Tangles! : Episode VIII

I apologise for taking time with this particular episode of Tangles! You see, for the past two weeks, my life has been in a web of emotional tangles. Rather than leave me with additional inspiration or fodder for
Tangles!, it instead left me a minor wreck and more than completely blocked. But repeat after me, “there is nothing..there is nothing that ogbolo soup cannot fix!” I am back now, and we’ll resume where we left off.
Uhm..yes, if today is your first time fellowshipping with us on a Monday like this, you would do well to indicate with a wave of hand or comment and someone would be with you shortly. Or just search the blog for
‘Tangles!: the Premiere’ so as to begin. Bless you.

First, a sort of Pro-view..

The car zoomed down the dusty street, going at top speed. Behind the wheel, the driver hunches over, his face in a deep frown as he reminisces over messages he just received. The tires squeal as they spin and grind the dust, and in the near distance less than a kilometre away, a pothole looms.
The shards of glass catch the light from the bedside lamp giving the girl the illusion of a bathroom floor made out of diamonds. She is too distraught to pay any attention. Her tears blind her eyes and she pricks a finger on a piece of glass as she struggles to pick them up. Her body heaves in retching spasms. Pregnancy lurks..
In the camp, he walks to the mammy market. His bag slung across his shoulder, every step deliberate and in tune with the vocals from Jace Everett – Bad things, which stream from his earphones. Sitting at his usual table is a pretty girl. He smiles.
She is in for another lazy day at home. Her fingers rest on the remote and she idly flicks through the channels. A scene from the movie ‘The Avengers’ flashes on screen and she smiles, her mind being transported to a certain day when she met a certain man. A man far away in camp.


“Hello, my name is *insert name* and I play the role of Tony in Janusaneni’s Tangles!. My character is a young Engineer, Youth Corper and supposedly the lead character in this story. Tony’s tangle is between his ex-girlfriend Rebecca who is now pregnant for someone else and his present girlfriend Sharon who it seems is now after that same someone else. There is also a hint of a budding romance between him and a certain pretty girl. Keep reading Tangles! and may you lovelives rem..*backstage voice* “CUT!!!”

Tangles! – a tale of twisted emotions


There is something about how Fate works. One moment, your thoughts are intent on a particular course of action, and in the next, due to a series of consequences, your entire outlook on life changes completely.
When Sharon left the house that morning, her thoughts were singularly on Paul. He would be allowed to have visitors that day. Soon he’ll be discharged too. So she was happy and in high spirits. But you see, as she stepped into the cab that morning, the Fates played their first note and the entire scenario for this story, evolved.

Camp Twa, Bonny.

It was the Closing ceremony parade for the inmates.
Usually, according to Camp traditions, on the day of passing out of the Camp, one is woken early in the morning, commanded to pack up and clean the hostels, then herded out to the field in full regalia for the parade. But Camp graduation days don’t always fall on Independence day. On this particular day, they had been herded out in the wee hours, while the wind still howled and bats began to yawn, to listen to a long lecture and admonishment by the Camp Commandant. Obey your country; love her; follow her; preserve unity; you’re tomorrow’s leaders etc all had been drummed in. Then, they were released, to pack up and to get out.
All these thoughts went through Tony’s mind as he stuffed his shoe into the duffel bag and zipped it shut.
Clamping his cap on his head, he strode out the hostel his jungle boots crunching up the gravel as he marched. In his ear, his earphone drummed out Green Day’s 21 Guns and his feet kept time.
“You don dey move already?” yelled Alaska, the querulous voice cutting through the pitched notes of Green Day’s lead vocalist. “Yes oh!” replied Tony. “You nko?”
Abeg,” waved off the half naked man, still in his boxers. “Make dem go fuck!”
Tony grinned and kept walking. By this time tomorrow, he’ll be lying down in his bed in his uncle’s house in Ikeja. He had made up his mind yesterday and confirmed it later in the morning. He wasn’t going to the pretty girl’s house. There was no sense to it. But the reason went much deeper than that. He wanted to see Rebecca.


You see yourse’f! Rebecca cursed as she dropped her keys. The keys jangled down the stairs leading her on a half-bent over chase. Finally she caught up with the errant bunch on the landing. Shaking it in an unnecessary attempt to remove the dust, she looked up at an old poster on the wall. It advertised the Spirit of David concert. A wave of nostalgia suddenly tore through her. She had attended this particular concert, with Tony. They had had so much fun that day. Towards the end, Tony had run to the stage and grabbing a mic, ordered the DJ to play any tune, and before any bouncer could reach him, he had performed a couple of cartwheels and crazy air-flares then raced away. It was one of the few times Tony ever did something crazy, and he had done it to make her feel better. She had loved him so much that day.
She was going to see him today. Rebecca stared at a mirror at the ground floor of her hostel. She looked good. Her curves were filling out very nicely, and pregnancy or no, her boobs were bigger and her hips were very Kim K and that was cool! What it would be like if Tony was the father of her child.


Abdul flagged down the taxi. It was today. Nothing would stop it. The satchel he carried bumped against the side of the taxi as he entered and his heart jumped. But nothing untoward happened. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, the shirt was ironed and he looked quite neat asides the untidy full beard. A small prayer cap was perched on his head and Islamic prayer beads adorned his wrist.
“Those who fight would die. Those who quarrel would be vanquished. What is right would be, what is wrong would be exposed.” The words he heard yesterday. Also:
“Violence is not our way. It is a mode. It is a method to achieving a result. A blacksmith is not violent, but to create his works, he must hammer at the metal. A nurse helps to heal, but she must pierce the skin to achieve this. Life is brought to the world by violence. The cries of a mother as she births her babe, are not of pleasure but of pain, yet by that method is life and joy brought to the world.”
These words repeated themselves in his head, going again and again. He needed them. Sweat broke against his brow and he wiped them with the back of his hand. At that moment the taxi stopped and a lady got in beside him.
Abdul’s heart stopped for an instant and the words of the Prophet and the Imam who spoke for him where forgotten. She was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen. His heart sank as he thought, he might never see her again. Then she said “Silver Cross Hospital..” and all his resolve shook.


“So, you really wouldn’t be coming with me?”
Tony couldn’t say a word. The pretty girl looked so much prettier today. A slight wind was blowing and it played with her hair tousling it teasingly across her face. If she had any idea what effect it had on him, she showed no sign; though she refused to tie the hair and her cap remained firmly in her hand. In the centre of the field, the Parade commander screamed”PLAaaaaaaaaATOOOON!” “I’m sorry,” he said finally.
She just stared at him. “She must be very lucky. Rebecca that is.” Tony started suddenly. “Wha..?” He started.
“Do not bother denying it. I can see it in your eyes. It’s really Rebecca, not Sharon. She is the one isn’t she?”
She kept staring at him. Her eyes brimmed over. Pretty girls are not used to rejection.


The muslim man kept glancing at her and muttering Arabic phrases under his breath. Crazy dude this one, she thought. “Oya, make una brin’ moni,” called the driver.
She paid him. Then the muslim man paid too.
Where you dey go?” asked the driver as he stared at the muslim man’s money. “Silver Cross hospital,” came the reply in a surprisingly soft and clear voice. Sharon stared at him this time.
He wore normal clothes, but his beard and prayer cap gave him a slightly dangerous look. All these people sef! Then she saw his satchel.
Oh Lord!

The writer sat crosslegged staring at the floor. Before him, some pebbles lay arranged in some form of pentagram. Laughing maniacally suddenly, he swept the stones away and picked up a pen.

To be continued quite soon..

*Like she would say, “All typos are definitely intentional..” and probably intended as an insult to the English Language.
*Do not forget the twist in the tales. This episode continues from Chapter 6 rather than 7. *Ogbolo soup didn’t really do the trick, but it worked just fine.
*Appreciations to @harkinfash and @mii2prwiti for certain insights and info and to a certain ibo girl for the pebbles.

Ff on twitter @janus_aneni


Tangles! : Episode VII

We are coming to the end of Tangles!. You would remember at the beginning of this when I warned that Tangles! “..is written in a sorta weird sequence, with the events occuring in real time but not necessarily in sequence.” Ok, good. The point of Tangles! is really to test out an idea and to totally confuse all but the most seasoned reader. So, no matter the twists, follow the thread, keep to the right and we’ll find our way out this labyrinth.


“Okay, I wouldn’t tell you my name, but I play Sharon in Janusaneni’s Tangles! I’m the stylish one! School drop-out, designer, half-tomboy, sexy, fair etc. Do not confuse me with Rebecca oh! Ehen..peeps be confusing us, she’s pregnant I’m NOT! And yeah, the Tangle, I love my boyfriend Tony okay, but you see..I have to be there for Paul now. Always..uhm..later. Keep reading Tangles!”

Tangles! – a tale of twisted emotions

*theme song of Papa Ajasco plays briefly..stops…..no music*


The Silver Cross hospital was always quiet this time of the day. It was 11:30am and somehow nobody gets sick at this time on Sundays. As usual, the air was thick with the acrid tang of antiseptic and disinfectant, the gagging smell of sickness and the bitter taste of fear. No place has more fear than a hospital. The fear of death, the fear of life, the fear of needles. Paul had begun to recover, the doctors said. The next day was Independence day and if Dr. Akpan could be believed, he would be allowed visitors for 30mins.
In the private room, the windows were closed with the curtains drawn back to let in the sunlight. In a corner, the split air-conditioning unit whirred in a steady rhythm keeping time with the beeping of the EKG. On TV, a man in a dark suit sat and smiled at the screen. His hair was permed and combed back neatly with a parting on the right side. “The Word is your safest bet..” He said, tapping a black Bible. In a corner near the TV, Sharon stood, whispering agitatedly into a phone. “…be inconsiderate. I can’t explain the reason to you…”
On the other end of the line, Tony fumed. Since that night almost two weeks ago when he performed at the Talent show, things had gone from bad to worse between him and his girlfriend. On the other hand, his Camp popularity had increased and he couldn’t take a step anywhere without hearing ‘T-Lion’. For his girlfriend though, her brother/cousin had been involved in an accident, the same accident he had heard on Twitter, and somehow the hurt was directed at him. Unable to reach her that night, he had tried and reached her in the early morning when she came home. Asking her what happened had led to a flare out and things had kept going downhill since then. It had taken a while for him to figure out the ‘cousin’ was probably an old boyfriend who Shae obviously still had deep feelings for. Resentment had set in after that.
“…See, I can’t take this now, I’ll talk to you later,” she said, cutting the call. Tony kept staring at the phone.
“Are you alright?” She asked.
Tony looked across the buka table, as if in a daze, at the pretty girl. It was the phrase that always came to mind whenever he looked at her. That, and a healthy throb in his groin region. She touched his arm. Her fingers were hot, as was her entire body. Hot. They had been friends since the first day of Camp when they had done clearance together. They ate together, saw the shows and events together and generally hung out like a couple. Tony usually tried to be the faithful sort and though the temptation was in her eyes, he had never entertained the thoughts of cheating on Shae. But he and the pretty girl had grown closer, especially in the last week, the more he and Sharon grew apart.
“No, I’m alright,” he replied picking up the fork. Her hands trailed off his arm and somewhere in his nether regions, his pulse quickened. This was wrong. “Is it her again, or Sharon?” the pretty girl asked, shocking him.
He had forgotten how much he told her. But who could be blamed? He had been emotionally distraught and troubled and needed someone to unload on.
In Akoka, the morning was calm also. Most of the students were inside the campus and in the hostels and lodges outside the campus, those absconding were indoors. In the street, a kid struggled with a thin fowl for a piece of bread. The chicken snatched the bread from under the nose of the kid and ran off shrieking and cackling while the goat bleated sadly. Rebecca watched the scene from her window. She was naked. She had taken to dressing in, well, nothing these days. According to her reasoning, she had no shame any more and soon all would be laid bare. Not for one second did she consider an abortion. For the hundredth time that morning, she stared at her stomach. It was growing bigger.
It takes about two months at the very least before the bulge of pregnancy may begin to show. Rebecca was barely up to two months pregnant and as flat as a board. The anxiety of pregnancy had rid her of an appetite and caused her stomach to recede even further, till the mound of her sex was almost a bulge. But in her mind, she was as bloated as a pig.
When she tried calling the father of her child and discovered he had been in an accident, her world had crashed. She had paid a clandestine visit to the hospital and she had seen him. Her Paul, all swathed in bandages with wires leading in and from every point the plaster did not cover, to several machines in the wall. She had recognised the EKG and one glance at the faint pulse it registered had nearly resulted in a miscarriage. But that was then, she was stronger now.
That day, with her hair all mussed and tears in her eyes, she made her way to KFC. Sitting in an alcove, hidden behind an AC unit, she had cried into a bowl of ice cream. Then she had called Tony. One might judge her foolish for calling him, but the truth was, she had always loved Tony, perhaps not as much as she should have, but at that point there had been no one else.
When he answered the call the surprise had been evident in his voice. She didn’t blame him. They hadn’t spoken in months, and this call was as out of the blue as a fart from Smurfette. She had almost ended the call then, but his voice had turned tender and he asked; “What is it hon?” She had burst into tears afresh. Then she told him she was pregnant.
When men have sex they expect the girls to become beholden to them. So when Tony heard those words, his first thought had been hurt and jealousy. Somewhere deep within him, he had probably hoped she would never know another man. “How did it happen?” he had blurted foolishly.
The same way elephants do it! a voice in his head mocked. But that day she had been too distraught to talk and he had spent six minutes telling her to “Calm down” and “Take it easy”. She had called later in the evening to apologise, to which he had replied, “It’s alright” and “Are you okay?”
Courtesy had made him call again the next morning and later at night. By the next night he had the full story, and he was heartsick.
As Tony and the pretty girl left the mammy market, he reconsidered his plans. The next day was the passing out ceremony and before the afternoon was done, if his original plans held, he would be on a flight back to Ikeja. If he changed his mind though, on leaving camp he’ll head into town and join the pretty girl in her apartment for at least a night. It couldn’t be called cheating, after all, for all he knew his girlfriend was spending nights with her ex-boyfriend/brother or cousin. On the other hand though, he did promise to check in on Rebecca. Look at me, knight in shining armour, he thought scornfully, one tearful Rebecca and I’m drawn back into the web.
The spider crept past her fingers, stopping briefly to glance at the book she was reading. At least, she assumed it was glancing. Spiders have a series of compound eyes after all, so it should be able to glance if nothing else.
She had been at his bedside since morning. It was past noon now and the nurses had been in to check him. He was sleeping though. He slept all the time these days. The doctors kept him heavily sedated. According to Dr. Akpan, he needed a lot of rest to recover. Yesterday, he had been awake for an hour, but talking tired him, so she just held his hands and spoke to him. Right now, he was awake but he wouldn’t let her know. The thought excited him and on the EKG, the monitor showed a slightly raised bump. Sharon didn’t notice, she was engrossed in her book.
Her bedside table was covered with get-well cards and some flowers from female colleagues at the bank. Beautiful flowers, but none as pretty as the girl who sat in the chair reading. The wounded man looked at her from under heavy lids; long hair tied in a knot behind her head, a masculine longsleeved shirt over dark jeans and a pair of boots. Not exactly the typical female look, but then again it was Shae. She adjusted and for a second, some boob flashed. The EKG gave a beep.
He thought of Rebecca. Why hadn’t she come to see him? He had tried to as Sharon earlier – when he first came out the coma, but the smiling doctor had told him to rest, that questions could come later. He hated doctors who smiled, those were the ones who got you to kill yourself.
“Oh, young man, an accident? We may have to amputate your head sir.” Bloody bastards! The EKG gave a couple of beeps. Sharon looked up. “Paul?”

To be continued…

*Once again, I state that I have no issues against any ambassadorial-style churches, nor with any form of hairstyling. I like Denrele after all.
*Big time appreciations to @juneberrrry for staying up and providing the second crazy head, you’re not well!
*And uhm..this post contains resemblance to people alive and dead and it was purely intentional and yes, you can sue me. I need the popularity..(._.)

Ff me on twitter @janus_aneni

P.S: And I got zoned to the Help-me-form-lesson-note Zone, and here I thought the Fellow Corper zone was bad enough.


Tangles!: Episode VI

*coughs* “Is it working? Okay..my name is..*Nokia phone rings*..and I play Rebecca in Janusaneni’s Tangles! Uhm..my character is ultra-emotional, clumsy and a bit of a confused being. But I guess that’s why it’s Tangles! *backstage voice..’Who asked you?’..* Anyway, my character is a Banking and Finance student in MAU..I mean, the Federal University of Lagos. She is pregnant, about 20 years and has suicidal tendencies. Stay tuned, and keep reading Tangles! Bye ya!”

Tangles! – a tale of twisted emotions.



She ran into his big wide arms. “He hurt me, Paul,” she sobbed, her tears running down her cheeks to soak his grey sweatshirt.
“It’s alright,” he drawled in his deep voice. “I’m here now. I’m always here for you okay?” Then he wiped away the tears and pecked her forehead.
Sharon woke with a start. She was in her room, in her apartment. The alarm clock by her bed shrilled. It was 5:30am. She had been asleep for close to six hours.
The girl stepped out of bed and walked towards the window. Outside, the streets were stirring, hawkers were packaging their wares and in a nearby mosque the muezzin wailed the call to prayer. The sensation of the kiss lingered on her forehead and the memory of the dream hung in the air like a scent of a long forgotten fragrance.
Paul had been her big brother. The one to whom she had always run to whenever anyone hurt her. He had always taken care of her. Her big bear, with his easy smile and fierce hugs. It was as she grew older that she realised, he too relied on her. An only child, orphaned at an early age, Sharon’s had proven to be the closest thing to family that he had. The Bishop, Sharon’s father, had adopted Paul when she was born and he was still a kid. Both had grown together as sibling, but with the knowledge that they were not related. No one could come between them. No one. Until last year… Sharon shut the curtains.


The bugle rang, shrill and loud.
On the parade ground, the cadets stood in white shorts, shivering as the cold wind whipped about exposed ankles and up the flaps of baggy shorts. Men shrivelled and the ladies broke out in goosebumps, and all the while, the breeze blew through the ranks as unrelenting as a cold blade in the hands of an expert labourer.
The flag was stiff in the breeze, the green, white, green colours rippling with a certain intensity as the Camp Commandant gave a short speech. It was Independence morning, and the weather seemed to know that.
Tony glanced at the flag again, there was something about the way she twisted and turned in the breeze that seemed to ignite some form of national pride in him.
Last year, on Independence day, he and his ex-girlfriend had worn matching green and white outfits and joined a carnival painting the country in green and white. It had been fun and warm. Today was just cold. He shivered involuntarily. That night last year had been cold though. They had cuddled beneath a heavy quilt, her fingers tracing his nipples while he kissed her hair.
Tony smiled. Funny that he should be thinking about his ex-girlfriend right now, in the middle of a parade, with… “What are u smiling about?” She asked.
Tony smiled at the pretty girl. “Nothing.”


She shook her hair out of the shower cap and looked at her reflection again. Her eyes were dark-rimmed and sunken, but then she had not slept well last night. Her dreams had been dark and full of blood and smoke. In each one, Paul died. In the last one, as he died, his face turned into Tony’s and he looked at her with such contempt. “It’s all your fault,” he hissed.
Tony had been the love of her life. But aren’t they all? She had told her friends that Tony was different. He was unlike anyone else. When she was with him, she actually, literally, did feel butterflies in his stomach. She was jittery, jumpy and all smiles whenever he was around. And then, he was her first.
The MAULAG student pulled on a pair of jergins and buckled on a tiny belt. Outside the window, a stiff breeze blew, rustling the leaves of the avocado tree. On the bedside, a piece of paper blew to the floor. On it was written simply; ‘Silver Cross Hospital’.

Somewhere in Lagos…

Abdul was up very early, before the muezzins and the call to prayer. Snatching up his prayer cap, he grabbed a plastic kettle and walked out into the compound. The yard was still empty, most of the other tenants at the face-me-I-face-you were still indoors. It was the will of Allah, better he went about unseen. Filling the kettle from a tap, he crossed the road to the small mosque.
As he performed his ablutions, the wind blew, the cold breeze cooling his wet hands and feet and sending a chill across his body and up his spine. Allahu akhbar! It will be done.

*No pun was intended in the phrase; “The flag was stiff in the breeze..”
*I mean no offense to anyone either of Islamic disposition or belonging to ambassadorial-style churches *And uhm..’Jergins’ is the right spelling right?


Ff on Twitter @janus_aneni

Peace…and Happy Independence!

Tangles!: Episode V

Hello, my name is *insert name* I play Paul in Janusaneni’s Tangles! I’m a banker, love driving and well…speeding. In the first episode, I escape an accident and then fall into one. I am then knocked out for an entire episode, and only recover in the third episode, when I am rescued. In this episode I am in the hospital. Uhm..*voice from backstage..”The tangle!”*..oh yeah, I’m so far the love interest of one lady in the story, and the assumed love interest of another. Uhm..keep reading Tangles!

Tangles! – a tale of twisted emotions.



The beat of ‘Nawti – Olu Maintain’ boomed out the speakers and the crowd hollered.

“..love me or hate me, can’t stop my delivery
they feeling me / buying everything, like it’s monopoly.
I keep it drama free, why’re you tryina embarrass me,
You f**king up yourself B..!
Love me or hate me, can’t stop my delivery,
they feeling me/ buying everything like it’s drug money..”

Before him, the crowd was on their feet and shouting. The lights were in his eyes, but he could feel their presence, see their hands, hear their voices. He felt light. He felt happy.
“And that was T-lion!” the MC shouted over the din. The crowd kept screaming and whooping as Tony walked off-stage. It would be nice to get used to this.


They had swaddled him in bandages and everywhere there was lint and wires and blood patches. His body was broken. His beautiful body was in pieces. A memory flashed through Sharon’s mind. It was a year ago, and they had been in the gym. Paul had dropped the dumbell and walked towards her, his movements were smooth, casual and powerful. His sweatshirt was wet with sweat and stuck to his skin, and you could see the ripples as he moved. “You gotta keep your body fit Shae. You exercise your body, it will stay beautiful. Like mine.” He winked. He was the first person to ever call her Shae. Tears came unbidden to her eyes.
“Is he going to be okay?” She asked Dr Akpan.
“Right now he is heavily sedated, but his bodily functions are alright. There was minor injury to his spinal column when he was being pulled from the vehicle, but…”
Sharon heard the doctor but her eyes were fixed on Paul, who twitched suddenly. Would he hear her is she talked to him? “What did you say Doctor?” The doctor took no offense. He was used to it.
When the taxi carrying Paul’s screaming body arrived the Emergency section of the hospital, the doctors immediately swung into action. After a quick session in the theater, they had him injected with enough morphine to float the Titanic, wrapped him up, like a mummy in Antarctica, and wheeled him into a private room.
“…has been ringing with calls from a particular number. As his Emergency contact, I thought you’ll like to know so as to reply these calls,” Dr Akpan said softly.
They were seated in the doctor’s office. On the table lay Paul’s phone, a white Blackberry 9800. Sharon took the phone and scrolled through the missed calls. Becks. A business partner? She dialled. Then she remembered her phone.


A girl’s voice?
“Is this Becks?”
Only one person ever called her Becks.
“Yes, this is..”
“Okay, uhm..Paul is indisposed at the moment, and would not be able to come to the phone.” What?
“Why is that? Is he ok?”
The concern in Rebecca’s voice must have been evident and whoever she was speaking to must have realised that because, when the reply came, it was softer. “Paul has been involved in an accident dear, but he is recovering..”
The world suddenly spun in a dizzying cycle. Rebecca clutched the edge of the table to steady herself. “Accident? How?” She cried. The flood of emotions and worry came rushing back.
“According to the doctor, he is stable now. There was a minor altercation with a truck, but he is okay now. You should not worry,” came the insistent reply in that female voice. The tears swam before her eyes, and her vision blurred. Truck? “Which hospital?” She managed to croak.


“Nice one man.”
“Thanks,” Tony smiled at the afro-haired guy in glasses. The geek walked away, squinting through his spectacles. Tony took out his phone again, there was still no message from Sharon, though five messages awaited him on BBM. He slid open the phone and navigated to his Twitter account. “Awesome show tonight fam! Thanks for the support guys..” He tweeted.
On his timeline, the topic was mainly about an accident in Festac which had messed up traffic and caused a build-up on the Lagos-Badagry expressway. How does this concern people who are in faraway Bonny?
He closed his Twitter page.

To be continued…


The writer sits at a desk in the staff room of the school. His fingers are  caked in chalk dust and up on the sleeves of his shirts and in his hair, the tiny white grains flutter and settle and flutter and settle, in time with his movements, giving him some sort of halo in the afternoon light. As usual, he scribbles into the pages of an orange leather-bound book. His thoughts are in his story and for the moment, he is lost in the world of his characters.
A student approaches the desk timidly. The writer looks up from what he is writing, his piercing eyes gazing at her with a bored expression. “We have you now sir.”

*Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental or intended as some form of malice. Do take offense.
* T-lions lyrics supplied by Ohdes, @Ohdes_so_goon, copy and paste link http://www.hulkshare.com/dl/wu0q0wfyt9l9 and download his hot single “Nawti freestyle rmx”

Randomly speaking

So I sat down to think yesterday. I am not kidding, I actually got up from the bed, pulled out a chair and sat with my head in my hands to think. After close to an hour of deliberation and careful meditation, I came to a conclusion;(rhyme! \\(˘⌣˘)// ), that Eba is always great with Ogbolo soup. What? No? Idiot! Listen to me…
The tray is placed before you. In one plate, the eba lies, glistening yellow (yellow garri rocks!) and making the nylon covering ‘sweat’. The ogbolo on the other hand, or plate, steams teasingly, with small bits of fish and periwinkles and snail and other amphibians, crustaceans and related or unrelated aquatic life forms and bushmeat, all jingling and floating together happily in a sea of draw draw. Your fada! *smacking lips*
But it is not just the aesthetics I’m talking about. You see, that sensation when the eba glides down your gullet on a stream of fresh, hot ogbolo, chased after by a periwinkle bouncing around a piece of soft snail meat, is as close to heaven on Earth as you can get, except you’re talking about a BJ from Angelina Jolie, which is just another level entirely.
So, I’m ranting again today. Been ages and as usual, I’m just writing out the words as they pour in. I’m alone, the room is dark, my battery is dead and basically since I don’t wank..much, I have nothing else to do. Been teaching for a while now (yes, since monday, and yes, it is a big deal!), and already the kids love their ‘Uncle’. After all, how many Biology teachers swag to class, speak pidgin with a British accent and throw chalk at noisemakers? All in all, the classes have been fun and today is Friday, and I hate the school already. No, that’s not a typo. I really hate the school. Why? Let me paint you another scenario.
The clock reads 6:30am, and sunlight wafts in through the window, sifting past the half opened curtains to wash upon your face. What do you do? You close the curtains and go back to sleep! Yes! That’s what to do, except, the alarm blares out and I have to scramble or I’ll be late for school!
Imagine! Spent six years in primary school, six in secondary school and thereabouts of five in the university, and I never rushed for class. Except it was C. A. Vowa teaching in SS1 Chemistry, but then again, she was..well…(._.)
Anyway, now I’m a graduate and I gotta be in ‘school’ before 8:00am, Port-harcourt traffic notwithstanding. So yeah, I hate the school. *sips Amando! pure water*
You see, I’m of the lazy sort, the sort of guy who is supposed to be born with a golden, platinum-flecked spoon and a 20-billion dollar trust fund. I don’t do 6:30am wake-ups and dashing through the rain to teach children the differences between the lungs and a pair of gills. Hell, they should know! (˘̯˘ )
Speaking of rain, last wednesday, not this one, the last one, I had a full-on understanding of the NYSC anthemn. You see, I had CDS that morning and as I stepped five paces from my room, the skies opened and everything inside the clouds dropped on me. (I mean this in as literal a manner as possible). Those peeps singing “Heaven, open and pour down on me”, it will so ‘over’ you ehn! I looked like a drenched rat that morning, hair dripping like..*fix in name of sexy, male, non-gay model here*..but that is where the resemblance ends. Jacket, combat trousers, boots, were soaked, and there I stood clutching a small green cap and waiting for an empty taxi., the refrains from the anthemn, “…under the sun, and in the rain…”, kept ringing in my ears.
Anyway, I got a free ride, the first half of the trip, there is something about a soaked Corper that brings out the ‘love for fellow man’ in anyone, (we should dress half the Middle East in soaked NYSC uniforms, and who knows…), but that ‘love’ died when the driver of the next bus shouted, “Ehn Corpa, Mile 3 na N200 oh!” (Maybe there’s no hope for the Middle East after all).
So, the girls in the lodge I stay in are laughing and gisting and inside here is dark and lonely. I think I deserve some moonlight. No?

*I really hate WordPress for Blackberry, blame them for the absence of pictures. *I actually enjoy teaching young minds. I always enjoy talking anyway.. ¯\..(•͡.̮ •͡ )../¯
*Mrs C. A. Vowa, co-author of Round-up Chemistry for Senior school, taught me Chemistry in SS1 and is probably the reason for my extreme narcissism and the death of my former inferiority complex.
*Uhm..keep singing “Open heavens” oh! I would not be accused for causing a decline in sales of any daily devotional. Nuff said..

Follow on twitter @janus_aneni

P.S: Truth be told, Pounded yam and Ogbolo is the ghen ghen! It’s probably what would be served in Heaven. Like, worship, eat some pounded yam and ogbolo, worship, eat some more pounded yam and ogbolo, worship again, stroll in Paradise while swallowing balls of pounded yam and ogbolo, worship…
P.S.S: Amando! pure water (with the exclamation mark) actually does exist. And Ogbolo is what mere mortals call Ogbono. Ok..


Tangles: Episode IV

Still Tangled..



The reception of the Silver Cross hospital was crowded. Pregnant women, squalling babies, sad-looking teenagers and everywhere, the acrid smell of sickness and hospital disinfectant. Sharon pushed through the doors and rushed straight to the receptionist desk. The matron on duty looked at her sullenly. “Yes?”
“I was called about an emergency…Dr Akpan..there was an accident..” Sharon gushed out in one breath.
The matron didn’t look fazed. She saw this kind of reaction everyday of the week, every week, even when she pulled morning duty. Lazily leafing through her duty roster, she found Dr Akpan’s name. “He’s in block C, take your left and climb the stairs.”
Mumbling thanks over her shoulder, Sharon took the corridor on the left side of the receptionist desk. Dashing past harried nurses and doctors in various stages of tiredness, she searched frenziedly for the staircase, her mind in constant turmoil.
They had not talked in almost a year. A year! The doctor had mentioned something about stable, but that’s what they say in movies and stories and then the person ends up dumb or blind or crippled! She remembered the last time she saw him, last month, in front of Eko hotels, with some big-assed girl. They had not said a single word to each other, not even a nod. He had looked fit that day.
To think that he would list her as his emergency contact. Why? Did he really believe she would run to his aid when he was in trouble? Or was his hope to die and ensure she be the first person notified, so it would hurt her.
A flash of anger passed through her and she nearly turned back. Gritting her teeth, she climbed the first stair and decided to take a look, offer her apologies and then go. It was the most she could do. She took the next step.


The line kept ringing but no one picked. It was the third call now. Where is this girl? Tony thought. He didn’t panic though. If there was anybody who could take care of herself in a lion’s den surrounded by hungry animals and fierce gladiators, it was Shae, and he was not bothered. It would have been nice to talk to her before he went on stage though.
Tony turned and looked back at the crowd gathered in the hall for the ‘Talent Nite Show’. He could swear there were already about 3,000 people and many more were still pouring in. Already people were standing in the back. A microphone whined and the noise in the hall reduced half aa decibel.
“Welcome to the Talent Nite Show, and I would be your host for tonight,” drawled the MC in a singsong voice. The DJ played a quick tune and Tony thought about what he was about to do.


She was pregnant. The strip test had confirmed it. Stranglely though, all she felt was calm. Now that the cat was out the bag, all that was left was to bell it and she knew exactly who to.
She had known that night would change her life. Dinner at Eko hotel and suites, Basketmouth’s comedy show after, and then the wonderful, wonderful time they had spent conceiving this baby. And to think she had been sad. Rebecca touched her flat tummy lovingly. A baby was growing in there. His baby. Her hands slid down her flat stomach and across her naked abdomen to cradle herself. She tossed her head back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. She was naked and slowly getting wet. She could remember how he looked that day, with his bald head all sweaty. She had gripped him tight, he nails digging into his muscular back. She had never met anybody more powerful. Her fingers slipped inside. But wait! She had to call him first. Oh, how happy he’ll be. She reached for her phone.


The shapes moved in and out of the light; silent figures flitting back and forth through his subconcious. Paul groaned. The car lost control as he skidded past the pothole and hit the cement truck, turning and turning till he smashed into the wall. He groaned again. He was going to die on this bed. Alone. “Is he going to be okay?”
The voice cut through his subconcious and for a second Paul was reminded of a time when all his thoughts were sweet and his life was magical. It could not be her! He wished, but it would not be her! Why would she come now?
He was dying and his life flashing before him was giving him strange thought. He groaned and tried to slip into the light.


“..as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, gotta lamp in my hand,
It’s the truth, gotta justice that I had from my birth,
Got this mike, spread the word, make a way for this lad..”

The short, black boy dropped the mike and walked off stage to the roar of applause from the crowd.
Running onto the stage, almost panting, the MC picked the mike. “And that was Bishop, all the way from Edo state. Give him another round of applause. Bini people rep your own!”
Tony’s heart leapt for a second, and he adjusted the cap on his head. He was next.
“Hailing from the city of Lagos, town of hustlers, and the birthplace of rap music in this country, is another brilliant, young act, you’ve heard him at the OBS, and he’s here to showcase on stage! Ladies and gentlemen, make welcome, T-lion!!”
Tony jogged up stage to the sound of applause. This amateur rap thing is gonna get me slaughtered. He grabbed the mike. “Thank you, MC..*the microphone whined*..”
The beat started.

To be continued next week..

*T-lion would never have been my first choice of name, but Snoop…
*Lyrics supplied exclusively by moi, yes! If writing does not pay, the plan is to become the next Sina Rambo
*Uhm..like Jeannie would say, “All typographical ‘errors’ are purely ‘intentional’

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A Christmas tale..?

Too early for Christmas? Yeah! But the world is ending on the 22nd of December so I might as well *sic*.. I actually wrote this for TNC’s The Writer that year, but I guessed (rightly) that it would be too long, so I stopped halfway and wrote something else for TNC. So uhm, today, I was looking through old pieces and I saw this, and I edited it and now you’re going to read it and enjoy it! Ehen..
And yeah, Tangles! Is still coming out on Monday!! Episode IV tinz..ok.

#np Bad things – Jace Everett

My name is Jones, and what I am about to tell you is deep secret. I wouldn’t lose my life for telling you, but you’ll probably lose yours for listening, but it is a good story, it is worth your life..or sanity.
Last Christmas, I was in Lagos. The bright city, the town of hustles and hassles. I hated every bit of it. Was stuck in traffic all night from Christmas Eve till Christmas day! Finally arriving home in the morning and Dad just had to get on my nerves with all his questions. So when Auntie invited me to the village this Christmas, I didn’t refuse, it couldn’t be any worse.
Like I said before, my name is Jones, I am 21 years old and I am going to tell you how I spent this Christmas. I got to the village on the 23rd, it was a friday and it was late evening. Everywhere was dusty, and quiet, and as soon as I stepped off the bus, things went from upside down to sideways. Literally.
Now, the bus I had entered wasn’t really a passenger bus in the strict sense. It was more of a once-upon-a-time 16-seater vehicle that was now used to carry anything and everything from furniture to livestock. My village is in the very middle of nowhere and the livestock/furniture drivers are about the only link between my village and the outside world.
Coming from Lagos had been a roundabout journey of sorts.. Flight to Benin city, a taxi to an unpronounceable place, then a motorbike ride to a small jetty where I boarded a ferry which took me across a surprisingly clear river to the park where I met one of the furniture/livestock movers. This particular driver, true to form, was carrying goats and bicycles. After the necessary bargaining, I squeezed myself into the mass of goat and metal, and we started our bumpy ride. Suffice to say, the ride was completely uncomfortable. You see, there is only one seat in the vehicle, the other sixteen haven been stripped off a long time ago, to make space for more goats, and the driver was caressing that seat quite jealously with his fat butt-cheeks.
So it was that as soon as I stepped off the bus, my trouser leg caught on something, whether it was the handlebar of a Raleigh or the horns of some goat, my jeans ripped as the world turned upside down very fast, and I found myself face down on the dusty road. Dusting myself up, I picked up my bags and waved bye to the driver and started walking to the village. You would wonder why I didn’t call my Auntie and tell her I had arrived. Well, the answer is simple, my village has no network coverage and so my Blackberry was as much use as a sun dial that evening (deep!!!). If I thought things had reached about as bad as they could be, I was set for a shock when I got to the house and discovered Auntie was out. Stapled to the door in some European fashion was an envelope with my name boldly written on it. Apparently, Auntie had to rush to the next village to help with the birth of some kid. Now, my Auntie is a trained midwife, and for the past twenty years has doubled as resident doctor, surgeon, vet and psychiatrist for the villages along the river belt. Her absence today of all days was the first true sign of doom for my holidays. Already, I started to miss the Ikeja go-slow.
Pushing open the door, (nobody locks their doors in this village), I muttered ‘Happy holidays’ to myself and slumped on the rocking chair and promptly dozed off. I admit, I have never been to the village before and my reason for coming this time had been born partially of a desire always dare and to try some adventure. So I had gotten Auntie to send me some directions, said goodbye to Dad and came over.
At about midnight I woke up hungry. There was the sound of drumming coming from outside, so I walked to the window and stared out into the streets. “Fuck!”
The streets were on fire. By the light of flickering fires, I could see shadowy figures, people playing drums and dancing in wild frenzied gyrations of their naked bodies. To worsen matters, I could swear I saw goats in the midst of the melee dancing on two legs, with their hooves waving wildly in the air! If madness had ever sought to take a man, it was at that moment. I wanted to scream, I wanted to pinch myself, but there I stood, transfixed, wondering if I saw dream or my senses had taken leave. Then the beat changed and then something or someone screamed, it was loud and the sound seemed to pierce my soul, and despite myself, I felt a certain joy and happiness, a desire to run and dance. But suddenly, the group of men and women and animals dashed down the street and out of my sight. And the sun came up, and I woke up. It was Christmas Eve.
Later that day, after eating brunch, (Auntie had left some stuff for me in her pots), I took a walk into the village. That was when I saw her. Perfect skinned and sweet smile that blends with shiny teeth and warm eyes, she looked at me. She was pretty. Goodlooking in a semi-waif manner, and Yes or No, Truth or False, I fell for her, I fell so hard I actually hit a stone and almost tripped.
She laughed then, and walked to me. “My name is Sarah,” she said, smiling with those perfect teeth.
For a few seconds, I was dumfounded. No one sees a pretty girl, with hair all braided and dressed in native print material, in a village about 240km away from civilization, and expect her name to be Sarah! And for her to say it in perfect English too! I just stared at her, and all I could think was the taste her lips would allow. “I’m Jones,” I finally coughed out.
We spent the rest of the day together. Sarah had finished from the Federal Government College, and she was now helping her mother sell stuff at the jetty, but since it was Christmas Eve, her mum had given her time off to have fun. She was 20 years old and she did not want to go to the university. I envied her, and she smiled and touched my brow and I was in love.
She took me to the stream. There were two streams in the village, one for bathing and one for cooking water. She took me to the one for bathing. In the actual sense, there was only one strean and a spring supplied both. The one they called the ‘cooking water stream’ was directly supplied by the spring and the water was clear and cold and could be used for cooking. Place the water in earthen jugs for two days and you’ll have wine, Sarah told me. I believed her.
At the stream, we bathed together, splashing water and laughing like children. She had a lovely body, which was even lovelier without clothes on, but she wouldn’t let me touch her, always darting out of my reach. I told her about my dream last night and she laughed long but didn’t say anything. After a while, I laughed too. We ate fruits for lunch. They were like apples, but yellow and tasted very sour.
When it was dark, Sarah saw me back to Auntie’s house. Auntie was still not back. “Sleep well, I’ll come for you later,” she said, running off.
There was water in the cooking water pot, so I used some to boil some yam, pounded it and ate with ogbolo soup. When I was through, I was sweating. So I sat on the rocking chair by the half open door and dozed off.
The scuff of feet against the door woke me. It was that dream again! Naked dancers and goats, all writhing together in obscene movements. This time around they were also in the room, and they were pulling me with them, and the music summoned me and I was happy again, and I followed.
Throwing off my clothes till I was naked, I threw my hands in the air and I leapt forward, the drums followed me. Dancing back and forth and side to side, I let out a shriek, and the other dancers around me echoed. A goat vame to me and placed its hooves on my chest. “Do the same,” it said. And I placed my palms on its horns, and my eyes opened. We twirled and rolled and the stars went black. Then I was pressing the back of the goat, squeezing and squeezing as desire leapt upon desire, and I was swallowed in ecstasy.
Then I saw Sarah, but her eyes were white and her head cocked to one side. She tried to run but I blocked her. She feinted left, and I did the same. The drums rolled. She rushed towards me, and I took a step bacj and held out my arms. She stopped and moved to the right, her breasts swaying, once again I blocked her. A circle had formed around us, and the other dancers were shrieking and waving firelights. Screaming Sarah made to claw at my face, but I caught her. Pushing her to the ground, she lay before me, and then I stared into her eyes. The shrieking sound all around us had slowed to a chant, and the drums beat solemnly in the background. Her eyes were white, inviting me, daring me to possess what I had conquered. Her lips parted slightly, her warm breath drifting across my face. Her heart pounded steadily through her soft breasts pressed against my chest and her softness was wet against me. The music echoed in my head and it said, “Do it!”. So I did. I got up from the floor and dusted myself. How long was I out? “You dey okay?” The driver of the livestock/furniture vehicle asked. “Yeah.”
He grunted in reply and drove off. I picked up my bags, still puzzled.
The events of the dream or whatever were so vivid in my head. I could still see Sarah’s face as she pulled me into her, still feel the sensation as I went deep and low into her sweetness. A dream. “Who said it was a dream?”
I turned around and looked for the source of the voice, but all I could see was a strangle familiar goat. “Huh?”
“Jones, is that you?” came Auntie’s voice. And there was my Auntie walking towards me. “Merry Christmas!” She hugged me. “How did you get so dirty?” she laughed. My mouth remained open in disbelief.
She pointed at the girl beside her, oblivious of my shock, “And this is the Priestess of the stream goddess, she insisted on coming to greet you.” Sarah just smiled at me.

*I don’t indulge in animal ‘husbandry’..
*I know this post would have been rejected by TNC

Nuff disclaimers..leave your wonderful comments *sic*..keep following the blog..

Ff on twitter @janus_aneni


Ghosts of Girlfriends past..

Half of this is a product of boredom. The other half has a slightly evil purpose.
#np – Sexy and I know it – LMFAO

Ghosts of Girlfriends past..

And I awoke, not from deep slumber but troubled sleep,
For in dream I had been privy to convos of the deep,
Hidden by a window, shrouded from moonlight I had seen,
The meeting of four witches, each with whom I had been.

They giggled and laughed, at my jokes they did scorn,
Ridicule and insult to my every pun,
As they laughed and cried, yet each one sighed;
to think of how my love for her had died.

Lysa said that she first had me,
Nelly said the same thing too,
Mary said that I first had her,
Jane said I was number two.

Yet then as I stared, my heart regretting,
I counted past fingers, the hours I’d lost
with these four witches, now spectres melting,
The Ghosts of the girlfriends of my past.

*I know no Lysas, Marys, Nellys or Janes.
*This post is not intended for a literary award.
*I still hate WordPress for Blackberry.

Ff on twitter @janus_aneni


The Girlfriends

The Girlfriends

Just another rant

Do you know that Chuck Norris once threw a grenade, and fifty people died. Then the grenade exploded.

A Chuck Norris venture

In an attempt to be more like Chuck Norris I relaxed my hair.(another failed attempt)

#np Kukere – Iyanya

*plugs earphones to laptop..too loud..unplugs earphones..too loud..stops music*

This is probably going to be my first real rant on this blog. I said probably because I’m just scribbling as usual and I don’t know how this would turn out. Ok, so this week has been so last week (today is Monday shey?) was weird and lonely. I was phoneless (yeah, my precious Adaora, after six months of good times decided to leave me for the warmth of another) and that sort of shuts you off from the rest of the world. No music, no constant internet connection, no nothing. Just me and Jack, my trusty Nokia torchlight phone. I was sad I tell you, sad, very sad. I was so sad, I watched a Nollywood movie.

So sad, I watched Legend of the Seeker again.

“No, you did not..”
“Yes he did”

Anyway, like a bawse, I kick-started my grind and got my humour back, and it was like everything was moving smooth again. Then Drizzy hit Breezy..like an Omota.

How did the fight start?

“We found love – Rihanna” was playing on the big screen TV (trust me, this is from an inside source) and Drake said: “That nigga don’t even look like Chris”


Chris: “He does!!”
Drake: “DOES NOT!!”

So CB said: “Pass the bottle juh! (he had been watching Muina of recent), and Drake passed it.

*now playing “Mu bottle ye wa – 4th Republic*

Youths these days..smh

Anyway, the events saddened me sha, like, Ri-ri will be chilling and two of my faves are throwing bottles at each other. And now, (according to my source) she has her eyes set on Chris Martin (lead vocalist, Coldplay for the uninformed), what does she want with him sef? Abeg he is married oh! to Gwyneth paltrow (from Iron man and The Avengers ) for that matter, chick don’t take no shii.. But what does she want with Chrises sef? Are Chrises that hot? What is it about a Chris that just attracts hot, rich celebrities? I think we should get to the bottom of this matter! It’s no longer funny!! *Drivers license with name: ‘Chris Aneni’ falls out of pocket*


So I paid a visit to Sirkastiq’s blog and read the zoning uhm…zones on there. Combined with the iinsight being passed down by renowned Professor Xavier (no, not the X-men version), I figured out that once again, I have been zoned into a completely novel zone. The story zone. Yes! You know yourselves! I would not mention names, but you Dinma and you Ify that have zoned me to story zone, God is watching you! All of you that remember me only for stories, the day I will get serious writer’s block ehn, it will over you!*breathing heavily* what rubbish! Getting me all agitated*sips Hollandia*

Been there…
The lies we let ourselves believe..been here too

So you know those myths of how when you’re sneezing it means someone is talking about you? It is true oh! Every single time I have sneezed in the past week, someone has been talking about me. Which is quite worrying right now, considering that I am sneezing as I write this, and the time is 12:34am. Every coven and winsh that dares to call my name, Holy Ghooossss…!!! Anyway, it works. And I’m sure you’ve also heard (at least my Aunt has) that if your right palm is itching, it means a lot of money is coming your way.*shrug* I don’t care for such.(˘̯˘ )/`(*secretly dips hand…and leg inside bowl of ‘devil beans’)

So I have run out of stuff to rant about, leave your comments in the box..boxes.

Darris all…


  • I will not disclose my BreezyDrizzy source
  • ‘Devil beans’ (I do not know the scientific name) causes itching allergies
  • Adaora is…was my phone
  • Been muttering Rihanna’s name for the past hour and uhm..if tomorrow, she uhm..comes down with a bad flu it is not me!

ff on twitter @janus_aneni


When you date a Writer

Some of you have asked if I have ended the Death Chronicles or run out of concepts. Uhm… No. The recent spate of deaths and killings in the country are just a little too grim, and making a parody of Death at this time just seems..well.. So I’m giving Hades a bit of a break, and we’ll continue in a bit.

I was hunting about for a topic when @Obee_007 told me about this ‘How to date a Writer’ post, so I looked it up. It was aii, but she made writers look too good. So after considering some of the writers I know, I decided someone needs to say the truth.
Before I start, a few ground rules:
1. When I say ‘Writer’, I don’t mean anybody who can put together a few words and make a sentence. Hell, even my mother can do that, and that woman possesses not a shred of artistry in that accountant mind. Okay, maybe a shred.
2. I am not talking only about the successful writers; Soyinka; Chimamanda; Dan Brown; that guy from that blog, whatshisname?, so if their names were in your head, forget it.
I am talking about all true artists, the ones who know how to use their words to spin webs of magic…and those who want to uhm..learn to do that.
3. This piece is probably going to be very long.
So, When You Date A Writer:

1. Love the Writing
This is the singular, most important rule of all. All sins may be forgiven, and a generous amount may even be forgotten, but this is the mother of them all. If you don’t love the writing, there is no place for you.
You see, Writers are a bit of the egoistic, narcisstic type. In English, we would love you, if you adore us. So when you don’t know half the lines from his novel or story or poem, or you don’t comment on his blog(Yes! Yes! Yes!), you just got a notch against your name in the big Black book.
On the other hand, Writers detest fawning or pretence, especially when it comes to their work. They want their work to be acknowledged for their prowess, and not due to personal motivations. So if you don’t like the piece, gently say so, rather than get caught pretending. Your writer lover would love you more for being an honest critic.

2. Drama

This is like the most annoying trait of all. Writers can be dramatic!!!smh.. Everything is a scene from a play, every word perfect and scripted. In a relationship, this can be uber-annoying. To worsen matters, to keep a writer, you have to be a bit of a drama queen too. Writers abhore (and yes, they love big words) boring, un-artistic people. You have to be interesting to keep a writer.

3. They are not ‘cool’

*sigh*..It is the truth.
Writers may be elegant, debonair, chatty, witty, drive expensive cars, dine at the classiest restaurants, live in penthouses, but they ain’t cool; not in the uhm..sense of the word. There would always be something off about them; she will not know how to do the azonto, and he would rather watch the Grand Prix than UEFA. I guess sometime during the creation process, that ‘cool gene’ got replaced by a certain weirdness. If you date a writer, get ready for a level of eccentricity (in English, a whole load of dorkiness).
However dorky he/she may be though, the crazy weirdness of writers attracts people to them. If you want a relationship with lots of surprises and weird turns and twists, a writer is your best bet.
And the sex…back to the post!

4. Melancholia? Yup!

They can form deep and emotional! Hian! It’s not their fault though, most of the time they were born with issues: Daddy issues, early masturbation, not-getting-that-Buzz-Lightyear-action-figure-at-the-christmas issues etc. They get pensive and retreat into their inner shells a lot, which can be quite nerve-wracking in relationships, especially when they have Writer’s block or get a bad review (Writers reaaaally hate criticism..beats me!). All those writers, like @Xaviers_lore them, after reading Tolkien and Goodking, would now be forming deep and mystical, claiming addiction to a “..certain kind of sadness” Puuuhlease! (˘̯˘ )/`

5. The Money

That is a lie…

If you’re dating a writer for his cash, you jam rock! The thing is, writers don’t really care about money (..don’t ask me..), hell, they don’t even comprehend the meaning of material things. It’s that ‘poetic’ twang working against their senses. I know someone who gave his girlfriend a baby bib and feeding bottle for her birthday, since well..she’s his ‘Baby’..smh. But sha, they really show you that, it’s not all about the money, other things do matter. So dash those dreams of 32-carat, platinum-inlaid, Lola paluzzi diamond rings and Honeymoons in New York, say hello to plastic circlets and climbing monastries in Greece or safaris in Kenya.
And sometimes they can afford it.. ¯\(º_o)/¯

6. Never disturb the work process

I agree with this entirely.
When you see me butt naked, sitting on the balcony with a piece of rope, a jar of ice-cream, a packet of condoms and a bowl of hot soup, please go back to sleep. I know what I am doing.
Writers are crazy people, and sometimes to better portray a scenario, we have to understand it, and to understand, we may have to experiment. So just ignore and don’t critique.
NB: the ice-cream is for inspiration.

7. Writers are hardly faithful

Uhm..uhm..I don’t totally agree with this.
Quite alright, writers are quite flighty which, I guess, is what you get when your train of imagination is trackless (#stolen). It is why their relationships are necessarily full of drama and excitement. However, when the excitement fades, the writer is oft times too bored to continue.
Just so you know..

8. Stolen Convos
When you date a writer, prepare to be casted into their stories. If you have never been used as the object of your writer-lover’s poem, article, story, then chances are they don’t love you.
Your conversations will be stolen and used in novels, your views amplified and used in articles. He would write a poem with your emotions, write a joke about your dress-sense, cast a sex scene involving your breasts and that scar above your nipple. If you’re the type who doesn’t appreciate your private life staring at you from the pages of a book, get used to it when you date a writer.

9 Words

Oops! Wrong pic..keep moving

Big words, small words, sarcasm, metaphor, irony, exaggerations, hurtful words, painful words, loving words, true words etc. Writers use them all. Apparently they say only what they mean, using the right words at for the situation. (Yeah..right…) Anyway though, if a writer says they love you, they mean it…at that moment.

A Writer

10. They can not help it

Writers have been weird since they were born. In school, they were probably the dorky ones; the girl with the wrong plaits and the long baggy skirts or the guy with the big dorky glasses. What they do, how they do it, is not really their fault. However, it’s annoying when in the middle of sex at 3:00am, she screams “Aha!” and runs naked to her table to scribble ten pages of a novel, or type a blog-post. And I am just supposed to take it in stride.

Finally though, nothing beats dating a Writer. They are funny, romantic, witty, intelligent. They understand you, and their christmas gifts are the best. Love songs, poems and stories would be dedicated to you. And when you consider how fast and wide their imagination soars, just imagine the sex…

Uhm..ok bye.


  • it is a bad idea to date a writer
  • uhm..I am faithful oh!!!..I think.

ff me on twitter @janus_aneni