AUTHOR'S CAUTION: Any likeness to any Homo sapiens or objects, real or imagined, must have only been imagined by you. This story alludes to no such things. Well, if you think it does, there's always the trusty shrink, It is also worthy of note that this was written in 2009, when a certain somebody was bedridden in Saudi Arabia. Thank you.
In climes distant from our shores, where heads were not permitted to be unadorned by pieces of fabric, there lay a president, prostrate, perforated by needles and blades, attached to a dozen different blinking machines, and hanging on for dear life. Did I mention that he was black?
Not today though, the president was strangely bubbly and full of life...well, not like normal healthy people, but in the circumstances, quite remarkable. He had requested that a television be brought into his room and tuned to AIT. “Why not NTA sir?”, his ADC had enquired, and the president had this to say to him: Stop sucking uf, we are not in Abuja
anymore, and everyone knows za NTA is rubbish anyway.
So, AIT it was and as the 17th hour of the day drew near, the president could barely contain himself. Quite literally too as he had shit his pants 4 times already. The Arabs wouldn’t touch the dung, and so Mr ADC had to do the honours. “This shit is messed up”, he grumbled beneath his breath.
And as the bells chimed to signal 5.00pm Nigerian time, 7.30pm local time, he asked to be propped up as the football team of his home country filed out of the tunnel to confront Mozambique in a match that could turn out to be just academic, or at the very worst, elimination.
The referee signalled for commencement of hostilities and no sooner had the team in green started in their normal fashion – playing crap football and being unable to pass to save their lives. The Mozambicans began to grow in confidence and were making all sort of daring moves, leading to chances. The president was strangely jubilant though, and was squirming in excitement.
“Fray Umar”, referring to his ADC, “zese Eagles are flaying better zan za last time I saw zem. Zey are za ones in red, ba?”
Astonished, the ADC quickly reminds him that his country normally played in green, or white, and had not worn red in a frightfully long time.
“Oh”, replied the president, “it is all zese diseases and syndromes. In fact, ze doctors have told me zat I might have slight issues wiz my brain. Maybe zat is why I porgot. However, it is your job remind me, ko?”
Not long after that, a long range shot from Mozambique’s left back hits the post and... “Kai shege dan boro uba! What is wrong wiz zese boys?”... and an almighty fart emits from within his bed, closely followed by more black dung. “Umar, clean zis flace uf, past!” Ah, today wasn’t going quite well for Umar, who was thinking about that little Pakistani piece of ass from the previous night... How quickly things change.
The match goes on and like a bolt out of blues, Osaze strikes, the ball swerves this way and that before finally beating the keeper at his near post. The president makes to jubilate and instantly falls back in a heap. Umar furiously remonstrates with him and asks him if he wants to kill himself.
“It’s not a bad idea, Umar. I zink I should blow myself uf zough, like zat Mutallab boy. Only I will be successful and have 72 virgins waiting por me. Kai! I go enjoy wiz my koko...ah, I love D’banj. Flay me some D’banj, Umar.”
Umar walks over to the CD player and inserts a D’banj disc.
††...Na dem know the kind of life I’m living...††
The referee brings the first half of hostilities to a close with a blast of the whistle with the president’s country barely hanging on. The president begin to offer his halftime analysis to his solitary audience, but not before a nurse walks in to violate his body with more needles.
“Umar, you know I enjoyed zat German hosfital a lot. All zose nurses, wiz zeir short gowns, haba! One even gave me a, a, a, wetin she call am sep? Er...
“BJ?”, offered Umar hopefully.
“Haha, BJ. Ip only Turai could do zat sometimes...”
The president abruptly shifts his thoughts back to the match. “You cannot flay a lone striker, esfecially zis one zat looks like my pirst cow, and not get enough suffort when za ball goes into him.” With Umar’s mouth still gaping, the president goes on,
“Zat Amodu is an idiot walahi. He should tell zat boy with wild hair, er...
“Mikel”, Umar’s helping hand...
“He should tell Mikel to fush uf, and tell zose wingers to squeeze tighter to opper more oftions.”
More disbelief from Umar.
The players come back onto the pitch and the second half begins in earnest. The boys in green have upped the tempo, and they are playing unusually well. Soon enough, a breakaway sees ‘the cow’ cut in from the left and lay a beautifully weighted square in Osaze’s path to score the second goal. The president craps himself in excitement.
“Holy Craf”, offered the president, before he caught himself. “I must be watching MBC2 and zeir foreign movies too much...Umar! Clean uf, past!”
The second goal seems to settle the boys in green and they are pinging passes up and down, left and right, and all over the pitch. The president, after having his hands under his chin for some time, turns towards Umar and asks,
“Umar, how much money were zese boys fromised to win zis match?”
“Five million dollars, with $1000 for every shot on target”, Umar replied.
The president’s face dissolves into furious rage, although you can’t exactly tell as he already looks like furious rage anyway.
“What? Pife million? I knew zese boys couldn’t be flaying well por nozing. But Pife million? Is zat what Lulu does wiz my money now? I’ll make sure I take zat beautiful daughter of his as wipe, or give her to my brozer, Tandja, Niger’s fresident, or zat mad man in Guinea. I hear he was shot in za head and is now in hosfital, just like me. I don’t want to get shot in za head. Umar, remind me to tell that fot-bellied direct descendant of afes when I get back home.”
"Do you mean OBJ sir?"
Just then, French PM, Nicholas Sarkozy, enters the hospital room and like any Frenchman worth his onions he gutturally declares:
“Ah Musa, you are vatching ze football. I take it zat you are getting better, no?”
“Nicholas, I hape to try sometimes. By za way, what are you doing hia?”
“I came to see ze king about ze oil and he told me you vere here.”
“Zank you my friend, and how is zat model wipe op yours?”
The French PM looks around incredulously before he finally got it,
“you mean vife, don’t you Musa? Vell, ze gal is an animal. She von’t let me rest for a minute. It is sex all ze fucking time. I fear I might soon become like Les Bleus - ineffective.”
The president laughs so much he crapped himself again, at which Sarkozy got up and promptly declared, “Merde”, excused himself and hurried off with promises to call the president later on. Umar, who had been silent all this while, burst out in fits of uncontrolled laughter till the president glared malevolently at him, his cue to stop.
“Umar! You know what to do! Clean uf za flace, puckpace!”
Just then, with attention switching back to the match being played out on TV, the 4th official strutted up, stuck up his board, and signalled a substitution. 24-year-old Sani Kaita was to come on for Dickson Etuhu, who had done a yeoman’s job in midfield. The president had been lying back but sprang upright all of a sudden.
“Isn’t that Sani?”, he enquired of Umar.
“Yes it is”, was Umar’s reply.
“Walahi talahi, Sani was in Porm 1, when I was in Porm 5. Admittedly, I was a bit old zen but Sani... How old does he call himself, ehn, Umar?”
“24, sir.”
“Jesus Chri... no, Mohammed in Al Janaa!”, exclaimed the president before he briefly passed out.
He awoke to the sight of huddling doctors and nurses, who had merely poured cold water on him to revive him, never mind modern technology.
Furore over, the president turned back to the TV to see that his country were 3-nil up just as the long blast of the referee’s whistle brought the encounter to a close. The president, obviously elated, gestured for Umar and told him,
 |
| time time |
In climes distant from our shores, where heads were not permitted to be unadorned by pieces of fabric, there lay a president, prostrate, perforated by needles and blades, attached to a dozen different blinking machines, and hanging on for dear life. Did I mention that he was black?
Not today though, the president was strangely bubbly and full of life...well, not like normal healthy people, but in the circumstances, quite remarkable. He had requested that a television be brought into his room and tuned to AIT. “Why not NTA sir?”, his ADC had enquired, and the president had this to say to him: Stop sucking uf, we are not in Abuja
anymore, and everyone knows za NTA is rubbish anyway.
So, AIT it was and as the 17th hour of the day drew near, the president could barely contain himself. Quite literally too as he had shit his pants 4 times already. The Arabs wouldn’t touch the dung, and so Mr ADC had to do the honours. “This shit is messed up”, he grumbled beneath his breath.
And as the bells chimed to signal 5.00pm Nigerian time, 7.30pm local time, he asked to be propped up as the football team of his home country filed out of the tunnel to confront Mozambique in a match that could turn out to be just academic, or at the very worst, elimination.
The referee signalled for commencement of hostilities and no sooner had the team in green started in their normal fashion – playing crap football and being unable to pass to save their lives. The Mozambicans began to grow in confidence and were making all sort of daring moves, leading to chances. The president was strangely jubilant though, and was squirming in excitement.
“Fray Umar”, referring to his ADC, “zese Eagles are flaying better zan za last time I saw zem. Zey are za ones in red, ba?”
Astonished, the ADC quickly reminds him that his country normally played in green, or white, and had not worn red in a frightfully long time.
“Oh”, replied the president, “it is all zese diseases and syndromes. In fact, ze doctors have told me zat I might have slight issues wiz my brain. Maybe zat is why I porgot. However, it is your job remind me, ko?”
Not long after that, a long range shot from Mozambique’s left back hits the post and... “Kai shege dan boro uba! What is wrong wiz zese boys?”... and an almighty fart emits from within his bed, closely followed by more black dung. “Umar, clean zis flace uf, past!” Ah, today wasn’t going quite well for Umar, who was thinking about that little Pakistani piece of ass from the previous night... How quickly things change.
The match goes on and like a bolt out of blues, Osaze strikes, the ball swerves this way and that before finally beating the keeper at his near post. The president makes to jubilate and instantly falls back in a heap. Umar furiously remonstrates with him and asks him if he wants to kill himself.
“It’s not a bad idea, Umar. I zink I should blow myself uf zough, like zat Mutallab boy. Only I will be successful and have 72 virgins waiting por me. Kai! I go enjoy wiz my koko...ah, I love D’banj. Flay me some D’banj, Umar.”
Umar walks over to the CD player and inserts a D’banj disc.
††...Na dem know the kind of life I’m living...††
The referee brings the first half of hostilities to a close with a blast of the whistle with the president’s country barely hanging on. The president begin to offer his halftime analysis to his solitary audience, but not before a nurse walks in to violate his body with more needles.
“Umar, you know I enjoyed zat German hosfital a lot. All zose nurses, wiz zeir short gowns, haba! One even gave me a, a, a, wetin she call am sep? Er...
“BJ?”, offered Umar hopefully.
“Haha, BJ. Ip only Turai could do zat sometimes...”
The president abruptly shifts his thoughts back to the match. “You cannot flay a lone striker, esfecially zis one zat looks like my pirst cow, and not get enough suffort when za ball goes into him.” With Umar’s mouth still gaping, the president goes on,
 |
| Wild hair boy |
“Zat Amodu is an idiot walahi. He should tell zat boy with wild hair, er...
“Mikel”, Umar’s helping hand...
“He should tell Mikel to fush uf, and tell zose wingers to squeeze tighter to opper more oftions.”
More disbelief from Umar.
The players come back onto the pitch and the second half begins in earnest. The boys in green have upped the tempo, and they are playing unusually well. Soon enough, a breakaway sees ‘the cow’ cut in from the left and lay a beautifully weighted square in Osaze’s path to score the second goal. The president craps himself in excitement.
“Holy Craf”, offered the president, before he caught himself. “I must be watching MBC2 and zeir foreign movies too much...Umar! Clean uf, past!”
The second goal seems to settle the boys in green and they are pinging passes up and down, left and right, and all over the pitch. The president, after having his hands under his chin for some time, turns towards Umar and asks,
“Umar, how much money were zese boys fromised to win zis match?”
“Five million dollars, with $1000 for every shot on target”, Umar replied.
The president’s face dissolves into furious rage, although you can’t exactly tell as he already looks like furious rage anyway.
“What? Pife million? I knew zese boys couldn’t be flaying well por nozing. But Pife million? Is zat what Lulu does wiz my money now? I’ll make sure I take zat beautiful daughter of his as wipe, or give her to my brozer, Tandja, Niger’s fresident, or zat mad man in Guinea. I hear he was shot in za head and is now in hosfital, just like me. I don’t want to get shot in za head. Umar, remind me to tell that fot-bellied direct descendant of afes when I get back home.”
"Do you mean OBJ sir?"
Just then, French PM, Nicholas Sarkozy, enters the hospital room and like any Frenchman worth his onions he gutturally declares:
“Ah Musa, you are vatching ze football. I take it zat you are getting better, no?”
“Nicholas, I hape to try sometimes. By za way, what are you doing hia?”
“I came to see ze king about ze oil and he told me you vere here.”
“Zank you my friend, and how is zat model wipe op yours?”
The French PM looks around incredulously before he finally got it,
“you mean vife, don’t you Musa? Vell, ze gal is an animal. She von’t let me rest for a minute. It is sex all ze fucking time. I fear I might soon become like Les Bleus - ineffective.”
The president laughs so much he crapped himself again, at which Sarkozy got up and promptly declared, “Merde”, excused himself and hurried off with promises to call the president later on. Umar, who had been silent all this while, burst out in fits of uncontrolled laughter till the president glared malevolently at him, his cue to stop.
“Umar! You know what to do! Clean uf za flace, puckpace!”
Just then, with attention switching back to the match being played out on TV, the 4th official strutted up, stuck up his board, and signalled a substitution. 24-year-old Sani Kaita was to come on for Dickson Etuhu, who had done a yeoman’s job in midfield. The president had been lying back but sprang upright all of a sudden.
“Isn’t that Sani?”, he enquired of Umar.
“Yes it is”, was Umar’s reply.
“Walahi talahi, Sani was in Porm 1, when I was in Porm 5. Admittedly, I was a bit old zen but Sani... How old does he call himself, ehn, Umar?”
“24, sir.”
“Jesus Chri... no, Mohammed in Al Janaa!”, exclaimed the president before he briefly passed out.
He awoke to the sight of huddling doctors and nurses, who had merely poured cold water on him to revive him, never mind modern technology.
Furore over, the president turned back to the TV to see that his country were 3-nil up just as the long blast of the referee’s whistle brought the encounter to a close. The president, obviously elated, gestured for Umar and told him,
“I want to ginja my swagger tonight, fut zat Terry G cd in za CD flayer, make I sangualo walahi!”
this is an interesting piece.
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