Actus Dei

TGIF, people! Unfortunately, due to reasons beyond my control, I won’t be publishing any episode of Amicus Curiae today. I’ll do that next week. I sincerely apologise to every one who had been looking forward to this. My BBM has been on fire since morning when I broke the news vide my PM.


Tolu, Uwah, Daneil, Nkem, Sokoribobo, Ify baby, Mani, Teemee et al, make all of una forgive me, abeg.


To calm flaying nerves, I decided to publish a short story instead. Please do give it a read and let me know what you think. Also use the share button too. It’s free, I promise. O se!


judgeJustice Aderemi-Ishola Fagbohun of the Lagos State High Court walked sluggishly into his seat. He looked downcast and forlorn. His heart was heavy. Although, today was another Monday, which meant another week of hearing the problems of the world had begun, this was not the primary reason for his unhappiness. His unhappiness lay between the thighs of Lara – his standby call girl, who had denied him a gate-pass into her throne of grace over the weekend because he had refused to furnish consideration for the ceremony. What consideration was this? A million naira.

Lara had requested that he gave her a million naira, but Justice Aderemi-Ishola had blatantly refused to oblige her. He did not consider her worthy of such amount of money. Lara was a cheap call girl whom he once picked along Allen Avenue one faithful Friday evening when the call of nature erected a mountain-of-fire consciousness around his groin as he returned home from Court. Justice Aderemi-Ishola has always had the same problem as the legendary King of Israel – the love for a maiden’s garden. He had battled with this personal demon all his life. However, the demon only seemed to have grown bigger since his elevation to the Bench. So, this faithful Friday evening after a hard day in court, he had a visitation from this demon on his way home.

Lara proved to be the very angel he needed that evening as she quenched his ravaging fire with acrobatic, WWE-esque bed moves. She then lit his ravaging fire, quenched it again, lit it once more and quenched it yet again. All in the space of three hours. Within those three hours, Lara transformed the learned Bench into the monster he had always only dreamt of being with his wife. There and then, Justice Aderemi-Ishola knew that he had found heaven. He knew he had to have her all to himself. Thenceforth, he made it a habit to boost her financial health. Every month end, he always sent her gifts wrapped in beautiful linens, accompanied with a hundred thousand naira worth of cheque. Just a hundred thousand naira worth of cheque. He knew the money was not reflective of his status, but he needed not give Lara any ideas that she could have more.

Last week Thursday, everything was about to change. He got a text from Lara requesting that he upped his monthly sacrifice to a million naira. Justice Aderemi-Ishola knew the game was about to change. But he was not ready just yet. Give in to her demand and she would ask for a hundred million naira the next time. These street ratchets were not loyal.

No. He would not accede to her request. If she wanted to call it quits with him, good riddance to her throne of grace.

Last week Friday, Justice Aderemi-Ishola decided to call Lara’s bluff. So, he dialled her line to book the regular visit, but lo and behold, she did not answer. This had never happened before. Ever. She almost always picked his calls on the first ring, like she was always staying on standby, waiting for him to call. There and then, the Learned Bench knew that the house cat had become a Sambisa tiger.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola dialled her number all through the weekend. She still did not answer. Lara was serious about her threat. This morning however, he got a text from her which read,

Dun u efa in ya lif, call ma line agn. Efa!

Justice Aderemi-Ishola grew goose pimples all over his groin. His man swelled like it would explode. There and then, it dawned on him that, his staff of honour had lost a rare gem of inestimable value. Forever. The sweetest garden he had ever harvested was gone. And this saddened him greatly like his mother had died. He felt as if he was carrying the burden of the world on his shoulders. An unfathomable act of god.

“Call the first case,” he said nonchalantly to the court clerk upon recovering from his reverie.

“Suit No: LD/1427/2013: Oluwayemi Falode and six others and Otunba Rasak Onikoyi.”

It was a land dispute suit. The seven Claimants had sued the village head, Otunba Rasak Onikoyi a.k.a Old Money Never Dies for using touts to trespass over their land.

“Parties?” Justice Aderemi-Ishola asked in low tone. He wished the day was over already.

The parties were absent. None of the seven claimants nor the defendant was in court. Justice Aderemi-Ishola could not have been more irritated by their absence.

“Any appearances?”

The Claimants and Defendant’s counsel announced their appearances.

“Why are your clients not in court?” Justice Aderemi-Ishola asked the claimants’ lawyer.

The lawyer, an old man who looked to have clocked past his “death age” stared at the Judge without an answer. He had no answer. He had no idea why his clients were not in court. He had informed them the previous day of today’s proceedings and they had promised to be available. Now they were not here.

“My Lord,” he said with a shaky, unsteady voice. “My clients are on their way. Just before the court sat, they had called to say they were in traffic…”

“Case struck out,” Justice Aderemi-Ishola interrupted. “Registrar, call the next case.”

“What?” the claimants’ lawyer said in disbelief, unconscious of how loud his voice was. “But My Lord…”

“Counsel, I am done with you. Registrar, next case.”

“Petition No: LD/1111/1997: Mrs Patricia Araromire and Mr. Felix Araromire….”

“No! My Lord,” the Claimants’ lawyer persisted. He could not understand what warranted his case to be struck out. This was a case in which he was handling almost pro bono because his clients could not afford his professional fees. They had only given him a paltry sum to file the processes in court and had agreed to be paying him “appearance fees”. If this case was struck out, his clients would not give him a dime for appearing in court today. He could not let that. “My Lord, you can’t strike out our case…”

“Will counsel address the court properly?” Justice Aderemi-Ishola said, his patience running thin. Lara’s text message had destroyed his day.

“I will address My Lord as I want!”

The whole court was in shock. This was an unprecedented reaction from Counsel in court.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola was not in the mood for any hyperactive Hollywood-wannabe Counsel today. He knew what to do.

“Baba, I will charge you with contempt if you don’t keep quiet,” he warned.

“My Lord, the law is trite….”

Justice Aderemi-Ishola had had enough.

“Musa,” he called at his Police Orderly who sat behind him. “Take this man into the box…”

As Musa approached the elderly lawyer, the learned Bench’s phone which was beside his gavel, buzzed. He had a Whasapp message. He stole a quick glance at the message. It was from Lara. Justice Aderemi-Ishola’s face brightened. Slowly, he moved his hands towards his phone to access the message. Lara had sent him twenty Whatsapp messages. They were all provocatively nude pictures of her.

“Jesus,” Justice Aderemi-Ishola whispered unconsciously as he jerked in his seat. Suddenly, his man started rising gloriously underneath his pants. Gradually, it hardened like the rock of Gibraltar. He felt throngs of electrodes fire through his system as the hair on his back rose in attention.

Another message from Lara came in. It read,

If u want dz, mt me @ Room 400 @ 4 Pointz by Sharatin by 10.00 am

Justice Aderemi-Ishola could not believe his eyes. Was this for real? Was the Queen of Sheba returning to Solomon? Was his gate-pass to the throne of grace returned? Oh! How much he had missed her water melon! Lara was one weird floosie. He loved her little games.

Another message from Lara came in.

Not a 2nd late.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola looked at the clock hanging on the wall of the court room. It was five minutes past nine. He looked at the court room. It was as full as a pack of sardine, with expectant faces of lawyers and their clients.

“Let Baba go,” he said to the Police Orderly who was leading the past-death-age lawyer to the dock.

The audience in court were surprised at the sudden turn of events. What was His Lordship up to?

“The court shall go on recess…..till 12pm,” he said, without offering an explanation. He rose, took a bow and scurried out of the court room. The lawyers were left stunned.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola dispensed with his driver and decided to drive himself instead. He was not sure of what he was doing. He did not care. The only thing he was sure of was that, he had to get into Lara’s throne of grace, else, he could run mad. He would run mad. The last three days had been the most miserable in his life.

He cruised his SUV on Lagos roads as a Formula One driver would and by 09.55am, he was already at Four Points by Sheraton in Victoria Island. He hurried over to the elevator and punched the keys like Mike Tyson, his heart pounding like Usain Bolt rode on it. By the time he got to his floor, he was already sweating profusely like a dejected dog drenched by its abusive owner. He pulled his shirt over his fat body as he ran down the hallway. His protruding tummy jiggled like Miley Cyrus on a “wrecking ball”.

Justice Aderemi-Ishola rushed over to the room with Number “400” inscribed on the door and pushed open the door. By now, he was already lost for breath. He bowed his head, his tongue hanging out as he panted. When he raised his head, his eyes witnessed the last thing in the world he had expected to see:

His wife.

Their three kids.



His Pastor.



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Amicus Curiae 3: Press Release


Folayemi, her male colleague on striped suit and the man in denim pants rode in the man in denim pant’s Mercedes Benz V12 G65 AMG to the Police Station located along Obafemi Awolowo way at Alausa, Ikeja. The Police station was a ten minutes’ drive from the office.

“This should be fun,” Folayemi’s colleague whispered to her as they walked in through the gate of the Police Station.

Folayemi shook her head mildly in disbelief of her colleague’s excitement. She did not bother herself with a response. Instead, she fetched her Law School log book from her bag and tried jotting a few points from her experience so far.

“You brought your log book along?” her colleague asked. “Why don’t you wait until the day is over so you can have a more comprehensive report to make?”

Folayemi shrugged.

“And why write while walking?” her colleague continued.

“Duhh. Why talk while walking?” she retorted.

The man in denim pants was ahead of them. He waved at a few Police officers who saluted as they walked past. It was obvious he was a familiar face. They arrived at the counter at the station. Boldly pinned to the counter was a cardboard cut-out with the inscription: THE POLICE IS YOUR FRIEND. On the mutilated walls of the lounge hung another cardboard cut-out with the inscription: BAIL IS FREE.

The dirty walls of the lounge were defaced with several ragged posters and loose electricity cables. The damp stench of body odour, faeces and cigarette oozed from the adjacent hallway which held the cells. Folayemi used her log book as cover for her nose.

“Oga Bee, welcome,” a haggard-looking officer in faded uniform saluted the man in denim pants.

“Joe, how far?” he saluted back.

“Oga, I dey kakaraka,” the officer responded. “Wetin carry you come here again?”

In a few minutes, the man in denim pants disclosed the reason for his visit and requested that his client be brought to him. His client, a young man in his mid-thirties was ushered into the lounge. An aura of affluence hung around him. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored Ankara outfit and had a gold Rolex wrapped around his wrist. Folayemi was surprised that, the man was allowed to keep his personal belongings. His aqua-scented cologne filled the air in the lounge. He looked wealthy, but he also looked scared.

The client, the man in denim pants, Folayemi and her colleague in striped suit were ushered into a small private room close-by on the request of the man in denim pants. In there, the client relayed the reason for his arrest. He was calm and soft-spoken as he gave detailed, unwavering account of what had transpired. He looked tired. He looked weak. He looked lost.

“Has your statement been taken yet?” the man in denim pants asked.

His client – Bamidele Odusote – shook his head.

A policeman who stood by the wall kept focused eyes on the other four occupants in the room.

“I told them I wouldn’t do so until I saw my lawyer. So I called Nwachukwu, but he directed me to your law firm. He said you are the best in these type of cases,” Bamidele said.

“Oh yes. Nwachukwu and I were colleagues both at the University of Uyo and at the Law School, Abuja Campus. He brings impossible briefs to us….”

“Tell me you can get me out of this mess,” Bamidele cut in. His shirt was getting soiled with sweat. He looked scared. “I did not kill my girlfriend… I have done terrible things in my life,” he said in a whisper. “Yes, I may have meddled in corporate fraud, forgery, manipulate financial standings of my companies… Just about any corporate sin you can think of… But murder? To kill a human?” A ball of tear welled up in his right eye as he spoke. “I had only just delivered a lecture last night… and Bimbo was not even with me… I have not seen her in three weeks… Who could want her dead? Who could want her dead?” he asked rhetorically. “Please tell me you can get me out of this?”

The man in denim pants looked assuredly into Bamidele’s eyes and said, “We’ll give it our best shot. We have never lost a case and this won’t be the first…. This isn’t even a court case yet. It’s just a Police matter…”

“I swear to you, I did not kill her,” Bamidele pleaded his innocence, his voice breaking. “I loved Bimbo to dea…I loved Bimbo to bits. We were soul mates. I wouldn’t …” He squeezed his hands like he was strangling an imaginary neck. “I wouldn’t ….”

“I know,” the man in denim pants said as he held Bamidele’s shaky hands. “I believe you.”

Folayemi and her colleague in striped suit looked surprised. How could the man in denim pants possibly clear Bamidele Odusote of any guilt without proof? What if Bamidele Odusote was putting up a show?

Folayemi did not have the guts to ask the man in denim pants. Neither did her colleague. Both students kept taking as much notes as they could. They could not wait to share the excitement of their first day of chambers attachment with their colleagues. Then, they heard some noise in the hallway. Sounds of footsteps approached the door. A corporal burst into the room and shut the door quickly. He signalled silent pleasantries to the other Policeman in the room and said, “Oga, you have to write your statement now.” His words were directed at Bamidele Odusote.

“Why the hurry?” the man in denim pants asked.

The corporal, panting hard, replied, “the press is here.”


“What has that got to do with my client?” the man in denim pants asked.

The corporal looked at his colleague. “Oga said he would appear before the press,” he said, pointing at Bamidele.

“Oga? Which Oga?” the man in denim pants asked, looking confused. “My client will be paraded? What?”


“Who ordered this?” the man in denim pants broke the silence. “Who is your Oga?”

“Oga DPO,” was the short reply.

At this sudden turn of events, the man in denim pants was hit hard with deep thoughts. He could not wrap his head around the reality that a man who was only just arrested on allegation of committing a crime, would be thrown to the press to be devoured, just a few hours after his arrest and before investigations were concluded. He knew the Police sold sensational stories to the press, but he could not understand how this could happen so soon. From experience, he knew that most suspects who were usually paraded before the press were those who refused to “cooperate” or “drop something for the boys”. Did the Police ask for bribe from his client?

“Did the Police ask for a bribe upon arresting you?” he quickly asked Bamidele.

“No,” was the quicker response. “Why?”

The two Police men in the room scoffed.

“Never mind.” The man in denim pants turned to Folayemi and said, “I need you to go out there and disperse the press men.” The instruction was very direct and unequivocal. “Now.” It needed no questions for clarification.

Folayemi scuttled out of the private room and walked sheepishly into the open visitors’ lounge at the station. The terrifying presence of quite a number of media houses was heavily registered there. The haggard faces of the journalists brightened up when they saw a figure walk into the lounge. But the excitement blotted out from their faces as soon as it had appeared when they noticed it was just a girl. A young looking girl.

One of the journalists – a woman – beckoned to the Folayemi. “Pssssss, do you work here?”

“No,” Folayemi answered.

The journalist heaved a deep sigh. Folayemi could spot the inscription “ChannelsTV” on her microphone.

“We heard Bamidele Odusote of Bamz Holdings was arrested. We had hoped he would be brought forth to confess before camera,” the journalist said with a giggle. “Do you know what cell he is?”

Folayemi looked at the journalist without saying a word, thinking of an answer. She did not know how to address the journalist, let alone the crowd in the room which she would have to face in no distant time. She was just a law student on chambers attachment who had hoped the chambers she was posted to would cut her some slack and allow her study for the bar finals. She never expected to be thrown into the fray of Police matters on her first day of attachment. She never expected to work at all during the chambers attachment period. Prior to the commencement of the attachment programme, she had heard news of how most law firms treated law students who were posted to their firms for the compulsory chambers attachment. These law firms would rather have the students study their books each day of the attachment period in preparation for the bar finals. Folayemi did not expect OakTree Partners to be any different.

“Hello?” the journalist jolted her out of her reverie. “”Do you happen to have an idea which cell Mr. Odusote is?”

What do I say to these journalists to keep them away? Folayemi thought, anticipating her next move for the crowd in the room.

Think! Think!

“I think he is in a cell far away,” Folayemi heard herself say.

“What’s that?” the journalist asked. “What cell? How did you know?”

“I’m a student of Mass Communications at Unilag.. Currently doing my industrial attachment with 123 Media…. I came here because I heard some story…”

“Oh,” the journalist nodded her head. She then pulled Folayemi to one corner in the lounge. “So you have heard about Mr Bamidele’s arrest?”

Folayemi nodded.

“Umm, why was he arrested? Any ideas?” the journalist pressed.

Folayemi shook her head. “I really don’t know… but I heard…” Her eyes roved round the room as her partner listened with rapt attention. “I heard…”

“Come on, you can tell me. I promise I won’t say a word.”

Folayemi swallowed spittle which had formed in her mouth. “I heard he has been transferred to Zone 2 at Ikoyi for questioning.”

“What? We heard he was detained here,” the journalist asked in a whisper, looking surprised.

“Yes. He was arrested last night and brought here, but was taken in the wee hours of this morning to Zone 2 for questioning…”

“Why would they do that?”

Folayemi shrugged. “I guess orders from above.”

The journalist nodded. “That’s true. He is a powerful man after all.”

Folayemi nodded. She remembered how Bamidele shivered like a baby while recounting his story in the private room.

Powerful man indeed.

“So tell me, how did you hear of his arrest?” she asked the journalist.

The journalist smiled. “Ordinarily, I shouldn’t be telling you this but since you’ve been of help to me and you are a young colleague in the profession I’ll give you a tip. Make friends with the Police and wet a few palms. Once an arrest is made and the story is quite interesting, you will be the first to know of it.” The smile broadened on the face of the journalist. “I hope you understand?”

Folayemi nodded even though she would have wanted more explanation on the “wet a few palms” part of the sentence. “Thanks,” she said instead.

The journalist nodded, then, brought out her complimentary card. “Modupe Fagbohun is the name. Give me a ring. Whenever.”

Before Folayemi could respond, the journalist scurried out of the lounge in such haste. Other crew members who had the “ChannelsTV” tag on, joined her. Folayemi noticed that the remaining media houses personnel also joined the rush. She wondered how they knew where Modupe Fabgbohun was heading to. Then a press man with a “Punch” badge on his chest turned around and said, “Thank you. Your whisper was loud enough.”

Folayemi smiled. Her loud whisper was deliberate. Now, there was only one place the press was heading to.

Amicus Curiae 2: A Curious Welcome

law firm

Folayemi was welcomed to the firm with a growl by the Front Desk Officer, a fiercely dressed lady in her mid-thirties. After a few minutes of scolding for resuming late, Folayemi was directed to a large conference room where nine other law students were seated. She recognised a few faces from the Lagos Campus, but could not care less about exchanging silent pleasantries. A young man in denim pants, a T-Shirt and a face cap was having a chat with the group. Folayemi could surmise he was delivering a welcome speech, but from the way he was dressed, she could not tell if he was a lawyer or a paralegal.

He acknowledged her arrival with a wave of hand, directing her to a free seat.

Then he said, “diligence is the bedrock of the work we do here.”

The phrase lit a spark on Folayemi’s face. There was no chance that her mother’s spirit dwelt in this young man.

“A lawyer should do what he has to do when he has to do it,” the young man continued.

Folayemi’s face straightened out. No smile. No smirk. No emotions. This was awkward. Her mother’s spirit could not dwell in this young man right before her eyes.

“You,” the young man pointed at Folayemi. “Could you tell us: why are we here?”

Folayemi struggled with her seat as she got up.

“No, no. Sit and answer,” the young man advised.

“Ummm…” Folayemi slurred. “We are…here to …..”

To fulfil the damn Law School requirement of undergoing a compulsory tutelage at a Law Firm.

Folayemi decided against going with that thought. Instead, she answered thus, “we are here to contribute our quota to the development of law practice in our beloved country by fulfilling every tasks we are assigned. I believe in the process of doing this, we will also contribute to the growth of this firm.”

Her response sounded more like a quote from a textbook than a spontaneous reaction, but it appeared to have made an impression on her colleagues and the young man in denim pants, who all nodded in agreement.

“Quite impressive,” the young man said. “But that is the wrong answer.”

There was silence in the conference room.

“You all are here to make money for this firm,” the young man continued. “I believe by now you all know OakTree is not the conventional law firm around. Heck. We are not a law firm. We are mercenaries, soldiers, combatants, super heroes…. We fight to the death for our clients. We never take no for an answer. We fight dirty, we fight bloody.”

He paused to take a sip of water from a glass.

“Do you know our type of clients?” he asked the now more attentive audience. Then he pointed to a young man in striped suit. “You, tell us.”

The law student stood up and before he could speak, he was asked to return to his seat.

“You don’t need to get up to answer a simple question,” the young man in denim pants advised. “That’s the problem with our educational system – you guys are human robots: you were raised to know certain rules and you are expected to respond accordingly. Right here at OakTree, we act differently. In due course, we shall break you guys down and re-assemble you.” He heaved, then continued, “Now, to my question. What type of clients do we handle here?”

The law student stuttered, “Past Presidents…ummm… Senators, Ministers, Commissioners – I mean, Politicians generally,…Ummm, oil companies… multinational corporations, banks…”

“Stop,” the young man in denim jeans interrupted. “Right here at OakTree, we deal with looters, murderers, high calibre thieves, fraudsters, prostitutes, paedophiles, rapists, ritualists, cyber hackers, cultists, drug dealers, militants – basically, the scumbags of the earth.”

A wave a shock swirled around the room at this point. The law students, in all their innocence, looked shell-shocked at the revelation. They could barely believe the sort of practise they would have to put up with in the course of the attachment programme.

The young man in denim jeans sensed the tension and decided to cut through their consciousness with a clap.

“I know what you all must be thinking at this point,” he said and stopped clapping. “But really, that is not the case. We are not damned. To the contrary, we are fulfilling the gospel which is to give hope to the hopeless. Everyone deserves a second chance. Yes, some do get third, fourth, fifth chances…” he shrugged. “Humanity deserves that, for its own sake. No one deserves to be condemned. The good Lord would not permit that.” He paused, strolled over to a close-by bookshelf and pulled out a small book. “This,” he said in a deep assuring voice “is the Bible.” Then he flipped through the pages of the book and read out, “You have heard that it was said, “love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” But I tell you: love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, if you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that?” He stopped abruptly. “These are the words of Jesus Christ in Matthew five versus forty three to forty six. They are not my words.”

“Sir, I thought you said we are here to make money,” another member of the audience said cheekily.

“Oh yes. This class of people – the murders, fraudsters and looters – always pay through their noses, if you know what I mean.”

The young man in denim pants went on about how serving this class of people was also a fulfilment of the law and the expectations of the firm from the law students on attachment. He also took them on a tour of the office complex, which is an eleven storey building, introducing the students to the different departments within the firm, the lawyers, paralegals and the office appurtenances. The law students were thrilled and fascinated at the massiveness of the structure and its organisation. They walked in twos and kept engaging in chitchats amongst themselves as they paraded the corridors and hallways.

Folayemi walked behind the group, alone. She was never the social type. Back at the law school campus, she was never known to have any particular “best friend”. She never had any friends. Everyone was an acquaintance. This lifestyle earned her the title “snub” but she was not a snub. At least, she did not think herself so.

At this point, a male colleague walking in front of her started backtracking so he could be on the same walking pace as her.

“Isn’t this awesome?” he whispered.

“Ummm, I guess,” Folayemi retorted, not wanting to be distracted from the tour.

“I don’t mean the building,” her counterpart chipped in. “I mean the practice.”

Folayemi shrugged and shook her head. She was not in the mood for a chitchat.

“I mean, we get to represent drug dealers, murderers, prostitutes…Prostitutes?” Folayemi’s partner continued. She stole a quick glance at him for the first time. He was the law student in striped suit who had answered the question of the man in denim pants. There was so much glee spread across his face.

“And how is that fun?” she asked.

“Fun? It’s fascinating!” he almost yelled. “I mean, criminal law has always been my thing right from university – I graduated from the Great Ife by the way – I won the LAWSA award for best student in criminal law…. My project was centred around the practise of sorcery in traditional Nigerian society and its legal implications…. I could make a copy of my project for you if you care…”

“Oh, never mind.”

“My dad is a lawyer. He practices in Abuja…”

“Uh, yeah,” Folayemi said curtly, wanting to put an end to her colleague’s unsolicited chat.

“I decided not to do my attachment with my dad because…”

Just before Folayemi’s partner could complete his statement, the man in denim pants announced, “Welcome to your office.”

Folayemi looked around. They were in an oval-shaped office which housed a set of neatly arranged cubicles. The cubicles were numbered from one to ten. The office wall was white and spotless with a number of bookshelves standing against it. Split unit air conditioners clung, attached to the glittering emerald roofs, pouring their chilly breeze into yawning space. About six large-screen muted plasma televisions were strategically mounted across the room.

“These cubicles shall be your offices for the duration of your attachment programme,” the man in denim pants said. “But trust me, you will hardly sit in them as you will either be in the library or on the field, saving sinners,” he said with a wry smile. “You can use your intercoms to reach whichever lawyer or personnel,” he said, pointing to an intercom close by. “Each desk has one of thes…”

Just before he could complete his words, the intercom he was pointing at, buzzed. He picked it.

“Hello?” he said.

The law students examined the cubicles as he attended to the call. Then, one after the other, they scurried to pick choice seats. Folayemi waited until the kamikaze rush was over. Then she strolled to the only cubicle left unoccupied. It was cubicle Number Ten and it was stationed close to a wall of transparent glass which revealed the outside environment. She could see the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway, as well as the little CMD road from where she sat. She also spotted a few peasants plying petty trades by the road side.

“Murder? When?” the man in denim pants asked. “Which station?…. Okay. I’m on it.”

With those words, he replaced the intercom handle.

“Okay, listen up guys. Here is how we roll,” he said. “One of you shall be voted to be your Group Head. He or she will be responsible for interfacing with the Practice Manager on behalf of the whole group.” He paused. “For now, I need you and you to come with me now,” he said, pointing at Folayemi and the male law student in striped suit.

The three figures walked out of the oval-shaped office, heading out to solve yet another mystery case.


Saving Okon

iq-khampha-kenh14--03a-3178aOkon burst into the small room with grave expressions of disappointment and sadness sitting across his little face. Mama Okon and Papa Okon were seated on the old, worn-out sofa in the middle of the room when he came in.

Today was the end of the first term at school when report cards were distributed. Okon had come last but one in a class of fifty two students the previous term. He has always come last but one every term. Mama Okon and Papa Okon had threatened to disown him if he came last but one this term.

When they saw the expressions of sorrow on his face when he burst into the room, they knew it had happened again. Papa Okon slowly rolled the big morsel of fufu in his hand, his mouth agape, as he stared at his unintelligent son.

Okon walked to a seat and sat, unperturbed by the presence of his parents. His big school bag clung to his back like that of a soldier in the battlefield. He kept breathing heavily and bowed his head in defeat.

“What happened this time?” Mama Okon asked reluctantly. She already knew the answer.

“I failed,” Okon whispered in shame. “I failed the challenge.”

Papa Okon slowly got up from his seat and like a predator bidding his time as he awaits his prey in the jungle, he carefully scanned the small room for his belt. He was going to beat the devil of failure out of his son today.

“What do you mean you failed the challenge?” Mama Okon asked.

“Akpanobong, my friend, challenged me to donate N1,500 to him today,” Okon answered. “He said the N1,500 was for charity and if I did not have the money, I would have to bath ice water.”

Mama and Papa Okon looked at their son, confused. What the devil was this blockhead of a child saying?

“Mama, you know how much I hate ice water,” Okon continued. “I have to give Akpanobong the N1,500.”

Nsi nam eyenem?!” Papa Okon barked in Ibibio. “What is wrong with this boy?! What was your position in school my friend?!”

“Papa, I …. I did not fail,” Okon said nonchalantly as he shook his head. “That is not the problem, Papa. I need the N1,500.”

Papa Okon looked startlingly at his son. Was this boy taking him for a joke?

“Okon, so me and you are now mates that you can lie to me about your result in school and then demand money on top?” Papa Okon said. “Nno belt ado,” Papa Okon said to Mama Okon, pointing to his belt which hung by the arm of the sofa. He intermittently twisted and stretched the leather belt as he approached Okon.

Okon tried to reach for his report card as quickly as he could, but it was too late. Avalanches of whips landed on his head, back, arms and every other exposed part of his body.

Sio iceblock ke fridge di!!!!!” Papa Okon screamed at his wife.

Mama Okon returned with bowls of iced blocks. She could not dissuade her husband from beating their son. The boy was simply too stupid academically and needed this kind of treatment to awake his brain. Papa Okon collected the bowls, smashed them into bits and rained the iced blocks on his son.

Ayom N1500? Unam ikot ke ado!” he kept cursing as he flogged his son.

After about fifteen minutes of intense “treatment”, Okon lay on the floor, bleeding and panting for air. By now, he had succeeded in retrieving his report card from his bag. It lay in a pool of his blood. Papa Okon pick up the report card, flapped it and flipped to this term’s column. Okon had come first.


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#Classic: Kill Me Before I Die*

This is an old post I published sometime in 2012.


What is the worst thing that could happen to a man? Losing a mega contract? Getting ditched on the eve of your wedding? Being caught in the act?
I think the worst thing that could happen to a man is going to sleep, on the wrong side of the bed. Relax. Don’t get me wrong. Any of the above would pass. But to put things in perspective, if you go to bed with any of them in mind, you definitely would be going to sleep, on the wrong side of the bed. And when you wake up the next day – anything you do, touch or say would be a mess, because you definitely would be waking up on the wrong side of the bed as well.
I recently happened to find myself in that annoying spot – going to bed on the wrong side of it. The night in question was supposed to be a unique one. Sandra, a girl i had been wooing for some time had just got into town and i was determined to give her a treat. The treat – i gave her; i took her shopping; and then we went to the beach; we followed that up with having a walk before we finally rounded up the night at the movies. As i drove her home, we talked about stuffs. Well, she did most of the talking – she kept blushing about the movie we had just seen, the clothes and accessories i bought her earlier in the day, my nice heart, how handsome i still looked….blah blah blah. All the while, i waited patiently for her to get to the part where she would give me her decision on my proposal – was she ready to be my boo? She never did.
We got to her parents’ house, alighted from the car and i walked her to the gate. I was determined not to lose two things that same night – her decision and a good night kiss (at least for a job well done – the treat). So i placed one hand on the wall, using the other to stroke her hair.
“So you are not going to even give me a good night kiss?” I said, trying to act cool even though i was desperate for it.
She smiled and pulled my hand away from her hair.
“Dear, you know i…i can’t do that – atleast, not at this stage. I know we are getting too involved by the day, but i still need some time to figure out what we are getting ourselves into,” she said, looking at me with her dreary, innocent eyes.
The atmosphere was becoming tense and i needed to diffuse it.
“I know why you can’t kiss me,” I said.
Surprised, she asked “Why?”
I made for her ear and whispered, “Because your dad is a Pastor?”
She burst out laughing.
“Ah ah, no nah,” she said. “My dad is a Pastor quite alright and yes, he would kill me if he knew a boy brought me home – but no, he is not the reason i won’t kiss you….”
We both laughed at my joke and i kept teasing her – even begging her, hoping she would let her guards down. I really needed that kiss. The teasing and begging continued for another twenty minutes. I had got her in the position i wanted. Her back was against the gate as she faced me; my left hand was on the wall while my right hand continually made for her hair.
I was getting there. She was beginning to trip – even though she claimed she didn’t like what we were about doing. Our lips were getting closer. And then, i heard a clang at the gate as it swung open.
The silhouette of a big man occupied the gate entrance. Sandra immediately swung around.
“Dad?” she gasped.
An avalanche of ice immediately trickled down my spine and my legs started trembling terribly. I searched for composure but lo and behold, it was as far away from me as the heavens is from the earth. My mouth immediately grew dry as i searched for words; my heart pounded like it would tear out.
Then i heard the man bark, “Sandy, whether you kiss him or not is your problem! Just tell this…this…this son of man to get his hands off my intercom! We all have been listening to you two in the parlour! My pastors, elders, deacons, ushers, choristers…everyone! Fulfil your immoral act and make your presence available!”
Without saying a word to me, her dad slammed the gate and stormed away. I stood, deep-rooted to the ground, hoping it would just open and swallow me up. But how impossible – and stupid was my wish! Now, there was no chance I was going to get that kiss anymore and worse still, I may have put the girl i cared about in some deep shit. I knew i was going to bed on the wrong side of it – and i knew the next day would be hell.

*Fiction. Adapted from a joke.


Photo credit: Single Black Male


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Amicus Curiae 1: Ambulance Chaser

Yayy! It’s finally Friday and here is the first episode of my new series, Amicus Curiae. If you did not read yesterday’s teaser, you can do that here before proceeding to read this episode one. The teaser sets the tone for Episode one. More like a prologue…. Episode two will be posted next week Friday. Let me know what you think of this episode in the comment column below. Happy Weekend, people!






Folayemi alighted from the rickshaw in haste when it got to Magodo Brooks gate. Today was the first day of the Chambers Attachment – a compulsory programme on the Nigeria Law School calendar – and she was already late. The words of her mother whizzed into her head:

“A good bride must be diligent in all she does.”

These words of her mother – now, more of a proverb – have been used in a plethora of situations – instructional, correctional, motivational and directional. Whenever Folayemi fell short of an expectation, her mother would use the words to caution her – as she would a bride – and whenever she exceeded an expectation, her mother would also use the same cliché as an affirmation of what would be expected of her in marriage. There was no limit to whatever situation the cliché could be applied Continue reading

#NewSeriesAlert: Amicus Curiae

So I have been on vacation in the past month and I used that period to make a strong resolution to start a new series. If you are a regular visitor to my blog, you’ll know  by now that I don’t really write series. It’s such a daunting task. I would rather post a short story and call it a day. Or week. I give it to bloggers like Tomi Adesina and the grand Master, Lord Tunde Leye (though he has stopped now) who post on the regular! Lord Tunde has kinda taken a sabbatical at the moment…

So I have resolved to start this new series titled “Amicus Curiae”. It will be posted every Friday, starting from tomorrow. Here is a teaser subtitled “The Wages of Sin”. Give it a read and let me know what you think in the comment box below. Gracias!



Civic Centre, Lagos www.haroldwrites.wordpress.comIt happened the night before. Bamidele Odusote had just returned from a business seminar organised by the Lagos State Ministry of Commerce at the Civic Centre along Ozumba Mbadiwe road, Victoria Island. Being a young, successful entrepreneur and chairman/C.E.O of Bamz Holdings, a billion naira annual revenue conglomerate that has investments in many facets of the country’s economic ecosystem ranging from oil and gas to manufacturing and energy distribution, Bamidele was invited to speak to young budding entrepreneurs on the myths and realities of operating a successful business enterprise in a difficult ecosystem as Nigeria. He had kept his message precise and straight to the point. He was very critical of the Federal Government for failing to provide enabling environment for small scale businesses to thrive. He was also critical of commercial banks operating in the country for exploiting local business owners.

“The banking system has failed us as well,” he said. “Our banks would give a six percent interest rate to foreign investors who take their loans – and this, they would do without requesting for any security, but would slam a gargantuan twenty-six percent interest rate on local companies who apply for the same credit facility. And of course, collaterals must be provided.”

Bamidele Odusote also blamed local entrepreneurs for being ignorant of certain investment incentives which abound. Then, he went ahead to briefly lecture the crowd on the Pioneer Status Certificate issued to local businessmen who invest in certain business areas.

Jaguar F-Type S at

As soon as he was done with the lecture, Bamidele scampered out of the hall, rushed to his Jaguar F-Type S in the parking lot and drove out of the Civic Centre, heading straight to Club Uno at Adetokunbo Ademola street. He had a date with Bimbo. They had gone three weeks without speaking to each other after she found the nude picture of another girl on his phone. He wanted to make everything right tonight.

E1sXz8P24uPDh2ZqVMQcpN9SJust as he was approaching the gate of the club, he perceived a foul smell oozing from the backseat of his car. He kept driving but the smell became stronger. Then he heard a movement behind him. Bamidele knew he was the only one in the car, so his blood froze for a millisecond. He turned on the inner light of the car and looked into his rearview mirror. The car was dimly lit, but he could spot an object on the backseat of his car. It appeared to be a wrapped polythene bag. With his left hand on the steering, Bamidele reached for the object behind him with his right. The bag seemed to contain some pieces of something firm. At this point, the foul smell in the car had increased. The air now smelled of dead meat.

Bamidele, with dollops of sweat trickling down his face, drove into the parking lot of Club Uno and jolted his car to a stop. He turned around and reached for the bag which emitted foul odour in his car. As he pulled the bag open, the battered, disfigured face of a human rolled out and dropped to the floor of the car. It was the chopped head of Bimbo. At this point, Bamidele could almost feel his heart stop beating. He pushed the bag away as he took short breaths. The weight of his own head grew too heavy for his neck as he felt sharp pangs of pain biting into his skull.

Oh God, Oh God, he gasped.

Red liquid trickled out of the now agape polythene bag, onto the footmat of his car. Bamidele felt his stomach churn in disgust, then vomited at the sickening sight and smell around him. He sat on his seat, shell-shocked for a couple of seconds, trying to come to terms with reality. Then he heard a knock on the pane of his glass window. He threw a quick look at two figures standing by the side of his car. They were not the club’s bodyguards. They were men in uniform. As he lowered his window, the closest of the men to him pointed a card at him and uttered some words Bamidele could barely hear. The man opened Bamidele’s car, pulled him out and placed a cuff around his wrists. Bamidele could hardly fight back. He could hardly breathe.



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