WEDDING BELLS

There were rows upon rows of empty seats. It was like someone had spread a rumour that Area Boys from Mushin were being expected. If that was the case, a few adventurous humans dotted the auditorium, like reporters hell bent on reporting events in Homs, Syria, despite the foolhardiness of the idea. However, they were suspiciously gorgeously dressed, somewhat ruling out the foolhardy reporter option. I stepped back – momentarily dazed by the emptiness of the hall – and even further back till artificial air was replaced by its more natural, dusty counterpart. Er, wait, I only simply stepped out of the auditorium.  Was it the wrong place? It was an alien area of sorts; something could have gone wrong. Perhaps it was simply the affliction called “African Time”. Perhaps.

THE GREATEST DILEMMA EVER

I got inspired by God-knows-what to embark on a quest for the greatest dilemma ever. The problem with this quest is that Google can do only so much; it requires meticulous research, sorting, and weighing on the Baadger-Satchel Scale of Dilemmic Importance. Very tough job, but don’t take my word for it. I’ll spare you the boring gist and just give you the results of my 2-year long research.

Despite years and years of drilling, we still sometimes freeze up, if only momentarily, at crunch time. This was what happened to Neil Armstrong in 1969. As he stood in the opened hatch of the lunar capsule, he was caught in two minds. Those scientists have probably never stepped out of their laboratories or research stations; what if they were wrong? What if I disintegrate or sink immediately I step onto the moon? What if I do the jumping walk and float into space, never to see my Earth again? But then again, can I pass

PLAYING SUWE WITH THE LAW

DISCLAIMER: This story is set in Jupiter. You know that means it doesn’t bear any semblance to anyone who lives, or has died on Planet Earth, and as no human has visited Jupiter yet, it can’t bear any semblance to whoever died on Jupiter either.

The Anatomy of A Plot, as written by Abdullateef Abiodun in the National Reflective Surface of May 11, 2023. AbdulLateef interviewed some of the persons involved in this event which occurred eleven years ago and has pieced together this story from their testimony.

“Scene Five, Take One and acksun!”

“Ko ni da fun e. Waa ya were gbeyin ni. Oloriburuku somebody. E maa wo…”

“Cut, cut, cut!”

Baba Suwe had been on the set of “Area Fada”, a new “movie” set to be released the next day. The theme of the movie seemed to be Baba Suwe cursing his way through every situation that came his way till the end. Of course, Baba Suwe was writer, director and producer. He would have been the boom boy, but for the absence of a boom. He had to cut the scene short because Murphy Ray, who was behind the camera, had just flashed his phone in his direction. On the screen, Baba Isale was calling, and Baba Isale took nothing for an excuse for a missed call, not even shooting a movie.

LOVE AND OTHER PSYCHOACTIVE SUBSTANCES: THE END.

This concludes the "love and blah blah blah" series. If you've missed the initial two installments, check CLICK ME! for series one and CLICK ME! CLICK ME! for series two. That should take care of everyone, us "Kardashian-speakers" included.

8. I LOVE IRONY

Oh yes, it really does.

I love picking out irony. I had great joy figuring out that Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was being ironical (unknowingly of course) when she gave that Single Story talk on TED. She believes the West have a certain tailor-made keyhole into which they fit the African key. There cannot be any other door; no other key. And thanks to this model, Chimamanda fulfils the role of the perpetually overly emotive female African writer, whose pitiful characters the white man and woman will readily relate to, because after all, isn't this the single story of female (especially) African writers?

The reader was not required […] to admit that a book by a Negro author might challenge not just the conscience but the intellect.

                                             -  Stephen L. Carter (Palace Council)

I AM NIYI, AND I'M A TERRORIST

KAYODE'S OPENING: The piece that follows was written by Niyi Ademoroti. Some are sure he's the babe in our homosexual relationship. I'll obviously be the dude. I like to dish it, hehehe. He is @Toybaba on Twitter. You might wanna exercise caution about following him because apparently, hitting his "follow button" might take you to the fantastic country of Narnia. Fantastic as in fantasy. I mean, who cares about terrorists that don't bag 72 hymens after they're done?

This is my second piece after my brief hiatus and you'll find out that I still suck. The title of this has absolutely nothing to do with the piece itself and I am not sorry for disappointing or misleading you, infact that was my intention. I must stress at this point that if you ɑre not witty, you will not find this funny so kindly fuck off right now, FLEE! If you indeed ɑre witty you also will not find it funny because it is not meant to be, I lost my sense of humor to a male prostitute who raped me. -__-Have you ever dreamt of the futuree, I mean not