The Abortion Series: The Birthday Girl’s Story

               I love birthdays and when I woke up on the morning of my 19th birthday, I thought it was the best day ever; lots of calls, messages and prayers in the normal African tradition. I decided to miss my A ‘level Physics class, after all, it was my birthday. My boyfriend came over laden with gifts, cards; the works. He planned to take me out so I was really excited. I started to get ready and we got carried away. We had been together for about 4 months and had never slept together. We did everything else but were very careful but that day (my birthday) things got out of hand. He coaxed, loved and cajoled till we were having sex. It was over very quickly and as soon as we were done the reality of what had happened hit me and I knew it, I just knew I was going to be pregnant. Exactly eleven days later I missed my period and it all began.
               I waited a few more days and lo and behold my period still hadn’t come so I bought a pregnancy test kit from boots. I bought 2 actually, just in case one was wrong. I got home, peed on the stick and watched a pink line gradually surface. My heart sank. I tried again, same result. I started panicking. I called my boyfriend and told him. He asked if I was sure, I said yes. He told me to come over. I bought more pee sticks and made my way over, all the while, shaking. It was another physics day so I was happy to skip school, don’t really know why I bothered with the subject, I’d never liked it.
               When I got to his place, we talked quietly in his bedroom (he lived with relatives). I peed on another stick and brought the result to him. Clear as day, I was pregnant. We couldn’t get married, still too young. He was Christian and I, Muslim and both our parents would have killed us. I remember thinking about people who had died from septic abortions but I thought “surely that won’t happen in the UK?!”
               We agreed to have an abortion.
I went to my GP and told him I was pregnant and wanted to have an abortion. He was angry. He’d been my GP from birth, knew my whole family and even advised me on becoming a medical doctor and what subjects to do at A ‘level. He wasn’t happy and managed to make me think the NHS would say no. I was terrified! No one could find out. I got morning sickness and couldn’t eat anything. I thanked God my mum was out of town at the time because she would have known. Well, the letter came through and the NHS said yes.
               It was morning, the day, the day had come. I was really nervous and thought I’d be sick. They didn’t let him come in with me. The procedure was explained, I filled some forms, signed and was wheeled into the theatre. I remember telling the anesthetist to make sure I wasn’t carrying twins because I’d heard a story about someone aborting one child while a second, undiscovered child lived. He smiled, nodded and asked me to count backwards from 10. I woke up a little while later and realised I was back in the ward. It was all over…or so I thought.
               On the outside I was fine but inside of me, the grief was only just beginning. I couldn’t tell anyone, friend or foe. Every time I saw a pregnant woman, I wondered. Every time I saw a single mother I thought her a much better person than I for having the courage to have her child. For years after, I couldn’t have conversations about abortions, couldn’t bring myself to utter the word. It took a few years before I was able to cry and when I did, I cried for hours.
               I have since become a Christian and I’m grateful that God forgives. Forgiving myself however, was the harder bit. I finally got there about 8 years after the event but, till now, I still ask myself ‘what if?’ and ‘how old?’ amongst other things. At the time it was normal to have an abortion but no one told me about the guilt afterwards. I really wish someone had schooled me right.


This is a non-fictional account of  The Birthday Girl’s experience. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. That you and others would trust me with your stories is incredibly humbling. You are whole my friend; mind, body, soul and spirit.

This is the penultimate story in the series. There’s one more (fictional) to come so please stay tuned!




The Abortion Series: Mr Anonymous’ Story

The day started like any other; morning came, met me lazing around and left. Late afternoon met me fed and doing the dishes. Just as I finished, my phone rang. Spotting the callers ID, I groaned. I hadn’t spoken to her in a month and after our last conversation had hoped I’d never again have to. I answered the call and looking back, wish amongst other things, that day had turned out differently.
      “Hey. What’s up?”
      “I’m pregnant and I think it’s yours.”
In one seemingly eternal minute, my mind went back to the first and only night we’d spent together. Our relationship had officially ended two weeks before. She was supposedly a virgin and I hadn’t planned to sleep with her but in 30seconds of madness, I planted life in her.
      I remembered the last time I’d spoken to her. She’d called the day before worried because she’d missed her period and didn’t know what to do. She called that day to say it wasn’t what she’d thought; it was only an infection. I remember freaking out and falling ill, my sickness induced by the thought that I too was infected.
      I remembered why the relationship ended. She’d wanted to get married and I hadn’t, not to her. All the time we were together, I suspected her of cheating. I lied, told her I never wanted to get married and she vowed to change my mind.
      All this I remembered in a minute.
I asked her what next. She said she didn’t know. I told her I wouldn’t support an abortion, she said she wasn’t considering it. 9 months passed, months of arguments, unwavering looks of disappointment from parents and family, months of external pressures on me to marry her. I stuck to my guns, I couldn’t marry her. If the relationship didn’t work out, then marriage most definitely wouldn’t. Marrying the man that got you pregnant for want of a ‘better’ option or marrying a woman for responsibility sake, is erroneous at best. Those months were extremely difficult for me…but considerably more so for her.
      At times I considered encouraging her to terminate the pregnancy but in the end, decided to let God make that decision for us. This may sound crazy but miscarriages happen, people give birth to stillborn children, babies die every day. If the baby wasn’t meant to be, it wouldn’t be. I couldn’t shake the thought that if we had an abortion, we might never again have the chance to be parents. Ever. Being pregnant and unmarried was one mistake. I didn’t want to make another by having an abortion.
      I am single, she is now married and has a daughter in addition to the son we share. A recurring ‘issue’ in my relationships is my son. It’s a massive consideration for any woman looking to spend the rest of her life with me. I’ll be honest, it has crossed my mind how much less complicated my life would be if I’d encouraged her to abort. Yet, however I think about it, it would have been the wrong thing to do.
      I have friends who regret making that decision. They see little kids and can’t escape the question, “what if?” Funny thing is, the same thing happens to me. I see little kids and ask myself, “what if?” For all the regrets I have, the decision to have my son isn’t one of them, for when life presents itself at its most hopeless, hearing him say “I love you daddy” always, always brightens my day.


This is a factual account of Mr Anonymous’ experience and I’d like to thank him for sharing his story with us. Thanks buddy!



The Abortion Series: Adiva’s Story

When you’ve been with someone over 4 years, you probably would have talked about love, marriage and having babies. My boyfriend and I had gone down this path. Sex wasn’t something we frowned upon though we are Catholics that go to church every Sunday, pray the rosary and try to live a sin free life. He always said that our only sin was sex and maybe God understands.

At the start of the year, I had the flu (or so I thought). Like most people, I didn’t go to my GP. I self medicated.  By Valentine’s Day, I knew there was definitely something wrong. We spent our Valentine’s Day in a walk in centre in Bolton. The first thing the GP asked me was “when last did you have your period?” My heart sank. I knew I was pregnant. At this point, my boyfriend was visibly shaken, probably worse than I was because immediately I thought I was pregnant, I had already made up my mind that I wasn’t keeping it.

Flash back to 2 years ago. I had this abortion conversation with my friends and swore with every living cell in my body that I’d never do it. “Over my dead body!” I said… but look how quickly I made the decision once I was in the situation. The GP ran the necessary tests and yes, I was pregnant. Everything else she said was a blur. My boyfriend kept consoling me. He said we’d have the baby and get married later. I was 24, he was 25. We were probably at the right age. Was it the right time? The right circumstance (pregnant before marriage)?  No. I knew my mom would kill me. I quietly rang my GP and made the appointment.

On the appointed date, I woke up early, my boyfriend and I said a prayer, he rang a taxi and we went to the clinic. It was the worst day of my life. They didn’t let my boyfriend in. I was alone. He had to sit in the waiting area for the next 5-6hrs. I filled out paperwork concurring that I was in the right state of mind to kill my unborn baby and had a scan to show that the unborn baby was growing healthily.  The nurse took a sample of my blood and kept asking if I was sure I wanted to do it. I had to see a therapist who explained the series of emotions I might go through after the abortion. I got stripped down to my panties and then they gave me a hospital dress and wheeled me into the theatre. This was the first time I cried. I swear I wasn’t emotional; I was just numb so I don’t understand where the tears came from. I kept asking if I could see my boyfriend, they said no. I prayed again, told God I was sorry but needed him to understand.

Once I was in the theatre, the doctors smiled and told me to stop crying. They’d seen my type so many times. At this point, I was being injected with anaesthetics. I was saying the Hail Mary…and woke up 15mins later in a recovery room, my clothes next to the bed along with a note explaining I might be dizzy but to put on my clothes when I felt ok. A nurse came in later and gave me a glass of orange juice and some biscuits. I dressed up as fast as I could and made my way down to the waiting room. He was there, waiting. He called a taxi, we went back home and both cried for the next hour. We had nothing to say so we cried. He promised to be with me forever, which I know is true but it can never erase what happened. Right now, we live with the guilt that we’ve done something so terrible.   

Apart from the sinful aspect, it is a very scary process. I was shaken and there was nobody to hold my hand or whatever. I kept wondering “what if I die, what will I tell God? Will he forgive me? Can I still go to heaven?”

The whole thing messes with your mind.


This a non-fictional account of Adiva’s (real name withheld) experience and I would like to thank her for having the courage to share her story with me and the rest of the world. I am beyond honoured my friend.

If you have an experience you would like to share, please email your story to me @ and be assured that your identity will be withheld.



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!!!




23 Years & Counting

On this day 23 years ago my father breathed his last breath.

It wasn’t really a surprise because he was sick and in hospital in the run up to his death but you know death, it has a way of shocking you regardless. 

This day is always weird for me because I’m never sure how I’m supposed to, allowed to feel. He died 9 days before I turned four so I can’t say I knew him well. Am I a hypocrite for mourning a man I barely knew or is the fact that I called him daddy all the reason I need?

Over the years I’ve heard many stories about him that have made me believe he was a good man, a man of integrity. I know they aren’t lying because I’ve heard it from too many people for it not to be true but I also know no man is perfect. Why does no one tell me the bad things? Do they think it will make me love him less?  Surely the man must have annoyed some people in this world! I really hate not knowing everything. It sucks.

The fondest memory I have of him was in the run up to his death. It was June 1988 and my birthday wasn’t far away. I asked my mum how we were going to celebrate it and she said we weren’t because daddy was in hospital.

“Daddy, mummy says I can’t celebrate my birthday because you are sick!!!”

I was crying like my life depended on a cake and party packs for my friends at school.

“Your mummy said that?! Don’t mind her, of course you will celebrate it. Tina!”


My mother rushed to his bedside.

“Why did you tell my Princess that she can’t celebrate her birthday?!”

My father made EVERYONE that came to visit him promise that they should make sure I had the birthday of all birthdays.

“Daddy I know you can’t come home for the party but I will bring you some of my birthday cake.” 

Sadly, he didn’t hang around long enough for me to keep that promise.

Everyone kept their word and I had the best birthday ever. The house was brimming with presents and I’ve never seen so many cakes in my life…not even in a bakery! My classmates at school awarded me goddess status and my gargantuan party packs were the talk of the class for weeks after. I had to wear a black party dress to school with black plastic earrings but even that didn’t stop me smiling. My mother, aunties, uncles, and the rest of my family were mourning but I was floating on a cloud and they were forced to put aside their grief to make my day extra special. Not the most sensitive kid on the block eh?!

I think I will forever feel guilty about that. It’s why I never make a fuss on my birthday.

I’m not interested in filling my dustbin with wet tissues today. Who will empty it when I’m done?!  All I want is for him to know that by the grace of God, I’ve made good of my life.  I didn’t get knocked up and sleep with men for money like those aunties predicted I would.  I didn’t drop out of university and fall in with bad gangs like all those people said I would. We didn’t have to beg for anything like all those people expected we would. They who were avoiding us were wasting their energy because we sure as hell didn’t need them. We had God (even when we didn’t know it) and he was more than enough for us.

Today I want him to know he isn’t forgotten. I treasure the memories I have of him and I will forever be grateful to God that I knew him at all.

Angels, I’m not sure how these things work but just in case he can’t read this, please pass on the message. If you will, tell him I love him and will bring him that piece of cake when I’m coming to meet him in heaven. Mr Integrity, let him not say I don’t keep my promises!



Tales From The Underground: My Igbo Sister

Hey guys!

You guessed it, life’s been very busy and it’s going to get busier and stay so till the end of June. Forgive me in advance for my few and far between posts to come. I will try and keep up with blogosphere in that period but I can’t make any promises.

I love capturing moments, but seeing as I’m hopeless with a camera, I use words instead.

Yesterday on my way into work a woman with the loudest and highest pitched voice I’ve ever heard was having a heated conversation on her phone…in igbo. The entire carriage was staring at her in disapproval. At 7.30am my fellow commuters do not like noise. The dialogue was one sided and I felt sorry for the person receiving the tongue lashing on the other end of the phone. The woman was too busy ranting to notice when the train went underground at East Finchley. The train was well into the tunnel and she was still going full throttle. It was the funniest thing. Eventually another passenger who had had enough tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, are you sure the other person is still on the phone? You’re in a tunnel so there’s no signal. You’ll have to carry on your conversation later.” In other words, “my friend shut up and stop making noise!”

The sarcasm was lost on my Igbo sister. She just laughed and said in her deliciously Igbo accent, “Oh okay!  Taink you my sister, I deedint knew!” She was clearly oblivious to the offence she was causing on the train.

My initial irritation disappeared and I fell in instant like with her. Her oblivion and innocence endeared her to me in a way that our shared Nationality failed to. She carried on entertaining me till I got off the train.

A pregnant woman boarded the train at Camden and my sister was sat in a priority seat.

“Excuse me, I’m pregnant and I need a seat. Do you mind?”

“Yes o, I mind. No be only you carry belle, me sef I’m pregnant.”

She moved her bag to fully reveal her slightly rounded stomach.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I saw it but I wasn’t sure. I thought it might be…”

I almost died trying to swallow my laughter. You thought it might be what?! Fortunately for her, the insult went right over my sister’s head.  My sister proceeded to tap the woman sitting next to her and said, “I beg you please stand up for this woman to sit. To carry belle no easy!”

I stopped trying to pretend I wasn’t laughing. My sister looked at me and grinned excitedly.

“You be Naija?!”

I smiled at her and nodded.

“Ehen! The way you just dey laugh, I know say you are understanding me.”

The woman was still belting out every word at ear drum bursting volumes and lightening speed.  Before I got a chance to respond to her earlier comment she began reporting her friend who she’d been shouting at earlier.

“No mind one my useless friend! She…”

From what I could decipher from her million words per second report, she sent the friend to buy her stuff from America and the friend returned with no goods and no money.

“Is it good what she has done?”

I shook my head.

“No be so person suppose behave. Is a bad tin that she do me and na God go punish am!”

I laughed, shook my head and nodded at intervals. The only word I managed to get in was ‘goodbye’ as I was stepping off the train.

You’ve got to love my people!



Somebody Call The RSPCA

After reading this post, some of you may never view me in the same light again. In my defence, I was  only nine years old, don’t judge me too harshly! ☺


I don’t like dogs. Scrap that, I HATE dogs. They scare the crap out of me and I just cannot understand how people live with them. It’s not just dogs, it’s animals in general but dogs and I have a history. When I was growing up my family owned three dogs. Two of them were what we called local dogs. Local or foreign, we didn’t get along. When I was in primary school, the driver would have to carry me to the car in the mornings because I was too scared to walk. Our dogs didn’t have cages, leashes or anything remotely fancy. They roamed the compound freely and ate eba.

There were two in particular that scared the life out of me…Wazobia and Bingo. Bingo was young and very active but when I shooed him, he usually went away. Wazobia on the other hand was a tyrant. The dog just wouldn’t leave me alone. If I went out through the front door, she was there waiting for me. If I went out through the back, she was there.

One day my mum asked me to take the bin out and as I opened the back door, she was there, tongue hanging out ready to apply moisture to my skin to make for easier biting. I had the bin in one hand and a kettle full of hot water in the other, to rinse out the bin with.

“Shoo Wazobia , shoo!”

She didn’t respond.

 “Take that bin out for goodness sake,” my mother shouted at me, “it stinks! You’ve lived with that dog for nine years now, what are you still afraid of?”

“Shoo Wazobia , shoo!”

As I shooed, I dared to step outside. One step, two steps, three steps. She stayed put. Convinced all as well, I walked more confidently. Four. Five. Six, Seven. Eight.  Suddenly I heard a bark and saw Wazobia bounding towards me.

“No Wazobia, no!”

I flung the bin and started sprinting back to the house. “No run!” the maid screamed, “if you run, she go chase you!’

Na you sabi!

 I carried on running but saw that she was getting to close for my liking. I freaked out and before I could process what I was about to do, chucked the kettle full of hot water at Wazobia. I’ve never heard a dog howl so loud.

‘How can you pour hot water on a dog?!’ my mother screamed in horror.

I received a good beating for my actions.  Thankfully, animals in Nigeria do not have rights unlike their counterparts in the West so there was no RSPCA to convict me of my crime. That said, anyone with half a heart would know have felt for the poor dog…and I did. They did what they could for Wazobia but the damage was done, she had a large bald grey patch on her back. She became really timid after that and never bothered me again.

I know I’m supposed to be politically correct but I can’t lie, I was happy when the dog stopped harassing me. I felt and still feel bad and wish they had just sold the damn dog while they could. Perhaps I ought to be reported to the RSPCA. All I ask is that you give me a heads up before you do so I can run back to Nigeria!

Even Madam’s Get Insulted

“Madam, how can I help you?”

“I’d like two portions of jollof rice and chicken please.” I tapped my fingers against the counter as the waiter picked up a foil pack and began stuffing it with rice. After filling it, he sealed it and stood, as though awaiting further instructions.

“I said two portions not one,” I reminded him.

Nodding his head, he began to fill another foil pack. “Anything else madam?”

“Do you have coleslaw?”

“We have it ma.”

“Okay, I’ll have two portions of coleslaw too.”

My food all packed and ready to go, he started punching numbers on the till.  He stared intently at the receipt that was printing and then shaking his head, tore it in half.

“What is it?”

“Sorry o, I made a mistake. I no add the coleslaw.”

“Oh okay, let me see the bill.”

I noticed he entered jollof rice four times. “How come you entered jollof rice four times? I asked for two portions not four.”

“Ehen, na two portions dey the receipt.”

“How is this two portions? One, two, three, four…that’s four portions.”

“Na you say you want two portions o madam!”

“Yes, two portions as in two packs.”

“Oh oh, na this kind thing I no like. You don begin change mouth!”

“I beg your pardon?!” I stared at him in disbelief. I wasn’t sure which issue to tackle first, his bad attitude or lack of intelligence. Calm down MEE, it’s just a miscommunication. I tried to reason with him.

“When I said two portions I didn’t mean a double portion. What I meant was two packs.”

“No madam!” he screamed at me, “no be wetin you talk be dat!”

I clung to my patience.

“Okay, I don’t want two double portions. I want two single portions. Please sort it out.”

“Oh oh, which kind nonsense be this? Wetin you want make I do with the rice wey I don dish?!”

I let go of my patience.

“You can pour the rice on my head! What kind of stupid question is that?! Are you alright?!”

“Madam I dey alright o. Na you no sabi wetin you want. Which kind double work you wan give person? I tell you say I no get work?”

“Thunder fire you, you are crazy! Didn’t they teach you one two three in primary school?! One, two, three…count am make I hear you! Olodo! Is this how you treat your customers? If you’re too lazy to correct something as simple as this then you might want to think about quitting your job. Nonsense!”

I snatched my handbag off the counter and marched towards the exit. A chorus of “madam wetin happen?!” followed me but I wasn’t interested in explaining anything to anyone. Getting to the door, the doorman wouldn’t open it.

“Madam I beg no vex. No mind am, na so him dey behave. I beg no vex.”

“Please open the door.”

“I beg madam no go, you never chop now!”

“Get out of my way!” Like I needed reminding that I was hungry and had nothing to eat. I grabbed the door myself and yanked it open.




An Eye For An Eye but Eye Ain’t That Wicked!

When I was in JSS1 I fell in hate with my social studies teacher, Madam SS. We were getting along pretty well till her niece and I found ourselves in the same dormitory. The foolish niece (who I’m now friends with) told her aunt a lie about me in order to save someone else’s behind and the agbaya teacher decided to make an eleven year old child her enemy.

From the second Madam SS entered the class till she left, she picked on me. I became an answering machine. “Define this, define that.” “Explain this, explain that.” Unfortunately for Madam S I was a clever kid, she could never catch me out. It annoyed the hell out of her. I can’t tell you how many times she punished me for no tangible reason.

“Did you have to answer the question so cockily?! Kneel down there!”

“So because you answered one question you think you know everything? Get out of my class!”

The woman made my life miserable but I paid her back by getting the highest grades in her class. I was glad to see the back of JSS1 though and thought I’d gotten rid of her but alas, we met again in JSS3. We picked up where we’d left off; she fired questions, I bombed her with answers. It burnt her gan and she retaliated by telling my demonic English teacher to watch out for me in her classes. Two teachers against lil’ ol’ MEE, talk about bullying!

Fast forward three years. I was now the house captain of my house and JSS1 girls were resuming school. I got a message that Madam SS wanted to see the house captain of my house. Wondering what I’d done this time, I dragged myself to her office. She was shocked when I walked in.

“You are the house captain?!”

 “Yes ma.”

“My daughter is in JSS1 and she’s in your house. She’s resuming boarding house today.”

Hallelujah!!! I’ve never felt more powerful in my life.

“Please my dear, please look after her for me. God will bless you!”

Madam SS grovelling? Begging me?! Praying for me?!

The thought of the many ways I could torture her daughter had me drunk …O n se mi bi oti! I had all the power and she knew it. No amount of begging was going to save her daughter’s behind. There and then I started inventing new improved punishments for the girl. Let her not wake up at 6am sharp to start scrubbing, walahi, she would hang upside down!  Forget the toppling of Saddam, this one was sweeter! Madam SS started sending me Mr Biggs and cold water every other day. She spoke highly of me to every teacher in the staff room and fanned my ego till the thing caught pneumonia.

Truth be told, I wasn’t going to do a thing to her daughter but Madam SS didn’t need to know that. Revenge is sweet gan!!!



Messing…For Those Who Know!

I’m not sure where I learnt how to mess because it wasn’t something we did at home or at my primary school. All I know is that somewhere between my front door and the school gates, someone taught me.  It was a game of sorts where you and your opponent would trade messes a.k.a. insults. The winner was the person who delivered the most messes that ‘entered.’ My opponent was usually my friend Dockus and our messing always ended in World War III. Our parents were friends and we lived 5 minutes apart so we saw a lot of each other. He was one of my best friends and my guaranteed play mate but there was no way we could be in the same space for more than ten minutes without fighting. He was a lot bigger than I was but I was the David to his Goliath…he defeated everyone else but he never defeated me.

MEE to Dockus: Let’s mess each other.

Dockus: Okay, you start.

MEE: You shit two shit two of them resemble you.

Dockus: With your tun tun belle like seven o’clock news.

MEE: With you four corner head like Agege bread.

Dockus: You mess all the fishes for river Niger say are we safe?!

MEE: You mess four akara form voltron.

Dockus: Erm, erm…

MEE: I’m not playing again jo, you’re too slow.

Dockus: No now, let’s play. Or are you afraid?

MEE: Afraid of what? Hiss. With your black nyash like devil bible.

Dockus: Ha ha, I’m light so my nyash cannnot black.

MEE: Ode, who told you that it has to make sense? Instead of you to say you don’t know what to say you’re talking nonsense. Kuli kuli attack your village,nobody survive. Mess your own back now let me hear you!

Dockus: You mess for church, Jesus statue cover him nose.

MEE: You mess Babangida repeat primary four.

Dockus: Mumu, who told you Babangida went to primary school?!

MEE: Shut up jo, ITK. How do you know he didn’t go. Where you there?

Dockus: I send you buy cold mineral, you ask for bottle wey dey sweat.

MEE: You siddon for ten kobo, your leg no reach ground.

Dockus: But I’m taller than you sha.

MEE: You’re so annoying please get out jo and go home.

Dockus: Look who is talking! You too get out, with your punk, Mike Tyson!

MEE: Is it me you’re calling Mike Tyson? Is it me you’re calling Mike Tyson?

Dockus: Yes! What can you do?!

A lot as he came to discover when I beat him to a pulp. It took the joint efforts of Aunts A and P to drag me off him. I was ready to send him to his grave. Nobody insulted my punk and got away with it, NO ONE!!!





NB: Pic is copyright of