Month: July 2011

Monologue Series

There’s a guy you really like.  He says he likes you but isn’t ready to commit to a relationship. You hope he’ll change his mind, hope you can help change his mind. When he kisses you, you kiss him right back. He reminds you how much he cares about you and how wonderful a friends you are. You cling to hope, the hope that in time he’ll see sense and realise how lucky he is to be wanted by you. You get horizontal. Before you know it you’ve been on your back for a whole year and he’s still telling you how he needs to take his time before committing to a serious relationship. You’re now hopelessly in love with a man who won’t commit.  


You meet a guy. He’s a bad boy, all wrong for you and you know it but the attraction is palpable. There is no way on God’s green earth you would consider dating him but you can’t let him walk on by without leaving a little something behind. You tell him nothing can happen between you but you will him to disbelieve the words passing through your lips. When he touches you, there’s an explosion. You wanted it to happen and it carries on happening but you know you will never commit to him. All you’re after is someone to scratch that itch and as soon he does, you let him go. You go to church on Sunday, repent and take up your cross of celibacy…until the next one comes along.


He is perfect for you; you couldn’t have created a better man if you created him yourself. He ticks all the boxes, is everything you thought you wanted in a man. Now that he’s standing in front of you, you’re not so sure anymore. He is boring, too straitlaced, swaggerless. You’re not saying you want a bad boy but you want someone with…experience. A reformed bad boy. Been there, done that and had enough of it but has some residual sparkle in his eyes, a little swagger left over in his step. He still ticks all the boxes but has a little something extra you didn’t know you wanted…till now. You know you’ve found a good man but do you hold onto him or let him go hoping someone more ‘exciting’ will come along someday?


You’ve been around and everyone knows it. It was fun while it lasted but you’re ready to settle down. You’ve thrown out the black book, cleaned up your act but your reputation precedes you. No one wants their brother to date you, their son to marry you. The big boys know you and they sure as hell won’t marry you. You find yourself a good guy, untouched by the rumours that circulate the ton. You give him an overview of your past and tell him how you’ve seen the light. He believes in second chances, believes that people change. He gets to know the new you and falls in love with you. By the time the details get to him, he’s well and truly sprung. He stands by you, marries you. To him you’re a princess but to the rest of the world you’re the skank that got lucky. It really pisses you off and you wish people would stop judging you based on who you once were. You now fully understand what the term ‘mud sticks’ mean.  


 Hey guys!

You’ve just met four characters in a four part semi-fictional series I’ll be developing for this blog. Thanks to blogging, it’s been ages since I wrote anything resembling a short story. I’ve challenged myself to write four monologues centred on the four characters I’ve just introduced you to. I can’t believe I’m publicly committing to doing this giving that I know many of you will hold me to it. I’m a little bored of my recent posts so I thought I’d try and shake things up with this series.

Stay tuned!!!




I asolutely LOVE the painting I used. It is copyright of the artist and was taken from the broadway gallery’s website

Warfare 101

One half term holiday while I was in senior school, I was shipped to my Uncle T’s house. My mother was in Abuja and I had many a party to rock so I opted to stay in Lagos. The night I got to his house, I discovered he was hosting a night vigil for his charismatic society.

As the prayer warriors started to arrive, I quietly snuck out of the living room and up to bed.

“Oga is calling you.”


“Waila, you don’t want to join us? You have to learn to pray. Come and sit next to me.”

“Aaaw men!

Not only was I tired, I had no desire to pray all night. The problems I had didn’t warrant that kind of supplication. Yes someone stole my Rice Krispies at school and there one obnoxious twerp in the year above me that was trying my patience but I could handle all that.

“In the name of the Father…”

That was how I found myself in the prayer vigil. At first it was tame. A few Hail Mary’s, glory be to the Fathers and the Lord’s prayer…but then things started to heat up. They started binding and loosening every type of demon that exists.

“You demons that are not allowing me to prosper, I bind you in Jesus name!”

“You ogbanje spirit that wants to turn my daughter into an ashewo, I say leave her right now in the name of Jesus!” 

Ptchew?! Do the thing well now!

I’d heard that when people bind demons and don’t direct them to a specific location, the demons roam about and possess anyone in the vicinity. I didn’t need anyone to tell me I was the weakest link in that room.

Waila no dey carry last!

I found the prayer general in me. No way was I going to let any crazy demons possess me! Before I knew it I was pumping my fists in the air, stamping my feet and jerking like an Aba made generator. I redirected every roaming demon to the bottomless pit…apparently that was the best place to send them.  By the time morning came I was exhausted and crawled into bed.

No sooner had I closed my eyes than a demon visited me in dream land. He was the ugliest looking creature I’ve ever seen and came complete with the horns and tail…just like the movies.

“People are binding demons you too want to bind abi?! By the time I finish with you, you will never try that nonsense again. You want to bind abi? You want to bind?”

Fear gripped every single part of my anatomy. I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly I remembered someone telling me that if you have a bad dream and say Jesus, you’ll be okay and so I started screaming, “Jesus! Jesus!”

I woke up to find my Aunt tapping me.

“What’s the matter?!”

I got up and fled to my Uncles room. I told him about the dream and he said not to worry that I just needed to carry on praying and everything would be fine.

“But he said I should never try it again!”

“Don’t mind him. He can’t do anything.”

Yeah right!

I vowed never to pray the kind of prayers I’d prayed during the vigil. Like my grandma says, trouble dey sleep, yanga go wake am. If other people wanted to tackle demons and things, they should go right ahead but me, I didn’t want any trouble. I was just an innocent young girl minding my business in the world and looking for ride to my parties!

The next day when my Uncle called me for evening prayers, I warned him seriously. If they were planning to pray anything other than ‘Lord bless me’ prayers, I was not interested.

“You can’t be afraid of the devil, he has no power over you!”

“That’s why he and his people were visiting me in my sleep abi?! I’ve said my own, anything more than Hail Mary and Our Father, count me out!”

Is it a crime for a girl to visit her uncle?! I beg o!!!




Random Thoughts Fleeting Through My Mind

Style blogs are all the rage. Cyberspace is inundated with photo after photo of what people are wearing and how they are wearing it. Everyone is a ‘stylista fashionista’ and I’m enjoying the uprising.  Some days I wish this blog was a lot more exciting with fun pictures and things all over the place but I am notoriously hopeless with a camera and worse still, the least photogenic person to ever walk the earth. I also hate dressing up. In my hay days, you had to give me advance notice of any parties or nights out because it was impossible for me to pick out an outfit at less than a week’s notice. I can’t tell you how many times I cancelled outings out of frustration at not being able to decide what to wear.  Thankfully, I’ve delivered from that crazy behaviour but I’m at my happiest lying on my dirty red sofa in a kaftan, watching Nollywood movies on YouTube and eating Butterkist cinema sweet popcorn. Within five minutes of walking through my front door, I change into my joggers and a tank and bundle my hair under a pair of tights turned sleeping cap. I must not carry this unsexy behaviour to my husband’s house.

Speaking of my dirty red sofa, a month ago, I convinced a friend to take me to Ikea to buy a new sofa cover as the old one has reached embarrassing levels of filthy.  One month later, I still haven’t changed it. The new cover smiles at me, I smile back. I’ve now convinced myself the old one isn’t dirty enough. I need to wait till even a pig refuses to sit on it before I change it. I don’t understand myself some times.

I really don’t understand myself some times. Lately, I’ve noticed that my heart has thawed a little. I’ve become more sensitive and things. One of my friends reckons it’s a good thing because apparently, soft and mushy is the way forward but I’m not convinced. The day I find myself shedding tears because Tom was mean to Jerry, I’m reverting to the old MEE!

MEE. Those are my initial and not a funky way of writing me. Once upon a time everyone called me Osayi but not so much over the last ten years. These days, everyone calls me Mary. When I first decided to start using my middle name Mary, it wasn’t because I liked it. On the contrary I hated the name. I just got tired of people murdering Osayi so I decided to make life less irritating for myself. Some people who knew me as Osayi got the hump about it.

 “Why are you ashamed of your cultural identity?”

See me see trouble o! Wetin concern agbero with overload?! If my parents didn’t want me to use the name Mary, surely they wouldn’t have put it on my birth certificate AND passport?! In any case, even if I decide to christen myself ‘Pippy Longstockings’, how does that affect the salary they are paying you?!

Meanwhile, this sun is doing my head in. Surely I’m not the only person in this world that isn’t a fan? The thing makes me grumpy and irritable…or maybe that’s a result of the mass display of sexy legs in barely there shorts. Lord, I need me a pair of pins to rival Miranda Kerr’s!!!

And so shall it be.





If you know me well you will know that I am desperately seeking a blonde haired, blue eyes, Irish gentleman to walk me down the aisle. I got the fantasy into my head when I was about 13 and now that I’m older, wiser and living in London, the probability of the fantasy becoming a reality has quadrupled! I don’t what but there’s something about the Irish accent that makes my knees give way. I can listen to Ronan Keating and Pierce Brosnan speak for days.  *sigh*

I was round about 18 when my mother and I had an interesting exchange. She went fish shopping and didn’t get the fish monger to clean and cut up her haul.

“Mummy why didn’t you get them to clean the fish?”

“It’s just fish. Stop moaning and come and help me.”

“I’m not touching that stuff. It’s disgusting!”

“If your mother-in-law asks you to clean fish is that what you will tell her?”

“Why would an Irish woman ask me to clean fish?!”

I was only acting the fool but you should have seen the way her pupils dilated. I think it was the first time it dawned on her that the man I bring home may not be Nigerian. She said something I don’t dare repeat and told me to get out…which I did rather promptly. Fast forward to 2011 and all I hear from her is “God will give you the right person.” “It doesn’t matter where he’s from.”  It’s funny how desperation for a grandchild has made her relax her standards.  It’s fine by me because I now know that even if I bring home a goat, as long as it has the ability to impregnate me, there will be no arguments.

One of my Nigerian girlfriends is currently engaged to a Swedish guy. When they got engaged, a mutual friend of ours made a comment that got me thinking. She said “I’d been thinking of who I’d hook her up with when the relationship ended.” Her comment implied a number of things but one of them was that she didn’t think the relationship was serious because of their different ethnicities.

I watched the movie ‘Something New’ over the weekend. Sanaa Lathan’s character went on a blind date and when she found out her date was was white, she looked like she’d just been diagnosed HIV positive.

What is it about interracial relationships that make people so uncomfortable and sceptical?

I’ve heard all sorts of arguments from cultural differences, to slave trade, to black people who date white people are ashamed of their race, to white women only date black men for the sex (that famous myth) and money (think sports stars). I could go on and on but whatever the reason, there are people who are vehemently opposed to interracial relationship and for the life of me, I cannot understand why. It’s one thing to have a personal preference but when you decide others have to abide by your own principles, I reckon you’re having a Hitler moment. Back up and come again.

So tell me, have you ever and would you ever date someone of a different race?