₦airaland Forum

Thanks tho, and about Joanne flying on a broom, stranger things have happened

Its all fiction

Dear Professor Sir



You look at me with scorn as I dust your shoes.
You point out to me they are Italian leather and not the made-in-onitsha shoes I wear.
You tell your other professor friends that I am your "boy" as if u were Jaja of Opobo parading me for an auction.
You yell at me if your 10-year old daughter spills water on herself while watching Nickelodeon.
You think you're better than me just because you wear Armani loafers, eat Graham crackers, schooled in Harvard and once dined with Robert Ludlum.
You discuss your plans with Nuru the driver and listen to his advice because he went to the University for three semesters before he dropped out, while I have only an Higher National Diploma after a five-year course.
You never allow me to help your teen son with his science assignments and make excuses when he fails or blame it on the teacher if he refuses to take your bribe.
You have over a hundred books in your study and you decieve yourself that your children in the university read them though you know, they don't.
You never say anything when your wife calls me an illiterate, even though Professor Soyinka once commended me on my diction at a visit to your house.
You sit in your big armchair, in your study, conducting little psychological experiments on me, while I smile and act as if I don't recognise your poor use of positive and negative reinforcement.
You never miss an opportunity to bring me down and speak to me as if its my fault that I was never taught by a professor.

But professor sir, I would have loved to be taught by a professor. I would never have poked fun at you in class and I would have hung onto your every word. I would have written and read everything till I memorise it in my head. I would have loved to go to a university but its not my fault that UTME is a mess and my parents could not afford to send me to Babcock or Convenant University. I would have loved to tell you about how my parents struggled to send me to school. I would have loved to tell you about the fire that razed our house to the ground and burnt all my credentials after labouring in school. I would have loved to tell you how the pain killed both my parents. I would have loved to tell you about unfulfilled promises by rich relatives. I would love to see the look on your face when I tell you I took my job to pay for my brothers' tuition and they are both honors students.

You think you are smarter than me but I think not. If you were you would know Nuru has been sleeping with your wife for years and your 10year old girl has his nose and eyes.
You would know that your generation has failed mine and we don't have the opportunities you had because you only care about yourself.
You would know that your 14year old boy has dyslexia and you're beginning to have symptoms of Parkinson's disease.

But you're not, your IQ is only 145 and mine is 153

P.S thanks for letting me use your laptop to take my IQ tests by the way.or rather, thanks for leaving it on so I could use it when u were away.

Writer's Block

I pick up the pen for the umpteenth time, racking my mind for something to write about. My mind still refuses to help, it is as blank and empty as Tom Sawyer's slate. I start a tale about a boy and a girl falling in love with each other, then i stop, because it sounds so cliche, just like an indian or mexican movie. How can i even expect anyone to read romantic bullshit, when even i do not care for them.

I start another tale about the woes of my country, and i begin to sound like every nigerian writer that i know. Make no mistake i love their stories, i just dont feel so attuned to the woes of my people. I am just a typical nigerian willing to watch the condition of the country deteriorate while i do nothing but rant on twitter and facebook.

Sometimes i feel like i was cheated, no great or memorable tragedies has occured in my life that warrants writing. My parents aren't dead or divorced, my brothers don't have cancer or diabetes, I didn't grow up in a tiny one-room apartment in Ajegunle. I know that my logic is flawed and these are reasons why i should be happy and thankful to God but i sure would like to have my own David Copperfield .

I think about God and start a story, but the fear that accompanies the thought of God envelopes me, and i become scared of blasphemy. Even I 'the unreligious one' know how one can easily offend God, and with all the crap that has been happening in my life lately, i can't afford to take that chance.

I slip my earbuds on and get on my Kendrick Lamar grind and all i can hear him talk about is; his niggas getting shot or drug peddling in the hood. I don't know anybody that got shot, i haven't even heard the "doo doo doo" sound before. I don't know anybody hooked to Crack or Crystal Meth, am not even sure its sold in Nigeria but i have friends that are hooked on tramadol and promethazine. I pick up the pen and start to narrate Efe's life, but how can i talk about a stoner when i have never been stoned; not as Stephen and definitely not as Amy Winehouse.

My roving eyes falls on a novel by John Grisham, i pick it up and began reading hoping "ori story ma pe story waye" as my people would say, meaning a story begets another story. Its a book i've read before and its about a boy who died of cancer because the insurance company that held his claim refused to pay for his bone marrow transplant. His parents sued with the aid of a rookie lawyer and won the case but they didn't get a dime because the insurance company declared bankruptcy.

The ending of the book got me depressed, so i ate a box of danish cookies and drank 2 bottles of coke at a sitting. I asked my friend Kabir what to do and he stumped, and humphed and thought and he came up with the answer.

So i picked up my pen and wrote about a writer who found it hard to write.

She doesnt know me, she has never noticed me, been coming to this cafe for 8months and she has never even looked at me! She just takes her usual order of coffee and muffins and sits down with the morning newspaper open in front of her. Today, its The Times, yesterday, she bought The Daily Mirror, she comes here everyday, same chair, same order, coffee, three sugars and milk, gets here seven am and leaves eight am for her shop. Like clockwork, she leaves her house forty minutes past six, walks for seven minutes to the Newstand across main street, chats with the paper guy while she peruses the news of the day before making her selection for five minutes, then walks for eight minutes to the cafe and she always gets there seven am, not a minute earlier, not a minute late.

I have to kill her, i have to! Such beauty, such order, such perfection, such discipline is unnatural. I just wish she would look at me once! She talks to other regulars in the cafe, i even overheard them talking about a book club she's starting. She invited everyone but me. I'm serious, i'm not exaggerating or over-reacting here, she invited literally everyone, even Jim the waiter, i mean seriously? The guy's barely literate! Sometimes he gets even the simplest order mixed up. Just the other day, he brought me 2cubes of sugar instead of my usual standing order of I and half cubes of sugar( who does that?) and she invited him! Thats just so disrespectful!

The other regulars, Doug, Courtney and Patrick, they come in at different times. Sometimes Doug takes his coffee and cookies here, sometimes he takes them in a doggy bag. He's a realtor, once i stood behind him in the line and his business card fell on the floor, i picked it up and tried to give it back but he asked me to keep it. Always wearing black suits with ties that look like they were made in boringville, and a very creepy smile( sorta like Joker's).

Courtney, she's an aspiring actress, left her small town to the big city, hoping to find a break that'll make her the next Angelina Jolie, yeah right! She's a walking cliche . But reality doesnt work that way so she does a lil strip-dancing to help her pay the rent i presume. I dont really know much about her, i only know about the stripping 'cos i once overheard Archie telling tom that she gave him a lapdance for free. I figure she stops at the cafe for coffee on her way back from work. She's always here when i come in, i dont really like her, she's always smiling and laughing(creepy anyone?).

Now Patrick, he is an interesting one. Never repeats an order, reads only Danielle Steele Novels, always on Jeans and Tweeds( yeah,i never thought they could go together till i met him) and for some reason, the only guy that is allowed to smoke in here. Also he's the only regular that talks to me.

And Kimberly, oh Kimberly. She has eyes so deep, i feel like i could get lost in them. Look at her smile, wait....where did she go? She was here just a minute ago, i cant believe i lost her....

"Hi"

I paused,

"Hi" the voice repeated again

I turned around, and there she was.

Yann Patel-Life of Pi
Theodore Boone:The Kid Lawyer-John Grisham
The Racketeer-John Grisham
Green Mile-Stephen King
Pirates Latitude-Michael Crichton
The Lost Symbol-Dan Brown

XKZ: World War Z
A Song of Ice and Fire 1 - 5 (George R. R. Martin)
Inferno (Dan Brown)
Over the past 3 months (Oct - Dec). I also re-read No Orchids for Miss Blandish (James Hadley Chase)

World War Z, Inferno, pls tell me those are e-books and u still have em

Will drop more soon

An Expose On Weed. Weed may be referred to as an unwanted vegetative plant also known as......(yeah yeah,am just messing witcha). Now the question we want answered is 'What is Weed' or is it 'What is an Expose'...('f cos u kno am messing withcha).

So lets get down to business, Weed is a city located in Siskiyou County, California, United States(and now you're thinking, 'is she messing wit me'). U and I both know the answer to that question, though the 2,967 inhabitants of Weed City (has a nice ring to it,doesnt it?) would like to differ(seriously, Amsterdam has nothing on this city, Fela would have loved this place! I bet Snoop Lion has a holiday house built there,prolly wit a front lawn connecting him to Wiz Khalifa's Backyard with Amber's Car parked in front. A view which Kanye enjoys from his terrace while exploring Kim's Rack and her ASSertion that theirs is d best house in d neigbourhood).

I really must apologise, I know am such a good and i promise to go right to it this time. Weeds is an american dark comedy-drama series created by Jenji Kohan and produced by Tilted Productions(yes, I am definitely messing wit u(or am i)) tho it wasnt a bad show(ratings were 8.1!).

Anyways, the point to all my ramblings is, Everything is relative,to some farmers,weed is that troublesome plant that wont let their crops grow. To other farmers, its that plant they relax with after a hard day at the field. To some people, it is a source of joy, an escape from reality. To some, it is chemo,medicine to heal an ailment. To the great legislators who wrote our laws, it is a poisonous substance and use of it is a crime. To one mother, it is the substance that her son took that made him live a life that ultimately led to his untimely demise. To another mother, weed is that antidepressant she takes whenever the pressure of raising three kids alone in a cruel world becomes too hard to bear.