₦airaland Forum

sonOfLucifer:
Nice write up. Enjoyed it.

Lmao at MrGoodnews holywater.

BREAKING NEWS!

SUNDAY 26 JUNE 2016- In what many are calling the most shocking and controversial display of religious resistance ever witnessed in the history of the University of Benin, theologists and researchers at the Department of Religious studies have, according to raw data gathered since the beginning of this academic session, confirmed that one Mr ksslib, holds a grudge against the church of God.

"This is very exciting news" said a professor at the University who pleaded anonymity. "We have been studying him patiently for months since the beginning of this academic session, and the break-through was when this Sunday, today, he for the umpteenth time, like the dozen Sundays that have passed, refused going to church " .

The professor added that the next phase of the research will focus on finding out the grudge this Mr ksslib has against the house of God, and maybe then, they can begin to convince him that God, who loves him so so much, and was kind enough to create him, is not the enemy.

"Astonishing! How one can mange not to attend any Sunday service throughout an academic session is simply astonishing" proclaimed another visibly baffled professor at the university, who also like his colleague, pleaded anonimity for security reasons. "Such a feat is not for the feeble minded, I tell ya. It's amazing, and that's why we want to study him more and have a rare insight into how his mind works"

Eyewitnesses confirmed to our sources that whispers were making rounds within campus that not only does he have a connection with the biblical antichrist, but also ranks high in their hierarchy of leadership.

"It is only the devil that can choose not to go to church on sunday" fired, one Mr Goodnews Holywater, who is the acting president of a popular fellowship on campus. "The Bible warned us about people like him" he continued. " Mr ksslib, is the accuser of the brethren, simple" .

Rumors also have it that Mr ksslib's deliberate resistance to see the house of God eye to eye, has birthed a new unit of measurement that has gone viral on campus. Where the name "ksslib" is used to measure how often one goes to church. A typical scenario is how instead of answering a question like "How many times have you gone to church this year?" with something like "I've gone twice" , one honours the legend by replying " two ksslibs" .

Sources confirmed that at press time, while male students were seen in troops, rushing to church in their starched longsleeves, and a crusade of girls were spotted, struggling on high heels and seductive mini skirts to make it on time, Mr ksslib was seen within the conclaves of hall 4, chatting and smiling to his phone's screen and occasionally checking his bunk bed for bed bugs.

Although, he could not be reached directly as at the time of this report, it was confirmed via sources close to him that Mr ksslib has no intention of attending church anytime soon, having over the years discovered that what worked for him was his relationship with God, and not some "I JUST HAVE TO GO TO CHURCH" mentality which many see as an obligation rather than a genuine act of reverence towards God.

1.. GHOST FROM YOUR PAST
Ahh! Ghost from your past! The mere mention of it alone has me already in a state of nostalgia. A nostalgic feeling that's not necessarily a good or bad one, depending on the victim's understanding of good or bad. Everybody has a past, present & future( well, except for blackberry) but some past are better left in the past especially when it's told from a tongue on a mission.

You are out somewhere in town in the company of friends, and someone calls out randomly "Kwashiokwor". You dont want to turn because your name is not Kwashiokwor, in-short, nobody can be called Kwashiokwor. But out of curiosity you do, and there she is, in all her glory, smiling like a hunter whose trap just caught a prey, mama ejiro your neighbour of 10 yrs ago.

Now, the harsh reality sets in. There was this person called Kwashiokwor 10 yrs ago and that person is you. Your friends are now looking confused, urging you with eye contact to tell this woman your name is not Kwashiokwor. But you know better.

"Eh! Eh! Eh! Mark, na you be this? . The toture session begins.

"See as you don big like paw paw tree. All this small children of now-adays, una dey big like Agric fowl oh".

She holds you by your shoulder,draws you closer and presses your head with full force on her now sagged & weary bosoms almost choking you, all in the name of measuring your height with hers.

"See mark,my small mark of yesterday. Na wa oh". Just then, you wish you could somehow hypnotize this woman after realizing where she's headed and the damage her revelation is going to cause. Mama Ejiro now goes into memory lane while you watch helplessly. She tells your entire life history . At this point, your friends become the audience. She describes how you looked back then: Big belly like a J.p tank, tiny toothpick arms and a mighty head that four dangote trucks will struggle to carry, hence the name -- Kwashiokwor.

Mama Ejiro goes on and on, asks about everyone, including that big ring worm that sat majestically at the top your head that gave all treatments tough time.

You turn back to look at your friends laughing hysterically to the delight of Mama Ejiro. And via eye contact, they assure you that you won't be hearing the last of it for the rest of your life.
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2.. OLD SOJA
As a young man who most of the time lives in his head, doesn't like talking much except when in the mood, and occasionally wants to be left alone, I can categorically assure you that old soja would have still made this list if I was to narrow it down to two.

Old Soja is code name for that retired/ jobless elderly person on your street that has sworn to never allow you enjoy your youthful exuberance in Peace. Old soja is not gender specific, but are mostly men. Men especially, that fall within the category of retired Teacher or military personnel.

They'll wake as early as 6:30am, sit on an inherited chair that appears to be what their grandfather forgot to break, wear their favourite half brown- half-white singlet and set for the business of the day. Which is to make sure they find fault in every young person that passes that day.

A young man passes.
"Osagie". He calls out.

Old soja will call you by your father's name just to feel superior. He will also be quick to remind you of how older than your small father he is, if you are slow responding to his call.

" What type of irresponsible hairstyle is this? You've joined cult abi? I don't want to see you with this hair in the evening. I will talk to Osagie your father. And a responsible man should make sure his trouser is at the belly button" .

Having said all, the thing about Old soja that always has me on the edge is their tendency to commit murder-- just greet them without adding "Sir" to find out.

3. SPIRIKOKO
Spirikoko, as we all know, is a synonym of the well known counterpart, Holy-Holy. But i prefer using spirikoko, because the "ko-ko" there, is a constant reminder of the sound i will want their head to make the day i ll garner enough courage to forcefully ram my knuckles on thier fore-head for reminding me that everything I have been saying & doing , will be used against me on the last day.

After having an encounter with one of them one day, reflected on my lifestyle,then and there, I came to peace with the fact that i will never make heaven. Not only I, but my mother too, I came to understand, according to the bible wielding militant, was never going to make heaven if she continues offending God by wearing earings. My innocent peace loving cousin, that wants the world to become a better place, he explained, was doomed too. God doesn't want to know or cares if she is a good person, all he is concerned about is why she, as a woman, would wear trousers meant for men. I did a quick math, and the result was stunning: nobody in my imidiate & extended family was heaven material. We all offended God one way or the other.
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The militant smiled whenever he gave me scriptural evidence as back- up and I would occasionally smile too, wondering what he ll'd look like all tied-up and beaten for reminding me that heaven wasn't meant for us humans.

These set of people are behind the numerous delusional "I went to heaven. I went to hell" stories you keep hearing these days. These set of people, do Christianity more harm than good.

A typical Spirikoko is holy and you're not. Accept or Die.

4..MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKERS
A motivational speaker, according to the dictionary, is somebody suffering from the-same set problems as you, or even worse, but makes little money from telling you how to solve them, because apparently, he cant. In summary, a motivational speaker is somebody that has the solution to every financial problem you can think of, but being the God's gift to earth they happen to be, they would rather not use their own advise because you(the audience) is the most important person in their life. They derive pleasure in telling you how to get rich, while they remain poor.. Awww! So cute.

So you want to tell me the "secret" on how to become an entrepreneur and make plenty money? So, if you use your so called secret take hammer, na bad thing? Abi you are just allergic to wealth?

I was sitting under a mango tree reflecting about my life one hot afternoon, when one, armed with his laptop bag and pitiful long sleeve, came to motivate me. And it worked, because-- just one look at his shoe, I became motivated and started thanking God for the gift of life instead of dwelling on my seemingly little problems when compared to his shoe.

That was how Etisalat, in collaboration with Techno, invited a motivational speaker to my school early this month who kept blabbing using yeye statistics, then ended his talk with Dj Khaled's " Win win never stop", Fred's "Stand-up for the champion" and coca cola's 2010 world cup theme song " when I get older, I will be stronger.. give me freedom just like the waiving flag" then told us to go into the world and be successful.

Thank God for the security at the main auditorium who made it his business to search even innocent-cannot- hurt-a-fly looking students like myself, else I would have kept my catapult busy throughout the show that day.

.:
5. TALKATIVES
Communicating, via talking, is one of what makes us unique as humans, but it can quickly turn into one of what makes us veryyyy verry annoying as humans, if not regulated properly.

Not only were some people born to talk you into rage and depression, their brain also, it appears, is missing that vital membrane that tells them when to stop talking. These set of people are so good at what they do that something so irrelevant as an innocent simile, can be all what they just need to give you an insightful look into their grandmother's death..

"You dey smile like my cousin Jack. You and Jack get the same smile I swear. Jack Papa and My Mama na Brother and Sister. Na our Grand mama all dem jack resemble. Dey get the same nose, teeth, mouth and dem even take bow leg still resemble her sef. She don die sha, na old age kill her. As people dey cry for her burial, ah no even bother myself cry cos the woman don too try. Make she go rest abeg".

I have a roommate who, as at the time of this post, is unaware that the whole room is conniving to sell him on OLX as a parrot. The only problem we are facing, however, is convincing the buyer that he's not actually a person per se, but a parrot that looks like one

Phame:
ksslib my man!

U are the best!

Caseless:
https://i.imgur.com/RYgqqnr.gif


Your vote is golden

.:
Sometime early this month, i experienced a very unique type of hunger that made me remember i had a loving aunt who lived somewhere in town, quite a reasonable distance from school. But distance, wasn't a problem at that moment even though on a normal day, it was something that has always made me reluctant to frequently visit her even after several complains of me abandoning her. But I had in the past, assured her that she was my aunt, and nothing in this world was ever gonna make me abandon her throughout my stay in school, because hunger, i explained to her, was always there to strengthen our bond. And today, I had a promise to keep.

I grabbed my spacious backpack and threw in few clothes though deep down, the plan was to eat her food to not only my heart's but throat's satisfaction, thief anything edible i lay hands on, and run away the next morning after picking the alarm i just set for 9:00am tomorrow while pretending it was an urgent call that just informed me of an impromptu test we were to have that day.

I spent the next 30minutes practising the genuine shock face i was going to use after ending the alarm-call, to look very convincing.... because early last year, gossip was going round the house that my Aunt works for the CIA after she glanced at the covered pot she sternly warned everybody not to touch, knew something was wrong and succesfully tracked down and intercepted the spy who stole a whooping one rope of spaghetti from the pot before he could even swallow it . But the most chilling & fearful part that has earned her the extended family's respect not only as a seasoned Agent but also as a woman of steel, was when in a show of no emotional attachment whatsoever, she let justice run its course by making sure the spy wasn't served any spag when it was time to eat despite pleading guilty and showing remorse for his crime. The spy, was her beloved pampered son, Emma-- the last born.

It was either the driver was speeding too much in my favour, or the hunger, in accordance with Eisnten's Theory of Relativity, was able to bend space and time, cos in no time, we were at Ring road. I alighted and trekked to where i was to enter another taxi to my destination(you see why I hate this journey? ).

Three people were already seated in the small taxi that had scars all over, from the bumper, headlights, to the K-legged tyres which told gloomy tales of all the bitter unforgettable experiences it has had with all the bad roads in Benin city and beyond. One passenger was at the front, two at the back and with myself, all we needed was one more passenger to move. The space left was so small to comfortably accommodate any adult, but any person familiar with the Benin city taxi code constitution will attest that no matter how small the car is, the rule is that: four passengers at the back seat are to pay the driver T-fare, to stand the chance of quarrelling and fighting for space until the passenger with the biggest nyash wins.

When i saw a woman approaching our taxi, i looked at her, looked back at the space she was to occupy, and died inside. Her lap alone was another passenger. This woman was so not meant for the space left in the taxi that the driver had to come down, and forcefully use the door to calibrate her nyash into the back seat at the expense of my hip bone. It was like trying to fit Banky W's head into a medium size ghana-must-go bag and still expect the zip to close. The Car door barely closed.

This woman was sitted for barely a minute and I could already hear other passengers hissing "oh oh" . And at that moment, i didn't know what I, who was directly being crushed by the object of discomfort next to me, was supposed to do. Hiss like others? Or take it to the next level by turning into a snake. The driver kick started the car whose engine coughed to life like it was suffering from sore throat. Deep down, I knew i was going to regret the journey when i noticed the blood flow to my right leg significantly reducing.

All attempts to re-adjust and create more space for myself on the journey was met with disappointment and regret, as each twist and turn signalled i was digging my grave deeper and deeper, because in no time, the only movable part of my body was now my head and to some extent, manhood, which i assure you, acts involuntarily most of the time. This woman, despite knowing that we the passengers, especially myself, was being tormented by her sheer size, was heartless enough to adjust, and that, ladies and gentlemen, was it: all blood flow to major areas of my body was cut-off, most especially my right leg. We were now close to my destination but i was dying. Dying from the fact that i was barely feeling my right leg. My perception of time changed, five minutes was now like an hour, each passing second, an eternity.

I started hissing and adjusting. The woman, having sensed my frustration, turned into a motivational speaker-- motivating me on how i should try and manage before things get better, how it's only a matter of time before she ll drop, to set me free. She kept acknowledging every twist i made with "Bros, sorry" which was supposed to magically heal my now dead leg. I wasnt feeling the leg any longer, like it wasnt part of my body. You know that feeling when you dip ur hand in ice for say, an hour, and take it out? . Many thoughts were running through my mind: what if my leg becomes permanently dead? Why didn't i alight at Ring road and take another taxi when the yokozuna next to me decided to squeeze herself into a space barely one-quater the size of just one part of her nyash?

We got to my Junction and immediately i stepped on the ground, I nearly fell to the ground because my right leg was completely gone. I couldn't even stand straight, i supported myself with my left hand placed on my left leg & that was when the driver knew what i had been going through for the entire stretch of the journey while he was busy happily gisting away with the passenger at the front seat about Buhari's Administration, how his wife now cooks stew with only blended onion and red pepper. He came down to get my bag from the booth cos i couldn't move. The fat woman and other passengers kept showering me with "Sorry ehn" "Sorry, eyah" while I thanked them, most especially the woman, with a grateful "Your Father", in my heart.

The car drove off and that was how i stood beside the road, immobile, like a cripple. I knew if given enough time, the leg was going to get better once blood started flowing freely but i was dead scared in the heat of the moment. The feeling is something words cant describe. Was it the hopelessness? The numbing pain on the leg? The fact that something as stupid and irrelevant as innocently boarding the wrong taxi could change my life forever?

My right leg was now gaining consciousness but the pain that accompanied it was something else. I later found out, according to google, that the pain was as a result of blood rushing through my veins. I stood there for about 45minutes before i was able to walk partially, but still with noticeable discomfort.

I made my way to my loving Aunt's as a survivor, and immediately i opened the door, everybody was caught in a frenzy: the prodigal son had arrived.
They were so happy to see me, and I was so so happy to see them too, cooking.

ivyy:


Thanks dear

ivyy:
Ksslib it kicks off tomorrow

ivyy:
Hahahaha