Ramblings about God, Man, & Words

God is not man.
If man was God, atheism would make sense.
I don't speak pidgin between 4 a.m and 7 p.m.

Lately, I have been writing more about my thoughts & experiences on different concepts and ideas I find interesting. The more time I spend thinking about these things, the more questions I have, which means that I have to spend more time researching and calling BS on most papers, which ultimately means that I will be missing more lunch and dinner dates. Thankfully, I have learnt how to write apologies.

The concept of God has been on my mind lately as I was raised in a Christian home and internalised most of the teachings from my parents & the Church until I began to discover a couple of things about how we worship God. We follow these rites and procedures in a blind fashion (though I’ve been told that faith is in the belief of the unseen), that we never choose to ask questions  understand why we do these things. This does not just apply to religion but other aspects in life. We do things simply because others have said it is what we should do. Understanding why these things have to be done is lost on most but I also know that attention can be lost while doing the most.

I took a day off this week to get my mind right and stumbled on a passage in the Bible where Jesus fasted for 40 days in the wilderness. I always thought the concept of staying hungry to attain spiritual enlightenment was weird and never tried to understand why fasting is an important part of most religions. Now I think I have an idea. I decided to go on a fast on my day off after I read that passage to fully grasp the reason why Jesus did this regularly. There are health benefits to it from what I’ve researched but there is also this intense focus and sense of awareness one feels during a fast. It is as though every part of your body is being used with a renewed purpose. I became aware of my breathing pattern, how I reacted to sudden distractions, and overall how reward systems have a psychological effect on humans. I kept on telling myself that I needed to get things done so that when it was time to break my fast, I would feel a sense of accomplishment. This, for some odd reason, made me think about the first verse of the Book of John.

God is not man.

The verse made me wonder if we have perceived God in an entirely different way. Indeed, God created us in his own image but what and just what if, we took it a bit too literally and ignored to see it from a different perspective? What if the image we share with God wasn’t a physical form but a more spiritual and abstract form we have yet to understand? This brought me back to John 1 vs 1. What if the image in which God created us was our words? Recall, from the book of Genesis, that God spoke the world as we know it into existence, and in other books, there are teachings on the power of the tongue. We seem to have tried to explain God to ourselves by giving him human traits, which is why Western cultures depict Him as an old man with long white flowing hair and beard, while in other religions, He is represented in several ways; elephants, men and women with more than enough limbs and eyes, etc.

My thought is that we are yet to even scratch the surface of the representation of a higher being. One certain thing is that God does not have human features, which makes me wonder why we refer to him as Him. Maybe it is as a result of the human mind to always try to make sense of information it receives, thus assigning male attributes to God. To be frank, thinking about how God really is frightens me. I have heard of people who have heard from God and those who have supposedly seen God and fell flat in His God’s presence because it was overwhelming. But of course, man has his shortcomings. As we always seek concrete evidence, usually physical, we tend to doubt God’s existence especially during times of hardship, which (again) brings us back to assigning human traits to God.

If man was God, atheism would make sense.

It’s no longer surprising when people say they do not believe in a supreme being and ask questions pertaining to natural disasters and cancer, with my favourite, “why does God let children die?“. For a species who constantly changes lifestyle and views, we can be very narrow-minded. With the sentiment that it is attribution of human-like characteristics to God, I imagine that if man was God, or rather God was man, I would have every reason to doubt him. I don’t need to look far away to know that placing complete trust in humanity will leave me drained and extremely apathetic. We make the worst decisions and yet do not claim responsibility for it. The circumstances which leads to victory, we ascribe to our accolades but if you want to see man in his full element, watch him which circumstances go left. Does he maintain the same belief in himself? Does he try to help others when he can do better if he preserves himself? If it is so hard to take one’s word as truth and would rather look for action, why do we expect God to be as we are? I do understand why Atheism is gaining popularity. It makes sense. We see God as man.

I don’t speak pidgin between 4 a.m and 7 p.m.

Going back to my thoughts about being in God’s image, I’m beginning to realise the words from our mouths have way more power than we imagine. It can be assumed that if God has the ability to speak things into existence, we do have that ability, although in limited proportions. Rene Magritte’s “Ceci ne pas une pipe” shows us the limitations images have in terms of realism (I think…), as it is not a pipe but a painting of a pipe. Yet it does not take away from the fact that the observer can imagine and understand the functions of a pipe. Applying this to the Image speculation, when God made us in his image, it could be seen as a Ce n’est pas moi mais une image de moi kind of event.

So if God said “Let there be light” and Ceelo Green finds another shiny costume for the Grammy Red Carpet, just how powerful is our word despite its limitations?

I work with students during the week in a university in the UK. This means I have to speak English as fluently and clearly as possible, in order to communicate and be understood. For this to work well for me, I make extra effort not to speak pidgin English during the day, not because I’m too good for it but for the sole reason of improving my speech. If I was in France, I would not speak English during the day either, and if I was in Pier 2, I’d be searching for the fire exit.

Because I understand the effect of how words spoken can affect not just me but people around me, I imagine that if we cannot necessarily speak things into existence, we can probably speak things into effect. A personal example is an experience I had in the gym. I was trying to bench about 80kg in one rep maximum but I told my workout mate to take off 10kg before I threw his post-workout shake out. He supposedly agreed and let me go under to lift that barbell. As soon as I was done, I felt 70kg wasn’t too bad, only to find out that he did not take away the weights! He still had his post-workout shake though. My point is because I spoke about lifting 70kg, my mind assumed my body was lifting that weight and behaved accordingly. The words we speak to ourselves also have effects stronger than we understand. Not saying we should be delusional with our speech and wish anything to effect but if we look at God, we would see that God speaks for a reason. And since we’re restricted by mortality, it might take a bit more than utterances for us to speak in higher powers than we usually can. I am still Lagosian to this concept; where Lagosian is fondly used as a term to mean ‘in the dark’. I’m so witty.

I have begun a 7-day experiment to see how much power my words have and if I can stand as a true testament to the imagery of God. I’ll keep track of these days and will hopefully share them publicly. I just want to explore this idea further and maybe come to terms with certain beliefs I have. Or maybe I’m just using my words.



A Deviant’s Guide to Self Destruction: Vol. 1

One beautiful thing about changing locations is the awareness that one’s mind begins to develop. Every new thing encountered is an experience, an activity that will become a nostalgic memory and trigger certain emotions, depending on how potent it is. I would love to move houses and live in different countries for the rest of my life but the nomadic philosophy has its downsides. For one, I forgot my favourite ash tray at my old house & I hope whoever moves in has the decency to preserve it and not toss it into the bin like some inconsiderate bastard I met in 2013. I really despised that guy.

The new house wasn’t exactly the Taj Mahal but it had this aura of serenity and thoughtfulness. I could already envision myself standing by the window facing the long line of houses which seemed to stretch for miles, being in a reflective state while sipping whiskey and chainsmoking, having conversations with myself, and trying win debates for absolutely no reason. It was a nice house, cost me quite a few bucks but it was totally worth it.

I walked around taking in the scent and looking around. The housing agent was a white woman, probably in her 40’s, with a smile that made Santa seem real. She tried to be as courteous as possible but I could tell she was just trying to get her commission and get the hell out as soon as she could. Not like I was bothered by that anyway.

“… And if you’d like, I could introduce you to your new neighbours. I’m sure they would be excited to meet you”

I turned and looked at her. Of course, she had been talking to me about the house, the town, the sights to see, and all that. However, I had not been paying attention. I paid for the house. Unless there was an incident of mass murder or sexual orgies in this place, I wasn’t too keen on anyone telling me about it. And besides, neighbours. I chuckled to myself. That was the least of my concerns.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll meet them later”, I replied with a smile that matched hers.

She seemed relieved by my answer and continued.

“The former occupant left some things behind. Would you like me to get them thrown out or?”

“Oh no, please don’t! I want to see if there’s anything useful, you know”

She nodded and gestured for me to follow her. She must have been seething. I chuckled to myself again. My priorities were slightly misaligned.

“He moved out some months ago. Decent bloke though he mostly kept to himself”, she said as we walked through the living room to the storage unit close to the door.

I forgot to say something. This house had two rooms, two bathrooms, a nice kitchen, a living room and a rather quaint study. One could go out through the back of the house from the kitchen and sit in a small but cozy garden. The housing agent (let’s call her Claire for the purpose of this story) had told me where the gardening tools are. She made no mention of hoes. Every disappointment is a blessing but not all hoes are named Blessing.

We got to the storage unit and she opened it up to let out the good old musty scent and revealed two boxes stacked on each other. I stood behind her and cocked my head sideways, wondering what in the world the former occupant could have left behind. Hopefully not used condoms. That would be very infuriating.

“So there it is”, Claire said, casually looking at her watch.

Okay, let me say this. I do not like to describe what people in my stories wear or look like because I strongly believe in the power of imagination. With that being said, Claire wore a white sleeveless blouse with grey flannel pants and equally matching grey flats. Her hair looked like a used paintbrush, meaning one couldn’t exactly call it a particular colour. Why did I just describe her? Because sometimes strong beliefs do not apply to everyone. I’m simply implying I don’t exactly believe in your power of imagination.

“That’s nice. I can sort myself out”, I answered her curtly.

“Oh good! If you need anything, do not hesitate to call me, alright?”, she said walking to the living room to get her things.

“Sure”, I said, waiting for her by the door.

We exchanged farewells and parted ways, both of us breathing a sigh of relief internally.

As soon as she was gone, I rushed to the storage unit and dragged out the boxes. I had enough time to unpack my own boxes but at this instant, I just wanted to know what contents the boxes held. Opening, the first box, I grinned as I saw a stack of books, magazines and old receipts.

At least, he was a reader, I thought to myself.

They weren’t very interesting. Just old biographies about people I vaguely knew about and old issues of Argos, GQ and some weird one about boats. I began to imagine the kind of person this guy was. Probably older and definitely white. I’m not saying black men are scared of water and boats. I’m just saying we’ll rather have a Top Gear magazine idly lying about instead.

As I looked through the things, I noticed an odd object. I dropped the less interesting stuff on the floor and picked this one up. It looked like a diary of some sort, with a wrinkled leather cover. It smelled dry and damp. One of my favourite scents after cigars and fresh laundry. I felt it would be too invasive to peek through it immediately and decided it was for the best. He would have wanted it anyway. I opened it halfway and was instantly impressed. Neat handwriting that stayed on the lines. Black ink. I could see why Claire said he was distant. The opened page had a date at the top left corner of it, followed by a series of words.

25th April 2014

Great morning run, two cups of black coffee and 250mg of cocaine to jump start the day.

One annoying client with a bad sense of fashion.

Finished reports before 3pm and spent rest of the time with the Idiots. Dale still unaware I’m fucking Chrissy.

A 2hr nap interrupted by a phone call from B. Wants to meet up during the weekend. Seems two-finger technique was successful. Would up the dosage to 5 more orgasms.

150mg of cocaine, three glasses of vodka and a planned night out. Hope to go through it without saying a word to M.

I made a face as I peered at the page. So this dude seemed to be a high-functioning drug user with sociopathic traits. I wondered if Dale from the page found out he was screwing Chrissy from said page. And what in the world was the two-finger technique? I flipped through the pages and saw that there were more entries, though dates were irregular. I decided to sit down and read through it properly. The owner of this diary must have led an interesting life while he lived here and I was curious to find out. I started from the first page and instantly got sucked into it.

31st December 2013

On this night, I choose to live a life filled with pure hedonism and outright disregard for consequences. I refuse to dwell on the past events that have formed my life to be boring and predictable. Every action will be thought out to the end and progress towards the fulfilling pleasures of the world must be met.

First order of business. Cut off contact with K. She will be a hindrance to my purpose.

Second matter, administer proper dosage of cocaine and morphine to have absolute control over them.

As time goes on, new ideas will be created and must follow through.

The past is behind and the present requires attention.


I wondered what must have happened to him for this type of life decision to be made. My curiosity made me flip to the next page.


2nd January 2014

Workout at gym. One cup of coffee and 250mg of morphine.

Decided to keep journal on the decadent activities to partake in. Experimenting with different techniques to make women achieve better orgasms and other activities involving self.

No phone calls from K yet. Seems she has moved on with Big Buffoon. Excellent.


Heartbreak. Of course, only heartbreaks could do this to a man. Whoever K was, I hoped she was aware of the monster she had created. Or maybe she wasn’t. I kept reading.


7th January 2014

The Dead Eye Ringer

Edge close to her and make to kiss her. Instead of going in for the kiss, look her in the eye while massaging her groin. Ensure no sign of emotion is shown and her eyes never leave yours. In case she gets carried away, make her look you in the eye. Keep massaging till she’s about to have an orgasm then walk away from her.

Stare at her without saying a word. Make her feel vulnerable.

Repeat, this time, with slow and intense fingering until she begs for it.


What kind of psychopath lived in this house and where in the world was he right now! What was his benefit from this act of sexual torture? I pictured the woman in question to have been furious with him and probably ended up cussing him out.


18th of January 2014

Must gather more courage to ask Greg for a raise. If he refuses, send pictures of him with his mistress to his wife. If he agrees, save pictures for another day.

Also need to make Dale pay for his statement during the meeting. Noticed he has eyes on the new girl. Should find a way to get to her first.

Reduce dosage of morphine.

Should find hobby for next week.


27th of January 2014

New girl has initiated conversation. Chrissy. Contemplating making a sex tape with her. Should take Dale out for drinks this weekend and gain his trust.

Abstaining from any form of sexual activity this week including masturbation to starve self and increase sensitivity.

Observed new concept this week. Strict diet of coke and coffee works better than morphine and coffee. Should stick to the former now.

Sometimes a man has to die inside for new life to spring forth and so far, I’m comfortable with the emptiness.


8th of February 2014


Made Chrissy strip and touch herself last night while watching. Made her suck me off and fuck me. Made sure my hands didn’t touch.

The power that comes from making people do things for you lies in the manner of false importance and ego boost one accords to them. True intent must be hidden unless absolutely necessary.

Should practice this concept more.


14th of February 2014

Dale confessed he has a thing for Chrissy and was going to take her out tonight but she had plans. Told him to ask her out again.

K finally called but ignored.

Interesting to know that single women take themselves out on St. Valentine’s Day to mask loneliness. Used Dead Eye Ringer on random girl inside her car but could not stop her from having orgasms.

Must develop another technique to manipulate younger vibrant women.


At this point, I dropped the diary and sighed. How could a man be so bent on bringing harm to himself and people around him? Who was K? Why did he hate her so much? I looked around the living room and wondered what other atrocities he must have committed.

I would be honest though. That Dead Eye Ringer technique seemed like an interesting activity to be engaged in

To be continued.

#24: The painting that didn’t explain

There are two things about the unexplainable. It is either people invest too much time and attention on it, hence giving it a more ambiguous theme, or they dismiss it as ridiculous, forcing it into a state of idiocy. As much as both parties would want a simple explanation to the said concept they cannot seem to understand, in their hearts, they wish for the mystery to stay hidden so a rush of excitement could flow through their tiny veins.

Most people will believe anything. Here’s one story which is so simple yet poses a lot of questions as to why the human mind seems to interpret mysteries in extremes.

In this story, there are people and objects. Nothing to extraordinary about that, for these are regular entities individuals come in contact with and relate to. For the sake of telling a good tale, it would be proper to arrange these people & objects in a manner that seem to make sense to the normal human mind. I would assume the location for this story is somewhere up North in England as there are vast spaces for random objects to be place. So somewhere up North in England, there was a house. See? An object has been placed here… You know what? I’ll leave the philosophical bullshit & go ahead with the story.

It was a cold evening in North Yorkshire and the man was exhausted from the long drive. He had come up from London to visit Bolton Abbey, a location with quite a number of historical site. The man was a photographer, working on a project about the architectural structures from the 12th to 18th century. He had covered a couple of regions but was nowhere near the end of this expenditure, for England was indeed a country which held its rich history and culture close to its heart.

After driving around the town to find a local pub to guzzle down a pint, he called up his contact to arrange for a place to live in for the short period of stay. His contact seemed to be busy with dinner, for the man could hear the man’s family in the background, making a fuss over what he was too tired to imagine.

I’ve mailed you the details and I’ve rang up your host. He’s aware you’re coming so he has made necessary arrangements”, the voice on the other side of the phone said cheerfully.

The man said his thanks, hung up and drove through the town, occasionally peering at his GPS to see if he was on the right track. The house he was to stay at belonged to a wealthy family, who made their fortune from textiles and newspaper printing, although it was now occupied by an elderly gentleman, an artist who mostly kept to himself. The town folk were afraid of him & often whispered rumours about how he had sold his soul to the devil in order to sell his paintings, for they felt his paintings were too strange and always sold for ridiculous amounts. Of course, the photographer (let’s call him Howie) did not know this so he was quite surprised when he was stopped by a stranger on the right side of the road.

“Heading up to the Skiptons, ain’t ya, lad?”, the stranger said with his strong Yorkshire accent.

“Ummm yes, I am. I believe this is the right way?”, Howie asked, eyeing the stranger.

“Aye but I reckon you dun go there. Old Stewie is un strange man. ‘Is nuh reyt in the ‘ead”


The stranger leaned in and said in a voice so low, Howie wondered if the man was drunk but he couldn’t perceive any liquor in his breath.

“Gotta be careful, lad. Folks show up in that ‘ouse & nobody sees ‘em leave. As if they vanish. You know. Poof”, he said, using his hands to demonstrate the last word.

“Town folks reckon he eats ‘em for dinner with chips on a booty”

Howie couldn’t help but laugh as he waved the stranger off & continued to drive to the house. Ridiculous folks, he thought. He was sure they were making up these rumours probably because Mr Skipton didn’t relate much to them as he was always in distinguished circles when he was younger.

Soon his car pulled up to the magnificent building that belonged to the Skiptons. Parking his car, he walked up to the front door & rang the bell. Howie observed the lights in the house were switched off and wondered if the man had gone to bed already but immediately scrapped that thought as he heard footsteps coming towards the door. It swung open slowly and revealed an elderly man with a melancholic look on his face. He smiled weakly and offered his hand to Howie.

“You must be Howard”, the man said with a calm voice.

“Indeed I am. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Skipton”, Howie replied shaking his hand.

Strong grip, Howie thought to himself.

“Please, call me Stewart. I supposed you brought some suitcases with you”, Stewart said, looking briefly at Howie’s feet.

‘Oh I left them in the car”, replied Howie sheepishly.

“Alright. Go fetch them. Are you a tea or Brandy man?”, Stewart asked, turning to go into the house.

“Brandy would be great”

“Alright. Living room is down the hall to the left”

Howie struggled with his suitcases as he dragged them down to the house. He lifted them as he stepped in so as to avoid leaving trails on the well-polished wooden floor. The house was a bit warm and was decorated with several expensive ornaments. Howie made a mental note to pick Stewart’s mind on his family’s history and beg to take a couple of photos of the inside and exterior of the house for his private location. He also observed some paintings in the living room as he walked in. There was one of a woman drinking from a glass of fire and another with a boy with fiery hair.

Must be obsessed with fire then, joked Howie to himself.

Alright, at this point, I have to interrupt and say a few words. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened so far and if there’s anything I know about the human mind, it is that it gets bored with the ordinary because… It is ordinary… As ordinary as a piece of paper in a stationery store. Nothing out of place. Just ordinary. What will seem a bit odd is if the piece of paper started to print words in a different language all of a sudden. And this brings me to the part of the story where things get a little weird.

Stewart showed Howie around most parts of the house, including the kitchen, the library and card room. He also told him where he would be sleeping and if Howie needed anything, he could press the buzzer in his room. Stewart explained he was always in his study and preferred not to be in Howie’s way while he stayed there as he had previously had guests come stay over who were always too happy to stay away from him.

“Five guests in the last six years”, Stewart said.

Howie understood and thanked him for his kind gesture. As he was climbing up the stairs to his room, he noticed a weird painting on the wall adjacent to the stairway. There were five faces with expressions revealing pain and suffering as they stuck out of a huge flame. Howie felt a chill run down his spine, leaving him in a state of confusion. He tried to dismiss the image from his head as he got into bed but he couldn’t. How on earth could a man be so obsessed with fire? And didn’t he say there were five guests in the last six years? He pondered on this and soon fell into a deep sleep. That sleep was interrupted when he heard the sound of scratching outside his door. Howie jolted up from his bed and stared in bewilderment at the door! His heart was beating too fast for him to think and his t-shirt was already getting sticky from sweat!

“Wh-who’s there?!”, Howie struggled to say.

The scratching stopped & he heard footsteps in the hallway. Howie ran to the door and pulled it open, half-hoping to see Stewart walking down the hallway, turning around to apologise for his cat’s behavior. But he knew Stewart did not own a cat & his heart almost burst through his chest as he stared down the hallway.

There was nobody in sight in the hallway but yet he could still hear the footsteps. Howie’s skin crawled and he wanted to scream but couldn’t let it out. He heard the scratching sound again & this time he could hear it from the painting in the hallway! As he stepped closer to it, muttering prayers to himself, he heard a faint voice from the painting.

Save us”, it said weakly.

Howie’s eyes went wide with terror as he stepped back from the painting.

Save us”, it said again, as the scratching continued.

Howie almost fell over himself as he ran back to his room!

“Fuck this shit!”, he said to himself as he hurried packed his suitcases.

Good thing I didn’t unpack a lot, he thought, as he stuffed the clothes he wore earlier into the suitcase. He wore his shoes with such urgency, one would have thought there was a fire drill in a building with broken glasses on the floor. He heard the scratching on his door again and screamed.


He grabbed his suitcases and dashed out into the hallway, shouting “Mr. Skipton! Stewart!” as he dragged his bags. He suddenly stopped as he recalled his earlier encounter last night with the stranger who warned him about missing guests. Or had he said they went into the house but never came out? He ran with all his might when he realized that he had forgotten his car keys in the room. He cussed and ran back to the room, hearing the voice from the painting again.

Save us”

Howie kicked the door opened and ran to the table where he left his keys, grabbed them and ran out, falling over and bruising his knee. A series of fucks escaped his mouth as he dragged his suitcases to the car, dumped them in the booth and drove off in haste, leaving skid marks on the driveway.

In one of the rooms in the house, two figures stared out of the window and watched the car drive off.

“Awww he didn’t even last a night”, one of them said.

The other walked back into the room and switched the light. They both stared at each other and burst into laughter.

Stewart walked away from the window and pressed a button from the console. The sounds of scratching stopped and the other man laughed as he sat on a chair close to him.

“You have no idea how difficult it is to keep up this bloody Yorkshire accent”, he said.

Stewart smiled and replied, “In your defense, most folks from the South can’t even tell it’s so ruddy fake!”

They both laughed again and the other man said, “I should have told him it was a prank from the office. Now he’s going to be very pissed”

They both laughed again as they heard a faint voice saying Save us. There was an immediate silence as both men stared at each other.

Here’s where I leave you to think about what just occurred and ask yourself. What kind of person are you? Do you exaggerate the unexplainable, making it seem larger than life, or do you miss it as rubbish, knowing that Stewart and the other man never planned for the faint voice coming from the painting?

#23: A Father’s Love

The television flickered infrequently, lighting up the living room and giving it an eerie ambience. The sound from it was minimal, cheers from football fans and ongoing commentary slowly filling the place like a distant murmur. There were only two occupants in the room; a man in his late 40’s, staring blankly at the screen, lost in deep thought, and a boy aged 14 sitting in a wheelchair, gazing at the fiasco on the television in rapt attention. It was a small living room, with a small table a few feet away from the television, a sofa and an armchair, which the man occupied. The boy sat in his wheelchair close to his father, tapping his feet as he smiled at the screen. It was the last match of the day. Tottenham Hotspurs played West Ham at home, leading by a goal in the middle of the second half. The spectators from the TV groaned as the ball went over the bar for a goal kick. The player who took the shot punched the air angrily, ran his hands through his hair and jogged back to the centre of the pitch.

Aaah!”, the boy mumbled to himself.

His father blinked momentarily, turning his attention to his boy, who was now smiling and tapping his feet in rapid succession.

At birth, he was diagnosed with Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, commonly known as ALS. His father stared at the doctor in disbelief as he tried to explain the condition. His mind was doing its best to make sense of everything but all he could think of was:

My son will never be a normal boy.

The doctor made a few suggestions, telling the man to leave the baby in the hospital for a while so he could be observed further. The man couldn’t protest, for he didn’t know what to do about the entire situation. His wife? The boy’s mother? Well, she wept in the hospital bed, with her mother comforting her. The man had no words of encouragement, for he was in a state of devastation and was in no mood to offer any comfort. He imagined how much the medical bills to sustain his newborn child would cost and momentarily thought of giving him up for adoption but dropped the idea immediately as he knew nobody would take in a deformed child. He asked to see his son again and the doctor could only sigh and led him to the room where he was being catered for. The baby seemed to be asleep, with a small oxygen mask around his small face. His eyes were shut tight as though he never wanted to see the look of agony hidden behind his father’s eyes.

At home, the man and his wife kept going back and forth, arguing about their predicament. Of course, the man couldn’t blame anyone for his misfortune but his wife kept on saying it was his fault. She claimed the man never paid any attention to her and was always engrossed in his work at the engineering facility on the outskirts of the city. She had had a miscarriage before she finally had this child and blamed it on emotional stress caused by her husband. The man was furious, explaining that he did what he did because he had to provide for his wife and her mother. The man had no extended family, at least any he knew of, for he was abandoned as a child by his mother and then his father had died in a car accident, so he ended up living with an uncle who was a physics professor at Oxford University. His uncle was mostly an introvert, spending time in his study, racking his brain on different theories and theses. So naturally, the man, as a boy, was drawn to the silence of life, the ever wanting need to keep to himself and observe his environment. His only source of excitement was the old laboratory equipment his uncle kept in the garage. He would go in there and play around with them, and his uncle, being a dick (sorry!), being the intellectual that he was, never hesitated to explain the function of each equipment. Soon, the man, as a boy, became engrossed in the technical aspects of physics, and later on, pursued a degree in mechanical engineering at Oxford University.

But that was in the past, for the future held worse prospects for him. After more than a year of several visits to the hospital to see his son, the boy was declared fit to live with his parents, on the condition that he was brought in thrice every week for regular therapy and consultations. The case wasn’t as severe as it was now. The boy couldn’t walk obviously but there was more mobility in his limbs then than now. He had to be on constant medication in order to survive and it was expensive. The man had no choice to but work extra hours, leaving his wife and child alone. He knew he had to work harder to pay off medical bills that never seemed to stop coming. His wife? The boy’s mother? That’s another tale for another day, for one night, the man came home to find his wife’s room was empty. All her possessions had been cleared out. No clothes or shoes or suitcases. Nothing. Zilch. He had searched the house frantically, thinking she had taken their son with her, only to find him, sitting on his small wheelchair, facing the wall and cooing to himself. The man broke down and wept. He tried calling his wife’s mother to find out where she had gone but the stern warning he received sent chills down his spine.

“Leave my daughter alone and keep your weakling!”

The mumbled roar from the match showing had the boy tapping his feet furiously and cooing, as the players ran in jubilation. The Spurs had scored a second goal a few minutes to the end and the crowd was in a frenzy. There were hugs and daps from the players to the goal scorer and the manager was shown running across the line, shouting and punching the air in delight.

Aah! Aaaah!”, the boy went, smiling at his father.

The man smiled back and tapped his son affectionately on his knee.

“That was a splendid goal, wasn’t it?”, he said, smiling.

Aaaah!”, the boy replied, tapping his left foot.

The man had grown to love his son unconditionally. His mind was always occupied with either his work or his son. He had nothing else to live for. While his colleagues went on planned vacations with their families or girlfriends to different exotic locations, the man worked. The days he was forced to take breaks, he took his son to see football matches at the stadium. He would push his son in the wheelchair, pointing to different buildings, telling him stories about them and discussing his recent progress at work. The boy would coo happily in his chair, tapping his foot as he listened. He was always smiling and this made the man a bit sad. He had prayed for a miracle. He had wished that one day, he would go get his son from the therapy centre to find the nurses shedding tears of joy and pointing to his son, who would be on his feet, speaking to them. He sometimes cried when he parked his car in the lot before going in to get his son. Every time they went out, people looked at them with pity. This angered the man as he ignored their stares. Some women would sometimes walk up to them, bend over and speak to his son as though he was a cute dog.

Oh look at the strong boy! You are a Spurs fan? That’s brilliant! Aren’t you a strong boy! Lookatchu!”

The man would hold himself back from spitting obscenities at them and would only smile and push his son along. He hated being pitied. He loved his son dearly and he made sure the boy was always happy. He took time out to watch football with him. Sometimes, he made funny commentaries as they watched the game, making the boy coo loudly and smile hard. But deep down, the man knew he was miserable. He had no life. He had been this way since he was a boy. He had even met his wife through a mutual friend and had been shy to ask her out on a date. Only when he had said he worked for the company he did research in, did she agree to go on a date with him. Soon, they fell in love, or he liked to think they did, and they got married. The wedding reception was filled with friends and relatives of his wife, while he had only a few colleagues present. They had obviously come for the drinks and the ladies, for his wife was pretty and had quite a number of lovely friends. He just sat there at the reception, watching his wife smile and dance with her friends. After their honeymoon, he went straight to work. Their sex life was very minimal as she always complain about being tired. She went shopping on the weekends with her friends and he had no objections because he felt if she was happy, he was content. And then she had a miscarriage. He felt sorry for her and tried to make her happy but money, sometimes, wasn’t the key to happiness. He would ask his colleagues for gift ideas and would go out of his way to buy his wife things. Things that were nowhere to be seen after she abandoned him and their child. He never heard from her again and assumed she had fled to another city, started a new life and lived with a new lover and handsome, healthy kids.

He felt anger rise within him but stopped abruptly when the sounds of Aahs filled the room. The match was over and his son was signaling for a change of activity. Usually, he would fix dinner for himself and the boy then go out for a stroll. Tonight, however, he didn’t feel like leaving the house so they had dinner and he left him in front of the television to watch highlights of the other games played during the day. He went to his study which had no door because he had to always keep an eye on his son. He sat in his chair and stared at his stationery. He began to fantasize about a better life. He imagined his son being normal. Yes, normal. Talking to him and asking him innocent questions about things he had learnt at school or heard in passing. He imagined them looking through different research projects and him explaining each one, just as his uncle had done. That would have been the perfect life for them but sometimes, life throws life-altering diseases at you and you don’t make any sense out of them.

Time flew by and it was bedtime for his boy. He helped him out of his clothes, a Spurs home jersey and a pair of joggers. He brushed his teeth and gave him a bath. The boy was a teenager now so pubic hair had begun to grow around his groin area. But the boy didn’t care. He only cooed and smiled at his father as soap suds ran down his face. The man dried him up and helped him into a fresh pair of pyjamas then carried him to his bed. His room was scantily decorated, with just a poster of the Spurs first eleven on the wall next to the door which had never been closed since he started living in the house.

Tucking him in, the man began to speak softly as the boy smiled and cooed.

“Tomorrow, we will go see the new building being constructed then get lunch at McDonald’s. You like that, don’t you?”

The boy smiled at his father and soft Aaahs escaped his lips.

“Sleep well. Daddy has always loved you and will do so forever”

The boy smiled again and looked at his father with adoration in his eyes. The man sometimes wondered what was going through his son’s mind every time he spoke to him. He kissed the boy’s forehead and pulled up the duvet.

“Good night”, the man said.

In a flash, he picked up the spare pillow lying on the other side of the boy’s head and gently covered the boy’s face. He tried to ignore the muffled sounds coming from the pillow and pushed down harder. The boy’s legs shook violently under the duvet for a moment then went still. The man sighed and removed the pillow. He returned it to its original position and kissed the boy’s forehead and walked out of the room.


The man smiled and looked back at his son, who was smiling back at him.

“Of course, you won’t die. Not tonight, at least. Let’s try again tomorrow, alright?”

The man switched off the lights and walked out of the room, leaving the boy in the dark and smiling and staring at a figure with wings, floating above him.

#22: Beelzebub’s Lullaby

There are some events which occur in one’s life and leave an impression so strong, one begins to question everything he’s ever known. Some are for the better, while some are for the worse, but one never knows when they begin to happen. They always start off with something normal until one notices something out of place and then everything unfolds so swiftly, it puzzles the mind.

If I knew turning on the TV at 8:05am would have changed myself, I would have spat out mouth-warmed whiskey and laughed my head off.

It was a normal February morning in Maidstone. The sun was just about to rear its head from the clouds, lazily beaming down at the world. The weather app said it was 2 degrees outside so obviously my house windows were shut. I dragged myself from my room to the kitchen, trying to get myself a nice cup of coffee to jolt myself back to life. The night before was the usual rowdy one, where guys drank till they puke and girls drank till they got a taxi to cry in. I checked in the cabinets in the kitchen for coffee and realized I was out. Ah well, I thought. I guess I had to drink more rum. I poured myself a small portion and muttered to myself as I raised the glass.

I have picked you up. Now pick me up”.

I took a sip and grimaced a bit. Strong stuff. Good but strong stuff. I walked into the living and plopped myself on the couch, when my TV suddenly came on. I looked around in mild confusion and found that I had sat on the remote control. I chuckled to myself a bit and mused on how I was able to turn things on with my butt and then the thought left me as fast as my father left my mother and I. The headline on the TV seemed stupid but for some odd reason, I put the volume up to listen to whatever the reporter was babbling about.

– and this has become the new craze about the youths as it has become a new challenge where they listen to the song and fall asleep then try to remember the lyrics afterwards. Some use it as a means to clear up their drug-induced state and local authorities have bemoaned the increase in the sale of marijuana in the last few days. Sources say-“

My attention went away from the TV as my hands went for my phone. I tapped my pockets and remembered I left it charging in the room so I went for the computer in the living room instead. Apparently, there was a song by an unknown artiste titled Beelzebub’s Lullaby that was spreading like wild life across the UK. While I felt this was an interesting name to a song, what stopped me dead in my tracks was when I read about the effects the song had on people.

The first guy who found the song was a DJ who was combing through old vinyl records in a store. He looked like one of those punk hipster kids that had a face knuckles would love to meet. He allegedly said that when he listened to the song for the first time, it felt like a second passed him by before he realized that the song was over. He thought the record was faulty and then he listened again. The same thing occurred but he said he had never felt so alive after that moment so he called out to the store manager to listen to it. The store manager seemed to zone out and stood there with his eyes closed until the song was over. He told the DJ he was ready to give it a listen and he stood in astonishment when he saw that the record was over.

That was how it begun. Vinyl went to digital formats. Digital formats got downloaded. People listened, slumbered, awakened and slumbered again. It was the new challenge everywhere and one thing I hated was people having fun without my permission. So I got away from the computer, wondering to myself what kind of song it was, when the distant sound of my ringtone caught my attention. I went into the room and took a peek at the tiny screen and rolled my eyes. What does he want now?, I thought to myself as I answered the call.

“What now, Howard?”, I said mockingly.

Oi, prick! Have you heard the new song everyone’s going crazy about?”, the voice at the other end raved.


That shit is a real mystery, mate! Had me going bonkers but see this, yeah?”


I was knackered from last night’s shebang, heard about it last night from Louise actually, downloaded it, yeah, gave it a quick listen and boom!”

“Are you using a Samsung?”, I asked dryly.

No, dickhead! My hangover was gone! Felt completely whole again! It was a miracle!”, he replied

“You should have had it on repeat, you know?”

Yo! That would be so weird! I have shit to do, you know!”

“Same. I’ll talk to you later”

He was about to say something when I hung up and sighed. So this was going to be on my mind for a while. There was only one person I knew that could explain this and I haven’t been to visit him in ages so I had to get a gift (the elite word for a bottle of cognac) before I paid him a visit.

Old Sally was one of the most interesting men I had ever met. He used to be a road manager for a lot of British rock bands back in the 60’s and had so many experiences that a visit to him needed the right beverage, for hours will go by unnoticed as he told tale after tale. I couldn’t say for sure if all his stories were true but the way he told them, as though he was reminiscing over something, made me almost believe every last bit.

So out I went to into streets, feet moving automatically while I was deep in thought. Something inside me told me I would get the answers from Old Sally and it would be one hell of a story.

Old Sally’s house was like a museum of vintage music. He once claimed that he knew every rock song from back in the day till those punk rock kids took over. The living room was neatly arranged, surrounded by shelves of vinyl records. Sometimes I wondered if he was ever going to let them go or even better sell them for a great price but I knew he wasn’t that kind of man. His collection was the love of his life. He said he would sometimes listen to the stuff that never made it out there and imagine what would have happened if they did.

“How’s the weather today?”, Old Sally asked as he let me in.

“Boring”, I replied, grinning.

“Just how I like it”, he grinned back.

I handed him the bottle of cognac and he smiled gratefully, waving me over to the kitchen.

“Come”, he said, “Let’s get glasses and drink to bad weather”.

I followed him into the kitchen as he carefully walked to the cabinet to get out the glasses. He had arthritis and once compared it to Cliff Richard’s first recording session.

It was painful but it got better later on”, he had said, laughing.

He poured out drinks and we raised our glasses.

“To bad weather. The only sure thing about England”, he said.

“To bad weather”, I replied, smiling.

We both took a swig. Good stuff. Strong but good stuff.

“So what brings you here, young man? Haven’t seen you in a bit”, he said, walking back to the living room.

“Music brought me here”, I said, to which he sarcastically responded,

“And there I was, thinking you were here about the economy”.

He turned back at me and chuckled. I smiled back and shook my head. Old Sally had some old wisecracks that made me want to hit my head on a wall made out of porcupines.

“Come now. What’s on your mind?”, he asked, sitting down on his favourite chair, which faced the window and one of the many shelves in the living room.

I sat down, thinking of how to tell him about this strange song everyone was sleeping to.

“So there’s a song out there”, I began.

“No shit, Sherlock”, he said, taking a sip from his glass.

“A weird song, really. It’s been all over the news”

“And people wonder why I never watch the news”

“Basically when people listen to the song, they fall asleep”

The look on Old Sally’s face told me that I did a good thing coming here. The usual smirk had disappeared and was replaced with a stern look.


“Yeah, they listen to it and it apparently makes them zone out and they don’t remember anything about it but-“

“-but they feel great afterwards”, he interrupted immediately.

I leaned forward and observed his features. The stern look was gone now and I didn’t like what I was staring at. Fear had taken over his eyes as he stared back at me.

“Did you listen to it?”, he asked in a shaky voice.

“No, I haven’t yet”, I replied, beginning to wonder if this was a good idea after all.

He seemed to be in a trance as he stared blankly at me. I felt it would have been rude to get his attention again so I waited for him to come around.

“Beelzebub’s Lullaby”, he muttered to himself.

“Yeah, that’s the name of the song. You’ve heard of it?”, I asked cautiously.

He leaned forward in his chair and said something that made my skin crawl.

“He walks among us again”

I sat back, confused and watched him. He didn’t seem his usual self anymore. In fact, he looked like he was about to pass out.

“Are you alright?”, I asked, worried about his behavior.

“Don’t worry about me. How the fuck did that song get out there?! Oh, Lou, you bastard!”, he said.

He seemed to be talking to himself so I let him carry on.

“Lou never listened. He never listened. He kept that damned song! He did!”

“Okay, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”, I asked, feeling a little wary of him now.

You know, there are stories one hears that are so surreal, they begin to sound a lot like myths old folks make up to sound interesting. Old Sally leaned back in his chair and began to speak.

Back in the 60’s, every teenager wanted to play the blues as a form of rebellion. Old Sally, called Sal then, was friends with a lot of guys who eventually became rock and roll legends. He used to threw parties all around and get his boys to perform for the crowd, who loved every riff they heard from the guitars. It was the new sound of freedom and it was spreading across the country like bad news. Sal eventually saved up enough money to get a recording studio so naturally a lot of wannabe musicians showed up, hoping to record a hit and join the new wave. That was when he met Lou Bricks. Lou Bricks was a fucking terrible singer and guitarist but his passion for rock and roll kept bringing him to the studio to watch others record.

One night, Lou walked into the studio with a strange man. Lou was obviously plastered but the other man seemed sober enough. He had asked for a session to record one song. Sal wondered if the man was any good so he agreed, not without collecting payment, which the man agreed to without negotiation. The man had a weird aura around him. Sal felt the man was some sort of runaway conman who was trying to make a break in the music industry. His clothes were sharp, for he did not dress like the regular wannabe musician, in fact, one would have mistaken him for a banker.

Sal waited for the man to settle in to start recording when the man said something that took them aback.

Whatever you do, do not try to listen to this song again”

Lou stared at the man and then at Sal. Sal took one glance at him and then told the man to record. It seemed as though he had just woken up from a deep refreshing sleep when he saw the man coming out of the booth. He asked Sal to make only one copy of the record and would be back in 3 days to get it. He walked out of the studio, leaving everyone confused except Lou. Sal had checked the sound board to see if any recording had been done and found that it had recorded about 3 minutes but he couldn’t remember when the man had recorded nor the song the man sang. So he play it back and felt the same thing from before again. He turned to ask the rest of the guys in the studio if they had heard the song. They all shook their heads but Lou was quiet. Sal asked Lou what was wrong and all Lou said was:

That was a weird song”

Sal pressed on, asking Lou to tell him what the song was but Lou didn’t say a word. Sal eventually gave up and got on with preparing the record. Three days went by and the man never showed up. Sal got angry and because he felt his time had been wasted so he swore he was going to let the man get it if he ever showed up at his studio again. A week went by, when Lou Bricks showed up to the studio. He looked distressed as he sat down on the couch and shut his eyes. Sal asked him what the matter was and he said that he had not been able to get the song out of his head so he wanted to listen to it again. One of the guys in the studio had jokingly asked what song Lou was referring to and was met with a heavy blow to the face. After all the scrapping, Sal got everyone calm and brought out the record. He played it one more time and that feeling of waking up from a pleasant dream took over him again. He looked around and asked everyone if they felt the same way and they mumbled in agreement. This was a mystery and Sal felt he should have probably made another copy in another studio, just in case it was his equipment, but later gave up on the idea.

It was months’ later he thought about the record again and went back to the studio to give it another listen when he realized it had gone missing. He searched his studio, desperately and couldn’t find it. Suddenly, he turned around to see the strange man walking in. He was stunned, for the first time, he noticed the man had a green eye. The strange aura around him intensified and for a second, Sal contemplated running out of the studio and screaming for help. The man calmly asked him for the record and Sal shamefully admitted that he couldn’t find it. The man stared at Sal for a while and then smiled. He shrugged and walked out, leaving Sal feeling more confused than ever. He began to search for everyone and asked them about the record, all who denied having it. Everyone except Lou. Lou hadn’t been hanging out at the studio regularly but nobody seemed to have noticed until now so Sal went over to Lou, and found him sitting on the floor, smiling at himself. The record player had just finished playing and Sal could only guess what Lou had been listening to. He angrily walked over to Lou and kicked him, yelling at him for stealing the record. Lou seemed to be in some sort of trance and laughed at Sal. He said that he couldn’t hear nor remember the song anymore but he could feel that euphoria and felt he should share the song with other people. Sal told him the man had come to the studio to get his record back but Lou said he couldn’t give it away, for whenever he went by without listening to it, he heard voices in his head, telling him things. He was calling it Beelzebub’s Lullaby. Sal was concerned now and decided it would be better to get Lou some help and keep the record safe but it seemed Lou knew what Sal was thinking, because he suddenly jumped up, ran for the record and sprinted out of the house. Three days later, Lou was found in a dark alley, screaming and hitting his head against the wall. He was admitted into a mental institution where he died. But the record was nowhere to be found.

The next time, Sal saw the strange man was at a club in the 80’s where he witnessed the man giving the DJ a record to play. The DJ played it and immediately, Sal felt that euphoric feeling he hadn’t felt in years. The man spotted Sal in the crowd and took the record away from the DJ, making a move for the exit. Sal tried to follow him through the mad crowd, who must have felt the same thing too, but didn’t get him. He had hoped he would never see the man again.

I sat there, listening to Old Sally, not even noticing that the drink in my hand had fallen off and the dark liquid had spread across the floor. Old Sally was quiet now and staring blankly, his mind obviously pondering on something.

“You know”, he said after a while. “I once met a gypsy woman who told me about a song that David wrote to soothe King Saul when he was being disturbed by spirits. She said nobody knew what the song was but it made the king so happy that he always wanted to hear it. But the spirits hated the song and couldn’t touch David so they ended up tormenting Saul even more”.

I was a bit bewildered by this and sat there, trying to shake off this weird feeling I was beginning to get. I decided it was best for me to head home and I told Old Sally that I would see him another time. He only nodded and gave me a stern warning.

“Whatever you do, lad. Do not let that song get to you. I beg you”

I got back outside and breathed a sigh of relief. I walked back, thinking about everything I heard. I wondered what kind of song it was and if it was probably just a particular frequency bandwidth that affected the brain in some form or the other. So I did something that I shouldn’t have done. I brought out my phone and decided to search for this strange song and see if I would be filled with any euphoria. After all, if Old Sally didn’t go mad, I most likely wouldn’t. Besides, Lou had heard the song the first time before he stopped hearing it and went mad. My heart beat faster as I sat on a bench and plugged in my earphones. I took a deep breath and pressed play.

A feeling of nostalgia hit me almost immediately as I listen to the song! This was the song my father used to sing to me when I was little! I tried hard not to cry as I listened! It was my father singing! And then it hit me again! My father did have one green eye! I don’t remember his face but my mother, who had burned all his pictures, merely mentioned it in passing one day. I listened to every word of the song, vaguely remembering myself in the arms of a man I barely knew.

I told you that there are events that leave a lasting impression on one’s mind. This was just the beginning of stranger things to come. And I am sure you are wondering what the song was about. Well, here it is.

Wake up. You didn’t hear it, did you? But you feel great, don’t you?


In the beginning, the page was blank, an empty space that stared at me listlessly. So I wrote words, the ones that had the power to change lives for better or for worse, a union between fingers and mind. A writer’s true aim is to be god-like and create worlds as he pleases. If he writes on the page, “the man went to the store to get apples”, the said man has no choice but to walk to that store and get apples. It is not the page that makes this so, for the page is nothing until the writer’s fingers move. The writer could decide that the man should be a dog or a cat, he could change the actions of the man to whatever he sees fit. This is the power of words, a strong magic that gives the writer emotions so intense that he feels close to God every time words appear on the page.

So I wrote words. I said let there be a city that never sleeps, constantly filled with life at every corner, every avenue and building. I knew the responsibilities that lay ahead. I could choose to occupy this city with anything and anyone I see fit. I could walk through this place without being noticed and change the sky or put someone into a deep sleep while he dances at a club. Instead I wrote words.

A man looked at himself in a mirror in a steamy bathroom. He couldn’t quite see what he looked like but in his mind, he knew what to expect from the mirror. The sound of water flowing distracted him from his self-awareness and his eyes took him to the tap flowing from the sink in front of him. It was a small bathroom with a tub, sink and toilet. Almost everything in here was white except the mirror, the shower curtain, which was yellow and decorated with red patterns, and the different items spread out across it.

He turned the tap off and looked back in the mirror and smiled. Nobody had to tell him he was handsome. He observed his brows, thick and long, which gave him a rather menacing look. He raised the left one, staring at himself for a moment and smiled again. His eyes were cat-like, giving him a constant bored expression even when he laughed or frowned. The funny thing about the human face is how one is so used to seeing it every moment, that mostly, one forgets how he looks until he sees a photo of himself or takes an extra minute looking at it in the mirror. It’s not narcissism when one doesn’t die from falling in love with himself.

At this moment, I wrote words.

The man went out of the bathroom which led him into his room, a room so tidy, it would be a shame if a pile of clothes were found in a heap on the side of his bed. Right?

He hissed as he rushed to pick them up from the rug-covered floor. He must have forgotten to put them in the laundry basket earlier and he wondered to himself why he did as he was a particularly careful man. He enjoyed being in control of everything he had the chance to. For those he couldn’t control, he mostly sat back and waited for calmly for an opportunity to turn things to his favour. He felt that those who complained lacked self-control and those who lacked self-control lacked power.

I stifled a laugh as I wrote these thoughts down and made them his. I toyed with the idea of turning his life completely upside down. I imagined that as he picked them up, the towel around his waist came loose and while he bent over and tried to hold it together while clutching the items of clothing, he accidentally (haha accidentally) fell into the bed frame and hurt his shoulder. But I didn’t write that. Oh wait, I did but I decided not to bring that part of my imagination into his reality for I am a kind and merciful writer. Lord, have mercy on me.

He tossed the pile into the laundry basket which was beside the door that led him out of the room and then walked to his bed.

I yawned. This was getting boring for me.

He found himself in the middle of a dance floor in one of the most popular clubs in the city. He stood confused for a moment.

How did I get here?

He looked down at himself and breathed a sigh of relief. For a terrifying second, he thought that he was still in his towel but instead was pleased to find himself fully dressed. Tonight he was draped in everything black; black boots, black pair of jeans that fitted nicely around his legs, black fitted shirt inside a black jacket. He mused about how he came out of an almost white bathroom to being clothed in bla-

“Hey you. You alright?

On the noisy dance floor, he heard a voice trying its best to stay afloat in the drowning sea of heavy basses and drums. He turned towards the direction from which it came from and saw a girl holding two drinks. She was mildly attractive, wearing a short red dress that reveal a set of moderately large breasts. He stared at her for a moment and then smiled. The girl smiled back and handed him one of the drinks.

To be honest, I couldn’t be bothered with what kind of drink he was given. I just wanted him to have one.

The girl shouted something at him that he couldn’t understand so he strained his ears and bent over to her. Someone bumped into him from behind and as he turned around to look at who had done this, he found a man, who reminded him of a pig from an old children’s cartoon, raising his hands in apology. He nodded at him and turned back to the girl.

“What?”, he asked her.

“I said you always look like your mind isn’t here”, she shouted back.

And so I wrote.

The streets illuminated all around him as he stood, staring at nothing. He looked around him and cussed. It had happened again. He had no idea how he had gotten there. He wasn’t in the club anymore, instead he found himself outside in the cold. He thought he must have been drugged and tried to think back and retrace his steps. He spun around in anger and cussed again. He was losing control and he knew it and so he decided to do something on his own accord. He sat on the side of the pedestrian path and waited for something to happen. He felt that he did not move from this spot, he could gain some control and maybe figure out what had happened.

You know what makes me a writer? I can string words together on a page in such a way that people might either get mad or excited when they come across them. I weave words and breathe life into the void without any thought of the consequences as I do so. I can leave those who read in a state of confusion or understanding. I write as I do because I do things like this.

The man found himself sitting in front of a laptop writing. He looked stopped for a moment and looked at the page.

#20: She said…

(I haven’t posted here in a long time. I want to blame a lot of circumstances but I choose to blame myself. I will do my best to be consistent from now)

She said my story was too elaborate to be true

The way I looked at her as though she was priceless, was really just one side of the coin

She said my life was more of a cliffhanger and wasn’t sure if I would ever let her go

My hands are tied right now, I said. And your interrogations are getting too aggressive.

She said our passion burned bright enough to trip off fire alarms

And yet our hearts remain cold when we are alone

She said if I had to lie, I needed to be brief

I told her I loved her

She said her feet were hurting from walking away from my love

That my love was a desert stretched far and wide

She said making her wet wasn’t enough to form an oasis

If only she knew how bad I fall for mirages too.


There is just one thing I love in beautiful women. My penis.

Putting that dirty quip dripping with pre-ejaculated semen aside, let us take a test on how damaged you are. Before we start on how useless this obscene test is going to be, I just want to establish a known fact. You are not damaged. You just started liking girls or boys a little too early.

You are not that little boy who walked in on your mother getting fucked from behind by that man who came around for rent. You are not the one who knew him as Baba Landlord. You are not the one who had to suppress the disturbing images of a cum-filled condom dangling in your face with your mother’s stern face saying:

Go and throw it away”

You are not the one who had to grow up wondering why your tiny weenie got excited when you saw naked women on soft sell erotic magazines at bus stops and one cold night, accidentally brushed your mini-boner with a pillow. You are not the one who felt how good that was & developed a funny habit of dry-humping pillows until you watched Black Dicks In White Chicks Vol. 4 in a friend’s house. You didn’t see that Bukkake scene & went home that evening to pull your eagerly waiting dick a little harder than usual. You are not the one who got caught behind the Chemistry Lab, jerking off furiously to your incredibly sexy teacher with her tightly-fitted pink blouse and short grey skirt. You are not damaged. Go and argue about how FIFA 13 isn’t the same as FIFA 12.

But you have been diagnosed by Google with a bad case of depression and low self-esteem. Please shut the fuck up. You are not damaged. You are not the little girl who got finger-fucked by the same hands you ran into, screaming “Daddy!”. You are not the one who grew up with lovely sensitive breasts that were repeatedly fondled by the boys from that boy-school with the lost glory & ego of an Atlantis Prince. You are not the one who thought the warmth of Love was that thick gooey whitish stuff your uncle left on your Sweet 16 buttocks. You are not the one who liked being slapped, tied and choked before 50 Shades of Grey made it look socially-acceptable. You are not damaged. Go and like your best friend’s new food photo on Instagram.

But people have told you that you have suicidal tendencies because you listen to Heavy Metal & scream YOLO!” when you eat roasted corn without washing your hands. Please suck a dick while you’re at it. You are not damaged. You are not the guy who shot his face off because his friends were envious of his good looks & called him Lucifer’s Son. Of course, you tried slitting your wrist in the bathroom. Keyword here is tried. You tried. That’s cool. But you didn’t. If you are going to slit your wrist, you are not going to let your Facebook friends know about it. You are not going to sit on your well-tiled bathroom floor & cry, leaving the door unlocked so that Rukayat the Help would rush in to stop you from making a huge mess on the floor she just recently cleaned. What? You think she cares? Nobody gives a fuck. Everybody wants attention. Your attention-seeking maneuver has earned you the Suicidal Kid badge. Congrats. You are not damaged. You are not suicidal either. Go and see a movie at The Palms & compare the popcorn at the concession stand to that at Ecentre. (Sidenote: Ecentre popcorn does suck. You should try their hot dogs though. It tastes like Asa’s first album smeared with mustard and ketchup).

Wait. You are not suicidal but you think about suicide every now and then. Great news! You are not damaged! You are our 120,000,000,000th customer! Please click the link on the awkward side of your desktop workspace and fill this little survey form which will totally not waste your time at all! Suicide is the bravery form of cowardice. Survive a suicide attempt and you are on your way to Attentionseekington or Empathyville. Don’t survive and find out if Heaven & Hell are real or if Dr. Conrad really killed the King of Pop. So you smoke too much and drink too much. Big deal. People have done worse. People way more beautiful and smarter than you have done it. Marilyn Monroe. The vixen will forever be remembered for her allure and ruining the Happy Birthday song for J.F. Kennedy. She will forever look beautiful even in her demise. What? You don’t want to die anymore? You will die at a very old age, sad and your skinny sagging like Wiz Khalifa’s pants. Your corpse will stink. People will look at you and try to remember all the good you’ve done. Nobody gives a fuck. Everyone wants to be a millionaire. The recent false sense of apathy has clouded your feelings. You don’t give a fuck. Live fast, Die young. You crave a beautiful corpse. Just drop dead, gorgeous. You are not the one who will shudder at the generation of men choking the monkey to your post-humourous Instagram page. You are not damaged. Go and idolise Khloe Kardashian & adapt to Kim’s way of life instead. I will always love you anyway.


Courtship in the animal kingdom: Homo Socionetworkus

(Note: To further emphasize the stupidity reviewed in the research, you are hereby advised to read this with the voice of Morgan Freeman/Pastor T.B. Joshua, depending on your social status and preferred dialect/language. Any attempt to portray humans as animals has been nullified with the sound of jungle drums sampled from Goldie’s bushy pubic region during her stay in the Big Brother Africa house. No humans were harmed in the writing of this research. All characters are purely fictional. You know what? Just read the damn post)

The animal kingdom is a vast collection of several species, phyla, families & all the other group of animals that somehow fitted into Noah’s ark and ditched the entire survival of the fittest propaganda because God was about to show men who the boss was. Yeah. The study of animals has been referred to as zoology but my thesis/research will indicate my interest in the social animal, Homo Socionetworkus. This is culled from the pseudo-Latin word Homo, which means fag, pardon my crude language. Man. And Socionetworkus from the pseudo-Latin word meaning zombie or one without a life. The Homo Socionetworkus is very distinct because of their ability to use the social media in ways that make space monkeys look like NASA scientists. It is also known for its irrational logic, extreme violence in the name of trolled attacks and its need for love and affection. (audience “awww” but later scream in fright as machine gun shots are fired sporadically in the air)

Courtship is a major part of the Homo Socionetworkus quest for survival and like other creatures (except The Easterners) , they are divided into the male and female counterparts. The males are naturally dominant but some tend to exhibit feminine traits such as fishing for compliments, ranting and keeping social network families (commonly referred to as fam). The females are supposed to be more receptive but evolution has turned most of them into pseudo-feminists with well-developed claws and proboscis used to emasculate the males.

The process of courtship is quite complicated. The male spots a female he chooses to perform designated sexual acts with such as kissing, fondling, paying for lunch etc. These acts have recently been referred to as Setting P. (Writer’s Note: I did not particularly feel great writing this fact down. I have fallen short of the glory of God) The females do their best to attract male suitors by uploading nudies or slightly exposed suggestive body parts for them to feast their eyes on. The males usually go for the ones with bigger prospects, leaving the smaller ones to serve as butlers or in their lingo, A-cuppers. Once the males spot their future partners, they will proceed with the next form of courtship I will now describe in as little graphic detail as possible.

The males are divided into two: The Alpha Male and the Beta Male. The Alpha male usually stays ahead of the game with his cocky attitude and photoshopped penis image he will send out to prospective partners. He exhibits other attributes such as good looks, a certain attention paid to followership and best of all, his mutated slick tongue. The Beta male, on the other hand, is timid and sometimes ends up with the A-cuppers when they perceive threats from the Alpha male. They are short-legged, kind-hearted and well-developed lips used to kiss the buttocks of the females whenever they desire attention and care. The ratio of Alpha Males to Beta Males is relatively low as mathematically-proven by 1:5000.

The female will spot the male’s advances and hurry across a valley with her webbed feet and then wait for the male to come across. This is by far the hardest feat to be accomplished by the male. The male will try every trick in the book to escape this deadly valley known as the Friendzone. The Friendzone is usually filled with the bones of several Beta males, careers of failed actors, musicians and bloggers and a few A-cuppers serving drinks to wounded friendzoned males. The surest way to escape this pit of social doom is unknown but after a careful study, it showed that 69% of the males who escape the friendzone are usually rich assholes with flashy cars ready to let their ego get the female dripping wet. The females usually respond to this by putting their faces in pillows and buttocks raised for the males to inspect. (Writer’s Note: LOL!). The successful males will now proceed to either pursue a relationship agreement or seek out other females, leaving that one rejected, unfulfilled and craving other female companionship.

The objects of communication used by the Homo Socionetworkus include PC’s, smart phones such as BlackBerry, iPhone and an Android. Nokia and Techno phones are not considered smart phones and might create an unstable environment known as 2gotopia among mating partners. Other animal-like behaviours such as tweeting, retweeting, likes, comments and invites to private chat platforms can also be noticed among the Homo Socionetworkus. Any form of physical confrontation might induced anti-social skills especially among the females unless the male is a Wizkidus Azontus (The biological name for any famous male entertainer with no actual intellectual content).

The Homo Socionetworkus multiplies daily and has no plans of going extinct. It is here to stay. We are all doomed.


I have been away for awhile. This has nothing to do with my irresponsible semi-hedonistic lifestyle I picked up from a friend who got married to the Love of his wretched life and found out she was pregnant for some guy who promised her American citizenship. This also has nothing to do with my inability to make spot-on decisions even in my most relaxed of mindsets. I have been away because I hate blogging. I like to call what I have here a website for potentially-underrated writers. The word blog kills me inside. This must how women feel when they find out the pregnancy test was positive and Junior might have to change schools from the well-structured and environment-friendly educational institution to the government-approved facility with free basic education for the less privileged (and by less-privileged, I’m talking about those who have never read Green Eggs and Ham). It’s not like Junior will become emotionally withdrawn and refuse to make friends in his new school or one of his classmates (a female) will be intrigued to do Mummy & Daddy with a kid who knew all the Power Rangers’ names by heart. No. Junior will become a great scholar and will impress his parents so much that he will lose interest and develop lothario-like tendencies and get expelled from the boarding school for getting a blowjob from the House Master’s daughter.

I’m a horrible writer. I never stick to one story line. My mind is the Madagascar of my regrettably African being. Sometimes I’m mad at myself for being African. Other times I’m mad at Yoruba girls for having black asses and stretch marks at the same time. It makes being white the only right thing to do. I’m sad Michael Jackson had to go the way he did. I really needed tips from him. There are days I wonder how he did it; watching black performers wind up with drinking problems and taking the challenge on himself to become a better performer, where the synonym for better in this case is CaucasianCaucasian. I bet those anthropologists didn’t think it through when they were describing the White man with the word cock in it. Now thinking about it, that sounds wrong. So does telling a girl you just met you’re in love with her.

I hate bloggers. I am not a blogger. I live to die and when I don’t die, I live some more. Bloggers live to get people to want to commit suicide. I have a lot of respect for the visually-impaired people, also known as unemployed males of Northern Nigerian descent. They seem so satisfied with holding little boys by the arms and begging for alms. I respect them because unlike bloggers, they don’t have to see the bullshit around to get money. I can’t imagine being blind. I love the sight of beautiful women walking down the sunset strip. Not like I’ve ever seen anything like that. But beautiful women rushing home to avoid men after mid-week church service in the hot dry evening of April comes close enough.

Women aren’t objects of affection. But they sure love to be toyed with. I also love to be toyed with. Does this make me a woman? Am I getting in touch with my feminine side? I think of this every time I stand close to a well-dressed woman. She looks divine. She smells heavenly. She makes me want to become born-again again. Then her lips ruin everything. Now I want to do ungodly things to her. Listen to females when they talk. Their words are like jazz musical numbers. Exactly. No words. Just a sound that pleasantly tickles your ears and messes with your head. And your head.

I have decided to keep writing vanity cards whether I like it or not. There are so many things I don’t like that I have to do. Perfect example is breathing. I don’t like breathing. I don’t feel unique while breathing. It’s worse because I’m breathing the same air as idiots (except those in war-prone areas. My heart goes out to you all. Not my lungs). I will keep my vanity cards as far away as possible from my private life. Thank you for wasting precious time reading this shitty piece of writing. I’m not impressed.