A Twist in the Tale: P25

As we come to the end of this series, in his typical style, Lord Haemlet…


There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact – Arthur Conan Doyle


Relief and gratitude washed over P25 as he finally loosened the restraints that had held him captive for so long. Soon after, he began to shake in terror, so to calm his nerves, he closed his eyes and focused real hard on his immediate environment. He listened for voices, footsteps, the clinking of keys or the menacing clank of the metal doors, but none of those sounds assaulted his hearing. What P25 did hear disturbed him tremendously, so he strained his ears harder, and still heard nothing, only an ominous silence which offered him no comfort.

Secretly working for two mutually antagonistic agencies at the biddings of another agency, came with an unhealthy amount of peril. He’d known the risks involved as he’d known every one of his enemies. He’d known their capabilities, and therefore knew better than to underestimate them. He’d also known the measures and extent they would go, so he’d tried preparing for it. He’d also tried so hard to make sure that the one person, who he’d loved, was properly taken care of. But alas! It had been to no avail.


He’d met her on one of his assignments, in fact, she had been his assignment. He’d been told that she was a threat, and had to be eliminated without it being traced back to the agency. He’d followed and watched her for days, and by the time he was ready to kill her, he’d already known every little detail of her life. He’d known her joy, her pains and regrets. But he’d also come to realize that she was a lonely, harmless and beautiful soul, who was lost in this dangerous world.

So he’d offered her redemption and given her hope. He’d given her love and dedicated his life to her, as he’d done for the agency that birthed and betrayed him. An agency he’d for year’s garnered the trust and respect of all. An agency who’d for years, administered illicit drugs which rendered the human mind cold and void, into his system. An agency who’d for years, tortured him in the slowest possible ways, just for him to appreciate the concept of pain.

After a time, he understood that he was but a dog on a leash, while they were the master. He was theirs to command, and as every master would accord a dog, he was named P25. He was their enforcer and ‘Trojan horse’. He was their Rottweiler; one that was deceptively shrouded in the golden coat of a Retriever. For them, he’d risked his life by successfully infiltrating two hostile factions in what was termed, the ultimate coup de grâce the world had ever known. But everything changed after he’d tried to kill her.

On that day, he’d gone into the bakery she worked, killed everyone and then waited for her to arrive. He’d convinced himself that killing them all was necessary because it would hide his real motive, but he knew better. Ten minutes later, she sashayed into the bakery only to see a pistol being pointed at her head. He’d tried so hard to pull the trigger, but for some strange reason, her hypnotic eyes had held him hostage as she stood in shock.

For the first time, he realized that rebellion was the greatest feeling ever. The feeling had intoxicated and invigorated him. His deception remained a secret because he’d burnt down the bakery to make validation of her death impossible. For the first time he’d discovered the real import of life. For the first time, he realized that his work wasn’t his life. For the first time, he realized that he deserved to be happy, and soon, they were secretly wedded. And for a time, he was the happiest man alive.

 ‘For a time’!

He was finally at peace with himself, and he began to think of a way out. All he wanted was a clean break, a second chance at life, and a fresh start with Katharina. But as fate would have it, his deception was detected, and she was wrenched away from him forever. He’d sworn to destroy those that were responsible, but first he had to hide in the only safe place known to him. A safe haven only he and another knew existed.

But he was presented with the greatest shock when he realized that his safe haven had been compromised. He’d walked into a trap, and was devastated by the deceit that was unveiled before him. He’d stood dazed and horrified by the magnitude of the betrayal. He’d been effortlessly outwitted in a trade he was considered the best. His shame knew no bounds, and as he was finally bundled away, he howled like a wounded beast.


Finally he heard footsteps coming his way, and a feverish excitement coursed though his spine. Then he heard the clanking of keys and his heart stopped. After a minute, he heard a click as the door was unlocked, and when it was swung open, he let out a guttural shriek and attacked. A few minutes later, the fight was over and P25 was on the floor with a syringe sticking out of his limp arm, and five men gathered around him.

Three hours later, P25 sat strapped to a chair, with his head bloodied and eyes staring almost sightless. His once torturous face was now peaceful and forever devoid of the pain and horror it had known. His lobotomized brain, forever free from the poisonous grip of his schizophrenic psychosis. Now he was but an empty shell that was no longer a danger to others.

Standing before him were the the doctors who’d performed the lobotomy procedure on patient 25. They all stood watching him as they sadly bemoaned the route they’d been forced to take. For years, they had tried all forms of drugs and medications to no avail, and only turned to lobotomy as a last resort. After what seemed like an eternity, one of the doctors finally turned away in tears and left the ward.

It was quite understandable that Dr. Katharina could no longer bear to look at the now docile and empty shell of her husband. It was quite concievable that the experience may have forever scarred her.



I AM..no, ME! no! Who? They chase me you know..
I AM..no, ME! no! Who? They chase me you know..


Deep apologies for missing the post yesterday. Circumstances beyond my control and all that jazz.
By the way, Happy Democracy day! 14 years and I’m free to tweet what I want.

Stay gripped for the next instalment.
Follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni
Peace to Nigeria.

A Twist in the Tale: Hidden Treasures

Like a mix between Hadley Chase and Archer with an excess of melanin, Malick to give you:


The previous military offensive by the Joint Task Force popularly known as JTF had succeeded in driving the dreaded Boko Haram Islamic sect away from their NorthEast strongholdsinto neighbouring Niger, Chad and Cameroun. The rest of the insurgents had scattered down south. After several months of relative peace, violence broke out once again. The dreaded sect seemed to
have metamorphosed into a deadlier terror organisation. They also secured a new foothold, this time in northern Cross River.


Victor Isidor was trying to adjust to life in Calabar having fled the war torn town of Ogoja. The terror attacks had rendered the town unprofitable for business and unsafe for life and property. Frequent clashes by the military and the terror organisation made violence a daily occurence.

Residents departed Ogoja in droves and Victor, a Sales Manager for NewLine Electronics barely made the last van of China phones out of town.

Growing increasingly irritated by his inactivity, Victor was finding it hard to be entertained by the western fantasies weaved in Vampire Diaries. Such blatant lies rubbed him the wrong way. Jack Bauer and 24 didn’t impress him either. They should come to Nigeria and witness real drama, he thought with disdain.

When he felt a slight tremor, the familiar rumble of iron gates, he wondered if it was his uncle Sunny. His uncle was an accountant at Unicem. Unmarried at 42, he rarely came home during work hours.

The tolling doorbell informed Victor that it was not Sunny Isidor. His uncle usually called out or whistled whenever he came home. He had a visitor. Jehovah’s Witnesses? He quickly perished the thought, those ones operated on foot.

“Who’s there?”
“Mr. Oden” was the deep response.
“Oh welcome sir, please come in!”
“How are you Victor?”
“I’m fine Sir”

With skin the colour of overripe avocado pear and the presence of a mango tree, Mr. Linus Oden CEO of NewLine Electronics stepped in and the room seemed to shrink in size. If Idi Amin had a twin brother, Mr. Linus Oden could easily be mistaken for him.

Mr. Oden told Victor about a secret safe in his office, He wanted Victor to travel to Ogoja and retrieve a couple of envelopes from the safe for him. Promising to pay Victor’s salary arears once he returned with the envelopes, Mr. Oden stared at Victor as if he was daring him to refuse. Never one to back down from a challenge, Victor agreed to make the perilous journey.

Mr. Oden presented him a leather belt with a rather large G-Unit buckle, 20 thousand naira and a slip of paper with a phone number and the safe combination written on it.

“Save the number, memorize the combination and destroy the paper…”
“Do not call me on the phone till you return…”
“If you have any problems, call that number and tell Frank. Safe journey”

Victor prided himself as the eminence grise of Newline Electronics. His uncle’s invectives against the trip failed to dissuade him. Despite being owed 3 month’s wages, Victor left for Ogoja.

Captain Frank Opigo was a tough looking character, but he must have owed Mr Oden a lot of favours. Movement into and around the town of Ogoja was tightly controlled, but the Army Captain commandeered a Tata truck and directed 4 of his men to accompany Victor to the Office/Showroom at Lavoro Street.

Only a handful of people could be seen on the formerly busy street. Debris littered the streets, some buildings were without windows in the aftermath of the armed conflict. It was clear that the few people left were in the process of evacuating.

With the quartet of soldiers stationed outside, Victor let himself into the Office/Showroom with his set of keys. He quickly located the safe in Mr Oden’s office. Behind the half-empty steel cabinet, behind the wall paper, buried cleverly into the wall, the dull metallic glint of the safe stared at Victor. The callibrated dial of the safe seemed to thump its nose defiantly at him, he ignored it.

He experienced no problems with the combination. The muted clicks as he turned the dial to its correct positions increased his excitement till the safe opened gently. Two envelopes, one contained a certificate of Occupancy for a property in Calabar South, the other contained a Reader’s Digest Magazine of July 1976. Victor retrieved 4 passport photographs from the magazine just like Mr.
Oden had instructed and stashed them in a secret recess on the G-Unit belt buckle. Angry and agitated voices from outside made him straighten up and stand still.


Victor’s heart started racing at a frenetic pace.

“Is Victor there?”

“My name is Sylvia, I just wanted to know if Victor is around”

Sylvia? Victor could not recall any Sylvia, however there was something vaguely familiar about the female voice. He stepped outside.
Light skinned and beautiful, Sylvia had the figure of pain, her presence was disconcerting to the soldiers. Victor could recall her purchasing a Tecno N6. He’d talked her into buying the cheap Android phone like he had done to so many customers. That was several months ago, if she had come to complain about the product, she was out of luck.

“I know her” he told the soldiers
“Is she your girlfriend?” One of them joked obviously relieved at the
absence of any danger.
“Yeah, she’s my girlfriend, let’s get out of here shall we?”

They gawked as all 5’9 of her got up and grabbed onto Victor’s arm. Then they crowded into the Tata truck and reported back to Captain Frank. The Army Captain rifled through the magazine and checked the C of O meticulously, then he directed Victor to leave town via Abakaliki road. There’s been a car bomb explosion along Calabar-Ikom-Ogoja road, it was unwise to travel that route at the moment.

The Journey via Abakaliki road was a circuitous route which meant Victor was unlikely to make it back to Calabar before nightfall. Sylvia’s conversation and seductive skills were not even stretched as she somehow inveigled her way into Victor’s plans. She narrated how Al-Suni had raided their part of town a few days previously, How her father had travelled out of town and how she was mortally scared. However, it wasn’t her touching story that tested Victor’s decision making skills, it was the size and gradient of her breasts and the softness of her skin that captivated Victor all the way to Umuahia where they spent the night. A night of passion and sexual satisfaction.

The staff of Rosberg Hotel could not tell Victor the whereabouts of Sylvia in the morning. Like the prognosticators of sunlight, she had disappeared like the mist. Gone was the C of O and the Reader’s Digest. Try as he could, Victor failed to understand her interest in Mr. Oden’s documents, but he fully understood the gravity of his folly.

Alarmed, he flirted with the idea of calling Mr Oden, but what would he tell him. His business with Captain Frank had also been concluded, but he called him anyway in case she was making her way back to Ogoja. Victor Isidor was relieved to discover that the passport photographs hidden in his belt were still intact. Out of curiosity Victor decided to examine the passport photographs more closely. Although she looked familiar, he could not identify the image of the female on the photographs. However, he noticed that one of the photographs bore a red masking tape on its back. He peeled it off and saw attached to it an 8GB memory card.

The hotel manager could only provide a laptop, it was not enough, so Victor went into town and bought an MTN 3G modem.

Like Kurds distributed across Iran, Iraq and Turkey, the Kanuri are found in Niger, Chad, Cameroun and Nigeria. Their struggle was not just to establish an Islamic ‘Kanuristan’ in sub-Saharan Africa by diplomatic means, it was to terrorize and pressure the present government and people of Nigeria to capitulate. Their long drawn ‘jihad’ has attracted sympathizers worldwide and they were confident that they were close to victory.

Under a folder tagged ‘Hidden Treasures’, Victor isidor was shocked to read correspondences between the first lady of Benue State and Senator Garuba. The contents chilled him to the bones. Discussions and details about the transfer of funds, arms deals and establishment of training camps, kidnap and elimination targets and also the recruitment of mercenaries and hit-men. There was also correspondences between the first lady and an unknown Soldier, details of Army positions, movements and tactics were leaked on those correspondences. Victor wondered whether it was really the first lady or a proxy involved in the correspondences.

He had no idea that the late Abacha was Kanuri or that the first lady of Benue State was his cousin, but the information available to him at the moment explained the source of the first lady’s stupendous wealth and influence.

A video of the first lady having sexual relations with an unidentified man was too much for Victor to take. Something was not right. The hidden camera had captured every detail of the liaison, he wondered if it was staged. At 16:42, according to the timer, the face of the first lady’s sex partner came directly into focus. Despite the full beard, there was something familiar about the features of
Madam’s lover. Like a leopard raising its head to regard the distant hyenas, the lover looked briefly at the camera before taking another dig at his quarry.

There was enough evidence on the memory card to destroy the first lady of Benue State.

Victor wondered how Mr Oden had come into possession of these files. He knew that the man was not beyond blackmail but this was a highly dangerous territory. Victor made up his mind to leave Calabar immediately he had delivred the passports to Mr Oden.

After making sure he was not followed, Victor made his way to establish his rendezvous with Mr. Oden. At Channel View Hotel, two things caught Victor’s eyes immediately he walked into Mr Oden’s Hotel room. A half concealed handgun with the butt poking out from under one the pillows, the next was a Reader’s Digest Magazine similar to the one that had disappeared with Sylvia. Mr. Oden seemed to be only interested in the passport photographs. Once he had received them, he gave Victor a long stare as if to read his
mind, but said nothing.

“But this is only a month’s wages sir!”
“Yes it is and you should leave now for your own good” Mr Oden menaced.

Victor did not hang around after that. As he left, he wondered if the butt of the gun had been deliberately left in view to threaten him.

Victor Isidor arrived Port Harcourt at about 11.00pm and had barely switched on his phone when it started ringing. It was Uncle Sunny. He told Victor that he had just received information that several gun men have stormed Channel View Hotel and murdered Mr Oden and his girlfriend. The female who later identified as Sylvia Bali. Rumour has it that she was the daughter of a former Aide to one the first ladies of the Middle belt.

“…Some say she came with the gunmen but other eyewitnesses claim that she was already in the hotel premises when the assailants struck…”

“Whatever you do, don’t come back here, you can even go to Ghana till things calm down”

“Don’t worry uncle, I’ll be fine, I know exactly what to do”

Although Mr Oden was not a model of morality, Victor always felt a strong attachment to him, he felt he understood his eccentricities quite well and was deeply hurt by his demise.

If they got to Mr. Linus Oden so quickly, they were probably on his trail already. Vicor also wondered whether Captain Frank and his unit had been infiltrated or compromised by ‘bogey’ soldiers?

Victor soon uploaded the sextape on sharebeast.com. It did not seem wise then, but he was glad now that he had made a copy. Then he registered a twitter account and posted the link. Tagging all the major news houses he could google, Victor gradually twit-pic’ed the hidden treasures.

Victor had left Chinda’s flat before day break. Fugitives must learn to be nocturnal he thought as he hurried towards ABC Transport Company, he had to be on the first bus out of town. The headlights of a car blinded him briefly as he neared the bus station. His thoughts were suddenly stymied as the vehicle that pulled beside him. He never believed in ghosts until he saw Sylvia seated on the passenger seat. Behind the steering wheel of a Tata truck, a look of amusement over his rugged features, a familar voice greeted him softly.

“Hello, Victor” Captain Frank whispered.

The End.



I dunno..I just dunno, all these writers with their big words. “Prognosticator”?? What is that? One thing I’m sure of, y’all going to be noticing Tata trucks now. Hehe..

But Malick can write sha..

We continue this on Tuesday with the final trio of writers: @Haemlet_, @naijamd and @Sagaysagay

Peace to mankind.

A Twist in the Tale: Awakening

And like I promised, the lead vocalist of Ogbomosho for Christ lead guitarist of 20 Minutes to Ogbomosho, and moin-moin champion, Wana..enjoy..



He looked around, and had no idea who he was, where he was, and why his mouth tasted of Pepper. As he regained full consciousness, he noticed he was in a laboratory and could count about five men in white lab coats. One of the noticed him and voiced out via a speaker:

“Test subject is awake. I repeat, test subject is awake.”

Still a bit groggy, he tried to understand who this people were, and why he was a test subject. He was still gathering his thoughts when he heard a loud explosion from somewhere near. All of a sudden, red lights were flashing everywhere, and instructions were blasting from a loud PA. “Secure the subject! Secure the subject!

Suddenly there was another explosion just right behind him, and four teens walked in carrying a large black box.

“Hahahaha… He’s stark naked. Cover up, Fe!”

Just then did he become aware that he had been stripped naked by his captors, but couldn’t do anything as his hands were chained. The tallest of the kids, a blonde-haired boy named Steve, spoke next. He pointed at the chains and called to another of the kids, Bruce, who had green paint splattered all over his face. “Smash.”

While Bruce was getting at the chains, the other 2 kids, a boy named Clint and a girl named Fri, quizzed him about his whereabouts.

“Where you been, Fe? We been looking all over town for you! How did they get you?”

As Bruce broke the chains, he fell the floor. Clint helped him up and gave him clothes to put on. Fri was the first to resume questioning him. “Fe! We missed you! What happened?”

Not sure what to say, he decided to gather as much information as possible first. “I’m a little blank at the moment, so I don’t have many answers. Why do you call me Fe? Is my name Fikayo?”

Clint & Bruce burst out laughing. Fri was shocked. “You mean you remember absolutely nothing? Wow!”

He tried again. “Is it because I produced Fimile for Kas?”

This time everybody was laughing.

Steve gathered himself and spoke first. “You don’t remember anything about yourself? Even your addiction to Harvey Spector & Mike Ross?”

He was beginning to feel bad and have a headache. “I don’t! Just help me out here!”

Fri decided to finally help him out. “Hahahahaha! How can you not know who you are? You are …”


The door to the laboratory exploded open, and the lights went off. Steve barked out orders immediately. “Everyone! Take cover! Bruce! Protect Fe!”

Gunshots. Screams.

He didn’t know what to do, and hid behind the the black box the kids had brought in. Bruce was nowhere around him. Then suddenly, the lights came back on. It was a scene of pure carnage. Dead bodies lay strewn everywhere. He felt a weight on his leg, and looked down to see Bruce’s lifeless body covering his leg. As he tried to fight the tears, he looked round and saw the other kids, all dead. As his sadness turned to rage, a man with keys on the lower part of his pants walked in flanked by soldiers.

He heard shuffling in the corner, and saw Steve click a button with his last strength, opening the black box. “Good luck, Fe. It’s all on you.”

As he saw the contents of the box, it all came back to him. He looked at the man with bloodshot eyes, and spoke softly. “You may have tried to erase my memory, but you have failed, because now I know.

“I know why my mouth tasted of Pepper. She’s my girlfriend. I know why I was stark naked. That’s my surname. I know why they called me Fe. It the symbol for Iron. I know why I love Harvey Spector and Mike Ross. I love making Suits. I am Tony Stark, I am Iron Man. You are Loki, and you are dead.”

High Key...Hiki..Haiki..
High Key…Hiki..Haiki..



I would pay to see your faces! LOOOOL! But Steve..hahaha..well..

That was the offering for today. We continue tomorrow, with a thrilling twist from @jon_the_zaptist

Follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni especially those 3,000 people already following Wana


I cancelled alot on this post shey? smh..


A Twist in the Tale: Angst

 With perfect poise and a soothing voice, Teleola..


It’s June again. The rain never stops. It just keeps pouring and pouring relentlessly out of the sky, cloaking daylight with sombre greyness. Money had been missing in the bank today and no one had left till it was found, resulting in my arrival at 10:30pm. Wole wouldn’t be angry, he wasn’t that kind of man, but he wouldn’t be happy either. I had made him promise to be home early today and look where I was. I parked my car infront of the gate and sprinted into the house. The brightly glowing electric bulbs were a miracle, the TV was on in the living room but Wole wasn’t there.

“Wole” I called, dumping my handbag on the floor and kicking off my shoes. The tiles were cold and goosepimples covered my skin instantly.
   “Wole” I called again, climbing the stairs and unfastening my shirt buttons. God, please, let him not be sulking, I prayed silently. He couldn’t be angry. He knew I was looking forward to our being together this evening as much as he was. I got to the head of the stairs and launched into a full apology as I walked towards our bedroom and opened the door.
   “Wole, i’m sorry. Money got missing and I…”
He wasn’t on the bed. Where could he have gone and left the TV on? I decided to change into dry clothes and as I entered the room, the lights began to flicker. Of course, they had to interrupt power when I was looking for my husband. But instead of complete darkness, the lights dimmed. Sounds from the TV stopped as it went off because the voltage was too low.

 “Wole baby, please, do not scare me right now. You know you’ll regret it”

The last time Wole pulled a scary prank on me in the dark, I had slept with a long knife for a whole week, not trusting him, and he had been truly sorry because his testosterone levels had soared during the time. I walked to my panty drawer for fresh underwear as I dumped my shirt in the laundry basket beside the bed but what I saw on the floor made me freeze.
   My husband was sprawled on the floor on his back, a dark stain spread on the front of his shirt and already seeping into the rug. A naked baby with the same dark stain smeared across its mouth was sitting on the floor beside him. We did not have a baby. The light was too dim and I couldn’t see clearly. If Wole’s chest was rising and falling, I couldn’t see it. The baby took in my appearance and as if it knew who I was, it smiled a toothy smile. More dark coloured stains in its mouth.

   “Wole” I whispered, “Baby”
No answer.

Slowly, I took a step back in an endeavour to leave the room and the baby stood. I paused and tried again and it took two tiny steps towards me. I turned and ran out of the room, jamming the door behind me. As I fled down the stairs, I heard the tiny patter of small hands beating on the door followed by whimpering and then crying. I ran through the living room to the kitchen and felt around till I found my trusted knife, then decided to call my friend, Bisi, and tell her something was wrong.
   Dashing back to the living room to get my mobile phone, the voltage rose and the bulbs brightened for a few seconds but my heart fell. There were tiny bright red footprints on the brown tiles, leading to the kitchen I was coming from. The lights dimmed again and thunder roared and that was when I was sure that Wole was dead and that this baby would kill me. Our baby. The baby I had aborted when Wole didn’t have money to marry me.

   A sniffle near me caught my ears and I looked down at the same time that lightening streaked across the sky. The baby was looking up at me, raising its hands up for me to carry it, tears streaming down its face. It had a nice head of hair, large eyes, brown skin; couldn’t be more than eighteen months. I wouldn’t kill my baby a second time and if it would kill me, it should be beside my husband. 
   I dropped my knife, swerved swiftly towards the stairs and in my haste, I slammed my upper abdomen into the sharp edge of the bannister. The one whose wood had broken off the top and left a keen edge. The one Wole was always fixing tomorrow. The pain was immediate and intense, blood began pouring from the hole and my mouth. I had punctured my lung. Gasping for air with red spittle flying from my mouth, I crawled up the stairs to the bedroom wearing a bloody bra and a bloody skirt. How I didn’t die on the stairs, I don’t know.

   Wole promised to die before me. Promise fulfilled, baby. I dragged myself to his side and my head began to spin. I wanted to sleep. This was the end. I would die on Thursday. A cold wet Thursday when money had gone miss… Wait a minute!
   Thursday. Bisi had asked to drop her nephew off so she could run some errands and we were to pretend he was ours. The lights flickered and the voltage became full. I saw fries scattered all over the floor and under the bed. No. No. Wait. Is that ketchup? 
Then I remembered:
   Wole, the man I love, is a terribly deep sleeper.




But Tele scares the shit out of me. Long knife?!

My sincere apologies for putting this up late. We continue on Saturday with the absolutely ridiculous @OluwaWanaBaba

Follow on Twitter @janus_aneni


A Twist in the Tale: ENGANO

And for today’s feature presentation, we have noble Paetir with his offering; of the gods and of Ragnorak, of  murder and twisted souls..


It is said that a true ripper never dies.

He will surely come back,

To reclaim life once lost,

One that may no longer be his to take,

But he doesn’t care, he will take it anyway

For you see, the ripper is always at war

He has never known peace

For peace is as alien to him as the sanctity of life

Everything alive must one day die

For what is the worth of a life?

If it cannot be taken with the swing of a sword..

Another sits on his throne

He claims right to the throne by birth

But now he’s trapped.

Now he has to make do with what he has.

And who says he can’t have some little fun?


Men worship gods

But gods must serve man

For a god is a manifestation of man’s dreams

And heights he will most likely aspire to

Dreams are what they are

I am god.


He creeps around in the dark

Creep Creepy little weevil

I bear the brunt of his revenge, for he is Cain.

The sun might just rise a little too sooner than the 6th hour.


A blood sucking duckling he was

A man of striking and destructive worth

He awoke from thousands ofyears in slumber

He roared at his throne from the pits as a disgraced dragon.


Her name was Trina

A girl in her teens who loved older men

They were after all more understanding

She lived her life as she saw fit.


Mr. Mark had just moved in next door

With his wife Vivian and daughter Margaret

They were a strange bunch

They kept to themselves.

Trina liked him,

Trina liked older men.


The Norse ‘deified’ ideals of strength.

He deified extremes instead

Pushing the envelope

Testing the boundaries of chance

This is the life he chose.


Mr. Mark was always home

He never went out

So naturally he was the first stop when Trina needed to do her math homework

She knocked, ‘Come in’ He said

On the 14th day of May 2013 they fucked.

He kept screaming ‘Ragnarok. Ragnarok. Ragnarok’ as he came

Trina watched him in awe,

He made love to her like no other

He took her to heights of pleasure

Heights she never even imagined existed.

He was the perfect lover,

He had a very weird smile, one she had never seen before, one she would never forget.


Let he who is free test the wrath of the father

For freedom seeks bondage after all.

The devil slumbers,maniac awakens

He pisses on family

He was asleep while you did it,

But yet, he pisses on memory.


Mr. Mark woke up that night,

Strangled his wife in her sleep

And hit his daughter in the head till he could see her brains pop out like ice-cream

He waited till his family bled to death while he watched his favorite tv show.

Then at exactly 6am in the morning he screamed and barged out of his house.

‘Trina Trina’ He kept shouting, he had no idea why,

In a few seconds he was at Trina’s, hitting at the door furiously.

When she opened the door, she was as shocked as the words that refused to escape her mouth.

She saw Mr. Mark in blood stained clothes, eyes blood red, she let out a harrowing scream.

‘Trina it’s me, it’s me’

‘Your father’

Immediately Trina’s dad came in and tackled Mr. Mark below the waist, they tumbled across the front porch and down the stairs.

A scuffle ensued and the two men were left struggling for their lives while Trina watched in horror

‘Who are you? ’ Mr. Mark asked.

They all thought he was insane, maybe he was, they had never really known him.

All these crazy people that their Landlord let in his house. One had finally turned on them.

After a few minutes, the police came along and whisked Mr. Mark away like a stray dog.

The whole neighborhood was abuzz , a man had after all murdered his family and tried to do the same to his neighbors.

It was a good day to be a journalist in town.


Cain, a maniac.

Dog as a devil deified, lived as a god.”


That evening, Trina’s family ate in fear.

They talked in hushed tones.

Trina’s father seemed to be in a particularly good mood.

While they were eating, He flashed a smile at Trina and said ‘Ragnarok, I know what you did yesterday’

Trina was shocked, she began to shiver where she sat, she had never heard her father say ragnarok and she definitely recognized that smile, that weird smile, the one Mr. Mark had on his face after he made love to her, confused she began to stutter.

She lost consciousness.

Loki smiled to himself, he enjoyed playing games with humans, as they usually entertained him. For what was the use of living as mere mortal if he couldn’t have some fun eh?

Don’t answer that.

But then he rushed to get her up and to the hospital, after all he was her father right?





LOKI = Norse God of Deception and Chaos.

In case you don’t get what happened, Loki was Mr. Mark, he slept with Trina, murdered Mr. Mark’s family and somehow transferred his consciousness to Trina’s father’s body leaving Trina’s father’s consciousness in Mr. Mark’s body to take the fall. Confusing shey? Don’t worry, now go read it again.

Did you also notice the palindromes?



 For the benefit of the rest of us, Palindromes are words or phrases which when read from both ends remain the same, like: ‘madam’ or ‘able was I, ere, I saw Elba’ or ‘djdjdjdjdjdjdjdjdjdjdjdjd’


The next instalment comes up the day after tomorrow, with the beautiful @teleolaonifade

Follow on twitter @Janus_aneni. You may also follow @Paetir but nah…


A Twist in the Tale: SHIT!

For our reading pleasure, All in this life’s journey is proud to host OWEx_ as he goes Inception-esque on this one.



The guy in the blue coat ducked and kept running as fast as his

work-worn legs could carry him. The cop kept after him, occasionally

letting out a couple of slugs at points where his thirty-five year old

legs failed him.


Kracka! Kracka! The cop gave off another round from his small but

mighty automatic, which was no better than the preceding ones as far

as effect on life was concerned.


Now, the man in blue coat was really something to look at, and in the

day-to-day-life sense, something to look out for. He was danger

itself, inappropriately masked in a dark, craggy-looking face and

wrapped in an inappropriately shaped frame of a body. Of course

inappropriate was the most appropriate of words to describe him with:

his face was quite round – partly black, partly brown; his nose was a

science class model of that of the ugliest specie of primates; his

enormous football-sized eyes were like those of a caricature toad and

well sunken into their sockets; his banana leaf ears if challenged

could stand unbeaten by a mighty elephant’s flippers; his hooded head,

under the canopy, was square shaped and had absolutely nothing within

the vastness of its territory save for obeying the electrical

charge-powered rules that were ‘punched’ into it.


Timi now was a sight to behold; he was shuddering. He had had too much

and considering the state of things, he had a short – just a short

time to prove the true worth of his life.


The cop shot again and at this time Timi could damn well have said he

escaped narrowly – I mean narrowly – as narrow as a miniature

of the tiniest lock of hair picked from a baby mouse – really narrow,

isn’t it?


The bullet went straight, right over the hooded head at which it was

aimed, boring a hallow in and splashing the contents of a wine cask

just by the roadside.


At that same moment, the blue coat-clad guy clinched one of the POWs

and that reduced Timi’s growing-by-the-second tension. But it wasn’t

much of a fortune, it was only an SRM – a hand launched SRM.


There was a loud shattering noise. Timi, having gathered enough guts

from within his personal self, had just launched a missile. The

missile hit the wall behind which the cop had crouched for safety and

ricochetted just like a miscalculated David Beckham free kick, off it

only to find the beautiful stained glass of a nearby cathedral,

shattering off the glasswork and giving off a noise that almost left

Timi deaf.


For the man in blue, it wasn’t easy to face the cop; he didn’t stop

shooting and cursing. ”Get the f**k outta there you sonofa…”. It

wasn’t that the cop’s yell had any real impact on Timi or his

on-screen phantom, as a matter of fact he didn’t hear it, not because

it didn’t sound insultive enough to him but it just was too routine to

be taken note of.


Timi’s heart was having a tough time; it wasn’t like doing overtime

(since it never for once stopped working), but it was more like being

overworked – like a hundred kg timber being frced on an innocent

thirty kg ass – and in his veins his fresh Nigerian fluid ran at a

speed unthinkable by even the swiftest of hummingbirds.

Timi was terribly seething; tiny streams of red-hot perspiration flowed

down his pimple-studded face as if he were a middle-aged coco-yam

plant under intense Saharan heat. he was also shivering and the pad,

now seemingly iron-heavy, vibrated for the umpteenth time in his poor

far-from-at-ease hands.

Like an impetuous mongoose, already denied its lunch would go after a

slimy, slithering, tasty-looking serpent, the cop kept up the

Krackka’s much to his own pleasure and the woe of the guy in blue who

was under intense pressure. Then something happened. The cop who has

been intermittently exercising his finger by pulling the trigger

stopped in his track, for no reason obvious to anyone.

Timi saw his chance, a chance being used up by each tick of the

clock…a chance he mustn’t misuse. He was sweating and shaking now

more than ever and had already gone through hundreds of pages of his

mental decision making encyclopaedia…all within a quarter of a

second. Then he decided.


Punching one of the several raised portions on the plastic frame in

his hands, Timi heaved a sigh – a sigh whose carbon-filled emission

could have swept an average weighing man off his feet completely. But

that shot was as useless as a bunch o’ fives done an elephant: it

missed its target. With another push of the button, so violent that it

could be mistaken for a Flloyd Mayweather Jnr. coup de grace, Timi

found his on-screen adversary and with no mistake or hesitation made a

clean breast of him. Just as the cop was about dropping his massive

bulk, Timi, now as ecstatic as Anthony could have been in the company

of his Cleopatra or Romeo in the arms of his dearest Julliet, decided

that suspense would lengthen his excitement so he applied it.


He paused then make for the comfort station.


As he emptied his all-this-while-engaged-in-tight-business bladder,

Timi had …that feeling…it was a quite familiar feeling that came on

hot, uncomfortable nights. Suddenly, he felt everything around him

take a spin and metamorphose into a more familiar state than the one

he had been.


Timi opened his eyes and it was total darkness. He was certain now

that something terrible had happened! He was no longer holding a pad,

what he held now was an edge of a piss-soaked bed-sheet the opposite

of which lay atop the bare torso of another boy with whom he was

sharing the bed.


He didn’t bother to move. He remained the way he had been; his eyes

wide open as millions of thoughts flashed through his mind.

God, this is shit!  he thought, knowing fully well it wasn’t

shit but as far as the biology teacher was concerned, it was

something similar. Shit!


Eeez nor me..
Eeez nor me.. 😦



Did I not tell you guys?? A twist within a twist eh? That’s another level of Twist. You know, the deeper you go into a Twist, the less time it is in the real world. A three level Twist is dangerous, then we have a four level Twist where it all just breaks into chaos and disorder. After that is the Limbo twist, where you see things like ggjdsgfviubwivbwigbw.kgvdjgvbuvbvwgvugweihiffvdhj.


That you took the time to read all that shows how much faith you guys have in this blog. And for that I appreciate. hehe.. 🙂

Follow on Twitter @janus_aneni and don’t forget to stay true to your boos, and ignore body counts and bedpost notches.

We continue tomorrow with the uber-sensitive and thoughtful @Paetir *sic*

Peace to Borno and Yobe.

PS: This was not based on a True story.


A Twist in the Tale: The Deal

To kick this off, and in her characteristic BDSM style, the Queen of the Phantompages, Weird_oo…



“How desperate are you?”

“Very desperate! Very!”

“Heehn… Dude this could be dangerous o! What if it doesn’t work?”

“I know…I know! Just the only option now”



Shut up!

The muffled voice of one of the masked men hisses at the whimpering woman face down on the floor. She stifles her pleading, her muttered prayers inaudible, swallowed by the ground.

“Where is the money kept!”

“Please…Please.. I don’t have much.” She points vaguely at a set of drawers. “Please..”

The man stomps to the drawers and yanks them open. He picks up Naira notes haphazardly dropped at various corners.

“This is all? Madam do you want to die??”

She yelps, her cries starting anew. “Please! Please! My husband is away. I don’t have much on me! Please!”

The man cocks the pistol he had in his hand. “Shut up!” he screams for the second time.

He walks over to his silent partner and whispers into his ear.

His masked partner nods brusquely and casting a nervous glance at the prostrating woman, he walks out of the bedroom.

When his partner leaves, he bends over the crying woman and turns her over.

He points the gun to her head.

“You know what I can do with this?”

She doesn’t reply, eyes wide in horror, limbs shaking uncontrollably.

Do you?!” He glares at her, his eyes tinged red by his contact lenses. Beads of sweat get soaked in his black balaclava. She averts her eyes, terrified and nods quickly.

“Good. Now if you cooperate with me, you will not die. Just be quiet. Ok?”

She nods.

He walks over to her open closet and finding a pantyhose, he tears it into strips and binds her arms and legs firmly.

The last piece of cloth, he shoves roughly into her mouth.

Without any preamble, he rips her night dress apart and she gasps, her screams rendered to mere mewling by her gag.

With disinterest, he zips down and brings out his flaccid penis from the confine of his boxers. Giving it a brisk rub, he smiles as it hardens and quick as a flash, he enters into her.

He thrusts into her quickly, his eyes averted from the glazed look of disbelief and shock on her face.

When he is spent, he slips out of her and zips back up. Without a backward glance, he leaves the room and rejoining his accomplice, they creep out of the house.


“Good? Good?”

“Yup! We got what we wanted.”


“Dude focus and drive! Geez…need a cold, stiff one. You owe me”

The other man nods mutely.


It is almost two hours before she realises she’s alone. Weakly, she struggles against her bonds and manages to free herself. She spits out her gag and a wave of nausea hits her. She crawls towards the toilet, her weak knees protesting. Unable to move further, she bends over and hurls her dinner on the rug.

She pulls herself up, eyes searching for her phone. Had they stolen it?


It is under the bed.

She leans over gingerly, pulling it towards her.

She keys in a number and after three rings, a sleepy voice answers.

“Baby? What is it? It’s 3am in the morning”

“Robbers” she whispers, her voice breaking.

There is a shocked silence at the other end of the line. “Jesus. Did they touch you? Gbemi what did they do!”

“Just…come home. Please”

“I’d be on next flight..Gbemi! Talk to me! Gbemi!”

She cuts the phone and slumps on the floor, tears streaming down her eyes unchecked.

She gasps weakly, rolling to her side, the rug soaking up her tears.


“Did they touch you! Tell me!”

“Make me forget.



She removes her clothes and stands naked before him. “Make me…forget…please…”

Her lips quiver and quickly, he gathers her up in his arms, his shoulders quivering with tension and grief.

“My baby…”

She shakes in his arms. “Make…me…forget…”

He carries her into the room gently and lays her on the bed.

“I’m so sorry…” he whispers, his voice thick with unshed tears as he slowly enters into her.



Five year old Dayo plays with his Christmas present, his toothy grin making his mother, Gbemi smile in satisfaction.

“The older he grows, the more he looks like you” she quips to her husband.

“Of course! That’s the son of his father!” His face shines with pride.

She sighs, oddly content. “After three years of marriage. Was beginning to wonder if something was wrong with me… Then the…”

“Shh…” he murmurs, looking worriedly at her.

She shakes her head. “It’s ok. It’s been five years. I am almost there. Don’t…don’t hear his voice anymore…”

Rotimi walks to her and draws her into him. Together, they sit in silence. “Something finally clicked with us… And he came…” She continues, her eyes drawn back to their son.

“All that matters…”

“Yes….all that matters”

“By the way, Chris sends his greetings.”

Her smile fades instantly and he notices.

“He’s…he’s getting better Gbemi. He’s stopped drinking now”

“Mmm hmmm.”

“He just wants to see his nephew…”

Gbemi turns to glare at her husband. “No way I’m allowing that drunk of your brother near my son! Dayo needs no uncle.”

Rotimi sighs. “You know it comes with his job…the wines and all”

She scoffs. “Job? He still goes about calling himself an actor? Wasn’t he kicked out of a movie set the last time I heard about him?”

He keeps quiet, his rows furrowed with worry.


“What you mean she’s adamant! Why can’t I see him?”

Rotimi holds a placating hand up to his brother. “Look, I’m trying ok?”

“WELL TRY HARDER!” he screams and slams his fists on the table. Rotimi jumps, startled.

He stares at his brother warily. “You’re drunk right?”

His brother glares at him. “And so what? Think you better than I am?!”

“Listen… I can get you some more money…how much you want this month? I can…”


Rotimi glares at him. “Don’t say that shit out loud” he growls.

“Or what?? He is mine…isn’t he?”

Rotimi remains silent, gnawing at his lips with growing apprehension.

This is not good… He is getting out of control


“Yes, what can I do for you?”

Gbemi glares at her brother-in-law, barring him from entering the house.

“I want to see Dayo”

“Well you can’t”

She crosses her arms and stares him down.

“Look here! I will see that boy and I will see him now!” he growls and she tenses up, nose flaring with rising rage.

“You will get out of my house now! You scrounger! Go away! Go find a job!”

He smirks in her face. “Bitch. Let me see my son…”

His smirk widens to a wolfish grin at the frown on her face. “Are you drunk?! Are you mad??”

He smiles again and clearing his throat, he deepens his voice into a husky baritone. “If you talk, I’ll shoot you”

Gbemi is stunned to silence.

It clicks

She gasps, her eyes wide, covering her mouth to stop herself from screaming.


He bursts into gales of laughter.

“Yes me, you bitch! Me!”

Her hands shake as tears pool in her eyes. “You! I will…I’ll report to the authorities! I will..I will tell Rotimi this!”

His laughter shakes his frame and he leans on the door, tears of cruel mirth rolling down his eyes.

“Tell Rotimi? That impotent bastard! He needed a child! Who do you think was my accomplice the night I fucked you?”

She freezes in shock. Her knees wobble and she falls, slipping into unconsciousness.



And as usual, that African woman lady delivers! Stay glued to this page for the next instalment..tomorrow! With none other than @OWEx_

Don’t forget to leave your comments! 🙂

Follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni, follow the Blog and be notified of upcoming posts, pay your tithes in church, give alms to the poor, vote for GEJ, buy a Bugatti and sleep in it.

That would be all.


Introducing: A Twist in the Tale

A Twist in the Tale..Tail..

A Twist in the Tale..Tail..

Ashes float by my eyes as the wind whips at my hair and the acrid smell of smoke and death burns into my nostrils. The killing ground is quiet now; bodies litter the grass and puddles of blood lie splattered in every direction.
I move towards the desolate sound of a trumpet far in the distance. My tread is heavy; I’ve lost a lot of blood. From a wound on my head, blood threatens to run down my face. I want to wipe the blood out of my eyes, then I remember. My arm is gone.
I look down at the limb, for it is a mere limb now. I imagine I can detect faint twitches as though it is still alive. But it is not. The stump in my shoulder is still bleeding, though the pain is mostly gone now. But my right hand is dead. It looks funny just lying there on the blood-soaked grass still gripping the hilt of my beautiful sword Araéndule.
I toss the spear I have been leaning against to the ground, its tip still bright red with the blood of the foe who took my arm. Kneeling painfully, I release my sword from the death grip of my lifeless arm.

Gripping it tightly in my left hand, I step forward. I stagger slightly but I regain my balance on time. The gods kept me for a reason, I will not die. I have to live. I take another step and somewhere in the distance I hear the sounds of thundering hooves. My heart beats faster, adrenaline surges through my veins, and I whirl in a perfect roundabout twirl, my robes flapping all about me, sword hand at the ready…

And the Director yells, “CUT! Roll tape. It’s a wrap people. Somebody get that prosthetic and please switch on the lights and cue out that ‘hoof’ theme. Nice job people..”

Yup! The warrior was an actor, and yeah, it was a movie..

For your reading pleasure, All in this life’s journey presents, A Twist in the Tale.

If you’ve read, the Jeffrey Archer collection of short stories, you’ll have an idea what’s about to happen. But for the rest I’ll spell it out. Starting 20th May, you dear reader, will be thrilled by different writers to different stories and poems from every genre, with only one underlying factor: each will have within it, the most unexpected twist.

No? Well..lemme introduce the writers and maybe you’ll understand what I’m talking about..

In no particular order, and with each throwing various gang signs, kido sigils and Illuminati symbols, make welcome:


Two ladies, six men, one hemaphrodite.. Yes! Clap! Clap! Never before seen no? Aha..and yes, Nine is a magical number. -___-

It all begins on Monday, 20th May.

See posters and follow on Twitter @janus_aneni for details..


A Woman’s bosom..

Shoe? Not skates..

Shoe? Not skates..

I usually don’t write poems. My artistic soul flies on wings too powerful to be clipped in iambics or tethered to structure. So anytime I write anything in cadence and meter, it’s usually a pseudo-rap or a limerick. This is one of those..


A Woman’s bosom

To sail along borne on feathery wings, to skate upon brown hills;

To slid and glide down through hairy frills, to land pat on a button;

From the crest so shaped, a pinkish tear, down a neck of a slope,

To a valley so deep, with walls so sheer, and black tip right at the top.

Down the plain, the traveller moves so fast, around a shallow gorge,

And past that is a forest deep, with a swamp as wet as a sponge.

To fall in this bog, is a pleasure sweet, with a urge
for more of that form,

To understand this, is a knowledge secret, the mystery of a woman’s bosom.

I hope we enjoyed that. No? Anyway, for more of my poems on this blog see Ghosts of Girlfriends past

Would cc Funke and co that helped with this post, but it might be improper.. (¬_¬)

Follow @Janus_aneni


The Mess Theory

Hehe..this was based on an actual conversation. I drowned in paroxysms of laughter writing this and the hope is that same would happen to you.
I’m safe now, no longer drowning by the way.

Goodevening Ladies and Gentlemen, and welcome to another episode of World’s Greatest Mysteries. I’m your host, Mr Aljanusi AKA Janus AKA Chris the Corper AKA Doctor AKA Biology Teacher AKA Uncle AKA Mr-Too-Gbasky-Swagged-Out-Above-Everybody-Apart-From-Tunechi-But-Including-Durella-Trey-Songz-And-Tywin-Lannister. Today, we’ll be talking about one of the most famous mysteries in the modern world.
No, it is not the question of who really stole the meat from the cooking pot, or what’s under GEJ’s hat, we know those already. Today we shall discuss…*drum roll and theme song from Aboki rmx*

*crowd applause*
Our guest on the show today, is none other than our friend and loyal fan of this blog, Mr H., G-man, Philosopher, Postulator of the Pseudo-HIV theory. Mr H. say hi.

Mr H.: Hi.*picks nose*

Janus: Now, I’m sure this is not the first time most of us have been confronted with this question. Most of us have heard this question asked quite a lot in our formative years, and when we were kids. Often time, the answers have not always been favourable and on other occasions, they have brought us quite a bit of pain and malodorous discomfort. The question of who messed am has troubled for ages, but today, we have a solution,

*crowd applause*

DJ, please..

“Who mess am?”
“Na Odo!
Odo say, na Teacher.
Teacher say, No worry, na my class people mess am..”

Okay. So today, we’ll be discussing and putting this conundrum to rest. The question of who messed it. Mr H?

Mr H.: Okay. Well, it’s not as though I mess oh..

Janus: Of course we know that, you’re only here for..

Mr H.: I know why I’m here. Let me talk..

Janus: Okay..

Mr H.: Now, from the song, I would like to identify the characters in this little mystery. First, we have the Teacher, then we have..

Janus: Odo

Mr H.: (¬_¬)

Janus: Sorry.

Mr H.: Yes, we have Odo, then we have the class pipo. However, there is one more player here who is almost always forgotten..

Janus: I know!

Mr H.: Yes?

Janus: Fabregas!

Mr H.: (¬_¬) idjit!

Janus: Sorry. (-_____-)

Mr H.: Whenever people sing that song, Odo is mentioned, and the Teacher, and he then accuses the class people. Everyone forgets that this song was gotten from the conversation of two different people.
First we have the One who asked; that first man who asked, “Who mess am?” (Everybody forgets that first man) and then, the rest of the song which goes, “Na Odo…” and so on, which is the reply! So we have basically, a song between two people, a song of reply and asker. Like the Song of Ice and Fire which was rebranded Game of Thrones in the TV series, the real name for the “Who mess am?” song is, “A Song of Reply and Asker!”

Janus: OMG!

*crowd Applause*

Janus: OMG! Wow..

Mr H.: *looks smug*

Janus: How did you..?

Mr H.: I put in research..

*crowd applause*

Janus: Brilliant! We’ll go now for a break and when we come back, we’ll examine the characters of each of the players.

♬Any Terry G song ♬
Oh boy? You don hear?
Hear wetin?
You don hear about We-take-It-for-You Tutors?
Which one be dat one again na?
We-take-It-for-You Tutors is a subsidiary of the Premier College outreach. Have you been taking JAMB for years to no avail? Have your friends finished NYSC service while you’re still struggling with GCE? Hurry up and pick your forms now!
All you need to do is pay the money and we take it for you.
We-take-It-for-You Tutors…we take the exams, you can Never pass!

Janus: And we’re back. In case you just joined us, we have with us today, Mr H., legendary Theorist and we are discussing the question of Who Mess am? Mr H. you were saying that the entire song is based on a conversation between a Reply and an Asker?

Mr H.: You see, the Replier and the Asker were obviously two individuals who knew themselves. And from the indications, they also knew Odo, the Teacher and the class pipo.

Janus: So it’s safe to assume that the scenario which the Replier described in answer to the question could actually have occurred?

Mr H.: Of course! In fact, let me paint the scenario for you.
The person who asked the question, the Asker was a man…

Janus: A man? Why? Why not a woman?

Mr H.: Because only a man would have asked such a question with that much conviction. You have to understand that this is a Nigerian song, which has obvious Calabar origins based on the name “Odo” used in the song. And since it is an old song, and involved a period where there were schools in Calabar, we can safely put the time of origin of this song at about 1922-1929, a time unlike now when Women’s liberation is on the rise, a time when only a man could have spoken thus!

*standing ovation*

Mr H.: So as I was saying, in Calabar then, there was obviously a fart which had been of such malodorous content that the entire city had perhaps heard about it. It is my belief that if proper research is carried out, we’ll find ancient records of this fart. The fart that started it all.
So, on that day, the man, the Asker, asked a woman who it was that messed. “Who mess am?” Now, without hesitation, the woman who was obviously Yoruba, (they have the sharpest tongues), instantly replied that it was Odo!

Janus: She was convinced!

Mr H.: Yes! She was! But you see, this was not the first time that Odo had been accused!

Janus: Idonbilivit! Really?

Mr H.: Yes! You see, instantly she went on to narrate that “Odo say na Teacher..” which indicates that Odo was asked at an earlier time and had instantly gone ahead to accuse the Teacher. The Teacher was, apparently also asked and whoever the Teacher was, he accused his Class pipo. From the line, “Na my class pipo mess am”, you detect surety, certainty and a hint of malevolence towards the Class pipo.

Janus: Obviously, the Teacher had something against his class

Mr H.: Yes he did.

Janus: We’ll go for a break now and when we come back, we’ll take calls.

♬May it be – Enya ♬
Are you sad? Did you just lose your job and give up on life? Was your Twitter account with over 5,000followers hacked and suspended? Are you from Burkina Faso? Tell us, has your BIS refused to connect or does MTN send you those annoying texts? Introducing, JAMES POISON. James Poison marketed and distributed by Dr Kizito marketing enterprises. The new ultra-powerful human killer in the market today. Take two tablets and watch your problems go away.
James Poison…kills your problems, kills you.
Available in stores near you.

Janus:That was from Dr Kizito enterprises. The drug is a powerful one. I have used it myself and it worked for me. In fact I still use it. You should try it.
Okay, we have a caller on the line..

@Mfkeed: So who messed?

Mr H.: The truth is, from the song, one would assume it was Odo. Since from all indications he was already a mess suspect. One may also assume it was the Class pipo, considering the certainty with which the Teacher spoke, the possibility that the class had probably farted in his presence before, which probably occasioned for his vexation with them, and the fact that they never denied it. But the truth is, the person who messed that fart was Odo’s wife.

Janus: O_O huh? Who??

Mr H.: Odo’s wife.
On that day, the first reason why people suspected Odo was because the odour of that mysterious fart came from his house! Odo was a man of few words, we can see that from his very sparse denial in the song. “Na teacher..” It was only his misfortune to be saddled with a shrewish wife whom he loved and protected. A wife who then went on to accuse him.

Janus: So Odo’s wife was..

Mr H.: Do not forget, this song is between two people. The Replier and the Asker.

Janus: …the Yoruba woman! A Yoruba woman messed the fart of History!

Mr H.: You said it.

Janus: So when asked who mess am? The answer should be “A Yoruba woman”?

Mr H.: -_____-

Janus: Wow.

*crowd applause..standing Ovation*

With us today has been one of the most enlightening young men I have ever met. Thank you for gracing us with your presence. We did plan to talk a bit about Pseudo-HIV today, but we’ll leave that for another day. Thank you sir! And from the rest of us here at All in this Life’s journey.., it’s goodbye and have a wonderful day.

*screen fades out*

Mr H.: *farts* Who did that??

Err..I have nothing against the very honourable people of Cross River state or Yorubaland. The err..post just err..oh look, Airplane!
* You would also note that Mr H’s views are solely his and not the err..opinions of this blog.
* I don’t think it was Odo’s wife. The butler did it! -____-

PS: Odo’s birthday is today. You can find him on Facebook. He went to FGC Ijanikin.

Hehe..follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni..and you can follow Mr H. @Bitnovocaine..



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