He has a Side Chick……


Side Chick, Mistress, The other woman; She is that girl who shares your man or worse enjoys your man more than you do. . She is the one your man pings early in the morning just to tell her “Good Morning Beautiful”. When he is with her, he is this cool guy who knows all the cool joints in town, they both sing along to Dorobucci on the radio. She is the one he takes along when he goes on business trips. It is just more convenient, she doesn’t have to think of who to leave her children with, besides she is more fun, she is the one he does acrobatic sex with, the girl who has enough time and energy to match his libido. You on the other hand are the wife, the one he has “married sex” with – the ” flam-bam-bam-yawn-are we done yet” type.

Yes he comes home to you every night but how is that going? Does he still hold you close to him every night, do you guys still play and fight under covers or does he turn his back to you and acts like he is too deep asleep to notice you have been tapping him. Yes he still buys you stuff, bags, perfumes, dresses and stuff, that’s if you are lucky though but then he buys them to ease his conscience after he and the side chick has spent a whole day shopping or worse. If the side chick is the “nice” type, she makes him buy them for you. She goes “Baby, This perfume is nice, your wife will like it”, “She doesn’t need it.” he responds frowning because he is a bit uncomfortable his mistress is picking a gift for his wife but she prevails on him.

But then I have news for you, this side chick, she usually doesn’t want to take your place, She has a boyfriend or even a fiance and so has no desire to chase you away. No, it’s only learners that operate that way. The wise side chicks are comfortable being just that, they even add you as a friend on Facebook, and they follow you on Twitter (Trust me, you most of the time don’t know they are your rival). They like the pictures of your cherub faced children, when you post your hubby’s photo captioning it as world’s best husband and gushing about how you love him to bits. They comment on it, they go “Awww, I covet”. (Yes they really covet and errr, they are already getting the better deal).

Some will even buy presents for your kids on their birthdays. You may or may not know the gifts are from them, it all depends on how far gone your husband is in this game. He could act like he got the gift himself or tell you its from this friend or colleague of his; Mrs Lagbaja  she really likes the child as he is her son’s birthday mate. You even tell him to call so you can say thanks. Of course the Mrs Lagbaja or Mummy Tamedun is to make you not suspect. Saying Lara or Jennifer my friend wouldn’t have sounded so good.

It’s not like you are totally clueless, some days you ask yourself how come he no longer comments on your hairdo, other days you wonder why he seemed to be impatient or downright mean. It’s Saturday you need to cook three different soups so you could stock the freezer for the week, the floors need to be mopped, the bathrooms cleaned and yes you need to get to the market, not forgetting that you have to take Sisi to her ballet class and Bobo to his Violin lessons. Come evening, you are dog tired and depressed that you have just one more day in the weekend. You smell of Onion, Garlic, Breast milk and baby reflux. You need a hug, you go to dear husband in the Bedroom.

“I am so tired” you say. That’s an opening. You expect to hear “pele baby, why don’t you come lie down here for a while” Instead you hear “What’s that smell?” It’s so horrible, can’t you use a glove or something if you need to cut Garlic or Onions? jeez you can be so annoying.” You have an angry retort on your lips and if you are the no nonsense type, you let off, you give him a piece of your mind, “yada, yada yada”.

Finally your suspicions get the better of you. “I need to know”, you say, so you wait till he is fast asleep and pick his phone to check through (Meanwhile women who want to keep their sanity will not do this no matter the temptation). Your heart rate is 360 beats per minute, yet you can’t stop yourself. You go ahead and boom you get more than you bargained for. Not only is there a side chick, but they are so damn close, he discusses everything with her, he even tells her how much he hates seeing fishnet on your head, he tells her when your six month old had her first teeth, you wince when you read how he tells her he is preparing for work and she goes “Baby be careful o, don’t injure Big Joe with your zipper again, ayam not ready to starve for a week again o”.

You almost had a heart attack. Big Joe? That has to be his ….. “OMG, starve for a week, how often do they do it?” you thought fighting a sudden desire to go stab him to death. But wait oooo, when did he injure Big Joe that you his wife did not know? You check the date of the chat, it was about a week ago and that was when it dawned on you, “won ti gba oko mi” you murmur. “Yeh. I am a housekeeper and mother of his children. This lady is the wife.” Suddenly, it’s clear, you run your fingers through your hair trying to remember the last time you made love or the last time you even had a glimpse of his equipment – “Big Joe”. “O ti pe mehn!” You mumble. You had not made love in over 8 weeks and neither of you had missed it. As for Big Joe, it must be close to a year you saw it last. Lovemaking sorry “meeting your husband” became a middle of the night thing after your second child, no foreplay (ki lonjebe), he just runs his hand over your breasts and you get the message, you spread your legs , he climbs on you and it starts, you feel nothing abi small sha, you are just too fagged out.

It hurts but what can be done? You think of giving him a giving him a big slap on the back to rouse him and demand explanations, but you realize you don’t want that confrontation. Tell Mama? Oh no, you don’t want to do that. No third parties remember. Then you remember someone who wouldn’t tell anybody else; Google! You open the Google search and type “He is cheating, what to do”. There is so much information. Wow!” You say feeling some relief that it’s not just you. Millions of women are in your shoes, there is so much advice to choose from but in the end, it is you who decide on what to do.

First you reply the last message she sent to your husband. It came in after he slept so unread. She tells him to dream of her as she will of him. She says she would be expecting him by 11.am the next day. You reply her “He sure would dream of you darling. However please don’t expect him by 11 tomorrow, he might be late. He has an errand to run for his wife at that same time. Have a nice night dearie.” Your teeth is clenched as you type, yet you derive some satisfaction. This way he will know you know.

So what next? Its morning and you wait for him to say something, you wait to see if he will confront you, but he says nothing. You watch out of the corner of your eyes as he watches you when he thinks you are too preoccupied to notice. Its 10 a.m and he is yet to yake his bath.10.30 am and still he is on the bed. You don’t offer him food even though you made his own portion. You wait till 11 am and tells him you need to talk to him. He doesn’t respond so you start anyway. You talk about how things had to change, that you need to shed and or share some responsibilities. Henceforth, ballet practice and Violin practice will be his call. Yes, he thought house helps were unnecessary but you need one and intend to get right away, this person will resume at 7am everyday and close at 7pm.  Friday nights would be date nights, you two alone anywhere but the house. You intend to go on summer vacation, Seychelles to be precise and he would be coming along. He listens to everything you say and at the end he says. “I am ready to do all you want”. I am sorry Babe”. But you say nothing.

Baby Poop, Perineum and other Motherhood Things


Motherhood is work and errrr fun. I have had ssome really cool experiences and I have learnt more than I imagined I would. Will like to share some.



It’s not always malaria when it feels like Malaria. I remember being quite sure I had malaria, getting an anti malaria drug and then quite characteristic of me developing cold feet about using the drug. I also remember Hubby diagnosing every ailment possible except for pregnancy. A week later, I was glad I didn’t use the drug.


The mirror can actually be your best friend or your worst enemy. Second trimester I was glowing, loving my skin and full hair and enjoying the comments of “pregnancy suits you”. Too late I realized I should have done a pregnancy photo shoot then because fast forward to third trimester I was looking like a Whale, carrying an extra 16kg around, a face that could scare children and discovering that getting out of bed or off a chair can be an event. And of course I avoided anything that could show my reflection.
Interesting thing is most of the weight is gone now, it went so fast it felt like I slept one night and woke up the next morning several kilograms lighter.


That my shoe size will increase from 37 to 39!! How come nobody ever mentioned that? Thankfully though I have my feet back.


That Pregnancy adds some weird words to your vocabulary. I now know some interesting words. Words I never imagined existed. Stuff like; Meconium which by the way is a fancy name for baby’s first poop (that black gelly stuff that looks like tar), Lanugo,Lochia,LineaNigra,Striae,Apgar,Apnea,Eclampsia,Episiotomy,Perineum,Vernix,Fundus and other really outlandish words.


Nollywood’s motto should be “mis informing the public since 19 gbogboro while that of Google should be “Best friend ever”. We all know that in Nigerian movies, the sign someone is about to give birth is the person suddenly doubles over in pain screaming about how her back and limbs no longer belong to her. Trust me reality is not that sudden, chances are you would mistake the initial pain for something else.


Love at first hearing is also real. I always imagined my baby would be placed in my arms immediately after birth and looking at him we would have this moment of “my sweetie, my love” with tears dripping down my eyes. In reality though, it went like this; I was lying there knowing my baby was out and wondering why I couldn’t hear him crying. I started asking why he wasn’t crying and everyone burst into laughter wondering how I couldn’t hear his cries which was threatening to bring the roof down. And then I heard it as soon as they said it. What I felt at the sound of his voice cannot be described, all I know was I was murmuring “My baby, My Love, please let me see him”


That the protective instinct would be immediate.
Seeing my baby placed beside me, the only thing I could think of apart from how beautiful he looked was how risky it was to place an infant on a bed which had no railings, beside a mother who couldn’t stand up to save herself. I placed an arm around my baby and ignored the nurses trying to tell me that “Newborns don’t move”

I was vindicated when I woke up to find my baby had somehow managed to curl himself up into a ball and moved his head to place his cheeks on my shoulders, I wanted to scream “Where is that shediot who said newborns don’t move”? but instead tears welled in my eyes at the sweetness of it.


That my breasts are actually connected to my brain.
I mean who knew? That seeing my baby burrowing his cheeks against my chest or hearing him cry will make breast milk to start dripping all over my dress.


That someone could give you sleepless nights and you would still think they are the best ever. Since my baby arrived I have hardly slept a cumulative of three hours a night. But I found it easy to look on the bright side and have found delight in maximising our Dstv subscription. Who knew they showed really cool movies between 1 a.m and 5 a.m.


That I could compose songs; My list of composed songs grow every day, everything from turning my baby’s names into a rhyme to making a song about an event as gross as my baby doing the poop.

That it would be so easy to forget the pain, it’s barely six weeks after and I can’t remember how the different kinds of pain felt like. Looking back, it looks like it wasn’t all that bad.

And then these two really weird things;
1. That I will be such an expert on baby poop. I actually Googled and committed to memory the different colours, textures and look of baby poop for every stage of development in the first year. Each diaper change sees me examining my baby poop to ascertain everything is fine. Gross shey?

2. Baby can somehow tell when Mama is eating. Every time I eat my baby cries for food, he even wakes up if he is sleeping. It sounds farfetched but it has happened too often to be just a coincidence.

Baby Simone……by Anjola Olukoga




This was written by a friend who claims not to be a writer but was inspired by the life growing inside her.

I hope this makes you go “Awwwww”….as it made me.



………Baby Simone

Science calls you a foetus but I call you “my baby”. I call you Simone.

You are no foetus,you are a human being but they don’t know.

How can they? When they don’t feel what I feel.


………Baby Simone

A rumbling in my tummy……not hunger,not worms its Simone playing in her Duplex.

I lift my dress for a view when no one is looking and my face beam with joy at the sight of my stomach making waves like the Ocean.

I look around for who to share this awesome wonder with and realize its our secret. Baby Simone’s and mine.

The only other person who gets a sneak peek to our world is daddy but even he does not know the half of it. Only what Simone chooses to reveal when daddy is rubbing mummy’s tummy.


………..Baby Simone

A push against my stomach wall after hours of calm,a sight of one part of my stomach suddenly engorged than the others….
And I smile realizing Simone is awake and ready to play.
Its amazing how even in the womb, I know her waking and sleeping hours.
A wonder that my sleeping and resting time is Simone’s favorite playing time.
Her movements are rattling and beautiful at the same time and I wonder how much longer before I can hold this lithe being in my arms.
Its a privilege, a blessing to house this growing wonder in my body.
A beautiful privilege.
I am truly wonderfully and fearfully made.


……..Baby Simone
Why can I tell that you are so beautiful?

Perhaps because your movements are so graceful,firm,purposeful and yet strong.

My baby,you have a way of telling me

“mummy slow down I want us to rest”

You just start tapping my cervix with your legs or do you use your head?
I know you are beautiful ‘cos I dream of you all the time and ‘cos you have also made me beautiful.
I have never looked better;
A Ripe body,glowing skin,fuller breasts,bigger backside,fuller hair,a massive stomach that keeps everyone guessing whether I am carrying two or three.
But I know its just you Simone.

I don’t know the day, but I know someday soon you will be in my arms.

That day I will cover your cute face with kisses and release you only so daddy could hold his darling.

From that day;
I promise to be your angel here on earth.
I promise to teach you the way of God.
I promise to love you with all of me.
My beautiful baby. You are a masterpiece,fashioned by the greatest sculptor of all times.
And my body was chosen to house you!
What a wonder.
I am indeed fearfully and wonderfully made and so is my baby Simone.

Freedom: Little mercies we take for granted. By ‘Lanre Bucknor (@lordrooz)




“Alaye, je kin ma ba e lo ago e yen lo” (hommie, please hand down your wristwatch)

“Where I sabi you sef, look me well chief, you no remember my face?”

“Chairman, anything you have, just help your guy”

Freedom, is one virtue most humans take for granted. Freedom is a thing we hardly ever give God the glory for.

On so many occasions, one has been in prisons and you would be amazed at the lowest forms of life a human could be subjected to.

I am one of those that have this ‘resentment’ or phobia for enclosed space hence, I am always very uncomfortable making those visits. I have once been to Ikoyi prisons on humanitarian visit some two years back and I was not only very depressed but also saw that it could just be anyone behind those high walls and metal bars. You’d hear stories that could melt heart etched out of stone.

I was part of a Muslim gathering of youth hence our trip did not afford us to go beyond the prison mosque. I actually was half expecting chains everywhere but No, not at all, the chains were more of psychological than physical, I see lines drawn with paints and nothing more to control the movement of grown men, a life of same routine with no cause for choice.
The prison mosque was well equipped for a standard mosque, clean pipe borne water supply, tiled floor and ablution base, functional public address system and even a television set to boot. The mosque, although small is well lit and ventilated.

While we got seated, ‘they’ started arriving in drones and you’d wonder how in the world some of those faces got into an ‘inmate’ situation, more handsome folks than one, well stocked young men and you’d have nothing but wonder.
Most of them look directly into your eyes and you’d be touched beyond measures.
As shy as I sometimes am, I rarely lose the ‘gaze war’ but on that occasion, I never won. It’s too much for one to hold.
Then, it was the turn of their leaders to address us and you’d be like, what is such a knowledgeable bunch doing here? How do these ones get here? Flawless English diction, well constructed sentences and references from the holy Qur’an and citation from the hadith; and I was dumbfounded beyond measure.

While observing my one year compulsory national service in Bida, Niger state, I have had cause to visit the prisons on a weekly basis, I had initially shelved going with the MCAN brothers but was left with no choice when saddled with the responsibilities of being the association’s spokesperson. Whenever we get into that facility, you can almost feel the jubilant mood in the air, the chants of ‘Mallam Yazo'(brothers/scholars have arrived) rents the air and as faint as it might seem, you’d see tingly glow in those eyes. Most of them do not understand English but we always have someone on hand who could speak Hausa or Nupe which they understand.
We give sermons and admonition, listen to the challenges they are facing with views to address same, teach how to read Arabic, the language the holy Qur’an was delivered in and we always leave with a promise to return the following week.
You’d be surprised, some of those folks have no one who drops by but live only to see strangers bring succor to them.

This year again, a day after the Eid-il-fitr celebrations, I was with the same gathering of Muslim youths (TEMY) on a visitation to the Ikoyi prisons once again. Some of those faces I saw on my first visit were still there, in those two years, I have graduated from college and concluded my national service.
I discovered the ‘mission board’’ (the imam and the other scholars running the affairs of the mosque) I have not seen before and I still wonder how those folks got in there. Delivery of their speeches, knowledge of the holy Qur’an and hadith was sky high. And their carriage if broken, was well managed.

This year’s visitation was less emotional for me, probably because they didn’t share stories that brought some of them in and partly because, its no more my first time in such facility.
While we were about leaving, some that didn’t make it to the mosque cluster around us some yards away soliciting for one thing or the other. A brother handed down his wristwatch and one wondered what an inmate wanted a wristwatch for. Some other brothers gave some other articles.
Almost all of us checked the little tag our freedom was tied to for the umpteenth time as we were about ‘regaining our freedom’.
Our bus driver in his benevolence handed out a couple of N500 notes to some inmates. He threw a N200 note a yard beside him and I saw three grown men scamper and almost got themselves injured. There and then, I appreciated freedom to operate my near empty bank accounts, the usefulness of a wristwatch, the meaning of psychological boundary, actual value of ‘change’ in my wallet left in the bus and the liberty to pen this piece on my bed in the little corner of my room.
        Alhamdulillah Rabbil al ameen.

‘Lanre Bucknor
A learner and grateful man, on twitter as @lordrooz.

What Her Body Needs By Tunji Andrews

WARNING: THIS IS RATED 18………………….It’s not for “shildren”. Even me I didn’t read it oooo, I closed my eyes while publishing.

The author was reluctant to publish this but was inspired to do so after last night’s No Holds Barred Interactive. #nhbi. If you are on twitter and you dont follow it every Wednesday at 9pm then you need a LASTMA uniform. See @amasonic for that.

Enjoy………………………and errrr learn. Especially the guys ……… the ladies seem to think some of  you’all need this lesson. Dont ask how I know there is a lesson. *grins*




 “Oh My God! Tunji, you’re killing me”, said the Fox in a hoarse whisper, as her voice modulated in an ecstatic symphony, like waves crashing over a seashore, the light from the scented candles revealing the deep yearnings within her eyes; exaggerating her sporadic spasms to my every touch, a testament to her body’s synchronisations with the movement of my hands. I could feel her heart racing behind her right bosom, as her lips released a gasp in response to mine nibbling past her navel, meeting an explosion as it convened with those between her thighs (lips); deep breath, moans, bodies convulsing under the intense fusion of sweaty bodies, every touch enhanced by the sweet tunes from my ipod in the corner of my room….American Dream’s Falsetto on repeat. 

Those blue suede heels attached firmly to that beautifully crafted naked body between my sheets, had me biting my lips and wondering what I had done right in a past life to have that all to myself; lips like cheese, butter milk-glowing skin bathed in scents of Escada, rising emotions swelling between my loins to a knowing that she was going wild to all I did…………………Moans, Screams, seizures and Orgasms after, and there was peace.

She lay in my arms, making slow near rhythmic movements, slightly gyrating her hips, obviously still experiencing after tremors of the earthquake just past. Her feeble attempts to stand excited me, noticing that her legs were shaky, control giving way as her body tried its best to reboot.

 Slightly out of breath, thinking of how to straddle to the kitchen to get some liquids my body now ached for, “How do you do it?” she asked, her question breaking my previous line of thought. “How do you know how my body needs to be touched? How do you time every move to perfection? It’s not just the fact that you do me right, it’s in how you answer every craving my body has.” The flattery was compelling, seducing my mind into believing that I indeed knew what her body wanted, knighting me with sexual chivalry, mounting the throne. It felt good coming from her, but needless to say I had heard these words many times before, sometimes in foreign languages; and thus I thought to pen down my thoughts on what I think her body needs.

Like a number of men, I used to believe that sex was in the looks. We emphasize the importance of the defensive and offensive strategies, and let’s not forget a pretty face as indicators for how great the sex would be. However, I have come to realise that looks count for little, especially in a dark room, and that the efficacy of the act itself is in its ability to transcend from the mind into the body. For her body to crave you, her mind has to want you first, for the sex to be great, it must happen first in her mind. I do not care if she is into you, bro, she has to be seduced, lured, made to ache for you, and made to imagine repeatedly what the feel of your hands on her delicate skin would be like. Noting that women are more word-oriented beings, it would help to craft your words to subtly drop hints on how you crave, yearn for and desire her; never forgetting that she is a deity and must be worshipped.

The act itself must be controlled; nothing turns a woman on more than a man who looks like he knows what he is doing. Every touch, light and slow, almost not touching her skin but with enough contact for her to know that you touched her. Patience is the key, her body does not get cranked up as fast as yours; so you must take your time and wait for it. Her bosoms look tempting, swelling under your gaze but, must only be teased and not touched until she aches for it, the torture, the waiting, the yearning will make her thank you afterwards. No two women are exactly alike, so great would be thy folly to assume Miss X would want what drives Miss Y wild, and thus, you must be like Mr Park and explore her river Niger, every crevice, every corner, taking note of those reactions, growing your list of erogenous zones to focus on.

Lastly, I’d say the key ingredient here would have to be the look in your eyes, practice it before a mirror if you must, but, she must see it in your eyes that you crave her; I am not speaking of lustfully glaring at her, I mean the intense craving of a woman that has taken your soul away; she has to see that she pleases you and that she can’t possibly go wrong with you, remember that the only way the sex would be great even for you is when its good for her, thus, put your back into it and carve your name into her memory for life.


image credit: google



My Mother ……. The Sunbeam by @sleekdami (Lights will guide you home)


So many words from so many people….
This woman just left here, talking about hoping my mom made heaven and how we should rally round my dad so he doesn’t go and carry all these jezebels around (she’s deeper life by the way)…..am angry…I should be…but then….why should I be angry with someone who has so little knowledge……my heart pleaded for mercy for the ignorant.
If there’s anyone who would make heaven, “twas” my mummy…..was I sure of even myself or people around….I would so no, I am not sure of any other person but my mummy.


She spoke of heaven as if she had been there, vivid imagination, as if she had picked out d colours of her rooms in her mansion in heaven.
She lived everyday like her last, truly she did….she was almost perfect I envied her…..never said anything wrong even we prodded her to give us gist (gossip) as her kids.. She would laugh and laugh and say “wo leave me jare “and if she had to let on….it was because she had a message to pass from it, not out of malice or contempt.

I can remember one day we had a party in church and she was in charge of food (naturally) and one woman came to her angry….”See na bone full dis meat”..and by then my mom was obviously tired of complaints and all plus d stress of pleasing a teeming crowd, she turned and said “Mama Sandra shey bone no dey your body?”…..and smiled…..End of discussion!

I remember that day, and we would laugh hard…what a response….you would be too embarrassed to complain after that….that was my mummy….
She knew of a business and would share with anyone who she knows needs that information regardless that profit to be gained would reduce, she did not care….that was her way of life.I miss you mummy………today is your service of songs…..I am smiling because I remember you singing hymns a lot….and now you are not here to sing with us…..
God bless you
Lights would guide you home!

TWO PEOPLE & ONE HAUSA MAN – @gbengaosowe & Naija Ethnocentrism by @toyinfab

TWO PEOPLE & ONE HAUSA MAN – Osowe Oluwagbenga @gbengaosowe



A sunny Wednesday afternoon,

Tired and spent, feeling weak and hungry

Boy though I was, I walked like a man who spent the whole day on the farm

Then I saw the crowd, and

Cursed with the curiosity of a cat, I moved

Towards the motley crowd of people at the junction

Fatigue from school work forgotten,

Pangs of hunger subdued by curiosity

I meandered my way through the crowd

Enduring shoves and pushes

I got to the front of the crowd

Then I saw

Gory images of

Human innards spilled on the road

Mashed human flesh on tar like

Freshly slaughtered meat at the abattoir

Spread for willing buyers

The Sun,

Shone on the pool of blood

The eerie sight produced,

Horrible and scary,

My young mind couldn’t fathom

What these ones had done

To deserve such horrible death at the hands

Of a maniac of a driver,

Besieged by young men,

His leviathan of a truck, laden with goods

Already singing in tongues of fire

Wooden parts charring

Acrid smell of burning tyre wafting into air

Then I heard

Horrible words, uttered

In response to the question,

“What happened here?”

The answer – “Na that trailer kill two people and 1 Hausa man”

My mind reeled at those words,

Could my Social studies teacher have been wrong?

Australoids, Mongoloids, Caucasoids, Negroids

Are all human, she said

So why the distinction between Hausa and humans? I wondered


It’s been many years from then and

Service to the fatherland bids me

Move to a faraway land for a national cause

Yet, my colleagues of Eastern extraction don’t see me as a fellow Nigerian,

To them, I was ofe nmanu, that Yoruba boy,

Oh! Never mind. It was a world of tit for tat,

I responded by calling them ajokutamamomi or nyamiri like my

Hausa friends do call them

All of us baking in the ignorant fun of such a wonderful irony,

Segregation thriving,

Yet NYSC is for National Integration.


This manager really wishes the job to be mine, but his hands are tied,

Good qualifications, vacant position

Sadly, it still can’t be mine

The boss’ directive zones the job to folks from his own clime,

If only a new certificate of origin were arranged for me,

The job would surely be mine,

If only I were a James Gregory, Monday Solomon

I could have claimed the boss’ tribe

Yet, this Yoruba name of mine is a snag,

So I kiss the job, bye bye.

Anytime I hear them speak, I cringe at the words of ethnic jingoists,

Spitting bunkum from their well-fed mouths,

With threats and pleas, they urge us,

To lay aside competence and choose our leaders based on tribe,

Yet, I blame them not, for therein lies our collective fault as a nation

We think in tribes, reasoning in ethnicity,

Our brothers can do no wrong, only those of other tribes can

Many a Yoruba man says Awolowo never did any wrong in his lifetime,

The Igbos venerate Azikiwe,

To the Hausas, the Sardauna is divine,

The controversy is raging, the country gradually disintegrating,

Yet we stay hating and crime is not abating,

Now I remember the words I heard many years ago when I was just but a child,

The scene of the accident playing in my mind like a tape on rewind,

The impact of those words, strong, yet so sublime

“What happened here?”

The answer – “Na that trailer kill two people and one Hausa man”

Tribalism, the bane of our times

                NAIJA ETHNOCENTRISM BY @toyinfab


Hausas “Mala”, “Gambari”, “Dadani” are dumb, they are bigots, they don’t think, they are disgusting; they spit saliva all over the place irrespective of their social or economic status.

Calabar people eat human beings; they are only good as house helps

Igbo people, “Omo Ina” “ajokutamamomi” are thieves, fraudsters and money ritualists. You must never employ them. They love money too much.

Yorubas “Ofe mmanu” are dirty, they are selfish, they can’t be trusted, they give their daughters out free of charge, Yoruba girls are promiscuous, and they don’t know how to cook.

Do those sentiments sound strange? I am sure we have all heard them at one time or the other.

I have heard all these so many times in the past, most times from people you would expect to know better. I think I can say I am yet to meet a completely detribalized person. Deny it all you will but you know it deep within your mind. You are also ethnocentric/tribalistic. (choose the one that sounds better to you).

Go to Linda Ikeji’s blog and read comments on some stories, you would feel like crying.

“Ayinde Kolade stabs wife to death” Comments will go like;

 Yoruba people! Tufiakwa! Evil people. And then you see counter comments; “You are crazy, stupid Igbo bastard.”


Another day it will be “Human heads found in Onitsha Hotel” and then you start seeing. “Mad Igbo people! Always looking for money by all means” and the counter comments follow.

I so believe we are not one and trust me we might never be. The other day in my office a discussion about Jonathan and 2015 was started by someone and the reactions were really interesting;

Yoruba Man: “Jonathan is useless, Obasanjo was better. If only he can come again.”

Efik Lady: “Never! Which kain Obasanjo? What did he do when he was there? Jonathan has done a lot and he will come in again and there is nothing you people can do about it. This is the first time a president is coming from our zone. It’s our turn.”

Me: “I don’t care about the tribe the winner comes from, I believe we are all Nigerians but I certainly don’t want to see Jonathan as my president again. I believe he has had enough time and he hasn’t used it well. We have had enough. Easterner, southerner or northerner, my take is let the best for us be president in 2015.”

Yoruba Man: “It’s Tambuwal/Fashola that we want.”

Efik Lady: “Which kain Fashola? God forbid!”

“And I will never vote for a Hausa man. They have been ruling us all the while. Are they the only ones?    It’s not like I’m tribalistic but we have had enough of Hausa people. They are the reason we are where we are today.”

Me: We need to stop pretending that this is not about tribe. We are all ethnocentric.

EfikLady: I am not a tribalistic person. Tribalism is when you favor your ethnic group over another.

Me: But that’s exactly what you did by saying you cannot vote for a Hausa man and that Jonathan has to be there because he is from your area.

The discussion went on and on. I kept shut after a while. There was no use talking, come 2015 a lot of people will still vote based on geographical reasons and not because they think the candidate is the right choice.

After that discussion I was furious for a while. The discussion reminded me of how backward we are in this country. It was a reminder of how I had to fight for the right to marry the man I love. I mean why should it be so hard? An educated man who claims to have travelled to several places in the world once told me he would never allow his child to marry a non Yoruba. It would be over his dead body.

In the last three years I have had to live with several ethnocentric and highly biased comments coming from all sorts of people, and the more shocking thing is these are educated people. People who go abroad for summer every year.

“You are marrying an Igbo man? Omo Ina?”

“Hope his mother is dead”

“You know they use their wives for money ritual?”

“Ha, Igbo? Just pray he doesn’t die before you”

“Didn’t you see any Yoruba boy?”

“Why would you betray your tribe like this?”

“Hope his Igbo is not the one across the Niger?”

“He will carry you away, we won’t see you again”

……..and the latest one; “Anambra? Ahhh, those ones use their mothers for money rituals; is his mother still alive?

In short, I have heard enough to last me a lifetime. I deal with it every day. Sometimes I wonder if it had been easier if I was marrying a Ghanaian. We are just messed up.

One Nigeria indeed.

May God help us.

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