, someway, wronged him. She, however, couldn’t trace any fossil connecting to his outlandishness.

Mirabel sat still, of course like a statue as an hour passed in the wheel of desperation before her keen eyes. There were no signs of Marvin’s footprints. She looked around her and saw other girls relishing with their guys. The smiles on their faces prickled her. So she lost composure but managed to keep tears from rolling after she remembered that she was in a place filled with prying eyes—they called it the ‘gossip centre’ or ‘love garden’. Many stories from here made headlines in the campus tabloid.

As she waited, her patience narrowed. Mirabel then realized it was hopeless to wait further. He will not come—she thoughtfully inferred and glanced at her wristwatch. It was getting late. She then picked her handbag and left the place with a touch of anguish. Her heart was wandering in sick thoughts. Her room now was the next place in her mind. She really needed rest.

On her way to her room, Mirabel suddenly stopped, poised and in outrage shock, as tons of adrenalin rushed through her spine. She sighted Marvin at a distance, flanked by two girls with his arms around them. They were staggering and rollicking in laughter. Quickly she averted her eyes and went in another direction. She could perceive the strong smell of bile discharge within her. Her eyes glinted in vicious demand for explanation as the feeling to meet and harass him lingered. “What!” She screamed to herself, perhaps as a wolf howling from the middle of a thick forest. The pills were so hard that with the bitterness in her heart, jealousy now crept. Marvin was daring her—she thought again.

No sooner did she arrive in the hostel room, than her phone began to ring. Mirabel’s heart fluttered. Reluctantly she dipped her hand into the bag she was carrying and shuffled. She produced her phone and touched the screen. In response, a message popped and displayed:

First semester results are out. Come to the faculty and check.

She read this with restiveness. Her course mates had been notified too. At once, she darted to her faculty to verify the information. When she got there, she found many students gathered in front of a wide notice board. There was a great noise and eager pushing. Not minding she waded in. She clutched tightly her bag against her side and snaked her way to the front. Her breath was heavy. Mirabel traced her registration number and memorized her grades. Thrusting back into the crowd, she came out sweating like a marathon runner. Just then she wiped her face with a white handkerchief and feigned a brief smile. Lowering her head in dismay, the girl quietly walked out of the scene.

Mirabel took very quick steps along a long corridor that linked offices; she avoided colliding with the people she passed and brushed aside their greetings. She was panting seriously. Down a spiral staircase, she found the exit of the faculty building and continued in haste. A few distance away from the building someone called her name. It was from behind her. The voice was subtle though compelling. She almost turned but increased her steps and marched on straight like a robot. She was not in the mood to speak to anyone. She paced and paced faster. The footsteps behind her persisted and trailed her by inches. She could now sense a shadow from the corner of her eyes. Just then a warm pat fell on her right shoulder.

“Hello”, a handsome guy warmly greeted in Kiswahili, the main language in Kenya. Jambo was the word he uttered. He stretched out his hand for a handshake.

Mirabel abruptly turned around. She looked startled. She saw the dark smiling guy and his well-aligned large sparkling teeth. Then she smiled back, because she knew him. He had proposed to her some days ago and told her his name is Nicholas; Nick for short.

“Hi”, she responded, quite disturbed by the towering height of the slim guy. They shook hands and Nick tried to broach as he rubbed his palms together, “I have come to—”

“I know”, Mirabel interjected. “I haven’t made up my mind. We shall talk later—”

“But…wait…but”, he stammered, an inclination she had noticed before whilst he was expressing his affection for her. She wondered if he had any impediment in speech.

“We can meet some other time”, Mirabel impatiently ended and walked on. The guy followed her pleading, “Mimi, please fulfill my desires. Show me the colour of your heart. Reassure me. My feelings are decent. Nakupenda sana!” He raised his eyebrows.

She turned and crossly faced him. She didn’t like it that Nick chipped in words she didn’t understand to express himself. But Nakupenda Sana equaled I love you so much. He was Kenyan and the ilk that barely spoke English without adding a smattering of Swahili or the local ‘sheng’. The girl could not understand as it irked her.

“Let me be!” She shouted on him. “You can’t have me. Don’t you understand?”

Nick recoiled noticing the flash of anger and frustration in her eyes. Something must be wrong—he thought. The first time he met her, she was the cheering, sweet girl he has ever experienced. It shocked him more when Mirabel narrowed her eyes and glared, “Don’t you ever, ever, and ever—”, she stressed, pointing a warning finger at him, “accost me like that again.” An obnoxious hiss and she walked out on him.

The guy refrained and whiffed out a helpless sigh. He then shrugged and muttered to himself: “It takes a brave heart to save a weak one. I shall not love in vain.”

This is just a small part of the novel...Just say something. Thanks for reading! God bless you

Who will marry my mother? part 1

Hello, it's been a long time...i was...um...recuperating.
I have a tonic for you today--an excerpt from my 'diary of words'...

short-story @Naijamatta

“How can I not take?” I murmur to my friend, my brother who cannot stop gawking at me. There is a great disbelief in his eyes. I just reveal to him that I have bargained with Chief Ogobe, the reigning politician of our miserable little village. Twenty kegs of palm wine plus a farmland is hard to refuse. I cannot stop reveling. I shall become rich after the elections. Chief Ogobe will become a senator.

We are poor in my village; we have only one school. Our chiefs are rich; their children school in big cities. The prayer of every ‘pikin’ in my miserable village is to stop chewing palm kernel. But everyone has a dream—to become a ‘politician’, someday. Mine is about to manifest. I trust Chief Ogobe!

“How can you take?” my friend challenges me in a rather fierce disposition. “If you take, who will marry my mother, our mother?”

His words push me. Often we refer to our village as our mother and a politician as her lover. There’s nothing sweet on earth they have not promised her. One certain time, a young lover pledged to give her a new life and sadly, as expected almost choked her to death while she was asleep. But our mother, like the human soul never dies!

Among my brothers in the village, I am the most learned. I have a class six certificate that looks authentic. I hid it in a cave so the rebels will not find it. They will wipe their bowels should they set eyes. But it is because of my certificate that Chief Ogobe has approached me. He wants me to convince my brothers to support him in the forthcoming elections. This is a lethal supplication. It can ignite the salvo of the rebels. Do I need worry? For the rebels are also my brothers, just that they now live at the back of our house. They will not vote even if I tell them. It is the maltreating of our mother that disgruntles them. They want her to stop dallying. They want her to marry.

What Chief Ogobe promises me will be my most valued possessions and I will not reject it. “Go and invite the others. Tell them there’s a party in my mansion and I shall reward you.” Isn’t that cool?

“It is not!” My friend retorts to my chagrin. He stammers heavily: “You are taking ‘beeyaib’ from chief”. He means ‘bribe’, a word in English that rhymes with ‘corruption’ in politics. In my village parlance, ‘soured breast milk’ is the name. It is the same carrot that enriched Chief Ogobe who was once an anointed rebel.

*some more*...soon
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We have a voice—enough is enough!

I write you this homily…

Just yesterday, I flipped through my diary and it struck my memory. I still remember—a group of primary six pupils who decided their fate with a conscious stab and uncommon resolution.

It all started with the courage of a nine years old boy. They had a teacher who was unserious, lazy and dismissive. She was dicing with their future and they knew it. This boy was the class monitor. He was not as brilliant but he wanted to learn. But then because their teacher wasn’t ready to teach them, he had to complain. First, he mentioned the problem to a few pupils in his class and they opposed him. The issue was then reported to the teacher who took immediate action. It was a day never to forget. The teacher caned the boy until he bled and sadly, the class captaincy was stripped off him.

Even so the teacher continued unabashedly in her indolence and insensitivity. She hardly explained a topic well. Infact, she concentrated more on beating than teaching. Class exercises and register were rarely marked. She didn’t supervise their notes. Corrections were not effected. And she (the teacher) received her wages.

The common entrance examination was a few months away. The little boy single-handedly decided to dare again. He was really sad and worried. Other pupils didn’t show concern. Some were afraid while the others were too playful to notice the insidious danger lurking in the path of their future. One day however, the boy bravely wrote a heartfelt letter to the headmaster of his school. When his classmates realized what he had done, they feared him and pledged solidarity. Then the headmaster confirmed that the boy had told the truth. A change was imperative!

That boy was my friend. That boy is a man now. That boy perhaps was me.  

Many Nigerians are low and depressed today; alas! Only a few can raise a hand and say, “I have a voice. Enough is enough!” The preponderance of this statistics is damning. I do not see the possibility of a greater tomorrow without a quasi-mindset from the majority, who are indeed suffering because of the greed, egoism and exploits of the clueless minority. It is pre-prandial to take action, like the primary six pupil whose determination brought about change in his class. Had he folded his arms?

In the wake of Farouk-Otedola bribery scandal, I begin to imagine if these politicians think of us as animals. They had tried to forestall the truth behind subsidy rigmarole and its shocking report. We squeezed that out. Now they have averted the prosecution of the cabal who are mercilessly impoverishing the nation.

However, I refuse to chide them further. Remember this is just a homily. It is me who is to be blamed. It is you who have sealed your loudmouth for fear that General Abacha is still alive. It is us—who have let another man call our wives prostitutes to our face. I pity us. Things are happening—strange things. This is more serious than a Jet Li’s movie. The ungodly and their power struggle?—they will ruin us more. Their infatuation with corruption and wanton gluttony are well targeted and defined in depleting our hopes of a better future…so that their children can ‘chop’ without ‘work’ and then ours will ‘work’ and not ‘chop’. #GodForbid! Our family shall not depend on palm kernel.

We have a voice—enough is enough! This is the only power we can generate from our minds. It would be a masterstroke if we go for their jugulars and set our minds against these so called ‘Political juggernauts’ that have infested on our economy. We could achieved what @ekekee.com has termed ‘Intellectual Revolution…A Synergy of great Minds!” or recite some pro-change verses from ‘the Book of Revolution’ @ Omojuwa.com.

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Kashimawo--Let us wait and see...In honouring Late M.K.O Abiola

I find it hard to celebrate. Sadly, sometimes I even find it impossible to honour. But then, I cannot dishonour?—may the gods of democracy forbid!

An ideal scenario…

Once upon a time, a powerful king coveted the wife of his most loyal servant and boasted, “I am the king—I take what I want.”

Days later, the servant rebelled against the king and threatened that unless his wife was returned to him; he would go maniac. The king rebuked this servant and forthwith, sentenced him to death. Shockingly, the other servants in the royal household stood out in solidarity and condemned the king’s decision. Obviously, he had done wrong. He admitted and ordered the release of his most loyal servant. But then, he refused to fulfill a second promise—to return the woman he had coveted. Fearing that his servants would protest again, the king forestalled and murdered all of them. The pursuit for justice was thus, defeated. Forever?—let us wait and see!

As activists, civil societies, the Nigerian government and south-west states remember M.K.O Abiola; I join them as an advocate for democracy but exempt myself from any sort of relish. (I will not taste wine today.) Let us wait and see!

I wouldn’t go through the rigmarole of saying all that pertains to June 12. No doubt, it is the day to honour because Nigeria recorded in its book of chequered history, the freest and fairest election so far. Some of us witnessed the unprecedented response to ballot and love for democracy on that day. When again will people gather en masse, put aside their ethnic inhibitions and religious bigotries to decide the fate of this nation? Will there ever be another election modeled on June 12’s. Let us wait and see!

The annulment of that historic election remains an embarrassing slap on the face of democracy. It has staggered our hope. June 12 ought to be a symbolism of hope—but one man’s tragic hand changed everything. Had Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida fulfilled the promise, Nigeria could possibly be in the manifold of brighter lights now.    

But then, we will wait and see. Who knows tomorrow? However, nothing rules out that Abiola was like a scarecrow in the field of our greenery. Through the grapevine, I can see that June 12 is the day corrupt leaders and enemies of democracy dread. Let us wait and see! A greater honour could be done to M.K.O Abiola’s heroism and the labours of our heroes past.

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CLARION NOISE : Right before our eyes!

Hmmn! People of Eba Kingdom. I gong you all to arise and search for your lanterns. Behold, the largest meat in our mother’s pot has just been stolen—by the rats we allowed into our homes. We must find this meat because it behooves us. It is the meat for our children, and their own children shall bite from it as well.

Before now, we permitted bedbugs and lo!—they forced us out from our mattresses. We now sleep on hard bare floors. When the mosquitoes visited, they said they only cared for water and perhaps, coffee—they now depend on our blood. The annoying cockroaches too, and pestering flies are greedily after our foods. They relentlessly contaminate our water and have made the weakest amongst us, lepers.

I am indeed, deeply saddened. We could have averted this dire situation. Had we bore in mind that dangerous wild animals were once pets? Who could have thought that anyone could tame fire-enabled dinosaurs?

I have the National aid-memoire. Each time I look at it, I cry. It is blood-stained. I see faces of the innocent, short-lived patriots and heroes of our democracy. It is with heavy hearts that they ask, “Why? Why have we let it happen—right before our eyes?” A clan of thieves raided our homes. They raped our wives, invaded our barns and stole our yams—right before our eyes! 

But I saw it coming. I complained about Ogobe, that little boy that used to steal N5. His mother warned me to stop meddling. Now Ogobe has built an empire of triads. He has nurtured a breed of crooks and has developed a curriculum for theft and corruption. Welldone, Ogobe! You are a great pervert!

Great hunters and the few good men in our land! Are you ready to hunt for the stolen meat? While you can—wouldn’t you restore our pride and hope so that by tomorrow evening, we would be having a great meal? Would you not return the smiles on the faces of our children and prevent them from kwashiorkor? Formidable, I know—but attainable! Naijans gird up! Time don reash!

Awakening protest! 

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Diary of events - Chelsea 'versus' Bayern!

by @chelsea_nigeria

My eyes have seen. My ears have heard. The visions—prophesies; the rumours, wishes and prayers for and against Chelsea, the sleeping giant.

Let the sky fall down; let the earth quake,; and even though rapture happens—nothing will change my perceived ambience of today’s UCL fixture. A champion must emerge and lift the crown—but sweats must be spilled!   

Soccer legends, veterans, managers, aficionados and pundits—and even some rugby fans have voiced their sincere opinions about the wrestling match between Bayern Munich FC and Chelsea FC. Come 7:45pm!

There are tensions everywhere—among gamblers and passionate supporters whose limbs have trembled to numbness; whose hearts are still throbbing and more heads will fall—just to secure ambition and uphold honour. How can one predict this kind of match—a titanic battle? Oh Paul, the Octopus! May your soul rest in shattered peace!

However, Chelsea FC seemed to have grown confident, like a child once bullied. Having resurrected from slumber that has adversely punished them in the premier league and have though given them the FA cup, they are walking into the Allianz Arena, not with shoulders high, but hunched backs. With Didier Drogba and Frank Lampard starring in the megashow, Chelsea fans have their eyes on the prize without really blinking. The saying that, ‘there’s light at the end of the tunnel ‘has given them hope after dispelling Darkness AVB.

 With a doubtful squad, not underrated, the blues crushed almighty Barcelona and exulted with blithe disregard for fear facing Adolf Hitler and his army. It’s really a formidable task ahead—but then—David killed goliath—and Moses conquered Pharaoh! Is it because Pharaoh did not discover Gomez, the needle in the eye? Or Mueller—the secret agent? Engine room Schweinsteiger? Or two side mirrors, Ribery and Robben, who reflect danger? I will not analyze further! If history can repeat itself, Chelsea will win the UEFA CHAMPIONS League!   

1.The last team (Inter Milan) to knock

Barcelona out of the Champions League went
on to lift the trophy and win the competition
against Bayern Munich in the final.
2.The last time Atletico Madrid won the
Europa League, Chelsea won a Double.
3.The last English team (Manchester United) to
knock Barcelona out of the Champions
League, went on to lift the trophy and win the
competition.
4.An English team (Manchester United) has
previously won the FA Cup and gone on to
win the Champions League, beating Bayern
Munich in the final who lost the DFB Pokal
during that season.
5.The last time Manchester City won the
league title, an English team (Manchester
United) won the European Cup.
6.All Champions League finals played in
Munich produced a winner of the competition
for the first time in their history (Nottingham
Forest, Marseille and Dortmund). They all took
place in Bayern Munich’s previous home, the
Olympiastadion.
7.The last time Manchester United went
Trophyless an English Club won the
Champions League (Liverpool) and they didn't
finish in the top 4 .
8. The Champions League Finals is on 19-05
and Chelsea Football Club was founded in
1905

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