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.

Symphony of Confusion by Osowe Olugbenga (@gbengaosowe)



Hysterical laughter from the throats of elders,


The cacophony of voices of their children,

Anger’s children,

Coherently incoherent in speech,

And consistently inconsistent

In their convictions,

Daggers drawn, bellies receiving

Harpoons set, jugulars endangering

Swords of words subversively delivered

Facts distorted,

Truth corrupted,



Harmonized guffaws,

From the ones who enslave us,

Our confusion, their joy

Our fights and battles, their entertainment,

Children of anger they call us

Spawns of confusion we truly are,

Mutual hatred and bile


Birthed in ignorance,

Fuelled by arrogance

And pride,

Not for motherland

It’s all about our bruised egos

Symphony of confusion

Cacophony of opinions

Common sense takes the back seat,

Conversations driven by arrogance

Shhhhhh…. Do not disturb

Mudslinging in progress

In robes of dirt we all now dress

Hurling insults,

Trading blames,

Cacophony of thoughts

Symphony of distortion

Accusations and Rebuttals

Energy dissipating

Nation building ignoring

Peace still elusive

Now the looters stay looting

Youths one another keep abusing

We against we, divided

By our egos and opinions

They amongst them

United in dishonour

Laughing and mocking,

Plundering and pillaging

Their mirth, a harmony

Our voices, a symphony of confusion

She by Aje Mofifunoluwa (@rossymorph)



Flowing with milk and honey
Yet her tits are dry like a virgin’s
Giant they address her
Yet like ant she works
They call her home
Yet they run away from her
Still they say “no place like home”
Her colour signifies growth
But in corruption and deceits she grows, births and swims
Peace, again, her colour
Yet war is the order of the day
Unity her logo
Yet battles with ethnicity rivalry
Her children are as helpless as the okra tree prone to the wave of the wind
Yet the leaders among the children are as solid as the orange tree
With their calabashish stomach wanting to get bigger
She is weak
She is in pain
She is suffering
She is dying
Her strength is gone
Her eyes are filled with unshed tears
She wants to be like other mothers
Welcoming her children back home with big loving arms
Children come back home
She awaits you like one waiting for her lover.

BOUND FREEDOM by Mofifunoluwa Aje (@rossymorph)



Freedom without progress
Liberty without achievement
Free on the surface, bound in the mind
Radiant faces, shallow thinking
Surrounded with wealth yet poor
Talents lie fallow, still, searching for whom to do what
Spinning in tangibility yet looking for irrelevances
Diamond folded at hand, but passionately searching for decayed wood
Opportunities fly around but seriously blind to it
Free, yet can’t stand
Freedom, no productivity
Freedom yet still bound


The writer is on twitter as @rossymorph

Murphy and Lawrence. You and I (poetry) by ‘Lanre Bucknor (@lordrooz)

What’s in this life?
A life of strife
A life of thrive
A life trapped in the wilderness of crime

What’s in this life?
A life of greed
Full of lost creeds
A life we yearn more than live to be free

What’s in this life?
A life of insincere hajj
Of unreal mirage
A life full of null but a writer’s dirge

What’s in this life?
A life of toil
And hatred in gold foil
Where humanity kills, for nothing but oil

What’s in this life?
Where scores have goals
And all have foes
Marc, vivien and i have foe

What’s in this life?
Where we grow to age
And all live to die
Like Lawrence, Murphy, Like you and I

What’s in this life?
Question so simple
Yet, a question so hard
A question answered, not by these few lines

‘Lanre Bucknor
A learner in life and poetry.
I am @lordrooz

For Marc- Vivien Foe, For Professor Kofi Awoonor, For S. A. Bucknor, For all great men gone and for all of we living corpse.

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.

TWIN-OBITS- FOR COMMON SENSE&CAUTION BY (@gbengaosowe & @il_duce)


Adieu Common-Sense – Osowe Oluwagbenga @gbengaosowe


Common sense is dead and gone to the grave

Ooh, aah, gone to the grave

We went to the burial and said #OMaseO

Ooh, aah, and said #OMaseO

It’s buried in iPads and tablets, living no more

Ooh, aah, living no more

A #hashtag is all we need for making news trend

Ooh, aah, making news trend

It matters not to us if the news is true or false

Ooh, aah, is true or false

We’ve chosen ignorance though Google is our friend

Ooh, aah, Google is our friend

A little research to know the truth, but no, we won’t do

Ooh, aah, no, we won’t do

The words of an Overlord supercedes research

Ooh, aah, supercedes research

The juicier the merrier, so let’s spread fast-fast

Ooh, aah, let’s spread fast-fast

The elders laugh at us, and called us bad names

Ooh, aah, no, called us bad names

Like collective children of anger, and so on and so forth

Ooh, aah, so on and so forth

I thought about their words and lo it was true

Ooh, aah, lo it was true

Anger and emotion drives us much more than reason

Ooh, aah, more than reason

We fight ourselves and take sides based on half-truths

Ooh, aah, based on half truths

Common sense is dead, it died in our hands

        RIP CAUTION – Kayode Faniyi @il__duce


Old Caution is dead; he slunk to his grave

Ooh-aah, slunk to his grave

He died of neglect; lonely to the death

Ooh-aah, lonely to the death

Digestion we interred too for the AfterLife

Ooh-aah, for the AfterLife

Loyal horseman dear slow Digestion was

Ooh-aah, dear slow Digestion was

Along came Overlords to rest him in piss

Ooh-aah, rest him in piss

Some squatting, some upright; all soaked him in…damn

Ooh-aah, soaked him in…damn

And quickly like lightning tweety flock followed

Ooh-aah, tweety flock followed

With wisecracking hashtags, tweety flock followed

Ooh-aah, tweety flock followed

In vain an end to Caution’s plight we pleaded

Ooh-aah, plight we pleaded

But natt’ring and twitt’ring they paid us scant heed

Ooh-aah, paid us scant heed

To Folly’s, Caution’s arch-foe they pandered instead

Ooh-aah, they pandered instead

Good Caution is dead; you pushed him to die

Ooh-aah, you pushed him to die

 photo credits:google images

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