UNIVERSITY BLUES: DAY DEAN DANCED

In his veins bubbled fury,

From his face trickled sweat,

Up above a persistent din,

There boomed a furious dean,

"What’s this awful rumpus,

On my part of this campus?"

"You filthy hooligans,

Is this bloody ruction,

That higher education,

Your whorish mama took a loan

To send you here for?

Your asses back to their classes,

Dumbass freakish donkeys!"

Who knew the portly dean,

Babariga dancing in the wind,

Corpulent buttocks jiving

To a macabre drum of feet,

The din chasing at long last,

Could scamper so damn fast?

Written by: The one whose name adorns the fucking masthead.

C'MON, GOD DOESN'T REALLY EXIST

DEAR GOD...

Does God exist? Does He not exist? Is Santa God minus the divine swag? Is He Santa’s bigger, more powerful, better dressed, and more successful twin brother? Is He a collection of ideas on a supreme and divine authority? To answer this question, I went several better than the guy who wrote this famous article (the comments are gold): I shaved my head (my scalp is really ugly), bought a few Mosaic robes (and a pair of sandals that resembles that which Moses had to take off in that burning grass story), left Lagos and went to my hometown. Now, in my town, there’s a hill called the Olosunta. In the dry season, morningly mists hang thick over the land, North-Easterly Harmattan winds blow a chill across the land, untended lips split in half, epidermises left to their own devices gain an ugly whitish hue and Olosunta scrapes the clouds. This was where I went to be near Nature, the driving force behind life. I ate nothing but wild berries and the raw meat of

A SUDDEN MUSHROOM CLOUD

No one knew when and how it crept upon the populace, but as at Ocober 2012, almost everyone that was anyone was referred to with a three-letter shrinking of their actual names. Perhaps it was a reflection of a society more in haste than ever. Perhaps it was a reflection of how social media and its restriction of space for the written word were beginning to constrict the robustness of speech. Perhaps society has never been lazier than it is now. Perhaps names are just too long nowadays. Therefore, the Tottenham Hotspurs coach is simply known as AVB; one-time minister and current religious crackpot as FFK; the Chelsea FC coach as RDM; one-time Nigerian military ruler as GMB and current Nigerian president as GEJ. But all these men are not relevant in the unfolding events. Only one is, and his sobriquet is BRF.

In 2011, BRF, otherwise known as Babatunde Raji Fashola, won a second term as governor of Nigeria’s most important state – Lagos. To a foreigner or one who has only merely heard the word “Lagos” from a distance and never been in it, the election would appear keenly contested as the candidates campaigned. But to Lagos itself, BRF was the undisputed choice, given the turn-around Lagos had undergone in the previous four years. Now, on an October day when Nature was snivelly in most parts of Lagos, BRF sat at the head of a long table, the only long table in the Governor’s Situation Room. This room, except for where Asiwaju was concerned, is where all the decisions that the Lagos State Government make is arrived at. Where Asiwaju is concerned, BRF is simply summoned to Asiwaju Lodge in Ikoyi, one of Asiwaju’s many homes around the world, and after a few hours of sometimes frantic jaw-jawing, Asiwaju’s word became law. Asiwaju was not involved today, and the decision-making had been left entirely to the State Executive Committee. The State Executive Committee consisted of BRF himself, as Governor, Madam Kuforiji Williams, as Deputy Governor, and all the commissioners in charge of ministries in the state. Of those 23, men and women, only six, all seated facing one another in front of the governor, three on each side of the table, were here today. Five Commissioners – the

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

DR REUBEN ABATI, THE ATTACK CUB

Okupe handing Abati roaring lessons

Dr Reuben Abati would have made Nas proud. Nas is the American rapper, just in case you were wondering. ““THEY” in this piece refers to all the cynics, the pestle-wielding critics, the unrelenting, self-appointed activists, the idle and idling, twittering…”

Well, he is done hauling his own rocks at Nigerians exercising their fundamental human rights in demanding better. The coast appears to be clear to haul the stone he says we should hold. Unlike Dr Abati, I’ve spent the last 6 months ignoring the “Jonathan question”. I figured we were all just nattering, and that there were a lot of natterers. One less cynical, twittering natterer would slip by unnoticed. And so it was. But now, I’ve decided to fetch my pestle - the one we don’t have to pound yam with anymore – from the backyard. It’s moldy but it’ll do the job of pounding humans well enough. I do not have a lot of pounding to do, as the “facts” Dr Abati presents or neglects to present in his missive can hardly bear scant empirical examination, not to talk of the type I was required to carry out as an undergraduate in Dr Shittu’s lab in the Department of

THE NATURE OF NIGERIANS: COMEDIANS

Comedy by its nature is irreverent. Comedy can poke fun without being offensive; comedy can be racist without anyone being outraged; comedy can be anything and will get away with it. The practitioners of comedy are noted for observing society and making a mockery of issues and humans, from behind a bulletproof glass-covered pulpit of humour. Comedians are by nature disrespectful, because a respectful comedian would be politically correct and frankly, if you’re a politically correct comedian, you’re in the wrong job.

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.

THE LAST NORTHERN PRESIDENT

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.

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

10 CONCLUSIONS: GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO

• Production year: 2011
• Countries: Rest of the world, USA
• Cert (UK): 18
• Runtime: 152 mins
• Directors: David Fincher, Niels Arden Oplev
• Cast: Christopher Plummer, Daniel Craig, Joely Richardson, Lena Endre, Michael Nyqvist, Noomi Rapace, Peter Haber, Robin Wright, Rooney Mara, Stellan Skarsgard, Steven Berkoff, Sven-Bertil Taube, Yorick van Wageningen

I finally found the patience to watch this very highly rated movie, and below are some of what I noticed. It's my opinion exclusively, so feel free to disagree. But then again, it's my blog... Kidding


1.

 Daniel Craig and Rooney Mara really brought to life Mikael Blomkvist and Lisbeth Salander respectively. Amazing performance by the duo, and the rest of the cast too

GRANDPA JOBS

My father told me a story. In fact, I should say he tells me a story, because, I’m still going to hear it maybe 20 times more before I’m off his grip. Perhaps he doesn’t remember he has told me before, but I’m going to tell you now, condensed, and hope that I do not forget I have told you before, like my father.

He told of me of his father, my grandfather. He told me my granddad was a man very much blessed with foresight. My granddad (of blessed memory or however Moslems revere their dead) was a Moslem. We hail from Ikere-Ekiti, but his ancestors were the Oyos, famed Ajala travelers, especially because of the rampant internecine wars of old, which was why they were in Ikere in the first place. Because of the Oyo nature to scatter all over, they devised some sort of recognition technique – famed, spectacularly ugly and disfiguring tribal marks called the “Abaja” – not very

TWITTER SUMMARIES

Twitter. Twidda. Twirra. Call it what you please, but whichever thing (social network obviously) took over from Facebook had to be the dog’s bollocks. I learnt that from being too “Englandish” in my browsing habits. Dog’s bollocks, way to go!

QUICK QUESTION(S)

What is it with Twitter exactly? How the heck did Twitter gazzump Facebook? I remember reading a BBC article in 2009 when Twitter had but 350,000 users, as fast growing as it was then. Why doesn’t Microsoft Office “defaultly” recognize perhaps two of the most used words in the world  - Twitter and Facebook?

UPDATE: Facebook fights back with improvements announced at the f8 conference

IF YOU ARE NO STAR, YOU’VE GOTTA DO THE “BAMBI ALLAH”

After being a relative hit on Facebook, it was a bit strange coming to Twitter and all you had was yourself to talk with. This was way back before Twitter became the dog’s bollocks amongst Naija youth. Dog’s bollocks

HIS HOLY WHIZNESS

Shantey Shantey Shantey. Shantey Shantey Shantey… Sangalo…

HIS HOLY WHIZNESS

 I may sing along. I may love the beat. I may even jive to it the few times I jive at all. But. I have never seen a duller whiz kid in my life. Maybe the fact that he is a self-proclaimed “Wheez Keed” plays a part in the dullness. After all, the lizard still finds time to hail itself. Even that lizard must have first performed outrageous feats – like falling from an Iroko tree – to deserve its own self-adulation. Why should I ask my parents if Wheez Keed is bad gan? My father will definitely never have heard of that name, and if I spell it to him, he would cringe instantly and feign a heart attack that measures 9... on the Richter scale. My mom, despite being a deaconess of The Apostolic Church likes to be worldly, in terms of songs, sometimes.

THE ITALIAN CONNECTION

Kayode's Opening: He's almost certainly crazy and probably belongs in an "institution" somewhere but boy does he turn out great stuff. He's Rolands Ndu Akpe (some name, I know) and @Bloody_Voyeur on Twitter. He writes what he calls poetry on Bloodywrits. As you may have noticed, he's a bloodthirsty, thieving son of a golden pen. You'll love this story. Enjoy.

I’ve been known to lie a bit; a lot of times, that is. I’ve been known to steal not much; I never get caught. I’m not mythomanic or klepto or anything, and so would therefore advice you, dear reader, to fucking put away that bowl of salt you’re about to take a pinch of! I’m sorry I swore, but I swear by the haematophilic gods of my fathers that whatever words shall come after this sentence shall be the truth and nothing but not the truth.