Category Archives: Story For the gods

The time I was mistaken for a kidnapper

I left the office a few minutes later than I usually do, there had been a few mistakes in some of the contents I created and I had to fix them before leaving. 

As I stepped out of my office compound, I tried to hail down a keke that would take me to a junction from where I could easily walk home. A keke without passengers breezed by me, too fast for me to signal the driver, a second followed immediately after but I hailed down a third. 

I hurriedly entered and brushed my knee in the process, it sent a sharp but quick pain through my body. I thought to myself that if I were ever  in a keke accident, I would probably lose both my legs. Good thing God watches over me. The keke began moving and I plugged earphones in. 

The keke driver took a longer route, hoping he would find more passengers going to my stop, his gambled payed off when two men a few feet from each other both hailed us down. Despite the fact we were two at the back and not the usual three, one of the men opted to take the very uncomfortable front seat, which is essentially part of the drivers seat. 

The driver started moving again and in a few minutes a woman, on the other side of the road, hailed us down again. She was in a very dark green skirt suit, handbag in one hand and a polythene bag in the other. The driver yelled the direction he was going as he slowed down and the woman nodded in the affirmative.  

Initially, I was seating in the middle of the keke but I had scooted towards the right when we picked up the two men and since I was the one facing the other side of the road the natural thing for me to do was to scoot to the middle so the woman could enter. I decided to wait till she approached but instead of coming towards my side, she walked behind the keke and to the left. 

The guy sitting at the left was buff, his muscles weren’t huge, but he was tall and ripped enough to be intimidating even without his beard. So when he stepped out from the keke and motioned for the woman to go sit in the middle, she was taken aback. I could read the worry and cautiousness on her face, it was unmistakable. She took a step back and the man realising the impression he’d made offered to sit in the middle but it was too late. She walked towards the right side of the keke and then back across the road and signaled the driver to go. 

He yelled at her to come back, which wouldn’t have helped much anyway and when she ignored him he took off. 
I spent the rest of the keke ride trying to understand what was going on in this woman’s head? To be honest, I was wondering whether she thought I was a kidnapper, why didn’t she just come to my side of the keke to start with. Did I look that scary I wonder. 

It’s easy now to think about how suspicious four men in a keke motioning a woman to sit in the middle is. I’m probably sure she would be sharing the testimony of how God rescued her sometime soon. 

Advertisements

To: The Director, Country Allocation Department, Heaven

The Director,

Country Allocation Department,

33 Diamond Paved Street,

Abraham’s Bosom,

Heaven.

 

Dear Sir/Madam

I would like to formally complain as I believe with the strongest convictions that I was assigned to the wrong country and I would like to request for my country to be changed.

To be honest, it’s not like Nigeria is that bad. The country has some of the most intelligent, passionate and charismatic people to ever walk the face of the earth. The country also has so many natural resources and I am also aware that there are also worse places I could have been assigned to.

But Sir/Madam, I am very sure I was supposed to be assigned somewhere else. I suspect the angel that handled my allocation made a filing error. He was always easily distracted by his wings during the interview sessions, its not outrageous to say the same thing could have happened while he was filing my country placement.

This country is very odd. People just do things anyhow and get away with it. Our president has disappeared  and has decided not to talk to us. Some people say he’s doing Big Brother Nigeria and I am not saying that they’re correct but we do know that neither of them are in the country.

The citizens are also very weird. They voted a president almost two years ago, till today they are still fighting over who they voted. Talk about the pettiness. They treat each other like criminals, which makes sense since it’s a criminal offense to be poor and almost everyone is poor. The motto here is steal big or go home and wait for them to burn you with tire.

That’s how some South Africans have been beating up and killing Nigerians for no reason but Nigerians will still be giving MTN free money. Which makes no sense considering MTN is actually terrible. Then again, all the Telco’s are terrible. Nigeria takes that the turn the other cheek thing, that Moses said, too far. Every country just be slapping Nigeria on a steady. But can you blame them, we’re actually a problem and they are tired of us.

Someone once asked, what the Nigerian dream was and was told it is to go to the obodoyibo. That person wasn’t lying because till today even Aso Rock doesn’t have 24/7 electricity, not to talk of my fathers village in Imo state. Even last night, I slept and woke up sweating like a Christmas goat. I don’t know if Christmas goat’s  sweat but you get the point.

I am really just begging that at the very least you check my file to be sure I was assigned to the right country.

Thank you.

 

Pour Sugar On Me Lord! Sweeten My Life!

You get to church on a Sunday morning, ready and set for the word of God that will change your world. You have told God what you want from the service and you believe that whatever has been laid in the pastor’s heart will touch you.

It’s time for the sermon, and the pastor tells the congregation that there is a guest minister. You get excited, something different is definitely going to happen today. The minister mounts the pulpit, leads a short worship session, thanks the pastor for inviting him, says a little story of how they go way back and ends in a joke.

He begins to tell you how God wants to sweeten your life, how God wants to bless you. He tells you where you have been a tenant, God wants to make you a landlord, where you have been an employee, God wants to make you an employer of labour. He says all you have to do is perspire and aspire so that your desire will not expire, that if you can catch the revelation, there will be a manifestation and a demonstration of the answers to your benediction. He says you should just peep the future in the pages of scripture, so that you can picture in that future.

The minister is on a roll. He’s addressing the issues that concern you. Someone in the pew in front of you is already on his feet, shouting down the praises from heaven. He’s shouting, the pastor is shouting, you’re excited.

Then the minister brings out a pack of sugar from nowhere starts kabashing and pours it all over the altar. He whips open another one, unleashes the sugar on the altar and now the altar is covered with sugar as the pastor keeps saying:

God will sweeten your life

You get a little confused, but more people are shouting now. He tells the congregation, whoever believes in the word of the lord and wants an instant encounter, should rush forward, pick a cube of sugar and drop N17,020 in its place. The number, he says, represents the year 2017. You readjust in your seat and try to do the math. You’re still trying to do the math when a handful of people make their way to the altar, cash in hand, waiting for Gods goodies.

The pastor is re-energized. He goes on another round,

There are 22 people here, the lord is waiting for you to come forward.Come forward now, come forward now. The lord wants to make you a landlord. The lord wants everything in your life to be sweet. The good Lord wants to bless you!

The pastor tells the congregation that they can now come forward with N8,000. A few minutes later he’s down to N4,000. More people come forward and he goes down to N2,000. He begins to share short prayers with people who have come out, blessing them and reassuring them of the goody bag that’s waiting for them.

You readjust on your seat again and try to figure out when  you left church for a slow-mo reverse auction. You begin to wonder if anyone that dropped N17,020 may want to go and settle for to be land lord of a smaller house by exchanging it with N2,000. After all, landlords can charge anything.

Before you know it, the service is over. Everyone is all smiles and asking you how the service went. You say it’s glorious, but you’re deeply confused about what just happened. You make your way to the car, praying there’s light when you get home.

How Everyone in My Secondary School Gave Their Lives To Christ, 7 Colombs Style

I went to Faith Academy, it’s a very very christian secondary school and we had a lot of spiritual activities. In fact our general assembly was church + national anthem + announcements. On Sundays, services were at Faith Tabernacle and in the evenings we’d have another in school. We just called those evening services “spiro.”

During one spiro in Js2, if I remember correctly, our chaplain invited some students from the Covenant University chaplaincy. Spiro was usually an hour and a half, then we would go for dinner. That evening’s spiro went a a little longer than usual.

I remember sleeping throughout most of the sermon. Periodically, my sleep would be interrupted by someone crying or sobbing around me. I’d wake up and and look around for school prefects that wanted to catch people like me. I’d then assume a new sleeping position for maximum comfort. Normally, I never slept during school functions, but that day I did.

I remember properly waking up towards the end of the sermon. I could immediately tell that the preacher was describing hell. A few moments later, after all the sleep had cleared from my brain, I could tell he was talking about 7 people from Colombia who had a vision of hell. It now made sense why people were crying. It must have been a very emotional sermon.

Shortly after I’d processed the sermon, the CU Student/preacher asked everyone to stand up. I think we sang a few worship songs, I am not quite sure. He then asked everyone who wanted to give their lives to Christ to kneel down.

Faith Academy at the time was about 1,700 students. In a few minutes after the altar call was made, there weren’t up to a 100 people left standing. I’d never felt so tall in my entire life.

Don’t get it twisted, I’d done my fair share of repeatedly giving my life to Christ in my Js 1, ever since then I’ve been focused on building my faith no matter how much I stumbled and I have…alot.

I looked to the SS2 and SS3 sections of the hall and saw all my seniors kneeling down. Even the ones that used to lead prayers in school on a normal day. I was more confused than anything but I tried to focus on my own personal life right before I’d look towards SS1 side again.

After we left that service, even people that usually ran to the dinning hall, to get the serving spoons, so they could oppress everyone on their table, walked civilly. Well to be honest, some walked briskly, what can I say, the flesh is weak.

The atmosphere was so pious, peaceful and polite for the next two weeks. No one was getting angry, no one was being rude and if you even tried to complain, everyone would remind you of your newly found salvation by politely yelling  “7 Colombs!” at you. The title of the sermon was after all the 7 Colombian Youths. I hated it.

I hated it not because everyone was now saved, but because it was eerie. Seniors were now nicer-ish. They would ask for your milk, as against taking it by force. If you said no, they’d also 7 colombs you by reminding you that you’re born again and meant to love and share. Nobody made noise in class and everyone suddenly became serious with their academics, including FRIDAY NIGHTS!

Our teachers loved it. Some even tried to 7 colomb us. They had the best students in the world…for like two weeks. By the second week the 7 colombs power was beginning to fade and mahnnn did it fade.

Lets just say we went from this

2016081959pope_francis_prays_for_women

to this

b2a

And the Sunday after that, we went to the dinning hall like this

85241612_usainboltgetty

And the seniors were back to asking for milk like

1j4x29

 

 

 

 

Someone’s In The House 

I submitted this for a writing competition a few months ago and it didn’t get picked so I want your opinion on if it’s good or not. So please do me a favour (pretty please) and after reading it just rate it in the comments section.

5- Maaaad

4- Very good, could use a little more work (If you pick this, please do elaborate)

3- just there 

2- I don’t like it

1- Don’t pursue a career in writing (I promise not to cry)

(Kneels down and begs you to comment.)

Joyce runs from the kitchen, past the living room, and heads down the hallway into her Aunt’s bedroom and straight to the toilet. She bolts the door, stretches her legs as she backs the door so that her body acts as a barricade. “This cannot be happening”, she whispers to the toilet walls. “It can’t.” She suddenly remembers that her Aunt and her kid were in the living room. She didn’t warm them, how could she not have warned them. “I’m a terrible person”, she whispers again to the toilet walls. But it must be too late by now. 
Mary wonders why she just saw her chubby niece move with such speed. She gets up and makes her way towards the bedroom, where Joyce headed, when she sees someone struggling into the kitchen. 
Her adrenalin kicks in, her baby is a few feet away, she moves taking of her wrapper with one hand and grabbing Junior in another. Under normal circumstances she would have paused to appreciate her new found upper body strength, but this isn’t a normal circumstance. 
Nothing is normal about this. 

Someone is in her house and he’s standing just a few feet from her.
“Stop there!” The bass voice booms and echoes through her living room. It is as terrifying as the physique she turns around to see. The man is huge, clothed in pure black, his hands enveloped in gloves and his face shielded by a mask. 
“There’s money” she pleads. She clings tighter to Junior as he begins to cry. 
“Greetings from your husband” he says, the boom in his voice quickly followed by another from the gun. 
Mary feels herself drop Junior. Her legs don’t hold her and her body falls and everywhere goes dark.
The end.
Oya! Comment section! Fast! Don’t let God be angry with you for reading and not commenting. 
Are you interested in writing for UgoTalksAlot.com or do you want to advertise here? Mail us @ ugotalksalot@gmail.com. 

There’s a Rumble in My Tummy

Images are not mine.

I’m done with University exams. Well technically there’s still the matter of some courses that are about aptitude development but you get the picture.

Anyway, I’m happy because now I’d have more time to write, I’ve been really inconsistent of late and I want to apologise because it’s not in my nature.

Let’s go to the real reason I’m writing this. It’s a really long story but I’m going to cut out some parts. A few weeks ago I was in a meeting and really felt the need to use the toilet. Not the junior one, the senior one. Truthfully, by the way my stomach was aching me I guessed it was a really senior one.

I didn’t have much time because I had TTG (a course that’s a serious requirement for graduating in my school) as soon as my meeting ended. So I rushed to the toilet, cleaned it and really pimped the toilet seat like I was going to have some ceremony, because I’m not big on having some bumbum infection. Mind you I’m doing this frantically because the toilet waits for no man.

Finally I settle down and I’m expecting a loud banging sound followed by intense spluttering, like the kind in US movies where they throw a flash bang and exchange rapid fire. Instead I get complete radio silence. I’m sitting in the toilet doing my best male impression of a delivery room, I mean hands against the wall, pushing real hard and pleading the blood of Jesus under my breath and still nothing.

Eventually I get frustrated and leave the toilet, my stomach still indicating that it has great wealth to deposit. I end up using returning to the toilet and following the same routine up to 5 times in about 20 minutes. At this point I’m genuinely scared because the pain is getting unbearable, my right leg is slowly going numb and I’m wondering if this has anything to do with my appendix, which by the way hasn’t given me any problem, ever.

I ended up asking my friend Tokoni, to take me out of the TTG class to the health centre. When we get there, there’s only one doctor on call, they’re having slight difficulties finding my medical file, my stomach feels like it’s going to rupture and Tokoni who I brought to keep me company is dozing like a dead man. I suddenly remember he just got back from representing the school in the US and jet lag must still be chasing him. Also I keep wandering in and out of the toilet and I had lost count of the amount of times I’ve been in and out of the toilet without hearing the flash bangs and rapid gun fire.

Eventually the doctor does attend to me, he rubs my stomach and asks me where the pain is and I’m in so much pain I have no idea where it actually is. When I tell him the last time I ate, his initial diagnosis goes from food poisoning to constipation caused by intestinal blockage. I’m in too much pain to care right now.

He gives me a pain killer and a sedative and keeps me overnight for observation. Let me just say, I don’t know what was in that pain killer but I was on cloud 9! Problem was, in my euphoria I took off my wristwatch and couldn’t seem to put it back on. My fingers were doing their own thing. It was like using a rubber band to push something, I’d jab my hand against the watch and my fingers would just crumble.

Anyway, in a few hours I’m rudely awakened because the pain killer had worn off. Even worse there’s still no flash bang and rapid gun fire. By now I think an atomic bomb type explosion was more what I was needing in my middle belt.

A short while after this, the weirdest thing happens. The doctor comes and gives me a plastic bullet. I mean it looks like a real bullet except it’s translucent and soft. He says I should insert it in my anus. I wanted to tell the doctor that I needed bullets flying out of my butt, not bullets going in! Apparently, it’s a laxative.

Let me just pause and say that,

That thing was PAINFUL!

 And

I wish I took a picture of Princess of no Nation’s face when I told her about the bullet. Apparently she had heard of the fable of the plastic bullet.

Anywho, this is already becoming really long, the most important thing is I’m kind off fine now, it took just the bullet and two bottles of yoghourt to do the trick and I’ve probably used more tissue paper since January till now than I did in the entire 2015 but that’s another story that starts with Princess of no Nation diagnosing me with I.B.S (Irritable bowel syndrome).

The Consipracy Theorist’s Guide To Understanding Lagos Heat

Images are not mine and were stolen from Twitter 

  

Don’t be fooled by the weather reports, telling you the weather is 28° and that rain is predicted to fall tomorrow. Don’t let it get your hopes up because it is a set up. The weather is not 28° your sweat soaked shirt can tell you that, the hand fan you’re using inside your supposedly air conditioned office should tell you that.

I don’t need to tell you the weather is not normal, but I need to tell you that it’s the White people that are causing it because this heat is not made for Africa, Yes, the oyibos in their far away obodoyibo that is across the atlantic are the ones causing this heat in Lagos.

They are trying to melt us!

They’ve seen that fuel scarcity will only get us angry it won’t destroy us, they’ve seen that corrupt politicians just make us spend money or data bundles so we can Tweet and comment on Facebook. They have decided to completely exterminate us in a way that no one will suspect suspect them. Can’t you see it, it’s very obvious.

When the sun is facing us, they will increase the Suns temperature with their new technology that is like solar remote control. Can’t you see they’ve been testing it in China and India since. They want us to die from liquefaction. That is why they are now coming up with more excuses to send people to space, they are trying to reach the sun so that they can manipulate it from there to in case the solar remote control doesn’t work.

The obodoyibos don’t want us to progress they envy our resources and they want them without directly dealing with us so they have decided to remove us first.

But we won’t melt. As long as water runs from the showers and hand fans can still be bought…come NEPA come generator we will survive.

Clubbing & Other Social’s In Secondary School 

The biggest social event in my secondary school was always the Birthday Celebration. Once or twice every term, the school would throw a party for all students who’s birthdays were in the months that had passed or in the case of December babies like myself, the months that was to follow. Birthday celebration was huge in school, night prep got cancelled, the biggest and brightest stars in the school were also billed to perform as well as those that wanted to blow.

The very first thing you had to know as a junior student that was a celebrant was that, on that day, except you were exceptionally generous you had to hide and solowack (the scientific act of eating alone and eating in peace). Birthday celebrants always got chicken, and in school chicken wasn’t gold. It was the entire goldmine. Seniors would bully the chicken into you till you gave it to them like a coward bargaining for his life. The chicken wasn’t the biggest in the world, it wasn’t even big, but considering what boarding schools give as food, that chicken was heaven.

The chicken was the biggest thing that separated celebrants from the other students, that and the Mathset that celebrants were given as presents. As one who always turned everything in the Mathset into a ruler, never mind that the triangle things are set squares, those Mathsets meant a lot. I just wish I didn’t always get the fake ones. Oh wait, they were always fake. Still made great rulers though.

When the party starts the social prefects usually brought on the entertainment in order of how interesting they thought they would be. On a good birthday celebration, you’d get an amazing event, a whole album of new songs for all my female classmates to sing from that day till we vacated. On a bad day, we got a borefest. People would literally doze off as the singers went off key or the rap bars broke. On those days, break dancers were our only salvation.

When I was in the graduating class, my set wasn’t didn’t have the most prolific dance crew. What we had was rap. Two rival groups, one called The Factory Boys and the other, The Forrellis. I also suspected the Forrellis got their name from a GTA game and the factory boys because they were all in technical class and were initially an all boys crew.

Factory was the better crew, at least they were the more preferred crew. Added to that they gave us our very own Nicki Minaj, Dialo. Dialo would grab the mic when it was time for her to perform, get on the stage, spitting bars and using her tiny (but cute) fingers to give the Rap attitude.

Organising performances for the rappers took a lot of work. Often time, The Factory boys had to make plenty beats during the holidays, burn them on CD’s and smuggle them into school. This wasn’t an easy task but they were really committed to entertaining us. They would start rehearsing for birthday celebrations that hadn’t even gotten fixed dates yet.

While Factory and Forrellis battled it out on the stage, we would be on our seats, pouring libation on our souls with a drink called Good Time. Good Time was basically black currant flavour mixed with water and an impotency causing amount of sugar, put in a bottle and a poorly designed Good Time label slapped across.

If you think the drink was bad wait till you see how people misers drank it. The Celebration could end at 7pm and that 30CL bottle of Good Time would not finish till Sunday morning after church. Even worse, some people would embezzle the public Good Time and have about six bottles. But we weren’t bothered. The black currant gave us energy, it made us grove, we were as energetic as the Spartans after King Leonidas screamed “TONIGHT WE DINE IN HELL!” On good days, however we got Tampico. Never Coca-Cola or Fanta and I was always curious as to why.

As we got drunk and potentially impotent on Good time, there would always be a corresponding solid entry. Biscuit. I suspect this has played a major role in my sister’s dumbfounding love for biscuits of all kind. I’m not complaining, I’ve used it to bribe her so many times. The biscuits were a constantly changing trend. From Parle G to Beloxi to Coaster, we chewed the crunchy goodness out of them all.

Of course cake was supposed to be the main attraction. The problem…the size. Ushers would pass huge trays containing tons of cake, cut from as big as a quarter of a fist to as small as Maggi cube. The size of cake you got usually depended on what was left when the tray got to you. But who cared…we were eating cake. We gulped that thing like nobody’s business and were reenergised for the next few days.

The night usually ended with break dancing and a prayer. I remember once, a crew danced to a snippet of Lecrae’s Fanatic. I will never forget a very furious principal coming up to the stage to announce that break dancing had been banned. All she heard was the sings opening

“I’m a F-A-N-A-T-I-C”…but that was all she needed to hear. It took a while for dancing to be re-allowed and even longer time for a group of people wearing white to stop dancing to Diana Ross’s “He lives in you” and a song called Opomulero (I can’t remember the name of the group except it was Jesus something).

If you love any of the content on here and what to show your support, why not go here and vote for UgoTalksAlot as the CU College Week online Personality of the Year.

I Don’t Know What To Do With My Blog 

Sometimes I wish my blog had some sense of direction. I get asked a lot what my blog is about and my usual answer is “I just rant and write a lot of nonsense”. Yes,

people look at me like I’m a mad man.

Honestly, sometimes I wish I was a fashion blogger. I’d display my acumen of the latest trends, the best and worst colour combinations, get free stuff from established and upcoming fashion lines and most importantly walk around looking cool and stuff with a camera that’d probably go at a higher price than my bank account. It seems like they get all the fun. I’m actually envious. I just sit and stare at the keyboard or try to mentally compose blog posts in the bathroom. 

I was talking with one of my fashion blogger friends about how I didn’t know what to put up for Valentine’s Day. She told me she was in the same boat with me. How she was too discouraged to go and take pictures and upload. As she kept talking, I was sure we weren’t in the same boat. I had no idea what emotional, touchy-feeling thing to write and she was talking to me about picture. (Dear, that fashion blogger friend of mine, if you’re reading this…well…see…the thing is…ahh…never mind).

Maybe relationship blogging could work? Honestly, I’m not qualified to give relationship advice. I could possibly write on how to be single for long periods of time without trying to commit kill-my-self-iside. All my advice would backfire and I’d be branded as a fraud. So no! That’s a horrible idea.

I also think I could be a lifestyle blogger. I have a life, it has a style, I own a blog, no qualms. Then I’m reminded of the multifaceted boredom machine that’s my life. I hate leaving my bed, adventures make me crawl under the wrapper my grandmother sent me after Christmas. (Who has temperature for blanket in this heat). Worse of all, I hate surprises. If I ever had a surprise birthday I may probably storm out in anger…then come back to apologise. So basically my lifestyle blog would probably be very…very…uneventful.

But having a blog without direction isn’t all bad. It allows me invite writers with a wide range of talents from the regular crew of UgoTalksAlot, that’s Princess of no nation, Emma, Hadassah and Arinze who never actually writes anything to a whole library of occasional content contributors.

Anyways don’t get a heart attack or anything, I’m not going through a midlife crisis or anything…my blog just got snubbed for an award nomination is all (I got beat by Fashion bloggers…don’t you just hate them). I’m just joking. Well I did get nominated for Online personality of the year so, that’s good news.

Anyways, thank you to all my thousands of readers for reading, sharing and commenting on the badly spelt and punctuated nonsense I write, I can’t tell you how worthwhile you’ve made this for me. God bless you all in whatever you do to put food on the table.

Don’t forget to vote @UgoTalksAlot for the CU College Week 2016 Online Personality of the Year  

I Don’t Know What To Do With My Blog 

Sometimes I wish my blog had some sense of direction. I get asked a lot what my blog is about and my usual answer is “I just rant and write a lot of nonsense”. Yes,

people look at me like I’m a mad man.

Honestly, sometimes I wish I was a fashion blogger. I’d display my acumen of the latest trends, the best and worst colour combinations, get free stuff from established and upcoming fashion lines and most importantly walk around looking cool and stuff with a camera that’d probably go at a higher price than my bank account. It seems like they get all the fun.

I was talking with one of my fashion blogger friends about how I didn’t know what to put up for Valentine’s Day. She told me she was in the same boat with me. How she was too discouraged to go and take pictures and upload. As she kept talking, I was sure we weren’t in the same boat. I had no idea what emotional, touchy-feeling thing to write and she was talking to me about picture. (Dear, that fashion blogger friend of mine, if you’re reading this…well…see…the thing is…ahh…never mind).

Maybe relationship blogging could work? Honestly, I’m not qualified to give relationship advice. I could possibly write on how to be single for long periods of time without trying to commit kill-my-self-iside. All my advice would backfire and I’d be branded as a fraud. So no! That’s a horrible idea.

I also think I could be a lifestyle blogger. I have a life, it has a style, I own a blog, no qualms. Then I’m reminded of the multifaceted boredom machine that’s my life. I hate leaving my bed, adventures make me crawl under the wrapper my grandmother sent me after Christmas. (Who has temperature for blanket in this heat). Worse of all, I hate surprises. If I ever had a surprise birthday I may probably storm out in anger…then come back to apologise. So basically my lifestyle blog would probably be very…very…uneventful.

But having a blog without direction isn’t all bad. It allows me invite writers with a wide range of talents from the regular crew of UgoTalksAlot, that’s Princess of no nation, Emma, Hadassah and Arinze who never actually writes anything to a whole library of occasional content contributors.

Anyways don’t get a heart attack or anything, I’m not going through a midlife crisis or anything…my blog just got snubbed for an award nomination is all (I got beat by Fashion bloggers…don’t you just hate them). Well I did get nominated for Online personality of the year so, that’s good news.

Anyways, thank you to all my thousands of readers for reading, sharing and commenting on the badly spelt and punctuated nonsense I write, I can’t tell you how worthwhile you’ve made this for me. God bless you all in whatever you do to put food on the table.

Don’t forget to vote @UgoTalksAlot for the CU College Week 2016 Online Personality of the Year