₦airaland Forum

Visa granted. Sydney in a week. Anyone in that area?

The following techniques are proven ways to cause the
human heart to stop, an experience
also known as DEATH. Some of these ideas are typical of Nigeria, being my home country, but
most could be enjoyed everywhere and anytime. It
is not certain, however, how these techniques work
but when employed correctly it produces the much
desired effect.
Since i am still working on the list I'll ask for your
patience and support. The experience promises to be rewarding; and hey if you'ld like to contribute
feel free to do so. Have fun reading.
Recipes for instant death.
1. When in America say "I am the 'bomb' ". You
have to be a Muslim of Arab origin to try this.
2. Take milk that has the certification- "Made in
China".
3. Pretend to be effeminate only for a few days
if you find yourself in jail.
4. Accept an invitation from an old friend of yours
from the Ngwa tribe of Nigeria asking you to attend
a barbecue in his home town.
5. When you feel a sharp pain in your chest, dial
112, The Nigerian emergency number. (this is only applicable to residents of Nigeria).
6. Say " Good morning" to a veiled muslim woman
while on a visit to Tehran.
7. Fly the Nigerian airways (takes an average of two
flights to get killed).
8. Play hard rock music while driving on the
express lane.
9. Attempt to do fifty shows at the age of fifty.
10. Attempt to smoke a cigarette after sucking out
fuel from your car using a hose.
11. Next April Fool's day, walk into a nigerian bank
waving a well crafted toy gun (a personal
favourite).
12. Run warm water over your wrist until you cant
feel a thing, borrow a razor and make a deep,
beautiful line across your wrist ( use a meter rule
for better accuracy). I hate blood and gore, but the
Romans invented it. Its worth the try!
13. Aaah! Get married to a beautiful lady that hails
from Mbisé tribe of eastern Nigeria. I hear their
husbands last just a few years. Why? Who knows,
maybe you aught to try it. I didnt make this up, i swear. Its still a rumor but hey, what the hell, lets
have fun.
14. Spice your food with thyme bought from kwale
in Delta state of Nigeria, then go for a swim. Makes
you feel kinda emotional. Its not an inside joke.
15. Kill a cow in an indian market.
16. Pin a cartoon of the prophet Mohamed (peace
be upon Him) to your back then humbly visit the
closest mosque. For better effect you should wear a
cross on your neck. Wow!

Disclaimer: No be me send you. Thanks.

I had just accepted an invitation to guide a little friend of mine as she puts together an essay that would, in its lowest potential, wow the audience. I'm usually thrilled at things like that, all i needed to do was to reach deep within her, pick up fragments of her past that were valuable to the essay and help her see the story inside her. My job was simple. "Henry could you help me through an essay that would be read in church for our fathers' day celebration?".... Yes, why not? With much
enthusiasm we plunged into issue. The topic was "My father, my provider" and the theme was clear, we moved on to make an outline. I didn't imagine i was headed for something terribly unpleasant. So, here it is, job in progress, we launch out into a conversation that i had intended to loosen her up. We start talking about family. Soon i notice all she was going on and on about was her mother. There was a lot to say about mum (which is usually understandable), but not today, today we're supposed to be talking about dad. I try every technique, no results. So i asked a direct question,
what about dad? ... That changed everything. She knew nothing about him. To dig up memories for our essay i ask about how her dad had been there for her. No answer. He had never hugged her,
never loved her, never "provided" anything. That was when everything turned awkward. We sat starring. All i could see was the bitterness that she
could write volumes on. No story. Sadly i pointed to
her that the essay was not for her (must have been
a mistake). She says all kids in church were asked
to write. Church as an audience meant we couldn't fabricate anything like we would in an academic setting.
That night i sat sleepless thinking. What
happened to fatherhood? Why cant a sixteen year old write a four-paged essay on little gestures from her father? Is this case an isolated one, or are there millions like her? Should this have its consequences? These questions i might not be able to answer, but i can write. I'm writing this hoping some remote person out there would today resolve to do whatever honest deed it would take to leave something for posterity. Leave a name, leave
wealth, leave pleasant memories, and above all, leave Lots Of Love. And so this fathers' day, little Cynthia wouldn't be reading an essay.

He spoke these things, they were his last.
"Henry, give me your hands... i am your uncle. i never made it beyond being able to buy my meals
and do a few other things, but as i lay here on this
bed i always think about you-all the potential you
and your brother possess- and then i smile in my
pain. i know now that there is a successor to
accomplish all what i couldn't in my lifetime. This
conversation I'm having with you is one vital part of
our culture that is missing. i will do my task this
moment, now listen..
May your days be longer than
mine. May you accomplish all that you set to
accomplish. You shall have kids, male and female.
May you never suffer. You will not only be rich but
you shall enjoy your riches in good health. Walk
upright and steal nothing. Honesty and the
products of your head will provide for you. my voice
fails me now, so i will retire to my bed; but i need
you to remember this day... This event."

These were the words of my only uncle as he lay sick.
A broken man unmarried and without kids.. And as
he rambled on, sometimes incoherent, i drifted into
thoughts. This tradition must mean a lot to him.
Could it be, that this was not just a monologue?
Could this have been the passing of a baton; this
ceremonial handover? Just what did this meeting
represent? i haven't quite answered these
questions, but i know with all certainty that i will be
having this same chat with someone, someone
young, years down the line. Whatever this tradition
meant, the baton must be passed.


RIP Mr Simeon Ani.

To think of this makes me laugh. A group of people that speak Igbo as their ancestral language and have nothing but a purely Igbo heritage and tradition, still claim not to be igbo. They exist under so many pseudonyms invented to mislead posterity. Living in denial for decades and driving their offspring further away from their roots. You can run, but you can't hide from your blood. Its in you. Its in your name. You are Igbo, stop running. i see you, Amaechi, i see you Nneji, i see all your Igboness. "Delta'igbo", Ikwere, long list.....

When is the estimated time of release for waec nov/dec gce?

Thanks jildman.

Thanks jildman.

Please when is the result scheduled to be released?

Boko Haram.

I am Ani Henry, a resident of Enugu.

I guess we just moved with times, Sorry "african gods", but we had to move on. Some religions with good political tactics stole our hearts. Better luck next time.

Whenever you have the resources. The dry season is cheaper though, but confirm that.