Stolen … Chickens are sweet

“I used to steal chickens,” she blurted as we walked down the beach.

I knew it! I knew she was in her ‘confession’ mode the way she’d gone all intense when she took her first drag.

“Congratulations,” I drawled laconically, “I’m glad you’ve moved on to stealing bigger and better things.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love Tosin. She’s my closest friend, a non-judgmental spirit, whose company soothes me because she knows when to talk and when to shut the hell up.

But, like the rest of us, she has her flaws, and the most irritating one is her compulsion to confess stuff. There’s nothing I detest as much as people confessing stuff to me. I mean, do I look like a reverend father? Kindly keep your confessions to yourself man, I don’t want to know the shit you’ve been up to. I’ve been up to a lot of crap myself, but do you see me going around looking for someone to unburden myself on? Why should I make myself feel better and leave you feeling as if it was your fault I did what I’ve done? What’s the point in that?

“I’m serious here Tobi, when I was at that Polytechnic up North, I used to steal the chickens in my neighbourhood.” She looked at me earnestly, as if telling me this would transfer a million naira into my account or change the pump price of petrol.

“Okay, you used to steal chicken.” I said.

“Don’t you believe me? Don’t I look like a chicken stealer?” She asked as a big wave came whooshing out of the sea and hit the sands beneath our feet with a boom.

I stopped and stared at the breathtaking sight in front of me. The full moon shone down on the sea, which was the colour of black coffee. The water looked darkly inviting, silky, smooth, like Irish Cream sliding down your throat. I knew if I touched the sea, it would be thick between my fingers, sensuous. I can hold it, I can hold water, I want to bunch it up in my fist and allow the smoothness to run through my fingers.

I also knew it was the Mary J in-between my thumb and forefinger thinking.

“I used to be the best chicken stealer in my school in those days. I mean, students from other neighborhoods would invite me over to their place to steal chickens for them. I was that good.” Tosin broke into my thoughts.

I looked down at her in surprise, for a moment there I’d forgotten she was walking beside me. That’s the thing about her. She has that ability to melt into you, making you feel like you’re two parts of a whole. She has this knack for sharing your experiences with you. She's Ogbanje.

"You need to be real quiet when you are about to steal a chicken, " she said as she took two quick puffs and tossed the butt towards the sea, "you need that element of surprise when you grab it's neck, so that it doesn't start squawking.”

The moon made her yellow skin almost white. She had escaped being an albino by the skin of her teeth.

“Are we still on this chicken thing?” I asked.

She nodded.

“You should stop smoking weed girl, it does not agree with you.” I said.

“Listen, I’m serious. I mean I spent a lot of time in heaven knows how many universities and polytechnics across Nigeria, I might not have obtained one single certificate from any of them, but I was really good at stealing chicken.” She said earnestly.

I love her crazy eyes. One moment you’d think she was looking at someone over your shoulders, the next her eyes would tangle with yours.

She has ogbanje eyes.

I smiled.

“Well, thank heavens you acquired one skill. I’m sure your parents are proud.” I continued walking, trying to lessen my long strides to accommodate her shorter ones.

Tosin is delusional about her height. Everybody in the world except her knows that she barely tops 5feet, but she thinks she’s a giant.

Tosin is delusional about a lot of things.

She’s delusional about my feelings for her.

"I love you, but not like that." She would say in that deep voice of hers which is so at odds with her feminine curves.

How do you tell someone you’ve known practically all your life that you are in love with her, her mind, her craziness? How do you tell someone who does not see herself as beautiful that she’s the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever known? That you love her droopy tits, her round stomach and even rounder behind? How do you tell someone who treats you like part of the furniture when she’s taking off her clothes that she’s the most sensuous being you’ve ever known, that every girl you’ve dated paled beside her?

She'd be sleeping beside me and it would take a lot of self control for me not to curl around her.

I allowed my bare feet to sink into the sand, gritty and smooth, both at the same time. The sand and Tosin. Gritty and smooth.

“So there was this day I stole my next door neighbour’s chicken.” She said as I took a final drag and allowed the bit of rizzler in my hand to float to the ground.

“We are still on this chicken issue,”I said flatly.

She ignored my tone and continued urgently, “and then she started looking for it. As she searched for the chicken, I felt really guilty, I mean this woman is poor. She has a drunk for a husband and about six children all under the age of seven. She sells sweets, cigarettes and other little things by the roadside and barely made enough to feed herself, talk less of her family, and I had just eaten the wings of her only chicken. The guilt was so intense.”

I looked at her and smiled.

“So did you confess that you stole her chicken?” I finally asked as another wave hit the sand, pushing foamy water our way.

“I did, but she didn’t believe me.” She said sadly, “when she knocked at my door and asked her if I’d seen her chicken, I told her it was inside my pot, she only laughed and said I should please keep an eye out for it, she planned to serve it to her in-laws when they come visiting the next day. I felt really bad. Why is it that nobody ever takes me seriously?”

“Wouldn’t you feel like something is wrong if someone suddenly starts taking you seriously?” I asked her. She looked at back at me, eyes skewed.

“Let’s head back.” I said as I held out my hand to her.

She placed hers inside it. I looked at her slim, elegant fingers and kissed each one tenderly.

She laughed.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She asked.

“I’m going to take you to my place and kiss every inch of your body.” I answered.

The Joy of Reading

Tomorrow being the Friday the15th of November, I shall be hosting a program tagged "The Joy of Reading" during the Lagos Books and Arts Fair. From 3.30 till 5:30 a number of young, vibrant writers will  be celebrating the sheer joy of reading with me by reading excerpts of their favorite stories. Its going to be totally brilliant.

Below is a banquet of brilliance that will be set before you:

Tolu Talabi is an alumni of the Farafina Trust Creative Writing Workshop
Has been published in Kalahari Review, 5x5 lit mag and is the fiction columnist for The Guardian's Sunday Magazine.

Adeola Opeyemi is a visual artist, a bibliophile and a writer. Her works have been published online and in print.

Poet and lyricist, Servio Gbadamosi works with young emerging writers across the country by creating multiple platforms to provide more visibility for their works and facilitates knowledge exchange between them and established culture-practitioners.

Pearl Osibu is a Nigerian writer from Cross River State. She is a Fashion designer and a writer/blogger. Her works have appeared on several publications, among which are Jetlife Magazine, Sentinel Nigeria E-zine, CharlesNoviaDaily, and on her blog (fifty shades of Me), which has been described as "fearless, brilliant and lunatic."

Others are Iweka Kingsley, who will be reading from his short story collection, Dappled Things, Kenetchi Uzochukwu, Femi Morgan and a host of others.

Honestly, you don't want to miss out on this.

LABAF 2013: BOOKS OF 2013

Like I said in my last post, I shall be hosting four authors during the book readings and panel discussion titled "Book of 2013". We will be looking at 2 books of poetry and two prose. Each book is unique in its own right.

Today I'm posting the profiles of two other panelists, Iquo D. Eke and Tade Ipadeola.

Iquo is a Writer, Performance poet and Actress who renders her words to the accompaniment of folklore, typically embellished with instruments such as drums, flute and /or strings.

She was born in January 1980, in Uyo, Nigeria, and was raised in Lagos.
She studied human resource management in the Lagos State University. Over the years Iquo has worked as a journalist, administrator and scriptwriter.

Her maiden collection of poems; Symphony of Becoming was published in 2013 and was long-listed for the 2013 NLNG prize for Literature.

She believes strongly in a continuous struggle for the betterment of her generation and nation, thus her work explores pain, social consciousness, passion, womanhood and the trials of the griots of this age.

Her past performances include amongst others:
 Macmillan Literary Night
 The Lagos Black Heritage Festival
 PLAY Poetry Festival
 Word Slam
 The Lagos Poetry Festival
 Poetry Potter
 Word and Sound

She has two children and lives in Lagos.

Tade Ipadeola, a Nigerian, was born in 1970. He has published three volumes of poetry – A Time of Signs (2000),The Rain Fardel (2005) and The Sahara Testaments (2012). He has also published short stories and essays. In 2009, he won the Delphic Laurel in poetry with his poem ‘Songbird’ in Jeju, South Korea and the NLNG Prize for Literature 2013.

Tade Ipadeola has also translated an important Yoruba novelist, Daniel Fagunwa, from his native Yoruba into English.

Tade Ipadeola is currently serving as the PEN (Nigeria Centre) President.

Tade lives in Ibadan where he practices law.

Venue: Freedom Park, Broad Street, Lagos
Date/Time: Saturday 16th November, 2013 by 4pm

Books of 2013 at LABAF

One of the panel discussions I'll be hosting is tagged The Books of 2013, on the panel are Tade Ipadeola, Igoni Barrett, Iquo Diana Eke and Sage Hassan. Below are the profiles of two people on the Panel, Igoni Barrett and Sage Hassan. We shall be discussing Igoni's 'Love is power or something like that' and Sage's 'Dream Maker'

A. Igoni Barrett is a winner of the 2005 BBC World Service short story competition, the recipient of a Chinua Achebe Center Fellowship, an Ebedi Writers Residency, and a Norman Mailer Fellowship, among others. His second book, Love Is Power, or Something Like That, was long-listed for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award.

A poet, writer, thinker, teacher and author Sammy Sage Hassan is recognised as Nigeria's premier spoken word poet embracing the genre and bringing it to the attention of the art and music savvy populace in the mid 2000s.

He went ahead to perform hundreds of major non-poetry events like 2 Hip Hop World Award Shows, This Day Music Festival, Arts Alive's Speak The Mind In Jo'burg; he has performed near a hundred brand poems - poetry specifically created for companies and products from UniLever, Coca Cola, MTN, Celtel, NBL, Diageo etc. He has organised workshops and performances for schools and cultural organisations like British Council, Goethe Institut, Lekki British Int'l, Green Springs Int'l and more.

He has recorded and released 2 albums and 3 videos.

As a music executive he has worked with a lot of musicians like MI, Jesse Jagz, Ice Prince, Tosin Martins, Jagunlabi and a rash of upcoming artistes.

Lagos Books and Arts Festival

During this year's Lagos Books and Arts Festival I shall be hosting three events, two for adults and one for children.
The first of the events is titled The Joy of Reading, during which we'll be celebrating the sheer joy of reading.
For this year's joy of reading writers like Pearl Osibu, Tolu Talabi, Olubunmi Familoni, Adeola Opeyemi, Servio Gbadamosi, Kenetchi Uzochukwu and Femi Morgan will be in attendance to read portions of their favorite stories. The two hour event will be taking place on Friday the 15th of November, between 3 and 5pm.
The next event is a conversation amongst four of the most celebrated writers that has emerged this year on the Nigerian art scene. Three of them are poets, but one of the poets just wrote a book of prose(this is going to be so much fun!).
The writers are Igoni Barrett, Iquo Diana Eke, Tade Ipadeola and Sage Hassan. During the course of the week I shall be posting brief bios of the writers and short reviews of their books.
The event is titled Books of 2013 and will be held on Saturday the 16th of November between 4pm and 6pm.
The books will be available during the festival, the audience will have an opportunity to have their books signed and also have an interactive session with the writers.
The last event I'll be hosting is a spelling bee for children and it will be taking place on Sunday the 17th of November.
The Lagos Books and Arts Festival is an annual event that has been on for the past 15years and it is ALWAYS a fun time.
All events will be held at Freedom Park, Broad Street, Lagos Island.
You can follow @Labaf1 on twitter.
The hashtag #Diariesofabookfairslut documents my experiences at book fairs and authors.

When will you marry?

"So when are you getting married?" Chika asked, she was quite serious.

I laughed, I mean here I am in bed with this gorgeous woman, whom I've just finished making wild crazy love to and she's asking me when I'm getting married.

I ignored her question and kissed her deeply, I allowed my hand to wander teasingly to her chest, I felt her nipple tighten, I swallowed her moans. Then I bent my head and caught the nipple I'd been teasing on my tongue.

I sucked greedily on it, alternating between nibbling at it and laving it with my tongue.

She screamed as I quickly inserted my fingers up her wet vulva. I sucked harder, until I felt her come, instead of letting go I allowed my fingers to search for her nub of pleasure, she was panting and begging me to stop, not to stop.

"This is why I am never getting married Chika, I was made to give married women like you pleasure." I whispered into her screaming mouth.

Miraculous Adjectives

Miracle was written by Tope Folarin who was born in Ogden, Utah and grew up in Utah and Texas. He is a graduate of Morehouse College and the University of Oxford, where he earned two Masters degrees as a Rhodes Scholar. He currently works with Google.

The story is an excerpt from a work in progress.

Miracle is a story of hope, of keeping up appearances and saving face. It is the story of the problems faced by Nigerian immigrants in America.

The whole story takes place in a church and is centered on an elderly, blind Nigerian preacher/ miracle worker and a young Nigerian boy who is seeking for a miracle.

Folarin captured the mood of the congregants perfectly, which is a mix of hopefulness and hopelessness. His take of the church and attendants was dry eyed and non-sentimental. Describing the reason why most of the congregants were in that church that day, Folarin used short, crisp sentences, which allows the reader to feel the unexpressed desperation which must have filled the church.

“We have come from all over North Texas to see him ... We own his books, his tapes, his
holy water, his anointing oil. We know that he is an instrument of God’s will, and we have come because we need … jobs. We need good grades. We need green cards. We need American passports…”

Running beneath the story unfolding in the church is the protagonist’s history, the mother who abandoned her family, his uneasy relationship with his Nigerian father who raised him and his brother as Americans.

“We need our parents to understand that we are Americans. We need our children to understand they are Nigerians.”

As well written as this story is, it is not without flaws, first of which is the author's inability to decide whether he’s writing from a First Person point of view or an Omnipresent angle. The protagonist not only uses the first person but was also able to see into the heads of everybody present as he used ‘we’ a lot (maybe it's the royal ‘we’).



“We search our hearts for the seedlings of doubt that reside there. Many of us have to cut through thickets of doubt before we can find our own hearts again.”

There were long descriptions of every occurrence, which would have been taken care of in a few simple sentences. In fact the whole story can be summed up in three paragraphs but for the (as far as I’m concerned) unnecessary use of adjectives.

“Once there, he raises both of his hands then lowers them slightly. He raises his chin and says let us pray.”

I also worried a bit about this sentence “My lids slap open, and I see the same fog as before.” Because it beggars the question, what lids? And if they are eyelids, do they slap?

In a bid to make beautiful sentences Folarin ended up with this gem “The disembodied heads are swelling with unreleased joy.” Which left me open-mouthed with amazement, (you’ll all notice that my writing is improving).

This is a story that was written carefully and with a lot of thought, I found reading the story a bit tedious because of the long descriptions, even the climax fell flat because he had given the game away while describing the boy’s encounter with the old preacher.

But then you stumble on sentences like this once in a while and, for a second, understand why the story is on the shortlist. “His prayer is so insistent, so sincere, that his words emerge from the dark chrysalis of his mouth as bright, fluttering prophesies.”

On the other hand, you wonder when the Caine Prize judges will stop choosing stories that seek to bore you to death and reinforce the image of blacks as an overly religious, miserable lot.

Once under a Kuka tree

Elnathan John is a Nigerian writer, lawyer gender equality advocate. He lives in Abuja, Nigeria and is an avid blogger.

His shortlisted story Bayan Layi, is about survival on the hard streets of life known as Nigeria. It is told through the point of view of a teenager, Dantala, a street boy who used to be an Almanjiri.

He is rescued from a fight by a young man of indeterminate age named Banda (the Fagin of the story), and turned into a ‘Kuka tree boy’, boys who made their kingdom under a Kuka tree in the village (or is it a small town?) of Bayan Layi. The boys survive by petty larceny, and acting as thugs for politicians.

They also had a regular supply of weed (which is emphasized throughout the story, so I thought I should mention it too, since it seems so important).



The story was told in a simple, straightforward language, which made reading it easy. But did I enjoy reading it?
Frankly, I don’t know what to make of this story, maybe because I am familiar with the author’s writing style and expected something ... more?

The story comes across as stilted and rather unimaginative. It has been told, over and again, in a thousand different forms, with different characters, in different settings, but it is still the same old story, of young boys living rough on the streets, of brutality and poverty.

The most unbelievable part of the story is when Dantala and Gobedanisa stole sweet potatoes from somebody’s farm, the farmer had caught them at it and in the process of chasing the boys, he had fallen into an antelope trap (laid conveniently in the middle of a potato farm). The boys had watched with disinterest as the man struggled till he died. It wasn’t that they abandoned him, they watched. After the farmer stopped struggling, Dantala had reiterated his usual saying ‘It is Allah’s will everything that happens’ also known as ‘c’est la vie’ or if you’ll pardon my French ‘shit happens’.

You can see the end right from the beginning, and one has the impression that the author was telling himself all the while writing the story ‘please, not a hair out of place’.

Like I said last year about one of the stories shortlisted for the prize, it is as if the author has a tome titled ‘How to write for the Caine Prize’ open beside him while he was writing the story.

It has every quality the Caine Prize judges appear to seek for in stories written about Africa, young children who are hungry and homeless, politics, violence and death.

I also noticed that every word that is not English is italicised, another literary tool employed to emphasize the ‘otherness’ of the story, in case you missed it. There was also the ever present fruit tree and the stealing of food by characters to appease the god of hunger.

If it wasn’t on the Caine Prize shortlist, would I have bothered to read this story to the end? I seriously doubt it, but as they say ‘he who pays the piper, dictates the tune’. As long as the West provides the affirmation that African writers need to boost their careers, that is how long it will take us to be brave enough to write our own stories.

Maybe I would have liked the story better if the characters weren’t such caricatures and so predictable, maybe I would have liked it better if it was an honest story about Almanjiri’s, maybe I should simply go and find that tome and write my own Caine Prize story.

Handbook for Successful “Runs” Girls by Yewande Omotoso and Ayodele Olofintuade

We all know how hard women have it, right? Anyone who thinks that’s still up for debate should be…can’t really engage in inflammatory material on this blog but use your imagination as to what I think should be done to such a person – not nice stuff. Anyway, so things are hard. Women are second class citizens, either overtly in states where…or covertly.



One of the ways women are subjugated is we seldom (arguably never) get any thanks for all our hard (behind and in-front the scene) work. For instance how hard do you think it is to look this good, remain this smooth for that long, always have a smile for the runt on the side of the road who thinks all you need to make your day perfect is to hear that sucking-of-lips sound – “OMG he wants me! OMG, he see me!” Oh and those trainee mechanic in that just perfectly oiled and dirt-stained overall that makes him ALL MAN and make my thighs shiver. Their catcalls return purpose to my otherwise aimless life as a woman.

Okay so we’re agreed right? It’s tough. We gotta look good for the guys on the side of the road as we zoom past on the back of the okada BUT, ladies, we also got to get paid. Here’s a guide for that:

1) Let’s get one thing clear – who you are on the inside doesn’t matter. No man worth his sweat is going to reward you for anything he can’t see or touch.

2) This guide has everything to do with how you look. But work with what you got. If you happen to be slender, then despite the ten kids you pushed out in between licking the dirt lodged in the nook of your husband’s toes (see ‘Handbook On How To Please Your Lover’ coming to a blog near you) you are not permitted to gain even an inch of fat, especially not along the area of your gut, and your teats need to stay taut (by any means necessary) – nothing is more gross for a man than being reminded that your breasts were not always simply at his disposal.

3) If you are blessed with some flesh on your body – lucky, lucky you! Don’t our African men go for that? Yes that homogenous glob of man, the African man, he wants something he can hold onto, like the reigns of a horse (any analogy along these lines should give you an idea of what I mean). For you, fat one, eat! Eat as much as you can and leave exercise for people who are interested in lame things like being healthy, having a good self-image and being able to walk for long unbroken distances. That’s inside-stuff and a man isn’t going to pay for such.

4) The use of make-up is not debateable, as in you must wear that thing o. And I’m not talking cheap, cheap stuff. Do not make the unrecoverable error of buying products with names like ‘My Love’ nail varnish, ‘Come To Me Baby’ face powder and ‘Hot Stuff’ lipstick. Such products only end up making you look like you have no idea what you’re doing, like you’re in the kindergarten club of beauty, you’re ignorant and tacky – not worth paying for.

5) We’re not excluding our Muslim sisters. Hijabs can be the sexiest, most alluring part of your attire but your secret is the colour. Black is out. Pink is the new black. And don’t stop there, buy a matching pink bag, if it has hanging ribbons and beads, all the better. And there’s no need to feel left out when the rest of us are getting our acrylic nails put in, laali is good but you must pay proper money for it and get it done by the real Fulani women not the wanna-be-Fulani girls.

6) Now, let’s address the hot topic of hair. If you’re a black woman, in all likelihood you were born with some scruff of hair commonly referred to as kinky. Even the word kinky is too cute a term to describe the horror of “natural hair”. The best thing to do is to cover that shit up and hope people forget what it really looks like. Real Brazilian hair weave all the way, and when you walk past those misguided women with dreadlocks you’re permitted to lift your nose slightly and feel a well-deserved surge of superiority.

7) Never go on foot anywhere. Make sure you are regularly seen at the airport. Learn to air kiss. Make sure you know how to count (maths is totally useless for women except in this instance). When air kissing you usually have three options (note that the air kiss is directed towards the cheek). British – 1 air kiss. French – 1 kiss to each cheek – that’s two. Italian – 1 kiss to each cheek and then 1 more kiss for the first cheek , that’s three. If you’re blessed with a high voice all the better but if you have an unfortunate deep and unladylike tone to your voice practice shrieking at home then make use of your hard work when you go out in public. Extra points for jumping up and down as your shriek and hopefully remember to flap your hands around like you’re imitating a bothered moth.

8) Okay, you should have worked out by now that being a successful runs girl takes some money. This is why we’re giving you this hand book. First things first when it comes to getting paid – do not fall in love. Your aim is to be a permanent side-chick or mistress, never accept the role of girlfriend or wife (best way to avoid those ten kids and the extra fat around your gut that you won’t know what to do with).

9) Men have a very short attention span, you have about a month to get the point across (the point that you’re worth paying for, that his very proximity to you is an upgrade to his status and so on). During that first month of side-chicking never ask to go for lunch at Mr. Biggs or Tantilizers when there are restaurants where you can buy a bottle of water or a can of coke for N5,000! You must always prove you’re not cheap! If it’s a long distance relationship have him fly you in first class. If he ever asked you what you want don’t say bag or shoe. Ask for a car or even better, a piece of land. This has him realise that you’re an expensive lay and somehow, for a man (we’re still working on the handbook for how ((whether)) men think), that translates into him being wealthy. If you are ever unfortunate enough to receive golden jewellery from him throw one of your practiced tantrums and shove it back – no diamonds, no party.

10) As a side-chick you have to be on the look-out for any signs of demotion to girlfriend or potential wife. Once you start receiving N50, 000 instead of the regular N1.5m or N2m or if the guy suggests you take his clothes to the laundry disappear, it’s a dead end gig that awaits you of changing nappies and giving head for free.

11) It is probably worth stating the obvious, retirement for runs girls is pretty early, mid to late forties if you’ve been good at applying Estee Lauder face creams (or any other product that you find hard to pronounce – those are usually the best) but most likely by your early forties you’d be considered too old. If you live long (God’s grace) that still leaves you a good thirty to forty years of alone time and no skills to make money or any internal qualities that will help you win friends or be employable. Abeg, make sure you saved the many payments you would no doubt have received in your years of successful side-chicking, invest it somewhere, stuff it under your pillow, keep some in your bra whatever ... just don’t spend any of it. Haven’t you been listening? Anything need paying for? Get him to do it!

12) Final words – Avoid other women, they can’t be trusted. Watch out. And good luck.

In Defense of World Rapists Day

Going through my TL on twitter today I read that a wonderful man of god, Reverend Ogechi Ofurum, claims that rape is justified because of the way ladies dress ‘indecently’. Sometime last year Katsina’s State Attorney-General, Alhaji Ibrahim Dan-Soho made a case for rapists, in his own words ‘rapes are self-inflicted 90% of the time’. For those of you who do not understand English, this means most rape victims either rape themselves or force somebody to rape them!

I am not here to insult the ‘revered’ gentleman , who should be Christ-like in his approach to life and the people he’s supposed to shepherd or the intelligent Alhaji, who should be a vanguard of hope in our judiciary. Nope! I’m here to defend their reasoning and to advocate for a World Rapists Day, which I believe should coincide with Christmas or any other religious holiday during which love is preached, it would be so apt!

I was raped the first time I had sex. It was an older and trusted person who did me the favour of punishing me for being young and foolish. He is a hero! He cured me of my virginity, showed me that men cannot be trusted and taught me how to defend myself from would be rapists.

After the first time, two more men attempted to rape me, one a very close friend and the other the Pastor of a church I used to attend (thank heavens the guy cured me of all romantic beliefs in the sanctity of the church). Suffice to say that the two men rued the day they met me ... but enough about me.

To all sane men and women who are reading this piece, you who protest that rape is wrong, that it is dehumanizing, that it is a crime, I beg you to stop and move to the other side, let us form an association of ‘Nigerians Earnestly ask for Rapists’. We should hold a ‘One Million Man March for Rape.’ Yes, you read that correctly.

Rape should be legalized. Actually that’s why I love Nigeria, in a nice quiet way it is legal, on paper (as most of our laws are) it is a crime, but if you accidentally enter a police station to report a rape case you will be cured of all desire to ever do such again! You would be treated like a criminal! You would be asked questions meant to embarrass and anger you. You’d be treated like a pariah! You would be spoken to as if you just went in to the police station to confess a murder. God help you if you are vulnerable (eg a woman living alone, a young girl below the age of 18 or someone from a poor home).

By the way, in this great country of ours abortion is also quite illegal (like a lot of important things that would make life easier for women). So most women go to ‘doctors’ who specialize in abortions, men and women who have, in most likelihood, never seen the walls of a medical school before in their lives! These women (the word ‘woman’ is interchangeable with ‘sinner’ by the way) pay for it with their health and in a lot of cases their lives.

Women are nothing more than things in this country, you’re owned, first by your parents or male relatives who have the right to do anything they like with you. The paedophiles amongst them will molest you and the greedier ones will sell you off to the highest bidder given half the chance.

But I digress.

All rapists should be canonized. A lot of people would agree with me that too many women these days dress so indecently (including yours truly) .We go around baring parts of our bodies which should be only seen by the people who own the money on our ‘heads’, the person who has officially bought us by either sliding a ring on our fingers or better still paid the bride price. But no! We prefer to walk around the streets half naked, baring our breasts and arses to anybody who cared to look, we deserve nothing more than rape and nothing less than death sentences. Death to all sexy dressers! Off with their (our?) heads!

Although most rapists would not grab and rape us for being so dressed on the streets, rather they go home with their turgid wieners and rape the nearest girl (ages 3months to 99years). Rapists should be canonized. The fear of a rapist is the beginning of wisdom.

These men who lack self-control keep our society sane! They keep the women in their rightful place (the kitchen) and populate the face of the earth with children from their diseased loins. Yes rapists are heroes! They deserve 16 virgins when they get to heaven, who they can serially rape to their hearts’ content.

Rapists are wonderful, they are everywhere, they live among us. They believe they are god’s gift to women, the best thing since sliced bread. They are Superman, Spiderman and Robocop, all rolled into one great big specimen of manhood.

I know a lot of times in the process of raping a girl they also tend to beat them up, both physically and mentally, but all that does not matter, after all, men beat women up all the time, even women they are not married to.

I raise a toast to all rapists and encourage you all to continue doing the world this huge favour. We shall constitute a special squad for you called the Rapid Response Rape Team (RRRT) within the police ranks (a great opportunity for Policemen who specialize in raping sex workers). Where you will all be allowed to rape women and (if you swing that way) men who have not lived up to the high standards you guys live by.

You will be given the right to abuse anybody that dresses ‘indecently’ ... I wonder what happened to the ‘Act against indecent dressing in public’ passed by the Lagos State government (Eko o ni b’aje o) a few years ago. Such Acts would be resurrected. In fact rape victims should be arrested and thrown in jail (after they’ve been raped of course!).

We, as Nigerians, deserve the country we live in, we deserve the leaders in power presently, we deserve every humiliation these people mete out to us. When we are not giving our money to pastors, (who spend it on living the lives we dream about) with the hope that the Great Lord Above, will double it for us and turn us into overnight millionaires without us having to work too hard. We are out there condemning the very acts we indulge in, if not in reality but in our fantasies (the ‘gay marriage’ issue comes to mind).

We follow people blindly and refuse to question people in authority because we are cowardly and ignorant. We all want to go to heaven but we do not want to die. Ignorance and hypocrisy are the two words we live by. One thing by day, another by night.

We are sanctimonious and holy, we are all children of the Great White God who dwells in Heaven and the Great Black Man who dwells in RCCG on the expressway between Lagos and Ibadan.

We are always right and we can quote the bible passages our pastors quote at us word for word.

We are Nigerians, we Love and Defend rapists, the same way we defend our friends and relatives in government who are blatantly robbing us blind. If we had half the chance we would do EXACTLY the same.

Yes we would rape and plunder. We would steal from the mouth of the poor, employ underage children as maids, rape any girl that takes our fancy, pay our employees poorly or not at all (since there are many desperate people out there looking for jobs). Yes we can!

We are Nigerians. We defend the rights of men to rape. We want a World’s Rapist Day to encourage our men to rape in a more violent way, to rape more often. Rapists are Heroes!

I weep for my country.