Monthly Archives: February 2018

Hot dookie

Bola panted and blew air through his mouth. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he asked his driver to reduce the temperature of the air-conditioner in the car.

“Okay sir.” His driver said as he did his bidding and switched to full blast.

The weather outside was cool but Bola was hot inside. The journey from his brother’s house to his usually took no more than thirty minutes but today just happened to be an exception.

He puffed again and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. His brother had warned him to wait till he got home before he took anything but he had waved it aside and went ahead to take the green tea.

Right now, he regretted not listening to his younger brother. His stomach rumbled and he held his breath to hold a fart. He did not want to risk farting and getting poo as a follow up to the fart.

He stretched his neck to look out for an eatery nearby. It was just a few metres away but with traffic at a standstill, it looked like a journey to eternity. He thought about walking down there but threw the idea into a bin immediately. He doubted he could make the walk. He imagined every little step he took would be like that of a woman in labour.

Tears pooled in his eyes and he gritted his teeth. He was at a loss for his next line of action.

“Jide, please look for how to get out of this traffic.” He said to his driver.

“Okay sir.”

The request to his driver was near impossible but right now, he needed a miracle.

The miracle came suddenly when an army officer got out of his car and walked down to see what was causing the bottleneck.

In two minutes, the road was cleared and traffic moved freely. As they got close to the eatery, Bola shouted; “Park here, park here.”

The driver parked and Bola jumped out of the vehicle even before it came to a halt. He ran into the eatery making a beeline for the convenience.

Ten minutes later, Bola walked out of the eatery sweating like a man who had just run a mile.

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Blood on his hands

Ikenna ran after his elder brother and pulled the trigger. “Pa pa pa.” He shouted as he pumped the bullets into him.

Blood gushed out as the bullets hit Chidi in the head. Chidi slumped and the sight of blood shocked Ikenna.
He looked at the pistol in his hand and immediately flung it away. Even though he had seen blood gush out in the movies, he hadn’t expected to see the same happen right before him.

They had played this same game many times and blood had never gushed out of his elder brother. The gun they had played with was exactly the same as the one he held a moment ago but it had never caused a flow of blood.

Confused at what was going on, he began to cry. “Mummy, mummy.” He screamed.


Adaeze was jolted out of her sleep. She had taken a brief afternoon nap and had just had a bad dream. For some reasons, she felt something was amiss. She had no idea what it was but she knew she needed to get up and attend to her sons. She was heavily pregnant for her third child and the scan had shown that she was carrying a girl. She was happy as she had decided that after this, she was done with child bearing.

The birth of her sons; Ikenna and Chidi who were four and six respectively had been traumatizing for her. She had both of them through a caesarean operation and the doctor had advised her after the birth of Ikenna to give child bearing a wide berth. When she confided in the doctor that she wanted to have one more child and try for a girl, the doctor had wondered why. But she had been adamant and told the doctor; just one last time.

Her son’s scream echoed round the house and she immediately jumped up and ran up the stairs to see what was going on. As she entered into the room, the sight before her made her knees buckle and she went down.

“Mummy.” Ikenna ran to meet his mother and fell into her arms.

Adaeze looked at her younger son and burst into tears. She crawled to where Chidi lay in a pool of blood and pulled him close. She gave a cry of anguish as she hugged her son who lay still in her arms.

How many times had she warned Nnanna about keeping a loaded gun in his room? How many times had she pleaded with him to get rid of the gun? How many times had she told him to get a safe and lock up the deadly weapon if he had to keep it in his room? How many times? How many times?

As she cried out and held her first son’s still body, the only thing on her mind was hurt, regret and sorrow.

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Road Rage

As the yellow bus maneuvered its way dangerously through the snarling Lagos traffic, the passengers shouted. “Oga driver, take am easy, abeg oh.”

The driver turned a deaf ear and continued to weave his way as he faced oncoming vehicles. He was wearing a singlet which must have been white at some point. He retrieved a dirty rag from the dashboard and wiped the sweat on his face and neck intermittently.

“Driver, no be you we dey talk to?” An elderly woman shouted from the back of the bus.

“Wetin? If you wan drive, make you come down come drive.” He shouted and sneered back at her.

“Driver, driver!!!” Another woman shouted as a trailer drove towards them from the opposite end.

The driver refused to heed the word of caution and continued to drive ahead. Screams and shouts rent the air, while other passengers cursed.

A few metres away from the trailer, the driver made a sharp turn to the right in order to make way for the trailer. As he did, he bumped into a navy blue Toyota Prado. He immediately tried to swerve back to face oncoming vehicles but the trailer was yet to have a way through. The trailer driver spew expletives at him but the driver was undeterred.

“Driver, you no see say you don jam that jeep?” The man who was seated beside the driver said.

“Go see wetin happen for dia.” The driver said to the bus conductor.

The bus conductor alighted from the bus. He shook his head as he checked the damage done to the Toyota Prado. While at it, the driver of the car came out. He was wearing a red long sleeved shirt on faded jeans trousers. The man removed the sun shades he was wearing and assessed the damage. The back door on the driver’s side had been dented and it had yellow streaks on it.

The conductor looked at the man . “Sorry sir.” He pleaded.

“Oya, oya enter bus, make we dey go.” The driver shouted at the conductor as he ignored the driver of the Toyota Prado.

“You no go look wetin happen to the car?” The man seated beside the driver asked again.

“Oga wetin be your own? Na you get the car?” The driver asked him.

“Ah…ah.” The man exclaimed as he looked at the driver in astonishment.

The trailer driver continued to curse the bus driver as they were now at a standstill. The trailer driver could not move forward as the bus was blocking his way.

The man in the Toyota Prado was quiet all through. He went towards the back of his car and opened the boot. He took out the wheel spanner from the boot and walked to the back of the bus. He swung his hand and in an instant, glass shattered. He raised his hand again, shattering the second brake light.

“Ahn…ahn…” The driver came down from the bus hurriedly. “Wetin be this nau?” He said walking towards the man.

The man moved towards the front of the bus and swung his hand shattering the right side mirror.

“Driver, sebi you say you mad. You don jam person wey mad pass you.” The elderly woman in the bus said.

The man was walking towards the other side of the bus. He was about to swing his hand again when the conductor prostrated on the floor before him. “Oga, please. E don do. Please sir. Abeg, no vex sir.”

The man looked at the conductor and nodded his head. The driver was standing at a safe distance murmuring and assessing the damage done to his bus.

The man walked back to his car and dropped the wheel spanner in the boot. He shut his boot, walked quietly to his car, eased into it and drove off while the shocked passengers, the conductor and the driver looked on.

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Cleaner Lagos?


I was passing by and I could not help it. I just had to take these pictures.

As I did, only one thought came to mind. Before the bins were stationed at these points, the locations in the pictures never had trash. In fact, those spots were places newspaper vendors sold their papers.

So what exactly is our problem? It is difficult to understand why the provision of dustbins will create such a eyesore.

Anyway, what do I know?