In my case, I have just finished watching a documentary about the dude, when I opened this account. Not because he is a serial killer but because he was never arrested or identified.

Talkisneeded:
Nicely done, with endless humour....only worked for wages then,so I can't really relate....


I sell herbs tho

It’s the 4th day of the month and here you are again, waiting for that elusive salary like it’s the final episode of your favorite TV show.

You know it’s coming—at least, you hope it is—but the suspense is killing you.

At first, you’re all smiles, even planning a small chop and drinks with friends to celebrate. Maybe you will finally buy that shawarma you’ve been eyeing or at least upgrade from Indomie to spaghetti and corned beef. Salary’s coming soon, right?

Days pass, and the optimism starts to wane.

Your bank app has become your best friend and worst enemy—you check it like it’s a spiritual exercise, hoping to see those precious figures pop up. But no, the account balance stares back at you, as empty as your Uncle promises.

You suddenly become an emergency chat buddy with your colleagues, asking every minute if they have seen alert. With the hope that maybe it’s network that’s delaying yours.

Then the subtle panic sets in.

The loan app message comes in with all the politeness of someone who knows you’re in a bind: “Just a gentle reminder, loan is due.”

The bills are piling up like dirty dishes in a bachelor’s kitchen, and you start doing the maths in your head. “If I buy only rice without meat, trek to work, and conveniently forget about data subscription, maybe—just maybe—I can stretch this last figures in my Opay”. If only they could make you the minister of budget and economic planning.

At this point you could probably write a cookbook called "101 Ways to Eat Rice: A Broke Person's Guide to Culinary Desperation."

But life isn’t cooperating.

NEPA (or whatever they’re calling themselves these days) won’t understand that you’re on a strict ‘cash-light’ diet. And the way the generator is looking at you, it’s clear it needs servicing—no excuses.

You’re now contemplating all kinds of wild ideas, like convincing the malam at the corner shop to let you pay for bread with a promissory note or seeing if you can somehow stretch one tuber of yam into breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the week. Those Whatsapp memes have finally become your reality like the one I saw this morning talking about breakfast ideas with 300 Naira.

And then it hits you…

The salary isn’t just late; it’s operating on Nigerian time. You know, the kind that makes “five minutes away” actually mean “when I finish this errand, sha.”

You start laughing, not out of joy, but that dry, resigned laughter of someone who knows that, in this country, survival na work.

Remember surviving is winning, Franklin ( or whatever your name is).

But somehow, you push through. You find small wins in the struggle, like discovering an old 500 Naira note in a pair of jeans, or turning plain rice into a gourmet meal with just pepper and salt.

You’ve got resilience in your DNA, and you know that when the salary finally decides to show face, you’ll treat yourself.

Maybe it won’t be a feast at KFC, but a chilled malt and a meat pie from the nearest Iya Friday will do.

After all, in this Naija, man must wack—even if it’s just to remind yourself that one day, you’ll look back at all this and laugh. Or cry. But probably laugh.

Because in the end, if Naija has taught you anything, it’s how to survive with a smile, even when the odds—and the bank balance—aren’t in your favor.

DeeScan:
Cunninlingus


Felatio

Na there we go see you

youngestgrad:
This Oga sabi all their names

Picture this: It’s 11 PM. You’re home alone, and you find yourself in the bathroom with your phone in full brightness and the volume on zero.

You’ve gone down yet another rabbit hole on the internet, and now you’re sitting there, wondering if what you just saw actually reflects how things go down in the real world. Maybe you've even tried to sneak in some of those moves into your own life, only to be met with baffling looks or, worse, that awkward silence that makes you question all your life choices.

Trust me, you're not alone in this. It's easy to wonder if there’s a secret manual that everyone else is reading from, but here’s the truth: a lot of what you see in porn is like trying to use a Nollywood movie as a blueprint for real life.

So, before you start feeling like the only person who hasn’t cracked the code, let’s have an honest chat about what porn has normalized that really isn’t normal at all. Because if you’re setting your expectations based on what goes down in those videos, you might be heading straight for frustration, disappointment, or a very awkward situation.

Let’s start with speed.

Not the speed of your internet that buffers just when things get interesting, but the speed at which those guys in porn move.

You might think, “Fast and furious, right?” Easy there, boss.

Think of it like cooking food, if you rush it, most times you’ll end up with something half-cooked and unappealing.

Yet, those guys like King Nasir jump straight to the main event, often without any prep or even lube.

In real life, this is like trying to start a generator without fuel, nothing good is coming out of it.

Most women will tell you that this “hit and run” approach leads to awkward or downright painful experiences, especially when they’re still figuring things out. Slow down, take your time, and for goodness’ sake, consider lube. Your partner will be grateful.

Now, let’s talk about size.

Let’s address the elephant—or should I say, the horse—in the room: huge dicks.

Listen, not every guy is built like a thoroughbred, and that’s perfectly fine. A member the size of a plantain that stays rock-hard for two hours is not only unrealistic but also unnecessary. What you’ve got is more than enough. It’s not the size of the yam, but how you pound it that matters.

This idea that you need to be carrying an anaconda to satisfy someone’s girlfriend is just one of those myths that porn has managed to normalize.

Then there’s the whole “being loud the second something touches down there” trope.

I get it, we all love Victoria Cakes and maybe her moans. But the thing is they are fake because these actresses are paid to be dramatic, but in real life, most people don’t start yelling like they’re at a bus stop because you brushed against them.

Communication is key. If your partner isn’t making noise, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed. People respond differently. The goal is to enjoy the experience, not win an award for “Best Soundtrack.”

Speaking of soundtracks, let’s talk about something that sounds as unsexy as it is: the prolapse.

Yeah, I know, it’s not a word that rolls off the tongue, but it’s important. When did turning someone’s body inside out become a thing?

It’s one of those bizarre trends that make you wonder if you’re watching a medical drama instead of something “romantic.” Prolapses are not a normal or healthy outcome of any activity. If you see that happening, it’s a big red flag—like a huge “abeg, no vex, but stop” sign.

And those acrobatic stunts?

Porn loves to show off moves that look like they require a professional coach and a safety net. Seriously, some of these positions require a physiotherapist on standby. Let’s be real—trying to mimic that can land you in the hospital instead of a happy place. Keep it simple and safe unless you’re looking to become the next headline in one of those “Weird But True” youtube channels..

Finally, let’s talk about that final move: the facial.

No, it’s not a skincare routine. Somehow, it’s become a signature ending in porn, but in reality, this isn’t something most ladies are lining up to receive.

It’s messy, sticky, and honestly, it’s just overrated. If you’re considering it, maybe have a chat first—your partner’s reaction might not be what you’re expecting, and not in a good way.

So, what’s the takeaway here?

Porn is pure entertainment like WWE, not a how-to guide. If you’re trying to recreate what you see Johhny Sins do to Mia Khalifa, you might be setting yourself up for a very awkward, uncomfortable, or even painful experience. So while Tinubu may be using one hand to destroy your financial life, don't use your hand to destroy your relationship life.

Real-life intimacy is about communication, consent, and making sure everyone is comfortable, not acrobatics, speed drills, or anything involving turning someone inside out. Leave the stunts for Tom Cruise and focus on what really matters: making sure everyone involved is having a good time.

Fahvvy:
This write up deserves a million likes...

I often envy those who got married in the 90s because navigating a relationship in 2024 is like trying to assemble IKEA furniture without the instruction manual.

You start with all the pieces laid out in front of you, thinking, "How hard can this be?" But then, just as you’re about to hammer in that last nail, you realize one leg is shorter than the others, and suddenly, you’re questioning your entire approach to love.

Take, for instance, this thing about trust issues.

Social media has turned everyone into a detective, and you’re expected to be Sherlock Holmes on steroids.

You are happily in love, scrolling through Twitter, and then—bam!—you stumble upon a Wizarab tweet that sends you spiraling. It’s one of those vague, philosophical musings about relationships that gets a thousand retweets in an hour.

He says something like, “If she’s always online but slow to reply, my guy, you’re not the only one.” And just like that, you’re side-eyeing your girlfriend every time her WhatsApp status shows “online” while your message sits unread. You know it’s probably nothing, but that tiny voice in your head whispers, “But what if…?”

Then there is this man called Agba on that same Twitter, constantly posting about the pitfalls of modern relationships.

His threads are filled with tales that make you question if you’re doing this whole relationship thing right. Agba’s got everyone paranoid, thinking their relationship is just one bad argument away from crashing and burning. It’s like walking through a minefield, with every step potentially setting off an explosive breakup. (Let’s not forget the block industry he sent everyone who disagrees with his views to.)

And you don’ me to start talking about the romance section of Nairaland.

The wild west of relationship advice.

One moment you are reading a heartwarming success story, and the next, you’re knee-deep in a thread about how to survive when your partner turns out to be a serial cheater.

Spoiler alert: They tell you to keep your options open.

All I’m saying is, that place is enough to make anyone question their relationship status.

But just as you’re trying to keep your head above water, you meet the red pill brigade led by none other than that Yellow boy on Twitter.

You know the phrases: “Maintain frame”,“Demand respect”, “Don’t be a simp” He’s selling books, courses, and even one-on-one coaching on how to be the ultimate alpha male.

But let’s be real.

Who cares? Sometimes you just want to be a regular guy who enjoys watching Netflix with his girlfriend without overthinking whether that makes you beta. Yet their voice is always in the back of your mind, whispering, “Are you being too soft?”

As if the pressure to be the perfect alpha wasn’t enough, you’re now competing in a relationship market that’s been completely skewed by Yahoo boys and hookup culture.

These “Elon Musk boys” have turned the game upside down. They have the cash to burn, flashy cars, and they’re throwing money around like it’s nothing. You know their drill “Money na water”.

Meanwhile, there is you with your 9-5, budgeting for the month on a view-once salary, wondering if you can afford to splurge on that nice dinner date. It’s hard not to feel like you’re bringing a knife to a gunfight.

But wait, there’s more.

There is You-know-who economic policies, which have made everything more expensive and everyone more anxious. Dating in this economy is like trying to plan a wedding on a shoestring budget, it’s possible, but good luck not stressing out over every little detail.

Even something as simple as buying a gift becomes a strategic decision:

“Should I go for the expensive perfume or just stick with a nice, thoughtful card? Will she think I’m cheap if I don’t go all out? But what about next month’s rent?” The anxiety is real, and it’s not just about the relationship anymore; it’s about survival. I mean who’s going to survive when fuel is 1000 Naira per liter and climbing.

But let’s not forget the joys, the moments that make all the drama worth it.

Like when you’re having one of those deep, late-night talks where you both open up about your fears and dreams, and you realize how much you really care about each other. Or when you’re walking hand in hand through a crowded street, and you catch her looking at you with that smile that says, “I’m glad you’re here.” It’s in these moments that all the worries fade away, and you remember why you’re putting in the effort.

The truth is, dating in 2024 is a rollercoaster, with its ups and downs, twists and turns. Some days you feel like you’re on top of the world, and other days you’re just trying to hold on for dear life. (Trust me, I have been there, but this time with the memecoin I bought for $2).

But in the end, it’s all part of the ride. So, you keep playing the game, learning the rules as you go, and hoping that somewhere along the way, you’ll figure out the secret to a happy, lasting relationship. Until then, you might as well enjoy the journey—after all, isn’t that what love is all about?

Melagros:
COMRADES, geo politics is somehow dirty

Somehow? It's dirtier than Tinubu"s boxers (If he have one)

drstranged:
I couldn't even read up to half of this write up. Looks like a made up story or novel writing (even a fool can tell) rather than a real stuff that happened to you. You're not even writing with the seriousness of someone who actually went through these events and who was impacted by them, so that makes the whole story lose it's appeal.
Maybe before you post another story next time, read the genuine stories of other guys who went through such experience and you'd know how to craft your words to make it real and have the attention of the reader. This write up is purely immature and unappealing. Go and learn how to write. Sorry

Thanks boss.

AmancalledGod:
This one is still learning how to write a perfect stories

Oya oya you don catch me

Julibet:


If it's not fiction, you're honestly weak.

I don register for gym bro.

jorion:
STORY FOR THE GODS...

I like women bashing when required but this is fiction.

No be fiction boss

I should be reading for next week's test, but right now I have a heavy heart that I hope will lighten after writing this.

I suffered my first heartbreak as a young boy 2 years ago.

You know how it is - that first love hits you like a bowl of too-spicy pepper soup. But just as I was finally able to eat without thinking of her, another virgin girl decided to play a game of table tennis with my heart.

It happened on a family vacation, of all places.

The girl who made my heart do the shaku shaku without any music. We connected faster than Lagosians running to catch the last danfo of the night.

It was all innocent stuff, mind you - just hand-holding and the occasional peck that left me feeling like I had won the lottery.

We kept in touch over the years, meeting up whenever we could.

Each goodbye felt like watching Nigeria lose a football match in the 90th minute.

Fast forward to last week, she came to visit, and hope bloomed in my chest like flowers in a garden.

I took her to a house party, thinking this was it - our time to shine. We were closer than bread and butter all night.

But then, she vanished.

I assumed she had fallen asleep in the basement - a place more mysterious and inaccessible than our president’s promise. I ended up passing out on a couch upstairs, dreaming of our future together.

Little did I know, my uncle - who was more like a brother to me, with only a 7-year age gap - was about to sub in for me.

They slept together that night, and she lost her virginity.

Now, let me paint you a picture of my luck with the ladies.

Remember that first girlfriend I mentioned? Well, she lost her virginity to my friend at the time - while we were still dating.

And where did this betrayal happen? In the spare room right next to my bedroom. I heard everything - a free audio drama I never asked for.

If my love life were a movie, it'd be titled "How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds" or "No Room for the Backup Striker". Trust issues? I have got more of those than there are potholes on Nigeria roads.

But don't worry about me, oh. As we say in Nigeria, "No condition is permanent."

Who knows? Maybe one day I'll write a bestseller: "How to Lose Your Girlfriend to Your Uncle and Other Party Tricks." Until then, I'll be here, guarding my heart more carefully than a Nigerian mother guards her special pot of chicken.

So, to all you virgin-seeking vigilantes out there, I say this: Maybe it's time to update your search preferences.

After all, in this game of love, experience often trumps innocence. And who knows? While you're busy playing guardian to a virtue that was never yours to protect, you might miss out on a connection more genuine than a... well, more genuine than my uncle's sudden interest in basement exploration

I wanted Tinubu to fail so I could tell his voters, "I told you so."

But let's be real

You don't even need a microscope to see that Tinubu would fail at Aso Rock. It was as obvious as an elephant in a china shop.

Unless, of course, you've been blinded by the cloaks of tribalism. I'm looking at you, Yoruba ronus - feeling like oponus yet?

At least now you can see with your own eyes how your kinsman is treating the country like a toddler with a new PlayStation - button-mashing included.

Maybe Yorubas buy fuel at 50% off? If so, where's the discount code? Is it "Bat Signal"

Because last I checked, we're all first-class passengers on this Titanic of a nation.

Then there are those who played the religion card: The Muslim-Muslim ticket.

As if Tinubu will go round mosques on Fridays, handing out bags of rice like some political Santa Claus. Now the ticket is beginning to resemble a sportybet slip (shout out to the "Stake 100 Naira to win 50 Million" gang) that cut on the very first game.

The worst part of this whole mess?

Come 2027, when the next election rolls around, the likely winner is none other than... *drumroll please*... Mr. Tinubu himself.

Why? Because he's not about to fold his hands and watch anyone snatch power from him. After all, He is the “Emilokan 1 of Nigerialand”. After all, he's not pulling a Jonathan. And after all, why the heck not?

The saddest part? There will still be some people - blinded by religion and tribe again - who will thumbprint for him because not even artificial intelligence can help their human stupidity.

He knew this last year. He knows this come 2027. And he'll ride this wave again, dividing a country that's already more fractured than a dropped mirror.

So buckle up, the Nigerian political circus is in town, and the show must go on.

tivity101:
Try ask your neighbors if they ever saw you come out of your apartment that Saturday . They should be able to say something about it.

Your story is truly weird sha

As I no get neighbour nko?

Coolsat:
God knows I can't tolerate a spoilt brat as wife all in the name of marriage. I no kuku see seperation as anything. If you ain't making me happy then make everybody dy go . Will not live my life in agony to please any daughter of eve

She is the LOML. I fight for fuel during the day; I fight for love in the night and I fight demons in my dreams.

Mood11:
Frustrate her back

Na my next move be that.

Sonnobax15:

Op, are you a novelist?

Cuz how can someone whose wife is frustrating have the time to be constructing grammars like Patrick Obayaigbon when his mind isn't at peace?

When you don dey serious,we go know.....Cuz na warri langua you go use explain your predicament by then

Na way of life baba mi

I don’t even know who gave me the idea but I used to think marriage was like a delicious soup, a perfect mix of ingredients that, when cooked just right, becomes something greater than the sum of its parts.

Five years in…

I am starting to wonder if I have been served a plate of overcooked, burnt offerings instead.

Don't get me wrong o, I love my wife. Or at least, I'm pretty sure I still do.

It's just that lately,things with her feels like trying to hug a porcupine - painful, and leaving me wondering why I keep attempting it.

Why?

I usually drag myself through 12-hour shifts at work, working until my eyes blur, all to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.

Meanwhile, my wife stays home with our son. It should be a fair division of labor, right?

Except lately, I feel like I'm working two full-time jobs: one at my work, and another cleaning up the messes my wife leaves in her wake.

Take last week, for instance…

I came home to find my son with a nasty bump on his forehead.

Well, my wife had been scrolling through TikTok videos while he climbed onto the kitchen counter and took a dive onto the tile floor.

When I suggested maybe she could pay a bit more attention, you'd think I'd accused her of trying to sacrifice our child to Moremi.

"Are you saying I'm a bad mother?" "Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch a toddler every second of every day?" she shouted at me like my manager at work.

I suggested it might be easier if she spent less time debating BBN housemates with her Twitter friends and more time, oh I don't know, actually watching our son. But I have learned that logic and my wife go together about as well as garri and palm oil.

Then there was the great stovetop incident of last month.

I came home to find the kitchen filled with smoke, my wife fanning at our glass-top stove with a dishcloth.

You won’t have guessed what happened.

Apparently, she decided to cook vegetables directly on the stovetop. No pot. No pan. Just leaves sizzling away on the glass surface.

"I was trying a new recipe!" she protested when I asked what in the name of the gods she was thinking. "The blog said to cook the vegetables on high heat!"

I took a deep breath like a supervisor when he had just finished listening to a terrible project defense, channeling the patience of a thousand ancestors. "Sweetheart," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "when recipes say that, they generally assume you're using some kind of cookware."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you calling me stupid?"

And there it was.

The minefield I step into every time I try to address these... let's call them quirks. Any suggestion, no matter how gently phrased, is met with defensiveness sharper than my mother's best paring knife.

More often than not, I find myself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling fan as it whirs above us.

I think about the bright-eyed girl I fell in love with, the one whose laugh could light up a room. I wonder where she went, and when she was replaced by this doppelganger who seems to view me as her personal enemy.

Some days, I feel the love I have for her slipping away, like sand through an hourglass.

I catch myself daydreaming about a life where I don't have to constantly be on guard like Arsenal supporters trying to defend why they have never won the UCL.

Where I can come home and relax instead of wondering what new disaster awaits me.

But then my son will come up to me, arms outstretched, babbling "Daddy!" And I'll see my wife eyes in his face, her smile on his lips.

In those moments, I remember why I fell in love with her in the first place.

She called earlier today, her voice tight with that usual tone that always spells trouble. "We need to talk," she said.

Those four words hang in the air as I write this on my laptop.

I know for sure when I get home that I will sit in the car for a long moment, gathering my courage. Whatever awaits me behind that door, I know it will test the very foundations of our marriage.

MIRACULOUS123:
Funny but true
This fact is about men generally because a lady even without going to school will still have a good life and stand a chance to enjoy life better than a male graduate.
I don't know why nature is not really favourable to us,it's unfair.

Life don dey lead man 3 - 0 from birth.

Life as a Nigerian youth is an endless rollercoaster. There are rare ups and many downs. But you have just spent 7 years on a 5-year course. Maybe you are still gathering money for clearance, or maybe you are ready to go and serve your fatherland. But you took time to look back to when it all started.

100L: You applied for Medicine and miraculously saw yourself in the Physics department. But you accepted and hoped you could change to medicine in 200L. Somehow, your CGPA isn't even enough to flash a GLO number.

So you gave up and believed you could work anywhere as they told you during orientation week. Who needs to save lives when you can calculate the velocity of your dreams crashing down? You brush everything off and believe destiny has something in store for you.

200L: Now you are fully in the system. Although you still dress like a 100L student, at least you now have your lecture theatres. Big win. But the lecture's stress is hanging on your neck as if they put Zuma rock on your head. Good news! You can now start nursing the idea of running the package of that 100L babe in your hostel (hopefully she is not in the medicine department).

But how can you crush on someone that 500L big boys are also after? You are there with your 20K monthly allowance from your parents, which they will send in two installments after you have begged them as if you gave birth to yourself.

It's not their fault, it's the economy. You sit down. You think about your life. You know something has to change. But then you receive a mail from the school telling you to go on an emergency holiday for 2 weeks. What you didn't know is that the holiday was a Trojan horse for a 6-month strike.

300L: You finally resumed 300L after spending 5 years already on campus without any carryover. Time flies when you're having fun... or just trying to survive.

But "Tani mo Fe so story Aye mi fun" rings in your head. Anyway, you have two battles to fight. Your pocket and your CGPA - both equally empty. You bother less about your CGPA because those that finished with first class in your discipline are busy working in the financial sector as POS agents.

So you are determined to get your money up. First thought is yahoo. Because your guys that started yahoo in 200L are now changing girls like their underwear while eating at the biggest restaurant every day. Their sound system is always louder at night for some behind-closed-door sessions. While the nightly lullaby of their generator gives you tinnitus. So you start rubbing minds with them on how to get some "toro kobo" from gift cards. But not long after, you discover it's soap they are bathing. "Your mind cannot touch ground". But life goes on.

400L: Your final year is finally here. The year they told you is the easiest, but it's actually the most expensive. Research projects. FYB. Girlfriend(s). The billings never stop coming for your jugular. So you press some buttons like your yahoo friends have taught and cash out little Nnamdi Azikiwe's paper to sort out one or two. Modern problems require modern solutions, right?

What's more? You can see the finish line in front of you but it's finally dawned on you that there is really nothing after the line. You are about to join the millions of graduates who wake up in the morning to troll on Twitter because what else can they do?

They have done everything society said they should do, but society has now ignored them after getting the certificate. In return, the government wastes away their futures one election at a time. But hey, you still have the NYSC bridge to cross. And you can at least use the 33k allowance to survive for at least......12 hours.

So here you are, seven years older, questionably wiser, with a degree you never asked for and a future as uncertain as NEPA's power supply.

jaephoenix:

Do have evidence of his existence?

I'm not for or against the notion. Read carefully again, this time with a full stomach.

ElRapido:
God doesn't exist. Simple.

Enjoy

Imagine this: It's 2 AM, I’m curled under my duvet scrolling through Twitter like there's no bill to pay. But amidst the sea of memes and funny clips, I saw the ultimate late-night question: "Does God exist?" Great! Sleep? Who needs it? I'm now fully awake, my brain shifting from "mindless scroll" to "deep kassala".

So here we are, you and me, about to explore the debate that has kept philosophers up at night since we first looked at the stars and wondered, "Who's running this show sef? Is it God or our politicians?"

Some people like my mother say God is real, standing firm like Zuma Rock in a rainstorm.

They are pointing at everything from quantum physics to their aunt's recovery from "village people attack," saying, "See? Na God!" They wake up every morning, look at the country, and think, "Wow, even in this economy, God dey!"

But here's the thing…

Believing in God isn't just about explaining the unexplainable, you know.

It's more about finding purpose in a world that often seems as chaotic as the Dangote VS Tinubu fight.

It's that warm, fuzzy feeling of thinking, "Ehen, maybe I'm not just here by accident after all!" It's like having Pastor Adeboye as your personal life coach, always rooting for you, even when you're just trying to decide between cooking and buying item 7 for dinner.

On the other side, we have the doubters. You will see them in abundant on Twitter.

They're scratching their heads, looking at the state of the nation, and thinking, "If God's real, He needs to call an emergency meeting with Nigeria's guardian angels."

They see floods in Lagos, kidnappings in the news, and another season of Big Brother Naija and wonder, "Is this really part of a divine plan?

Well, In a minute, you will see why (maybe) all those troubles are happening.

For these skeptics, the idea of relying on faith feels like trying to pay for boutique clothes with Monopoly money.

They are the ones in the back of the church raising their hand and asking, "But why?" to every sermon point.

And let us be honest, sometimes their questions make you wonder if they have a point. After all, if God is all-powerful, couldn't He just have destroyed the devil?

Then there are the fence-sitters, they are thinking, "Maybe God exists, maybe not. I'm just trying to be a good person and hope for the best."

It's like they're hedging their bets in the spiritual lottery, hoping they have bought tickets for Heaven.

These folks are the spiritual equivalent of that friend who refuses to pick a restaurant but vetoes all your suggestions. They are not sure about the big questions, but they are pretty certain that being kind is a good idea, just in case there's a CCTV recording all our actions.

But wait, there's more.

I had a classmate back then in secondary school, who thinks of himself as a science nerd and believe we are all just living in some advanced alien science experiment.

Imagine that! That aliens are probably watching us like a Nollywood drama, eating their space popcorn and saying, "Chai! These Naija people are more entertaining than any Netflix series!"

If this theory is true, then maybe our whole existence is just some extraterrestrial kid's science fair project. In which case, I hope we are at least getting a good grade. Though, looking at the state of my bank account sometimes, we might just have A is for God, B is for me type of project supervisor.

And then there are those who say, "If God is real, why doesn't He solve all our problems?" The way I see it is that maybe God is up there thinking, "I gave you a brain, now use it!"

It's like expecting your membership at a fancy gym to automatically give abs. At some point, you have to do some sit-ups yourself.

This perspective makes me wonder…

What if life is less about having our problems solved for us, and more about growing through the process of solving them? Maybe God, if He exists, is less of a cosmic ATM and more of a cosmic gym trainer, watching us struggle with our spiritual burpees and saying, "No pain, no gain!"

Here's something I actually find interesting.

What if this whole God debate is less about some bearded guy in the sky and more about us? You and I.

Think about it.

Let me ask you...

How does your view of God shape your life? Let's say if you believe in God, does it give you a sense of purpose, like you are starring in your own epic movie? Or does it sometimes feel like pressure, like you're constantly being watched by a divine Instagram Live?

If you don't believe in God, does it make you feel more in control of your destiny? Or does it ever leave you feeling like a lone okada rider in the vast, indifferent ocean of Lagos traffic?

What’s more?

How much of what you believe is actually because of you, and how much is because of where and how you grew up?

If you were born in America instead of Nigeria, or in the time of our great-grandparents, would your views on God be completely different? It's like we're all playing a global game of spiritual musical chairs, and where we end up often depends on where we started.

In the end, whether you believe or not, just try to be a good person.

Because if you reach the heaven gates and God asks, "Why should I let you in?" you can't just say, "Er... because I shared all your Facebook broadcasts with my five friends?"

So, you can choose to pick any side of the argument, but remember: if God is watching us, let's give Him a good show. And if He's not... well, at least we entertained ourselves. After all, life is too short (or too long) to not find humor in the big questions.

Who knows? Maybe God has a great sense of humor like me. Maybe that's why He created Nigerian politicians. Or maybe that's why I have the ability to ponder His existence at 2 AM instead of getting a good night's sleep like sensible human beings.

You know what? Keep questioning, keep laughing (keep it moderate before you end up in Aro), and keep being kind. Because whether we are a divine creation, an accident, or an alien science experiment, we are all in this together. And that, I believe, is worth staying awake for.

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go contemplate the meaning of life... or maybe just watch some Purple Speedy videos. It's a tough choice at 3 AM.

Felicox:
So what happened with the clothes you wanted to iron? were they ironed?

obiekunie01:
Actually, it was your FRIDAY that was stolen. you had a row-reverse experience.

don't border googling 'row-reverse' google can only give you programming row-reverse.

funny enough, what happened to you is actually a kind of programing similar to that of computer programing.

Although this is fiction, but can you explain more about row reverse stuff. Can't find anything reasonable online.

I remember that Friday night like it was yesterday. Or was it the day before yesterday?

Hmm, therein lies the mystery. You see, I went to my old, rickety bed like a good, God-fearing Nigerian on that fateful Friday, dreaming of all the productive Saturday activities that lay ahead.

Laundry, presing my laptop in search of money, trolling on twitter, or maybe even squeezing in a little palm wine with the boys. I was actually looking forward to a nice, uneventful weekend, a rare moment of calm in the chaos of my life. Little did I know my Saturday was about to pull a Houdini and disappear into the abyss.

I woke up the next morning feeling...off. Something just wasn't sitting right in my spirit. It took me a minute to realize why - when I looked at the clock, it was already 10 AM.

Guess when?

On Sunday.

Ehn ehn, where the heck did my Saturday go?! I searched my phone, my room, my brain, trying to piece together what could have possibly happened.

But there was not a single trace of my existence from the previous day.

No WhatsApp messages (Not like I wasn't expecting one from my mom or girlfriend, But on a matchday, silence from the football groups? That’s as rare as someone knowing the new anthem). No Naija Twitter rants either, and not even the usual Opay ₦200 bonus for Sportybet.

It was as if that Saturday had simply been snatched from the space-time continuum, leaving me to wonder - is this some Rick and Morty elaborate prank?

At that moment, I felt a deep sense of unease all over me. Not only was I confused and disoriented, but I also felt...strangely violated.

How could an entire day just vanish like that, without a single shred of evidence? It was as if someone had broken into my life and stolen a precious piece of my time, my memories, my very identity.

For the next week, I was in a full-blown spiritual crisis, racking my brain like the FBI trying to solve a murder mystery. And yeah, my Saturday was murdered. But by who? Or by what?

Did I sleepwalk my way into an alternate dimension, where they don't even know what a weekend is?

Was I abducted by aliens for some bizarre intergalactic experiment, forced to participate in their strange mating rituals?

Or maybe I just slept for 24 hours straight, which would be an impressive feat, maybe a Guinness record. I will check for that much later.

Honestly, at this point, I have just accepted that this is just one of my life's great unsolved mysteries.

Hopefully one day the truth will come to light, or maybe the truth is that there is no truth, and that Saturday simply ceased to exist.

In a way, I have almost come to cherish this bizarre experience.

It's a reminder that the world is a strange and wonderful place, full of unexplained phenomena.

And who knows, maybe I did have a secret encounter with extraterrestrials.

If so, at least I can take comfort in the fact that they didn't dissect me or steal my organs. (At least, I can’t see any sign of that.)

They just...borrowed my Saturday. I can live with that. As long as they returned me safely, I suppose I can't complain too much. It makes for a great party trick, at least. And hey, at least I got an extra day of rest out of this Tinubu’s Nigeria.

But deep down, a part of me will always wonder what happened during that missing time.

After all, in a country like Nigeria, where anything is possible, a missing day is just another Tuesday.

AlwaysConfused:
Was it medicine you studied?

Nope

The first time I came to Lautech in 2014, I was as green as unripe plantain.

Fast forward to 2023, and I finally got my hands on that elusive degree. It took so long, I half-expected it to come with gray hair and a walking stick.

How did I spend 9 years chasing a first degree, you ask? Settle in, for this tale is as winding as the River Niger, but I promise to narrate it in the time it takes to enjoy a steaming plate of jollof rice.

Back in secondary school, my friends and I would weave grand fantasies about conquering university in four years flat. Five, at most, if the gods of academia were feeling particularly mischievous.

So there I was in 2014, perched by the window of a rickety bus bound for Ogbomosho, nodding along like a shy groom at his own wedding. In my mind's eye, I mapped out the next six years at LAUTECH: one year for Pre-degree, five for the actual degree. Oh, how naive I was, like a farmer predicting bountiful harvests before the first rains.

After wrapping up Pre-degree by the close of 2015, my calculations seemed as precise as a master tailor's measurements. Then 2016 sauntered in, bringing with it the first tremors of chaos.

Out of the blue, the school dispatched an email, suggesting we take a two-week break. A mid-semester holiday? It was as unexpected as finding ice cream in the Sahara, but not unwelcome given the academic pressure. Yet, it sprinkled confusion like suya spice, with tests looming just a week away.

Nevertheless, I packed my bags and headed home. Two weeks stretched into four, one month morphed into two, and before I could say "Naija no dey carry last," our "short break" had ballooned into an eight-month strike.

But the real storm was yet to break.

By some miracle, we returned to school, relief washing over us like cool harmattan winds, though not all of us returned as some had left for other schools. We tackled our exams and geared up for the second semester race. We heard "on your mark" and "get set," but the "go" never came. Another strike had hit, lasting as long as it takes to nurture a pregnancy to term.

This waiting game felt like being stuck in a never-moving ATM queue, watching others zoom past. The question on everyone's lips was as constant as the Nigerian hustle: "When will this strike end?"

By the time we resumed in early 2017, we had spent two years orbiting a single level, like planets trapped in an endless loop.

I recalculated my academic trajectory, clinging to hope that I could still break free by 2021. "O ba ni, ko ba je," I sighed, heavy as a yam farmer's basket at harvest time.

But if you thought that was the end of our strike saga, well, you're in for a surprise as spicy as pepper soup!

The school management, wielding their magic wand like juju priests, compressed an entire session into six months. It was as stressful as Lagos traffic at rush hour, but we had lost ground to recover.

During this whirlwind period, I stumbled into an academic pit of my own making, one that would take another year to climb out of. You see, in my department, progressing to 300L required a clean slate. One failed course, and you're held back like a footballer offside.

Unfortunately, I fumbled a PSG course in 200L second semester. Thus began my year in academic purgatory.

As 2020 dawned, bringing hope of escape from this pit, Mr. Covid came knocking louder than a town crier. The government's response? Locking everyone indoors for months.

While COVID was snatching breaths, our lecturers were quietly cooking up another strike, serving it piping hot like fresh akara.

We didn't resume until January 2021. Once again, the school brandished its magic wand, and by year's end, we had conquered 400L first semester.

At this point, calculating my graduation date seemed as futile as counting the grains of sand on Elegushi beach. I surrendered to time's fickle flow.

Remember those friends who left? Some had not only finished their degrees elsewhere but were already climbing the career ladder while I remained stuck in academic quicksand.

Just when we thought it was over, 2022 brought another six-month strike. It was getting ridiculous - I was aging faster in school than Benjamin Button.

We resumed towards the end of 2022, and mercifully, that was my final tango with ASUU strikes. I sailed through 500L uninterrupted, like a boat on calm waters.

2023 has been relatively strike-free. For how long? I can't say. But what I do know is that I've run my race, closing this chapter of my life with the resilience of a true Nigerian.

P.S. If you know anyone considering Pre-degree, advise them to bin that idea faster than you'd toss out spoiled egusi. It was a year wasted, like watching paint dry. There are better options like IJMB or JUPEB, though they cost more than designer aso-ebi.


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