By the time you’re reading this post I would probably be the best underwater diver in history. This has absolutely nothing to do with water or swimming, but everything to do with my breath. I have even considering contesting at this year’s Rio Olympics. Do you think it is easy to hold your breath for three straight minutes? Yes you read that right.
Yesterday afternoon would be one of the most unforgettable of my life. All I wanted was to start using mobile banking. During my lunch break, I postponed my meal and dashed out to the nearest GTBank branch where I met a smartly dressed guy employee with an igbotic face. His dressing was on point. He wore pointed Italian shoes that probably cost as much as my wardrobe. His trousers were ironed with “geytours” so sharp they looked like they could slice through yam. His haircut was l. His shirt was so crisply starched, it just hung on him as if he was Jagaban! (He probably added water to the starch instead of starch to the water). He asked me to fill some forms and then download the app. He then walked around the table to activate it for me.
I held my phone as he punched in some codes for me. He stood beside me with his face was barely inches from mine.

“Sir, this is how to activa…”

He started to explain. For the next three minutes, I understood what it meant to “go to hell”. Yes the pit of hell. His breath smelled like something that crawled out of Kirikiri prison sewers.
I started to sweat and my eyes stung. After about a minute, my vision started to blur. I quickly gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself. In the process, my forms fell out of my hand.
He immediately bent to retrieve them for me and I saw my chance..

SWOOOOOSH!!, I drew a very deep breath. My eyes popped. I quickly took in more breaths.

” Sir, are you okay?” He asked as he stood, facing me. At this point, the damage was done. As he spoke the last words, I inhaled. My stomach turned.

“I’m fine…please..con..continue.” I managed.
He continued for the minute and a half!

“.. you can even transfer up to five hundred thousand naira”. He finished.
At this point my head was throbbing from lack of oxygen.

” Sir, let me show you how to pay your dstv bi..”
“Don’t worry, I can do it!” I almost shouted. i snatched my phone and quickly walked away, leaving my bewildered Igbo brother looking lost. I silently made a resolve to figure it out for myself. At this point I had developed a full blown “running” stomach.

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Rant of the Year

Posted: December 31, 2015 in Uncategorized

Rant.


Resolutions
Everyone is talking about 2015 2016 transition and making resolutions and sh*t. Hell, I don’t need a change of date to make resolutions. These resolutions happen to be important decisions like choosing to drop a bad habit or to imbibe a good one. It could be choosing to be on time, telling less lies, stop wanking, watching weight, be a better (or worse) human. etcetera. I think these so called “important decisions” work for some people. Mostly religious folks. As for the rest of us, Resolutions are just temporary change in behaviour we stick to for the first week of the year, maybe some might manage it for a month and then BAM! we wanking again.

I prefer to set goals, constrained by time. I could say hey, by march I want to look like Johnny bravo, and then hit the gym. No need to deceive ourselves, tomorrow is just another day. The only difference is the unusually excess protein dripping with hot vegetable oil. Dayum!

Friends
Before I get to the point, Huuuuuge shoutout to my real friends. Not just ex-classmates or people I happen to associate with on a daily basis. I’m talking hardcore Niggas (male and female) who have been a psychological backbone for me. A second family.
Friends whom I could go three months without even saying hello to and when we talk, it’s just as if we had spoken ten minutes ago. No need for all that “you’ve forgotten me” bullshit. Friends who understand that we all got our priorities and don’t need to hold hands every day to sing KumBaYa. I won’t mention names because I can count them with just two hands, so some hearts might be broken. Big thank you.

I’ll admit, 2015 and 2014 have really been pivotal years for me. These years made me, I can feel it in my bones. I learned lessons of life. Some the hard way, some even harder. Here goes.

I learned how to “not put all my eggs in one basket”
I learned how to sieve away the good stuff from the shaft whether people or activities and focus on priorities.
I learned that shit happens. Get over it, then deal with it.
I learned how to “not give a f**k”. And then:
I learned how to not have a f**k to give in the first place.
I learned how to expect the worst and hope for the best.
I learned how to cut my frigging coat to my size and work with whatever I have.
I learned never to burn bridges.
I learned patience.
I learned to be prepared
I learned that nothing lasts forever
I learned how to disguise my emotions, and then.
I learned how to kill emotions. Okay, scrap that, I learned how to manage them and get my shit together to work with a clear head.
I learned never to believe in people.
I learned to believe in God.
I learned that money is bae.
I learned that family is baest.

What have you learnt??

ATM Palava

Posted: December 25, 2015 in Uncategorized

Twelve drummers drumming.

Krrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrkpakam!
For the third time, the aboki hastily dipped his money loaded hand into his pocket and each time, the same hand came out empty. That must be sixty thousand now, I thought to myself because ATMs give a maximum of twenty thousand. At this point, I started to worry if the machine would run out of cash like it did yesterday. My friend serving in the north once told me of how aboki men always withdrew as much as three hundred thousand naira with multiple cards, the moment they were sent the money. Ostensibly, they did not believe in the electronic safety of their cash. The sun started to get hotter and I was number twelve(ladies milking) in line. After making five withdrawals, he finally ejects his card and the at least five people sighed and one even said “Ha, thank God oh”.

Then I became number Eleven (pipers piping).

The next person was an old man who leaned heavily on his stick. He moved like he would crumble at anytime or the shrill harmattan breeze would whisk him away and make me number ten. Somehow it did not. He painstakingly mounted the three steps to the ATM after a full minute with his stick making the KOI KOI sound as he went. He brought out his card which had been fisted in his left hand. He lifted the card like a trophy and examined it for a few seconds..

“Oga abeg do comot, abi na sacrifice you con do?” came from a woman who held two struggling white chickens.
“Madam, nor be your mate, why you dey talk like that?” replied a man who stood behind the old man.
“wetin happen? na here person wan sleep? mtcheeeeew”. (I never knew a hiss could be that loud).
The old man turned round to the young man dressed like boy alinco from papa ajasco tv show and said, “my son abeg con help me”. The young man stepped forward and properly slotted in the card.
“Daddy, wetin be your pin?”
“Pin?”
“Yes sir, your pin”
“My son, wetin you wan use pin do, you wan chuck the machine?”
This erupted laughter from the queue.
“Ha, no sir, na the number wey I go put”
“ooookaaaay, my dau..daughter write the number for the card”
Alinco (without the pointed facecap though) had to eject the card and memorize the pin which was scrawled with a marker on the backside of the card. Quite some security. He slotted in the card and asked the old man how much he wanted, then ejected his card.

Number Ten (Lords are leaping).

Boy Alinco didnt even spend a minute with the machine when it came to his turn. He probably had “insufficient funds”. He sharply ejected and pocketed his card. Then squared his shoulder and put on this poker face as he turned away.
“Bros, e don stop to dey pay?” Someone asked him
“I nor know, na balance I come check” he replied with this poker face. He was fooling nobody. Yep, I’ve been there. Next person.

Nine ladies dancing.

A smartly dressed businessman with a briefcase stepped up to the machine. He kept talking on his phone with a combo of british and yoruba accent, putting an extra “h” here and there. Thsis attracted hisses and yimus. Then, just as the machine made that KRRRRRRRRR sound to dispense cash, a fullgrown cockroach crawled out of the jacket of his suit. Someone gasped. The rest burst out laughing. He immdiately turned around, looking confused.
“Wah?” he asked in . Some people managed to stifle their laughter to smiles. While two girls just held their bellies in pain. So our roach guy turned back and started to count his money.
But really I don’t know why people do that. It’s not like you could tell the machine “hey, the money nor complete” and it will dispense it. Let’s not digress here. Our cockroach taxied down the length of his jacket flew off. It did a tight circle behind him and landed right back on his shoulder. Then to our horror, it crawled right back in. The man finished counting and left.

Anyways, (Eight maids are milking)

The next guy was a dumb looking muscular guy wearing Arsenal’s jersey and red tight pants that clung to his legs like a do or die affair. He was stockily built from his waist up and had slender legs. Obviously, this guy used a homemade gym made up of just one barbell and a bench. This ended up building just his torso. Johnnybravo style. Johnny spent the next ten minutes fiddling with the machine and not even one sound came from it. After sometime, the man behind me shouted:
“Mr. Man, ARE YOU BROWSING?”
Johnny Bravo turned around and replied with a deep voice, “you say wetin”?
“err…bros, I be ask whether the ATM dey pay”.
Johnny bravo just stared at him really hard then left.

Four (Calling Birds..I can explain)
To my relief, the next five girls came together and they all huddled around the machine.
This left an elderly woman and man before my turn. As number three, I was close enough to hear them mummur amongst themselves.
“put am like this”
“nooo na like this”
“no, nor be for that hole”
“put am small small,”
“I tell you say na the wrong hole, e too big for am”
“this girl well so?”
“oya comot am put am inside again”

On closer inspection, I saw that they were trying to slot the card into the paper printer slot. The next elderly woman shook her head and made no attempt to help them out. They finally got it right and left.

Number three (french hens)

Now, here’s the thing with the next elderly woman whose turn was next. The elderly woman had these heavy yoruba tribal marks that ran from her mouth to the back of her head. SAY GAWD!!! Even spiderman had nothing on her.

The yoruba spiderwoman started to go up the steps, then abruptly hesitated and retraced her steps. She took off her sandals and walked barefooted on the tiled ground. Moses had absolutely nothing on her. Yourba-spiderwoman-turned-moses finished her business and wore her sandals and walked away with everyone staring in disbelief.

Aha, Two Turtle doves.

The oldman mounted the steps and started using the machine. Finally I had seen somone without some form of drama. He methodically and quitely punched his pin. After a moment, the machine played out the “Please wait while your transaction is processing”.
We waited oooooooooo, nothing happened. Baba’s nokia phone beeped. “Ah, debit alat ko? shuo” After sometime, the machine displayed: “Welcome, please insert your card” and started flashing green. It had swallowed Baba’s card (without paying him). Baba turned and grabbed me. “my son, YOU ARE MY WITNESS!!!!”
“‘Bu..But..Si…sir, how do..?”
“you saw it! you saw it all!”
Another beep came from his nokia phone and he checked it and lo! (no behold), it was a reversal alert. He released me from his iron left hand grip.

“Mo ti yoo ti lo sango lati lu yi ATM”.

And a patridge in a pear tree!
So, all I wanted to withdraw was my N1000 in the account. Don’t judge me. After waiting for sometime, the machine displayed “Insufficient funds”. No way, I could not turn around to face the world like boy alinco. I was supposed to have at least a thousand Naira. Then I remembered the sms charges of the night before. I checked the balance and saw it was N986.22. That left me with the option of withdrawing N500. On the other hand, I could just walk over to the bank and deposit N15 then with draw the N1K. Like I said, don’t judge me. Federal govt. refused to pay.

And there ends my story. Have a wonderful Christmas. 🙂

 

Pot Belle

Posted: December 8, 2015 in Uncategorized

“..forty seven”
*grunts* 
“forty eight”
*moans*
forty nine,
fifty!”

At this point I lie back down and feel my body relax. I face the ceiling as I feel the cold warm sweat cascade down my torso.
And no, I didn’t just get laid. That’s my situp routine I do thrice a week. I keep telling my friends that no matter how fat I get or how much beer I guzzle, I would never resemble Mr. Ibu.
I mean, just imagine all that load. My wife and I cannot carry pregnancy.
I cannot even imagine not being able to see my willy except I use a mirror. Some months back, I met a pot bellied weirdo in a bus to Port Harcourt and we all got gisting. Then we entered the pot belly matter. This guy gisted us of how he only sees his dick when he has an erection. Even at that he only sees the tip when he tilts his shaft to one side.
 

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Having a pot belly could be inevitable for some people because just like the the female anatomy is designed to store excess fat at the thighs, our excess fat goes to the abdomen.
But like they say, one man’s meat is another’s poison. Some women actually dig pot bellies.

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A lot of people believe pot bellies are connected to beer. Hell no! That’s just a myth. Pot bellies are not necessarily caused by beer but by excessive carbohydrates. Beer contains a lot of calories.
 The good thing is that the intestinal fat that causes pot belly can easily be lost by losing weight. Studies have also shown that the tummy happens to be the first point of fat loss. So all hope isn’t lost. You could still say hello to Junior. Hit the gym today!

 

Tasty lil bugs

Posted: September 13, 2015 in Uncategorized

In as much as I hate little rodents and insects, I have never really had a problem with wall geckos. They’re quiet, mind their business, run when they see you, not even half as big as lizards and best of all, they eat cockroaches. You know how they say that your enemy’s enemy is your friend? Yes…but,
Being my enemy’s enemy is one thing, leaping from a 10 foot ceiling and scuba diving inside my banga soup is another. That sort of love is just too much for a nigga like me to handle.
The painful part is that I’ve not even touched the meat, now I have to thrash the whole plate with the wriggling “extra meat” in it.

All these rodents have mind these days oh. In broad daylight the bastard fell in my soup. It didn’t even have the courtesy of announcing its prescence before going for that “mud” bath.

Anyways, it could have been worse. I remember sharing a full cockroach with my siblings as a kid. And no, don’t get me wrong, the sharing was involuntary. We all unknowingly ate it in the stew and rice. During meals, we usually went for the biggest spoons because we all ate from one tray and it was survival of the greediest. I regretted having the biggest spoon that fateful day.

After a few spoons, there was this loud “CRUNCH”. All heads turned to me with bewildered eyes. Their questioning eyes demanded where I found or stole “crayfish” because mummy did not cook with any. Crayfish was a treat we got on special occasions and actual fish was the holy grail.

**Meat was Uhuru.**

With their mouths full and occupied, they waited for my explanation with now glaring eyes and oily mouths. My eldest sister rose, wielding her metal spoon like a club. She held my throat with one hand and poised the other hand, ready to strike.

“Spit it out”, she commanded.
This was the ritual in situations like these. So the eldest could eat it, if it has not been masticated much.

In my defense, we were kids, very young.

I quickly weighed my options. I could sharply swallow with hopefully enough force to surpass the hand grasping my throat or to obey and preserve my milk teeth. I decided to swallow but figured that the impending blow could knock me out cold and I would miss the still plenty rice on the plate. My eyes darted to the kitchen door, hoping for mummy to enter.
What followed next was a blurr of fist, spoon, rice and stars.

When I stabilized and my eyesight refocused, the hand around my throat was gone, my mouth was empty and my sister’s mouth was moving. I could hear the crunch crunch crunch above the sirens still ringing in my ears.

“Comman see Onoda crayfish”, my younger brother called out. We all gathered and on close inspection, realized it was the limb of a roach.
Somebody vomited, it’s not rocket science to guess who.
At that point he confessed that he had previously eaten two other “crayfishes”. Only God knew where the rest of the roach was.

I once narrated my ORDEAL to an elderly man who in turn consoled me with a story of how they used to eat lizards during the civil war. Yep, staked and grilled. What kind of consolation is that?

I just glared really hard at him.

Before I wake…

Posted: April 20, 2015 in Uncategorized

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“…if I should die before I wake…”

* * *

Tap tap. My brakes refused to respond. Tap tap tap, nothing. Was it my imagination or were my brakes faulty? I wondered to myself. I was fast approaching the crest of a mild slope at almost 60mph and heavy duty driving training demanded I started slowing down. As soon as I reached the top of the slope, I knew I had trouble. There was a bus 500 feet away. JAB!! I slammed both feet on the brakes and the pedal gave way to the floor of the truck. My heart started to pound. 400 feet. My eyes frantically flew over my dashboard’s warning lights, nothing was out of place, except that my brakes were out. I was carrying over twelve tons of load on my attached trailer. I broke into a cold sweat.The slow moving luxurious bus ahead of me was looming closer with each breath. It was less than 200 feet, “Sweet Jesus”, I prayed. I wrapped my fingers around the emergency brakes, and yanked with all the strength I could muster.
I was lurched forward as the wheels were seized, but the forward momentum was too much and all twenty two wheels kept dragging on, screeching on the hot, hard asphalt. I was slowing down considerably but my luck did not hold out for long. A thunderous clanking of metal vibrated the cabin as something let loose and the trailer lurched forward again, slamming me into the seat. I grabbed my seatbelt and clipped it on. I was already less then 50 feet from bus and a rear end collision was looming. The adjacent lane had on oncoming vehicle, so I was left with,

A head on collision.
A rear end collision.
Swerving to my right into the water down below.
Using juju to vanish.

The fourth option looked really enticing, just that there was probably no gurantee of returning in one piece without being romanced by evil spirits. In a split second, just as I decided to hit the bus, I locked eyes with a four year old at the back seat smiling at me and pretending to also drive, using his lunch plate. A closer look revealed more kids on the bus. At this point, the oncoming car had passed. I made my decision.
Twisting to to my right and using my body as leverage, I yanked the steering wheel to the left and onto the oncoming lane. My speed was just too much. A rollover was inevitable. I knew exactly what was going to happen, from videos and simulations in driving school.

People usually say that just before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. For some weird reason I knew I was going to survive, because all I could see was the N850 change the akara woman was owing me that morning.

The earth spun.

Then everything went black.

I felt myself floating, without form. No sound, no sights, no feeling. I was Lost in Limbo. I looked left, then right,  it was all the same blackness.

“Yuaar welucome, awa son.” A deep, igbotic commanding voice came to me.The ambience had a sudden chill.

“No worry, you never die finish.” Came another voice, from a different direction.

“We are ya ancestors.” Continued the first voice.

“Nna you look so fresh.” A female voice this time in igbotic accent. She pronounced the “fresh” as “fraish”.

Gradually I started to make out their shapes in the dark
“Goo.. goo.. good dd.. afternoon.” I trembled.

They burst out laughing in a cacophony of distorted sounds. Some sounded like a starting engine, some like generator, some just whistled while some sounded like that first morning fart you drop while you pee.

The croaky voice of another woman echoed “Nwam (my child), you see, there is no morning or afternoon or night here. Some of us have not met you since you were born and so today, we voted and decided to see you.”

A little visit in my dream or physically at night no reach them. They had to destroy a whole trailer and Lord knows what other properties, all in a bid to see me.

They started to come into focus. There were about two dozen of them, seated in a circle with me in it. I recognized two of them from my family album. It then struck me that they were all naked, with various sizes phalluses and breasts as flat as bathroom slippers. Most of them had their teeth incomplete and some were quite young. Also, there was something peculiar about each of them. Some had deep gashing wounds on them and some had bullet holes, depicting how they had died. About three of them had crooked necks. Some were in whole form while the two men on my right had their heads in their hands. Decapitated.

“Thank you for paying us a visit, my son”, that commanding voice again. He was thanking me? Like I had a choice. “Whenever you are ready, you may use that door.” He pointed behind me and I saw a rickety wooden door that was not there before. The door was bordered by bright rays of white light. There was a lot of light on the other side. I immediately jumped down from the stool I did not realize I was seated on and moved towards the door. With each step I took, I felt something in me change. I felt this transition to a different world. As I moved nearer the door, I started to feel discomfort and pain in my bones, joints and muscles.
I got to the door and by this time, I could feel hands on my body, but yet I was still in the darkness. I heard faint voices but I did not understand.  I turned back to ask what was happening to me. The place was as empty as a graveyard. No ancestors, no naked people, no dangling testicles, no stools. I was alone, except for my stool. I gripped the door knob and twisted. The voices started getting louder. At this point, I felt intense pain all over. I could also feel warm liquid dripping down my head. I touched my head and felt it dry, yet it was oozing warm liquid. I pulled open the door and I could hear a lot of commotion in the light. I then understood.

All I had to do was step inside and I would be back to the real world. The voices were very close to me and around me.
“The man don wake?” Came a voice.
“You sure say e never die?” Came another.
“E be like say e dey breathe.”
“Eyah, na God save am oh.”
“See as e use trailer scatter awa house.”

All different voices.
I put one foot forward into the light.

“Na drink e go drink, when e wake, we go beat am!”

Ehn? I returned my foot and stood by the door. There was a mob waiting for me. I was definitely not going out there. I ran back to get my stool and used it to wedge the door shut.

Laughter erupted behind me. I spun around to see dem ancestors with me again.
“So we take it you would like to join us now abi?”

Torn between the devil (ancestors) and the deeb blue sea (blue bruises) I made one final decision and broke through the wooden door.

“…I pray the Lord my soul to take..”

Expensive sh*t

Posted: March 31, 2015 in Uncategorized

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My friend Marcus is a jealous lover, the overly jealous type that would ask his girlfriend, Ronke to pass the phone to her friend, just to confirm she is really at her girlfriend’s place. He might even insist on talking to her pastor when she says she is going for night vigil. A couple of days back, he staggered into my room with a swollen eye. It was what you could also call a “black eye”, but my friend Marcus is very black so let’s just stick with “swollen”. The way he limped to the chair made me wonder if he fought with a mob or the mob fought with him. He grabbed the half satchet of purewater on my table (the last of which I was going to resurrect my already risen garri I was drinking) and squeezed out the contents greedily.
Last week, he broke up with Ronke because he was “tired”. The same week, she started dating someone else, as soon as he heard he went ballistic and went straight to her apartment. According to him, he wanted to know why she got over him so quick. She answered the door wearing nothing but a long sleeved shirt five sizes too big.

“Where is he!?” He demanded.
“We are not dating anymore!” She replied, defiantly.
“Is that the fool you told me of?” Came a male voice from within.

The door opened further to reveal a shirtless dude. Marcus immediately recognized Lawrence, the new guy from the gym who recently started boxing there. Marcus moved forward, ready to strike but drew up short at the sight of the bread knife Lawrence held in one hand, the butter container in the other. Throwing fists was not a problem for my friend, but from what he described, it was actually a butcher knife. He might have still fought but he decided that he liked the volume of blood he had in his body and its current trajectory of flow. So he retreated and schemed to meet him in the ring. Having boxed for three months, he decided he would teach him a lesson, legally.

He got to the gym very early the next morning, a Saturday, and met with the instructor. A few notes exchanged hands and he was able to lobby his opponent to be Lawrence. From what he described,  the fight started off well, he underestimated his opponent and started throwing jabs, hooks and crosses recklessly. The last thing he remembered was the big shiny red glove that squarely landed on his eye. He paid his ancestors a brief visit and woke up in an ambulance. After convincing them he was alright, he made his way to my room.

We decided to get at this guy another way. It didn’t take long for me to bring forth a solution. We were going to blend some fresh pepper and smear some on his clothes. Marcus still had the key to his ex girlfriend’s place so we went over. I sneaked in while Marcus stood watch across the road, with my number on speed dial. I set to work quickly, picking up every piece of masculine clothing and deftly rubbing in some pepper in the crotch area. As I returned the last of the last of the trousers, an object on the table caught my eye. A closer look revealed it to be a small photo album. What interested me were the words on the cover; Victory is from God alone. The unmistakable slogan of the Nigerian Army. The first page revealed Lawrence holding an RPG (rocket propelled grenade), as he gave instructions to a set of soldiers, all armed to the teeth, My jaws dropped. At the same time I heard a truck pull up outside. At the speed of light, I dashed to the windows in time to see a dark green military truck pull away. The flower hedge blocked my view of the verandah but the unmistakable jangle of keys was enough to tell me I was in deep shit. Expensive shit.
My limbs went weak and my vision blurred from the excessive blood flow from my heart.

Thinking fast, I bolted to the kitchen and opened the back door. I realized there was no possible way of leaving without being noticed. Honestly, I really was not in the mood for my back to get licked with bullets. I heard heavy footsteps in the sitting room. I looked left to right, ran to the nearest toilet, took off my shirt, hung it on my shoulder, rolled up one leg of my trousers and started loosening the water supply pipe of the WC. The footsteps kept getting closer. Upon realizing that a disconnected pipe was not convincing enough for me to pass as a plumber, I raised the toilet seat. The ooze of stale, caked poop made me dizzy. As the foot step got to the door, I ran out of options. Taking a deep breath, I shoved my right hand into the bowl.

Up till today I was not sure which I heard first, the click of the pistol or the deep voice saying “WHO GOES THERE!?”.

“Plu-plum-plum-plumber sah!”. I stammered.
I turned my neck to see endless black hole of a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver. I wet my pants. Being on the wrong end of a gun was just wrong mehn.

“Who send you?, how u take enter?”. He demanded.

“Na-na madam leave me here”. I had never prayed so hard in my life. MFM had nothing on me.

“Okay, quick finish comot”. He pulled out his cell and walked away and shut the bedroom door behind him. That was it.
I bolted from the toilet, poop in hand, crashed through the kitchen netdoor and into the backyard at breakneck speed. I ran so fast, Usain bolt had absolutely nothing on me. As luck would have it, I jammed Marcus. My right hand flew on its own accord and highfived his face. His very black face turned the yellow poop to very dark yellow it was almost brown.

“Na thunder go fire you oh, why you no call me??” I shouted angrily as we were running away.
“No vex, I nor know say I no get credit and I bin dey owe MTN already”.

Up till this day I still have not gotten myself to eat eba or pounded yam with my right hand, I am now a confirmed lefty at the dining table. Marcus and I are still at large until the hunt for us settles down.
Word on the street is that a soldier ran out naked from a house, shooting sporadically and has been searching for two boys since.

Ghana is a nice country by the way, I think I just might settle down here.