Bruk Off mi Brain

I’m currently at work; a place where I come and do close to nothing. But I can tell you  I work hard for my dollar. You think it’s easy sitting in front of a computer everyday, trying to constantly come up with new ways to look occupied? The amount of effort I put into ensuring that I do nothing, is honestly even admirable to myself. If all that effort was put into something constructive, like fasting and praying for the Naira-Dollar exchange rate to miraculously reduce, perhaps Presdient Buhari would have called me up to offer me an official government position;  Minister of Intercession or something of the sort.

Today, my pass-time is going to be blogging. For the main purpose of looking like I’m being efficient, and also because I desperately need to scream. Not in agony or anything, but because I feel like I’m having some kind of mid-life crisis (it is significant to note hat I’m still a few years away from 25). If you were next to me, I would give you full permission to hit me with a straw because I’m being terribly extra right now. Allow it, please.

My friend and I decided to be phone free for a few hours. It was such a dramatic decision. This choice to be out of the loop of whatever irrelevances we so desperately wanted to be plugged into made my body itch for  a few seconds. I haven’t had my phone for almost five hours, and I lowkey feel cleansed and confused. The first two hours or so, I was concerned about texts that I would not be able to answer. Even though I knew damn well nobody was going to be texting me. Still, it was almost like I was going through a form of mild withdrawal.This was not normal. Am I crazy? Was I really obsessing over a virtual reality? My mates were creating apps and starting businesses, and all I could think about was what I would be missing on Twitter? Or the rubbish Snapchat filter that could have been wasting my time? Madting.

I really had a “You See Yourself” moment today. Majority of my thoughts revolved around supposedly interesting nothings. I was constantly feeding off of what Biodun or Wale had to say about Kylie Jenner’s biggest toenail. What Lydia did when she came to the full realization that her husband was indeed a Yoruba demon. Or if Jerry had indeed slapped his girlfriend for making fun of him for wearing shiny lip balm. He did not like his masculinity insulted.

Fragile masculinity is one of those concepts that you wish were a person so you could stuff fresh harbenero peppers down their throat. I’m not a sadist or anything, but I already know that throat will aid in the spewing of trash. Nothing good can possibly come out of that mouth. In my head, masculinity can sometimes be synonymous with bondage. I don’t understand the type of stupid “macho” you’re forming that won’t allow you do what your heart desires all in the name of being a “MAN”. It remains a wonderment to me honestly.

By the way guys, I recently just got my tragus pierced. Am I the first? Please ask your armpits. I’m geeked because my whole life revolves around pussiness. I’m trying to live life a bit closer to the edge, but with sense. A toast to more reckless spontaneity!

Scattered post as always, hence the title of this post.  But you get it. Hopefully.


Been a Looong While…

wiinky It’s always a long time with me, I know. I honestly can not categorically tell you why. Is it because I’m constantly going through rice withdrawals? I don’t know, perhaps.

If this is your first time reading, welcome. Expect to be hit by a hot dose of randomness. You will like it *creepy Nigerian uncle voice*.

I now live in the dorms. I played myself. The perpetual hate I have for my dormitory is unique. If it was a person, I would probably give them some Ghanaian Jollof. I’ve been called dramatic, but no one seems to understand my plight. I think I have a problem with specificity, because I can’t tell you exactly why I’m having such a bad experience. It might be the bathrooms. They will be shouting “America” in your ear, but filth has no nationality. Or it could be the fact that the building I’m in is a thousand years old. I will never understand people who dig the whole nearly-falling-apart vibe. It’s just dingy and highkey irritating. Or it could be my freaking roommate!!! Have a roommate they said, you’ll be best friends in the after life. Rubbish. I won’t say much about her in case she blows tomorrow. Apart from that, I’m pretty jiggy.

I’ve been doing some “soul searching” and thought it would be interesting to share some of my “findings” with you guys.

Let’s start from the top, shall we. In this case, my name is irrelevant. I want this blog to be somewhat faceless. I want it to grow not because of my name, but for the quality of its content. Look at me talking as if I’m Wizkid’s girlfriend. I just want this blog to be known for its mind blowing awesomeness and nothing else. Or at least at some point, when we reach that level.

I realized that I do not have spare time. I just choose to misplace my priorities. In those moments of guilt, I might be on my phone – being sucked into the vortex that is other people’s lives. Other times, I might be reading articles and books online. When I want to be wild, I play around with makeup. And when I’m tired, I think of all the things I could be doing – which can be oddly entertaining.

If I was to drop a debut album or mixtape, it would be called “LIT’ or “T-Shuga”. LIT because I like to believe my life is pretty bomb (psych) . Not in the sense of necessarily doing anything interesting, but in the sense that I have a good time with myself. I realize that could have an ulterior meaning, but that’s your own piece of Shaki to struggle with. “T-Shuga” because I’m going to name my kids “Sugar” and “Spice” because my eggs are magical. Lame, yes.

If I could be an animal, I would want to be a mutant mosquito. I would go around biting people who were born with the gene of foolishness. I also wouldn’t mind being a cute little dog, so I wouldn’t need the Snapchat filter.

You were expecting something deep? Something smooth and coordinated? Yeah, me too. But sometimes life gives you lemons and the juice gets in your eyes.

I really just want to let you guys know that I’m not dead. I’m alive, just lazy.

And to everyone who reached out to me, I pray you have dozens of twins! Too much love!


Let Me Harvest You

I apologize. If you are looking to be harvested, my sincere apologies. This is not the right place. You are not yam and should not even want to be harvested. You are a tall glass of champagne that deserves to be drunk by the plumpest pair of Christian Louboutin lipstick-wearing lips. Yas hunny. Anyway, that’s beside the point. I couldn’t think of a title to this post because I wasn’t even sure what I  wanted to write about. Just bear with me and go with the flow, please.

When I see other bloggers who consistently dish out awesome content, I marvel. I’m just here like “Aunty, Uncle, please dash us small talent”. No mater how talented I try t o convince myself that I am, this devilish wave of laziness and procrastination always comes out of nowhere and knocks me off my momentary high. It knocks me into this  black hole of nothingness where I’m consumed by mundane things such as school work and occasionally, social media. Am I the first person to have a full time academic career and a blog you may ask? Well, does rice taste like beans? Exactly. So sharrap and let me have my moment.

I’m not a fan of the whole “New Year New Me” rhetoric, but I know my blog is in dire need of a revamp. And I am more than determined to make sure that this year is a banging one for the blog. Be sure to expect a lot more Blog Collabs, Joll0fFriday’s and just the usual uncoordinated banter!

It’s 2016. You’re getting older. Stop saying and doing foolish things that won’t bring you any money. Jokes. Just make this year count! Make sure you do something for you. Because in the end, when you’re in the toilet trying to battle constipation, who’s going to be there to help you? No one.

I told you  there wasn’t really a point to this.


Before you do anything, make sure to check out the ultra fab blog that is Georgina and I both wrote posts on “Home”. Enjoy! 

If home was just a where-to-lay-my-head affair, heck, anywhere could be home. However, If this were so, I would  have my preferences. My first pick would be one of those high class Nigerian clubs. Not for the alcohol or the abundance of sweat perfumed air, but for the afrobeats. Am I a cat who can not just sit in her  house and jam to some music on her phone? Yes. A damn sexy cat. If said club was my home, I would sit in a discreet corner and bust some heavy moves like my life depended on it. I would stand right in front of the speaker, so I could feel the music throb in my chest. I would require no dance partner. All I would need would be leggings for comfort, my phone to snapchat and shout “SQUAAA” with random passers-by, and a plate of small chops with no puff puff.

My second pick would most likely be your neighborhood Mama Put.
The saliva infused delicacies would be the air I breathe. I would sit far away from the lions that are hungry Nigerians, and have my plate topped up every half hour. I would occasionally listen to the mundane chitchat of coworkers and students. I would sit back on a plastic chair, rub my painfully protruding belly, and blissfully take in my grimy surroundings. Nothing else but the unhealthy savory goodness would matter.

Another choice would be a hair salon.  Who wouldn’t want their hair slayed 24/7? Nigerian hairdressers lack even the minutest ounce of respect, so I’m sure I would get frustrated and eventually run away. However, before I reach that brink, I would bask in hair slayage and the sweet juice that is salon gossip. I would unapologetically judge whoever it is we were gossiping about. I would silently watch them insult me in Yoruba and pretend like I didn’t understand. I would painstakingly go through endless loops of stupid Nollywood films, and listen to even more stupid commentary. I would drink Fanta after Fanta, and eat meatpie after meatpie. All for some gossip and nice hair.

Boy, I have so many places I would make “home”. But for the sake of brevity, I’ll leave it at that. I recently moved away from home (Nigeria), and I miss it like I’m sure a mother would miss her child. It’s been almost a year, and I still haven’t gotten over it. I miss home for so many reasons, but for you lot out there who have short attention spans, only a few shall be mentioned.

Back home, my name was never mispronounced. I used to insult people who went to the overseas and changed their name from “Gbenga” to “Ben”. It used to get me so worked up – forever taking panadol for other people.  But now I can definitely say I understand the struggle. I am sick and tired of people telling me I have a pretty name in the bid to compensate for their laziness. My name is simply a matter of phonics. The unwillingness to try is what eats at my skin. Please, I want my name to be ugly. I miss the rudeness with which my name was called back home. They would say my name with such an irritating gusto, like they had sat down with God and decided I would be named Tobi.

Public Display of Affection was never a thing I really noticed until I came here. Obvious reasons being that it was almost non existent. If I ever saw PDA in action, you know I was about to stand and watch and applaud at the end, because it took a certain level of bravery. But here, they act like there is a prize for who can be the most disgusting. Every single day, after I’ve convinced myself that I’ve seen the worst, a pair of pigeons swoop by and prove me wrong.  Surprisingly, I miss the lack of it.

Call me spoiled, but I miss being pampered. Driver this, gateman that. It made life a lot less stressful. I barely had to do anything. But here, aint nobody got the time or money for that. In my head, I was about to say I miss cheap labor, but we’re really just lowkey exploiting people. It’s awful that I yearn for these things. Go ahead, judge me. I’m a lazy spoiled girl who is ungrateful. Thanks

Lastly, I miss the people. I miss my family. I miss my friends, and I miss my enemies. I miss the ability to gist without over accentuating my R’s and silencing my T’s. I miss the smooth plug ins of “Oya” that just make a statement more interesting. I miss everything man. Even the useless men who used to shout “Hayss fine geh” on the streets. I miss the extraness of Nigeria. Everything we do is extra. From the way we speak to the way we eat. I miss home.

Off My Chest…

I feel like every time I post something, I’m constantly apologizing for my inconsistency. Well, this time, I simply won’t do it. Just because I feel like you guys don’t deserve a watery excuse. Ever heard of the saying, “You are Jollof rice, Do not let anyone treat you like white rice!” Well YOU,  are my Jollof Rice. You are the redness to my tomato, and the spiciness to my ata rodo. You guys do not deserve slacking. I guess I did apologize *inserts cheeky laugh*

I am currently in the library as I type this. There is a couple seated in front of me, and I am disgusted. This is not the first time it’s happening and I am honestly wondering what exactly God is trying to tell me. I have no problem with PDA. If you like, naked yourselves on the library couch, your wahala. However, all I ask is that the PDA is good.

I think they are attempting to kiss. But all I can see is an appalling exchange of saliva. The girl has her mouth hanging open, almost immobile. And oga bros is sucking on her lips? The confusion going on in my brain is beginning to ache. How exactly are they this terrible? Do they not watch movies at least?!

I almost want to to go over there and ask them to stop this rubbish, but home training. In some twisted way, they seem to be having a swell time. Why don’t I get up and leave you ask? Because I am a bizzy body, and I need to see where this goes. Is there going to be some form of fondling? Is the librarian going to tell them to knock it off? Am I going to throw up on the floor?

Aunty just  pulled away. Uncle looks taken aback. She looks up at me and our eyes meet. I expect her to look away in shame or something but she keeps staring. I look down at my computer and type for a little bit. I look back up and this ant is still looking! Worst part is, she has this dirty smirk on her face, like she has been doing the sexiest thing ever. I burst into laughter. I think this is my cue to leave guys…

So, I definitely went way off track there, but it was a good start to my day. Back to the agenda of the day! First things, first – Nigerians in the diaspora. I am a Nigerian in the diaspora, so bear this in mind before you attack me.

I  hate it when Nigerians who are abroad, come out and talk the worst smack about Nigeria. Granted, you have a right to, but to what end? If your end goal is to somehow be a part of the change, then fine. But what right do you have if all you want to do is be vocal on these issues? WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO CHANGE THE STATE OF THINGS? Tweeting? Of course, that is definitely going to provide a widowed mother with the support she needs to feed her family of five. Spare me.

I’m going to counter myself here, but I understand and am fully aware of the hardships that come with living in Nigeria. Right now, I’m sure you’re in  in a place where the mere thought of erratic power supply is  as foreign as seeing a dog stand up and dance Shoki. It is not a topic for discussion, because it doesn’t happen. You’re in a country where the educational and health sectors are fully functioning. You’re in a country where your security is guaranteed. You’re in a place where customer care is not a myth. The list is endless.

But think about it, if we all “run away” with this selfish “as-long-as-I’m-good–everyone-else-can-burn-in-hell” mentality, who are going to be movers and shakers?  In no way am I implying that people in Nigeria are daft, I’m just saying that Nigerians in the diaspora could be very useful additions. We don’t need that many people. All of you proud people that believe you inhale perfumed air, please stay. We don’t want, neither do we need you.


*Tiri gbosa for the nappies!*                          

I am a natural hair enthusiast, even though my hair has been chemically altered. I like natural hair because the natural curls suggest self love. I like natural hair because I prefer a full head of thick curly hair to my boring straight.

At some point in my life, I  plan to rock my curls while I bare my chest and shout “Black Lives Matter!” from the roof tops. Because obviously, having natural hair automatically means I love myself more than my relaxed sisters. It means that I am automatically allowed to be passionate about social issues because I have not given into the ways of the white man.

Wholup, Wholup, Wholup. This is where you people get it  twisted. How does me having relaxed hair diminish my self worth in any way? How does it translate into me giving into white supremacy? How does it mean that I love my black any less? Why do some of you extreme naturalists see yourselves as superior? I need answers.

I acknowledge that a lot of natural girls are in it just for the curls and healthier hair. Shalla to you gals! You guys are the ones who make me dream of shea butter. But when I hear people say things like “When I think of relaxing my hair, I almost want to throw up!”, I wonder. So me that I have relaxed hair, I am foolish or what? You that you just hopped on the band wagon, because that’s what’s hip now, well done. I hope your fro is infested with lice, and they eat your brain. Mushroom.

I have so much to say on this topic, but for now, I’ll leave it at that. Permed or nappy, y’all are beautiful. Once in a while, just massage your scalp and remind yourself that your melanin is popping and forever will.

Disclaimer: Everything expressed in this article is solely my opinion. Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. If you like, tight it to your chest, your wahala.

Bye Jona, Vagina exploitation, Frustration, and more.. #JollofFriday

There was no Jollof Friday last week because I was being lazy and didn’t have any striking news. More of the lazy part though. Even this post was a bit of a struggle, but your girl came through! Enjoy the little Jollof!

Forgive me, Jonathan begs

“So for the eight years that one has been there, definitely one is not perfect. We have certainly done things that probably we wouldn’t have done that way, but we didn’t do things deliberately. So for those who we have offended it was not deliberate, it was circumstances of the office. So we also plead that those should forgive, we think we have done our best.”

The last statement made me want to shove a brick of shit in the next person’s mouth. What dirty best? Allowing over three hundred girls to more or less disappear is doing your best? Unapollogetically stealing public funds is your best? No, queuing in lines to get petrol for hours on end is definitely our favorite pass time? Best man! Spare me! Then when he says it was not ‘”deliberate”? JOKES.

Thankfully, this reign of incompetence has ended, so no shaking. We are hoping for a brighter future where people will be scrambling to come back home. #SaiBuhari

Mini V’s

The oldest of the children on the popular show “19 kids and counting”, Josh Duggar, was recently called out for child molestation. This had happened many years ago but was just being brought to the surface. It was reported that he molested a few kids, and some were rumoured to be part of his family! What a piece of disgust! The Duggars are known for their overly strict Christian principles, so this was a shock. I keep saying it, when you police a child too much, their head is bound to scatter. The bloke now came out and apologized. As per, “Sorry”. If Sorry was a person, I would have shot them. The word can be immensely irritating. In case you’re slow and didn’t get the headline, V stands for vagina.

Frustration abounds

“Frustrated” is probbably a word used on a daily in Nigeria. If it’s not the lack of electricity, it’s the scorching heat. If it’s not the disgustingly hostile nature of 99.9% of its population, it’ s fuel scarcity. Fuel scarcity blew way out of proportion this past week. It went up as high as 300naira per litre, so I heard. People were forced to stay in their homes with no power. Some businesses reduced hours of opration and others outrightly shut down until further notice. Life was basically at a frustrating lull. All because of some of your fathers decided to be greedy.

Someone on Twitter said “The resiliance/elastic limit of Nigerians should be studied as a module in psychology class. In a different country, people would have lost it”. Never have I read anything more real. When a country is so far off on the brink of destruction, I believe the fall into the pit of unknown can only be for the better. At least with Nigeria, let’s pray so.

Nigerian Gays, Move to Ireland

Ireland is the first country in the world to legalize gay marraige on a national level by popular vote. I’m very indifferent towards this whole homosexual issue, but Irish gays are happy. The rest of the homosexual world is happy. It’s nice when people are happy, for whatever reason it may be.

Nigerians who are in same sex relationships should consider relocating to Ireland. At least you’re sure that you won’t be stoned to death, or put in a prison cell where you have to poo in a bucket and eat watery beans for the rest of your life.

Little side note, I saw two guys kiss the other day, and wasn’t too sure what to do with myself. Should I look away? Keep staring? I half expected them to pull back, look at each other with disgusted confusion and be like “Yo mannn, that was so gay”. But they were, so..

Happy Democracy Day Nigeria! On this fateful day, General Muhammadu Buhari will be sworn in as the president of Nigeria. Do something in honor of Nigeria today. Bath with a bucket and a pail.. Wash some dishes.. Eat some rice.. Anything!

Till next week loves!

Child Smuggling, Money Laundering, Quakes and more.. #JollofFriday

Africans, we hail thee..

A Moroccan woman tried to smuggle a child, not a pack of biscuits, but a child, in her suitcase. She couldn’t afford an extra ticket maybe, and the brain cells in her head did *kpa kpa ko* and the best thing she could come up with, was to put this human being in her hand luggage. She was apparently just helping out her friend from Ivory Coast “deliver” this child. Africans!

Are you not afraid?

This happened a while ago, but still has me very flabbergasted. It was reported that $700 million raw cash was found in the home of Nigerian Petroleum Minister, Diezani Alison-Madueke. Say what?! How can one have such much money and still go about life so casually? I swear, if I had that kind of pepper,  I would paint my tongue gold just for the hell of it. It’s a different thing to have money, and another to have it in RAW cash. $700 million dollars?! Lai se 200 Naira! Unfortunately for her, EFCC clipped her wings..

Earthquake in Nepal, again! 

The devastating earthquake that happened in April didn’t think it had done enough damage, so decided to take a hit again this month. With a magnitude of 7.3, it took the lives of over a hundred, and injured thousands. My heart goes out to those who have lost family members and have been left homeless. Keep them in your prayers.

By the way, I got a tornado warning on my phone this week! My head wanted to scatter! Everyone was perfectly calm as if Mother Nature was about to  graciously rain goat meat for our rice and stew. And I’m here like.. Nigga, we ’bout to die! But glory be to Jehovah, I’m alive. You people should help me thank God.

Coup d’état.. Almost 

I don’t know jill about Burundi, so I won’t even pretend like I do. But there was some recent fire. The President of Burundi, like our dear Obasanjo, greedily tried to run for a third term! The people were not going to have it, so they attempted a coup while President Pierre Nkurunziza was out of the country. All eyes were on Burundi, but they fell our hands. The coup failed and Mr.President has returned to his throne of power.

Brother Chuks.. 

The BBC Headline for this man had me cracking. “Chuka Umuna, son of Nigerian immigrant, to run for UK’s Labour Party leadership” – for why? Why do we have to know whose son he is? Why do we have to know that said father is an immigrant? I thought it was extremely distasteful. Sadly, it is nothing out of the ordinary for these news outlets to constantly refer to black people in a disgustingly derogatory manner. Now, dear Chuks has withdrawn from the Labour leader bid. Wherever you are Mr. Chuka, just know I would have voted for you if I could. Whether or not you decide to spew beans, I will eat all of it. I’m here for you blackies!

Anything Is Possible!

Governor Oshiomhole of Edo state has just re-married. He got married to a beautiful Ethiopian model, Lara Fortes. Why does everyone want to die on top of this? I don’t know whether it’s because they’re jealous that they can’t get beautiful wives or they just have to run their mouths by all means? As I was typing this, my dad called and asked what I thought of the whole issue. He was so confident  that the only reason said wife agreed to marry Gov. Oshiomhole was obviously because of money. I wondered whether he used to park his car in Lara’s head for him to be so sure. I told him that it could very well be because of Love, you never know.  Whether or not there is a gaping thirty years between the two, it is frankly nobody’s business what they choose to do with their own genitals.

Till next week loves!

What If? 

After every blog post, I tell myself I’ll be more regular, but laziness is of the devil. It creeps up on you, seduces you, and just overwhelms your soul.  So pardon moi

If God sat me down and asked, “I’m sending you back to the world. Anything you would like to change? Perhaps be a different sex?”. I thought about this and couldn’t come up with an answer. Either way, it’s one hell of a ride. 

 It must be uncomfortable to be unable to shut your legs completely. The thought of any small mistake being able to make you buckle in abject pain is a bit scary. Although I do feel as though some people over do it. Hit me straight in the breasts, chances are, I won’t flinch. Apart from the fact that I’m quite bad ass, it is  very irritating to see people writhing in pain all because of some minor wack. Shut up and take it like a woman. Or perhaps, mine are too small to relate. 

If I chose to be a man, 

 I would have to idolize my area because that’s what they do. It would have to become my god.  I would have to sexually objectify women because it would tell me to. But then again, it would all be perfectly normal. 

 As opposed to if I, a common female, decided to flood everyone’s timeline with sex GIFs and then blame it on my vaginal needs. Are you a hoe? 

I would have to shove my emotions up my bum. Men don’t cry they say. Men are hard. I would have to painstakingly build this facade of strong. Even in times of unimaginable sorrow, I would have to rise above. Because, that’s what men do.

I would have to leave my armpit hair to grow like an ape,  because obviously, shaving is for women. 
I would have to look at every woman’s backside as she walks past because all the other guys behave as though that’s where their destiny lies. So hey, why not join the party? 
I would have to learn how to chat up females. Those awful pick up lines. The right time to touch. The right time to step back. Because God forbid women made the first move. 
I would have to pay for all said dates. I would have to cater to her every need. She would do absolutely nothing of course. Thanks, penis. 
I would have to provide for my future family and expect no form of support. I would have to aspire to be successful by all means. Failure was for the weak – women. 
If I chose to be a woman however, 
I would have to shove my dreams and aspirations down the kitchen sink. Dreams are for men. Ambition? What does that mean? 
The kitchen would be my palace, my haven. I would be allowed to do whatever I wanted in there. Because that’s where I belonged. That’s where I would be praised. 
I would be expected to spread my legs at any given time because this man was my husband. It was his right. I would be expected to pop babies out of my vagina because that was why I was created. Duh. 
I would in some way, have to be sexual. I would have to seek a man’s attention like oxygen. That was the only time I was allowed to be ambitious. 
My sexuality would never be equated to that of a man. Rather, I would be judged. I would be called a whore. A man was allowed to be as sexual as he pleased, because well, they were men.
 I would have to wear shorts and the likes and deal with the blatant unapologetic staring. In some bizarre way, it would mean that I was craving approval. I would have to pump my fist in the air every time I turned heads.  
The list is endless.
 I am honestly baffled when females say they aren’t feminists. How could you be okay with being trampled on? How could you not want to be heard? How could you want to be confined to the four walls of misogyny? Are you normal? 


Hey guys! So, I tried poetry. Hope you enjoy it xx 

I remember the humid blackness, 
The ache in my arm,
Constantly wiping,
Not just the sweat, 
But two kinds of salt. 
The nothingness there to remind me of everything. 
Everything’s full of depression,
How such a voluptuous word could be so hollow. 
How this pit of all could be so deep. 
I remember being afraid, 
That my tears would fill this pit and drown me. 
My screams would be ignored, 
Because the darkness was feared 
I remember hating this Black. 
My skin and this were not the same 
My skin represented hope, 
It told a story. 
But this, 
This was vile. 
It engulfed my soul,
My entire being. 


I thought having big lips was sexy? I mean, I just assumed it was a general opinion. But apparently, there is an irritating minority out there that thinks otherwise. The number of times I’ve been asked “Tobi, why are your lips so big?”, you would think my lips were drooping to my breasts. What is my response supposed to be? “Yeah you know, I pump them with animal fat every night?”. I’m Nigerian, some of us havee fluffier lips than the next Tope. Deal with it. This does not apply to my sausage-lipped fellas and gals though. Your own is somehow.

I want a child. Like right now. It is an extremely overwhelming feeling. Sometimes, it’s all I can think about. Those oh so wonderful contractions. The profuse bleeding. The screaming. The joy of carrying  a piece of you in your arms. I want it all. I feel like a total psychopath typing that. Point is, I just want to have  a baby like yesterday.

Thing is, when you’re Nigerian, such things are just daydreams. How dare you even think such rubbish? You better backtrack with the little sense you have. So, I guess it’s till marriage then.

It’s so sad how I relate every thing to juju. Every single thing. Like if there’s a nice little man playing his guitar on the sidewalk, with his case open for people to drop whatever inside, I’ll just be there thinking, “What if, as they’re all dropping money, they’re also dropping their destinies?”. What if that nice looking man is sucking up their destinies for himself?

Or if there’s another guy, holding up a “Free Hugs” sign, I’ll be there thinking “Oh boy you’re brave. What if someone touches your arm and that’s it. Your anus will forever be on fire.”
I need to stop. It is such an extra way to think. Blame all those years of watching Nollywood flicks.

I was on YouTube the other day, and I came across a rather interesting video. In the clip, this girl said “Why are condoms free, but Tampons aren’t ?”. I tried my hardest to wrap my brain around this. But I just couldn’t. How are these two things even related? Sure they both involve sexual organs, but they just don’t relate. I can even try and understand it from the point of view of devaluing women, in some warped way. In the sense that no one gives the littlest toss that we have to go through the process of bleeding every single month. The least we should get is free tampons or pads right? But this was far from what this girl was getting at. Prime example of the confused feminist nation. Or perhaps I’m confused? Help me out here guys.

So I know “Sex and the City” came out years ago, but I only recently got round to watching it. I was disappointed. I expected some hard core sex, as its title suggests. But turns out, it’s like any other American television series. If that’s what I’m looking for, the Internet is my friend no? I’m not into that type of stuff. I was simply disappointed.

I don’t know why people who have small breasts are constantly complaining. Y’all are damn lucky. You can lie on your chest no problem. You don’t have to wear a bra. You can run and jump no problem. You can have conversations with people and be rest assured that they’ll look at your eyes. I don’t have ginormous boobs, but they aren’t small either. I just really hate bras. Embrace those grapes darling.

The “Woju” song was such a banger. I loved it. It’s difficult to find good Nigerian songs that aren’t too up tempo. But “Woju” by Kiss Daniel was a perfect fit. Then they just had to come out with a remix. Which was utter trash by the way. Nigerians can never ever leave a song to be good in peace. They must always slap it with some type of remix.

I’ve discovered that when you have nothing to do, you tend to think more than usual. Thus, the birth of this post