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Education / Re: Unizik whatsapp Group 2018/2019 post ume Date and Admission - Nnamdi Azikiwe uni by fikfaknuel(f): 7:31am On May 20, 2018
Can one get admission to study History and International Relations into UNIZIK with a D7 in Mathematics?
Celebrities / Jesse Jagz ODYSSEUS Album Review by fikfaknuel(f): 8:50am On Sep 18, 2017
I have waited about three years for this. Ever since I stumbled upon Jesse Jagz many years ago on Nobody Test Me, I was convinced this man is a certain MC, a person who says fantastic things and makes it reality. I was eargasmed into his awesomeness. Whenever I got the chance, wherever, I'd bump a song of his. Whenever any of my friends ask, 'who's that?' there's a certain triumph I feel in my chest. Jesse Jagz became the god I would always revere. When he won the Headies, I was on cloud nine. Hopefully, something will happen. He will be a unique story of artistic ingenuity and commercial success. I was partly wrong. While it is obvious that Jesse Jagz got this album completed years ago, it is tricky to note that Chocolate City, his label imprint presided by his elder brother, the legend MI Abaga might be pulling some strings behind doors. I don't like those doors! But hey! The album Odysseus is here. Let's dive in.

1. GENESIS : A sombre wailing over a spoken word about creation. Typical Jagz. He comes in immediately with a rhyme scheme that is honey on the ears. This beat is hot! There's a drum and uh uh uh uh in the background, that's heaven. This hook is soulful. He's saying 'don't wake me up'. Jagz listens to Breezy? Very likely. He's versatile like that. Gosh, this beat deserves a Grammy. Genius says it's produced by the man Jagz himself. How is this man not a god? Perfect way to start an album. The spoken word pieces carefully explores creation. And hey, Jagz can sing.

2. DIRTY FT HOT ICE : Who is Hot Ice? He sounds like an OAP who is so happy with his voice appearing on a music album. He does that thing like a DJ Khaled would. It works. The beat comes in. This is the trap of Jesse Jagz. Dirty, Dirty, being repeated. This song would sound perfect with Wizkid. Lemme just listen through to the end, I don't too like this. Okay. Hot Ice is back. He's dope sha, there's something Ghost (of SDC) in his authority, only that he's kinda fast paced. This song is more his than Jagz.

3. BEST IN YOU : Three songs in and if you know if you don't hear that 'Sex & Scotch' kinda beat and theme, it ain't Jagz. The man do likes his sex. He does a Linkin Park Ocean Drive reference here. A tribute to the late Chester Bennington? This song is that song you hear when you're half - drunk, with your friends and trying to convince a sober chick she should have sex with you. He does the Ocean Drive thing again. The sun's gonna shine on everything we do. RIP Chester Bennington.

4. ALRIGHT (Ft. Styl Plus) Hmm. Jagz. Styl Plus. They've done a song together before I'm sure. Don't remember the song. Styl Plus goes in immediately, singing with that voice that made them the soundtrack for love-me-even-though-i-am-broke boys. They're vocals are pure and flexible. It's like they never left. 9ice, go and ask them how to preserve vocals. Jagz comes in. His flow is kinda MI esque. Just a verse. Styl Plus. 'Dem talk say you go ruin my life, Dem talk say you go kill me but I showed em that you treat me right' This song is Jesse Jagz giving Styl Plus that comeback avenue. We want them back already.

5. WIDE AND BLUE : You know what is wide and blue? A sea (excluding those in Nigeria). 'I feel my spirit waking and my body aching.' Jagz is a philosopher, no questions. He says he's been forsaken. True that. Wonder by who. His fellow gods? The industry? The country? His thoughts? Jagz has been working on his hooks for sure, they're more catchy now (you see what I did?) His delivery is so sick you want to rap along to his every word even if you don't understand all he's saying. You'll probably never understand.

6. FINE n CLEAN (Ft. Cynthia Morgan) : Obviously Ragga Jagz. Coming from what I had in the previous track, you'd understand why this doesn't work in my ears. It's a decent effort. Bag Gurl Cynthia Morgan almost salvages this.

7. AWAKE : LOL. I thought this was a Ycee Juice cover. The beats are similar. This beat has the Best in You and Sex & Scotch feel. He's rhyming with O. Another steady groovy hook. Jagz surely is the greatest. This song has the potential to blow, like he said in this song. The word Destiny is frequent. Walls too. Only God knows the corporate walls Jagz has had to climb to give us this album. Good joint. It will be rocked to at a club full of intellectuals who decide to take a time off. With the proper promotion, this song will go far commercially. I just hope Jesse Jagz cares about that.

8. GHETTO YOUTH : This sound. It's Jagz sound. Then, WOW! Plot twist. This sounds like Kiss Daniel's Sin City. A remake, maybe? They both tackle the same theme, so maybe? Jagz is rapping about vices and he's dropping times (thyme). This is delicious. This is the jam your headphones was created for. This is the song that doesn't give an F. Mugees come in with that Ghana vibe and streetness. This beat is Sin City's twin. Tema. Lagos. J Town. Kingston. Respect to the ghettos. Respect to my ghetto, Ajegunle.

9. RUDE BOYS' QUARTERS : There's a funny talk between two people speaking a kind of Jamaican patois. ALMOST HUMOROUS. Beat drops in. This is the song you nod to. 'Landlord is a fucker' The closest thing to an against-the-bourgeoisie track on this album. Jagz is just going on and on, he has a lot he wants to talk about. It's a hangover. This beat will remain with you after the song.

10. VIOLATION (Ft. Burna Boy) : A song featuring Jesse Jagz and Burna titled Violation will always be straight ass murder. Final track of the album. Track begins with a gun shot. Burna Boy does his trademark long-speaking-patois shout out. This beat is sure. There's a loading of gun in the background. The flow is reserved, like a gangster who knows he can blast you and so he doesn't need to threaten with words. Burna goes in. Smooth and that voice! Burna Boy has got to be the most criminally underrated artiste of all times. Jesse Jagz flow is hurried and it works. It's a moving song, like two niggas dressed in black going on a covert mission. This song works for that scene. Jagz remind you that 'you're now rocking with the greatest, you're in the ring and you're boxing with Joe Frazier.' Burna Boy's adlibs work. He does the trademark thingy again and his voice is fading away, he refuses to let the beat go. Solid ending.

VERDICT : Jesse Jagz fourth album is an awesome effort and it was worth the wait. Most tracks on the album can be more accessible to a more mainstream audience, I wonder if that is on purpose. If it is, it's great. If it's not, Jesse Jagz is still the greatest and in this Era where refurbished music and jejune rap is hailed to the heavens, Garba Galaye Abaga is a breath of fresh air.

Early Favorites : Genesis, Wide and Blue, Violation.

Not so Early Favorites : Fine n Clean, Best in You.

Rating : 3.5/5

This review was written by Emmanuel Esomnofu.
Contact him @ emmanuelesomnofu@gmail.com
for your writing jobs.

1 Like

Sports / Re: BREAKING: Nigeria’s D’tigers Overpower Senegal, Zoom Into Afrobasket Final by fikfaknuel(f): 11:06am On Sep 16, 2017
A tiger has multiple stripes, powerful jaws and sharp teeth. Why are Nigerian national teams obsessed with powerful wild animals like tigers, eagles and falcons? Are they really intimidating anyone with these ferocious animals?

Does it mean they cannot defeat opponents without these aliases?
Can this mediocre Nigerian team beat a high school team from the U.S?

Why does international sport bodies like FIFA allow Nigeria to compete despite Nigeria being the most corrupted country in the world? I think it's high time Nigeria is banned from participating in all international sporting events.

And can you speak English better than the average American?
Literature / Re: Too Many Unfinished Stories On Nairaland!!! by fikfaknuel(f): 8:19pm On May 14, 2017
I'm not done with my stories here. I promise myself that.

Resources and Time are the major problems, and given that those who know me well know I'm a sensitive person, stuff gets to me and hinders me from writing most of the time.

However, this will soon pass. And I hope it won't be long, will I come back. I miss these stories too. I miss how the characters possess me. And I understand the pain of an unfinished story.

After thoughts :1. How many of the thousands of readers on NL will actually BUY these stories? It isn't fair to complain of mediocre writing when you aren't being supportive.

2. I'm glad you like that rusty roof of a story...who's your favorite character?

3. I don't think your post is harsh and insensitive. Writers should bleed for the craft.

4 Likes 1 Share

Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 7:22am On Mar 01, 2017
Afolabi scurried off the grasp of Omotola that evening. He didn't suggest to her the slightest but her tales of her recently departed father bored him to death.

"Na goodman him be. Him no like wahala" she said and peered out the door, her eyes wise like an old storyteller. She burst into a laughter and hit Afolabi's arm softly. "You remember when you wan marry me? Jackson been wan fight you because you no drop something."

Afolabi scratched his chin. "Jackson na that your rogue brother abi?"

"Rogue keh--Na too much igbo dey spoil him temper."

Afolabi laughed the good old laugh. Such lengths she went to defend her brother. There was a little tear in his eye when he had excused himself, or rather mischievously ran out. Bola was working with the neighbours sewing machine. Sandra was her name; Madam Sandra. Wrinkled and slow, but not old. Omotola used to detest her character then for a reason he was sure even she didn't know.

Kelana and Yekini ran into the compound holding hands, dusty feet. Their laughs warmed its way into Afolabi's heart. He heard Yekini tell Kelana : come let me show you secrets.

What were these two up to? Girlfriends already? Haa! Porn pictures? They were scarce in Ibadan but for the right price and 'good' name, you'd get some. But then, Yekini was no average teen. He seemed to live for the books.

The moon was cut into two pieces by a bony tree. The night was fresh and young and the air smelt like the top of a beautiful tap of wine. Afolabi sneered when he saw young folks and the aged even, holding hands! If it were to be in Lagos, red and white would be littered all over the streets from a week ago.

Such good weather made him want to go the pub but he had no money on him and it was on days like this he usually got drunk. The family has something good going on. His recklessness wouldn't spoil that. Yes! The idea struck him. He hadn't been a good client. Apart from the three days in a week that he taught Happiness, he never went there. He hadn't formed a trust between him and the girl. Sure, he'll keep her secret. She'll be Christian. Her father was happy with him but, he didn't know the littlest detail about her.

"Who you wan see? Class no dey today." The gateman asked popping out his head. Afolabi stole a quick glance. His wide eyes were strikingly apart and inside them swam lines of green and red. Thin nose, high cheekbones, a canoe lip. Agonizingly pink. He was a fine man.

"Happiness." With this, Afolabi shoved the gate open and entered. The house had become too common to be awesome. He delivered three quick knocks on the door and Happiness came running. She greeted him and he entered: books were scattered on the floor, her face was awash with tears. Defiant little girl, she didn't hide it.

"What is wrong?"


"What do you mean?"

"Everything is wrong."

"Not really. You are alive."

"Mother isn't. Nah--I don't even know her!"

"What else is wrong?"

"Today is Valentine."


"I have no date. I have no friends. Everybody who knows me thinks I'm a spoilt little brat."

"I don't think you are."

"Yes. You do. You are just doing your job, Mr Afolabi."

"See, see. I have a daughter like you. Defiant, strong, willful...I, I, understand you more than you think."


"I promise. I'll talk to your dad. He's up?"

"No. He's out on a gala. Politicians stuff."

"You're alone on this fine night?"


"Can I stay till tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure daddy would approve."

"He's not here! That's the point. He shouldn't neglect his daughter in search for political power."

"You are a good man, Mister Afolabi."


"Okay. What do we do?"

"I'll like to know you. Other than you are Happiness."


"Can I tell you something about me?"


"I prefer being called Ogbeni Afolabi."

Collective laughter.

"One more thing-does your phone work? As in can I call someone?"

"Sure. It's the old model but it calls at least. All phones do, don't they?"

"Well, I haven't had the time to get one since my last spoilt."

"Here." She hands a phone to him.

The line rang for a very long time before it was picked.


"Yes? Who is this?" A feminine voice sounded from the other side. Afolabi could hear the chirping of beds and the grunt of frogs.

"It's Afolabi, your neighbor."

"Haa! Afolabi--" she dropped the falsified accent. She had a fondness for him. When Omotola was out in Ogbomosho, it was Sandra who gave him food and stuff if he returned drunk. "Wetin?"

"I'm sleeping over at my employer's home."


"I want you to go tell my wife sey I go come back tomorrow."

He heard a sigh.

"You know that me and Omotola no dey see eye to eye?"

"Even if na nose to nose, I beg you, abeg!"

She laughed.


"And most importantly, assure her that I'm not drunk. Hey! I'm not drunk! I'm at an employer's home."

"Sure." The call went dead.

Afolabi turned to give Happiness the phone and there on her lips and eyes, were a smile. It made her beautiful, and her skin golden, as the sunsetesque glow of the chandelier rested on her.

"The night is long," she said, turning towards the fridge. "Juice or Gin?"

"Juice, of course!" Afolabi answered. No way he'd drink alcohol in front of her. It was an unwavering endorsement. Moreover, he'd promised Omotola that he wasn't drunk.

Happiness smiled and gave him a cold glass containing yellow liquid. He sipped on it and said : let's begin. Tell me about you.

1 Like

Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 12:11am On Feb 10, 2017
Yekini was seated over his book that Valentine evening. Kelana had gone out, Mother was somewhere nearby, in the street, watching a play staged by the youths. It was titled Roses. Mother tried very hard to convince Yekini to take up a role. Of course, he wouldn't agree to such ridiculousness: a play.

Bola went with Mother too--she wanted to visit her friend but Yekini figured she knew it was most likely she would bump into Kelana, who went to the football field in that street. Bola had been nursing a silent resent against Kelana. In the morning, when food was being served, naturally by Bola, the girl gave Kelana food from an impoverished plate, on a tray of hisses and that contemptuous look.

This cool evening however, his senses were with him. He reasoned that in one way or the other, the arrival of the fellows from The Broom Party was a reason for things colliding into each other in the family. Father's drunken humor was lost, Mother would cry to herself when it seemed nobody looked, mentioning her father's death in between sobs. Kelana had the Americana thing cut down to the barest minimum and Bola, well, was Bola. A beautiful woman for the future, a prodigy. He felt it in his soul that Bola had something huge in front of her.

He craved a bond with people, his family. Of what use is learning the unseen realities of life, and ancient wisdom, of flying tortoises, and crawling lions and palm wine spirits if he couldn't share them with someone he trusts?

He knew however, that trust was a strong word and when he conceived this idea, his first instinct was love. His love for a member of the opposite sex. Aramide was the only girl he had felt a thing towards. And he remembers quite vividly that day during the indefinite strike. He had expertly went around the house, till her elder brother was out of sight, and he went by a window and sang her a song of the spirits and she came out, and together, they eloped to a quiet place.

"You love me?" Aramide asked.

"Yes," Yekini had replied "I love you so much."

The infiltration of Yekini's hand into her bra suggested that sex was imminent but suddenly, she stopped him and ran out of the place in tears. Aramide couldn't be trusted, not if she wouldn't allow him do this little thing.

He hadn't seen her since then.
The wise eyes of Obafemi Awolowo stared at him as if asking : "What will you do?"

He got up and wore his jersey. Walking out of the house, he muttered Kelana.

The field was a huge mass of sand, stretching out far to a a well, very far place. It was a wonder that just eleven players could run to and fro in pursuit of a little ball. However, his quest for a bond had brought him here. He would later find Kelana shirtless at the east corner, where his mates played. The moment he got there, the surprise on his little brother's face was nothing compared to the fascination he had seeing how so much he'd grown, and his abs, sweat trickling down his body, he was a damn fine young man!

"I dey set oo!"
The boys were so immersed in the game that neither of them paid him as little as a glance. Later on, a boy would get tired and Yekini entered the pitch, playing alongside his brother. The plan was getting on well.

"Pass, pass!" Kelana screamed one moment when Yekini had the ball. Yekini lofted a pass onto him and Kelana skillfully controlled it with his chest, bringing it down to his feet, before riling in a good shot.

Goal! The shout of celebration reverberated round the pitch. Yekini ran over and hugged Kelana. Kelana hugged him back, and a pull, they looked into each other's eyes and found what they'd been longing for: friendship.

Walking home, they talked. Not quite as much as jolly pals but then, it was something.

"What is your favorite thing in the world?" Yekini asked Kelana

Kelana stopped, on the pathway amongst bushes, here he was among his brother.

He looked at Yekini thoughtfully and bit his lip. "I like many things a lot," he began "I like football, candy, chocolate, battery-less radio, the American woman inside, her voice, uhm....yea! Lasanya."

"I love Lasanya!" He tugged at Yekini excitedly. "I'll like to visit that place."

"Place?" Yekini asked.

Kelana's features twisted insanely in a bid to relay what his mouth couldn't say. Wasn't Lasanya that big and fine scenting place with huge houses?

Yekini burst into a laugh at the look on his brother's face. The laugh was somewhat cathartic and he felt lighter. In his head, belly, feet...he was literally jumping home.

"You don't even know what you love." He said and broke into a run, daring the more athletic Kelana to pursue. He did.

1 Like 1 Share

Politics / Who Needs Two Faces? by fikfaknuel(f): 8:57am On Feb 06, 2017
Who needs Two Faces?
By Emmanuel Esomnofu
It is always a difficult thing to point a torch in someone's eyes. Usually, the person is thrown into a fit of pure disgust and anger and the venomous warning blurted out will warn your sorry ass not to try such next time.

But there's a symbolical meaning that could be attached to this. A torch: a tool to illuminate. Just that, your eyes become temporarily blind when such action is performed.

Mr Innocent "2baba" Idibia blinded us temporarily. He made us believe that something was coming. Seyi Law, an agent of darkness supported him. Davido, OBO!, supported him. Burna Boy, a renowned on-my-lane person did too. We felt a fire burning. We felt something.

Then later, as a Twitter user implied, 2baba pulled out for the first time in his life.

"He's a coward!"

"Can't he learn from Du Bois, Mandela, Bob Marley? A revolutionary fears nothing."

Many of them screamed, and used their tool; Social Media to grieve.

They forgot...

2baba used his tool: a torch. He shone the light in our eyes and made us blind at that moment. We abandoned our fears, discarded our limit gauge, and wandered into a dream: a dream for a better Nigeria. He shouldn't be attacked and ripped viciously be the predatory teeth of Nigerians.

But he would. He must. That is The Law of the Wandering Torch. The aggrieved must cry, must shout, for the danger posed to his vision.

How do we shout?
We make a noise! That's the only way to truly get what you want. Malcolm X's autobiography is an eye opener. Arguably the second greatest black leader ever after Marcus Garvey. Before he joined the Nation of Islam, before he became the influence that spurred millions to action, before hating the inborn delusional importance attached with the superior race (white), he worked as a boy-boy, cleaned shoes of white men, danced with white chics, learned the white way of life, but retained his pride as a black.

What am I saying?

Before you change the politicization of Nigeria, you have to learn how to live like Nigeria. Read volumes on the corrupt politicians. Live a day in the shoes of Fayose. Do away with your seriousness and twerk! Give bribes to policemen, promise but fail. Observe the reactions. The reactions you will prepare you to fight against.

How do we fight?
2baba has shown us: We are little stars in the sky thirsty for each other; dying to live, we yearn connection. Social Media could be that connection. Our real lives could be. Fight not with protests and poses for the newspaper, but fight with your humanness. Befriend a Northerner. Destroy his single story: that Igbos are just crazy for money and nothing else. Hire a Yoruba man in that organization owned by Fulanis. Hire more. Foster the true belief of a collective.

React with your brains, not your mouth.

Today, many will protest. They will look around and 2baba won't be there. They might get home safely and label him a coward. The revolution needs a face. 2baba was to be that face. Your angst is understood, but not justified.

Before he became that face, he suffered like we are suffering. He made music, that faltered at rare moments, and triumphed at most. Like Nigeria. We might be embroiled in this and it is bad but there is far worse out there: earthquakes, wars, famine, etc. These challenges force us to conform to squeaks, like a bruised mouse, but no!

We must act, but the ultimate action is not by carrying placards and singing Nzogbu! Nzogbu! We must look around us, and effect a change. We can be everything 2baba will never be. We can be everything Fela could never be. We can be anything we want, if only we put our minds and heads to it. The heart makes errors, but let it shine the torch. Let your head protest.

"When all else fails, philosopisize."
J.M Coetzee.
Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 3:20am On Feb 02, 2017
Bola woke up that morning with an headache. Mother sent Kelana to buy some drugs for her but the lad suggested they mix local herbs for her. Bola shot him with a cold stare.

When they dressed up for school, Mother saw that Yekini didn't budge. He wasn't ready to go to school. She let him be. It was the second week aftermath of the people's visit.

"Bola, see." A girl with a newspaper showed it to her, pointing at a rose colored dress. "E dey reign for Eko."

Bola's lips pouted in indifference. The noise around the class put her off. Suddenly, she remembered that it was the eve of St Valentine's day.

False love, she'd always say of people that reserved all the goodness of their heart for one day.

"Matthew go buy dress," the girl said "for me. Me."

Bola had always hated Matthew. Not hate, as in hate, but she wasn't a fan of his egotistical behaviour, his narcissistic ass, his rude way of slapping girls' ass, and his quite annoying good looks. Once, he had tried to woo her but Superman brother, Yekini stepped in. Talking about brothers. It wouldn't be such a bad idea if Kelana and Matthew were to engage in an argument of show off.

"B, Bola!" Fisayo tapped her. "I've been calling you for hours."


"What do you think of my Matthew?" She pointed at him with her eyes, over at the other end of the class where he bowed his head a little, offering a confident smirk towards their way.


"He's perfect! He loves me! You're jealous." Fisayo said in quick succession, almost in tears as she stormed out the class. Matthew didn't even follow her.

The bell rang. The students rose and made their way to their various homes. Bola was scared of home. She hated the gloom which hung over the place. She and Fisayo would have been leaving together in the company of each other's gist. Zimbabwe appeared from almost nowhere, his bushy hair made him look deranged. He flashed his set of fine teeth and in the midst of his brown skin, it was like the interior of a Coconut in the middle of unopened ones.

"Bola." He called out. "Where is your brother?"


He came closer, looking around. He reached for her lips and planted a kiss.
Bola slapped him, and walked out on him. The sun was still fiery, too early to return home. She made for a spot inside the bushes, a serene place she went to whenever she needed to think.

The birds twittered jubilantly and in the distance, the splash of water could be heard. The soldiery grasses which defended her was compromised. She heard steps coming towards her way. Hide, I must! She thought to herself. But before she could make a move, Kelana's familiar voice pierced the air.

Bola! Bola! He called out.

She didn't answer him and seconds later, as he stood before her, she saw something dark, angry in his eyes.

"Why didn't you answer me, eh?"

Before she could stutter, an heavy jab hit her ribs. Then a slap, the world twirled, and twirled. Her feet struggled to stay balanced.

"You're f-king Zim! That dirty pig! That bastard who will sleep with hisown mother! That idiot who pays whores! Zim."

Kelana slapped her again, ignoring the warning of the dance of the trees.

"I'm n-n-. I'm a virgin!" Bola cried out. Tears pooled in Kelana's eyes.

They made their way home. Kelana supported Bola's weight with his arm. Thick mucus-like tears lingered on his face.

Afolabi was the first to see them: Two of his kids, in their school uniforms, one bloodied, another crying. He hurried towards them. For a minute, time paused and he chewed on the stick of blame: He had failed his children, failed to protect them from this deceptive world, this LovePeddler who poses as a fine person but is the exact opposite. Jumoke is in God-knows-where, Yekini was entangled in the middle of a serious issue, and now, this.

"What happened, Kelana?"

The boy broke into tears.
In the night, when the neighbour's wife who used to work with a local hospital had left, there was silence and over the light produced by the candle, there all looked at themselves. Father to Yekini. Kelana to Bola. Mother to the sleeping James and John. Yekini to Kelana. Kelana to Bola. Mother to Father. Then, a cough. Father spoke.

"Tomorrow is Valentine."


"Yes." Yekini said.

"What do you think Valentine is for? For sweet gifts, for sex? For beating up one's junior sister?" Kelana looked away guiltily. Father continued : "No! It is to blossom the love which we have been keeping care of, kindling its fire, for a long, long, time. It is to be as one, be one, and united. You all know that Oduduwa once gave Oranmila a single stick in a broom which he broke with ease but he was unable to break a bunch of sticks that make one complete broom. You have to be a broom."

"I no know sey you sabi this kain English oo." Mother said and the kids broke into a unified laughter. Father did too, but he shielded it by a false sternness of the face.

"I was a clerk, the best in all Yoruba land and beyond. I studied Literature, and many, many things," this, he said with his eyes wide open, gesticulating with his hands. " Surely I speak well."


All eyes turned to Yekini, whose back was rested on the wall, the corner which was his spot.

"Father." He replied.

"Do you hear what I say?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good, good." Father said, joining both hands together. "We need an anthem."

"Agunbiade, Oooo.
One blood, one family,
One God, One laughter
One life,
Together." Yekini sang.

The surprise on their faces. Yekini's eyes lit up as he sang, and however, the words sounded grim, James woke up and began beating a bucket. Kelana muttered some adlibs and gave a much needed life to the song. Mother swayed and danced. Father chanted Together. Together.

Bola sat there, recounting the day's experience in her head. Heavily bandaged by the way, all thanks to Kelana. She'd surely get her revenge. Father singing was hilarious. Mother would have made a good dancer. Too bad she didn't get to meet Fela in his prime. He might have married her and made his twenty eight wife. Yekini, big surprise. A laughter was rooted firmly on his face. A rare sight. James, the more adventurous of the twin, Life awaits you.

Their animated faces in front of her, and yet, yet, all she could think about was Zimbabwe's kiss. Maybe she liked it. Maybe she didn't. Why did she slap him?
The voice of Father came and drowned her questions.

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Phones / Please Help Me With This Phone's Problem by fikfaknuel(f): 4:20pm On Jan 23, 2017
Good day, all.

Recently I got a Gionee E3 of the E-life series.

The phone is okay but I can't download any app. Once I enter Google play store and try to download an app, maybe YouTube, it redirects to some place where chinko language is written and shows me a box becoming big and small, and then it stops.

how can I use this phone to download apps?

Please, help me.
Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 2:47pm On Jan 17, 2017
I'm very sad that there are some thıngs happenıng ın my lıfe that has made me deserted Naıraland and thıs story.

If you know me well, you'll know that I value people that take theır tıme to read good works of Lıterature and comment and encourage upcomıng storytellers.

I promıse that I wıll contınue thıs story ın the fırst week of February and when I do, the updates wıll be frequent.

Please, forgıve me. But meanwhılle, read other good storıes on Naıraland. I've seen good storytellers here but unfortunately, don't use language as a conduct. Good grammer makes a good story become marketable and reader frıendly. Please, our wrıters. We are just learnıng the trade. Don't be proud towards learnıng. We are all chıldren.

Fınally, I want to apologıze to everybody ı've let down. Jagugu88lı loves thıs story, I can tell, and because of her support and many others who read and comment, and others who read and don't comment, I MUST fınısh thıs.
Thank you ıf you're stıll there.

I promıse to make your unrelentless support worthwhıle.


Gaming / Re: 5 Beautiful Nigerian Mobile Games That Lit Up 2016 by fikfaknuel(f): 1:58pm On Jan 17, 2017
Who game help
Wıth your bad belle you no stıll get lıkes.

1 Like

Literature / Re: Nigerian Author Highlights Gay Characters In New Novel by fikfaknuel(f): 11:21am On Dec 03, 2016
The guy should be arrested

What warrants his arrest?

1 Like

Literature / Re: My Birthday Recitation- Divepen by fikfaknuel(f): 1:27pm On Dec 02, 2016
Happy birthday, Divepen. May God continue to increase you.
Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 10:28am On Nov 30, 2016
Kelana was humming to a song making waves in Lagos. "Mehn, this Boogey song is good." The guy who sold the discs, sporting a ridiculous hat which made him look like a poor magician looked up at him. Drunk eyes. Kelana muttered as he walked past, sinking himself in the environment around him.

Children playing, different games; suwe, hide
and seek, pursue corruption. Pursue corruption was a game invented by a child. The participants chased a fowl and called it corruption. This proved to have a psycological uplifting as their tiny legs burst into a frenetic pace. Kelana smiled. The fowl was never caught. Some mothers clasped the baskets on their heads and made for the market. The men were mostly teachers, and they sat outside, playing ayo

Kelana tried as much as he could to avoid them. He didn't want to greet any unfortunate person in the morning.

Indefinite strike. Those words were the best thing to have happened to him since Lasanya. All students had been at home for thirteen days now, and unless the government pays the teachers, they will remain so.

"Hey Kelana, come." a certain sabi-sabi teacher called him. Kelana stood like a mannequin, his eye blinking in utter disbelief. He was suppossed to be in ghost mode. Kelana greeted in a prostration, and he caught up to the topic. The teachers were pretending to know America.

"The Republican is a wild man, and he will turn the world to a wild place!" the sabi-sabi teacher roared.

"He will make America great. The industrialization of politicization is direly needed if the world is to be rid of corruption. Who deserves, gets!" a bald man countered. It sounded as if he wanted to shout but his voice was so meek it came out humbly.

"What of the woman?"

"Let her take care of her husband." Kelana said, then put on a sorry face. A kid wasn't allowed to talk without permission where his elders were.

"Hmm, Kela." the teacher, whom he had remembered his name, Mr Ishola, said. "I don't think a woman is supposed to dream of politics." The men stopped their game of ayo and loooked at him thoughfully. "Your father is a lucky man to have two intellligent sons. By the way, where is Yekini?" Kelana briskly replied "Home"

He excused himsellf from the gathering and in the distsance he could see the wide grin of Zimbabwe. They walked towards each other. The rough loooking lad offered his hand up for an handshake. Kelana dodged it, saying "Germs." but he didn't do so just for the sole reason. He thougt it was ridiculous to shake hands with a close friend; one you saw almost each day.

Zimbabwe intimated him on an upcoming contest. A wrestling contest in the next four streets. It was a long walk so Kelana demanded to go home first, to tell Pops. A thick stench swallowed the air and Kelana and Zimbabwe quickly held their noses. Birds fleed away from the scene. A bell rang, and children and young adults brought their dirt sacks out. The young man ringing the belll shouted in his thin voice "Oya oo! Come troway dirty." Kelana observed him. He had high cheekbones, which made his face look compressed. The left side of his mouth played host to a little wound

"No be the one wey dey come before." Zimbabwe said, tugging at him

"Yea, I know"

"That one had tiri long tribal marks on his face. Rubbish!" he spat out. "Tribal marks." A thin smile formed on Kelana's face. The thought wandered through his mind. If his father had been so wicked and stupid as to have cut a tribal mark on his face, the old man will regret his decision.

Their walking pace intensified when Zimbabwe told Kelana he didn't want to miss the second fight, which promised to be a cracker, between Tiger and Gorilla. "Real names?" Kelana asked.
"Stage name, ode. After you go dey claim Americanna."

Kelana approached home after giving Zim the 'wait behind' sign. He opened the door, and there was Father, resting his back on the wall, his head hung down. Mother too, rested her palm on her cheek. He looked at her eye, and her pupils was swimming in a pool of tears. What could be wrong? He left the house just an hour ago.

"They came today." Bola said, coming out of the inner room, placing her legs strategically on the ground, to avoid stepping on the sleeping James and John. Who, He asked in his mind.

"Government people. They came to warn Brother Yekini" Kelana sighed, and placed a comforting hand on Mother. Then he took Bola outside. Bola saw Zimbabwe, she hissed like a furious snake. Then turning in an 'I-don't-care' manner to face Kelana who was surprised at the reaction. "Who came to warn Yekini?" he asked

"I said, government people!" she said in a more-than-necessary loudness. She was still irritated by Zim, who held a mocking look on his face. Kelana waved him off, and off, the boy went.

"Wetin Yekini do government people?" Kelana asked, shifting closer in unadulterated concern. Bola would have grinned under normal circumstances. This was the first time since Kelana's associaion with America had she heard him speak a complete sentence in Pidgin English. But this wasn't a normal circumstance.

"When they come, wearing native. They didn't look fearful or too big, but when they asked 'who is Yekini?' their voice was serious, no jokes, as if they would scatter and burn the house if Yekini wasn't seen." Bola paused, and looked at Kelana "When Yekini came out, they took him outside and talked with him. Mama tried to chook ear but the English too big."

"How do you know it's a warning?" Kelana asked "Yekini walked off in a sad manner, as if someone had stolen all the money he had in the world."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know." Bola replied, walking off slowly, hesitating over her movements. She walked, and with each step, got out of sight, till Kelana couldn't see her. He farted, and wiped his face, a little sweat had been gathering on his forehead.

7 Likes 3 Shares

Literature / Re: #njawrites Prize For Dedication-get Ready by fikfaknuel(f): 7:17pm On Nov 23, 2016
Many times i'm mentioned. Many times I don't see the mention because my name is wrongly spelt.
Perhaps if I explain the idea behind the Moniker?
FIK represents FICTION
FAK represents FACT
NUEL is from my name EMMANUEL

To this info, really, really nice one. Seems like it's sponspored by Okadabooks. I'm ready. But I have a concern. I just hope that they don't force us to canvass for votes. I'm not a fan of that. That exploits artistic ingenuity and not everyone wins, but traffic is drawn to their site. Also, the best story doesn't win.

Seasoned judges should be used.

If that be the case, I'm definitelly in.

Kudos to Okadabooks for the nice initiative. And uhmm, Divepen1, i'm thinking that we, NL writers should do an anthology of short stories and put it up for sale, or free.


Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 7:05pm On Nov 23, 2016
Really sorry, guys. Phone problems.
Literature / Re: The Etisalat Flash Fiction Contest Has Started. These Are My 7 Best Stories by fikfaknuel(f): 6:22pm On Nov 09, 2016
Wow. So many writing talents in naija. I might contest next year, God willing. I love that dark, murderous tale the most.

1 Like

Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 3:51am On Nov 09, 2016
"Kai, Kela, na your eye be dis?" Danbaba asked the second he opened the gate for Zimbabwe and Kelana.

The mischievous boy smiled sheepishly, saying 'No, I borrow the eye." It was when Zim touched him with his elbow, he realized he didn't say it aloud. It was just a thought. His smile spread into a grin.

"Na me oo" he replied

"Where za fruit fa?" the man Danbaba, wearing a free flowing black gown asked.

Zimbabwe shook his head.

"You see yourself, idioncrasy. Why you no remember me?" Kelana shot at Zim, as if it were his fault. Usually, Kelana was the one who climbed up the mango tree because of his stature. He also forgets, most of the time that Danbaba's payment for his 'radio services' was the juicy mangoes. Therefore, Zimbabwe had assumed the unofficial duty of reminding him each time.

"Next time, we go double am." Zimbabwe swore, touching his tongue with a finger and pointing it to the sky, which housed the submerging sun.

Kelana smirked. He chanted the word 'genius' in his mind. It was incredible, how meek Zimbabwe could be when he is interested in something. On their way coming, Kelana had whet his appetite for the elections with some juicy details he had accrued from going to the newspaper stand and flipping the pages when the girl who sold it wasn't looking. The last time he went, he saw America Decides, written on the column. Beneath the headline, he saw where it was written that the Republican candidate is favored by the 'bookies' to score a landslide victory in DestroyedMichigan. He had heard the word bookies before. It had to do with betting. He had heard on the radio that Americans usually bet their wives, sons and daughters, houses, anything possible. Even if they had that big flat, fried yam that they do over-sabi-sabi and call Pizza on their hands, they can bet it. After they will say Nigeria is hungry, and suffering an 'Economical Downturn.

However, bookies wasn't what intrigued him. It was the word landslide. He couldn't wrap his head around it. Perhaps there was a Waterslide victory too.

All these, he poured into Zimbabwe's ears. He even added some extra, even though he saw nothing like that in the newspaper.

"Do you know that a woman is contesting?"

Zimbabwe's face squeezed, as if he was trying very hard to hold a sh.it.


Kelana wore his trademark smirk.

"Waka fast, abeg." He said, after their pace had intensified, he continued "Yes na, the woman dey contest, for president, of America."

Zimbabwe spat on the floor. "Rubbish!" he screamed rather than said "How woman go dey contest for America, she wan rule the world abi? Woman." His tone was seeped in raw disgust.

"Rule the world?" Kelana asked and Zim burst into a laugh, clutching his belly, savoring the rare moments when he got to show Kelana that he too, knew about foreign affairs.

"Yes. America na super power na, so they dey rule Lasanya, DestroyedMichigan and all those states, and them they rule the remaining world."

"Okay" Kelana said, moving his head slowly in a knowing manner, even though he didn't understand what Zim explained. He wouldn't ask, so that the crazy boy wouldn't laugh at him.

"So if the woman win na, men go turn omo do?" Zimbabwe said, tongue-in-cheek.

"Make we dey watch na." Kelana said, running off towards Danbaba's gate.

Zimbabwe followed suit, starting up a Fela song.

"If you call am woman, Oyibo woman no go gree, she go saaaayyy,"

"She go say I be presido." Kelana concluded.

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Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 2:10am On Nov 09, 2016
Kelana hurried to Zimbabwe's house that evening. It was the short boy who was the 'middle man' between him and the gatekeeper, who owned the radio.

"Zimbabwe no dey." a little kid with an oversized tummy said, stretching out his neck from the house. He was Zimbabwe's younger brother.

"Where him come go, that idioncrasy of a person?"

"Ah, Ah, which one be idiot crazy again, na?" the befuddled boy ask with a mix of glee and inquiry in his large brown eyes.

"No worry, when you big, you go understand."

Kelana laughed away, at the thought of what he just said. He had often been told that he surprisingly had a 'small body' whereas his father was a lanky man, and mother was of average height. He felt different from the rest of his siblings because his humorous nature put so much ease on every one unlike Yekini who was a bore.

He decided on going to the football field, to kill time. It was here he saw Zimbabwe, dust clinging to his hair.

"Hwfa?" He asked

"Alfa dey mosque." Zim replied, stooped low a little as he washed his feet.

"Come escort me go Danbaba side na"

"I wan go see Funke."

"Ogbeni leave girl joor, America dey vote today." Kelana said, stomping his feet in impatience.

"Wetin concern you and America sef?" Zim asked "You wan be politician?"

Kelana grinned. "I want to be a Doctor, with a doctorate degree from Oxford University."

Zimbabwe scoffed, moving past Kelana. It was like what the boy said had no chance of possibility.

" I'll be a doctor, Watch me!" Kelana said, beating his chest. "I will tell the worried people in the hospital, 'there is such a low chance of survival but I will do my best.' Even if na just Typhoid, I fit charge like sey na Death disease"

Zimbabwe paid rapt attention to his friend. After he was sure Kelana was done, he clapped in a child-like manner. Typical Kelana philosophy.

He didn't know, that his friend lied. Kelana wanted to be a doctor to genuinely change the world. He wanted to tell 'worried people' that they were at the right place. He hid his dreams and aspirations behind his humor, just like he hid the tear which formed in his eye when Jumoke left home.

That morning was misty. The air appeared to be stuffed when Walter came with a Taxi. The fifty year old man pat father's shoulder with his little hands, saying she'll be alright, in his Ghanaian accented tone. He always sounded ridiculous. He said 'sir' as 'seh'. That day, mother rained blessings on him, thanking him profusely for the largeness of his and his friend's hearts. For some reason, Kelana didn't like him. Maybe because Jumoke was neatly packaged inside the car like fish in a sardine can, going to somewhere very far away. It hurt him that he couldn't help his sister. Yekini refused to come outside to bid her farewell, he dug his eyes into the book titled AMOS TUTUOLA THE PALM-WINE DRUNKARD. His elder brother had been reading little chunks of the book daily, for it didn't seem lengthy.

It was that moment when the car revved, and splashed dust into the air. That moment it drove away from the teary eyes that watched it, it was that moment, Kelana swore within himself, that he would wear a white coat, and hang that 'medical snake' on his neck.

4 Likes 4 Shares

Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 7:16pm On Nov 06, 2016
sorry guys, i know i've been MIA. my phone knock so please bear with your guy...even if na to borrow fone update, i go try.


Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 6:12am On Nov 02, 2016
Jumoke was ill, three months after grand pa Solade's burial. Father always showed his concern when he returned from work but, when Yekini would look deep into his eyes, it seemed like the girl was a burden. The odd one. Her tongue loosened, and spittle never ceased pouring out from it. Bola would cry her eyes out and often lament. How the world was unfair and rigid, it wasn't easy to get money.

When Father returned today, he smelt of alcohol. But this alcohol wasn't cheap one.
Yekini looked at him over the book he was curled up reading. His feet struggled to stay balanced on the ground but he talked in a regular pace when he asked

"Bola, Where is Kelana?" Bola sighed, with her eyes still heavy from crying.

"He went to see his gatekeeper friend,"

Father's head shook in an unknowing manner.

"the one that has the white people's radio."

"Okay." Father mumbled. He looked around, as if expecting to see someone different from Yekini and Bola. Jumoke stayed with a local herbalist since yesterday, James and John played outside, and Kelana was somewhere, singing 'Lasanya' high to the heavens.

"Is your mother in?" Father asked no one in particular but Yekini felt obliged to reply him.

"Yes" he said curtly.

He was annoyed that Father could pretend not to know that for about four days since Jumoke went ill now, Mother locked herself inside, and sobbed uncontrollably, refusing to be consoled. She would mention her late father's name in the middle of her crying and it all seemed like two huge fists, rolled into one, to serve her a vicious blow to the face.

"Go and play." Father said, much to Yekini's irritation.

'Play': The word seemed very out of place.

How could a seventeen year old be asked to play? How could Father consider him such a little kid, who could take his mind off things like the Palm Wine Drunkard, Aramide, his elder sister being ill, and the letter in his pocket by playing? Ah--yes! The letter. Yekini had started groping a pen so ferociously, and he would write somethings, and was largely unsure of what he wrote but he was sure it was about his family, about politics. Ever since he engaged in the false protest, he had this sense of belonging, this innate desire to question the norm.

'Why do people work and do not get paid? Where does the money go to?' He would ask himself.

He still was, lost in his thoughts when Father's voice woke him up from the slumber.
"I said, Go outside!" he repeated.

Yekini stood up and yawned lazily, stretching his body, as he stood on his toes for very brief seconds. He stuffed the book into his bag and went outside, to leave Father to tell Mother whatever he wanted to. Yekini just wished that the walls have ears, and they would tell him all that has been said. While he was outside, looking at the sky, envying the birds' freedom, Bola tapped him. Her face was rinsed. He felt pity for her. She was closest to Jumoke. He knew that somewhere, she wished, or rather cursed, why the only girl in the family asides her was 'not alright' and could barely talk without bathing the ground in spit.

"Brother, I wan go see my friend." she said.

Without hesitation, he said "Go."

"I'm at Fisayo's house."

He didn't ask her who it was, even though he heard Kelana mutter to himself in a soliloquy, that Zimbabwe had told him that Bola might have started moving with the wrong girls and they went to meet boys. Fisayo wasn't a bad girl. He wondered what made him have the phrase 'bad girl' in mind. Aramide often drew her skirt up, and he would look at her full, fresh thighs. One day, he mistakenly saw her pant--it was a rose red color. She flashed an enchanting smile at him that day from across the class, as if she knew what he had done. He wondered if it that made her a 'bad girl'.

He didn't pay any mind to Zimbabwe. He wished Kelana too, wouldn't. But he and his immediate younger brother didn't always see eye to eye. They didn't converse, not as much as he did with James, who would sit on his laps, and ask him curiously "Brother, who is that man?" the four year old, pointing at the portrait which hung on the wall.

"That is the great Obafemi Awolowo." Yekini would reply.

"Who is he?"

"He fought for this country's freedom."

"free, from who?"

"The white people, Britain."

"They used to be here?"

"Yes, they still are." He would reply to the young boy. If only he and Kelana spoke more often. His gaze had now shifted to the trees, and the numerous flying insects buzzing around it, fighting for a little bit of juice which trickled down its bark. Ants too, crawled on it. He thought of school. Truly, as Aramide had predicted, he was the 'golden boy'. Girls flocked around him and it was then he took notice of how handsome he was. Teachers tried to 'claim' him. One of them, the teachers, claimed that a nephew would swear with his life that he saw Yekini talking to the cameras outside the government house. Yekini refuted the 'absurd' claim, and thanked his stars, that most of the teachers were too hard-up to buy a black and white television set.

He saw Father walk past, his head seemed to be bent towards the ground. He had both hands in his pocket. He looked at the sky, and night was fast approaching. The sun was going away. The crescent moon emerged, in its royal silver color.

"James! John! Inside." He ordered.

The twins quickly ran towards the door. John had shouted "first to reach na God pikin!"

"No, no, no," Yekini disapproved "Bathe before you go in."

They grumbled as they transfered water from a brown bowl into a bucket, and used it to bath.

Kelana returned with his legs covered in dust. He must have gone to play football. Bola returned, with a much uplifted mood. She showed Yekini a pencil Fisayo gave her. "It's an eye pencil," she said.

"for what?" Yekini asked as if he didn't care, but deep inside, he was ashamed he didn't know what this pencil was used for.

"It is used to make the eyes fine." Bola explained.

"All girls use it?" he asked.

Bola shook her head lightly. "It's for the big girls." she said.

He liked the idea--an eye pencil. When next he got money, he would buy two for Aramide. She would surely be grateful. She might fling her body on his.

He stood up to go inside, when the toads began croaking with their ugly voices. There was a drizzle in the morning and so, a small, shallow pool of water had gathered together. It was no surprise toads had already began to feel at home.

He got inside, the room dimly illuminated by the lamp.

Mother sat on a stool. She spoke:
"Your Baba and I just decided," She looked around. "Jumoke will go with Walter's friend to Accra."

They were quiet, for they knew her, she didn't speak words just for the sweetness of how they sounded. She meant it. Father had somehow convinced her.

"When?" Bola asked.

"Next week." Mother replied, and retired into the inner room

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Literature / Re: Black Maria by fikfaknuel(f): 4:58pm On Nov 01, 2016
These 'God wll see you through' is really annoying. Last time I checked, God doesn't answer prayers thru the phone.

Nairaland has over 1million members.

The Literature section is one of its most exciting, with many readers and many skilled writers.

LarrySun is one of the best, to me, he's untouchable.

He posts his stories here for free most of the time. His 'Brand of Cain' novel has enough genius to win prestigous prizes. If it were John Grisham, you all would shout.

He publishes two books, and none of them has sold more than 10 copies.

Tell me that isn't wicked.

Save your sympathy. The best thing you can do for my mentor now is to buy his novels, buy for your friends, promote them. If your heart touches you to give him cash, send him a PM. Ask for his account details. Don't profess fake love and support.

The reality is, a certain person called LarrySun, who is a world class writer, HAS NOT SOLD MORE THAN TEN COPIES!!!

It pricks my heart to admit. If I were to be in the position of most of you (working class), I would easily help him without hesitation. Why? Because he is good!

But at last, i'm just a seventeen year old, who just finished secondary school, and i'm begging you all...SHOW REAL SUPPORT.

15 Likes 6 Shares

Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 6:20am On Nov 01, 2016

Alright, brother. I wish you all the best. I'm a writer as well. Though too lazy to write long prose for now.

For the very reason that you're a fellow fan of Kendrick, you're my main guy. The guy's prodigy never ceases to amaze me.
I'm telling ya, the man's knowledge about the Black Life is outstanding.

Let's chat bro.
Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 5:57am On Nov 01, 2016

I did not accuse you of plagiarism. Go back and read that comment again. Read it slowly.
I got no qualms with you man, I write for the love. Perhaps, when I seek to write professionally, my research on these things would be broader.

And, your signature...you're a fvckin fan of Kendrick Lamar!!! Mortal Man is such a socio-political track. I listen to it when I write.
Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 5:01am On Nov 01, 2016

Aii, since you claim so vehemently that it's yours, I'll leave you be.
But keep in mind that you've wrongfully accused someone, and projected my image in a wrong light. May I suggest you dig up enough facts before you do such again?

Everybody 'knows' Ibadan is a city 'trademarked' by its roofs, that's why my title is drawn from there but thanks, I never knew another book exists with almost the same title. I'll change it, and be more careful next time.

Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 4:35am On Nov 01, 2016
I just googled "Under the rusty brown roof" and look what we have here : "Under the brown rusted roofs" with a synopsis that suspiciously resembles this one. It's authored by one Abimbola Adunni Adelakun.

Here's a link to an interview the young lady gave:

This story might well be a plagiarism unless of course, the OP IS Abimbola Adelakun in which case the OP would have to prove it.

If the OP can't prove it, I'll report him/her. I don't support theft of intellectual properties.
Chai, see ridiculousness. Please illuminate me on how this is theft, with a quote that is almost the same with Adelakun's, or a Character.

This is getting insultive. This story isn't even completed yet, I just update each day, and the plot's all in my head. Prior to these, I haven't heard that columnist's name or book before.

So mr OneManLegion, go through the pain and report me, I just might get famous.
Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 4:17am On Nov 01, 2016
Please, are you sure this work is yours?

There's a book with the same title written by Abimbola Adelakun ( A Punch Columnist).
Just googled it and yea, but the gentleman's title is 'Under the Brown Rusted Roofs."
It's set in Ibadan sef, hence the title.

But this is 100 percent my work.


Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 9:21pm On Oct 31, 2016
Yekini hissed at everything he saw. It was really annoying that the tap wasn't running. It was even worse that mother had to give him two containers; 25 litres each. He wondered of what use was Kelana if he couldn't do anything besides sweeping the little house and of course, providing entertainment for the family on nights when NEPA were too stingy with electricity. With the family unable to sleep, Kelana would tell them "ya know that white people eat mosquitoes?"

He had walked quite a long distance in search of water when he saw people running to and fro with excited faces. He looked about, looking at them to ascertain the reason they buzzed about but it was as if he was inexistent. He followed the crowd, to where they headed, and it was no surprise when he saw that it was a high profile member of The Broom Party who stood graciously on a podium, all smiles.

"Fools!" Yekini cursed, as he walked out of the place. He saw a blue tank ahead and hurried towards it. The woman who sold the water wanted to hurry to collect her little piece of the national cake so she tied her wrapper with so much alacrity that the key to the tank fell and the grateful boy picked it, and filled both his containers.

He got home and dropped the water. He sat about for like an hour. He was bored. The trees he used to stare at had become old to his eyes. The birds refused to fly past the sky. He went back to the rally.

"Youths are our future, you are important to Ibadan! Don't be left out of this!" A voice thundered out of the positioned speakers as hands waved brooms to the air. It made Yekini laugh at the deceitful nature of politicians. He laughed and he laughed, till his bones ached. He was really crazy, he thought, at how such a sentence sounded so funny to his ears. Even Kelana's strange accent hadn't achieved that.

He saw a pair of familiar eyes look at him in the distance. It was Aramide. They walked towards each other, he tried to make up sentences in his mind. He came up blank.

"Yek, how are you?" Aramide asked.

He scratched his hair, before saying in a stutter "I-I'm fine." he looked around "You?"

She laughed. "Why are you acting like a fish on land?"

Yekini pinched himself to confirm it wasn't a dream. It was hard to talk to her. He didn't tell anyone that Aramide was the girl that he did something with in his dreams, and it was in those times, he woke up with the sticky thing on his shorts.

"I'm fine, really." he said.

"My brother's watching us, you know." she said as if she'd been asked.

Yekini looked around. The crowd was now dispersing and he saw a person staring at them coldly, presumably her brother.

"School is resuming next month." she said.

He nodded weakly "Yes."

"You know you are the golden boy of the school now."

He forced himself to smile. It was odd that she seemed like the one trying to keep the conversation going. He felt that it was a man's duty. He tried to converse, but couldn't. He looked at her skin. It was flawlessly brown, like properly-made tea.

"You have to be rich to be golden."

"What do you mean?" he asked

"The politicians," she said,turning her head towards the podium "are organizing a youth empowerment program."

"They pay?" he asked

"Yes, that's what Michael says."


She laughed as if she sensed the jealously in his voice. "My brother," she said and looked at the skies.

"I have to go."

He wanted to lean in and hug her, but he didn't. He sweated at the feet, trying to root it to the ground.

The week passed and he didn't see Aramide. However, he gave the 'empowerment' a try. They were told that they were to stage a protest to the Government house, and lament profusely. They also gave them speeches to memorize, to say to the cameras, when the journalists came.

The first day they did so was three weeks into resumption. Yekini had spoken so fluently to the cameras that he became a local hero and hailed as an "Intellectual rebel".

His hands were saturated with money and immediately he bought clothes, books, trousers, underwears, a perfume and powder. He wanted to look good for Aramide. He bought her some things too--perfumes, chocolates and a silver watch. He wanted to do more but he didn't know what girls liked.

He gave his mother some money, but not directly. He hid it inside the box she kept her clothes, and when she found them, she screamed and said to father: "Labi, see money oo!"

"Na your own?" he asked, shifting to the edge of the bed which let out a soft cry.

She hissed and dug it into her breast region.

One day, Yekini received a letter from a postman who came riding a bicycle. The letter had a red stripe running over the white envelope. He tore it open. An umbrella was printed in black. He saw below, "dear sir," He read the letter, it was an invitation to work with the governing party. He scoffed, they didn't know he was just a student, who really needed to lie to make money. He put the envelope into his pocket and went inside to continue reading the Amos Tutuola novel he had bought. He considered it the most precious possesion of his.

Later that night, a queer little woman whose brother-in-law lived down the street came visiting later in the evening. She came from mother's village of Ogbomosho. Mother was delighted to see her but the sad look on the woman's face denoted something had happened. They spoke in soft tones, etched in pain. The woman left after mother had given her some money and wrapped some buns into a newspaper for her. Mother's hand hanged in a wave. Yekini quickly sat down from where he watched them.

Mother entered inside. "Baba mi is dead." she declared, and the tiny room shrunk in itself. Kelana didn't have any humor on him when he muttered something that sounded like "sorry." Bola held on to mother's thighs.

"I will go Ogbomosho tomorrow."

The next morning, immediately after the fowls' crow, she left. Her eyes were puffed and dark shades were under them. She probably had no sleep. Father too, seemed sad. He told us how Solade, mother's father was a good man. He was, Afolabi told them "a little educated." and wanted her daughter to get married to a literate. Solade even allowed him owe half of the intended bride price, to be paid at a later date. "Solade was a great man, so sad I can't visit now."

He dropped some money with Yekini and demanded he take care of the house. Since he got the job, he usually returned home feeling tired yet Bola would ask him: "How about your student?"

"Is she fine like me?"

"Does she have big eyes?"

Father always chuckled and replied "She's a troubled but good girl" But for the past four days, since mother went to Ogbomosho, the stench of cheap alcohol which hung around him had returned.

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Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 3:27am On Oct 29, 2016
"Do you know anything about being Yoruba?" Afolabi asked.

She chewed on her bubble gum recklessly, saying "I don't need to."

"You absolutely need to."

He shifted closer.

"Do you know that this house, this city, stand on hills?"

She shook her head. He smiled.

"These hills are seven," he said "and they were built by the seven sons of Oduduwa."

"The name sounds stupid, almost like 'old juju, sir''

"I can assure you that there is so much to believe in the things that can't be seen."

With this, Afolabi dug his hand into his leather bag and brought out a bottle, containing blood. "This," he said, cleaning the dust off the bottle with his hand. "can call out to Sango."

He looked up and Happiness was shivering but sweating in the mildly air-conditioned living room. She couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye.

"What is the matter? Surely no be the blood." Afolabi said.

She shook her head and said something incomprehensible. "N-n-no." she finally said a valid word.

Afolabi stood up and made to go up and tell her father that she was behaving strangely. He was sure he wouldn't be overly blamed. He was just trying his best to instil the fear of the supernatural on her.

He climbed the stairs but heard rattling sounds behind him. A hand gripped his native trouser material.

"Happiness?" he said as he looked back. "Wetin dey do you?"

She burst into an uncontrollable sob, even though she tried to bite her lip to prevent her father from picking any sound.

"The ga-gatekeeper," she said, still on the marble floor. "I've seduced him into..."

Afolabi's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Having sex with me."

"And, blood came out?" he was shocked that he could say such a thing and still not lose his mind.

The girl nodded in the affirmative, as tears streamed down her eyes. She had been playing the spoilt daughter of a rich man but now in this state, this utter vulnerability, he could only feel pity for her. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her.

"Don't cry, child. I'm sure you know that he was a mistake."

She looked up at him.

"You won't tell dad?"

"I won't," he said, and he smiled as a golden opportunity presented itself.

"if you start being a christian."

She finally yielded and claimed to have "officially become a christian." if her secret is safe with him.

Afolabi came out of the house and as the gatekepper came out to open the gate, he was asked by the curious idiot what Happiness wore but instead of the usual snubbing, Afolabi gave him a vicious blow on the cheek, which was sure to have unbalanced a tooth.

"Egbon why na?" the gatekeeper asked, putting his hand inside his mouth to know if he was wounded.

Afolabi went out in the middle of an irritated hiss, slamming the gate which made a deafening sound. He wished that such people would be castrated but he hated himself more. He had taken advantage of her situation.

Walking with his head bent down in shame, he heard noises of kids. He looked up and saw about three kids pursuing a boy who rode a bicycle. The boy on the bicycle pedalled away in glory, beaming widely. Afolabi hit his left leg on a stone and said "See how cursed I am!" He was angry that he couldn't buy a bicycle for his son who had come first in school while a rich man's child who has experienced sex before the age of fifteen lives in splendour. He didn't see her as a spoilt brat now though, he had seen a victim. He thought of his other children. Kelana would have smiled at such a scenario and said one of his trademark white people's talk. Yekini probably thought of him as a failure. Jumoke; sometimes he thinks that her situation was Heaven ordained. She would have questioned their situation. She might have sought to change it. His friends tell him that Jumoke has a nice body and had she been 'alright', Walter's friend would have come from Accra to take her abroad, to Italy, where she would work in a five star hotel. He never told Omotola that many of his friends said this. She would have cursed the order of nature for denying her the privilege of saying to her friends "You know my daughter, Jumoke? She dey work for overseas."

James and John were simply too young to understand life under the rusty brown roof. They were just four years old, born because he was bored, and on returning home from a friend's place, he found Omotola cooking. He tore the wrapper off her and penetrated. He didn't mind locking the door; it was his door after all and his kids, he was sure were in school.

However, after those minutes, he had no time for post-intimacy. He wore his trousers and went out to Madam Risikat's pub.

Now, four years after, he trudged along the dusty ground, and found himself in front of the pub once more. The owner of the wooden shack saw him.

"Ah! Labi, you dun come?" the woman asked.

He didn't answer. He was suddenly thinking about his family and the girl, Happiness. It would be selfish that while everyone drowns in their struggles, he sits here, drowning in a bottle.

Touching his pocket, he made it known to Madam Risikat that he didn't have any money.

"I go give you credit, come drink." she said.

"No, thank you. I wan dey go. If Shanu come, tell am sey I dey hail."

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Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 11:43pm On Oct 27, 2016
The bell rang and all the students gathered under the large mango tree in the school compound.

"We have come to the end of the term," the principal said. A thin man, who wore braces over his oversized striped shirt.

"And we will call the result here."

Fear rang through the place as unease swept some students off their feet, their countenance said it all. Some group of boys in one corner patted a boy on his shoulder in a congratulatory manner. The boy was the favorite to clinch the first position in his class.

"Ehm, let us get straight to business." the principal said, placing his eye glasses close to his nose and looking through them into a paper.

Tensed faces looked at the old man, who was flanked by the vice principals. "This boy ehn, always coming last." The school burst into an unprecedented laughter. They knew who it was. "Erinfolami Toyib! Come and claim your prize."

The laughter and buzz-like sounds intensified as a bulky boy who wore a rumpled shirt and torn trousers trudged to the podium, with his head bent down below, he had a sinister smile on his lips, as sarcastic claps and jeers escorted his movements. As soon as he got to where the principal was, he placed both hands on his feet, lifting his buttocks to the sky. This style was called 'touch your toes'. A lanky teacher came from behind and flogged him on the buttocks with a cane six times. It sounded whoof! whoof!

The principal adjusted his glasses, and looked at the miscreant. He knew he had pulled of his most famous trick, stuffing his buttocks with jeans and all sorts of absorbent clothing. On a good day, the principal would have stripped them off but not today. He had to deal with this as quick as possible so he could go visit his mistress who was coming from a nearby town. Toyib stood up, and cleaned the dirt off his trouser, then walked back to the queue with a smile on his face. Nnamdi, a junior student would beam and say "Odeshi."

The school returned to its calm. The comic effect of Toyib's punishment on them had waned. "It is time to call the recipient of the first position award." Silence rang through the air. Of course, everyone was not going to come first. In fact, the students who vied for the position were less than four. But the person who comes first affects the school generally. Girls now know who to flock around, boys would make passes at girls if the first positioned is their friend, other brilliant students will have to sit-up in the new term, teachers would automatically favour the person and his or her friends, and for that brief moment of three months until the end of another term came, it wouldn't be wrong to say that the person who comes first will be the star attraction in the school.

"The first position goes to no one other than," the principal paused, looking around the school with a confident smile on his lips, holding the students in a moment of suspense, their hearts clustered tightly, it was as if they were unable to breathe, eyes were fixated on the principal and the students refused to blink, not wanting to miss that moment.

"Agunbiade Yekini."

The school was engulfed in rapturous applause. They were bemused. Yekini. Nobody could have dared to even consider the possibility but here was he, walking in an unshaken manner, as if nothing mattered. He walked with an expressionless face and didn't turn to answer the soft voice of Aramide. He saw hateful eyes focused on him. It was Emmanuel, the favourite and his gang of worshippers. He was given a mathematical set, wrapped in brown paper as reward. "You can do better, knowledge is power. Education is the key." the principal had said, squeezing his hand in the guise of an handshake.

The street was thrown into a frenzified state when Omotola was told by Bola that Yekini had come first.
"What should I do for you?" his father had asked him.

Yekini said bluntly, after initially hesitating "I want to be free."

Afolabi looked at him intensely, what did he mean by free? "I don't understand."

The seventeen year old boy, Yekini, said, standing up "I want to leave this house and face the reality of life."

"No, no, no," Afolabi said "Children your age don't ask for such."

He sighed.

His father continued "they ask for footballs, jerseys, khaki shorts, sweet, buns, bicycles, boots, shoes, and sometimes, even a girlfriend." Yekini registered his disinterest by focusing his gaze on the painted portrait of Obafemi Awolowo which hung above his father's head, on the wall. He lowered his eyes, and his father was waiting for an answer.

"I want a bicycle."

"Okay." his father replied in a low tone.
Kelana sat in what they called a living room and looked across to Bola, who quickly escaped his gaze. He suspected her. She lied to her mother about going to a summer lesson but his friend, Zimbabwe, had said he saw her with some girls, heading in the opposite direction of the school.

Yekini looked at Kelana, then Bola. He could sense the unease between them both. He sunk into his thoughts. It was a month now and father hadn't bought anything with a tyre, talk more of a bicycle.

"I haven't been paid salary." his father said on an evening when he came back from work.

"Buh ya say ya work for a rich man. Is he a fraud?" Kelana asked.

"If no be say sun still dey sky, Olorun, I would have asked Ogun to strike you thunder now!" Afolabi raged. Kelana muttered and left the room.

Yekini's eyes were still fixed on his father. He didn't have any interest in the bicycle earlier but now, Aramide seemed to want him driving one.

"Chief Stainless wants to run for political office so his money is low now but if he wins, I fit buy you okada sef!" His father said, trying to pacify him.

"Okay, baba" he said quetly.

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Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 6:31am On Oct 27, 2016
Afolabi had started teaching the girl, Happiness about God. At least he was trying to but her curiosity made it an almost imposssible task.

"God is the creator of Heaven and Earth, devil is the bad person. You have to love God and hate devil. Simple."

"Simple?" the girl had the palm of her hand under her jaw, looking at Afolabi in a contemptous manner.

"It's never simple." she said "God is supposed to know past, present and future, so why did he create the devil and later claimed he betrayed him? It's, strange."

Afolabi sighed, he looked at the chandelier up above, wondering why such a fashionable bulb was needed. He stood up, hanging his leather bag which had his Bible and some other books inside.

He came out of the house, and headed towards the gate. The sky was dark and some clouds gathered thickly. It was as if rain would fall. The environ had started smelling of rain, cool breeze blew through the place. Knocking twice on the gatekeeper's station which doubled as his house.

"Oga, you dun dey go?" the gatekeeper asked, grinning wide to nothing in particular.

"Hmm." Afolabi hummed a reply, pointing to the gate.

The gatekeeper hurriedly took the keys from his pocket, and dug it into the lock, looking at Afolabi as he twisted and turned his hand. The padlock pulled open but the gatekeeper hadn't stepped aside.

"Ehm, oga" he said, scratching his cheek "wetin Happiness wear."

Afolabi frowned. His suspicions were right after all. This idiot had a thing for the girl.

"She wear one cloth like that, soaked in otapiapia."

The gatekeeper's face twisted in a puzzling look, then Afolabi chipped in;

"To pursue mosquitoes like you."

With this, he stormed out of the house, pushing him aside. The clouds seemed to be getting thicker and as he doubled his pace, he realized he wouldn't be able to get to the house in time.

He made up his mind to go to the pub.

The thunder roared as if agreeing with Shanu, who had a green bottle in his mouth, half-full. The 45 year old man had argued that the yoruba states was owing salaries because the 'polithiefcians' didn't care.

"They have some mansions here in Ibadan and plenty in Eko!" another person screamed, dropping a bottle on the wooden table which made a thumping sound.

Madam Risikat, the owner of the pub came with a little plate of hot kpomo steeped in peppery sauce. She dropped it, looking at the three men in the eye to ascertain who was to pay.

"I go pay." Afolabi said.

Madam Risikat looked at him "Labi, why you quiet today na?"

Shanu nodded his head. "Ehn, Labi you just dey drink since, you never talk anything."

Afolabi sighed. "Nothing."

"No be nothing. Even when I dey talk about the government wey dey owe you money, you no talk anything." Shanu said.

"Okay," Afolabi said, adjusting to the edge of the seat, looking at Shanu, Madam Risikat, and the other person, a customer he'd only seen today, in the eye. They braced themselves for whatever he was to say.

"One rich man wey employ me want make I de teach him pikin about God," Afolabi looked at their faces, to know if they were following. Saliu's nose cringed, his eyes squinted, and he folded his lips together. He couldn't hold it anymore. He burst into a laugh which angered Afolabi. He looked outside and the rain was dripping down from the zinc to the ground, he focused on the sound it made, and the bleating of Madam Risikat's goats, which hid under a shed, bleating 'mmmeeeee mmmeeeee' for no just reason. He preffered that to Shanu's silly laugh. Shanu rounded up the laugh, chuckling milldly, and holding his stomach.

"You be pastor?"

Afolabi scoffed, obviously irritated. "The girl na atheist," he figured Shanu might not know what it meant, so he chipped in "she no believe in God."

The hens cackled in fear when the thunder sounded again. Shanu stood up, and went to the door of the pub, and looked at the sky. He came back wielding a smile on the sides of his lips, as he sat down, picking the green half-full bottle of beer, and downed it all in a single gulp.

"I know the solution to your problem."

Afolabi immediately showed his interest. He shifted further forward but Shanu turned sideways and said "Madam Risikat another bottle, on his account."

Afolabi went home an happy man. Shanu had suggested to him that he teach the girl yoruba folklore, and "all those Oduduwa stories", basically he was to make her scared by spiritual things, so that she would turn to the spiritual to rescue her. "That's when you start introducing the God of the Jews, the one her father wants her to learn."

"Baba welcome!" James and John screamed, running over to hug him. He knew that they thought he would bring that "sweet thing," another word for chocolate.

Kelana said "Good ev'neen, pops." in his strange accent they had all come to accept, while Yekini and his other siblings greeted him in a gruff voice. They seemed to be deep in sleep. The weather was an encouraging one. It was in times like this he needed his wife. He looked about the room.

"Where's your mother?" he asked

"She went to buy flour." Bola replied, immediately bending her head down towards the book she was reading.

"You go spoil your eyes oo! See everywhere dark, you dey read." Afolabi cautioned.

"Nuh mind her," Kelana said teasingly "she wan to form good girl."

"Olodo boy, you think i'm like you."

"Can you speak the white peoples language?"

Bola shook her head.

"I bet ya dun know what is lasanya."


"Hehehehehe" Kelana laughed, "You won't know, dumb."

"Lasanya is a state in America."

Bola looked grim that Kelana knew all these and she didn't. Her father patted her head with his slightly wet hand and said "Don't mind him."

Kelana was still laughing, fueled by the look on Bola's face. His laugh contested frequency with the gentle taps of the rain on the zinc.

"Quiet!" Yekini ordered.

Kelana stopped laughing and curled himself in his corner of the room, burying both his hands between his laps.

Afolabi made to enter inside. When he was at his door, he turned back and said to no one in particular. "On the lamp na."

Bola sprang up and frantically searched for the match box. After about two minutes, a striking sound was heard, and the dim yellow-red fire illuminated the room.

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Literature / Re: Under The Rusty Brown Roof#NLwriters by fikfaknuel(f): 2:17am On Oct 26, 2016
Afolabi sneered at the girl "Have some manners, child!" She laughed it off, throwing both hands to the air in a gesture. "Arrest me, cop." The man shook his head, sighing. This one was a lost cause, he thought. He looked around the living room helplessly. Such splendour seemed improper for his impoverished eyes to behold.

"Where is he?"

"Upstairs, the second room to the right, make sure you knock before you enter." the girl said, as she stretched her leg on the leather black sofa, reading a novel.

He was face-to-face with the wealthy man, who had slabs of fat plastered on his neck and cheeks. The man coughed, pointing to a plastic-encased water, which Afolabi rushed and gave it to him. After the man had drank a considerate amount, he looked at Afolabi again.

"Sit down." the man said, "here's not a military zone." He felt that the rich man was trying to be funny and in Nigeria, anything a rich person says is funny. He pulled up a seat to his buttocks and sat in an officely manner, placing both his hands on his thigh, interlocked into each other. For a minute, the rich man seemed to be lost for words and he let his eyes wander the room.

The walls were creamy colored, and the curtains glistened in its red color, in one corner of the room was plenty, plenty, books, stacked inside a cupboard.

It was really a simple room. He expected to see gold trinklets and wads of naira littered on the floor. "My daughter," the man sighed "she is exhibiting some foolish traits." Afolabi wanted to jump out of his skin and say 'I said it!' but he didn't do that. He sat patiently, waiting for the next words of the man.

He realized the man's eyes were fixed on him, maybe in expectation of a question. He hurriedly asked "How, sah?".

The man dabbed his sweaty forehead with a blue handkerchief. "She seems to be an atheist."

"An artist? She wan dey draw?" The man looked at him in a doubtful way--if he was the right person for the job. "An atheist, she no believe in God?" He quickly retraced his words, expertly, and played a quick game of guess, as his prospective employer sighed, a wry smile formed on his face. He knew his guess was correct. Of course, he had the local newspaper,...., to thank. He had read it some months ago on the headline where a traditional ruler said he was a theist, but stuck in between the traditional and the orthodox. He had asked a comrade near him what 'theist' meant and he simply replied 'belief.' "Happiness has been questioning God."

"She questions God?" he asked, widening his brown eyes in surprise. He saw dissapointment on the man's face and like he had done before, he chewed his words. "Sah, that was a reflex cacophony." he said, hoping to convince the man back to his path with 'big english' he didn't even know the meaning. "Give her the Bible to read." He suggested, to which the man responded with a frown, three lines immediately formed on his shiny forehead. "You think I haven't tried that? She prefers to read novels instead."

Afolabi removed his cap and throroughly ran his hand through his hair, as if he was shampooing it. This was a complicated matter. "May I suggest something--sah" he said, raising his hand slowly, from beside his ear. "Go on with it!" the man growled, he seemed irritated by his timidity. "Let her go church, you know, mingle with christians, she go eventually love God."

The man scratched his beard in thought, then shook his head, saying "that won't change a thing."

Afolabi shifted to the edge of his seat in a perturbed manner, he wanted to ask a question and the man was at the opposite of his current sitting position--he relaxed his back on the chair, giving Afolabi a nod of permission.

"Where's her mother?"

"Dead." he replied coldly, with no emotion in his voice or face.

"Okay," Afolabi said, standing up "I'll teach her about God."

"Wait," the man said "lets play some ayo ."

He was surprised that such a person had ayo in his house. They were at it for over forty minutes, which he utilized wisely, getting to know that the man's name was Chief Stainless, one of the richest men in the South West, CEO of a company that deals in loan of agricultural equipments such as tractors, bulldozers, and rather strangely, manual labourers.

He returned home that day with a wide grin on his face. Omotola noticed that he didn't reek of alcohol. He didn't speak like a person who'd lost his tongue, and demanding to sleep. Rather, he picked up James and John in his arms, after giving Bola a nylon full of chocolates. He went over to Omotola and planted a peck on her lips, and when he removed his, he looked round the room, at all his children, and declared authoritatively "I got the job." He said it with so much veracity like it marked the end of their problems.

His children's eyes glistened in the light that the owu lamp provided, They chattered incessantly with Kelana saying "Nuh, they don't lick it." as he cheated John off his chocolate, the kid was awed by his accent.

Yekini curled himself in a corner, deeply immersed in the chocolate bar. Bola had love-filled eyes as her father held on to mother's waist and they walked majestically into the room.

"I hope you're not thinking of those romance novels?" Kelana said in a mocking tone. She looked at Kelana with her 'bad eye'.

"Love is not real." Yekini said, disposing his chocolate plastic encasement on John's waiting head. It bounced off and touched the shut eyes of Jumoke, who was fast asleep.

She growled as she woke up "Who be dat one nah?"

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