I just couldn’t wait for the long-due lecture to be over. The sun was burning ferociously in the sky on this faithful Friday and the old, boring barrister deemed it fit to extend his usual credit hour from two to four, all in the name of wanting to cover the syllabus so we could have enough time to revise and do personal studies for the exams. For crying out loud, the semester was just beginning (in fact, we were in its third week) and the silly old man said he had to cover the syllabus of a thirteen-week long term, today. Was he nuts? That had to be the final straw that would break his back. Surely, we would petition for his removal. After all, they taught us to be outspoken. If only the topics he chose to treat would agree to sink into our thick skulls (no, they wouldn’t. Not the quic quid plantator solo solo cedi rule); if only the class wasn’t as jam-packed as sardine…; if only the PHCN didn’t hold power at that moment; if only some block-head didn’t spoil the already stuffy atmosphere with his clumsy, foul mess (or could it be a hers…no, it’s got to be a his. Too powerful. Now, nobody would breathe comfortably); if only the Grand Lords who sat at the back would stop murmuring…; if only Fadekemi was here… My unsettled spirit caused my eyes to rove. All I could see were sad faces, hungry faces, haggard faces, depressed faces, angry faces…especially that of Abayomi Olakunle a.k.a Fa-in boy.

It was almost five and he had plans for the weekend which he would have loved to start setting in motion long ago, but no, the pathetic old man wouldn’t let him leave the class. And then, there was Titilayo Chris-Ogundare a.k.a happening babe. Her usual chubby cheeks (due to the act of chewing gum) looked flattened and depressed. Her pack of Chinese bubble gum had been exhausted, and the monster before her kept pointing every question to her section of the class. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he picked her. And how right she was! The wrinkled, scrawny fingers of the lecturer stretched over the crowd, like Moses’ staff over the red sea, pointing at her.

“Titi, how do we reconcile the equitable doctrine of laches and acquiescence with that of the quic quid plantator solo solo cedi rule?”

We all knew doom was beckoning… for barrister Anazodo Okereke. Titi was bound to flare up. And she did…okay, almost did. I instantly became oblivious of the happenings in class when I noticed that the daughter of Jezebel, Clara Uwaifo had been starring unflinchingly at me. What a beautiful name for a bitchy hippie! Whoever said the devil couldn’t fall in love had a cryptogram here to fix.

Clara, Clara…daughter of the great senator, Fidel Uwaifo; born in Rivers State, had primary education at Ibadan, high school in the U.K and back to Nigeria with a pop star wannabe hair-do to study Law because her dad said so; and says she’s in love with ME! For the love of Billy the goat, a hippie in love with me! I got to know about her obsession with me from rumours spreading round. I had laughed over it with Fadekemi as a silly joke, but when I got a flower from her on February 14, I knew my nightmares were becoming a reality.

And then a card (with some love song from King Solomon); and later a Gucci branded wristwatch, followed by diamond encrusted bracelets. At first, I had thought they were mere friendly gestures, but lo and behold, when I got the keys to a Rolls Royce from her as a ‘token’ from her dad for the love we shared, I knew the water had gone over the bridge. We? How? Love? When? Gently, like a good boy, I returned every pin she ever gave me (to the disapproval of my guys) and told her to stop taking that crap or whatever it was she smoked because it had obviously distorted her reasoning and sense of human understanding. When was there ever a ‘we’ not to talk more of there existing the L-word? Gosh, I thought she was trying to play a fast one, until I saw her break down and literally cry her eyes out, swearing to kill herself (as if I cared) if I didn’t love her in return. I then knew she was actually nuts. Now, she’s giving me that witchy glance from across her seat…

My mind darted to Fadekemi. She was my best, best friend. We grew up together in the same compound, but encountered different life experiences. My best friend has actually seen the devil himself, I mean hell. Her father was a habitual drunk who abandoned her now late mother when she was only two. Her mother, who suffered from severe emotional and physical trauma was diagnosed of cancer three years later. After battling with the dreaded monster disease for eight years (her breasts were cut off, her scalp gradually lost its hair, her pockets drained of money from exorbitant treatment) she finally died in her sleep. At thirteen, Kemi left our yard to stay with her divorced uncle, who was a wolf in sheep clothing. Not only did he subject her to dehumanizing treatments, he also had his way with her. He raped her! Afterwards, her pastor took her in since she had no one to turn to. Not another uncle, or aunt or relative, none. The court case with her uncle fell through for want of substantive corroboration!

“So you have the temerity to tell me you have no idea?!” the angry words of barrister Anazodo broke into my thoughts. He was obviously referring to the carefree Titi who took a decade to stand up only to say she didn’t understand a bit of what the lecturer had been pouring.

Earlier in the week Fadekemi told me she had finally succumbed to the pressure of her man, Chike. Chike is one cool, charming , lovable chap from the department of medicine who had trailed my best friend for over two sessions. Kemi had been sceptical about men (not after her bizarre childhood experiences) but Chike was one fellow who had refused to be put off by her determined resolution. Last semester, she gave him the nod and both started dating. Against my advise, Kemi told me they had tried the bed exercise on Monday night after a couple of drinks and overpowering persuasion by Chike. Two days ago, she complained of having nauseating feelings, and vomited a couple of times, afterwards. Naturally, eyebrows would raise and the P-word would become too heavy to suggest.

Today, she couldn’t be in school because her condition was getting serious. I had suggested she see a doctor, and we agreed to go together when I was back from school. I fear for my friend. She’s had enough of punches from life already and getting heavy now, after just one silly mistake would be too much a punishment. We are in the ultimate class and will be due for Law School soon. How would she cope? How would her adopted clergy parents receive the news? How about her late mother? How would she react in the grave? No, my friend can’t be heavy. Maybe, she’s only got malaria.

“And that will be all for the semester,” the barrister announced. “Good luck in your exams!”

“Shurrup jo!” the Grand Lords whispered from behind.

The announcement was a huge relief to everyone. We just couldn’t wait to hit the road. Just as I got out of my seat to escape encountering the daughter of Jezebel, my phone rang. Kemi. She must be pretty worried.

“Hi,” I placed the phone in my ear and said. “Am on my way. We’re just done with class.”

From the sound of her weak, fragile voice I could surmise all was but well. “We can make it to the clinic before dark,” I said.

“I…I already did – that that,” she whispered back.

My heart skipped a bit. “So? What’s the news? Are you pregnant? Please say no.”

She hesitated, then whimpered, sniffed and said, “Yes, I’m pregnant.”

Jesus! I felt my skin flare before my eyes. That’s terrible. But I tried holding back my emotions so I wouldn’t cry more than the idiomatic bereaved. As I searched for words of encouragement, she dropped the bombshell.

“ And …and…HI V positive too.”

This conclusion shattered my confidence and my bones felt weak at the joint. Two lines of tears trickled down my cheeks and I stood lost for words. And that was the last time I heard from my friend who didn’t return home afterwards. At the moment, I don’t know what to do or what to say if by dumb luck, we stumbled on each other. And that was the last thing I remember of that particular day. I woke up in the hospital after the call. Reason? After the call, I turned around only to be accosted by the daughter of Jezebel who insisted on spending the whole day with me. Of course, I fainted.



PS: This story of mine was published in the 1st edition of Degree 360 Magazine, as far back as 2010. Ignore every grammatical or typographical blunders you noticed. I have come a long way since then. Please.

First Time


“I don’t usually do this,” she said as she returned to the bed, slowly letting her back rub against the gentle fabrics of the bed sheets. She had spent a larger part of the day, mulling over how the night’s event would pan out. It had been a tough decision to make.

Dollops of tears trickled down the side of her face.

“Will I enjoy it?” she asked herself in low voice and turned her face to the giant-sized clock on the wall. It was a few minutes past 9:00pm. It was pretty late, but it was not yet time. She had agreed to do it by 9:30pm. She had imagined it would not last for long and she was grateful for that. She could not imagine doing it anytime later than 9:30pm.

Tick Tock Tick Tock…

She waited patiently, hoping she could be done with it already. It was beginning to seem like forever and she could not take the suspense. It was heart-wrenching.

A few minutes later, her stomach growled angrily, signalling her to get done with it already. She threw a glance at the giant-sized clock. The time was now 9:15pm. She could not take it anymore. She had to do it now!

So, she flung herself out of the bed and reached for her handbag. She pulled out a polythene bag which was bound over, from the handbag. As she loosened the polythene bag, the sweet aroma of fufu and afang soup which resided therein, hit her nostrils. She took in a deep breath, savouring the sweet smell of the food which she had bought earlier in the day during her lunch break at work.

Ever since she bought the food and placed same in her handbag, she could not wait to get home and have same for dinner. She usually got home from work around 9:00pm due to the heavy traffic experienced on the Third Mainland Bridge and she had sworn to have dinner tonight not later than 9:30pm.

This would be the first time she would be having fufu and afang for dinner and she could not wait to have the once-in-a-lifetime experience.


Daddy’s Little Girl

In commemoration of today being the International Day of the Girl Child, here is an old flash fiction I wrote. Hope you enjoy it and let me know your thoughts in the comment section.

“Go to daddy,” Mom said, beckoning me to move closer to dad. Mom and Dad were both still in bed, covered in the big, fluffy duvet, with only their faces and necks jutting out. I sat by the edge of the bed, contemplating whether or not to obey Mom.

“You have bed wet again, haven’t you?” Mom said with a frown. “She’s getting too old for this,” she said to Dad.

“Oh baby,” Dad said with a forced smile. “You can come over. It’s okay,” he said to me, before stealing a quick gulp of the drink by his bedside.

I looked at Mom, looked at Dad and then, turned to Mom again.

Mom shook her head, sprang out of bed and dashed into the bathroom.

“She’ll get used to it,” Mom said as she bathed, referring to our current ‘situation’. We had just moved into this one-room apartment. Mom had told me this was only temporary as she and Dad would soon be over their financial problems. What I hated most about our ‘situation’ was that, at eleven, I had to share the same bed with Mom and Dad.

Mom came out of the bathroom, already dressed.

“I have to see Mama Ngozi at the market. She promised to assist me with some money today,” Mom said to Dad. Then she turned to me, “Clean the room before leaving for school. Take this,” she dropped a fifty naira note on the bed. “Get something to eat.” With those words, she kissed Dad and bolted out of the room.

After some time, Dad looked at me with a wry smile.

“Listen,” he said. “If you stop being childish, I’ll treat you like my daughter. Now come to bed to daddy.”



Author’s Note:

The Girl Child is exposed to a lot and it behoves on the family and the society to protect her. But how well are our girl’s protected? One unfortunate situation which our female children are exposed to is sexual harassment and abuse. I once wrote an article for Bella Naija wherein I bemoaned the manner with which society claims to be protecting the girl child from sexual predators. The society tells the girl “do not dress provocatively”, “do not walk alone at night” , “do not go to a boy’s place” etc etc  and I think this is the wrong approach. Whatever happened to educating our boys not to maltreat, dehumanize, sexually abuse or howsoever, demean our girls?! You cannot completely “protect” the girl child from  peculiar situations  such as sexual harassment/abuse without teaching our boys not to sexually harass our girls. A sexually depraved boy will grow up to be a paedophile, sexual harasser and abuser, wife beater etc.  Parents, teach your sons to refrain from behaving as beasts at an early stage. Instil this moral in them. You may be saving one girl child from being abused in the future.



Republished: Slay Queen


Let me tell you a story.

Our story starts with Slay Queen getting a new notification from Facebook. Ekubo McBrian had just hit her up for the twelfth time today. She had only just accepted his friendship request since he sent it six months ago, but he was fast becoming a pain in the bum. She heaved a deep sigh and placed her phone back in her denim pocket.

“Madam, we don reach the place,” the cabman said.

She looked out of the window. The giant “Eko Hotel and Suites” sign at the top of the towering building welcomed her preying eyes.

“Okay,” she said as she paid the cabman and alighted from his overly comfy Metro taxi. She approached the entrance of the hotel and found her way to the private hall where she spotted her would-be company relaxing in a few seats away. He stood up and pulled the chair for her.

Continue reading


The night was filled with shouts and cries from McGriffin Hostel. The jock boys were at it again, they were always the ones disturbing the peace of the hostel. Craig opened the door of Room 42 to see other boys rush by in a hurry; they were going to see the jock boys pound one another to a pulp as they provided entertainment for the boys of McGriffin Hostel with their occasional night fights and squabbles. ‘What’s going on this time with those jerks?’ asked Max, Craig’s roommate. The noise generated from the fight happening in one of the rooms below had disrupted their video game. Seated next to Max was Lance who seemed in a hurry to get back to thrashing Max in the game. Laying on one of the beds in the room was the fourth and last roommate, Ryan. He was reading a book and he seemed unperturbed by the noise. He was used to them, the jerks who always felt as though they owned the school. They disturbed the hostel with their loud and deranged music, quarrelled every now and then but were hardly confronted by anyone. The hall wardens never bothered to check in on them as one of them had ended up in the hospital with a broken nose three weeks earlier. He had earned that while trying to separate a fight that had ensued between two jock boys. In addition to the broken nose, he also got two fractured ribs and a battered face. The two miscreants were of course expelled from the school but no one wanted to be a martyr. Everyone just seemed to mind his business whenever the jock boys were around.

Just the other day, some second year students were found beaten and bloody as a result of crossing paths with some jock boys. Earlier that day, some jock boys were beaten by the second year students but later that night, the jock boys retaliated and exacted sweet revenge back on the poor fellows. The beaten boys refused to disclose the people responsible for their predicament but everyone knew the jock boys had their imprints written all over it but still remained mute.

The shouts and cries at the hostel intensified as many onlookers and spectators gathered to see the rascals batter their faces. The occupants of Room 42 however remained in their room. Max and Lance resumed their video game but their minds weren’t in the game anymore; they wanted to go and see the fight down below. It looked like people were gathering but no one was ready to separate them. ‘Who could blame them anyway?’ thought Lance to himself. Craig suddenly stood from his bed saying, ‘I have to go and see this fight, this noise is deafening. Having said that, he walked to the door, opened it and walked out. It wasn’t long before Max and Lance followed suit, dropping their game pads on the floor. They all left the room except for Ryan who seemed rather pre-occupied with his novel in hand.

The crowd surrounding the fighters egged them on, cheering them on as the two jock boys involved in the fight kept battering and ramming into each other. The taller of the two boys held his opponent in a tight neck grip and pummelled the living hell out of his face. The second jock suddenly found the first jock’s foot and twisted it. A sharp cry of pain tore through the night as the first jock went down in a heap. He hurriedly let go of the second jock who instantly landed a swift kick on to the face of the first. Blood erupted out of the face of the first jock as the second jock added two more kicks to his temple. The crowd was now chanting for the defeated jock to get up and continue the fight as his opponent kept delivering blows, punches and kicks. The jock on the floor suddenly rushed and grabbed the second jock by the torso, lifted him up in the air and with a loud cry, threw him on the floor. Loud cheers and whoops emanated from the crowd. Lance and Max were screaming themselves hoarse, congratulating the first jock. Craig stood at a corner watching the whole fight. He wondered what people enjoyed in it though, the fighters could get themselves killed but yet people found pleasure in it. He soon felt that he had seen enough and made his way back to his room. Max and Lance would return when they‘ve had their fill. He got to his room, opened the door and was greeted with a cold dark silence. The lights in the room were off. They had all left Ryan in the room with the lights on. Maybe, Ryan had decided to go to bed and had switched off the lights. He had better turn them on. He groped along the wall, looking for the light switch. ‘Ryan, Ryan’, he called out but he met with no response. Alas, he found the light switch and turned it on. What he saw, he wasn’t prepared for. Ryan laid on his bed, his throat slashed and his face stabbed multiple times. The book he was reading lay on top his chest soaked in his blood. A part of his cheek had been cut off and his nose bashed in. Blood dripped from the bed and pooled all over the floor.


“Pandemonium” was written by Onadeko Akinwande, an aspiring writer, biochemist, lover of reading, music and fun. He is also a graduate of Bowen University.



Do you want to get paid for your writing? Read our call for submissions by clicking  here .

My Big Secret


Something amazing, yet shocking, happened to me yesterday. You might want to get a seat for this one. I’ll try to make it short, though.

I had travelled to my hometown to see my parents last weekend. So yesterday, I was about travelling back to Lagos when I stumbled on my Mom and Dad having a quiet conversation. They were in the sitting room and had not heard me walking along the hall way. When I walked into the sitting room, they quickly stopped talking. I could see the shock in their eyes when they saw me.

“How long have you been standing by the corridor?” my dad asked, with shock-filled eyes.

“I wasn’t standing there,” I answered, wondering the essence of the question. “Is there any problem?”

My dad shook his head. I could see the insincerity in the way he shook his head. And then I spotted an old-looking black and white picture in his hand. As I made to have a better look at the picture, he quickly tried to hide it under the throw pillows on the sofa.

“What is that?” I asked, my heart burning with curiosity.

“Nothing,” my dad said.

I knew he wasn’t being truthful. So, I persisted with my queries. When my dad saw that I wouldn’t flinch or leave until I got a response, he told me to sit and listen to what he had to say – just like I told you to get a seat at the beginning of this post.

The black and white picture my dad had in his hand was that of my paternal great great grand father, Obong Ime Udo Ekpo. In the picture, my great great grand father was in a tobacco farm, surrounded by some white men. There were other black men in the picture too. Those ones looked to be cultivating the farm. My great great grand father appeared to be supervising them.

My dad told me that, my great great grand father was sold as a slave to the white men. He worked on a tobacco farm in North Carolina as far back as 1860 (my dad wasn’t too sure of that date, though). According to my dad, my great great grand father stood out from the other slaves due to his hard working nature, thereby making the white men take some liking to him. They quickly made him the head of the slaves on the tobacco farm. My great great grand father was also given some privileges that no other slaves were given. One of such was to take a wife. Well, they didn’t really call the woman he chose his wife – she was just a fellow slave which they allowed my great great grand father to mate. But my great great grand father called her his wife.

I can’t really remember the details of my family tree the way my dad was recounting them. Every information he spewed was just too odd and surreal for me to believe. I could not comprehend them all at once. He just kept talking and talking. And then when I asked him how and why we came to be in Nigeria, he said his father (my grand father), moved back to Nigeria after the country gained independence in 1960. He also said his father was a devout Christian who tried to erase the unpleasant family history (that my great great grand father was a slave). That, at the time, people who had a slavery history in their family were ridiculed by the local community. Some were even used as sacrifices for the gods. So, my grand father did all he could to destroy our family slavery history.

“So does that mean we have ties with America in our family?” I asked my dad.

He was silent. And then, he looked at my mom, as if to prompt her to pick up from where he stopped. I looked at my mom too. She heaved a deep sigh and then said, “Your father moved to the United States in 1985 in a curious bid to trace his family history. It was there he was able to access this black and white photo of your great great grand father. Your great great grand father had changed his name to Jefferson McDowell Harold, in a bid to please his masters.”

“What? Daddy travelled to America? And I…We never knew?” I asked my parents in shock. “Did you go with him too?”

There was a frightening lull in our conversation. The room we were sitting in appeared to be spiralling in my head. Everything appeared to be roving in the air.

“Yes, I went with him,” my mom said.


“I was pregnant with you around that period…You were born in North Carolina…”

“Wait, what?”

“Yes, you were born in America…but before we could process your American passport and obtain a Social Security Number for you, the Immigration Officers deported us…”

I collapsed at this point. Not literal collapse, but my knees became weak at this point and my body was shaking. I was born in America? I am an American citizen? And my parents never told me this after all these years? Why didn’t they tell me this? Why is it such a BIG secret? Why did they let me stay in this God-forsaken country all my life and suffer all this sufferings?

You can imagine the shock I was in on receiving this information from my parents. There was thick silence in the room for almost ten minutes. I guess we were all trying to process the heaviness of the information just divulged. The one question I wanted to then ask my parents was if, I was born in a hospital and whether a birth certificate was issued.

“Do I have an American birth certificate?” I asked.

My parents were quiet.

“Mom, dad, where is my real birth certificate?”

No response.

“My American birth certificate?”

No response.

“Mom? Dad? Where is my American birth certificate?”

As I kept asking that question, everything in the room appeared be turning on its head. I’m not speaking figuratively now. Everything was actually turning upside down. Even my parents started appearing to be moving away from me.

And that was how suddenly, I felt someone tap my shoulder and I heard the person say “Oga, you are snoring in court.”

I woke up to see my face covered in a pool of my own saliva on the court room table.


This story was first published on my personal Facebook wall.

Photo Credit: Google.

Sent To Golgotha

golgothaI struggled to scribble as much of the events my eyes could behold. My hand shook like the waist of a cultural troop dancer. The old village stadium was overcrowded. The village chief, his elders and their wives occupied the front row; all dressed in royal regalia like it was some feast we were celebrating. Well, yes, it was the New Yam Festival, but no one was here to see any tuber or masquerade. Everyone here came to send the wicked on a journey of no return. They were here to witness the public execution of a varsity miscreant who raped and gruesomely murdered a daughter of the soil. And yes, on a venerated festive day.

“May the Lord accept your soul. Amen,” the pot-bellied Priest said and banged his dusty Bible, the expression on his face suggesting the direct opposite of his prayers. It was obvious he wished the convict baked in hell. A hood was placed over the boy’s head, and the thick noose fastened to his neck.

Did he really do what he was convicted for? I thought. Was the Judge unduly pressurised by the village to pass a death penalty on him?

When the case was assigned to me by my Editor, I reluctantly accepted it. My last Crime Report on the country’s first use of electric chair left a sour taste in my mouth that I vowed never to cover death sentences again. I still remember the experience like it was yesterday. It was horrifying.


The first jolt of 1900 volts passed through the condemned prisoner’s body. Sparks and flames erupted from the electrode tied to his legs. A large puff of greyish smoke and sparks poured out from under the hood that covered his face. An overpowering stench of burnt flesh and clothing pervaded the room. Later, two doctors examined his body but declared he was not dead. He was administered another doze of electricity. His hood burst in flames, revealing a blackened face. Again the doctors examined him, but declared his heart was still racing. A third charge of electricity was passed through his body. The blackened skin exploded, revealing a bone of skull streaming with blood. The doctor checked the third time and pronounced him dead…

“Aww!!!” the cry of the crowd jolted me out of my thoughts and brought me back to the present. The boy had just been hanged. His head hung askew over of his neck. I could see his eyes had also popped out of their sockets. His tongue hung out as well.

Then a car sped into the arena, causing pandemonium in the crowd. A man ran out of the car, holding a court document in his hand. Ten minutes later, the word spread in the crowd. The court had just ordered a stay of execution. New evidence revealed the wrong person was prosecuted and convicted. The actual criminal – the boy’s twin, had turned himself in to the Police and confessed to the crime.


PS: I originally published this story on Naija Stories on November 2010.

Follow me on Twitter: @haroldwrites


Instagram: Instagram/HaroldWrites



grunge-texture-wallpaper-1Bamidele Ayodeji went through his case file again as he awaited the arrival of the trial Judge. This should be a pretty easy case for him. Everything was in place to get the conviction he wanted – the conviction he needed. The conviction he badly needed. It was a murder case. The victim was identified. She was poisoned by a bitter admirer who could not handle her rejection of his advances. This bitter admirer – the accused – was apprehended after dogged investigation by men of the Police Force. The proof of evidence before the court, established that the accused committed the murder. The accused also confessed to the crime and his confessional statement formed part of the proof of evidence before the court. As far as Bamidele Ayodeji was concerned, this was a done deal.

How the proceedings of the day were going to be conducted played out in his head.

Court Registrar reads the charge to the accused. He pleads guilty. Bamidele calls in his witnesses and tenders the incontrovertible exhibits. The accused counsel who is assigned to him from the Legal Aid Council cannot impugn any of the exhibits. The court will admit the exhibits including the confessional statement of the accused. The court will proceed to find the accused guilty of murder – he admitted committing the crime anyway – and then, sentence him.

“Ah,” Bamidele Ayodeji heaved a deep sigh of relief. He could not believe he would be getting his first conviction after five years as a Public Prosecutor at the Ministry of Justice. The infuriating words of Mr. Alex Oguntoyibo, his director at the Ministry, whizzed into his head.

“You are a good for nothing scumbag!” Mr Oguntoyibo had screamed at him the other day. “I don’t know how you got in here. Five years at this Ministry of Justice and you haven’t got a conviction? Of what use are you to us? Who employed you?! Who do you know?”

Mr. Oguntoyibo’s recent tirade at Bamidele was one of several of such heated words. He was always angry at Bamidele at the slightest provocation. Bamidele knew the reason for Mr. Oguntoyibo’s bad blood with him, and it had nothing to do with Bamidele’s work ethics or lack of achievements. When new recruits at the Ministry were hired, Bamidele Ayodeji was chosen by the Board of Directors at the Ministry over Mr. Oguntoyibo’s preferred candidate.

“Court!” The yell of the Registrar announcing the entrance of the Judge jolted Bamidele Ayodeji out of his reverie.

Show time.


Continue reading

Slay Queen


Let me tell you a story.

Our story starts with Slay Queen getting a new notification from Facebook. Ekubo McBrian had just hit her up for the twelfth time today. She had only just accepted his friendship request since he sent it six months ago, but he was fast becoming a pain in the bum. She heaved a deep sigh and placed her phone back in her denim pocket.

“Madam, we don reach the place,” the cabman said.

She looked out of the window. The giant “Eko Hotel and Suites” sign at the top of the towering building welcomed her preying eyes.

“Okay,” she said as she paid the cabman and alighted from his overly comfy Metro taxi. She approached the entrance of the hotel and found her way to the private hall where she spotted her would-be company relaxing in a few seats away. He stood up and pulled the chair for her.

“I thought you would not make it,” he said in a soothing sonorous voice as she made her way into the seat.  Then he smiled.

“That smile,” she said, pointing to his face. “The one that got me.”

They had both met on Twitter during one of those feisty nights when Twitter Nigeria was agog with a trending topic. News of Toke Makinwa’s marital woes had just filtered into social media and the wisest Nigerians were postulating how it was all Toke’s fault. Slay Queen’s company, Ahmed Preeq, had a different view point. He did not blame Toke, neither did he blame Maje. He blamed God for giving men penises. His tweets on the subject were retweeted by hundreds of Twitterzens at lighting pace and someone retweeted one of such tweets to Slay Queen’s TL. The first thing she did was to view his avatar. He had his knob on full display. Then, she read his bio. It read “If you would like to fuck me, DM me.” She thought he was cocky, but she also thought he was cute.

She followed him and he returned the favour almost immediately by following her, as if he had been waiting all his life for this day. Then, she DMed him with the words “I would like to fuck you”. She was serious. He replied almost immediately too with “Date? Time? Venue?” He was serious.

At first, Slay Queen was astounded. She thought he was unreal, but she disregarded her shock and replied, “Next Saturday. 8pm. Eko Hotel, VI.”

Ahmed Preeq spent little time in replying “Not one second late.”

Today was the day. They were meeting for the first time.  The only words they said to each other at the table were the only words they had exchanged when she arrived. They stole glances at each other throughout the course of eating, without as much as a whisper. Slay Queen found this exciting and intimidating. She hoped he would live up to the latter part of his Twitter handle: “Preeq”. That was why she followed him on Twitter in the first place.

After they were done, Ahmed Preeq led her by the hand to his room. This was the moment she was waiting for.

Umm, I won’t trouble your innocent mind with disturbing graphic details of what transpired between them. Let’s just say they consumed each other in raw, passionate, mortal affections.

Now, after they were done, Slay Queen rose to use the bathroom.

“You want to pee?” Ahmed queried.

Slay Queen looked at him as he sprawled on the bed. “No, I’m taking a shower.”

“You feel dirty?” Ahmed joked.

Slay Queen heaved a sigh. “I prefer you in your quiet state.”  She walked into the bathroom, had a shower and came out fully dressed.

“What, you’re leaving?” Ahmed asked in surprise. “It’s like ten pm.”

Slay Queen walked to her Michael Kors bag, picked it up, pulled out an envelope and handed it over to Ahmed.

“What?” Ahmed asked in more surprise. “Is that supposed to be my bill? Relax woman, I’ve got your money. Just come back to bed.”

Slay Queen dropped the envelope on the bed and walked out of the room.


She stole a glance at her wrist watch as she beckoned on a taxi by the gate of the hotel. It was now twenty minutes past ten.

“The bastard,” she cursed under her breath, referring to Ahmed. Slay Queen had another meeting for eleven o’clock and had hoped she would be done with Ahmed before ten. But he had managed to bed her longer than she had expected. She was impressed with his skills. She was also impressed that he had kept to his Twitter handle. He was a good preeq.
A Metro taxi screeched to a halt before her, jolting her out of her reverie.

“Radisson Blu,” she said nonchalantly to the driver as she slotted into the back seat. The cab weaved its way through the fabulous and beautifully lit inner-city of Victoria Island and was at the magnificent Radisson Blu edifice in no time. Slay Queen paid off the cabman and made her way to the hotel. She was no stranger to the surroundings, so it was not difficult for her to locate Tokunbo CashMoney’s room. He was her next guest for the night. They had met on Instagram. He always liked her pictures, even when she did not know who he was. She was forced to return the favour by visiting his instagram page. That was when she was hooked. His pictures depicted his handle. He, figuratively speaking, drowned in wads of cash in all his instagram posts. She liked all his pictures. The rest, like they say, is history: They followed each other, exchanged contacts and agreed to meet tonight.

Slay Queen opened his hotel room door to a surprise: Tokunbo CashMoney had mints of dollars spread all over the king-size bed, with him at the centre. He was only clothed in shorts. He stood up to welcome Slay Queen, poured her a glass of wine, and then, started talking about a million things she would never remember. Her mind was still on the wads of cash she had just seen. Will he slay me on money? She thought to herself. Wow!!!

The night grew longer as Tokunbo talked on. Slay Queen had to interrupt him.

“Are we going to talk all night or are we going to fuck?” she said curtly.

Tokunbo was stunned. He had thought it was only appropriate that they had a conversation before doing anything, but whatever…

He started undressing her, but she pushed him to the bed, stripped him of his shorts and started working on him. He could not believe how wild she was. She worked on him like she was possessed. They consumed each other in rough, feisty, unapologetic sex. This went on for twenty minutes and was only cut short when Tokunbo climaxed. Slay Queen, who had been riding him, slid off his stomach to the bed. Tokunbo just laid there, gasping in excitement.

“You are awesome,” he said as he tried to stroke her hair.

She moved her head away. “You are a learner,” she replied. “I wasn’t finished.”

Her phone buzzed. She looked at the screen. It was a new Facebook notification from Ekubo McBrian. He had just sent her another message. The message read:

“It’s a lonely night for me. I just got into town. I’m so cold. I wish you were here, but you won’t even accept my friendship request.”

She replied, texting “where are you?”

“Lekki. At home. Where are you?” he returned her text.

“On my way to your place. Send me your address” She texted back.
With that, she sprang out of the bed and headed for the bathroom with a grin on her face. As she closed the door, she heard Tokunbo CashMoney say, “Don’t take too long in there. I’m ready for another round.”

“I’m done with you,” she retorted. “Get my money ready.”

In no time, she was out of the bathroom. Tokunbo CashMoney looked at her in shock.

“Are you serious?” he asked, astonished.

Slay Queen pulled out an envelope from her bag and handed same to Tokunbo.

“For real?” he said as he hesitated to collect the brown paper. Slay Queen shrugged.

When Tokunbo realized she was not joking, he nonchalantly pointed to the bed and said, “They’re all yours.”

He was referring to the cash they had just made out on.
Slay Queen scrambled to the bed, quickly stashing away every note she could lay her hands on into her bag. After she was done, she ran her index finger across Tokunbo’s lips and licked her finger. With that, she scurried out of the room without saying a word. It was One o’clock in the morning.


Slay Queen found a cab which took her to Ekubo McBrian’s address which he had sent to her via Facebook messenger. Ekubo was at the gate to receive her. He led her by the hand into the palour. As he walked over to the bar to pour them a drink, Slay Queen said, “I did not come here for drinks.”

“O….kay,” Ekubo slurred.  “Do I get you water instead?”

Slay Queen shook her head. “Get me your bed.”

Ekubo McBrian could not believe his ears. She wanted to bed him so soon, even without knowing him?

“Are you a witch or something,” he joked as they made their way to his room.

“Yes,” she said, smiling charmingly at him.

Which girl beds a guy she hardly knows on the first date, in his house? Ekubo thought.

Before he could come up with an answer, he heard Slay Queen say, “You said you were cold. You have been buzzing me all day. I’m here to light up your world.”

It sounded poetic to Ekubo but he could not care less. He was actually cold and yes, he could do with some sex, but this…This was unreal.

“You do this to every guy who hits you up on social media?” he asked, as she sucked at his knob.

“Yes,” Slay Queen replied, with Ekubo’s knob in her mouth. Then she stopped. “Your body is actually warm.”

Ekubo shrugged. “But I feel cold.”

“I like it,” Slay Queen said.

They consumed each other with passion and venom late into the night. After they were done, Ekubo stood up to use the bathroom. He turned on the shower. While he was in there, Slay Queen’s phone rang.
She smiled at the sight of the caller ID.

“Hey,” she whispered on picking the call.

“How parole dey go?” the voice on the other end asked in pidgin English.

“I dey rep my body count game as I been promise na,” she answered in a very low tone.

“Na lie,” the voice on the other end said in disbelief. “How many you don knack?”

“Three so far… I pick the first guy from Twitter, the second one from Instagram and the third one from Facebook…”

“Omo, you bad gaan. How you take measure them?”

“My guy, na their name I use o. The first guy get better prick, so na him prick I been go obtain. The second one get money….”

“And the third one nko?”

“Mehn, I no know wetin I go obtain from this guy sef. Him yeye name na McBrian…”

The voice on the other end burst out laughing. “Ehn, him name na McBrian abi? Where him dey stay?”


“Na big boy be that na. Check whether him get Macbook….”

Slay Queen’s roving eyes quickly scrutinized the room. There was no Macbook in sight. But she saw an iphone 6 sitting by the bedside. “No macbook. But I don see iphone…”

“Obtain am,” the voice on the other end advised.

Slay Queen scrambled across the bed to where Ekubo phone was. She quickly put the phone into her bag. “Done deal,” she said, laughing in low tone.

Just before she dropped the call, the voice on the other end said, “No mind all these yeye men. Shebi na toto dem want? Na toto dem go get.” Then, the line went dead. Slay Queen kept smiling.

Ekubo McBrian came out of the bathroom not long afterwards.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked.

“Because I’m leaving soon.”

“Wow, really?”
Slay Queen got up from the bed and started dressing up.

“You’re serious?” Ekubo asked, looking surprised.

Slay Queen pulled out an envelope from her bag and handed same over to Ekubo.

“It was nice meeting you,” she said with a bold smile on her face. As she headed for the door, she heard Ekubo say, “Wait.”

He pulled out an envelope from the drawer by his bed side and handed same over to Slay Queen.

“Keep it,” Slay Queen said. “I don’t want your money.”

“It’s not money.”

“So what is it?”

“A treasure.”

“Keep it. I don’t need your treasure. I sleep with men for a reason. I did not sleep with you for your treasure.”

“This treasure is not for the sex we had. I have been following you on Facebook for the last six months. Your pictures make me drool and weak and helpless…” He paused. “I got this for you in anticipation of whenever we would meet.”

“Oh. How thoughtful of you,” Slay Queen said as she collected the envelope.

“Don’t open it until you get home,” Ekubo advised.

“I won’t.”
With those two words, Slay Queen walked out of the room.

Ekubo McBrian dropped to his bed, with a wide grin on his face. He was excited his mission was accomplished. Then, he noticed Slay Queen’s envelope was still in his hand. He wondered what was in it. After spending the next thirty minutes contemplating what the envelope could contain, he decided to open it. There was a note inside. The note read:

“Hello sweetheart, I am a transgender and I am HIV positive. Deal with it.”

Ekubo felt his heart starting to beat irregularly. He had just bedded an HIV positive man.


Slay Queen found a cab as soon as she stepped out of the hotel premises. She gave the cabman an address as she slotted into the back seat. As they drove to her place in the thick of the night, Slay Queen heard herself burst out in laughter. Then her mind darted to the envelope Ekubo had given her. She wondered what was inside as she tore open the seal. Stacks of pictures fell from the envelope to the ground. Slay Queen reached for them. One after the other, she viewed the pictures. They were pictures of Ekubo in military apparel. The pictures appeared to have been taken somewhere in Africa. Some of the pictures were taken in refugee camps. In one of such pictures, Slay Queen could spot a signboard in the background with the inscription “Liberia”.

Is he a soldier? Did he go on a peacekeeping mission?

Then a phone in Slay Queen’s bag beeped. Slay Queen was certain it was not her phone. It was Ekubo’s. She reached for the phone. A text message had just come in. It was from a contact saved as “Doctor”. She opened the text message. It read:

“Hey Ekubo. The tests results have just come in. I don’t know how to say this man. But the tests have confirmed that, your fever is not normal. I’m afraid you may have contracted the Ebola virus. Call me when you get this message.”

Daddy’s Little Girl

black girl

“Go to daddy,” Mom said, beckoning me to move closer to dad. Mom and Dad were both still in bed, covered in the big, fluffy duvet, with only their faces and necks jutting out. I sat by the edge of the bed, contemplating whether or not to obey Mom.

“You have bed wet again, haven’t you?” Mom said with a frown. “She’s getting too old for this,” she said to Dad.

“Oh baby,” Dad said with a forced smile. “You can come over. It’s okay,” he said to me, before stealing a quick gulp of the drink by his bedside.

I looked at Mom, looked at Dad and then, turned to Mom again.

Mom shook her head, sprang out of bed and dashed into the bathroom.

“She’ll get used to it,” Mom said as she bathed, referring to our current ‘situation’. We had just moved into this one-room apartment. Mom had told me this was only temporary as she and Dad would soon be over their financial problems. What I hated most about our ‘situation’ was that, at eleven, I had to share the same bed with Mom and Dad.

Mom came out of the bathroom, already dressed.

“I have to see Mama Ngozi at the market. She promised to assist me with some money today,” Mom said to Dad. Then she turned to me, “Clean the room before leaving for school. Take this,” she dropped a fifty naira note on the bed. “Get something to eat.” With those words, she kissed Dad and bolted out of the room.

After some time, Dad looked at me with a wry smile.

“Listen,” he said. “If you stop being childish, I’ll treat you like my daughter. Now come to bed to daddy.”