This stuff we call “LOVE”

I’m what you would call a natural overthinker and over planner. If I want to get something done, I’m rather precise. I’ll gather all the available information and strategize using my personal algorithm (which is patent protected), taking into account the easiest and most convenient way, the benchmark outcome that would be regarded as successful as well as the potency of my wallet. If you’ve ever worked on a project with me, I’m sure we’re no longer friends because I annoyed the hell out of you.

So with all this information about my planning compulsion, you can imagine how terrifying life is for me.

When I was in secondary school, SS1, I made this plan for my life.
1) Don’t date in secondary school
2) Study International Relations
3) Date in my second year of university
4) Break up with him before my final year
5) Meet someone else and start a long term friendship leading to a relationship
6) Graduate
7) Masters
8) Marry before 26

The list is up 12 but I can’t be sharing too much, I don’t know you like that
Anyways, somewhere between numbers 4 and 5, my plans began to fall apart and I’ve not been able to get things in order. I was dreaming of some Hollywood best friends romance but I’m realizing now that I haven’t even known what love actually feels like yet.

So if you’re like me (I only speak for girls because I have no idea what guys have to deal with), you probably began to receive the “when you get to your husband’s house” talk from your final year. And the moment (I mean literally the moment) when you graduated, you mom would have said something along the lines of “Next thing I will be celebrating your wedding”. So I’ve had enough time to pity my single condition.

Oh I know what you’re thinking, this is probably one of those woe-is-me,I’m-single posts again. But you’re wrong. I’m going through phases of accepting that God is keeping me single to teach me about what love really is.

I’ll admit I’ve struggled for a while. Going from self loathing; Like what’s wrong with me, why does none want me, to projected hate for all them twitter couples, to transferring aggression to the male species, which I will opening admit now; are not 100% scum. Maybe like 98.99%.

But a thought has recently struck me and I really want to share it. Have you asked yourself, am I dating/ looking for a relationship for the right reasons? I don’t even mean marriage now. Like why do you want to be part of someone’s life. Why do you want to mean so much to someone. Do you even know what love is? Are you capable of love? Or are you just enjoying the moment and the feelings and the physical intimacy. Why do you do it? Are you loving right?

Is your love patient? Or kind? Is your love a giving love? Does your love put your partner above yourself? Does your love seek to make him/her happy and truly know him/her?

Or does your love take? Does it make demands or feel entitled?
Do you know how to love?
Does our generation ever even remember 1 Corinthians 13 as we carry on with our self interests?

Maybe I’m delirious because of loneliness. Or maybe I have too much time on my hands to think about this things. But I’m single, so I have the time to fix myself till the next emotional roller coaster ride comes along. And maybe I’ll learn how to do it right. This thing called love.


Know Someone Who’s Suicidal? Take Our Quiz To Find Out

First, we’re not medical experts, but considering the sad event of yesterday, we think it’s our responsibility to put out as much information on mental health as we can.

Incase you relocated to a the buttocks of a rock, a young doctor jumped off 3rd Mainland Bridge yesterday afternoon, and it’s left most of us in a very introspective and sober mood.

So here’s our poll.

Let’s be real

I’m done.

It’s over

I can’t do this anymore

Goodbye you scum.  See you never.

But baby, what’s wrong?  Tell me

Whatever it is I’ll fix it

Don’t leave me


I’m tired of your lies

I’m tired of your games

I’m done.  I’m leaving

And let’s be real here

You don’t deserve me


But I’m sorry

Darling I love you

I can’t be without you

I’ll change I mean it

Whatever it is I’ll do it


You’ll change?

Yes I will

You’ll get your life together ?

You’ll treat me with respect ?

You’ll put the alcoholism to rest?

You will?


Yes I will.

I’m done.  I’ll stop

Nothing is worth losing you

I love you

Don’t go


Well, now that you’ve put it that way

How could I not stay?

Unless of course, I’ve heard it all before

You worthless piece of shit

I’m not falling for it anymore

Let’s be real

You’ll never change

And I’ll be the one hurting

So I’m done

I’m leaving


It’s over

No baby please

I’m done

I’ll do anything

I’m leaving

Don’t go

Delete my number

Ada no…

Forget my name

I wish I’d never met you

But since I have, I’ll be real.

I know I’ll never be the same




Partly inspired by Toke Makinwa’s “On Becoming”

Do you still love me?

A letter of fear, shame & a tortured heart


Hey baby,

I’m sorry about last night. I love you too.  I want to spend the rest of my life with you.  I just panicked when I saw the ring.  I know you meant every word you said while you were down on one knee.  And I really truly feel those things too, I just freaked because I love you but I haven’t told you everything.

You see there’s this huge secret I’ve been keeping.  And as much as I want to be yours forever, it wouldn’t be fair to you if I said yes. You’ve loved me and all my baggage. I’ve always wanted to tell you. From the first day we kissed I wanted to tell you.  But I was scared that you wouldn’t want me.  I was scared that you would run.

Baby, the truth is I’m sick. And I have been for quite some time.  And it’s not curable; if you want me forever then you’re agreeing to deal with this forever.

It started when I was 12. One day at my school assembly, my legs buckled. I lost control of my body.  I lost control of my mind.  One moment I was standing at attention and singing the anthem, the next moment I’m rolling around in the dirt and scream and shaking and crying.  I lost consciousness that day but I never forgot it.

Moments later, I woke up in the sick bay and I had turned into a circus act. I opened my eyes and met many eyes staring at me. None of these eyes held worry, none of them held concern.  The nurses and the teachers and students, they all started at me with a mixture of fear and condemnation. That morning I had woken up a normal prepubescent happy healthy child, but by noon I was a freak.

The school authorities had me sent home. I tried to explain what happened to my parents.  But how could I put into words what I couldn’t understand?  For weeks after that day, I had tremors in my hands.  I had trouble breathing. Trouble sleeping. Trouble thinking.  I was afraid that I might have another episode and I was filled with anxiety trying to prevent it.  Trying to prevent something I didn’t understand the cause of.

My parents took to see doctor after doctor.  I took test upon test.  There was x-raying and blood taking .At one point I got hooked up this machine: the one they show in the movies where they stick wires in the head of the lunatic. I sat in my chair, with wires in my head, trying to remember what my mind was like before. Trying to trick the machine to believe I was well.

But yeah, that didn’t work.

They called it a seizure disorder. Epileptic seizure disorder.

My parents prayed and prayed. They called pastor after pastor. Hands layed on my head.  They shook me till my head nearly came off its socket. I kept having attack after attack.  Triggered by nothing at all.  Lasting sometimes as long as 30 minutes. Then after the attack was the after shock tremors and tossing in my sleep.

My life changed when I was 12, and really I haven’t recovered from that.

I never went back to that school again.

But still, I suffered this stigma.  No matter how many schools I went through, I’d have an episode and people would see me differently.  They’d whisper names like Ogbanje, witch, some said I was possessed. Once I had a crush on this guy and he embarrassed me in front of my class. He yelled “Don’t come near me, I don’t want that thing that you have ” and the class burst into fits of laughter.

In all honesty though, what scared me the most wasn’t what outsiders said. It was my parents. It was how they said “This thing is an attack from the devil and we will fight it” and they said I needed to have faith or I would never be healed. They refused to buy me medication for a very long time. The problem was me, I didn’t have enough faith. I didn’t pray hard enough. I didn’t mediate on healing scriptures well enough.  But I did. I prayed my heart out. Many times I’d be praying in church and I’d breakdown in tears. But somewhere along the line, I did accept it as my testimony. I would live with this thing and still succeed. And when I tell my story it would amaze the world.


As I grew older, something became less severe. It never went away though. Somewhere along the way, I was rediagnosed with an anxiety disorder.  They believed my condition had evolved somehow. It had become more predictable, more manageable. To be honest, I don’t believe Nigerian doctors. I still intend on having myself examined when I have money for specialist doctors.

So by my university years, I could feel an episode before it started and I would go and hide and wait till it passed. Few people ever saw me have an episode. But I carried my scars with me.

I told no one. And those who happened to see me, I gave explanations that would satisfy their curiosity but never the full story.

I found it hard to make any real connection with anyone.  My condition, it coloured all my friendships and all my relationships. So I stopped telling people and I’ve never wanted to tell anyone till I met you.  But I was afraid

So I told myself, I’d see if things got serious before I said anything. And even when things between us progressed as it did, I kept putting it off telling you.  Because I was afraid.

I AM afraid.

And I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you this. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.  I want to be yours forever.

I want to wake up to you everyday.

But I couldn’t say yes when I had this baggage I hadn’t shared.

I’m sorry baby. I’m so sorry.

Do you still want me?

Do you still love me?


Dedicated to all those who suffer silently. All those whose scars are invisible. You are not alone. And you will find happiness

And when the time comes, you scars won’t be signs of weaknesses.

Your scars will be your strength

A day with Chizoba

Based on true events, a story of childhood in Eastern Nigeria post-Biafra war


Aunty, Uncle Good afternoon oh

Afa’m bu *Zoba , I heard that you people are there complaining about “Change”, but you are enjoying oh!,  you don’t know.

Me, I am a boy, living in 1983 and I want to tell you people how life is.


Today is Thursday, so we awake up *na onu ututu to baff, clean our teeth with chewing stick and go to school.  Me and my 2 brothers and 3 sisters we all sleep in the same room. The big umaazi sleep on the bed but me I’m a small boy so, *na ana ka’m no. All of us, we rush and baff so we can get to school early before the assembly time.


What are we eating as morning food? Is that even a question? It’s same thing we ate yesterday night and in the afternoon and in the morning. And every day; 365 days a year *soso Sunday afternoon; Fufu!  And is not even that smooth white that one you people know; this one is black and they mix it with “chaff”.


So after the morning food we run *osiso to school.  With our 10 toes.

You see,*kitos are too expensive, only *umuaka ndi big men can buy kitos of N15. Sometimes, our big brother and sister can get kitos for Christmas. When it gets too small, they dash it to a smaller child. But by the time it reaches my turn,  the kito *e mebi go.  So I have never had my own kito.  But, I have plenty of slippers. It’s just that if I wear it to school, teacher will collect it and cut it in my very before.  They said “either you come to school in sandals or you come with your 10 toes”


I have my exercise books and my “slate” in my school bag.  Well, it’s not really a school bag, it’s one empty cement sack like this and *o di it is very strong oh. You people don’t know what you’re missing. Me that am in primary 3 and I’ve been using it since primary 1.


We close school between 1:30 and 2 o’clock. The sun is hot.  The ground is hot.  We don’t have  sleepers . So we *gba oso across the red sand, very very fast till we reach home. Then we fetch water from the well to cool our legs.


We are home without our parents; Mama is in the market and Papa is in the farm. Hungry catches us.  So our big sister goes to the backyard pick *nchu anwu leaves and pepper.  She pounds it inside a small mortar adds some “Agino moto” and that is the *ofe for our afternoon Fufu.  Sometimes if we are lucky, we will see lizard and catch it to eat with our soup.


In the night we eat together as a family.  Fufu.  But with better ofe.  Mama will cook ofe with vegetables. If we catch rat or snake, then we have meat for dinner. Mama will serve the food for us. 3 of us eat from one plate.  She put the fufu and the ofe without vegetables.  When Papa has finished eating, if he remains vegetable for us we eat.  If not then that’s it for the day.


Sometimes, a special day will come that mama will cook rice and stew. Actually not really stew, *nto nto tomato will be swimming inside groundnut oil. She will cook 3 cups of rice.  Papa eats one cup,  Mama eats one cup. Then the 6 of us umaazi share one.

Sometimes, mama will cook the rice, serve our own and hide the remaining one in her room so that she and papa can eat when he returns.  Me and the smaller ones, we would squeeze ourselves into her room though the window (even with the iron protector) and chop that rice.


But apart from those special days we eat rice on Sundays, after *uka.  I am from a royal family from my father’s side. My father’s brother is the king of our town. So on Sunday all the family members gather at the palace to eat jollof rice. Umaazi eat seperate from adults. And adults eat chicken. They say chicken is for adults that when we grow we will eat it.  But *nsobu a diro, Sunday after uka is still my favorite day because of Jollof rice.


So Aunty, Uncle, I just wanted to tell you, that even if you think that things are hard, some of us used to have it tougher. At least you people are enjoying toothpaste, and chicken and television and you have kito to wear to school. Things will get better. O ga di mma.

I know it is hard to believe but take it from me. I have spent my childhood in the gutter; I would rather be where you are, only standing at the edge.





  • Afa’m bu  means “my name is”
  • Zoba,full name; Chizoba means “God takes care/ will take care of us”
  • Onu ututu means “early in the morning” or literally “In the mouth of the morning”
  • Na ana ka’m no  means “I’m on the ground”
  • Soso means “only or excluding or except ”
  • Osiso means “quickly”
  • Kitos refer to a type of sandal
  • Umu aka ndi big men means “Big men’s children”
  • E mebi go means “It has spoiled”
  • O di means “It is”
  • Gba oso means “run”
  • Nchu anwu leaves  means “Scent leaves” or literally “Leaves that chase away mosquitoes”
  • Ofe means “Soup”
  • Nto nto means “small”
  • Uka means “Church”
  • Nsobu a diro means “There’s no problem”

When the sun goes down

I’ve always been afraid of the dark.

For no real reason.

I’m just a kid, all I do is play and laugh and cry when mom doesn’t give me what I want

But when the sun goes down I feel myself dim. And I don’t know why

Maybe it’s because of the long looming shadows the kerosene lantern makes

Maybe it’s because everyone’s eyes hold flames

Maybe it’s because men become faceless silhouettes

Or maybe it’s just because I can’t play outside anymore and what kind of world is that if I can’t play.

It’s just me and mama here. Papa left us.

I was just a little thing when he did. I don’t remember him

To me he looks like a man in the night.  Black and faceless.

But it’s just as well, good riddance!

He used to make mama cry

He used to make me cry

Whenever the sun went down

Mama and I are happy now

Both in the day and when the sun is down

She makes me learn new things from her books

She calls me to the kitchen as she cooks

She sings and hums as she sweeps

She let’s me play all day

Until the sun goes down

Today I did something strange

I’ll never ever do it again

I can’t

I won’t

I shall never be the same




In the morning I was outside with my friends

My girl friends and my boy friends

Then we started to argue about something

My boy friends were talking and they said lies

They said that the streets were freer at night

They said their mamas let them play outside

They said that one day they played in the stream at night

They said they saw people do things

Strange things like dancing in a vertical position

And the dance placed one on person on top of the other

They said they saw it once and they wanted to try

But it had to be done in pairs

But they were three

So they needed me

All my girl friends they said no

They said their mamas would say no

They said that the night was a scary place

That why did it have to be at night that the dance took place

But I am a dare devil.

And I only have mama and no pa

And I know how to make mama sleep very deeper

Maybe I could go and see

But I’ve always been afraid of the dark.

And for no real reason it seems.

Because my boy friends said there’s nothing to it

They said that I would get used to it

The longer you stay out when the sun goes down

The clearer the night becomes

So today I did something strange

And I will never ever do it again

And I shall never be the same

Because I did do the strange night vertical dance

And those boys are no more my friends

And it was not fun

And it hurt in places I’ve never hurt on

And I’ll always be afraid of the dark

Because of the long looming shadows

Because men’s eyes hold flames

Because men become faceless

Because men become beasts

When the sun goes down

Who cares for our babies?

As some of you may or may not be aware, I have been interning at UNHCR Headquarters. I’ve just concluded that internship and I can honestly say a lot of veils have been taken off for me.


My last few posts have been about getting the readers to laugh. But I’m not in the laughing mood this time. I’m just warning you ahead of time. In case you thought I was going to brighten up your day, I am not.


So I interned in UNHCR (the UN Refugee Agency) working with the staff on issues of SGBV (Sexual and Gender Based Violence) and the safeguarding and protection of refugee children. Causes that are so dear to my heart. About a week ago, I had the opportunity to attend the International Alternative Care Conference. Now “what is Alternative Care?” you ask. Let me explain simply.


What happens to a child when he/she is separated from their parent? What happens to a child when he/she is orphaned? What happens to a child when his/her primary caregivers are unfit or create an unsafe environment for the child? What happens when a child is forced into hard and harmful labour? Or in danger or being trafficked? Or is physically, psychologically or sexual abused in the home and by the parents who are supposed to keep them safe and shield them from the evil that is on earth?


As a country, we have systematically failed to take our children  into consideration. And as much as the country as a whole is hurting financially and we older children and adults are out and about hustling for ourselves, who cares for the children that have no one?


An entire agbalagba country can not create a public system for the orphaned and separated children. There’s no foster care system, talkless of having government funded orphanage homes. It is the obligation of the state (Nigeria)  to take care of those who cannot care for themselves and even much more these children.


And let’s be real here. When I say “these children”, it’s not like we don’t see them. They are everywhere. Begging on the street. Selling little things here and there. Washing your windows and spoiling your windshield wipers.Falling into all kinds of demeaning life choices

We see them everyday but no one ever talks about it. I’m sure if we check we’ll see that there are millions of “these children” everywhere


NGOs and private citizens try their possible best  but without any judicial support for children and in the absence of a government that has any sense or gives a rat’s ass about the rights of the child, it’s all a drop in the ocean.

And we, the great people of Nigeria, the “GIANT” of Africa, toss 50 naira at them so they can leave us alone and then they go to their ghetto homes and give the money to one adult in exchange for sub par shelter and garbage food. We are just a proud for nothing country. Empty barrel making noise. Ordinary Rwanda how many years after their civil war is making more headway in every aspect of life and we just dey here. Raising shoulders up and drinking crude oil that no one wants to buy and we ourselves can not afford


I mean, if we can’t take care of children, what’s the point of even praying for a better Nigeria? who will live in it?

My by-force husband

 This is the second part of a three-part series “The Ghost of Stalkers past”. So for those who for some reason didn’t start at the beginning of the series, here’s the link




This story I’m about to tell happened almost in the same time period as the Stalkmmanuel fiasco. It’s like that year I was emitting some sound at a frequency only audible to the ear of yeye males of the human species.

So what had happened was…


The church we used to attend at that time was a 2 minute walking distance from my house. I honestly miss that convenience every sunday since we moved from there.

So in my church at that time, when you turn 14 you graduate from the children’s church to youth church. So yes, I was a fresh graduate. I now used to go to seat in the youth section of “big church”. It was a great time to be alive.

As a new member of the youth, I started interacting with people almost twice my age. The youth church was from  age 14 till whenever you feel like joining the “Young men or young women” church. So yeah, as JJC, I did my part, look at everyone well so you know whether to greet someone “hi” or “good afternoon”.

So there was this particular “Good afternoon” level fellow.


Tell your neighbour “Good Afternoon”


When I was walking to church on Sunday mornings, I’d run into him also heading in the same direction. I’d greet him, we’d make some small talk, enter church and go our separate ways. After a while, he started doing some weird things that made me lock up. A little body contact here, a little invasive questioning there. At one point he started reprimanding me for always wearing trouser and not covering my hair. Mind you, this is not part of my church doctrine.

Sometimes after church he’d seek me out and try to strike up conversation or “Let me walk you to your gate”, all of which I politely declined.

This went on for a while, and honestly I thought nothing of it. My parents are one of those people in the church that everyone knows and by extension people in church know me. He wasn’t doing anything particularly off… well except the trouser thing. That was weird.


Now tell your neighbour  “On this bless-ed day”


On this blessed day, there was a Women’s meeting in church, my mother came home later than the rest of us. Next thing I know, she’s asking me all these questions. That do I know one Brother something. (I actually never knew his name and I don’t remember it now). Let’s call him Johnny.

So she’s asking, do you know bro. Johnny.
No I don’t

She then describes Uncle Good afternoon guy.

Ah yes, what happened to him?


Apparently, he had told a number of church members that he had spoken to my father and he will marry me.


Turn to your neighbour, say “Ah!”


Yes oh, Bro.Johnny have been spreading gist in the church that the agreement is that I should just finish secondary school first and then we will do the wedding. As a matter of fact that haven’t they noticed how he and I have been coming to church together and leaving together.

People of God! I was fourteen! This guy was probably in his 30s!

This one pass all those “God said you are my wife” guys oh.


So in the end, they did what everyone does to settle an issue among church members. They reported him to Pastor.


Somebody shout Hallalujah!


Unfortunately, Bro. Johnny was not evicted from the church. But the verdict given by our pastor was something similar to a restraining order.


He started coming late to church and then eventually left


Good riddance!!

Ghost of stalkers past

Due to popular demand (6 votes), I shall now bestow upon you all my stories of stalkers past. In a non-sequential order but rather in order of ickyness with of course the ickiest being the last (brace yourselves). I’ll try and make this a 3 part series for the next couple of weeks. As always, I hope you enjoy my woes


Part I: Neighbourhood watcher

The most annoying and least disturbing one happened half a decade ago. I had finally grow small breast and as such I begun attracting the attention of the street men of Lagos with their “Hello Diamond Princess “ greetings.

And so it happened that till SS2, my mother insisted that I take the school bus to school. Mind you, my school was a fair walking distance, N50 by keke , N100 by Okada but no, my mother chose to humiliate me in the prime pf my secondary school life.

I would  be sitting on my own in the bus and JS1 and 2 students would start talking to me as if we are guys and when we get to school they continued this their rubbish behaviour. Utter humiliation but I digress.

So anyways, taking the bus essentially meant you had a fairly predictable routine. Bus picks you up at a certain time and drops you off at a certain time everyday.

As I was enduring what we will call the “school bus fiasco”, some new neighbours moved into the block of flats beside our house and I used my big eyes to spy a particularly good looking young man amongst them. I was happy, but on a very lowkey because resting bitch-face never fails.

So this  young man’s name was Emmanuel, which I later found out. Stalkmmanuel. Too much?

One weekend like this, I was walking on my own from my friend’s house heading back home, Stalkmmanuel walks up to me and introduces himself and pulls the “I’m new around here, I hope we can be friends” card.  I was already eyeing him secretly and so normally I should have been happy but there was a problem.

His accent, guys! His accent!!! I mean, what? Falz who?

My brain was puking. I quickened my pace,  suddenly I needed to get home. Only for this boy to follow me to my gate basically harassing me for my “digits”.

I refused of course  and I swear I stood there refusing for close to 15 minutes. Remaining for him to follow me inside my Father’s house! He was really persisting.

So anyhow anyhow, I got into my house, believing I’d escaped. I get to my room and guess who is on the balcony of his house staring into my room


The next morning who is outside my gate when the school bus comes to get me?

Who is there when I get back from school?

Stalkmmanuel Stalkmmanuel!!!!

I swear to you this boy harassed me for weeks. Every morning and every evening. Standing at my gate asking for my number and blurting out stuff about himself. Like how he’s a dancer…

At some point he befriended my baby brother so he could find out stuff about me. He even found me on Facebook and kept sending “Hellos”.(This was where my dislike for Facebook started)  I swear I felt very unsafe.

But later on he went on some “Dance tour” and I never saw him again. And his Facebook hellos dwindled to a stop

Local Champion

This year has been one of the most uncertain of years. Many of my friends will understand.I mean, after going to school your whole life, 2016 comes and says “I will take out the ground from under you… careful, don’t fall” 

It was this year I realized I don’t have talent, the only thing I can do is read book and speak English and it’s not as if I am a first class student. But you know what I’ve always taken comfort in… I have always been sure that I am a fine girl. Not only that, but also I can pass for Oyibo.

Let me just say, my new name is Humble.

You need to understand, this is not my first time out of the country. It’s not even my first time travelling alone, but in my previous sojourns to obodo oyibo, I was carefully blanketed in this tight knit Nigerian community.

So now, I live by myself, go to work by myself and I’m surrounded by all these people from all these different places. You cannot imagine my culture shock. Sometimes I just want fold my arms and say “Chai!”


Quick side note;  I am very ashamed to say that out of the 4 random guys that have walked up to me to start unsolicited conversations on the road, 3 of them have been Nigerian. You people have no shame

So anyway, to my greatest disbelief, I have discovered that I am not oyibo. At aaaaallll.

You see, my nose maybe pointed, but it does not point in the same direction. I maybe skinny but my African assets are very distinguishable….If you know what I mean. My accent is not like Jenifa but they still squeeze their face when I talk. I may not be able to dance skelewu but to these people, I’m Usher.

I suffer from a serious case of confused identity. I belong to nobody.


Another great discovery, I’ve made is that as an “African”, I am meant to be a walking encyclopaedia of all things Africa.  Yes people, Africa is still a country and we all know each other. I mean, Mandela and my grandfather used to play Ayo together.

I have been asked “What’s the capital of Chad? “, “When will they bring back the girls?”, “Do you know Nana from Ghana?” and a slew of others. I have decided I will answer any future questions of this sort with every ounce of sarcasm I can muster.

That’s how two of my colleagues were discussing about living in Liberia and one of them asks me how much it would cost to rent an apartment in Monrovia.

Sister, is your suit alright?

Another thing that my home training is having a hard time adjusting to is going to work in the morning and greetings my mother’s age mate “Hi”. This one lady walks up to me and says “Oh My God, you look so much like my daughter!” So we get talking and then she proceeds to give me her card and says “Call me Mandy”. Not even Amanda. Every time I say her name, I imagine my mother giving me that look like “You will see when we get home”

But honestly, I can deal with all these things, if those were the only factors. But of course, there’s more.

It pains my heart that whenever someone invites me for a BBQ or something and the person is like I should bring food.


A couple of weeks ago, I was invited to this “Ghana” party. It was supposed to be live, with afrobeats music and food of course. That was the most important thing.  So it took  me 2 trams, one bus  plus a 15 minute walk to get to this thing.

My first shock was that the party was not on the road. But you know, it’s obodo oyibo, so I forgot that side. Then, as I was getting closer to the venue, I wasn’t hearing loud tungbatungba music and I was like warrisdis, I hope I have not miss road? I had to enter inside before I could hear any music. But that was no even the betrayal.

As soon as I landed there, I greet people, I’m like how far, where the food at? They point me to the place, plenty people where gathering and making noise. I was like mad mad…the food must be sweet. Only to get there, someone gave me menu, and I was seeing some magic things

Jollof Rice – 15 francs

Shitow  – 10 francs




Abeg, I carried my legs back to my house. When there is rice at home.