The Goat of Christmas Past

E get this wise man wey talk something, e say, “things dey work out pass for those people wey dey make the best of how things work out”. The guy sabi die. Different ways dey wey things fit sup for this life, but na how and wetin you use am do, na him go make the different between whether you succeed to live another day, or you no succeed. Na person wey no plan well dey end up inside stew.

Definitely not a Dickens kind story.


E get this wise man wey talk something, e say, “things dey work out pass for those people wey dey make the best of how things work out”. The guy sabi die. Different ways dey wey things fit sup for this life, but na how and wetin you use am do, na him go make the different between whether you succeed to live another day, or you no succeed. Na person wey no plan well dey end up inside stew. If you play your cards right, na you go tanda in the near future with better lems, dey give people advice.

Make I clear you my story, maybe by the time wey I don finish, you go understand wetin I dey talk.

Okay, make I introduce myself. My name na Goat. Look me, yes you, look me. No dey look that fat woman wey stand there for road. No be nyash be that, that na person wey fat true true Continue reading “The Goat of Christmas Past”

“Please don’t be anointed”

In a long while I have not used All in this life’s journey to tell actual stories from my own life. I have subscribed to that very Social Media promoted thing that blogs are supposed to be for gossip stories, fashion, music, or literature, forgetting the initial purpose was as a sort of online diary. I remembered a few days ago when I saw a post from Sharon, and the events of Today prompted this, so, read on and enjoy. A day in this life’s journey.

True life story


“Please don’t be anointed”


When I stepped out the house on Saturday, 30th May, 2015 I had a lot of expectations. Most of them had to do with what I was going to do that day, and how successful it was going to be. The others involved just how much money I was going to spend before the day was done. You see, I was going to take samples, in a river I had never heard of, of both the water and the sediment, as part of my final dissertation for the conclusion of my Masters in Science program at the University of Port Harcourt. There I was wearing my lucky old grey shirt, and the dirty brown jeans that go with, lacing up the oldest pair of sneakers I had, and little did I know that before I was done, I would meet Japanies, yes, Japanies, discover a world beyond what CNN would show you, and learn how not to be anointed.

Continue reading ““Please don’t be anointed””

Retribution: Sambisa

I wrote this today after church, after thinking of the foolishness of these insurgents to think they could bully Christians. And then, with anger and idk..wishfulness, I penned.


“For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty…casting down everything that exalts itself against the knowledge of GOD” – 1Cor 10:4-5


Akin Prayed.

Lifting into the air in a push that shook the earth, he twisted his body in a half spin and barreled straight into his attacker, the bullets whizzing past his horizontal frame. The attacker fell. Without pausing, he pushed off the fallen man with his hands, using his speed to twist again to his left, his left foot connecting with the head of the attacker. The man fell.

Akin turned to the other two, his eyes blazing.

Both men dropped their rifles and turned to flee.

Not so fast.

He Prayed again.

Below the feet of the running men, the grass seemed to move, algal growth on the blades causing them to become slippery. Both men fell. Stretching his arms out, Akin closed his eyes and Believed. The men suddenly jerked backwards as though pulled by an invisible force. The Avenger grinned, his teeth the only white in the gloom of the forest. As the men sped towards his, their clothes fluttering in the speed, their cries loud in the stillness, Akin opened his eyes and leapt forward. His sleek form tore through the air, and as he passed their middle in mid-air, he turned, whipping his legs backwards, causing his arms to come forward and slapping their heads together with his palms.

The forest of Sambisa echoed with the crack of their skulls as they fell to the ground, several birds taking to the air in fright. The Avenger landed a half-second later, his flat, naked chest heaving, his anger still unsated.


“We will soak the land with the blood of Christians”

GOD heard. GOD Answered.


The Avenger picked himself out of his crouch. The men were still alive, very much so, but in so much pain. They could barely cry or pass out. Which is as it should be.


A few hours ago, Akin had been in his house in Maryland, Lagos. The bible had been open, and he had been praying. The Boko Haram  had just issued another threat against Christian students in other schools outside Chibok. The words had been simple in themselves.

“LORD, they have threatened Your name, they have poured scorn and insulted the name of the LORD, answer if you will oh LORD, the same GOD of  Elijah, answer your call and answer with fire”

Then…”Use me Oh LORD”

Right from his little table, a crack ran across the wall to the roof, the sheets of asbestos in the ceiling shook and fell to the floor, the room vibrated with a Presence, in the kitchen the knives rattled in their shelves, all across the walls a blue light seemed to shimmer as a shortage blew out all the appliances.

“And you shall receive power after the Holy Spirit comes upon you…”


And he had known what he needed to do. It did not concern him that he wore only a pair of boxers and a singlet. The Power of GOD was at his disposal. A quick Prayer and he appeared at the mouth of the forest. The dark yawn beckoned him. Behind, he could see the perimeter formed by the Nigerian Soldiers. He considered going to them, but his Spirit rejected the thought, and so he walked in.

It hadn’t taken time for the quartet of militants to find him.

In the distance, a US Military Strategist with the UN stood with a Nigerian Colonel as he swept the forest with his binoculars. The strategist gasped.

Wetin…what is it sir?” queried the Colonel, his hand flying to the pistol in his belt. He had been jumpy since getting this close to the forest, and calling the US Captain ‘sir’, seemed to be the least of his blunders at the moment.

Signing up at the NDA was probably top of the list.

“Oh nothing, for second I could almost swear I saw a twelve or thirteen year old boy walk into that forest shirtless,” said the US Captain.

“Oh,” replied the Colonel, his hand still on his well-polished Sig-Sauer. “It is probably one of all those children of the mammy-market sellers. Maybe he wants to sh…to defecate. I will send someone to drive him out.”

He bounded through the trees, running as fast as his legs could go – which was very fast, he leapt over fallen branches, weaving in and out of the trees without slowing. By now, the Army might have poured into the forest, the sounds of the gunshots having drawn them. He didn’t wonder what they will make of the bodies he left behind, he didn’t care. All he wanted to do was rescue those girls and punish the impudent.


From the nest of branches in a tree, he saw something glint in the last of the evening sun that seeped through the dusky foliage. Akin focused and Believed. His vision sharpened and narrowed, giving the illusion of looking through a narrow tube with blurry edges. At the end, he saw the terrorist hidden behind the sniper rifle, a radio transmitter near his lips. Even with the distance, he could see the fear and surprise in the eyes hidden behind the kaffiyeh the terrorist wore to hide his face. Instinctively, Akin knew he must not let the terrorist use the radio. Only seconds remained. Too few for him to reach the trees in time, yet enough, while the terrorist remained frozen in shock. Without pausing in his race, his eyes still focused on the sniper, he scooped some stones from the ground into his hand.

“You come with bombs and killings and the terror of children and women and men. But I come with the Power of GOD!” he yelled as he flung the stones.
They shot upwards, miniature rockets, the first stone tore through the radio in the man’s hand, severing first the speaker-phone, then the entire circuitry. The others shredded the branches the terrorist perched on, the force of impact rendering them into splinters. The terrorist fell in a cloud of matchsticks and kindling.

Before he reached the ground, Akin was there. Catching him in mid-air, his tiny arms bearing the weight easily, he stopped the man’s descent momentarily, then turned and slammed him into the ground with so much force, the man’s vertebrae broke, paralyzing him forever. Beneath the body a spider-web of cracks ran across the forest floor in a small crater.

Akin kept running, the Praise never ceasing from his lips.

The man who called himself Abubakar Shekau hadn’t always been crazy. Raised by his mother, he had learned his first Arithmetic and English in a Christian missionary school just outside Minna in Niger state. The circumstances that led to his crack and final descent down the slope into despotic insanity are not for this tale. That day however, he sat in his room, the wrap for his turban tied around his waist, his legs propped on the table as he used his Android phone to search the internet for ‘Hot sexy anal girls’.

The sudden eruption of gunfire in his camp shocked him out of his pornographic  meditations. Slipping on a jalabia robe, he arranged the turban over his shaggy hair and made for the door, as it burst open in an explosion of splinters and gravel.

Akin landed in the camp in a frenzy of Prayers.


On sighting the camp, he had increased his pace, putting on a burst of speed and at the last second Believed in a jump that sailed him over the wooden-stake fence and into the sentry post near the gatehouse. Two terrorists stood inside, gleaming machetes at their sides. They had seen him over the fence coming in, and had been expecting him. The first man took a swipe. Akin jumped over the attack, planting his feet into the man’s chest using the momentum generated to fly backwards into the second man. He extended his fingers, rigid rods of steel, and plunged into the eyes of the second man. The man let out a yelp as both of them fell, his eye sockets bleeding a mess 0of blood and vitrous humour. Akin turned to see the first man pick himself from the floor and lift a pistol. The man grinned.

Akin grinned.

The man’s grin faltered. But he shot anyway, the automatic pistol set at burst, his finger tight on the trigger. The first bullet missed Akin by a mile, slamming instead into a tree on the other side of the sentry post.

Akin Prayed on the Gospel of peace. His feet moved.

Sliding forward so fast, he seemed to be a flurry of figures, the half-naked boy weaved in between the bullet paths, their trajectories slow and obvious to him as he moved into the shooter’s space. He shoved the flat of his right hand upwards to knock out the spent pistol from the terrorist’s hand, the other hand slammed into the infidel’s solar plexus, shocking the air out of him and smashing him through the bamboo wall of the sentry post to the ground fifteen feet below.

Akin jumped into the camp, the Power of GOD radiating all around him.


Shekau sped down the dirt road, the Jeep Wrangler screaming in protest under his ministrations. He had to get away. He was bleeding from a gash in his forehead, the injury resulting from a stone cutting into his head when the side of his room blew in from the impact of having an Armoured Personnel Carrier tossed into it. Tossed in a by a small child who probably weighed less than 50kg.

Jesus! He exclaimed in his mind, his shock overriding his awareness in the singular outburst, he needed to get away fast.

In the open-roofed Jeep, he heard a whine such as you hear when an object falls from a great height. Shekau looked up to see an object, the boy, fall out of the sky directly in front of him.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed outright.

You’re almost right, thought Akin the Christian, as he slammed feet first into the bonnet of the Jeep. The front tires imploded as the springs burst, forcing the front of the vehicle to collapse downwards so forcefully it flipped the back over the boy. Akin reached upwards and grabbed the terrorist leader as the Jeep flew over, his hand curling around the matted beard and yanking downwards. Shekau fell out of the Jeep, his yell cut short as he was yanked out unceremoniously. The Jeep somersaulted into a clump of trees and exploded, showering the air with shrapnel, none coming near them, but falling merely to the right and left in their thousands.

Shekau whimpered before the bloodstained boy, tears and mucus mixing with the blood on his face.


I want to write that he was dismembered. That he had his toes cut, or his fingernails pulled out or a million other things that are painful and whatnot. But Jesus, wouldn’t I

Maybe when I type this I will or would not..idk..

Follow on Twitter @janus_aneni

GOD bless Nigeria.

Testimony Time

PASTOR JAY: Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Pastor Jay. If you are under the influence and unction of my voice at this hour, I command every problem in your life to become a solution! And every evil to push you to a new level. Amen.
I just want to present to you my new book. It’s titled Old Roger. It’s on sale at bookshops and blogs near you. Buy it, and every Old Roger in your life would be destroyed. You see, Old Roger was an evil man! This is why when he died a mango tree was planted over his head. You might not understand the significance of a mango tree. Lemme explain: mango is one of the seven forbidden fruits in the old Greek. Apple is number one of course..see the book of Snow White among others.. Mango is translated as Aniba or Mangifera...words which from looking alone sound evil. But this is not why we’re here today. Please, can our testifiers come forward..


JANUS: (<_<)..Hello everyone. Been a while.
So sorry we’ve been absent from here, lots of issues being resolved, too much on the mind, Writer’s block in some cases and whatnot. But the year is at an end and it’s time for thanksgiving.

First of all, I want to thank you. You.
There hasn’t been a new post here since maybe November, despite a steadily filling drafts folder, and I post this and all of you come running like I’m sharing recharge cards. Wow. You guys are such loyal fans or readers. Whichever it is, I thank you. You’re very awesome. I am full of awe of you.

Full of Awe
I am full of awe

Tele say something..

TELEOLA: Something. And please, call me T-Baby.

JANUS: (<_<)  Well, as it is done, a recap of the major highlights of the year. First off, this has been the second year of “All in this life’s journey” and despite my lack of care, it’s not been so bad.
Tried my hand at a blogging challenge this year. You guys would remember “A Twist in the Tale” that featured Weirdoo, Haemlet, JontheZaptist, OWex,  and many others, and of course, where we introduced the beautiful Teleola. I still apologize for not finishing the challenge, circumstances way beyond my control prompted me to end on such a note. But here’s to promising better things in 2014. Finished things of a way awesom-er feel.

TELEOLA: Yes. Hai ham buriful. Ehm.. It looks like we are always apologizing to you guys. It’s not you, it’s me. Writers can be flirts you know. I have been flirting around with other aspects of my life but writing is my second true love (see what I am saying), and I will always come back no matter how long I am away.
Like that prophet that married the prostitute in the bible.

And I said you should call me T-Baby na.

JANUS: Biko sweetheart, don’t be vex. Just look at this filth. Early this year, on the 1st actually, I promised I was going to find a co-writer who would be fair of face and awesome in ink. Did I? Did I?? Was I right or was I right? Clap for me. (Awesome is my word of 2013. It is going. I promise.)

Personally, 2013 recorded achievements for me. On some days I was distraught, on some, the feeling of traught was on a high. NYSC ended. I got a Best Corper award. I entered the real world again.

TELEOLA T-BABY: So, I finished NYSC this year and also got employed. I didn’t win any award.  General CDs for life mehn. But I learnt a lot of things. The most important being you cannot force friendship.
I have undergone military training as far as I am concerned. Camp was not beans, I don’t care what anyone has to say. Gimme gun and send me to Sudan to protect the people.

Freeze, villain!
Freeze, villain!

No, please don’t be rash. Don’t give me any stupid gun.

JANUS: LOL! ♥_♥ Oshey Lara Croft ____o_ command me, Confessor.
I improved my British accent in 2013. And it didn’t have to be an International airport! I learnt all my British at Okada Airport, Benin city.
Another nasty breakup this year (becoming quite the habit) and possibly some of the reason for the block in my writing. (Tele massage my head biko). But I made new friends this year. Vundie, Jyte, Niro..these are the Twitterati you would know. And got closer to a few who had been friends before. The there’s-a-treasure-in-the-rotten-chest-right-beside-you sort of friends. People like Teleola.. Come here, let us hug.

I am lonely, aren't I?
I am lonely, aren’t I?

T-BABY: You keep me in a rotten chest, ba? Now, you want to hug.  Better hug Justin. Rub chest with him.  Shebi he is your secret weapon.
Do you people see what I go through?
I have added one more state to my Nigerian-states-I-have-lived-in list. Akure. The land were goats are valued more than children.
Okay, I am exaggerating. But, those people can eat  from the same plates with their goats and I hear sharing-bed rumours. Can you believe that! Ondo people are still cool though. Yes, I am subtly apologizing.
I also lost my phone. It actually got stolen at a party. The person carried my whole bag from under the table where i hid it as I was dancing. Fam, I cried. But I serve a living God, the God that answereth by fire, the God that broke palm kernel with egg to shame the stone, the God that sends money through uncles that have refused to pick my calls since I entered university, the….

JANUS: T-BABY ca’m dan’re my only secret weapon. The only arrow in my quiver. The only project in my Manhattan. The last scene of my Jet Li film. Haba..

And Akure is a state abi?

T-BABY: Okay. *wipes lone tear that had begun falling from right eye*
I sha bought new phone.  And no, no uncle sent me any money.

Sorry, Ondo state. I was in the spirit.

JANUS: Family wise, lots of travails (abi that is the English?) Y’know, trials that were in the end surpassed? Yeah. From about April, certain troubles, issues and disappointments up until December. But the LORD delivereth us out of them all. Accidents and Robberies and Kidnappings and jailings, but like I said, the LORD delivered. Miraculously.
Still didn’t win Diamond Bank Salary4Life, or Toyota Corolla, or Silverbird and Genesis iPads. These people never like me. But I won tickets to see shows, and for the first time in my life attended a paying comedy show and nearly coughed up my lungs in an apoplectic fit of guffaws [LWKMD].

T-BABY: Single bloggers, gaan look for your missing writing rib, JANUS and I are in sync.
While I didn’t sleep in jail (I am sure his afro was part of the reason why he was there in the first place), I was caught driving without a licence. But praise Jehovah, I was released.
I also made new friends. Vundie (who must be convulsing with excitement that we have both mentioned his name), Obehi (the girlfriend Janus and I share), Dunni (who writes beyond her years) & Lanre (who I don’t know if he is alien or human but writes awesome poems). And, Bayo, my bestest friend of five years is still with me. We will go more, bae.

JANUS: Simultaneous coitus is an …wrong post. Come! Come! It’s not me that entered jail oh! And you can drive?? How fa na? Come take me out..

Didn’t read as many books as I planned in 2013. I think in total, read only 24. But 4 of them were by Nigerian writers and that’s a plus. Read Nigerian books and books by Nigerians!
Was least involved in real politics this year. There were no scathing newspaper articles, no activism. Plenty propaganda documentaries though, for which I’m slightly embarrassed, but that changes in 2014.
Ehen, you know I promised podcasts last year. Hehe. We had a youtube session shebi? Heehehe. Before January runs out though, we’ll do something about that. Abi Teleola?

T-BABY: Yes. You guys have heard Janus’s voice when he murdered Raymond. You will be blessed with mine soon.
Take you out, abi? No problem. Sha bring extra seat belt. 007 was my tutor.
You read 24 and you are complaining.  I won’t reveal my number. And since you are into politics, comman gimme contract. Even if it is to plant flowers in the whole of the state.
Before I forget, I cut my hair this year. Last week sef. You can call me African Queen.

JANUS: LOOOL! African Queen..LOOOL! Abeg do and Twitpic lerrus see. LOOOL!
Basically though, 2013 had ups and downs, many downs for me, and we’re super glad we conquered them all. It’s all been by GOD’s Grace and we’re looking forward to 2014. Thanks for bearing with us so far. Stick around this next year..

T-BABY: TAAAAA!!! Not until I reach your length. Yes oooo. Baba God noni. His mercies endure forever.


The names mentioned are of course people we seek to inveigle favours from and need to keep happy. If your name is not there, it means we do… Wait.
No disclaimer.

Do follow the blog by clicking the button at the top of your screen or below this post. And follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni and @tele_ola.

Peace to Nigeria. And have a Happy New Year.

A Myth and Ciprofloxacin

No, not a true life story.


I looked at the man pointing the gun at my head with bulging eyes. Sweat was further darkening the ski mask he wore on his head that left spaces for his two eyes and mouth. His nostrils, though not visible, were flared in anger as I sat firmly on the bench of the danfo bus, not moving or even planning to move. I knew his nostrils were flared because his chest rose and fell rapidly and of course, I could see them expanding with each second I remained on the seat. I also knew he had not pulled a trigger before. I would be dead or seriously injured if he had. But all this did not count. Only in death would people know my shame.

See, it is not my intention to continue to aggravate this thief. On a normal day, when I am with my dignity and senses, nothing will make me more obedient than seeing a masked man wielding a murder weapon and pointing it in my direction, threatening to end my life with a twitch of muscle.


I did not move. Tears clouded my vision as I pointed my bag at him as I had done for the past two minutes he had been raving.

“Please, I beg you in the name of God, take my bag. Everything is inside.”

Shame is a serious issue for me. Even slight embarrassment. Once, I had fallen terribly ill to the bafflement of the school nurse who found nothing to be the cause of my illness, just because a boy in my secondary school four years ago had told me that my skirt was unzipped. I had thought the whole thing through a million times in my head, wondering if he saw the holes that stood as Winnie the Pooh’s eyes on my panties (which my mother had promised to replace the next visiting day) that showed clearly when I turned to look at my open skirt zip. So, you see, I might just slump and die if anybody discovered me now, no need for trigger-happy fingers.

The driver had fled earlier at the sound of gunshots, just about two minutes after the conductor had left for the nearby bushes to ‘ease’ himself and left five frightened passengers struggling to open the door of the rickety bus to no avail. The moon and the stars had fled too, leaving us with no option than turn on the flashlight applications our mobile phones for illumination. There were no passers-by at this time and most especially in this location where the driver had passed to cut corners.  The driver side of the bus was demarcated from the passengers’ side by a metal sheet with a window too small for any of us to fit through. The fair guy that sat beside me had begun to whimper, all thoughts of collecting my mobile phone number completely forgotten. The mechanic in his dirty overalls had fiddled with the door, cutting his fingers in the process and when he finally got the door open, the masked man was there waiting patiently, pointing his gun at the entrance. The middle-aged woman sitting at the last row had screamed and the boy with a wooden tray on his lap that had probably held agege bread in the morning had begun to cry. The thief had ordered us to lie face flat on the floor of the bus, gotten crazy when I refused to move as others were lying in awkward and uncomfortable positions, and exploded when I continued to plant my buttocks on the seat. This is where we are now and my mother’s voice is ringing repeatedly in my ears.

If you have sex, you will die.

Sounds stupid, doesn’t it?

Just three days ago, my boyfriend of two years dis-virgined me. He had waited long enough and I knew all the love he showed was no joke, (marriage tinz). It had been planned and I had taken the Postinor 2 he bought as he told me to but pregnancy was not what I should have been worried about. I had noticed an infection yesterday. Not sexually transmitted, no. I dis-virgined him too. Apparently, he pushed bacteria from my ‘backward’ into my ‘frontward’, at least that was what the pharmacist with the pitiful look on her face told me.

E. coli belongs in the rectum and goes crazy elsewhere. The female reproductive tract included. The trip from the first point to the second is very short in females, thus, we are very very susceptible.

I had spent about two thousand naira to purchase the drugs I needed to get well and I had called my boyfriend and told him. Of course he was sorry and felt guilty but I shushed and assured him I knew precautions for next time. Looks like there wouldn’t be and my mother had been right after all.

I had started taking the drugs immediately; the pharmacist even gave me the water I used for my first dose free of charge. Urination was frequent and painful. Thank heaven I was home due to ASUU strike. All those busybody roommates of mine would have asked me questions. My mother had sent me on an errand to Oshodi and traffic had been bad as usual, resulting in this situation. The noises in my stomach started shortly after my fourth dose this afternoon, right before I left home, and just like the ciprofloxacin leaflet said, my stool was loose. So loose, it felt like I was urinating via my anus. Four more days, I thought to my self, four more days.

I remembered the first time I wet myself during the journey home. The fair boy had faked a British accent and I had burst into laughter despite my state of duress. The smell of antibiotics filled my nostrils and I bit my lip hoping he was as stupid as he sounded. Subsequent ones had followed which I couldn’t help as the traffic dragged on. I was comforted by the fact that I had a permanent scarf in my bag. I would wrap it around my waist when the time came for me to get off. And I also thanked heaven for the darkness, I would walk the short distance home from my bus stop in the shadows. I would tell mom that her vegetable soup did not go well with me today.

It was when the rumbling began that I knew I was in trouble and told the idiot to leave me in peace. I resorted to insults hoping he would change seats, but he just sat there, giving the condition that unless I gave him my phone number, he would not leave me. As horns honked and drivers screamed, I let out a fart whose sound was drowned by the ongoing noise but whose release brought my doom for it was accompanied by loose stools. And that, my friends, is why I cannot, must not, stand from this seat.


“Please. I beg you.”




“I am sick. I cannot stand.”


“In the name of God.”



My mother voice was the last thing I thought of.



Pick ciprofloxacin.
Pick ciprofloxacin.


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Maybe a Rubberband story

First off, no, it is not a true story. I was ehm..researching some stuff and err..I discovered something. Anyway, it was worthy of a story so..

Secondly, it’s the Nigerian Blog Awards, and ehm…a bit late, but I would love to appeal to all of you dear and beloved readers to nominate us! Scroll down the page for the direct link to nominate! Thankee very nicely! 😀


Maybe a rubber band story Ah whatever.. Maybe A Rubber band story.

You go tie am with rubberband...”

“Hehe..are you serious?”


“Is that what you do?”

“Yes na! See, e even dey help you two ways..”

Femi looked incredulously at his friend. They were sitting on a bench in front of his compound watching the day as it crept closer towards sunset. And as is common when young men in their early twenties sit together, the conversation had gradually drifted to girls and sex.

“Let me tell you something,” Ade, his friend was saying. “I’ve been in this situations many times. These days, condoms are not properly manufactured. They no longer cover the entire penis. So what do you do?”

Femi was tempted to remark on the fact that perhaps, as he had grown up until ‘these days’ maybe, the size of his phallus had grown also, and perhaps the inability for the condom to completely cover his penis didn’t depend on the manufacturers. But he thought better of it.

The topic at hand was quite simple. Femi had been narrating a tale, an unfortunate event that had occurred to him just a few days ago.

Ada had come to visit. For the first time, after many failed and broken promises, she had arrived at his front door. As is customary with such assignations, he had bought her a plate of fried rice and chicken from a quite reputable eatery, stocked his fridge with every kind of suitable drink, and then placed a six-roll of condoms in the bedside drawer.

The conversation had been pleasant, and he had been at his most hospitable, gregarious and seductive. Soon she was moaning under his kisses while he fished about in the near darkness for the packets of polyurethane that ensured impervious ecstasy. As usual, after rolling it up, the rubber came up, or down, only halfway.

Femi slipped in nevertheless. Or, he tried to slip in, and despite having no claim to her virtue, found his passage into Ada to be not only decidedly furry, but also quite incommodious. But he was a man of action, and restrictions be damned, he went on.

Friction, physics and the natural laws of adhesion and cohesion came in to play, and while Femi hammered, all thoughts to the wind, he came to realise that the slip of impregnability that lay between himself and Ada’s innards was quite literally rubbing off.

But with the drums of perseverance roaring, quite indulgently, in his ears and varying sorts of madness pulsing through his veins, he kept on, pushing and pulling, ramming harder and harder, noting with amazing clarity and as yet unconcerned mien that the passage was suddenly, infinitely more pleasurable, that every sensation was utterly more vivid. And a nagging thought at the back of his mind that perhaps, something was amiss.

Then Ada went from, “Oh..ahh..” and the names of various persons and phrases from her native tongue to, “Ouch! Stop!”

And Femi did, or at least slowed, confusion and disorientation fighting a battle with lust upon his face.

“You’re hurting me!” she screamed, not quite loudly, but loudly enough. Perhaps insistently is a better word.

And so, Femi pulled out, and realised to his shock that he was bare. Not the sense of being unclothed or the cool consciousness of the cold air against his exposed buttocks made him note this; rather it was the simple absence of the condom from his erect member. Startled, his eyes searched the dishevelled sheets for the yellow piece of rubber that would confirm his sanity, but he could not find it. In those seconds, his thoughts went from amazed to bewildered to scared.

Again, Ada said, “I’m hurting.”

In that instant, comprehension descended like the beam of a high-powered halogen bulb.

“Can you open your legs a bit?” he ventured tentatively, his penis now a shrivelled piece of flesh.

And therein began the longest and weirdest procedure he ever [and he hoped, ever will] had to perform. After explaining to an astonished and almost enraged Ada, he dipped his index and middle fingers into the cavern which formed her centre. A place which was, for quite obvious reasons, now shrivelled in size and a dry as the crook of an elbow. He began to probe as gently as he could. Finally, thanking his stars, his long fingers and quite ironically, his Creator [Me, of course], he felt the polyurethane constitution of the condom deep within her.

Slowly, in order not to hurt Ada, who was resting on her elbows, her head angled over her waist, trying impatiently to peer into herself, he eased the rubber towards the opening. All the while, he cursed at his fate, the makers of condoms worldwide and thought about how he could remedy the failed situation with Ada. With these thoughts rattling about feverishly in his brain, it was hardly surprising that he managed to lose his hold on the condom more than a few times, having to remove and reinsert his fingers all the way into the female, again and again. It also did not help that quite amazingly; the tunnel began to secrete moisture afresh, resulting in his losing hold more and more often. It did help though that Ada no longer peered over his shoulders, but instead lay almost motionless, her head lolled to a side, her chest heaving in panting spasms.

Finally, after maybe fifteen minutes of gradual pulling and prodding, he had the condom out. Both of them examined the material for signs of blood or any other suspicious fluid or tissue. There was none. Ada whereupon left his house, after dressing up and consigning the rubber to the toilet of course, her ears deaf to his entreaties, apologies, jokes and apparent concern for the pains in his testicles.

So it was that his friend, Ade, visited the next week and while the discussion drifted on a myriad of topics, he asked:

“How far Ada?”

Wherewith this story was told and his friend had exclaimed:

You go tie am wit’ rubberban’!”

Initially, in compliance with the naïveté his friend constantly accused him of; Femi had assumed Ade wanted him to tie the girl with a rubber band, and he had almost laughed at the apparent attempt to make him laugh. One look at Ade’s face however, stripped him of his mirth and reaffirmed his belief in his friend’s insanity.

“Hehe..” he managed weakly. “Are you serious?”

“Yes na! See, e even dey help you two ways…”

Whereupon Ade explained that in order to prevent a condom from slipping down (or up as it should be), the length (or head) of an erect penis, one had to fasten the open end of the condom with a rubber band!

“E dey also help you preserve your stiffness even if you come quick.”

The evening sun waned in the west, the orange glow disappearing over the top of the building in front of them. On the street, young girls walked by, legs wrapped skin tight in material almost as tight as a condom, or perhaps tighter, Femi corrected himself. He caught himself wondering if he could casually sidle up to one of the girls rub her legs, and watch the material run downwards to her toes.

Those girls wey dey tight wella, na dem dey cause this thing pass. And most of them no dey wet,” Ade went on with his recondite air.

For his part, Femi wondered. He wondered as it struck him at how close they had been to a quite unfortunate complication. What if the condom had stuck deeper into her and a surgical operation had had to have been carried out to save her life? What if the situation had degenerated into a form of Toxic Shock Syndrome? Ah well, no time for that now. His attention was drawn to a figure that approached down the road.

Those people wey dey fuck nyash, e dey happen well well for their side. The condom always dey fall inside. Me I no fit fuck nyash oh!

The figure drew closer. Femi smiled.

Some people even dey lick nyash! Which kind madness be that? Cool down carry your mouth put am for nyash…

“Hi,” said Funke as she stopped in front of the two men, her buxom figure blocking out the rest of the twilight.

“Hi,” smiled Femi as he stood up. “Nice hairdo.”

“Thanks,” came the soft voice. Ade was shocked into silence.

Femi waved a goodbye to his friend as he opened the gate. Ade smiled to himself, his grin widening as he heard:

“Your braids, how d’you hold them up? Rubber band?”


(<_< )...
(<_< )…


  • Nope. No resemblance to persons living or dead. Though I admit, I do know a buxom Funke.
  • Condoms really do fall into vaginas. Hell, in perhaps 2% of all sexual experiences worldwide.

Click on the follow button to follow the blog. You may also follow on Twitter @Janus_aneni

Don’t forget to nominate the blog!

Peace to Nigeria.

The Janus Lieber

Do you know the worst thing about the new Star Trek movie? I just saw it today, I know, but, did you notice that part where the guy who plays Sherlock in Sherlock was running across the road, and those futuristic cars that float in the air had to screech to avoid hitting him? You did shey? Screech oh! Screech! Like they had to go, craaaaaas..shrreeee…screeeech to avoid him. Cars that float in the air. Screeching. Later they’ll put J. J. Abrams on par with Spielberg. Zeb Ejiro-wannabe nigga!


Anyway, today halfway through my weekly blog rounds (any period of Free Wifi when there’s nothing to do except wait for downloads to finish and laugh through awesome posts), I remembered I’ve not posted my Lieber and ehm..well, I’m supposed to, at least before I’m no longer eligible. So, I went back to the place where I was nominated and then I…


This is not how they do it.

Let’s start afresh. The Liebster blog award.

The Liebster Blog Award is given to up and coming bloggers who have less than 200 wordpress followers. The Meaning: Liebster is German and means sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing and welcome.”

What? I qualify. I’m pleasant and cute and welcome. I’m a very welcome guy really.

Okay, when I got nominated for the Liebster, I was shocked, and pleased, and annoyed it hadn’t come earlier. What? I’m cocky on Fridays. Yes, I think it was a Friday. [Tell me, please tell me, you saw something there. No? Nothing? All that pum, nothing poked out? Okay, I’m overdoing this.] Anyway, it was really surprising when Haphenie nominated me for the Liebster, cool peoples she is, but I admit I did not know she thought that highly of me. It was an ego boost that day, the pleasure kept me going for weeks, that is until almost a month later when I realised I didn’t even comment on the post to say my thanks. I’ve been shy about it since. Forgive me Haphenie.

Thank you so much for nominating me. Thank you. Really meant a lot. I would send you a kiss smiley, but I don’t have your pin or your phone number. Email me maybe?

Thank you really.


Moving on. First thing, the RULES.

Like a secondary school friend used to say, Lures and legurations. I found it funny then. I still laugh now. Over eight years since I saw him, and it’s still funny. Come to think of it, he was Igbo. Explains a lot. LOL!

Sorry. I don’t really have much cause to laugh these days. (˘_˘)


Lures. Legurations. LOL!

Oh my..


The Rules

  • Thank the person who nominated you
  • List 11 random facts about yourself
  • Answer the questions they have asked you
  • Nominate 11 other people
  • Ask the nominees 11 questions

And yeah, let them know you nominated them.

Okay, I’ve thanked Haphenie. Now, the Janus Facts of Random.

  1. I started writing before I can remember. Till date I have family friends who haven’t seen me in maybe sixteen years come over to the house and go, “Hey, do you still write all those your stories?” Then they go into paroxysms of laughter. (¬_¬)
  2. My driver’s license gives me at 1.74m. I think it’s a lie. I’m taller.
  3. I started keeping an afro in a very serious effort to look like Drake. Now I look like a cross between Mexican Bruno Mars and The Weeknd.

    Mexican? Really? I'm already half Puerto Rican!
    Mexican? Really? I’m already half Puerto Rican!
  4. My favourite rock band is Mumford and Sons.
  5. I started blogging because of @RavingFred and my initial mentors then were @Sirkastiq, @Wana____ and somebody else from TheNakedConvos, I forget now.

    In case you wondered, that there, in the centre? That's the point..
    In case you wondered, that there, in the centre? That’s the point..
  6. Haphenie isn’t the first person to nominate me for a Liebster. The first person who did, made the mistake of notifying me via the comment box on my blog. I saw the comment, assumed it was spam, and deleted it. I was new to WordPress then, forgive me. If you’re out there, I don’t hate you. I love you in fact. Thank you in ehm..incognito?
  7. I love sleeping on the floor. Not because my rug is that soft. My bed is a bit lumpy, and it’s a good way to get girls to say: “Haba na, that hard floor? Oya come and join me on the bed, or I’ll come to the floor with you.” 😀
  8. I want to be a writer when I grow up. A real writer. With millions of publications, and a jet, like John Grisham. I also want to teach. I love to talk to people. Robert Ludlum (his soul rest in peace), is one of my favourite authors. And a mentor.
  9. I realise I must have listed more than one fact in (8) above.
  10.  One of my favourite quotes is, “Moderation in all things, including Moderation. – Petronius”. It’s a maxim really. Another fave is, “Christophorus Christum, sed Christus substulit orbem: constiterit pedibus dic ubi Christophorus?” That’s the Eternal Conundrum.
  11.  I’m a Christian. I love GOD. I fear GOD. I worship GOD. You should get to know HIM.

Okay, we’re done with that.

Now, the hard part, the questions Haphenie asked me.

1. What do you treasure most?

Family. Friends. Maybe my reputation. My external Hardrive with over 500GB of important stuff. [>_>]

2. Who is your icon?

Most of my icons are fictional characters. Characters created by me inclusive. None of these humans are good enough.

3. One word that best describes you?

Histrionic. It means theatrical. Dramatic. I tend to grossly overplay scenarios. I’m a drama queen, according to my girlfriend. What does she know? *adjusts tutu*

4. If you had the power to make a permanent change in the world, what will it be?

Love. Brotherly love. By a wave of hand, if I could, I’ll place brotherly love in all our hearts. No, Macklemore. No. Not you.

5. What won’t you be caught dead wearing?

Well, I wore a satin nightgown in the middle of a drunken fit last night, but nah..won’t be caught dead wearing them.

6. What is your favorite fashion accessory?

My bracelets. My younger sister makes them. At a very steep price I tell you! Like 1000N for one! I mean, we’re family! And you’ll wonder why I never buy her recharge cards.

7. Is there any part of your body you aren’t comfortable with?

Ehm…when I was younger I had this very long head. Well, I sport a wicked afro now. Hahahahahahaha! Die haters!

8. In the next five years, where do you see yourself ?

In school. Studying for my PhD. ( ,_,)

Sugar-less garri life, i tell you…

9. Favorite cartoon character?

LOOOOL! I have no idea. Do you watch animation these days? These things are too hilarious. How do you choose?

10. Best movie / novel?

I love the ‘A song of Ice and Fire’ series by GRRM. Right now, I’m still thrilled by ‘The Great Gatsby’ I saw yesterday.

11. Your favorite sport?

I can swim. It’s got to be my best eh?

Okay, we are done with that. Now, the nominees.

In no particular order, and maybe selected based on some kind under-table sorting:

Malick, Cikko, Owex_, Zeenike, Haphenie, Vundie, Jyte Dunni Dammyoguns ehm…a lot more people I would love to include in this list, but alas, either they’ve gone past the limit of 200 wordpress followers or they are on that wretched *spits*

Anyway, my questions for them:

  1. Do you love cheeseballs?
  2. Given a choice between three 1000N notes and ten 200N notes, which would you pick?
  3. Without reserve, to what degree do you think I’m awesome?
  4. Who’s your favourite novel/movie/cartoon/animation character?
  5. Why do you write?
  6. Do you love cheeseballs? Do you plan to make a career out of writing? Explain. (Yes, my ‘The Teacher’ moniker is not joke)
  7. Rats or roaches?
  8. If I were a contestant in the Presidential elections, would you vote me?
  9.  What is your opinion of the Eternal conundrum?
  10. If GOD is Sovereign and knows all, what is the point of prayer?
  11. Do you read ‘motivational’ books? [This determines whether I kick you off any future Leiber lists I may draw]

Well, that’s it folks. the Leibster post is at an end.

That string of Latin, for those of us too lazy to google, reads simply: “Christopher bore Christ; Christ bore the whole world; Say where did Christopher then put his foot?”

Don’t forget to follow those amazing writers I nominated. Visit their blogs, loads of awesome stuff.

Like our page on Facebook, click on the Follow button at the top of your screen, and follow me on Twitter @janus_aneni

Peace to mankind.

PS: I really love cheeseballs. And I’m going to get some flak over this post.

Oh yeah...
Oh yeah…

For The Love of Amala

It happened to me.


After eight agonizing months of disciplined saving, I finally had enough money to buy myself a new mobile phone. The people who gave birth to me were not in support of me buying a phone worth more than the entire sum of my fees in the university and I could not convince them otherwise, so it had been only ‘le boo’  by my side. My previous phone had been a Nokia C3 and I had bragged to everyone that cared to listen that I, Teleola Onifade, the lethally sanguine chic from the Baptist denomination where the word of God is followed to the letter, would NOT use a Blackberry, except the Holy Spirit whispered it into my mortal ears. I would take a gigantic leap to a touch-screen phone.

Now, sitting in my room after a hectic day at School of Hygiene, Eleyele, Ibadan, marking scripts that made absolutely no sense, I raised my face to the ceiling of my room, imagining I was looking up to the heavens, and said a silent prayer of thanks. God had truly been faithful and all the people who had doubted me had been silenced. Glory, Hallelujah. I had rushed home with my stomach grumbling and found that Tosin, the lady I stayed with, had made Amala for lunch. My bank account was yet to recover, so I couldn’t eat out for a while. It was not really a problem though because Amala IS the truth that was sent to set all stomachs free and I enjoyed this freedom almost five times every week, courtesy of Tosin’s equal love and the ubiquitous nature of yam flour in Oyo state. I settled down with my food and a Stephen King novel and before long, I was happily sweating. Everything in the plate was hot; Amala, stew, okra and the meat. I ate with my right hand, which I was sure was suffering third degree burns, and held the novel with my left, my phone, my pride and joy, was by my side, I was in paradise. Then my new phone rang. I smiled the way I always smiled whenever the phone rang. My phone. It was ‘le boo’. I dropped the novel and answered.

“Hey” I beamed happily into the mouthpiece.

“Hi. I can almost see you smiling. Na wa o. You are still in the honeymoon period with this your phone. I give you three months. You will start throwing it …….”

Lailai! God forbid!” I interrupted. “I will never throw my pride and joy upon any surface, no matter how soft.”

He had laughed and said that if someone else heard me talking, they would think I was talking about a child. We talked about how I was beginning to spend too much money on novels and how to protect my complexion from the sun while I finished my food. After about twenty minutes, we said our goodbyes and he promised to call later. As I removed the phone from my ears, the screen remained dark and that was when the confusion started. Let me explain something to you first.

You see, the phone was a Samsung Galaxy SII and it has this feature called ‘proximity sensor’ which can be put on or off. When it is on and a call is being made and the phone is on the ear, the screen goes off to ensure that the touching of the screen by the ear does not mistakenly tap the ‘end call’, or ‘mute’, or ‘speaker’, or any other function. When the user removes the phone from the ear, the screen comes alive again. The boo had explained this to me during my one hour tutorial of how the phone worked because I am not so much of a technology person. I am sanguine as I have said, not choleric. So, you can imagine my confusion when the screen remained dark because my proximity sensor was on and my ear was nowhere near the phone.

I cleaned the screen, pressed the ‘menu’ button so it could come on and checked the setting. Nothing seemed to be wrong. I was not comfortable using my left hand so I took my plate to the kitchen, washed and cleaned my hands, then returned to my phone with a deep frown already setting on my forehead. I turned off the phone and turned it on and then called my mother to test it. After two minutes, the call ended and I removed the phone from my ear. The screen remained dark till I pressed the menu button. My lacrimal glands sensed distress and were on standby for action. Don’t panic I thought to myself. Breathe. The phone is not a fake and it has not spoilt. Breathe. I fiddled with the phone for a while and decided to call my tutor.

After I explained what had happened, he started with the questions.

“Have you checked the settings?”


“Have you put off the phone and put it on again?”


“Did you remove the battery when you put it off?”


“Did the phone fall?”


“Did water touch it?”

“Never. I don’t even answer calls when I am sweating!”

“Is it hanging?”


“Baby, I don’t know again o. But the phone is not bad now. Just the proximity …..”

“That is how it starts! One thing will spoil then another thing will spoil! Then it will fall apart! Then I will be phoneless!”

By now I was screaming. My enemies had struck. My eyes were full. Was I never to advance in life? Jesus help me. After everything I have been through. Why me? I have been good. This is punishment for what sin?

“Sorry. Calm down now. Don’t shout at me. I am trying to help you.”

“My phone, baby. My pride and joy. It has spoilt. Where will I start from?” I said as the tears flowed freely down my cheeks. I should have listened to my parents. They did not give me the blessings to purchase this phone. This is the end of a disobedient child. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Ephesians chapter six verse one. My chin sank to my chest and I began mourning. Matthew chapter five verse four. I believed the word of God, but who would comfort me?

“Tele, don’t cry now. Okay. Give me five minutes, let me think of something. Pick when I call you, okay?”

“Okay.” I sniffed.

“Don’t worry; your phone will be alright. I will fix it. I promise.”

“Okay.” I cleaned my eyes. My man never broke his promises to me. The word of God never lies. The masculine trinity in my life was threatened because I couldn’t tell my father about it, but God is my father too and would cover me there. These facts strengthened me as I blew my nose on my wrapper. I will be comforted.

As he was about to end the call, he hesitated.

“Tele, wait.”


“You know where the sensor is in front of the phone. On the top left. It looks like a tiny camera. Check if there is anything on it. I’ll hold on.”

I removed the phone from my ear and looked very closely.

Dear Lord.

A very tiny glob of Amala was sitting quietly on the sensor.





  • Janus and I both read Stephen King.
  • Everything I have said has been the truth and nothing but the truth. Ask le boo.
  •  Ladies, add ‘knowledge of phone mechanics’ to your check list when looking for a man. Thank me later.
  • Do not answer calls when eating Amala or any ‘swallow’.
  • Take all your problems to God in prayer with a clean heart and you will receive answers.
  • I think I am beginning to talk off-point.

An Evening with Vundie

So Ikenna was bored yesterday, or the day before, at about 5pm..and he wrote and sent me this.  I read it and burst out laughing for miles. I hope you enjoy it too.

Oh yes, of course, every sentiment expressed is the opinion of the writer, and not this blog of course.

Of course…



5 pm. He’s fucking bored.
He ain’t done shit all day.
The evening is almost here;
Daylight is wasting away.
All day he’s been in this house;
With nothing much to do.
His brain is working very hard
To search for something new.


He’s slept, he’s woken, watched some porn,
Jerked off till it hurts.
Tried to call his ex-girlfriend,
But he couldn’t find the words.
He’s sat down in all the chairs,
But they all feel the same.
Turn on the TV, turn it off;
This is his only game.


But suddenly, a powerful urge
To get into his car,
And drive down to the neighborhood church
Which isn’t very far.
He doesn’t know why he’s going there,
Or what he’s gonna do;
The voices just say, “Where’s your rifle?”
“Take that shit with you.”


He gets into the car,
And pulls away from the house.
The street is strangely quiet;
No peep from even a mouse.
The voices are scaring him now,
But shut them up he cannot.
He turns on the A/C,
But his body still feels hot.


He drives into the church parking lot,
And turns the engine off.
The sweat is making his shirt stick,
And his breath comes hard and rough.
He’s standing in the shadow
Of the hallowed home of God,
When again, the voices call to him,
And their screams ignite his blood.


“Quickly! You must get to the roof!”
“Don’t stop until you’re there!”
He dashes up the staircase,
Of others unaware.
“Where are you going, my son?”
The pastor yells to him.
But he cannot hear anyone else;
The voices make his senses dim.

Up and up the poor man runs;
His footsteps echo loud.
In a frenzy he climbs the stairs
As if chased by a crowd.
The pastor shakes his grey head,
And continues on his way.
He doesn’t see the rifle,
Because it’s in its case today.


He finally gets to the roof;
He looks up at the sun.
It’s just beginning to go back home
To prepare for the dawn.
In this one moment, his thoughts are his,
And they are very clear.
But suddenly, his mind goes blank;
And the voices are back there.


He goes to the edge of the roof,
With his rifle in tow.
He puts his eye to the view scope,
And watches the world below.
There is a woman with her little child,
Going home at the end of the day.
Somewhere else, a groundnut seller
Is packing her wares away.


He just stands there and watches them,
Oblivious little ants.
Going along their different routes
In their skirts and shorts and pants.
With a grim chuckle to himself,
He loads his tool of death.
He puts his eye back to the scope,
And takes a very deep breath.


He looks again at the view below,
And the targets in display.
He’s picking random people
To take their lives away.
He stands there for a long time,
Just looking at the scene,
When suddenly, in his pocket,
His phone starts to ring.


He looks at the display;
His ex-girlfriend’s number shows.
In the rapidly darkening evening,
The phone screen brightly glows.
He answers the phone call,
Puts the phone to his ear.
She tells him she’s driving to his house,
And she is almost there.


He hangs up and just stands there,
His thoughts all in a whirl,
When suddenly, the voices scream,
“Dude, go home and fuck that girl!”
He dashes back down the stairs,
Past the bewildered pastor again;
Revs up the car engine,
And pulls into the fast lane.


The voices in his head are silent;
He’s feeling normal now.
He’s driving like a maniac,
As fast as traffic can allow.
And those people may never know;
Have any idea at all,
How all their lives were saved
By a goddamn booty call




Like i said..

Follow on Twitter @janus_aneni


A Series of Oddly Fortuitous Events

It was one of those days that bear no remarkability. The sun rose at the proper time, the day’s noises had started at 6:00am and First Bank Choba opened for business at exactly 8 O’clock. It was a typical Tuesday much like any other. Workers had settled into the rhythm of the week’s activities and students of the University of Port-harcourt were finally ready for the week’s round of lectures.

The dark-tinted Peugeot 405 slowed down as it approached the entrance of the bank. Here are several things to note. The First Bank Choba, located at the junction of the Ikwerre and East-West roads, is recessed 50m behind a high gate and a bank of ATMs. It is bordered by high fences with the FCMB on the right and a cobbler’s stall on the left. Usually, the ATMs are crowded with workers and students all vying to withdraw a few hundreds from their savings accounts.

That day, being a normal day, had the usual crowd of would-be ‘withdrawers’ and the front of the bank had the look of a cinema theatre on opening day. Such it was that, Agnes Okoroahu, shifting her weight from one foot to the other out of impatience, happened to glance at an angle into the slowly approaching 405, and saw within, a thickset man with a black bandanna across his face, slam a cartridge into an M-16. Of course, she didn’t know it was an M-16, but the sight of a rifle was shocking and recognisable, and the 34-year old mother of four girls and one two-year old son, let out a shriek that was heard within the Choba campus of Uniport.

“Armed robbers!” She screamed.

As is to be expected, hell broke loose.

The robbers, for they were truly, jumped out of the vehicle and began shooting into the air immediately. The ATM crowd dispersed quickly as the screaming people fell over each other in their haste to escape. Agnes herself, abandoning all decency to self-preservation, fled at top speed, her scarf falling off her head to reveal the badly burnt hairdo that had failed to retouch properly on her last visit to the hairdresser. A visit she had spent arguing with the hairdresser about which actress was more stately, between Eucharia Anuobi and Liz Benson, an argument which might have accounted for the badly charred nature of her hair, and refusal to pay the hairdresser. Events which propelled her to order for a length of artificial human hair, and occasioned her arrival at the ATM this morning to withdraw.

Rushing into the bank complex, the robbers climbed the stairs and through the open security doors into the bank hall. Their entrance, properly facilitated by the presence of a daredevil ‘inside man’ disguised as a customer, placed within the bank, who had physically subdued the badly trained security into opening the doors.

“Open your safe!” the robber growled, his eyes angry above the bandanna covering his face.

From all indications, the robbery was moving according to plan. The robbers had however failed to calculate for all eventualities. Which is not surprising, considering, it is impossible to calculate for all eventualities.

Forty kilometres to the left and thirty minutes ago, down the East-West road, in the direction facing Warri and Benin, Group Captain Isaac Boniface, had been going through a bit of a dilemma. The Group Captain had credentials which labelled him as an Officer of the Navy in charge of a fleet consisting three Gun-class ships and a tug-boat, none of which however existed. Captain Boniface, if anything, was a spy in the Nigerian Defence Intelligence Agency (DIA) and in his possession was a secret document which needed to be hand-delivered by secure courier to the Director, Office of Strategic Manuevers, located in a nondescript building on Evo road in GRA.

There was only one problem. For reasons unknown to Boniface, his vehicle, a late-model Toyota Tundra, had broken down just before the village of Emuoha. And with his transportation disabled, the Captain was a sitting duck. An incorrect euphemism, considering he didn’t know how to swim despite his credentials, and he was pacing.

Calling ‘Support’, he requested a replacement vehicle to be delivered to his position as soon as possible. Unknown to him, the same Support Officer who had delivered the Tundra he had just scuttled half-way into the bushes at the side of the road, who was supposed to have detailed another officer to tail the Captain at a respectable distance, to provide support, should assistance be necessary, and who was now supposed to organise a new vehicle for him, was still in bed, head throbbing from a terrible hangover occasioned by the copious amounts of alcohol and weed consumed the night before. Alcohol and weed which had of course, caused the Support Officer to make the mistake of detailing a vehicle scheduled for maintenance to the Captain the evening before. As it was, the Officer was in no state to think clearly, and so, when he received the text message of instructions, he simply dialled a contact at the Emuoha Police Station and succintly requested an escort of two Hilux trucks to ferry the Captain to his secret meeting.

When the escort arrived at the Tundra, sirens blaring, Captain Boniface thought to himself, what could be worse?

If only he knew that, at the moment, he shared like thoughts with Alex Greene, a Kalabari student of the University of Port-harcourt whose Toyota Corolla had immediately after quenching on the road, been rammed from behind by an irate bus-driver in a Mitsubishi.

The accident had occurred at a particularly bad spot on the East-West road. Suffice to say, both drivers, Alex and Emeka, who was the bus driver, instantly jumped out of their vehicles and began to trade insults at the top of their voices. Soon, a queue began to form as cars manuevered the potholes, trying to navigate their way around the two vehicles parked at the only good spot on that particular stretch of East-West road, at a place called Alakahia, not far from the University of Port-harcourt Teaching Hospital.

Soon there would be a gridlock.

But for Bayo, robber extraordinaire and protegé of Anini the Legendary, the day was moving smoothly.

Oya load the boot make we dey roll,” he yelled to his cronies, making his voice heard above the sound of sporadic gunshots.

So far, they had spent only ten minutes since entry. Soon they would be off. No way the police could get here this quickly. All his dreams were finally going to be realised. You see, Bayo was a student once. A student of Uniport even. For years, he had struggled part-time against the Academic system, from one menial job to the next, struggling to pay his school fees and fend for himself. Then one day, he had hit on a brilliant idea. There was a motor park right there at Choba and for all he knew, nobody supplied the drivers with cheap, adulterated ‘Black market’ petrol and oil, while they did their jobs in a state that supplied the country expensive and well-refined petrol and oil. So he had scrounged a few thousands and set up a stand to sell just that, Petrol and oil. Soon, the money was pouring in. Not exactly Caeser’s court, but he had become more comfortable, so that he was even able to employ a sales girl and attend more Political Science classes. Then one day, the Bank people came. After building right beside his stall in less than three months, they refused him a loan, and got the Police to not only evict his “nonsense dirty shop” from their entrance area, but also to fine him N120,000.

Oh, revenge is a sweet cold dish, he thought to himself, remembering a quote from ‘Marx’.

Make we dey move!

Jumping into the car, they zoomed out the bank to the East-West road, junction. Then they heard the sirens.


Captain Boniface sat up in his chair at the back seat of the lead Hilux. “Is that gunfire?”

The Nigerian police is divided into many departments. Some of which overlap. Of all the departments, the Traffic Police, the CID and the Mobile Police (MOPOL) are the most popular. Of these three, the MOPOL wear the crown. Armed with CAR-15s, semi-formal training and careless bravado, they insist on asserting their importance to Nigerians, their worth to the Military, and their difference from the average police. An assignment to guard a Naval Captain tested these assumptions.

“If that is gunfire, we’ll have to turn back,” warned the Captain, his thoughts on preserving his package, rather than heroics.

No Oga, we don accept mission to carry you go GRA. And we go carry you,” said the Police officer in the front passenger seat, with a grim face.

Yes sah! Na true” concured the driver, a foolish grin on his face. Already, he could hear the story he’ll tell his friends at the Officer’s mess. How the Captain was scared, but he gunned his vehicle as he faced the enemy.

Stepping hard on the accelerator, Private Osunde, the driver, gunned the powerful Hilux and switched on the siren as the truck climbed the Choba bridge. The grin on his face, the death-head grin of Kamikaze pilots as they flew to their deaths humming “Battle cry”.

Once again, hell broke loose. Well, looser than before.

Bayo ordered his boys to shoot through the windows. “Drive the police back! Dem no get levo!” As they sped down the East-West road heading towards Alakahia and Rumuokoro.

The first shot to hit the police escort, tore through the windscreen of the lead vehicle to punch a hole in Osunde’s grinning mouth and slam into the head rest where the Captain’s head would have been had he not ducked at the first sign of danger. The lead Hilux instantly swerved out of control, it’s driver dead and dripping blood like a leaky pipe. Grabbing the steering wheel in his left hand, a daring move reminiscent of a dozen action movies, his CAR-15 belching bullets out the open window in his second hand, the Police officer in the passenger seat managed to get the truck to a standstill and kill 15 innocent bystanders in the process. The Hilux behind, instantly provided professional, better aimed, cover fire, chasing the Peugeot down the road at breakneck speed.

Alex and Emeka the driver of buses, all the mediators who had stopped to settle the arguments, the TIMARIV officials, who are always quick to sense such disputes, all the owners of the different cars on the queue behind and in front of the accident, and just about everybody in that environment had all disappeared. Scampered and run off, leaving their cars, as the sounds of gunshots had drawn closer. So it was that Bayo and his crew, operating in fear now, adrenaline haven burnt out all the marijuana and Alomo and bravado from their system came up against the log-jam of vehicles across the road. There was no time to even brake.

The Peugeot 405 bounced as it hit the first pothole, living up to it’s legend of being a car built for Nigerian roads. However, it was not a car for accidents because as soon as it hit the first vehicle, the Peugeot exploded in a huge fireball that caught onto the vehicles in closest vicinity, resulting in an explosion that showered glass and metal in all directions.

The Police in the pursuing vehicle, skid to a stop at a safe distance, their guns almost empty, as they stared at the explosion in the middle of the road, their minds on one topic: the promotion which would definitely come of this, and how best to exaggerate the story to blame the robbers for damages and place the heroics squarely, humbly, on their shoulders.

Captain Boniface placed another call to ‘Support’.


  • I don’t like Fir.. I have nothing against First bank nor any of it’s branches oh!
  • This is a supreme work of fiction and bears no resemblance to any living or dead individuals, except they be subjects in an alternate universe in which this Writer is regarded as God and ruler and Ultimate Being.
  • I know I should have gotten a better title for this.
  • The East-west road really is in a state of ruin, and presents quite the harzard for fleeing robbers.
  • Any typo is regretted, and blamed on the persistent pings and phone calls from my adoring fans.

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