Soldier was reclining against the wall as he bit on the last chunk of flesh on
the mostly bony portion of chicken he was served by Iya Roy. He washed it down
with whatever was left in a cup of jedi that
Deckor had left unfinished. “Cigar”, he managed to utter and Smith promptly took
out a stick of creased Cigarette from his pocket, lit it and handed it over to
“But Azeez isn’t insignificant”, responded Smithereen to Deckor.
“In fact”, he continued, “he is more than many people think he is.” Deckor
signaled Iya Roy to give him one more bottle of her jedi, which was soon placed in the midst of two empty others. He
was nodding at Smithereen’s talk while eyeing Iya Roy.
There has been an explosion. Everyone feared that it was terrorist attack as they had promised. But the doctors remarked that the terrorists were not so stupid as to isolate their targets, focus on only two or three targets or even make such targets as insignificant as Azeez and Old Soldier.
Few days ago, a boy who lived on the streets had arrived Iya Roy’s common house o’ commons bearing a piece of paper in his hands. In spite of his odd appearance, with tattered clothes and eyes bulging as if they were going to fall out, he was unnoticed. Iya Roy kept busy filling orders while her patrons ordered without a rhythm. Old Soldier, whose head has been bowed by the merciless hands of heavy drinking, lifted his head and was begging Smithereen (as Smith was called) to give him the remaining of the London he was smoking. He hurriedly inserted the butt in his mouth, dragged it and his eyes widened to notice the boy, leaning against their table, with the letter in his hand. Smithereen beat him to it, collected the letter and attempted to read it. It was written in Arabic or something entirely incomprehensible to those drinkards who tried to read the letter. It was important to understand its content, as apart from the words, there were images of guns and fire drawn around the words, which made understanding what it said more of an emergency. They passed it around, as if by chance it will fall in the hands of someone who understood the language. No one understood the contents.
In Badagry, a district of Lagos in South-West Nigeria sometime in 2016, a boy was accused of repeatedly robbing local residents and businesses and what brought the tyre out was when he was accused of stealing bread from a petty trader. He was “necklaced” with the tyre and burnt alive. For hustling to sate his perpetual hunger, his life lived in penury was cut short savagely on the streets by a mob oblivious of her own sufferings and sins thereof. The gap created by dysfunctional governments was filled by two wrongs, the boy who should be in school stealing and the mob who should focus Continue reading NSIP: WHEN THE COMMONER’S LIFE IS POLITICISED→
This was originally published April, 2, 2016 on account of the reputation of Kemi Olunloyo, being categorised, by a contemporary, as unworthy to make the claims that she made. My worry at the time was, who reserves the right to box others into stereotypes? Please, enjoy…
“E go land…e go land…na em butterfly dey take enter bush” is a direct translation of an expression of dynamism. In this piece, it is the dynamic nature of all human relationships and activities and how they influence our choices that constitute our concern.
Just recently, like play…like joke…, a well-known bald-headed friend of mine and I digressed into a heated argument from a general discussion about a Nigerian woman – Kemi Omololu Olunloyo, who many perceive as having a mental challenge and who has recently gone public with the claim that a popular Nigerian Pastor, Daddy G. O. (as