“Please have you sent the money?”

I type out the message as my roommate looks over my shoulder and asks, “how can you talk to your father like that? No “sir”, no form of respect at all”.

I treat his question as rhetorical, no amount of explanation can make them understand that my family is a close knit one where we treat ourselves as equals, without needing to resort to the formality of “yes sir” and “yes ma”. I don’t blame them, I’m Yoruba, a tribe with an almost enforced formal greeting for every situation known to man, you bump into a Yoruba man twenty times in twenty minutes, and he’s going to expect ten different forms of formal greetings.

My father’s text interrupts my thoughts and I break into a smile as I read his lone word reply

“Done”

It’s almost 3pm, that gives me barely one hour to get to the bank before they close their doors, I don’t have the luxury of taking a shower and all that nonsense, I take a N100 loan from my roommate who is suddenly the nicest guy in the world now that he knows I’ve got some money.

I’m at the bus stop in less than five minutes and although it’s crowded as usual, I hustle and practically fight my way into a cab as the driver announces “challenge, post office”, as is the norm; four of us are in the backseat trying not to squeeze ourselves to death in the small car.

The driver turns up Kwam1 and he’s belting out his now popular “eyin mama e sempe” tune and I bop my head along, as much as I hate fuji music, it’s one hell of a catchy tune, a collection of other catchy fuji tunes makes my journey seem short and almost pleasant.

I’m at challenge bus stop by 3:45 and my bank is a short walk from here, I walk into the imposing white structure marked “Oceanic bank”, there’s already a queue of people outside trying to get in, their stupid security doors aren’t exactly helping matters.

I might as well just wait my turn, in no time I’m in the banking hall and the queue makes me groan, sometimes I think that every student in Unilorin banks with Oceanic and the bank takes great pains to ensure social networking by making us all meet at the banking hall like this every week.

There are two queues and both look equally long, and the progress on either queue looks slow, in moments like this, it takes the wisdom of Solomon to decide which queue to join, after doing some “gauging”, I join the first queue and go through the motion of asking the person at the rear “Please are you the last person here? I’m after you”. My place thus reserved, the next task is to somehow get a seat while I wait.

One hour and N5,000 later, I leave the bank exhausted, and my trusty Nokia starts yelling in my pockets, it’s Tunde, my closest friend; I’m thinking about the marked “co-incidence” of how Tunde seems to be concerned about my welfare everytime I make a trip to the bank, the first words I hear as I pick up the phone;

“How far? You don go sleep for bank?”

“I just comot now now” I tell him

“Shei you sha see money collect” He asks again

The phone call ends as I respond in the affirmative; calls are so expensive especially because he uses MTN and I use Glo. Getting a cab back to school is the easy part, what we call Unilorin’s “magic school bus” appears, a long yellow “molue” looking thing that’s cheaper than a regular cab.

It’s dark by the time I get back to school, and I walk the short distance from the car park to hostel in silence and deep thought as to how I’d manage this 5k for the whole month, I make a mental note to send my father a “thank you” text.

I enter my room of four to a noisy welcome, any observer would have been forgiven for thinking I went to the bank to obtain a chieftaincy title as cries of “Chiefo” rent the air, the best way to deal with these hailing was just to bone face and give everyone vague assurances that they’d get a bite of your allowance.

After all the noise dies down, Tunde moves in;

“Guy, how far you now? Make we enter buka 11 go chop”

Buka 11 is one of our favourite “bukas” in school, but buka 11 wasn’t exactly known for their cheap prices.

“Make we manage buka 5 now, I no get money for 11 o” I tell him as I try to dissuade him.

After a series of negotiations, we settle on buka 5, I take a quick shower on the veranda, a trip to the bathroom would surely have meant mistakenly stepping on someone’s carefully placed mound of shit. Some people haven’t yet learnt the difference between “bathroom” and “toilet”.

I don a fresh t-shirt too, any evening outing in Campus is a social event, even if it’s just to go to the entrance of the hostel to buy recharge card, you know can tell when your prospective better half can decide to take a walk.

As we step out of the hostel, we take a minute to survey “Lagos hostel”, the female hostel facing ours, notorious for being as dirty as the dudes here, if your mentality is “fine girls no dey shit” all the convincing you’ll ever need is the countless black nylons lying directly behind the Lagos hostel.

These girls weren’t practising for Olympic shot put event, just unceremoniously disposing their shit and thus even the finest girls in Lagos hostel were looked at with some sort of suspicion. Who knows, she might even be the owner of the black nylon at the top of the dungpile.

We’re still playing our game of watching when my phone rings, it’s Yemi, I manage a wry smile as I pick the phone call, after light banter, I inform her that I’m going to grab lunch with Tunde, she says something about tagging along.

The implication of her statement kicks in only after the call ends and Tunde’s consoling me about how I just might get lucky if I spend a little money on her.

Needless to say, our plans had changed from buka 5 to buka 11

www.nomadicmosco.

Biodun staggered into his house; drunk as always…..

His wife, accustomed to hearing his uneven drunk steps prepared herself for a terrible night ahead; Biodun was usually such a wonderful man, but alcohol brought out the devil in him.

She steeled her jaw for the blows that were sure to come; in an alternate reality, she was sure Biodun would have become a successful boxer. She could have succeeded in the boxing heavyweight division; such was the force of his blows; and she had withstood this hell for 8years. Many professional boxers’ careers didn’t even span that long.

The bang on the door shook her out of her reverie; she mechanically put a smile on her face and hoped against hope that tonight would be different.

As soon as she unlocked the door, Biodun staggered in. She imagined that this was what the production factory of Nigerian Breweries would smell like; the scent of his expensive perfume was long gone.

She gently steered Biodun to the dining table where she had laid out dinner, and gingerly took a seat beside him; Biodun seemed to come to life at the sight of food.

She was about to crack a smile when Biodun suddenly pushed the plates aside, the glassware shattering to earth with a loud report.

Before she could ask what was wrong, the first blow came and sent her flying out of her chair in one clean sweep; from then on, there was no respite as her husband rained continuous blows to every part of her body.

As his energy waned, Biodun slowed down and eventually stopped, he staggered to the parlour where he slumped onto the sofa.

Pray, who was this monster? This wife beater?

Biodun Omodokun was a pillar of his community; a man’s man; successful, handsome and charming. Every woman’s dream and his wife’s nightmare, Biodun started his wealth management company at the age of twenty one. Such was his entrepreneurial drive.

It took Biodun three years to put his company at the forefront of asset management companies in Nigeria. Respected by his contemporaries, held in awe even by competitors, Biodun had the world at his feet at twenty four.

He was by far one of the most eligible bachelors in Abuja; Biodun was no debutante, he had his pick of girls. He was always a consummate gentleman and he was quite the socialite, he easily charmed and worked his way through the Abuja social circle.

Trust Abuja girls, they had exhausted all schemes to get Biodun to tie the knot but he was as slippery as an eel, this was one horse that had no plans of seeing a stable.

For his twenty fifth birthday, Biodun decided to be extravagant; he purchased the 2012 Range Rover sport, Limited edition. It set him back to the tune of N25million, but for a man of his stature and social standing, nothing less would have sufficed.

Despite his wealth and entrepreneurial drive, Biodun was rather clueless about automobiles; he was barely adept at driving and his constant refusal to hire a driver made him a danger to himself and other motorists.
In barely a month, his state of the art Range Rover sport had lost its gleam and the poor automobile was barely a shadow of itself.

He might have been clueless but he sure wasn’t stupid so he decided to take his car to an automobile shop to restore it to its once pristine state. Not a roadside mechanic, but one of those pricy automobile repair shops that dotted the landscape of Abuja was where he decided to patronise.

He had barely parked his car before a valet promptly appeared and drove the car into the main working area and he was directed towards the reception.

Had he known what was ahead, Biodun would probably have done a few things differently; but isn’t that what the benefit of hindsight does to us all?

As he sat in the reception nursing a cold bottle of beer, his attention alternated between the pages of the newspaper he was holding and the lanky boy who was working on his Range Rover.

From where he was seated, the boy looked a little too young to have any major experience on that kind of job but from the way he carried himself, he looked like he knew what he was doing.

Two hours flew by before the boy was done working on his car, not that Biodun complained, three bottles of big stout put him at the top of his game and he already got a number and a date from one of those insanely wealthy Abuja women – whose only problem was how to spend money – who was also at the reception.

His wealthy friend took her leave and Biodun was bored stiff with the newspaper, his eyes roamed his surroundings restlessly. Something caught his eye, he was sure he was dreaming or dead drunk because what he saw marked a turning point in his life.

Biodun stood still; mouth wide agape and hands in his pocket, momentarily frozen as he unconsciously reached for his phone.

“The lanky boy” at work on his car was actually a girl; prettier than the word ‘pretty’ had ever described. She stood there in her oversize overall, grease stains all over her body, creating a perfect contrast to the sparkles in her spotless white teeth.

She just smiled at him, creating dimples, each big enough to hold a shot of liquor.

Biodun knew girls enough to believe that she was NOT smiling because she liked him.

The smile resulted from a combination of satisfaction from the work she had done and mockery of Biodun’s cluelessness in car maintenance.

Biodun stared at her lips while it listed all the things she did and then concluding at the sum total of his bill.

That was the first time Biodun was speechless in front of a girl since primary school.
Biodun left the auto repair shop with one resolve: to get the girl at whatever cost…..

The cost was his freedom.

Never had a man wooed a woman so earnestly; Biodun put Romeo to shame in his gestures of love; but his “Juliet” wasn’t going to be won easily.

Having heard of his conquests through the capital city, she was determined never to become one of his countless mistresses.

Her continued refusal fuelled Biodun’s lust, he was such a successful man, he was always used to having his way, women hardly refused his advances for more than a couple of weeks.

This was proving to be difficult; it took Biodun two years to win her over and convince her that a life with him was better than anything the auto repair shop could ever give her.
When he finally got her, he thought he had gotten the perfect trophy. He knows better now.

His dream come true is now a recurring nightmare.

What used to be paradise is now purgatory. The angel who came into his life was actually a demon sent from hell’s deepest and hottest spot to steal his joy.

She tricked him with everything in the book. She refused him sex, building his hunger for it to dizzying oxygen-void crescendo only for him to find out she wasn’t even a virgin on her wedding night.

She presented herself as the woman who was going to give him everything a man could ever dream of – beautiful children, delicious meals and bragging rights of virginity. It’s been eight years now, she hasn’t even missed her period.

She can dismantle a car in two minutes but she can’t even boil water right. She’s so rigid during sex.

Is this what he left the market for?

With rage, he flew back up from the sofa he had slumped on and kicked his wife with all the rage of pure hate, he kicked till he had the satisfaction of seeing blood spill from her, then staggered back to the sofa and gave into alcohol induced slumber.
**

Dorcas was a battered soul….

Her parents died when she was just ten and she was forced to stay with an uncle. After years of abuse, she ran from her uncle’s house and stayed with another uncle who was a mechanic.

This uncle made her stay with him at his shed always after he noticed how her beauty attracted customers.

Dorcas made the most of this situation and became a master of all thing things about a wide range of cars.

All these made it difficult for her to give in to Biodun, but she did and they have been married for eight years now, only one of those years was happy.

The beauty that defined Dorcas was long gone; overshadowed by the big dark shades she always wore around to cover her permanently purple face.

A coup had been carried out in her heart, happiness had been overthrown, now it’s just gloom and fantasies of death, first for her husband and then for herself.

She had purchased a gun from one of those bad street boys from around her uncle’s workshop who worshipped her back in the days.

She could easily have told them to kill her husband at absolutely no cost. But if she ever decided she wanted him dead, she wanted to do it herself.
But she couldn’t.

She still held on to memories of that boy she fell in love with; that pompous overconfident guy who stopped at nothing to get her; that boy who worshiped the air that came out of her nostrils.

She still held on to memories of that night when he slept overnight in his car in front of her house just to convince her to go out with him.

She held on to memories of his vows on their wedding day.

It was all tricks from his book, after all. She had married the devil.

He didn’t live in hell or under the ground; he lived in Abuja – with her.

Memories were not the only thing that stopped her from killing him, she also blamed herself.

If only she could give him a child. If only she had stayed at home more with her uncle’s wife to learn how to cook.
She employed someone to teach her to cook three years ago but by that time Biodun had stopped eating her food.

She still served him though, knowing it was just going to end up on the floor, because failure to do so could just end in more beating.

How was she supposed to explain to her husband that he was the only guy she willingly gave herself to? That she preferred the impersonal hum of engines to the complications of human interaction.

This was her world, this was her hell…..this is Dorcas….living with the devil within.

[i]www.nomadicmosco.

Never mind that it was barely 5am, Wole had already hit the road, briefcase in one hand, tie hanging loosely around his neck.

He was but part of a crowd; the Lagos crowd, working from dusk to dawn to keep a roof (no matter how leaky) over his head.

He joined the throng at the bus stop jostling for the available buses and “keke napep’s”; no thanks to Fashola, Okadas were now extinct.

The bus-stop at this time looked strangely liked a Corporate Wrestling event; men and women in Suits and ties trading a few blows as they rushed on into the buses.

The conductors chanted their anthem “enter with your change o!”

Wole had long learned that this part of his day required an innate skill; his first few days at the bus stop had inevitably led to the loss of a few shirt buttons and a wallet.

Say what you may about Lagos pick-pockets, but they sure are early risers.

Thus, Wole, the bus-stop veteran pulled a shirt here and there and was firmly planted in his seat in a matter of seconds.

His luck wasn’t holding up this morning; he had the extreme ill fortune of sitting next to the conductor.

If you board buses in Lagos, there’s just one cardinal rule, NEVER EVER sit next to the conductor; this rule is a product of experience and necessity and in time, if we’re lucky, the House of Assembly just might pass it into law.

The armpit of many a Lagos conductor doesn’t see water too often. You see, they use the “potent” smell from their armpits to keep away mosquitoes at night.

Many conductors are also not on very good terms with their toothpaste and toothbrush. A shot of ogogoro in the morning usually kills all the germs.

Wole was quickly acquainted with the conductor’s wonderful morning breath and in the process of collecting his fare; the conductor stuffed his armpit into Wole’s mouth a few times.

Never mind that the conductor was wearing a sleeveless vest.

Thankfully, this aroma drove the last vestiges of slumber from poor Wole; after all, they say dark armpits, sorry, clouds, have silver linings.

The bus slowly crawled on to Lagos Island, getting stuck in traffic every couple of minutes; a few “night workers” could be spotted making their way home.

Last night their attires looked attractive, during the day, they just looked naked. That should give you a clue….

Wole’s bus arrived at CMS at 6:30, he was the first man out of the bus, and he had barely 30mins to get to the office.
Wole’s company had a rather ingenious policy of docking N1, 000 for every incident of late-coming.

The fact that Wole earned N40, 000 a month made punctuality a necessity. N1, 000 daily penalty for twenty working days and most of his salary would be gone.

Surely, you don’t need a degree in Mathematics to deduce this.

Wole passionately loathed his job. From the shabby overweight secretary Florence to his dim witted colleagues,

Wole felt that this job was heaven’s punishment on him for some sin in his past life.

Wole was a graduate of the University of Benin and while he didn’t graduate top of his class, Wole was an outstanding student, bagging a Second Class (Upper Division).

Wole had instant visions of a six figure salary, a house on the Island and at least three exotic cars. After all, he had graduated with a “2-1”.

Instead, this was Wole’s reality; a take home pay that kept his body and soul just within touching distance, and yet he didn’t have a choice.

All the influential and connected Uncles, aunts and family friends had made countless empty promises.

As was his usual routine, by midday, he was in deep thought, because by his break time, Wole availed himself the opportunity of what he termed financial freedom; His daily dose of “BABA IJEBU”; the six lucky numbers that would one day fetch him millions.
This daily addiction cost Wole dearly but you know what they say about how a man must take his chances.

After all, Dangote and co all made their billions through persistence.
Lunch itself was usually a drab affair;

Mama Ngozi’s buka was the cheapest in the area and by virtue of Wole’s finances, he inevitably became a regular.
Our people say “soup wey sweet, na money kill am”, Wole’s version was, “Soup wey no sweet, na Mama Ngozi cook am”.

Mama Ngozi’s food was one of the necessary evils in Wole’s life.

To label her food tasteless would have been the greatest compliment her food would have ever received; but where else could you get a plate of rice and a good piece of meat for N150 on Lagos Island.

With a salary like his, Wole quickly settled into stuffing down his daily punishment (or lunch as some would call it).

After all, unpleasant experiences are best dealt with quickly.

The discomfort from Lunch often kept him alert through the rest of the day and by 6pm; the first man out of the office door was usually Wole!
He had to rush home to expel the remnants of “lunch”.

As with Lagos, getting back home was always the tricky part; this time another throng of corporate slaves.

Weary from the sundry experiences and hectic work schedules, the burden of work undone on their shoulders.

Home was a solace, and they were in an angry rush to get there.

Another wrestling match ensued, this time more spirited than before; unfortunately Wole was totally out of his depth here.
He wasn’t a king at this bus-stop; it was going to be a long wait.

Just then, fate smiled on Wole, a bus stopped a few metres from him; with the conductor chanting, “Oshodi Mile two, one more SHANCE”.
In a dash that would have put Usain Bolt’s world record to shame, Wole dashed to the bus and took the only available space.

Wole thanked his stars and settled in for a bumpy ride to his destination….little did he know that fate had other plans for him….

well, its partly a true life story set in the Old Oyo Empire; back then, women were more resilient and child bearing could go hand in hand with pounding yam....

“I am Abiku, calling for the first

And the repeated time”

-Wole Soyinka, “Abiku”

Aduke was in labour…again

There wasn’t the usual hustle and urgency associated with a household where the wife was in labour; the midwife was nowhere to be found. Aduke’s blood curling screams drew no sympathy or attention even from the passers-by who could obviously hear her.

In this little town, time was measured by Aduke’s pregnancies; one man could say to another “don’t you remember the village dance? It was at the time of Aduke’s fourth pregnancy!”; this misfortune had come to define Aduke’s life.

She had been through this painful process twenty two times before; Aduke’s quest to give her husband a child had made her a slave to the delivery bed. She had seen one child after the other die in her arms, the dreaded “abiku”; the village babalawo had given up on her, and countless sacrifices had been offered to coerce the children to stay, to no avail.

This was her lot in life, to be tormented and tortured by the lifeless bodies of her infant children; nine months of every year spent carrying death.

She could have been re-named “Death” for she was an empty shell; the village had run out of sympathy for her; many thought her possessed of an evil spirit.

Fortunately, her husband stuck by her and refused to take a second wife; although Olusegun was weary, he would never admit it. Fate continually mocked his dreams of having six healthy sons and with his advancing years and no help at the farm, he was bound to break his poor back if he didn’t get help soon.

With all this in mind, Aduke muffled her screams and pushed slowly; she was an expert of sorts on childbirth, after twenty-two tries, she might as well have learnt a thing or two. In a little while, the child had eased out on to the palm leaves she had laid on, she picked up the little bundle and felt a tiny flutter of joy as he filled his lungs and let out a tiny cry, his little organ confirmed his gender.

She quickly calmed her excited heart; her abiku was back once again to tease her, to make her feel the fleeting joy of motherhood. Nevertheless, she put the child to her breast and fed him.

She was tired but Olusegun wasn’t going to have excuses; he loved his bowl of pounded yam and he expected it every night without fail. After working hard all day, he might as well be guaranteed this little comfort from his “cursed” wife.

Cooing her new-born to sleep, she set mind to preparing her husband’s dinner.

Olusegun came back home later than usual and made a mental note to himself to be easy on his old body, he felt the fatigue from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet; he idly remembered Aduke was pregnant, like that held any hope. He had run out of hope, he had long succumbed to the reality that rocking a child in her arms wasn’t Aduke’s lot in life.

She had prepared his dinner and had already fetched his bathwater; if only she could have a child, she would have been the perfect wife.

Read the full story here http://nomadicmosco./2013/06/13/the-14th-aare-1/

The internet keeps me fully occupied through the day but I've sadly come to note that there is a shortage of sensible materials to read online.
Every tom, d**k and harry runs a blog and the resulting effect is that i end up reading the same piece of stale gist on almost every Nigerian blog.

I'll like you to tag along daily/weekly or as long as i have the strength as i recommend quality stories/poems/articles I've culled from the internet from good writers.

Today I'm starting off with two mini-series written by me! That should give everyone a view of what i like!

1) "THE 14TH AARE" (EPISODE 1) http://nomadicmosco./2013/06/13/the-14th-aare-1/

2) "THE DIARIES OF SURVIVAL (EPISODE 1) http://nomadicmosco./2013/06/14/the-diaries-of-survival-1/

Stick around for tomorrow's recommendations and be sure to air your views on the recommended pieces.

Gracias!