Hello World

Hello World! It’s 4:04 am here in Nigeria and I just feel like writing something. I know what you’re thinking, ‘Are you not meant to be fast asleep to get up early for work tomorrow?’ But hey, guess what? I’m already up for work! Actually, light out woke me up (the heat, unfathomable).

So I just took a shower 🚿 and maybe I’d sleep some more before work. But that’s risky. What if I wake late in the morning? I can already hear my boss shoving his words down my throat (by the way I hate the word boss).

You know I’d have stories before the day ends, right? I always think in stories. Life itself is a stage of stories. Remind me where I heard this quote:

When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.”

Lagos is a grand stage of fools then. The drama is just breathtaking. From boarding the bus early in the morning to coming back in unimaginable traffic in the evening. The passenger that won’t stop quarrelling with the conductor. The hawkers on the streets. The mother with her two kids about to cross the road (this reminds me of my upbringing). The bike men always too close to moving cars. The pothole riddled road. The pressure to keep to time. The noise. The music.

They say Lagos is a megacity, a metropolis, and they are right. I have a saying, if Lagos doesn’t inspire you as a writer then just watch 1000 ways to die.

Phew! It’s 4:21, a mosquito just buzzed in my ear. I hate those bloodsucking motherfuckers.

Good morning, all. Have a breathtaking Monday!


Hi again

Hello guys, I’m back again.

You know there’s something about writing that eases tensions in the body. I mean, writing doesn’t always have to be grand stories and whatnot. What if I just write how I feel, like a journal?


Quick question: have you ever thought about the shape of paragraphs? Do you think there might be some hidden meaning to them? Look at my ‘Anyways…’ up there and compare it with the ones before, it’s kinda lonely, like it needs friends around. But I don’t care, anyways.

So let’s tell each other a story.

There’s a girl, on her bed right now. It’s dark, somewhere on the planet, like here in Nigeria. She’s not so happy, no specific reason though. She’s on her phone, of course, I mean, what else would she be doing. She’s hoping for love, for something deeper than the mundanity of life. She longs for more, whatever more means, anything but this, her life. Not that her life is so bad, but she just longs, she doesn’t even know why she longs, maybe it’s just sexy to long for things.

So back to reality. You know how I do this? I just let my heart out, feel everybody’s happiness and sorry and joy and fatigue. There’s more to people than meets the eye.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson you’d never forget!”

He whips his son over and over as he repeats the words.

“Ouch!” his son screams.

“Dad, you’re so wicked, you’re always beating me,” the son says amid the all too familiar whips.

“You dare tell me I’m wicked? You will die today. You will tell me if you have another father somewhere else.”

And the whipping continues.

That’s someone’s story up there. But as a writer I ask myself, ‘How much can I really tell if not in bits and pieces?’ Because there’s A LOT to tell. Pain, sorrow, joy, love, agony, name it. It’s all there.

If you ever wondered your place in life, just look to the evening sky and know that there’s a star up there for you. Uh… not so sure, but just follow the words.


I’m holding a knife to my neck and the universe turns the other cheek unperturbed. The universe doesn’t stop me from killing myself. I knew it! The universe doesn’t care about what happens to me, or to anyone else. Then, what’s the point of living? What are we to the universe? What does the universe really care about?

Information; the universe only cares about the information that it holds, and governs. I am information, and so is everyone else. And the job of the universe is to store information, not to interfere. But I am conscious information. I am information that knows itself. I am information that asks questions, that knows it exists.

But every day, in this mansion, in this rocking chair, on the porch, I think, breathe, eat and live with the unknowns of life. I’m seventy now and yet to reconcile with any of life’s overhyped meanings. Forty years of failed marriages, forty years of chasing money round the clock, and this is what I have to show for it – my gnarled self on a rocker; alone and lonely.

“By all means, marry…” I read somewhere, and marry I did; infact, six times. Six marriages and I couldn’t get it right.

“…If you marry a good wife you’d be happy, and if you marry a bad wife you’d become a philosopher.”

My third marriage made me a philosopher faster than a kerosene wick flames up. Amaka almost wrecked me. She just kept needing and needing until my avarice wasn’t sufficient anymore. The divorce left me with scraps. Last I heard of her, she’s dead. Still, I didn’t learn my lesson. I married three more times after. Can you blame me? In a world where man is supposedly made for woman and vice versa, can anyone really fight evolution’s call? Isn’t it so convenient, man and woman? Imagine a world of only men, or of only women. I should have known better, it’s too convenient indeed. Woman sees man as her purpose and man sees woman as his purpose, and together they somehow isolate each other’s existential quandaries. No! It’s too easy, more like a trap, I know this thanks to six failed marriages.

Enough about failed marriages, I have a knife to my neck and I’m going to do it. The universe doesn’t care and I’m getting out. I’m getting out of this misery, this Pandora’s Box, to a place I know not. I sometimes imagine, to where do people go when they die? But I’m not thinking of that right now. Here I am, as tiny as an ant on a massive blue ball, holding a sharp object to my neck, and I expect the universe to give a damn? Maybe I’m the egocentric one, the bloated sense of importance I dawned on in my money-making years has seeped its way into my era of enlightenment. So truly nothing has changed, I’m still the same old egocentric me. Now I’m really going to end it.

“Dad, what are you doing?” A frail voice in front asks.

I tilt my head up as the knife drops from my palm. It’s Diji, my first son. His son, Somto, is standing beside him. I feel terribly ashamed as I look into my grandson’s eyes. It’s as if he caught wind of what I intended to do. My son looks worried. I want to reply Diji, but shame won’t let me.

“You’re a coward, dad,” Diji says and turns around with Somto.

I fall from my rocker and burst into tears.

Journey in hail

We in the car. Mum and dad are at the front, Julia and I are behind. We are driving through a hail. The wipers are screeching against the windscreen. It feels so cold inside and a hundred times more outside. No one’s talking, we are all focused on getting to grandma’s. She hasn’t been feeling too well lately.

The car jerks suddenly and stops.

“Shit!” Dad says, “Not now, not now.”

“Just be careful, honey,” mum says as dad opens the door to check out what’s wrong.

We feel the surge of stiffening wind fill the car. I shiver. I draw Julia close so she feels less cold.

Snow is really knocking the glass, in an almost orderly fashion. I look at the glass but I can’t see through as it’s covered in mist. I clean it a bit with the sleeve of my jacket. Outside is covered in snow. I wonder how dad’s faring outside. The heater went off when the car stopped so now we’re feeling really cold.

The snow is knocking hard against the glass again. It’s getting harder. Mum looks at the glass. “What’s that?” she asks. I stare in confusion, at this rate the snow’s going to break the glass. Julia hugs me tight in fear. The gale dwindles yet again and the knocking stops.

After a few seconds, I hear three knocks at the glass, followed by a pause and then three knocks again. This can’t be snow. I peak through the glass again.

“Argh!!!” I skreak

“What’s wrong?” mum asks.

She obviously didn’t see what I saw. There was an old man with a burnt face looking back at me. His face was really messed up and his eyes were red.

Dad was making some metallic sounds at the bonnet, but now there’s no more sound.

“Mum, I think dad’s in danger.”

“What do you mean? He’s fixing the car,” she replies.

We waited, and still no sound from the bonnet.

“Two of you, wait in here, let me see what your dad’s up to,” mum says.

She steps out of the car. Minutes passed and nothing from either dad or mum. The gale has intensified.

“I’m scared,” Julia says.

I hold her tight. I too am beginning to get scared. Wind gathers around the car and jerks us up a little. A stronger force prods the car, and this time Julia and I grab our seats. An even stronger force breezes by and this time the glass shatters. Julia and I close our eyes in fear. The menace stops. We open our eyes.


The old man with the most horrible face ever is in the car, looking back at us.

Don’t look down

“Don’t look down,” the priest had told him.

Darren wondered what was down and why he couldn’t look down. He had his head to the skies, always prying. He was getting bored of looking at the skies. The priest was with him, looking up into the skies too. Sometimes they talked about what could be beyond. But the priest insisted they shouldn’t look down.

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