Steadfastness of purpose 

Never base your attitude on how things are. Choose attitudes that supports and expresses the way I wish to be. 

Events and circumstances swirl around in a constant state of flux and confusion. Yet those things we perceive and experience do not define who we are.

We are more than the fleeting situations and occurrences in our world. Living within us are the steady values, purposes, intentions and dreams that transcend all our ups and downs playing out around us.

​​We are in this world, we live in this world but we are not of this world.

Let your feelings be guided and inspired by the best that's inside you -GOD.  

There is no end to the number of distractions vying to pull us away from my purpose. Yet there is no good reason to give in to any of those distractions, for each one will soon pass on by.

Tales below from Naija Bloggers: Mr. Fineboy and Ikhide R. Ikheloa

Loving Canada And Hating Hitler’s Children
The poet Amatoritsero Ede is a diviner and a brooding, sometimes angry one at that. Cast adrift in the materialistic spirit-free wastelands of the Western world he roams free in solo brainy protest. In the antiseptic hallways of shopping malls, and roaming long stretches of highways built to last umpteen injustices, he often stops to jot down furtive reminders of his exilic condition. The result is trapped in a slim pretty book of poetry: Globetrotter and Hitler’s Children, published by Black Goat, a subsidiary of Akashic Books founded by the Nigerian author Chris Abani. First things first, major kudos to Chris Abani: From a production stand point, this book is an impressive job. It is a gorgeous ode to an elegant production, elevating the use of starkness and sparseness to beautiful, tasteful art. It is carefully edited, brooking no compromise whatsoever in quality. This is how books should be published. It is elegant but yet sturdy. Unlike most books I have been reading lately, especially those “published” in Nigeria, this one did not dissolve in my hands. This was not a book hastily slapped together with food glue.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Globetrotter and Hitler’s Children for many reasons and I heartily recommend it. It is an intriguing window into the soul of an eclectic thinker who is struggling mightily to marry two views of poetry – of the traditional, perhaps overly romanticized, and the contemporary, perhaps, too easily dismissed. Ede has made no secret of his contempt for much of what passes for poetry these days. He has garnered a reputation among respectable connoisseurs of the art as a finicky poet largely because his uncompromising ideals in terms of what he believes should be true poetry. Ede is fond of arguing that today’s poet should strive for a happy medium between the traditional and the contemporary and he has admonished the poet to find an appropriate niche compatible, with, and useful to his or her own talents within the provisions of tradition and then, hopefully, progress from there.

The book evocatively illuminates the poet’s struggles – with life and what should be poetry. It is divided into two sections: Globetrotters and Hitler’s Children. With the first section, Globetrotters, Ede is at his best and it is infinitely worth more than the price of the book. Starting with the first page, this is poetry at its most accessible and it showcases a master wordsmith at the peak of his craft. The poetry, ah, the poetry. The prettiest page is the first page: “Toronto/Amsterdam/ adrift at sea/ it breathes the open atlantic/ where lines and angles blur/ and bend into mist/ Toronto is Prague/ without her anchoring of/ narrow streets narrow sky/ and/ virgin-tight apartment blocks/ it is London long-jumping/ her imperial shadows/ Trafalgar-ing into space.” (p17) Tight and nice. Poetry doesn’t get much better than this. But in Ede’s world, it thankfully does: “amongst the ruin and jazz/ of the old distillery/ young Toronto/ stops outside of troy/ in full teenage glare/ hair streaked with lightening/ because a girl smells better…/ she brushes a suitor’s kiss/ and the sun off her thundering skin.” (p22) Scrumptious.

The writing life for the sensitive immigrant of color can be tricky and frustrating. Self-absorption is a common affliction. Memories of Africa tend to burden the immigrant. There is an overabundance of documentation of the immigrant forcing life through the shattered lenses of (forced) exile. In Ede’s book, especially in the Globetrotter section, Africa’s memories are not needy; they do not swamp the poet’s sensitivities. In Globetrotters, Ede plumbs every nook and cranny of Canada with his razor sharp muse-eye. The result is brilliant, well, mostly. To the uninitiated, there are some puzzling lines that seemed grafted into meaning, like variations of red hot angst bleeding out of the reddened wayes of torture, and toil. Regardless, the reader’s heart melts with compassion at a life unraveling deep within the cold mystery of a riddle-journey: “Tears long as a calendar year/ and look where the street car has left a scar/ in the brush flower/ as it goes berlin-ing around queens avenue.(p19)

The poetry fills the reader’s imagination with wonder; sin-rich opportunities lurk everywhere and the mind makes endless phallic trips: ”What does the endless/north american sky/ reveal/ like those sex workers/ in amsterdam’s love quarters/ she says simply/ I am wide open.” (p20) Yet wide vistas of opportunity narrow into tight-slit perspectives of reality and real despair: “So the street car becomes a train/ in slow phallic rush on laan van meerdervoort/in the hague/ flirting foolishly with the horizon/ the red light flashes /where there are no red-light districts.” (p20)

The section Globetrotter ends up being one long delightful poem, a gorgeous bouquet of pretty words arranged lovingly to produce a gently bubbling brook of immense depth: “here/you may turn the other cheek/ amongst your treeing laugh/many-timbered/ and not be impaled/ by hate’s spiked planks/ but only redistribute air/ lung it up larynx/ air/ streaming over tongue/ mirth-warmed to expand/ lumber up and down/ your tree-trunk torso/ till you shake limb/ after trembling limb… “(p33)

In Globetrotter, Ede uses delightful turns of phrases to unearth poetic gems. There are all these interesting and clever plays on words that flirt with the danger of imagined things. Globetrotter is a fresh poem, fresh as sizzling hissing fresh-baked bread. Perceptive. Nice.

It would be exciting to set Globetrotter to a visual presentation on video with a voice-over – a warm voice caressing all the places Ede’s spirit has been because in those places “where all colours meet/ a rainbow democracy signals spring/…as spring-spruced statues sparkle/ what green leaves and trees do too/ happy as the woodworm is happy.” (p23) That would be nice.

If the section Globetrotter represents the accessible and contemporary, the second section Hitler’s Children represents the traditional and aloof, daring mere mortals to even look its way. The title Hitler’s Children does the poem an injustice of sorts. In a sense it does not tell the story that it promises. Unlike Globetrotter which is one long series of movements, Hitler’s Children is a series of unrelated poems. The poems in this section are not all about Germany. They veer and wander all over the place in minds and hearts where Germany is a skin head’s footnote. The burden of the section seems lost in the opacity of self-absorption and in the dawning reality that several of the poems were written at several intervals long apart with little defining or uniting them. Perhaps the title of the second section should have tamped the expectation of a coherent thread. Take the poem The Skinhead’s Lord’s Prayer. It is an impish play on The Lord’s Prayer; however it misses by a wide margin a desired irreverence and dissolves into giggly clichés. It does however make for an interesting conversation piece, trying to decode the nexus between the Lord’s Prayer and Ede’s Germany. Their Lord is probably not amused. Not that Ede cares. Almost juvenile in delivery, Ede comes across as a petulant guest throwing rocks at Germany’s dark issues. In the poem, Not in Love, troubling is the imagery: behold the national prick at half mast/ at the international fuck exchange/ rape is amerieuropean. (p63) Is this vision, narcissism, or self absorption? This is a one-man Intifada against a Nazi Goliath but these are mostly inchoate lines birthed from poorly suppressed rage. The discipline of the first section Globetrotters gives way to a routine slapdash compilation of unrelated stanzas. And Ede’s poetry yields to an undisciplined militancy. Beautiful images still escape the chaos: all our folk songs/ ungathered/ like a beautiful note/ strangled in the beak/ of a singing country… (p64) And the poem Anike is quite simply delicious in the way it shows off Ede’s gifts: “and at night/when she finally explodes/ you shall have ashes in your mouth/ fire on your tail/ earth shall tremble/ as the volcano coughs. (p97)

Ede is preoccupied by the ceaseless and restless movement of people. Excitement is the child’s allotment/ when ships throw down rusted anchor/ at Lagos/ that old colonial port…/when boat and Eagle spread rag-sail/ summon wind flutter and fly/ on the prow of a baleful river. (p103) Upon reading those lines, the reader ponders the theme or notion of exile in the age of Facebook. When were these lines born? Why does it matter? How is the world of today’s exile different from that of Wole Soyinka? Why does it matter? Should good poetry not withstand the test of time? Time will tell if what the reader sees in some of Ede’s verse is the shelf life radiating past tense. Regardless, Ede is a brilliant seer who refuses to be left behind at the train station waiting for that ride backwards to claps of thunder.

Ede is a diviner and sometimes not everything that comes out of him makes sense to the supplicant gazing at the cowries: Listen to this: Unkind cut!/ stained is the day/ the blood-spattered hour/ when the night-trapped Mare/ staggers/ into jet-fuel light/ in its canter/ an age of lightnings and enlightenment/ Kant’s light so bright/ it blinded him to a vision/ where nightmares Kant-er/ after the enlightenment/Kant cannot. (p89) It is haunting, pretty and delicate like lace, but like some of Christopher Okigbo’s elegant pieces, it is almost impossible to make sense of it. But it is pretty and that is enough for me.

I must say that the book as a medium of expression does a huge injustice to Ede’s vision, prodigy and industry. I say to the poet, go to YouTube, the mother of true convergence. Ede experiments vigorously with the spatial placement of words on paper. The idea, it seems is to make the words leap out of paper, hurling meaning at the reader. I am not sure he is successful. The arrangement of words all over the place on a one-dimensional canvas is remarkable only in its determined deliberateness. Why are all these words all over the place? In some instances, the words lay prostrate shell-shocked on white paper like bombed out war planes on a paper tarmac looking askance at their owner's command to fly, just fly. This is an experiment best suited to the robustness of a three dimensional medium. Ede needs YouTube and a voice-over.

In Hitler’s Children, some of the poems are merely eclectic. The mind wanders and wonders– images of unrelated anxieties bleed into the memories of the promise of the rendering producing mind-clutter. Some of the poems are inaccessible and the reader hurriedly skirts the clutter to shards of beauty. In Hitler’s Children, Ede’s thoughts often wander from Germany sometimes into somewhere even darker – places populated with phalluses, blood, sex, and water. There is something about sex and water that fascinates Ede. Where Globetrotter is suffused with freshness, energy and vigor all over, Hitler’s Children is a gathering of good poetry sharing space with undisciplined angst. We have Canada to thank for burying some of Ede’s Germany-demons. It is a good thing that Hitler’s Germany is tucked in the back of this pretty book. Canada is Ede’s best foot forward and he shows it off regally in Globetrotter and assures the reader that this is an important read.

Ikhide R. Ikheloa

Essays From Exile: Nigeria By Air! Who Wan Die?
I am thinking of going home to visit my parents in Nigeria . This time, I am not flying the unfriendly skies of Nigeria ; I am walking home! Yep, I am walking home, all the way from America , who wan die? I can’t fly home anyway, even if I wanted to (I don’t want to!). There are no planes willing to take me home to Nigeria from America . You see, it is now enshrined in the US Constitution: Any American plane that can remain in the air unassisted for more than five minutes is forbidden from flying anywhere near Nigeria ’s “airports.” I exaggerate only slightly.

So, I will be walking home soon to Nigeria . I am going home to be rich. I am not talking of going home to land contracts that I will never execute. Nope, I am going home to be a seer, a soothsayer, a herbalist, a babalawo. I need the money to pay my credit card bills in America . Enh? you ask! Well, it is like this. Since the fiery crash of two airplanes within two months in Nigeria , babalawos have become suddenly hot commodities. Nigerians consult them before climbing aboard the death traps that call themselves planes in Nigeria . Babalawos? you ask! Yes, we have babalawos that cause rains to water our farms; we have babalawos that prevent rains from ruining our owambe parties. And we have Babalawos that prevent us from advancing in our chosen profession, Enh? you ask, yet again! This is very true. Nigerian Police officers who man lucrative “road blocks” or extortion checkpoints have been known to routinely hire the services of babalawos to prevent their enemies er supervisors from “promoting” them to dead end, honest desk jobs where they would be denied the right to extort money from hapless motorists! The thought of living on one’s hard earned salary is enough to generate a heart attack! Who wants to live like that? And now we have babalawos who are paid to keep planes afloat in our airspace. Our ministers use their services regularly.

Our ministers employ babalawos to ward off all sorts of misfortune, including being summarily fired by our president. You see, whenever our president makes a mistake, which is often, he fires a minister. Since our president is fond of making mistakes, the job of a minister is a very stressful one. In fact it is a well kept secret that every minister upon appointment immediately submits an advance signed copy of his “letter of resignation” to the president. That way the minister gets to learn of his or her “resignation” on television and avoid the trouble of actually remembering to “resign” when that time comes to atone for our Head of State’s mistake. Indeed there have been a few cases of ministers protesting loudly on television that they were blissfully unaware that they had just “resigned” their plum ministerial appointments. Most astute ministers try to ward off the harmful effect of this “resignation” by stealing their ministries blind just in case they become unemployed. It is a stressful job, being a minister. Add this stress to that of surviving air crashes and a minister is a heart attack waiting to happen. A minister can survive the humiliation of hearing of his sack on national television, but a plane crash is a whole another story. So ministers have three babalawos each. It is written into their ministerial contract. Every minister has three babalawos. Except those two super ministers who shall remain unnamed who are paid in US dollars. They get twelve babalawos each! And for good reason. You see, these two Americana ministers (including one woman) are deeply resented in Nigeria . So they need all the help they can get to survive the jealous stares of their colleagues.

So every regular minister gets three babalawos. Since ministers love to travel abroad to deposit huge sums of stolen money in their personal accounts in Europe and North America, these babalawos are instrumental in assuring that our fearless leaders survive the harrowing ordeal of air travel to and from Nigeria. One babalawo prays for a successful takeoff; another stays inside the plane to ward off all attempts by the minister’s enemies to keep the airplane from staying afloat; and the third babalawo stays under a mango tree at the “airport” in order to ensure a successful landing. The third babalawo’s mission statement is “What goes up must come down on its own terms, insha Allah!” The babalawos get a hefty commission for every trip that ends safely. In Nigeria , a safe landing is the closest thing to a miracle. Babalawos even have a labor union in Nigeria and they are constantly negotiating for improved conditions in the workplace. They tend to get whatever they ask for, who wan die? They do prefer payment in foreign currency and refer to the Naira as good only for wrapping moinmoin.

Our “airports” tend to lack functioning air traffic control systems. Who needs them? Our babalawos are stationed under mango trees at every “airport” ready to catch any plane falling from the skies. Yep, we have babalawos doing duty in all our “airports” and they use smoke signals to guide our planes away from evil. Smoke signals? That is okay; you see, our planes were built before planes became viable means of commercial transportation and they would not understand instructions emanating from computers and literate human beings. No need to confuse our pilots with modern technology. I put the “airport” in quotes because the white man has refused to recognize our airports as real airports because the babalawos’ cows also use the “airport” tarmac as grazing grounds. Enh? you ask again! You see, in real life, our babalawos raise cattle for a real living and in between waiting for planes to crash, er land, they allow their cattle to feed off the grass growing inside the fertile man-made craters on the “tarmac.” Accidents have been known to happen because well, planes don’t like to collide with grazing cows. The cows do not like it either and so accidents happen often. But not to worry, our Minister for Aviation is right: These are random acts of an unforgiving God! I agree with the honorable minister; our last democratic elections were a random act of an indifferent God. All the winners of that election should be shot. Today. I am joking of course. I think I am joking. Of course.

Air travel in Nigeria falls in the category of “Do Not Even Think of Trying This Foolishness At Home.” To tell the truth, globally, air travel is no longer what it used to be ever since 9-11 when terrorists from the Middle East decided that they want me dead. Okay, okay, I am guilty of generalization about terrorists from the Middle East . Let me rephrase my assertion, to say that only 100% of Middle East terrorists do not want to see me dead. The other 100% would like to do worse to me! What is worse than death? I don't know, our friends from Saudi Arabia would know! They are experts at making us miserable. I am sure they can come up with something!

You will notice that my statements are nuanced; I may be drunk but I am not stupid. I don’t want some yeye people to pronounce a fatwa on my innocent head, who wants to die? I tell you, our people, this political correctness business is getting out of hand. You know, a few months ago, I was returning from a conference in South Africa , some conference with the pretentious title: "Aflatoxin levels in Chicken Nuggets that have been left Uneaten for Several Days in America ." First of all, I did not need to go to South Africa to know that there are no Aflatoxin levels in chicken nuggets that have been left uneaten for several days in America . Because there are no chicken nuggets that have been left uneaten in America . Not even for a minute. Americans eat everything that is not welded down. Anyway, I went and I don't remember much of the conference because I found out that Johannesburg is the happening place if you really want to soak your liver in booze... At the end of the conference, coming back home to America , I boarded this plane in Amsterdam . I had just strapped myself to my seat, as a prelude to drinking myself to sleep when this yeye hostess’s voice came on to the loudspeaker like this:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, two Kuwaitis with boarding passes have failed to board this aircraft after checking in their luggage. Please allow fifteen minutes for our flight crew to try to identify their luggage and remove them from the plane.”

Jesus wept! As a trained journalist, I asked myself the following profound questions:

1. Enh?

2. Why me?

3. Why not my enemies?

4. Why O why are Kuwaitis traveling in the same plane with me?

5. Are there any other Arabs traveling with me on this plane?

You see, na my turn Form Five dey wear knicker! My enemies go to conferences every day like farmers going to their farms; you do not see terrorists "forgetting" their luggage in their planes. The only one opportunity that I get to enjoy myself, those yeye people want to blow me up. I don't know about you guys; I am not in a hurry to die. I am enjoying life, I don't want to die! Not even the pope who already is guaranteed a mansion in heaven was willing to die. That poor man died in installments! The man must know something, otherwise why was he extremely reluctant to go ride his popemobile in heaven? So why should I allow these thugs to kill me? I immediately swung into action. I rushed to the front of the plane with several ex-liberals who had now become flaming asshole conservatives (it is amazing how your views change when your life is at stake! Racial profiling my behind! Who wan die???) and we all demanded to be taken off the plane immediately. I assured the racist oyinbo flight crew people that if they did not get me off the plane... Well to cut a long story short, we finally flew without said terrorist luggage. Unfortunately the racist airline crew would not adopt my suggestion, which was to take out EVERY luggage and passenger and fly me alone to Washington DC . I bet if it was a white man making such a reasonable request, it would have been granted... Man until that experience, I did not know that I could be so religious. From Amsterdam to Washington DC , that plane became a veritable temple of unnecessary eye service to the Lord Jesus Christ. Man, I praise worshipped so much even Jesus Christ called me to beg me to tone down the eye service a bit.

I tell you, the people that scare me the most are not the terrorists; rather it is the liberals in our midst. They won't let George Bush protect my life. I understand that George Bush is in trouble for authorizing spies to spy on my enemies. Unbelievable. I am shocked that Mr. Bush is just now getting around to protecting my life. All this time, my enemies have been plotting my demise and President Bush has neglected to spy on these losers because that is somehow against the law, Huh! His sorry behind should be hauled before congress for dereliction of duty! Our liberals are always prattling on about civil liberties, no Patriot Act, prattle, prattle, prattle. If you try to protect yourself, they call you names! I was boarding the Metro train the other day and this young man came to sit by me. I noticed that he had prayer beads with him, and his head was wrapped and he had a long dress on and he was bearded and he had a backpack and he was in the habit of chanting Allah wa Akhbar! So just to be friendly I started asking him simple questions, you know, just to be friendly, questions like:

Why are you not clean shaven?

Are you from Saudi Arabia ?

Are you from Kuwait ?

Iraq nko?

Do you know any of those assholes that killed all those beautiful people on 9/11?

What is your name?

What is in your backpack, is it a bomb, are you going to kill all of us??

Do you know, this social retard called the police and I was almost arrested for disturbing the peace?

Yep, Nigeria is on my mind and I am going to do something about it. I am walking home to Nigeria . Pray for me. I have a sneaky feeling that I will be back. Until we meet again, I offer you this prayer I found somewhere:

Lord, grant us the

serenity to accept the

things we cannot change,

the courage to change

the things we can and

the wisdom to hide the

bodies of those people

we had to kill because

they p*ssed us off.
Yep, I believe in prayers. Yes, there are times when a good prayer saves you from doing something terrible to yourself and/or others. You should know. You voted for our president!
I present you three fine examples of stressful situations that require the power of prayers. We shall call them Maalox moments. Or Milk of Magnesia moments if you are new to America and still refer to the bathroom as latrine!

A) It is wintertime and you are in Australia , far from kpomo, roun’about and shaki. Everything is oyinbo food. Even the Heineken tastes different. The madam is expecting a baby - glorious event. It is 2:00 a.m. and you are snoring away after 12 hours hard labor at the salt mines of the outback. Madam wakes you up with several blows to your solar plexus. She is suffering from what oyinbo people call a "craving." She has a reasonable request:

"Honey! Honey! Wake up! I have a craving for roasted plantain, roasted with real wood O, and dipped in red palm oil and I want to wash it down with Maltex!" She breaks down in tears when you gently explain that a) this is 2:00 a.m. in the morning b) this is Australia and c) no one sells boli in Australia at 2:00 a.m., certainly not with Maltex. This Maalox moment deserves a prayer.

B) You are in Alaska and of course it is freezing. Your place of work is one hour away by reindeer and you have 5 minutes to get to work to give that important presentation on "Revenue Projections from Exporting Snow to Nigeria ". For the past one hour you have been dressing up your daughter in several layers of assorted astronaut and Eskimo clothing. Phew! Done! You strap her unto the reindeer sled for the trip to the baby sitter. She looks up at you and ever so sweetly, she coos:

"Daddy! Daddy! I have to use the bathroom! Now!!!"

This Maalox moment deserves a prayer.

C) It is 2:00 a.m. You have just dragged your funky old tired, definitely-not-in-the-mood-for-sex body from McDonalds where for the past 14 hours you have been serving thousands of "metabolically challenged" Americans large quantities of hamburgers, fries and diet cokes. All this for 50 cents/hour after taxes and your credit card bills. You have just taken a shower and the clown you married based on a colored photograph he took of himself posing by someone else's Cadillac, your husband Mazi Heineken Breath, is lying in bed suggestively waiting for you. He is hungry for you; he has that "man must chop" look in his eyes. And he asks that romantic question that says it all.

"Mama bomboy, you don baff?"

He wants "some." At 2:00 a.m.! Over your dead body.

This Maalox moment deserves a prayer!

Larer, O Beautiful People! May your creditors forget to mail you your bills this month! You need a break! Amen!

Living and dying in America

By Ikhide R. Ikheloa
Living in America is expensive. And dying, sweet relief, is almost impossible. America will not let you die in peace. I have life insurance, and it is the irony of my wretched existence than I am a million times worth more to my family dead, than alive. As a condition for my family getting the proceeds of this life insurance, the insurance company has expressly forbidden me from dying. In fact any such desire expressed loudly in the presence of the many spies working for the said insurance company could mean cancellation of my insurance on account of the fact that I am a certified loser.

Our insurance company does not have to worry about rumours of my impending death. It is impossible to die in America because the country’s afamako emergency personnel will not let you die. Let’s say you drink yourself silly every day, and then one day you wake up to find that your liver no longer exists. Well, in civilised societies like Nigeria, you are dead and your children start buying aso ebi for your funeral. They even buy you an aso ebi for your own funeral. Your relatives who previously declined to spit in your mouth to save your life will spend all their life savings honouring pleasant memories of your worthless existence.

In America, say you wake up to find that you are now missing a liver and both kidneys, please do not start celebrating your coming rest in the arms of the Lord. America will not let you rest in peace without a fight. As soon as your eyes start closing, your amebo neighbour whose binoculars are trained on your sorry behind will immediately call the emergency 9-1-1 line. “Officers, a poor black man is threatening to die! Please come right away and get his black ass!” America will swoop on you, ambulance wailing, police cars racing into your lawn, ruining everything, the firefighters showing off their big red fire engines, breaking down your doors and rescuing you from eternal bliss. If you are really dying, an air ambulance (helicopter!) will swoop down and snatch you away to the hospital. In America, there are helicopter pads in poor neighbourhoods, because the poor have a bad habit of threatening to die. In Nigeria, only the super rich have helicopter pads for ferrying them to Dubai to take care of their skin rash. In the hospital, America will spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to keep you alive (sample bill: Room and lodging per night, $10,999, one toilet roll, $1,999, Cable TV ($2,999), Internet access ($5,999 per hour), beautiful Nigerian nurses specially flown in to understand your Ijebu accent ($6,999 per hour). They will patch you up and then throw you back out on the streets, alive but still hungry for death.

Many Nigerians don’t like dying, an attitude I find very irritating since they are fond of going to church to pray to go to heaven. I am not a Christian but I once visited this Nigerian church in America because I had heard they would serve pounded yam and okra soup plus bush-meat at the end of the service. They did not, the jerks. As I was backing out of the parking lot in rage, while texting my displeasure to my daughter Ominira, this yeye member of the church who was not looking as she was walking to her cheap-ass car hit my car with her big behind. She almost destroyed my car with her industrial strength butt. Wo, she immediately fell on the ground screaming about the devil (me!) and how death is not her portion and how Jesus Christ will not allow her to die in the hands of an idiot (me) and in any case if she was going to die, why be killed by a thirty-year-old coat of many colours (my van!). The yeye woman is from Nigeria.

Dying in my village in Nigeria is very expensive. In my village, Made-in-Nigeria democracy has ensured that people live impoverished lives. But once they die, come and see wahala. The villagers form a funeral committee called Screwing the Living and they start to demand all sorts of nonsense from the bereaved relatives, delicacies that the deceased did not enjoy while alive. Everyone in the village benefits. These days, my dad Papalolo walks around the village with a spoon in his agbada pocket in case he runs into a funeral. Funerals are expensive. That is why my dad Papalolo will never die. I cannot afford his funeral. I don’t have the money. Once Papalolo lands in the valley of his ancestors, I will have him properly embalmed, dress him up nicely and sit him on his favourite lounge chair in his veranda. I will tell everybody he is taking a nap.

I have been rambling. This is a round-about way of saying that I love my wife. Once, I go to our ancestors, she knows where the insurance papers are. Woman wen dey cry dey see road. Go for it, my queen, I love you.

Dear Reader.
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Live from Lagos; Random Musings
DAAAAAMN! 3 months!!!! I’m effed men! Happy New Year my people. I’m so sorry I’ve been AWOL, but a lot’s been going on with your boy. I’ve been mad busy with things outside of blogger like relocating, running a business, and tweaking my first novel.

What’s good now? It’s been a minute! I’ve missed you guys men. What’s happening in blogsville? Shout out to the bloggers who’ve remained consistent and tried to keep this blogville thing alive. Special shout out to my sweetheart Bella, who’s always on top of her game, constantly updating. Kai, I dey always jealous am!

Christmas was crazy men. Spent it in Nige of course, but it was different ‘cos I knew I was back for good. This Nigeria is crazy men! Real concrete jungle, as in, I’ve witnessed all sorts of madness since last December. I’ve been around for a month now, and this is the longest that I’ve been in Nige in eleven years! Of course it’s weird, but I’m loving it.It’s funny how quickly I’ve adapted to life in Nige though. Back in the day, when I would come back for Christmas, I’d be giving everybody N500 and N1k. Now. Omo, which side? Na so so N100 and N200 I dey dash people. Abeg I no dey earn dollar again.

The other day I was in traffic in V.I and this little boy came and started spraying liquid soap on my windscreen. I was trying to wave him away, but he wouldn’t go o. He just ignored me until he had squeegeed off the dirty soap water. He now came to my window and stretched out his hand for dough. Of course, as usual my coin compartment was full of twenty and ten naira notes, so I gave the guy ten naira. My people, if you see the abuse wey this small boy fire on top my head ehn? I don suffer.
Boy- Oga na how much be this?
He started to walk away.
Boy- E no go better for you! Ten naira inside this big car. Oloshi Olori buruku……
Me- Ehn? Am I your mate?
Boy- Comot there! Yeye man.
I swear I started to remove my seat belt so I could get out the car, but I come re-think am. Na so some agberos fit just come carry my car go because i wan dey chase one ill-mannered urchin.
The boy sef disappeared. I don suffer for Lagos o. I’m glad I’ve become accustomed to Lagos life though. Even my mum says I’m now a real Lagos man.

Everyday, new things happen that just amaze me though. If I begin tell una story, we go dey here all day.
One of the things I wondered about when I was moving back was what going out on dates would be like.
Like in the states, I had a long mental list of the best restaurants for a first date. Another one for special dates; like birthdays and valentine’s day. I knew where the best movie houses were. Basically, dating came easy.

But in Nige, I was wondering; where would you take a girl on a date? The thing also is, I drive in lagos, but my navigation is limited.
I know how to get around VI and Ikoyi. I know VI to Lekki and VGC. I know VI or Ikoyi to Ikeja. FINISH. If you start adding new locations, na wahala. So there was my question; what if babygirl lives in some random place like Akowonjo? How would you find it? Sat-Nav no dey Naija o. Wahala.

That reminds me; hehe, as usual let me digress small… I met ms. Beautiful through a friend in December. Lovely chick, just moved back as well from the states.
We met up on a Friday afternoon, and were headed to cactus to get some shawarmas and drink chapman by the water. Kai. Effizy dey Naija o.

Anyhow, we stopped at the Total gas station by the VGC gate, and I told the attendant to fill it up. Ms. Beautiful went into the little shop thingy to get PK gum. So there I was, getting my money ready for the attendant when I hear this thick Hausa accent in my window.
“Oga, you like this one? This one go good po you well well.”
I look up and see this tall mallam dude holding a colourful box. At first I didn’t even see what was on the box properly, then:
My people, I don die. On the cover of the box was a drawing of a naked dude with the biggest GBOLA you’ve ever seen in your life. On top of the drawing was written in bold pink, “VIAGRA.” Ah ah, which kin’ Viagra be this one?
Me- (laughing)- Aboki thank you I no want.
Aboki- Ah, You dey laugh oga mi. This one if you drink am, you go poke, poke, poke, you no go tire.
“Aboki, thank you, I say I no want.”
Aboki- E good o. That ya egba (cane) go dey stand well well. E no go die lai lai.

Me- Ah ah. Aboki, I be young man, no need am now.
Aboki- I know say you be young man, but you no say your thing no dey reach the last bus stop.
If you drink am, e go touch him bus stop well well. Madam go dey cry yeeeeeeeeee, yeeeeee, yeeee no killiiii me ooo.

Were. Who told him “I no dey reach the last bus stop?”
Men, I just wanted the guy to fade quickly before Ms. Beautiful came out of the store.
Aboki-Oga I swear no be lie, this one na gidigba gidigba.. Drink am, e go be like fire for madam yansh.
See me see trouble o. Abi is this guy mad? Ms. Beautiful starting walking towards the car.
Me- Oya oya, aboki carry am go quick quick. My wife don come.
Aboki- Oga mi, walahi talahi, when I drink am for this one, I just dey flog my iyawo with my egba. I just dey flog am, flog am, flog am so tay, the thing no die.
She just dey cry " Aaaaaays! Danladi don killi me ooooo! E don finish my life oooo!"
Na God go punish this aboki o! I was winking at the guy to disappear men.
She got in the car. This madman didn’t leave o!!!! He now bent in the window and displayed it fully!
Aboki- Oga, okay you say the money too much. Just give me N200. Your thing go dey fire go like pistol machine, walahi.
Ha! I don die, now this girl is gonna think I was actually negotiating with this mallam o.
Me- My guy, I say I no want.
I looked at the attendant, “This thing isn’t full yet?”
Aboki- Oya oga, what of this one? You talk say your thing dey touch madam last bus stop. Abi madam?
Yeeepa! Oloshi.
The guy stuck out his forearm and clenched his fist, then grabbed his right elbow.
Aboki- This one if you drink am, your gbango go long, e go come stand well well. Berry strong, I no go lie to you oga mi. Madam you see am?
I wanted to die. Ms. Beautiful was just looking straight ahead. Finally the attendant filled up and I paid and zoomed off. For the rest of the ride I was so embarrassed I swear. Good thing is she has a sense of humour and we just laughed it off. Bastard aboki.
Some things only happen in Lagos I swear.
Just the other day I got stopped by the traffic warden at Ozumba Mbadiwe in VI, so he could let traffic through from the opposite side. Just as I stopped, this LASMA guy (the road safety dudes) comes in front of the car and says; “Oga you don commit. You’re using ya mobile.”
Me- Officer, it was an emergency call now. I had to answer it. Oya sorry, sorry.
Officer- Sorry? Hiss.
Dude freaking jumps into the backseat of the car!!! (My boy Roroski was in the passenger seat.)
Me- Ah ah.
Officer- Oya, we’re going to the station. Nonsense. We must impound this vehicle, or I arrest you, or both.
Arrest ko, arrest ni.
Roroski- Officer, shebi we’ve begged you. He got off the phone now.
Officer- My friend, drive! Una small small boys think say because u dey drive big car, u fit dey do anyhow. DRIVE!
The warden waved my lane through, and I just pushed the central lock button.
Me- You wicked abi? We go see who go arrest who today.
Officer- You say wetin?
Me- Hiss.
Now, me and Roroski just started talking, and then I increased the volume of my Sasha P CD.
Officer- Slow down, slow down.
Roroski- Are you mad? Na you get car?
I just dey fire the car through Lekki Epe expressway men. Na so officer begin beg o.
Officer- Chairman, please slow down o. Slow down. We’ve passed the station. Ah.
Me- No o. You be big man now abi? Radio your station. Tell them I’ve arrested you. You’re in trouble today.
Officer- Egba mi o. Ha. Oloun o ma ni je' ari Esu o! Aiye mi!
(God please dont let me come across evil o! My life!)
Officer- Bros! (tapping Roroski on the shoulder) Please help me beg am now.
I just dey do my work. Please ehn?
Roroski- Beg ke? E don vex o. Better beg him yourself.
The dude started begging o. I was dying of laughter inside, but I just blanked him.
Officer- My chairman, please I’m sorry ehn. You’re going too far away for me. Please bros, I make a mistake. I don’t know that it’s you. I would have not make the mistake. Please I’m taking God to beg you, my chairman.
Me- Hiss.
The dude was now sweating. I come begin wonder why the guy dey sweat. What was he afraid of? He probably thought my popsi was some military guy that was gonna flog his yansh when we got home.
Luckily there was no traffic all the way to VGC, but as I slowed down at the gate to go over a speed hump, the dude just jumped out like a monkey. It was hilarious men.
Me- Ah ah, officer wait! Why did you run now?
The guy bolted away and stood at a distance. Of course all the people in the area were just cracking up. I told him “Officer you’re lucky o. The next time you try me, I will deal with you squarely!” (LOL, I learnt that statement in Naija.)
The guy now starts bowing.
"Sorry sir, I’m sorry.”
As I began to drive into VGC, the guy shouted,
“My chairman, please no vex. Please can you assist me with N150 for okada back to the station?”
Only in Nigeria.
Happy 2008 y’all. It feels so good to be back. Oh and Izie, this one's for you. ;-)
Posted by Mr.Fineboy at Friday, January 25, 2008

Mama Rosceo and Other Stories...
What's up y'all? To the few people who still check on my blog, wetin dey now? I know I said I was back last week, but it's been hard to sit at my laptop for more than a couple of seconds in the past couple of weeks men. With the blazing heat, beautiful women and full time jollofing in Yankee, I haven't been able to bring myself to type tory for una men, but no vex.

I can't front; a few months ago I would have found the time to update no matter where in the world I was. It's just not the same anymore though. It's not that I don't enjoy blogging anymore, it's just that everytime I get on I realise how much everything has changed around here.

Alaye's gone for good, Taurean Minx is now a full time photoblogger, Chameleon doesn't update as much, Bella and Idemili went private, and Bimbylads puts up novel excerpts now. I love you Bimbs, but I miss the razz old Bimbylads of back in the day. Damn, things done changed!

Okay, I don vent finish. Man, I've been having an amazing holiday o. I hadn't been back to the states since I moved to England, and I've fallen in love with this place all over again. In fact I wonder how I survived in London for a year. Enjoyment dey Yankee, kai!

I've spent a couple of weeks in my old city just reliving my college days. These Yankee babes no fit change. Lord have mercy. I don't know if it's the food or the weather, but God definitely spent extra time on these girls men. I've been getting my Denzel on HARD over here o, in fact I wish I could give you the full gist but this is a PG blog.

Before you start talking long story, Fineboy is single at the moment o. So allow me. AND NO QUESTIONS PLEASE! Gbe boruns. But on the real, I understand why people stick with one partner for years and years. The number of weres that you meet when you're dating eh? Kai.
I met some chick on my first friday out here, let's call her Giselle. Correct looking babe o, she looked kinda like a black Giselle Bundchen. No lie. We had a couple of phone conversations and hooked up one sunday night to get dinner.
All through the date, the babe just kept on talking about her baby Roscoe. Roscoe this. Roscoe that. Roscoe's so cute. He's so smart, he's so discerning, I love him. Blah blah blah.
Ask me who Roscoe be o? Her dog. I said na wa. I just kept nodding my head like I was really interested in the damn mutt. She now told me that she broke up with her last boyfriend because the guy didn't respect Roscoe. Chei. I wasn't about to act like I didn't send the dog o. Na so I begin ask questions.

"How old is Rossy?"
"What's his favorite game?"
"Does he do tricks?"
The babe was getting excited o. She was really describing the dog and all the "funny little things he does." Me I was bored outta my mind but I no wan eff up the chances of booty now, ah ah! So I played along o.
She said, "We should hang out at my crib tomorrow. So Roscoe and Princess can get used to having a man around the house. I think you're gonna be their new daddy."
Na your own papa go be dog daddy.
I didn't say that o. I just smiled and said, "Oh of course."Kai, things we do for yansh.
I drove up to her apartment the following night. The whole time I was thinking she'd have the dogs leashed on her patio or balcony or something. Men, not so o.
These two little devil animals were running up and down her apartment. When she opened the door, I was stunned. They were tiny! I don't know if I missed the part when she said they were chihuahas, but these morrafuckas were ugly as hell.
Na so I siddon on top couch o. See dog hair everywhere. Na wa o. I thought to myself "E be like say na this one and dog go dey sleep on top bed."
Damn. The female one just appeared from nowhere and landed on my lap, wagging its tail like crazy. See disrespect. My first instinct was to slap this rat-lookalike off my lap, but the chick sat down next to me, smiling.
"Aww, how sweet. She likes you."I was cringing men. E be like say the dog dey smell sef. The dog now started coming closer to me, licking and all sorts. Ah ah! This dog no fear sha.
"She wants a kiss" From who? E no go better for dog and owner men.
Ah ah! I was just imagining this happening in Nige. Them never born any dog to come and be standing on it's oga's lap. The slap wey e go chop ehn? I kept trying to avoid the thing's tongue, I swear it was just licking my hand and everything. I wan throw up men.
When Giselle got up to go get something from her bedroom, if you see the way I threw the dog off me ehn? Americans don crase.
We ended up ordering pizza, and when it came, na so the dogs begin dey dance o. Wagging their tails and everything. I was thinking in my head, "Why are these ones celebrating? You're not getting shishi out of this grub men." Giselle put the pizza on the center table and opened the box and omo, both dogs just jumped on the couch and started staring at the box. Ah ah.
Me I quickly pulled out a big slice and bit into it, because I wan make sure say I chop at least one before one of these ugly bingos begin put tongue on top my pizza.
Giselle- No baby, you can't have the crust. Okay here's a piece of beef.
She took off a chunk of ground beef and put it in Princess' mouth. The dog took it and licked her finger. This morrafucking girl took that same hand and rubbed it on the couch! Yeeeee! I couldn't believe it.
Roscoe started standing upright on its hind legs begging for grub too. She took off another piece and put it into his mouth, then she licked her finger.
Jesus Christ! God forbid say I go kiss this one. Emi ko. Not me.
The babe left the room to answer her phone one time and I saw that Roscoe dog going towards the box.
Me- Kai! Kurombe!
Roscoe- Growl
Me (whispering)- My friend gerraway from there!!!
Roscoe- Grrrr.....
Me (whispering)- You're growling at me. You think you can fight me?
I kicked the morrafucka away from the box. It yelped and came back. I gave it another nice Jackie Chan kick and it rolled to the side of the sofa. Bastard dog.
My people, please don't think I'm cruel to animals o.
In fact I love dogs, but these ones no get respect men. When Giselle came back, the dog started barking loudly. I didn't even answer the were, I just kept on chopping my pizza.
Giselle- Aww, what's wrong Ros? You know you can't eat the crust because of the gluten. Okay here's a piece of beef baby.
I looked at her. In my mind, I was just thinking, "Plus you o, plus your dogs o, all of you don crase." Who talks to dogs like they're human beings? Come dey explain diet for them again.
Me- Why can't they eat the crust?
Giselle- Because gluten's bad for dogs' digestive systems. They can't eat bread.
Me- All dogs?
Giselle- Yeah. Dogs don't eat bread.
Mumu. My dogs in Nige dey chop bread, egg, yam, stew, anything. In fact I remember one dog that Akinzo had like that, Muritala. This dog used to eat cake with icing. I swear.
Men, when we finished the pizza, I noticed that the chick didn't even wash her hands. She now wanted to be hugging me and kissing on me. See the way I exited the place ehn? Nonsense.
The whole dog experience took my mind back to Nigeria. Like we love our pets and stuff in Nige, but dogs no dey sit on top couch inside house o.
In fact, remember how houseboys and drivers in Nige always feel like you're giving your dogs too much luxury? I don't know what it is about drivers in particular, but men, all our dogs have always hated one driver or the other.
I remember one time as a little kid, I was sitting outside talking to one of our drivers, Baba Alao, and eating a piece of grilled chiken at the same time.
One of our dogs, Boxer ran up and grabbed the piece of chicken and ran off. He did it so fast that it startled me and I just burst out laughing. I looked at Baba Alao. His mouth was wide open for like 10 seconds.

Baba Alao- Aja yen gba sha? (That dog grabbed it?)

Me- Hehe...

Baba Alao- O n rerin? (You're laughing?)
The man looked like he was about to burst into tears. His tribal marks and round head made his open mouth look even more animated.
Me- It was funny how he took it o.
Baba Alao- Ko ma ni da fun aja yen o. Odindi sikin lo gba lowo yon ba yi. (God punish that dog o. The thing grabbed a whole piece of chicken!)
Me- Haha...
Baba Alao- Olorun lo yo pe owo mi ko lo ti gba. Mi ba ku si l'orun! Olosi aja. (He's lucky he didn't grab it from me! I would have died on his neck! Morrafucking dog!)
I couldn't even continue gisting with Baba Alao. The guy was obviously pained. I don't know what happened after that, but everytime Boxer knew Baba Alao was in the area, he would bark his head off.
Baba Alao sef didn't ever look at the dog in the face after that. Everytime he came in to work and Boxer started barking, Mr. Morris our steward would say, "Alao, Boxer dey greet you."
Baba Alao wouldn't even look at the dog when he said,
"Ko ni da fuon, iwo aja buruku yi"
Damn he took that ish personal.
I'll holla in a bit!
Posted by Mr.Fineboy at Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Fineboy's Not Dead!
It's been a minute my people. I turned in my paper two weeks ago, and have pretty much been busy since, preparing for my trips and now jetsetting. What's good though blogville? Abeg make una no vex, I've been bad, very bad, in fact downright irresponsible. But it's been a really busy time and it's been hard to fit blogging in to be honest.
To all those people who sent e-mails asking where I was, thanks o, I'm still alive. And to all of una wey dey abuse my papa and mama because of blog, na wa for u o. It's all love though. Meanwhile where's everyone? Most of my favourite bloggers are gone, and I'm starting to wonder if the whole hype has died and people have finally gotten bored of the whole blogging thing. Make una come back o, abeg.
Let me just get situated....I dey come...the devil ees a liar..
Posted by Mr.Fineboy at Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Pastor Fineboy
My people!!! Wait now, before you vex. It’s blogger o! Blogger has refused to let me update for ages! Walahi, I’ve written like three different posts in the last couple of weeks but blogger wouldn’t let me publish. And because I write off the cuff without saving in microsoft word, I keep losing stuff. To be honest I wouldn’t even put up a post that I wrote a few days ago because I like to blog on what’s happening at the moment I’m writing.
So please don’t be upset eh? The devil is a liar. They want us to fight. We no go gree them. “It’s work of enemy,” as our former houseboy Bassey used to say.
Okaaaay, so what’s good? Damn it feels like it’s been ages!!!! My birthday was amazing, the cottage turned out to be more like a mansion. It was huuuuge. I had an update about it, but I don’t even feel like talking about that weekend now, ‘cos it seems like so long ago. How una dey now?
Men a couple of days ago I was sitting here dumbfounded o. If I tell you say I no dey fear that day na lie. Hmm, let me give you the gist. See, my uncle V and aunt M are in town visiting , and I tell you, they’re the most stressful people you’ll ever meet. Nice though, but very stressful. They always want one thing or the other. They also go to one church like this in Nige…it’s sorta controversial I think, so they’re always telling all kinds of stories about how people do jazz, blah blah blah.
Chai, I’ve started with my long story again. To cut it short sha, they received a phone call on friday morning from their son in Nige, who’s a little older than I am. All I could hear was my aunty saying;
“Eh? Kilode?” (What’s the matter?)
“Haaaaaaa! O ya were ke?” (She’s gone mad ke?)
“What is she saying?”
“Jesu ke? Mo gbe.” (I’m in trouble)
“Ha! Were ni yen looto o!” (That's a sign of madness for real o!)
“I plead the blood of Jesus! I cover her with the blood of Jesus! No weapon…..”
She was trembling, while my uncle and mum looked on. “Put her on the phone, I’ll give it to the junior pastor now.”
The thing didn’t even click. Who be junior pastor?
Next thing I know, she rushes up to me and hands me the receiver. “Oya Fineboy, talk to her, it’s Basira, the housegirl.”
Shuo! Me ke? Why?
“Err…what happened?”
She shouted, “Pray for her now! She’s suffering from spiritual attack. Shebi you were an assistant pastor in America. Hurry up!”
See me see trouble o. I took the receiver.
Me- Hello
Basirat- Mamaaaaaaaay!
My aunt (to me)- Pray for her now! Plead the blood of Jesus.
Me- Basirat, what’s wrong?
Basirat- Wiiiiiiiiiiiii! Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Wiiiiiiiiiiii!
Chineke. This girl don kolo for real o.
My uncle- Pray for her now!!!!!
Me- Errrrrm…..
Basirat- “Yeeeeeee! Jesu n no mi! Jesu no mi o! Yeeeeeeee!” (Jesus is flogging me! He’s beating me o!)
Me (looking back)- Ha. Uncle, this one is serious o.
Uncle- Pray now!
Basirat- Yeeeee! Jesu no boto si mi lara o! (Jesus is flogging the heck outta me o!)
Me- Why’s he beating you?
Na una sabi. Wetin I for ask? I was so shocked by it all men, it was like I was in a movie or something. Which kin’ wahala be this? All because I gave them one fabu that me I used to be an assistant pastor with my pastor uncle in America. Chineke! It’s not good to lie, especially about church o.
Basirat- Wiiiiiiiiiii! Yeeeee! O wo white! O noooo mii! (He’s dressed in white! He’s flogging me!)
I looked at my aunt, who was standing there with a horrified look on her face. She now stood at a distance, as if she was scared that the mad housegirl would jump outta the phone. I come begin wonder; “Wait, mad person dey answer phone?”
“Aunty, are you sure you don’t need a psychiatrist for this girl?”
“It’s the power of prayer! Pray for her jo!” I noticed she stayed a good distance away.
Me- Er, In Jesus’ name…..
Basirat- Wiiiiiiiii! Maaaamaaaaay! Wooooooooo!”
Me- Erm, in Jesus…
Basirat- Wooooooooo! Ahhhhhhhh!
Ha! Omo, this thing that I’m saying like joke like this, it wasn’t funny at the time o. Anytime I mentioned Jesus, she would scream her head off. Which kin’ trouble I go find myself like this? You people must think I make this stuff up; it’s so ridiculous.
Me- You are healed in Jesus’ name.
Basirat- Yeeeee! Iwo! Iwo! (You!)
Omo, I no do again men. If you hear the shrillness of her voice eh? I was bloody shaking. Imagine, from London o. I don’t know why but there’s something extra scary about Naija madness.
I couldn’t hack it anymore so I gave my aunty the phone, who passed it to my uncle. He now started praying over the phone and then finally spoke to my cousin, whom he told to take her to the hospital.
Apparently, they found out later that she had acute malaria and had just been delirious. Na wa o. I never see where malaria patient dey go mad like that before o. Whew! Thank God it’s over sha, because that scared the ish outta me. It was even more scary ‘cos that my aunty and uncle are always talking about how they exorcise demons and things in their church. I come begin fear say this winch fit come jam me for night. This one wey Jesus dey flog am, she must be a really evil person.
Okay, sorry o my people. Just had to vent. I know you’re wondering how I got the title of junior pastor. Okay let me give you the gist briefly.
See, my uncle (my mum’s younger brother) lives in the states and has been there for like 30 years. He became a pastor like 20 years ago. When I say pastor, I don’t mean like Naija type pastor. I mean like those yankee style “Can I get an amen?” type pastors.
The guy come look like American again. As in he’s a fine boy pastor o, with his bald head. The guy even gives them yankee-style pastor suits. Green, maroon, off-white…gbo gbo e. The guy get all kin’ funny colour suits. And his congregation is mostly African-American o.
Anyhow, when I first moved to Yankee, I stayed with him and my aunt Desiree. See I was worried, ‘cos I thought it’d be hard living with a pastor, but he was cool as hell men. The first Sunday I was there, I had given them jeans, loafers and a blazer to church. My uncle of course, had given them on baggy lime green suit like that.
“FB!!! You can’t wear that o! You don’t know you’re an assistant pastor now!”
That’s how it started. When I started running wild with all those freshman babes on campus, my mum would call and my uncle would tell her, “Don’t worry about Fineboy, he’s an assistant pastor here o. He’s being a good boy.” I guess it was just his way of covering for me. I love that dude.
My mum was proud o. She started telling all her friends that I was a proper church boy now. One time she called and my uncle V and aunt M were with her. Uncle V asked me “So I heard you’re an assistant pastor. That’s good o. We can never have enough prayer. God is good.”
Ye! I couldn’t deny it now. Me sef I replied that God was wonderful and in fact, I used to preach some Sundays. Na so the thing start o. They’ve been calling me a junior pastor since, and as per they’re proper born again Christians, I haven’t had the nerve to tell them I was only joking that day. Na wetin cause my wahala today be that o. Pastor ko pastor ni.
Yo I’ll holla soon y’all. God forgive me for this post.
Posted by Mr.Fineboy at Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Go Fineboy, It's Your Birthday - By Mr. Fineboy!
Blogsville! What’s good? Damn, those exams were tougher than a morrafucker! Thanks for the prayers though, I really appreciate it. Although I know say some of una no pray for me. You just dey post me abi? Hmm, God forgive you o. Anyways, it’s all good. I’m in a reflective mood today, ‘cos it’s my birthday, and damn, awon boys are getting old. When you start thinking about lying about your age, trust me you’re old.
I woke up kinda early this morning, ‘cos as usual Chief Fineboy called to wish his fourth son a happy birthday. Meeeen, the guy used some brand new words today and got me all emotional but it’s all good. I’ve received quite a few calls already today, a lot of them from Nige. My oldest bro Nigerian Shakespeare was the first caller. Men, the dude is one of my favourite people but the guy dey speak oyinbo eh? Lord have mercy. Chief Fineboy jr.
I also got calls from some of my aunts as well. One of my favourite aunts, Aunty R called from Abuja, and her brother my Uncle S was there as well.
Na so she give the guy phone o. You see that uncle S guy is a bit funny. I’m not sure if the guy’s complete up there if you know what I mean, because sometimes the guy talks some funny shite men. Like this morning, he was giving me the usual prayers o. Like “God bless you, may you have many more" blah blah, and then…….."motor will not jam you.”
I come begin wonder. I had already said “amen,” before I thought about it. Abi this guy dey swear for me? Why would you think to say that to someone? Na wa o. Now I’m all paranoid, because this one that guys are always slapping around central London, anything can shele.
After I put the phone down, I just started thinking about it men. Shey the guy dey see vision ni? We’re going to the Lake District this weekend in a 15-seater, so I gots to be careful when driving o, especially ‘cos it’s at night. And trust me when you’ve been in accident before, you get maaad paranoid. I’ll never forget when one madman bashed me in Yankee. I think I’m still traumatised from the experience sef. Make I give una the gist briefly.
It was the day after Valentine’s day, and the night before I’d had a nice Italian dinner at my omoge’s crib. You know, candlelight, then bubble bath, massage oils, everything! Spent the night (wink wink), woke up feeling nice and refreshed, and took off for work. Men, na so I stop for traffic light o. Just as the light turned green, I just felt something plow into my car from behind. Omo, this one was not CRASH. It was GBAAAAAOOOOW!!! My coin compartment flew open and sprayed pennies and dimes across my car. For a second I was in shock. Like omo am I injured?
I tried to move my main parts, and I see say everything dey correct order. Thank God for seat belt. My next thought was my car. Damn. Just the sound of the metal crashing broke my heart ‘cos I knew my baby must be looking a hot mess right now. I got out.
CHINEKE! The whole rear end don scatter ni sha. The dude’s car was some minivan type car and it hadn’t even incurred any damage. I looked at the were. The guy was sitting there with one sheepish look on his face. He looked like one of those IT nerds with the big glasses and spiderman tie. I was waiting for an explanation.
“Pretty bad huh? That’s a nice car too.”
I looked at the guy and fantasised about punching that his long nose.
I was just thinking, “You’re lucky this isn’t Naija. I for don woze you slap by now.”
Na so I just remember. Men, when you get in an accident, you shouldn’t walk around like you’re fine. Omo, I just went back into my car and sat down. The twit came to my window.
“Are you okay?”
I told him I was gonna move the car off the road and park in a shopping mall parking lot across the road. I moved the car there and the dude followed me. When we got there, men I just palmed like I was hella hurt o. Because if you start walking around now, insurance fit say nothing for boys. The bobo was on his phone the whole time, so I figured he was talking to the police or insurance or what not. He came to my window.
“Err, so what do we do now?”
“You called the cops right?”
“Erm, no that was my wife.”
Fool! So the whole time this nincompoop was on the phone, na im wife e dey follow talk??? Mugu!
Meeeen, I was pissed. I called the cops and told the joker to call his insurance company sharpish. I just chilled in the car like say my back don break. Omo, I begin calculate. This one na upgrade o. Hmm, with the dough I get from the insurance company, I’m copping a 6.45 beemer. I started imagining cruising into DC in my brand new 6.45 coupe. Ha, awon boys go just bounce inside club. Throw the keys to valet. “Don’t scratch my joint, baby.” Represent….
“Sir are you okay?”
There was a policeman at my window. Me wey I don imagine go, if you saw the way I switched my voice eh.
“Ah, officer.”
“Are you alright? Can you step outside of your vehicle?”
Step kini?
“Aaaaaah, officer no. I can’t.” I winced. “Aaaagh.”
“Do you need an ambulance?”
“I think so. I don’t know…..aaaagh.”
The nerd who bashed me was looking. I gave the guy eye. If dey born you well, say I came out of the car earlier.
That’s how the cop called ambulance o. In like 15 minutes, it arrived and two paramedics jumped out and brought out a stretcher. Omo! This thing don dey serious o. Yeepa.
“Sir can you move?”
“Err….yeah.” I moved my hand.
“Okay. Do not attempt to get up.”
They opened the door and put me on the stretcher. Ha! See my life o. Which kin’ katakata I don enter? They now hurriedly thrust me into the ambulance. Yeepers. Next thing I know, the guy pulls out a white sheet and starts to cover me up.
“Nooooo!” I no be oku now.
The guy goes, “You have to have it over you sir.”
“No mate.”
I felt like telling him, “In my country na dead man dem dey cover with white sheet o, bros.”
“You will have to have it on sir. Or we won’t be transporting you to the hospital.”
Chei. “Alright then.” I go manage am. No be money?
When they covered me ehn, I felt sick. Sirens blaring and everything, white sheet over me like a corpse. Because of small change. See my life.
Long story short, the doctor referred me to a chiropractor who found out I had “subluxations” in my spine blah blah blah. Meanwhile that back don dey pain me since o. I injured it playing basketball, but had thought it was just a muscle that I had pulled or something. I remember when I went to Naija one December and went to the doctor’s about it.
The y sent me to the x-ray guy, one old paps with huge glasses.
“Off your clothes.”
“Off your trozziz.”
Na wa o. A whole x-ray technician. I looked at the baba. He passed me one hospital gown. It was rather awkward but I took my clothes off and lay on the table thingy, flat on my stomach. I couldn’t help feeling vulnerable because this old paps had a clear view of my butt. Is all this one necessary? He put the x-ray machine over me and adjusted me like a million times, each time saying,
“This is serious.”
“Mm mm mm.”
Then making that clicking noise with his tongue.
“This is terrible o.”
I finally asked him, “What’s the problem?”
“You’re asking me. Your back is in a shambles!”
This baba sef.
“This is a slipped disc now. Are you a labourer?”
I wanted to laugh. Did I look like a bricklayer to this man?
“Your back is finished. Your spinal system has scattered. Just go and see the doctor.”
Na your back go run down, you this wicked old man.
He gave me the film and I took it to the doctor, who said it was nothing, just muscle tension. Anyhow he gave me some painkillers and “robb.”
Imagine o.
When the chiropractor in America fixed my back months later I couldn’t help but think “We can be so backwards in that country.”
Needless to say, I made mad money from that accident but I won’t bore you with the details. Awon boys did some crazy shopping, copped a brand new ride and ‘all at. So if somebody bashes you, remember to do what I did. But if na okada for Naija, shine your eye o. If you talk about insurance, dem go brush you! I love y’all men, I’ll be blogging properly this weekend.
Blogsville, your boy is back.
Posted by Mr.Fineboy at Thursday, June 21, 2007