WHO KILLED CHRISTMAS?

This title was borrowed. Osaigbovo Ighodaro, a fellow pen pusher, had used same for one of his piece. Yours sincerely had looked for a perfect title but found none. Perfect titles reflect the piece. ‘Unknown to a many writers, titles often turn out to be grim albatrosses. Firstly because, most readers only read titles and move on to other things. Hence your headline ought to represent your story. Woe betide, if your title, which is your signpost, is hanging upside down (your error) or is read upside down (the reader’s error)’.

‘Whosoever is at fault, the writer is doomed because it comes crashing on him. The conjectures of your title could be stretched far and wide in any direction that suits the reader. (Some people have their imagination for breakfast)’. Hence this piece doesn’t in any way means that Christmas celebration is dead. Now that we have read the above explanation, let’s move forward.

Christmas is upon us again. Holiday is at hand. Students smile, civil servants too. Business men are not spared from the joy that rings the spirit. Their sales doubles and sometimes triples. Churches organize harvests, they call it harvests of thanksgiving. Everyone is in a rush. Prices of goods increase. Transport fares too. Yet no one complains. The season never goes along without coming along with its thrills. The grim. The multifaceted gluttony. The laughter. The dance. All these; in the name of Christmas.

Friends re-unite. They tell stories about January till now. They polish the stories to suit the audience. Everyone laugh at the ingenuity of happenstance. They forget things do not happen just like that; there are always two sides to a story. Yet they chose to be gullible. It is a joyful gullibility. To the less privilege, Christmas brings bliss and happiness, love and care. There is show of love, real love. Orphanage homes are jam-packed. Prison houses are congested, this time not with inmates but with kind hearted persons.

In the spirit of Christmas, many hold God responsible for their successes. They give appreciation to Him for not allowing the ‘ember’ months see their end. These appreciation goes into churches in form of envelopes, as offerings. Some other times, they visit the pastor to empty their loaded car trunk. Some send cards. Many others give testimonies of victory and salvation from accidents, salvation from theft and from sicknesses. Different types of salvation testimony is given but we often do not hear salvation from sin.

All in the spirit of Christmas, God is praised. He is praised by the pastors and members alike. The drunkards and the harlots are not exempted. Politicians also sing praises for one reason or the other. They join the troops that flock churches. Some deceive the pastors. While some pastors willingly take part in the loot. That is, looting the looters. All in the name of Christmas. The drunkards thank him for continuous life. God gives all life but not for evil. The drunkard never knows that he is on a short leash. The harlots still praise him but no one knows what for. Maybe for life. Or for good health. They express false praise instead of genuine repentance. Little wonder the literary icon, Sam Omatseye crooned “Even deserved praise must be restrained hence it sounds like designed praise”. These societal cancers praise God too much that we know it doesn’t comes from their heart. It is a designed praise. Designed to heal their consciences.

Christmas has also been a pain for some. It has divided homes. It has deflowered virgins. Some ladies use the frill and thrills of the season to sell themselves cheap. Either for a lap of flavored chicken or an expense paid visit to the cinema. Ladies make unnecessary visits during Christmas. Hence they get unnecessary pains too.

And to our National figures, Dasuki would have joined in the praise song if not for Buhari. Dopkesi would have led the National mass choir if not for Dasuki. These persons will have no songs on their lips. They have made others weep. The wives of the soldiers killed in the fight against terror, the ravaged villages, the parents of the missing Chibok girls, the Chibok girls; these are all in a sorrowful state because these two and many others yet to be named decided to abuse and misuse public funds. “Pleasure that is obtained by unreasonable and unsuitable cost” says Samuel Johnson, “Must always end in pain”. They have had their pleasure, now is time for the pain. These persons killed Christmas, the Christmas in North east.

Listen. Those who instead of using the purpose of this celebration to draw closer to the celebrant but ran farther in their taste for concupiscence. The ladies who offer their bodies as a smelling sacrifice wholly and acceptable unto vain men. The men who frequently hold meetings with alcoholic beverages. The politicians who use this season to utilize looted funds as donations to orphanage homes. The governors who decide to cut the minimum wage of its workers. The president who decides to retrench 2,000 civil servants. The pastors who refuse to rebuke the politicians in his church for wrong doing. The parents who send their daughters abroad for prostitution, so they could enjoy a better Christmas, a better dead Christmas. These ones are the murderers of Christmas. They killed Christmas.

(Quote in first two paragraphs was culled from HARDBALL, The Nation newspaper.)

DO IT YOURSELF

Do you suspect any female for your failure? Do you have any reserved feeling about the way a girl looks at you, in a terrifying manner? Does she look at you with the very bright white of her eyes? Scaring you to death? Away with those witches already. Today’s lesson is aimed on catching them red handed.

Enough with those lengthy processes religious men subject our conscience to. Bring white candle, bring white fowl and bring white cow; nonsense! All those ‘white’ nonsense would end today. This is a one step process to catching a witch yourself. Don’t be surprised, some of those religious men use this method. They hide it from you because they can’t afford to eat their foods without meat. But KALLIGRAPHY refuses to tow the same path with those Hippocrates.

Just in case you don’t know who a witch is. Let me give you a colloquial meaning of the word; a witch is someone, anyone, a male or a female; who may not only fly at night but also disturb your sleep and progress, whatever progress. (Don’t mind what oxford tells you, I don’t think the writer or editor of oxford has met a witch before, if he has, he would know that a witch could also be a male, nonsense!). Their modus operandi; holding meetings at night discussing your success. They plan to constantly make you immobile. Both physically and otherwise. That definition may sound too complex. But manage it.

Do you suspect Sonia for the sudden profuse sweating that you had immediately PHCN ceased power? Are you having a feeling that Jessica could be the cause of your carryover after you did not read? Do you think Vivian is the cause of your ulcer even if you ate once in three days? Then, this is a sure way of knowing the truth.

Follow these steps and you will have no problem after now. Trust me. It works. But please, ensure you follow all these steps completely. It is simple and easy.

Step One: Borrow N5, 000 from a friend. Even if have more than half a million in the bank, don’t take it. Just borrow 5K from a friend. You have to borrow all 5K from one friend. That is, don’t borrow 2K from James and then 3K from David. It won’t work. Borrow 5K from a friend, all at once. This friend must be a male.

Step Two: Smile at Jessica, Beatrice, Sonia or whoever the girl you are suspecting. Give her a broad smile and tell her these words “Would you please spare 5 minutes of your time”? Don’t worry, any reasonable suspected witch would listen. Remember, use exactly those words as they are written.

Step Three: Convince her to have lunch with you the next day. Now this step is very important as she must accept. Persons who have used this process always complain that this step is the most difficult. But just try to make her follow you. Smile for her. Tell her lies. Tell her truth. Confuse her soul. Deceive her spirit. Open your 32 teeth. Whatever you do, just make sure she accept your offer.

Step Four: That same day evening; take some money from the cash you borrowed, buy MTN and Airtel recharge card. N500 worth each. Then, in case you lied to her in step three, pray for forgiveness; trust me this step is necessary for the step 10 to be very effective. The recharge card must be bought that same day evening. Don’t postpone else the whole process would loss its efficacy.

At the restaurant the next day

Step Five: Buy her a plate of rice. Make sure the price of the plate of rice does not exceed N2, 000. If it exceeds, you will have to start from step one again to get a good result. I would advise you go before hand to know the price of the plate of rice. Let the waiter take the balance of the food if the price does not round up to N2, 000. In order to be more accurate just give the waiter the N2, 000 cash and say; “Give me a plate of rice and keep change.” Hope you are smart enough to understand that. It takes smartness to catch a witch, so, just trust me and keep to the plan.

Step Six: Use another N1, 500 to buy meats and ice cream. How you decide to do this is absolutely your business. Many persons buy meat N1, 000 (a chicken lap) and Ice cream N500. And another has done it the other way around and they both got the same result. But ensure you adhere to step five correctly.

Warning: Nothing solid should pass through your lips in this restaurant. Don’t take meat, rice or ice creams; I don’t think you want her to transfer the witch to your food. So, stay out of food. If you must take anything, buy a bottle or sachet water; whatever suits you. But I prefer you buy sachet water, the one they sell N10; so you don’t spend too much.

Smile at her and make sure she smiles at you. To get accurate result smile all through this process. By this time any suspected witch would want to appreciate your kind gesture. Don’t be moved by her antics. It is a trick. Don’t rush the reply. Just smile and reply softly; “No problem”.

Step Seven: This is the most tedious part. Stay cool and start counting silently from one to hundred. Don’t let your lips move when you are doing this except you want to get her scared. Count until she finishes. If you run out of figures, recite the alphabets backwards, that is, from Z to A silently. If you don’t know it, learn it; it would make you look busy. Trust me it is part of the process. When she does finish, take her outside, give her one of the recharge card. You must give her the airtime outside. Give her only one of the card depending on the line she uses. Call a cab and tell the cab man to drop her at her house. Pay the cab man with the remaining N500; tell him to keep change too. This is also very essential.

Step Eight: Now trek to your room. Ensure you do this under the hot sun. If the sun is not in its full strength, go back inside the restaurant and wait; continue drinking your sachet water or counting until the sun return to power. Once the sun is hot, start trekking to your room. Don’t take a bus or a cab, just trek to your house. Good.

Step Nine: Get to your room, lock the door and stand in the middle. Then pick up your phone, call this alleged witch, ask her about her journey home. Then hang up. Don’t worry you are almost there. Any suspected witch would rain blessings and appreciation on you. But as I initially said, don’t get too emotional about it, it is a trick. Just smile and reply “No problem”.

Now, to the most powerful step;

Step Ten: Kneel down, raise your two hands up and recite this; “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil for thou art with me, Amen.”

That’s all. Yes, it is that simple.

Now, as show of appreciation, scratch the other recharge card and send me the pin. Send it to my inbox. Don’t worry, I use two SIM cards, if she uses MTN send me the Airtel and if she uses Airtel send me the MTN. Have a witch free life.

Ezekiel Efeobhokhan is a freelance journalist and a blogger. 

IT IS WELL

It all seems quiet now. Night classes are over. Exams are ended. Friends slap each other. They heave a sigh of relief. The materials; both snapped and photocopied are deleted. The nights are no longer sleepless. Year four finally gone.

We heard a lot about this behemoth; ‘It had 12 courses’. ‘It was the hardest’. ‘You must read every day’. ‘You would create more enemies’. ‘You may not remember to eat or brush or bath’. Blah blah blah! All of those nonsense filled our ears. But thank God its holidays now. No more nonsense.

But this semester was different. It was different for Kosi. So also for Amarachi. Both gave reasons why it wasn’t just another semester but a one filled with the proofs of a divine power. It was really a semester of many reputations.

Its experience brought smiles and grieve. Laughter and wailing. It brought difficulty with ease. To some, the session brought them closer to their dreams. They could smell the title added to their names; ‘Pharmacist This’ and ‘Pharmacist That’. They loved the profession.

To others it drove them farther. They feared they would fail. Hence they could hardly smile. They disowned laughter and sent it on exile. They resorted to grief, loneliness and seclusion; trying very hard to find hope in the quietude of their personality. Hence their quietness was a cloak for their fear. They thought being quiet naturally induces one with brilliance and intelligence. But they forgot Emeka, the ring leader. His whisper is like thunder bolt. He comments to everyone; both to students and lecturers alike. But he is good at what he does.

This semester has taught a lot of lessons. To David, the black, the one that flocks around Fegor. Yes, that David. The semester taught him a renowned phenomenon. According to him, “When there is ink, there is hope”. That is, never stop writing. To him, the three hours meant for examination was a moment for creativity. Adding that the supreme commandment of passing any exams is; “Never submit a blank sheet”. What else is the meaning of ‘attempt all question’?

We spent the nights in daytime. That is, there was no difference between the AM and the PM. But sleep was a common enemy. It created fear in some. Some shouted out of sleep; screaming with the highest level of ‘scarity’ (If such word exist). But, could we actually cheat sleep?

Many had their ears permanently wired to pop music---shakiti bobo. They sacrificed wraps of chewing gums. Sachets of coffee and Nescafe were not spared either, all in a bid to scare our slumber. For some it worked. But for others? It was a shame. They had to resort to snoring.

In this semester, some rose to more relevance; Benjamin and the psychedelic Courage. Others made new friends. A few found love; Isaac and Sonia. Yes, that Isaac. Ehidiamen’s friend. The tall, dark, handsome and square shouldered one. Yes that one. He found love. Only those who read and meditate in the pharmacy library would notice. He found Sonia; the library secretary. Hence I decided to start reading in the library. I thought, since the library helped Isaac, it may also …

Lastly, the semester revealed the intent of some colleagues; how bad their thoughts was toward us. The stomach of some lecturers were not spared. We knew the ones that loved us and the ones that pretended.

Now that exams are over, all we have is hope. Hope and faith. One day, we will all have a beautiful prefix to our name. That’s the picture that keeps us going. The pharmacist picture; when we are going to be our lecturers colleagues. God help us all.

KALLIGRAPHY says ‘It is well’.

TRAILERS OF TROUBLES

I want to tell you a story. A story of grace and miracle. It carries with it the proof of the existence of a Divine Power. Without this divine Power, yours sincerely would have been six feet under. Lost and forgotten. But God kept me. So there; I once visited my cousin. After the enjoyable time we spent together, it was time to take my leave. She accompanied me to the point where I had to cross the road to continue my journey home. And after doing all the necessary checks on the road, I bade her farewell and made to cross the road.

A truck from nowhere emerged from the adjoining route and was headed towards me. It was the shout from my cousin that drew my attention. Somehow, a force pushed me across the road. I escaped death by the tooth. As usual, the truck driver moved on, without a word. He was driving on the wrong side. The one they call ‘one way’. That was the reason I didn’t notice him.

This same force recently came to the rescue of Ibukun Laughter. The lone survivor of the fatal road accident that claimed the lives of eight students. The force saved her from the trailer monsters that almost sniffed out her life. It seems she was rightly named ‘Laughter’. Instead of crying, for her, it was laughter. Her name was the stem for her triumph over death. No wonder Rick Riordan author of The Lightening Thief crooned “Names have power”. Maybe he had also felt the effect names could bring on a situation.

Heavy duties vehicles may be useful yet at the same time terrible. But the recklessness of the drivers of these vehicles are supreme. No one can beat the state of the art carelessness wielded by these drivers. They somehow have a perverted fulfilment in driving at the wrong side of the road. This warped form of satisfaction recently led to the death of some students.

These truck drivers divert at ease and make careless decisions when they drive. They are like the politicians who surrounded the President Jonathan regime. They were neither here nor there. Today in PDP and before sunset in APC. They were peripatetic political prostitutes. They seemed to be lost and most times were truly lost. They were ignorant of the lyrics of Patrick Rothfuss, “We understand how dangerous a mask can be; we all become what we pretend to be”. Pretense may be a smart virtue in politics. But when ignorance meets pretense, it is an emergency.

Among these truck drivers, not all are bad. Some still drive the road with remorse and a level of soberness. While others drive with drunkenness and recklessness. But whether with soberness or altered minds, they tend to have a knack for driving on wrong lanes. Meanwhile, only a handful of them are experienced, while a large chunk are just test driving; they are young, green horned and foolish. They express this foolishness at the expense of lives. Mostly young talented ones.

The most recent of their casualties are the dead students of OOU. These students had decided to take rest for the semester. But they got a different rest. Instead of a short refreshing rest, it was an eternal rest. Rest that engineered pain and more pain. Reports had it that majority of the dead were just in their beginning years. They were yet to experience the jingles and the highlights of the tertiary institution. They were nipped in the bud.

But how can we stop this menace? Menace that has been with us from ages past. How can we eradicate our roads from these catastrophic trailer drivers? It seems these drivers have always been anti-student. Some years back, they had killed a very good friend of mine on her way from Lagos to write her POST UTME. The trailer had collided with the driver on neck breaking speed. Smashing everyone to death except one. The survivor was also a friend. She is now happily married and never always want to remember her sad experience. It was still another case of a psychotic ‘one way’ drive.

Another sad experience, was that of a youth corper, who almost lost his legs to these road vampires. Still a head on collision and another case of a ‘one-way’ drive. But we do have road safety officers. They are supposed to be the custodian of our roads. Why would they only mount road blocks in the city disturbing our commercial busses for documents that may have no significant effect? There seem to be a lot of ‘whys’ to the incidence of trailers and their loads of troubles. Whatever be the cause of this perverted road use, it must be stopped. The government must ensure alternative route are created by construction companies when our roads are being repaired. Road officials must ensure that whenever there is a need for motorists to share a lane they must not drive above a certain speed limit.

Now that the change the people sought for is here. We need the change to reflect in our transport sector. “The type of change” says Gilbert Alasa “that would not tolerate the barefaced abuse of people’s right to life”. We need our roads to be safe. Safe for students to ply.

May the soul of those students rest in peace. Amen. May God deliver us from these trailers of troubles. Amen. And lastly, to those politicians who decided to loot the treasury instead of repairing our roads, may you reap bountifully the terrible effects of bad roads. Amen… Can I hear a louder ‘AMEN’?
Ezekiel Efeobhokhan
400 level Pharmacy.

BEGGAR IN BUCCA

(This is a fictionalized account of a true life story. Enjoy reading.)

Esther would definitely not treat me like this. Yes, she wouldn’t. She would surely use her sixth sense. But for this feminine stature who stood before the waitress, I am sure, had never had a taste of any sense, not to talk of the sixth one. She ordered her plate to be filled without discretion and sobriety. She had no pity on her guy’s pocket. Whatever that means. ‘Add this’, ‘add that’, ‘put two’ and ‘put three’, were the only words I heard. I sat close to the counter.

Esther was a priceless jewel. Her manners were celestial. She never made any one regret the kind actions shown to her. If I ever took Esther out to eat, she wouldn’t make me as uncomfortable as this girl did to her sober looking friend who sat few meters away from the window. The window had a dusty mosquito net that partially covered it.

She moved her legs in excitement, poking her head at the sound of the tweets that exuded from the television. The innocent boy who was initially on cloud nine, now had a doleful look; like an officer who had just been deployed to a terrorist infested zone. His face were squeezed like the underneath of a banana leaf. Hmm pity. The same tweets from the television that made the girl danced were like a prelude to a scary movie to him.

Maxwell, Fegor, David and I had come in some few minutes ago to fill our belle when we met this money-gulping-young-feminine inflicting literal holes on this young boy’s pocket. The boy now took to a thinking position as he stretched his legs and placed his heavy head on his hands. I am sure, thinking of the next fairy tale to tell his parents so he can replace his self-looted funds.

A wall clock which had lost its function was hung closed to the plasma television. The television repeatedly advertised the branded cow-bell milk. A cow would run from one end of the field to the other. This made me wonder, why would a milk meant for humans be named ‘cow bell’. What happened to ‘human-bell’?

Around the door post inside the restaurant, were empty sachets which constituted environmental nuisance. But nothing bothers these hungry customers more than the quantity of the food served to them. Many students had spoken so well about the food served in this restaurant and how benevolently the restaurateur serves her food into customer’s plate no matter how small an amount they proposed to buy.

My friend David, had always complained that I never knew how to cook. Adding that, only God would save me from poisoning myself. He had even renamed one of the sumptuous noodles I prepared for him on a Saturday night as ‘indomie-pepper-soup-tea’. Stating that the noodle tasted like the concoction an herbalist made for him when he was having stomach trouble in the village.

“I will come on a particular day to taste the chemicals you call food”, I would say in reply to his ungrateful remarks. So there. Today, we were all supposed to eat David’s own preparation. Instead, he took us to this cheap restaurant. Canny. Never mind, we had to follow him because all that mattered was for us to get our belle filled.

We had to wait for the queue. By the time that young girl in front was done adding all the additives, she was heavily armed with a plate of rice, two boiled eggs, salad,  three fishes, the thigh of a young chicken and a Malta Guinness which would help decongest her esophageal traffic.

“These same girls are the ones who would insist that they are watching their weight”. Fegor whispered.

It was now David’s turn to buy his ration.

“Good evening Madam”, David saluted the waitress. She stared at David shabbily as if he was a regular beggar who had come to ask her for the favor of consuming the left overs. It was already some minutes past 9pm hence she wouldn’t be hypothetically guilty if she had suspected him that way. Hunger was practically written on our faces and our smile were stale and expired like politicians who had just lost an election.

David was very dark. Yes, as dark as the content of the branded black shoe polish, Kiwi. He was darkly black to the extent that, when he speaks from a dark room at night you may conclude that you are hearing from a Kabbalistic force. You may not be able to discriminate his complexion from the dark surrounding except for when he smiles. His teeth were the direct opposite of his complexion. He usually gesticulates with his right hand whenever he needed to say anything worth listening to. He was relatively short, relative to Maxwell. David was the magic behind our visit to this ‘filling’ station. He was to sponsor our feeding.

David stood for a few more seconds trying to draw any sane meaning from the stale stare of the waitress. He finally ordered his meal and went to his seat to feast. I then stood up to request mine. Even if I was not to pay for my feeding expenses, I had to apply common sense as this was the first time I patronized a public restaurant.

“Give me rice, white rice”, I had to specify the color because I never wanted the red colored type of rice many students usually mistake for the copyrighted jollof rice.

“Is that all”? She questioned with a galling tongue.

“Yes ma”. I barely spoke out of myself. Her question came as an indication of dissatisfaction. She wrinkled her forehead at the sound of my answer.

She had surely expected me to buy as much as every of my friends had bought. Her face looked like those dusty harmattan stricken sign post. She massacred her erect ears with holes, adding a jangling metal in each orifice. Her lips were round and apparently soiled by the red paint that overshadowed the naturally brown color. Her wrapper could barely go round her waist. She was corpulent.
She looked at the pot with bland eyes, her eyelid made as if she was about to fall asleep. Her scarf was loosed at the left side of her head which made her like those partially literate house helps who never go anywhere except at the order of their mistresses. She held the spoon with her right hand with a speck of stew in it and with protruding lips she asked, “Do you want any meat”?

I made as if I observed the pot for a very sizeable meat. She then raised her head to reiterate her question in silence.  This time her face got more livid.

“Oh, that’s all”. I replied seemingly unconsciously. She then, stirred the momentous pot of stew and added a little of it around the rice. The stew was golden colored and tempting, I then imagined if it was this same color of preparation Fegor had confessed he stole ‘solid materials’ from at age five.

“All your friends added either a meat or an egg”. She said exposing her brown set of incisors. “Please, that would be all”. I replied with a straight face. I really needed her to stop talking, else, she bath my food with extra spice. She was mouthy.

Before I could start eating, Fegor has halved his plate, while David and Maxwell had already ravaged theirs, they would have been very much innocent if eating in this restaurant was a crime. The food had a bland taste. From the taste, I sensed that it lacked many essential cooking ingredients. The only fact I was happy about was that the food was not bitter.

Just then a boy walked in with a partially tucked in shirt. He looked unkempt. He barely passed through the already opened door without disturbing its hinges. His eyes were crimson red. He was a long pointed nose figure and his height matched his trousers. He had a blank face, the kind of expression a convict usually have on his first day in prison. His student Identity card flickered from his right pocket.

He made a few unsteady steps to the woman in front and spoke to her in low tones. After which, he went to an empty table with a single wrap of fufu and soup in another plate. In split seconds he was done with the content. He then bent his head over the table and made as if he was trying to say his prayers.

After a while, the waitress went to the young lad and asked for his legal tender.

“How much is my fee”? The boy asked with his eyes wide open. His eyes drew emotions from my amygdala.

“Your fee is just fifty naira”. She replied. There was now silence. Loud silence that could deafen. The silence was broken by the ceiling fan which spun round and round and sounded like a faulty generator, and the never ending cow-bell advert breezing out of the television.

Making an attempt to stand up, he stuttered. “Mama….”

I could see watery fluids gathering in his sclera. He now looked downward, maybe to evoke sympathy.

“Please Ma... I would help you wash your dishes, I don’t have the money to pay”.

“Then why did you come to buy food”? The woman replied in a raised tone. Another episode of silence enveloped the room.

“This is the second day nothing had entered my stomach. I am a 100 level student. My roommate who have been helping me with food had said his foodstuffs were running out hence he could no longer help me. I am from Kwara state and immediately I packed to school my mom fell sick while my father was retrenched. I don’t even know if I would be able to continue my education”. Tears dripped down his face to the empty plate on the table. I had to look away to avoid crying too. It was pathetic.

“Please Ma”, he continued and made as if he would kneel.

“I would wash all your dishes for the next two days to pay for this meal”. He stretched his hands and moved his palm together as if he washed them under a flowing tap, his voice now sounded very slow and disjointed as the crying made it very difficult to understand what he was saying.

But all those pleas fell on deaf ears. “How does that affects me? Huh? Give me my money jare” she queried. Her hands were now on his shirt.

But Maxwell quickly came to his rescue. He successfully separated the boy from the woman’s grip and then paid for his food. Everyone in the restaurant contributed a certain amount for the student that would at least last him till maybe his parents recover or till he finds another Maxwell who could pay for his food.

Where someone ate in excess another had no money to pay for his food. Always help others when you can. Try to be a star in someone’s sky!

LETTER TO JONATHAN

Dear President Jonathan,

It is no longer news that you lost your re-election bid. Although it was a painful loss, yet a necessary one. Necessary because the peaceful co-existence of the Nation depended on it. The masses made their choices and with their voters card they voted. They voted you out. But, Mr. President this is not the purpose of this epistle. I saw it necessary to write to you, not because you lost but because you conceded defeat.

Leaders like you are difficult to come by. Especially amongst Africans. Africans are always known to be power grabbers. They serve as dictators and are usually resistant to change. This was evident in Ivory Coast. You proved otherwise. You congratulated the winner before INEC did. Hence, you immortalized the words of the great author, Leroy Eames which says; "A leader is one who sees more than others see, who sees farther than others see, and who sees before others see." You saw the land sweep by the opposition. Even though you didn’t see it before others did. At least, you saw it. That was nonetheless heroic.

Just as the Holy book asserted, “Flee from every appearances of evil”; many were ready to flee Nigeria. They saw the country as a stock load of explosives ready to detonate. You changed all that. You made all the political prophets who had prophesied doom for this country bury their head in shame. You helped our democracy gained buoyancy and international relevance.

You showed patriotism in its best act even if it didn’t please some of your aides like the now popular Godswill Orubebe. Just as my mentor, Gilbert Alasa crooned; “You owe yourself a duty; to be truthful to your belief, your inner self, no matter whose horse is gored”. You acted the truth. Even if it crippled Orubebe’s horse.

You had put all your fanatics and fire spitting irascible supporters at bay. Your congratulatory message to the president elect was actually a congratulation to Nigerians. It was a sign that we could still go on with a one Nigeria. You shocked Nigerians by your exemplary display of statesmanship. It shocked the World and most intriguing, it shocked me.

Mr. President, many students were prepared for another session of forced academic holiday. They thought the chaos from the election would make Universities shut down. Our schools were deserted. They thought the election would breathe down fire and brimstone on us. But they were disappointed. It was a good disappointment. This was the kind of disappointment we all longed for. But we were starved of it. We needed to be disappointed about the reality of the Boko haram insurgency. We were not. Instead, every bomb blast reminded us that they were a predicted reality. Sir, all these led to the final disappointment-- your election loss.

Mr. President, I grieve for your loss. I seriously do. I loved your mantra, your control and style of leadership. Where others saw trouble or looming danger you saw hope. I campaigned immensely for your re-election. Although, not immensely enough to convince my parents and my siblings. I must apologize for that. Each time I tried to convince them to vote in your support, they expressed grieve for series of unpaid allowances. They called it ‘hazard allowance’. They told me that, if that money had been paid, they would have not been under the plight of an overbearing landlord.

Anyway, I was not deterred. I continued campaigning for you. I tried to convince others. But, I found it more difficult to convince anyone better than my friends did for your opponent. They won supporters by just the shout of ‘change’. I had to engage every individual I met in a long documentary of the works you have done. Most of them seemed so comfortably tucked in under the duvet of their stereotypes. They couldn’t bear any dissection from their misconceptions or flawed generalizations about you.

That made me wonder, why was it hard to convince the masses for your re-election?

The answer, of course, was not farfetched. You were surrounded by bad marketers. They could not sell you to the public. You did so much yet we knew so little. You were surrounded by lip lickers, egregiously mouthy individuals who needed your office for show of glamor and affluence. Pity. They heard from the masses and gave you wrong messages. They also, heard from you and gave us a wrong directives. They were political hangers on. Instead of campaigning for you they were busy throwing without caution, outrageous expletives at your opponent.

Surely, those hideous comments that came from your campaign speakers exhibited a rare form of intolerance and bigotry that should never be allowed in the 21st century. I was really disheartened that we have become a generation that cannot throw jibes at each other or sustain simple civilized debate without resorting to ‘naked’ insults. I was truly shaken by the effusion of animosity over this matter.

Many also said you were herbaceous. And that, you didn’t have the gusto to lead this country. Anyway, that was their opinion. Let us watch on Mr. President, as someone who does has this ‘gusto’ takes charge. Those who accuse you of lassitude, do not know the power behind the adage; ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown’.

Journalism had flourished during your tenure. I hope the incoming government do not have any reason to interfere with its growth. I would surely miss your smiles and your humility. You cared for the next generation, which reminded one of James Clarke’s words; “The difference between a politician and a statesman is that a politician thinks about the next election while the statesman think about the next generation.”

Even in defeat, you re-iterated; “No body’s ambition is worth the blood of any Nigerian”. That was wow. If only your opponent had learnt how to make such statements during all those times he lost. Then, we wouldn’t have lost those dear Youth coppers during the 2011 post-election violence.

I also heard all your friends have deserted you. Not to worry Mr. President, I, Ezekiel Efeobhokhan would always remain your true friend. Come rain or shine.

Finally Mr. President, I want to sincerely ask, that you ensure a smooth and peaceful handover ceremony. I believe you can replicate the statesmanship you displayed during the collation of the election results. Call your troublesome supporters to order. God bless you as you do so.

Welcome back to being a follower. Let us watch on as APC leads. I sincerely hope you assist the incoming government in every way you can.

Yours friendly,

Ezekiel Efeobhokhan.

PDP FC VS APC FC

– BY @EZEKIEL EFEOBHOKHAN

MARCH 27, 2015

Those of us familiar with the football parlance would understand what the Spanish word el clasicosuggests. The game never fails to thrill football fans worldwide. But this, PDP vs. APC, is a political contest. Hence, a political el clasico; a show of sheer brawn.

It is a game of franchise and anthropological significance. Just like in football, supporters of these two parties have not failed to vehemently express their stern solidarity for their choice candidates in this forth coming election. Political fans have embroiled themselves in the oral battle of name calling. They use words – uncouth language, that is – to run down their political opponent. It baffles me, how they knavishly larch on propaganda to spread their guile. All like wild fire. From Whatsapp, Facebook, Twitter and down to checking your airtime balance.

Footballers are usually known by their soccer skills. Every player ought to possess a particular skill in order to make his side be at an advantage to win. Although this writer does not claim to be a political virtuoso, yet he has failed to see any political skill that any of our top presidential aspirants possesses. What we have at best is just senseless dribbling and indiscriminate volleys that result in worrisome goal kicks.

Unlike Lionel Messi who is usually known for his speed and quick moves with the ball and his rival Cristiano Ronaldo who is known for his pace and logarithmic step-overs, I have not seen any skill so far. Yes, no skill, in any of the two top contenders for the presidential elections. You can quote that!

Almost all the time, President Goodluck Jonathan of the People’s Democratic Party PDP is usually referred to as the great transformer, and he is equated with the likes of President Barrack Obama and Mahatma Ghandi of India; no thanks to our television and radio stations who take delight in filling our ears with all sort of numerical garbage. Jonathan must have done many good things in office but he is nowhere near transforming it. No, not the country that still imports peanuts, rice and other petty things like rat poison. This writer can’t just understand how and where this transformation had taken place.

Was it in the sudden and sorrowful transformation of our hapless sisters, the Chibok girls, from the cool warmth of their parents to a God-knows-where location? Or the transformation of our costly oil into a haven of black and worthless fluid? Is it the kerosene that now sells for N130 per liter if you are lucky enough to find it in our filling stations?

Truth be told, Jonathan had transformed our positive savings in World Bank by adding a negative sign. Our debts are sky rocketing. I almost forgot the megawatts of darkness routinely harvested from our estranged power distribution company who derive joy in distributing darkness to all nooks and crannies of the country.

My readers may want to confirm the price of a bag of cement. Did I hear someone say N1800? That’s more than a 75% increase to what our president had promised. How can an economy that has been undergoing transformation suddenly slump into a depression? Are these the type of transformation skills he’s got?

The transformation train surely had a stop at our anti-graft agencies, as we now recently saw the difference between corruption and grand theft! Yet, Nigerians still have some scary questions to ask. Questions like, what happened to the $3 million Farouk Lawal bribery scandal, the $6.8 billion petroleum subsidy scam, the N60 billion police pension scam, the Oduah N225 million car scandal, the N10 billion Allison-Madueke’s jet scandal, and the missing $20 billion from the federation account. Stealing or corruption, we actually don’t care anymore, just bring back our money!

Let’s come over to APC, the self-acclaimed agents of change. This party is currently filled with political hangers-on who for the sake of power had betrayed the PDP for APC. A larger percent of the political aspirants of this party are political prostitutes who had dined and wined under the PDP umbrella only to later discover how important the broom was. Remember, when a stubborn and rebellious student changes his institution of learning, it does not simply guarantee that the student had automatically changed his wayward ways. Only uniform is changed and not attitude.

Mohammadu Buhari, the APC presidential candidate was formerly a chieftain in the allegedly corrupt People’s Democratic Party. So, who is the change? The party or the aspirants? APC is currently flooded with PDP deserters. Buhari is often referred to as a disciplinarian. But judging from antecedent and critical examination, this writer has failed to see any iota of discipline in any of his recent or past actions.

Was it by using his political influence to inflict exaggerated penalties on his political opponents? Or by jailing a political thief for up to 66 years even after knowing that the soul of such individual would not last another decade in its mortal body? Or was it the disciplinary measures meted out to the then Emir of Kano for exercising his freedom of movement to Israel because Nigeria and Israel were not on good diplomatic relationship as at that time?

Buharists have never failed to amaze me as they continue to rant this discipline as if they needed a Pharaohic taskmaster at their behind whipping their way into a painful and hell-like regime. Or do these political fanatics forget that there is a stark difference between a disciplinarian and a fanatic? The danger in this manner of thinking, in resting inexorably on the strength of one’s strong false convictions is that sometimes, unknown to us, we may just be sitting on a stock of timed explosives; or worse, we may get locked up in our own maximum prison. Consider the mirthless incongruity of having to tear down a prison door to save a prisoner from himself.
Recall the judicial processes undergone by the septuagenarian Chief Adekunle Ajasin. He was arraigned and tried before Buhari’s punitive tribunal but acquitted. Dissatisfied, Buhari ordered his re-trial. Again, the tribunal could not find this man guilty of a single crime, so once again he was returned for trial, only to be acquitted of all charges of corruption or abuse of office. Was Chief Ajasin thereby released? No! He was ordered detained indefinitely, simply for the crime of winning an election and refusing to knuckle under Shagari’s reign of terror. I am sure that’s the kind of ‘discipline’ we do want! Abuse of judicial processes, huh?

Most bitterly is that some writers have joined in this disappointing milieu in the recent indiscriminate cry of their “Mr. Disciplinarian”. I cannot help but see the picture of writers behind bars noodling away in their quiet, lonely world. No, not quite like Kirikiri, Nigeria’s hell-hole misnamed maximum security prison, but a windowless semi-lit enclosure, where a self- imprisoned, languid inmate finds peace and liberty. This is the inescapable image that forms in my mind when I read the works of those writers, who for sentiments, project a particular aspirants in their literature.

Why is Nigeria so blessed with first hand disappointment as political leaders? Why on earth, is the country always seated comfortably between the devil and the deep blue sea? That, out of the avalanche of corrupt and morally degraded top politicians we have, we are stuck with these two side distractions! Bad political clubs with bad or expired players!

Most of the time, you are caught between laughing off the multi-dimensional crises plaguing this country or employing laughter as a form of catharsis to blurt out the gory details of a nation that has refused to grow out of the embryo of bad leadership. Who will point the way toward a glorious Nigeria, where there would be power stability, elimination of Boko Haram, job creation, zero tolerance for corruption and the likes? Who will recognize our education as a priority and do everything in his power to forestall further academic strike? Who will create jobs for our searing labor market? Who will give more grants to students and make education free for Nigerians? This is not too much to ask from these two aspirants in case any eventually becomes president.

Now, would the Independent National Electoral Commission remain truly independent? Would Prof Attahiru Jega be bold enough to contain these two aspirants without fear of favoritism and ethnicity? INEC should know this: the common man wants his vote to count. As we cast out votes today, INEC should be cautious enough to know that the unity of the Nigeria depends on how free and fair this election is conducted.

Lastly, INEC should beware that an el classico such as this could be volatile and may turn out violent if the fans dare smell any partial decision by the umpires. A word is enough for the wise.

LIKE A THIEF

I ate by 2AM. I could only eat by this time in the hostel. This could not happen back home. Allowing any solid food to pass through your esophagus any time past 7pm would attract lashes of varying intensities, the rod of correction would be used, just to ensure that, such gross indiscipline as papa usually puts it, do not repeat itself.

Whenever those strokes were given, I would run to mama for succor, of which, I usually get equivalent rebuke. This made me understand that my parents were unified in their decisions. The sooner I got used to that, the better. I then discovered safer places to run to when whipped, of course, outside the compound!

I ate very slowly, grinding every chunk with utmost precision in order to get maximum satisfaction. I had not eaten since the previous day afternoon; having felt the pangs of hunger, I joyfully ate the cold rice. I held the pot with great jealousy while I initiated the mashing and swallowing process.

I was concentrating too hard on the eating process, hence I couldn’t hear the first knock on the door. All my roommates were asleep, the electric bulb in my corner was dim, dimmer than those kerosene lamps used in some western villages, but it was bright enough to see the food.

The knock came again but this time, more subtle, and inconsistent as if the person at the door was dithery. Who will be at the door by this time? I thought. I stopped chewing and hurriedly swallowed the food in my mouth so I could quickly reply this unwanted visitor.

“Who is that?”

There was absolute silence; absolute enough to hear the seconds’ hand of the wall clock race to eternity, the snore of my roommate which was initially not audible now sounded like an embarrassing ‘a cappella’; the snore simulated the screeching sound of a vehicle trying to avoid a stray dog. A troubling mouse ran across my legs as if the visitor at the door was coming for it; troubling, because it took delight in stealing my foodstuffs. If not for this night visitor, today would have been its day of reckoning.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Francis, I am looking for Francis”. He said.

There was no Francis in this room. My name was Ezekiel, middle name Osahon and my alias was Trisler, my bunk mate had Joshua as his name. We were 10 in the room. We had stayed in the room for more than 4 months hence no one would bear any name as of Francis without me knowing.

Knocking at the wee hours of the day, and not mentioning the correct name could be a death sentence in this part of the country. Many thieves before entering the room would knock for a number of times and if there was no answer they would be rest assured that no one was awake, they then sneak into the room to claim their spoil. Thieves usually have no mercy, they rob you of everything available, even down to your underwear.

“There is no Francis in the room please leave the door”, I said.

Almost immediately, Samuel jumped down from his bed, opened the door, dragged the night visitor inside the room and bolted the door. Samuel’s phone was recently stolen and he was ready to vent his anger on this suspect, at least, if he could not give any logical reason why he knocked on the door at 17 minutes past 2AM.

“Who did you say you were looking for?” Samuel raised his voice like those village town criers who made eerie announcements under the scorching sun. His voice made Akpan stop snoring.

‘Fraaanciiss’ the boy stuttered.

The young lad was already frightened by the way Samuel drew him in; like a hawk stealing a chick from mother hen. This boy was tall, taller than Sammy but he had a baby face.

“What is the room number of the Francis you are looking for?”

“I don’t know his room number”.

Oh! That annoyed Sammy, he opened his locker, took a wire and was ready to hit this suspected thief, but I instantaneously dropped my almost emptied pot of rice, rushed to Sammy and held the wire with my left hand, this reduced the impact of the wire on the suspect.

“You don’t start beating anyone like that” I said in a harsh tone. I had not used that harsh tone for a very long time; for over 4 years now; since when I stopped shouting at my younger ones, since when I stopped playing football with gamblers and touts, and since when I started reading spiritual books especially, ‘The way of truth’.

“Why would a student forget his room in the middle of the night?” Samuel was furious, his side moustache were darkly colored like the underneath of my almost finished pot of rice. Even if I frequently wash the back of this pot, it always got blackened by my stove; the stove blackens my pots as if its function was to blacken and not to heat. Samuel was chesty, and he was a good goalie. He usually calls me his mentor yet I never knew what I mentored him on.

The shout of the boy from the little impact of the wire woke the rest boys. When they inquired the cause of the hullaballoo, they commanded the suspect to sit on the bare floor. I warned them that, no one was going to lay hands on this suspect at least not until he was proven to be a thief. I hated jungle justice.

They interrogated this suspect with anger and fury, and surrounded him like a group of hen feasting on a dead cockroach. The suspect had more than enough question at a time to answer than the number of his tooth. If Akpan, Sammy and other roommates would maintain decorum for a second, the heartbeat of this suspect would be as loud as the drum used during the praise and worship sections of those new generational churches. If sound could generate electricity, the noise from my room would solve Nigeria’s power problems.

“Where are you coming from?” Osas asked. His voice was now the loudest, Osas’s expensive suit, as he usually puts it, was stolen from the line a fortnight ago. I knew the suit would not cost more than a ten thousand naira, yet, any time he refers to the suit, he never fails to attach the word ‘expensive’, as if the suit cost a lot more.

“I am coming from the school auditorium”.

The school auditorium was close to the main gate and it was a 10 minutes’ walk from the hostel.

“What would a student be doing at the school auditorium by 2AM”, added Joshua, a medical student who was still on his bed. I knew he would not join in beating the suspect even if he was proven to be a thief.

Just then, I noticed that my pot of rice was still opened, with the stranded meat at the center of it. I covered the pot, drank a little water and observed as this kangaroo court tried very hard to bring out the thief in this suspect.

They found two blackberry phones in his bag.

“These are stolen phones”, “he stole them”, “and this one has a lady as the wallpaper”, “what will you be using two blackberry phones for?” All these questions and statements left the suspect confused. All he was now saying repeatedly was, “I nor be thief, are beg nor beat me”.

Just then, Akpan gave him a hard slap; those slaps that fell under the category of dirty, those slaps that go along with lightening and also induces transient blindness. But he got an equivalent push from me. The push hit him so hard that he fell with his buttock to the ground, he almost retaliated but Emmanuel came to my rescue. The push was an armor for my fear. I knew that, except they saw me act in anger, they would never take me seriously.

“You are not allowed to lay your hands on him” I reiterated.

The suspect was now sweating in the cold night, and his eyes were clouded with tears. He never had the opportunity of answering any of the questions completely. I took the phones from my roommates and noticed that both of them were locked. I then gave the unlock the phones.

He took the first blackberry with quaky hands, the phone had a glossy look, it was new, and had a female picture as the wall paper. The girl had a broad smile, smiling like I usually do when I receive a favor from a lady. He tried to unlock the first phone, but it showed a wrong password notification. Everyone was now ready to start the beating process.

“He is a thief, Ezekiel allow me teach this boy a lesson”. Shouted Akpan.

Even if I was trying to help this suspect, I would be entirely helpless if he could not give the correct password on a second try.

“Calm down, your hands are shaky”, I bent down, took the phone from him and ordered him to call the password for me to help him input them.

As I typed the last letter, I really hoped it worked. But, even if it didn’t, I would never allow this suspect to be beaten, my roommates would have to beat me up as I was ready to defend this handsome and baby-faced lad. If I condemn jungle justice, then I should be ready to walk the talk.

Alas! The phone was opened. My heart beat reduced drastically, and my shaky hands were now stable. I saw the shameful look on Akpan’s face, his fair complexion was now reddish; the bulb was not bright enough to see the color of his pupil, it must have had ‘shame’ written all over it.

The hapless suspect cried like a baby. I was almost moved to tears. I felt his pain. He was a newly admitted student and he stayed off campus. He had spent the night in the class studying and decided to sleep in his friend’s room. The room he was supposed to enter was 104 and my room was 103. He had mistakenly knocked on our door because it was dark.

He was actually coming from the faculty of engineering which was close to the school auditorium, hence he said ‘auditorium’, thinking it would make us believe him. We didn’t give him time to explain. Moreover, his friend Francis, having heard his name frequently mentioned in our room, came to find out why he became so popular in the middle of the night but found his friend at the judgment seat, pleading for mercy.

As he hugged me, hot tears gathered in my eyes, and they poured out as soon as I squeezed them. I had never been this emotional. If no one had stood for him, he would have explained himself in the grave like the ‘Aluu four’, or more lightly in the hospital like many other victims of jungle justice.

Sammy and Akpan gave shallow apologies, explaining that if I had my phones stolen before now, I would have behaved worse than they did.

But was lynching the way forward? Was mobbing the solution, were there no other means to justice and equity? Was equity not best achieved by dialogue and peaceful resolutions? This were my musings as I lay back on my bed. I had forgotten my pot of rice and the stranded meat.

From a true life experience.

VALENTINE: MY STORY

‘Happy valentine’ she echoed with a broad and charming smile from a distance, she had expected an equivalent response from me. But she received the shock of the century as my response sent her smiles back to the part of her body they had originated from. Her hands were not spared from the shock waves her brain just learnt, as they were raised up speedily to wave at me but they went down instantaneously; of course not with the same velocity with which it went up, this time a lot slower. Shocked, that is.

‘I don’t celebrate valentine’ ranged on her ears like an old village gong. Her redly painted lips felt the idleness of my response. She had smeared her lips with a quench of red colored pineapple flavored lipstick, the exact look alike of my kindergarten crayon. She had short lips and this made her beautiful. In my much younger age, this type of a lady made me run out of the football pitch. Yes, whenever I sighted them coming towards me, I fled. As chicks do, at the sight of the black feathered predator.

During my secondary school days, a female classmate has said to me in the presence of my peers, “Ezekiel, I saw someone like you close to my house on Saturday, but as I tried to notice the person properly he started running. Were you the one”? She had asked the question smiling, meaning she was almost certain that I was the one.

I was almost embarrassed. I had seen her on Saturday but because I had put on a faded trouser, I ran. Yes, I literally ran as if I was chased by a mob. I had to take a different route to my destination on that sunny afternoon. I didn’t care. All that mattered was that I avoided all forms of embarrassment associated with putting on faded clothes.

I had to look for a way to overcome the ensuing disgrace she was about to unleash on my reputation in the presence of my peers. The following discussion then followed.

‘How can I run from you, are you a lion’?
‘No’
‘Are you a dog’?
‘No’
‘Then why should I run from you’.
‘Sorry, I thought it was you. But just tell me, were you the one?’
‘Are you now a masquerade that people run from?’
‘No’
‘Can you beat me?’
‘No’
‘Am I owing you any money?’
‘No’
‘Then I don’t see any reason why I should run from you’.

My friends actually knew that I could be easily provoked to run at the sight of ladies. But they made sure this girl believed I was not the one who ran away from her and immediately she left the scene they burst into laughter. Well, I am no longer shy. And I don’t run from anybody anymore.

The girl in the first paragraph drew anxiously to know the reason for my principle of not celebrating valentine; of course, after narrating to her, she replied in indifference and left. Just then I thought some persons don’t care about what they do or what goes on around them, they just follow the multitude and play along; sheer Indifference!

The danger in this type of practices, where we rest inexorably on the strength of the multitude, is that sometimes, unbeknown to us, we may just be sitting on a stock of timed explosives; or worse, we may get locked up in our own maximum prison. Consider the mirthless incongruity of having to tear down a prison door to save a prisoner from himself.

I am not against expressing love on February 14. Far be it from that. If it is actually love, then there is actually no cause for this literary boos. But what we see at best is the display of pride, sexuality, and nudeness among our sisters. Kisses and cuddling occurs at every corner of the streets where the trees have decided to offer some shadows against the scorching sun. Ladies become so benevolent with their body parts and carry out scary acts that this writer because of sanity would not dare mention.

Although this writer does not claim to be an emotional virtuoso yet he has failed to see the reasons why some ladies would delight in participating in this yearly routine that constantly feed them with heart breaks and sobs. I cannot help but see the picture of ladies behind bars noodling away in their quiet, lonely world. No, not quite like Kirikiri, Nigeria’s hell-hole misnamed maximum security prison, but a windowless semi-lit enclosure, where a self- imprisoned, languid inmate finds peace and liberty. This is the inescapable image that forms in my mind when I hear of ladies who derive ironical contentment from exchanging romance, kisses and sex with iced creams and stale meat pies. Yet they condemn Brother Esau for exchanging birthright for porridge. My readers may want to compare the financial and economic value of Porridge and meat pies. You will find out that Esau would be a saint when compared to these soulless ladies.

Most bitterly is that some religious body have joined in the disappointing milieu of the rancid indiscriminate undisciplined cry of ‘Valentinic love’. And they organize pharisaical love feast, which I suppose is a subtle means to induce compliance among lust lovers. You may never want to remain a Christian if you dare attend these love feasts organized by these Churches. Religious hypocrites and spiritual apparatchiks!

There are a thousand and one reasons to classify this said date with the day of hatred, anarchy, tears, and immoral imbalances. Innocent girls get heartbreaks, guys do a whole lot to please their girlfriends thereby committing all sorts of moral grievances. They use words, deceitful words, lying words, hypocritical words to deceive these innocent sisters. It baffles me, how they knavishly propagate poetic lines to infest and deceive the hearts of these young, innocent and beautiful girls.

Come to think of it, if love were to be in colors, would it be in red? White would still be preferable. If red is the color of love then what color would be its opposite hate, white? Why would red stand for stop in the traffic light, danger in the road signs and love in social life? It simply does not follow.

For the ladies, I don’t know how you would feel if someone appears in your dream dressed in a red gown and then gives you a wedding ring that is colored red. I believe when you wake up, you would well sharpen your cutlass and give your grandmother a visit. You may want to have her head for dinner.

The day is one of the most controversial dates as classified in history dot com from which I quote “…the confusion over its (Valentine’s day) origin led the catholic church in 1969, to drop St Valentine’s Day from the Roman calendar of official worldwide catholic feasts”. Various episodes of the origin of the celebration abound, some of which are;

A priest in the Roman Empire who persecuted Christians during the reign of Claudius 11, was thrown in jail and later beheaded on February 14. Another episodes has it that, a catholic bishop of Terni who was beheaded during the reign of Claudius 11. The last was, someone who secretly married couples when marriage was forbidden, or suffered in Africa, or wrote letters to his jailer daughter, and was probably beheaded.

The question now is, who among these legends are you celebrating? Assigning a day for love is hypocritical. Live love daily and you would love to live. Visit the fatherless, give to the motherless as frequently as you can. Do not engage in any sort of immoral actions on this day of February 14. Do not be deceived, true love is not once in a year.

Stories used in this piece are hypothetical.
Ezekiel, 400 level Pharmacy, UNIBEN.

WANTED: AN IMPARTIAL UMPIRE

SOURCE: The Nation Newspaper
Thursday, 12th of February 2015.


BY: Ezekiel Efeobhokhan


Readers who are familiar with the football parlance would understand what the Spanish word el clasico means. The games tagged el clasico never fails to thrill football fans worldwide . In the like manner , the hot contest between the two main political parties in Nigeria – Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) and All
Progressives Congress ( APC) – could be termed a political el clasico . Just as it is in soccer , supporters of these parties have not failed to express their solidarity for their choice candidates in the coming presidential election . It has been a show of wit and strength . The have engaged themselves in mudslinging . They use unprintable words to paint the other side bad. They propagate propaganda with the speed of light.


Their needless abuses are not limited to conventional media alone; they have taken to social media to continue their frivolous arguments. Yet, the candidates may not be aware that these activities are going on in their names. They may not be aware that their supporters’ actions may turn what is supposed to be a  peaceful civil exercise to a full - blown acrimony . But because these candidates may not have something to offer to the people , some of them resort to name- calling and abuses .


The PDP candidate , President Goodluck Jonathan, has been described as a great transformer by his supporters, and he is compared with the likes of Barrack Obama and Lee Kwan Yew. But, is there anything that justifies this comparison ? Jonathan must have achieved some good things but he is nowhere near transforming the country . This writer is yet to see how and where transformation is taking place.


Would it be transformation, that Nigeria has turned to a jungle under the watch of President Jonathan? In one swoop, 219 schoolgirls were herded into the bush by a band of criminals and some nine months after , we are yet to rescue them from their captors.

Or is it transformation that oil price is dropping and there has been no commensurate crash in the pump price of petrol ? Or what do we call the subsidy scam on kerosene and petrol ? Power supply is worse than it has ever been.


Our savings at the World Bank has been depleted in a manner we have never
seen before . Corruption thrives under this administration while many officials go away with administrative recklessness.
What is the price of a bag of cement now ? This commodity has increased in price by more than 75 per cent against what the president promised us . How can an economy that has been undergoing transformation suddenly slump into a depression at the fall of oil price in crude market?


The ‘transformation ’ train has also hit our anti- graft agencies , making them ineffective to fight corruption . Even , there is an official imprimatur in support of graft and this is confirmed with a statement credited to the president : “ stealing is not corruption”. What is it then ?


We have seen unresolved corruption cases increasing and gulping our resources . We are yet to see the end of $ 620, 000 Farouk Lawal bribery scandal, the N 4 trillion subsidy scam , the N 60 billion police pension scam , the N 225 million Oduagate, the N 10 billion Alison Madueke’ s jet scandal and the missing $ 20 billion oil money at the nation ’s oil corporation .


The APC on the other hand prides itself as a party of change. It has been promising change away from the maladministration of the PDP. But, can the party truly effect the change when some of its members were part of the people who enthroned PDP to lord it over us? A larger number of APC candidates defected from the ruling party because they were sidelined in the PDP.
Even, the antecedent of the APC presidential candidate is still being contested in the court of public opinion , whether he truly represents the change we desire. General Muhammadu Buhari ’s action as Head of State is still creating fear in the heart of many, who experienced his jackboot rule in 1984 .



Why is Nigeria always getting first- hand disappointment from political leaders? Why is this country always finding itself between the devil and the deep blue sea ? That , out of the avalanche of corrupt and morally degraded
politicians , we are stuck in-between two
side distractions - bad political clubs with bad and expired players.


Most of the time , we are caught between laughing off self-inflicted crises plaguing this country or resorting to
laughter as a form of catharsis to blurt out the gory affairs of a nation that has refused to grow out of the embryo of bad leadership in which it has been trapped since ages past.


Who will point the way toward a glorious Nigeria, where there would be power stability , elimination of Boko Haram , job creation , zero tolerance for corruption and the likes? Who will take education as a priority and do everything to forestall further academic
strike? Who will create jobs for the teaming youths ? Who will give education grants to students and make Nigerians
have interest in education again? These are not too much to ask from these two aspirants in case any eventually becomes
president .


On election regulation, should we expect the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC ) to remain true to its
name – independent? Would Prof Attahiru Jega be bold enough to tame the excesses of the candidates without
fear of favoritism?

Well, INEC should know that the masses, the jobless ones that fill our beer parlour,
the men that cluster around newsstand to argue for a better country, want their
votes count.

INEC should also be cautious to know that the unity of the Nigeria depends on how free and fairly this election is conducted.

The electoral umpire should beware that el classico
such as this could be volatile and may
turn violent if the fans dare smell any foul .

Many times, aggrieved fans do not mind beating up the referee alongside the opponents. A word is enough for the wise.


• Ezekiel , 400 -Level Pharmacy, UNIBEN