Killing Mosquitoes {Once upon a night}

“Killing mosquitoes…”. It is not the viscious ending of the life of a vampire insect. It is also not the title of a movie script. Rather, in campus circles, “Killing Mosquitoes” is a slang campus babes use to describe the battle women face when trying to keep many an over eager hand away from the more sensitive parts of their anatomy… I am sure the ladies out there know what I am talking about. If you don’t, it is either you have been VERY sheltered all your life; or you need deliverance 😐

Killing mosquitoes is an art form. Mastery of this art, like every other art, is born out of experience. It is a very necessary, especially when females are ensconced in a private place with the virile menfolk. Failure to acquire this skill is often disastrous, as it may lead to the mauling of one’s netherparts.

I’m a veteran in the art of Killing Mosquitoes.

I vividly recall one particular night I partook in this ancient contest. . .

Some years back, in my final year in the university, I met a guy whom I didn’t waste time in liking. Nice guy, attractive, gentle and unassuming. A generally easy going person. One night, he took me out to Ojez club in Surulere where we took some drinks, chatted, and generally had ourselves a good time. We ordered for “point and kill” fish pepper soup, and I am not ashamed to admit that I consumed the soup with great gusto and lip smacking relish.

We had too good a time apparently, because by the time we got to school, it was past 12am, and the school gate closes by 12am on the dot. After pleading fruitlessly with the villainous-faced security man to let us in, the guy {let me call him Morris} decided to take me to pass the night in his friend’s apartment in Fadeyi. Left with no other option, I had no choice but to agree and follow him. Big mistake.

In the apartment, his friend gave us a room with a bathroom and toilet to ourselves. Morris took his bath and asked me to do same, but I refused, because a bath would make me too relaxed, and I wanted to be on the alert because you can never know with men… but the drinks {Smirnoff ice}I took earlier made me drowsy, and soon I was dozing off.

After what seemed like an hour, Morris tapped me awake, breath fetid, and whispered into my ears asking to be granted permission to “play” with me.

I snapped at him to “hold his peace and keep his distance”. Taken aback, he promptly turned his back to me and shifted away.

I don’t know how long I slept before something woke me up. I felt something like dry sticks walking up and down my midriff. Panicked,I bolted up and looked around. The room was quiet, and Morris seemed to be sound asleep…I peered into his face to make sure he really was asleep. He seemed to be, except that his face did not have the slack, relaxed expression of sleep. His face seemed set in granite.

Hmmmm, suspicious… I decided to lie still to see if the dry sticks would make a reappearance…

Sure enough, I felt the sticks again. Slowly crawling up my hips like spiders, they made their way up from my waist to my chest.

I smiled grimly.

It seemed the dry sticks were my date’s appendages. They were going a’wayfaring. Let me see how the sticks were going to tackle my “wonder bra”, I thought, with its extremely complex network of hooks, pins and girders.

Thus, Morris of the over-adventurous fingers, strove greatly with my bra, measuring the length, breadth and width of the garment.

When the tugging and prodding became too aggressive, and it was becoming very apparent that our Morris was a very determined man on a mission, I whipped around on the bed, catching him unawares, gripped the interloping fingers and barked:

“MORRIS, THE GIG IS UP!!!”, or something to that effect {I forget now}.

Gritting my teeth, I proceeded to give him a very long lecture on the vices of fornication, ending it with a stern exhortation to CEASE and DESIST his lecherous probing of my anatomy.

This done, I turned around and promptly went back to sleep satisfied and convinced in my spirit that my sermon had made an impression on his lust fevered mind. I had had a very long day indeed.

After what seemed like only five minutes, I felt The Fingers again, this time rigmarole around my butt area.

Jesus, didn’t the dude ever give up??! 😡

I swatted the hands away the way one will swat a bothersome mosquito. They beat a hasty retreat. Only to strike again barely a minute later.

Plain fed up with this finger incursion on my person, I got up, faced the lustful youngman, and behold, we strove mightily with each other, one against the other, and I was extremely wroth with him. When it seemed I was losing this contest of fingers, I gathered up my hair around me and fled to the nearest open door: the toilet.

Morris gave frantic chase, but fueled by adrenaline and ‘shekpe’, I was faster. I stumbled my way into the restroom and slammed the door.

Panting and leaning on the wash hand basin, I thought: ‘this is ridiculous’. I had to stifle an insane urge to giggle manaically.

Morris begged, cajoled, threatened from the other side of the door, but I calmly ignored him.

After about thirty minutes, I heard my stomach give a deep rumble. Oops, it seemed the combination of spicy “point and kill” pepper soup and cold drinks was causing a riot in my stomach. As they say, “awoof they run belle”, and I was experiencing it firsthand.

Literally speaking, the shit was going down.

I proceeded to do my business right there and then not minding that Morris was probably listening at the other side of the door. I didn’t care if he heard the ruckus my bowel was making; this was better than using that germ factory in the hostel called toilet.

I let it rip. Everything in my stomach that had accumulated for days and days. I squeezed my stomach to push out any stubborn waste that didn’t want to come out. Whoo hoo!! Dang it.

When I was done, the bowl was almost half full and my stomach was very flat.

Heaving a contented sigh, I leaned over and pulled the ring. The toilet failed to flush. Sheeeeit!!!!! And I mean that literally. HELL NO.

I scanned the area with my eyes.There was no bucket I could use to fetch water to flush. Dang it! Do I spend the night inhaling the stench from the products of my own bowels, or do I venture out and risk ending up being ‘kponjad’ by Morris?

Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place {or should I say ‘shitty’ place?}.

I chose the shitty place, and spent the night locked in the toilet, inhaling the very noxious fumes of my own shit, while Morris half crazed with lust, lay in wait like a ravenous wolf at the other side, ears pressed to the door, ready to ravish my luscious young body at the slightest given chance. Many times during the night, I had to rush to window to take deep lungfuls of fresh air, however it was not much use because the night was a humid, with nary a stirring of wind nor breeze.

By the time dawn arrived, I was half dead from the stench. I decided to damn the consequences, break out of my self-imposed prison and face whatever lay beyond the door.

When I finally opened the door and stumbled into the room, the stench from the mess in the toilet bowl heralded my re-entry .What lay beyond the door was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and twiddling his toes.

I favoured my tormentor with a malevolent glare. With eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, he replied me with one of his own. If looks could kill, I’m sure I would have clutched my ample bosom and dropped dead right there and then with the look he gave me.

Weak and dizzy from a night inhaling near toxic stench, I grimly ordered him to take me back to school, and he promptly did, dropping me off at my hostel without a backward glance.

MEN. They can be such pieces of shit at times …and I mean that literally… 😡

I never found out who flushed the toilet because in our haste to be rid of each other, I totally forgot about the malfunctioning water closet and its putrefying contents. His friend would have met a most unpleasant sight when he entered the restroom. . .

I never heard again from Morris after that day. Not that I would have even given him the time of the day after what he had forced me to endure.

The memory of that night will stay with me for a very long time. A very long time indeed.


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Hello, World!!!

Hi all. Welcome to my blog. This is the second time I’m having a go at blogging. My first blog, was unceremoniously shut down by the host. Of course I immediately suspected the evil powers of my father’s village were at work to truncate my big dreams of blogging stardom, but after further investigation by the SSS and FBI, it was discovered that it wasn’t the powers of my father’s village after all, but the powers of some unrepentant and nasty fellows who rigmarole to and fro cyberspace, seeking sites to spam. The massive spamming ultimately made the host give me the red card.

However, the God I serve is more than them, so here I am starting from the scratch all over again. 😡

I would have started blogging immediately, but alas, the owner of the laptop I use, a certain fair skinned lady with a sweet face and a very sour temperament had a quarrel with Yours Truly and unceremoniously seized the laptop, leaving me ‘lappyless’. Hence, I have to type this post from my trusty two year old blackberry phone whose battery is dangerously close to dying while I type. NEPA is doing what they know best: witholding power with a confident nonchalance garnered through decades of practice.

So folks, what is The High Priestess of Soul going to tell the world that they don’t already know?

Answer: Plenty!!

The High Priestess will bring to you first class entertainment through literature which you will not find anywhere else. She will teach lessons through stories that will touch your heart, tickle your ribs and enrich your lives.

Welcome to my world 🙂

The High Priestess.

Wasimi Chronicle- “Fright Night”

Men. Have you, dear reader, ever wondered why old men try to get fresh and feel fly with younger chics? ‘Men will be men’ was a saying I was familiar with, but I was introduced to the full meaning in Wasimi. My experiences them made me ponder long and hard about these wonderful creatures called men.

For sometime my sanity had been under intense pressure as a result of loneliness and boredom. Wasimi has that effect on ‘sleek’ city folks like me, that’s why no female corper agreed to stay there. I was told that I was the first female corper the community was hosting in three years. The previous ones had tucked their tails in between their legs and fled the rustic roadside bush hamlet after enduring for a few months. I however stubbornly refused to run. Ask me why, I cannot say. Mother says I have a big heart. Hey, don’t blame me, I come from the Big Heart state 8).

The motivation to take a break from Wasimi, albeit briefly, came from a very unlikely source: a goat.

One fateful night, I was unusually tired so I went to bed earlier than usual after a heavy meal of fufu and vegetable soup. I don’t know how long I slept before a strange sound woke me up from a deep and dreamless sleep around 2.00am.

Like an ax-head floating up from still waters, I slowly came awake. I peered blindly into the pitch darkness of the room. The room was blacker than tar because my little kerosene lamp had burnt itself out sometime in the night. I lay on my hard mattress, wondering what had woken me up and listening intently to the sounds around me. . .

A rat scurrying overhead across the polythene nylon ceiling, on some nocturnal errand. . . No.

A cockroach playing hide and seek with its lover in my basket of polythene bags that lay by the miserable excuse I had for a door. . . Uhnuhn

A truck passing by in the distance. . . No, it couldn’t be that either. . .

All seemed as it ought to be, so what on earth had woken me up??

Suddenly I heard it again. That strange sound from the belly of the night. Someone was coughing loudly, and it seemed very close, like they were right there in the room with me!! O the horror!
“Blood of Jesus! Blood of Jesus!!” shrieked I in abject terror, as one hand scrambled frantically for my bible while the other searched in vain for a weapon. Any weapon!

Who was this intruder in my room? A rapist? An evil spirit?? My mind settled on the latter.

Without warning the coughing was replaced by a sneeze, and abruptly I heard ” Meeeeeeee!”. What tha fuck?? As if in response, the goat bleated again. And sneezed. And coughed. Again

My terror immediately changed into pure. . . undistilled. . . RAGE. Confound it, that blasted goat!

I can’t remember exactly how I got outside, but the next thing I remember is finding myself outside, clutching a broom like my life depended on it. The source of the whole hullabaloo stood by my window having a coughing fit. I never knew goats sound so much like humans when they cough. I rushed forward, bloody murder on my mind, when in the darkness, I stumbled over a stone lying in my path and went crashing to the ground.

In short ehn, my pipo, I fall yakata like small pikin.

Startled, the goat ran away, still coughing and sneezing. Looking back now,I suspect the animal must have been reacting to something that brought about so violent a coughing fit.

Reality came swiftly when my face made rude contact with sandy earth. Stunned, I groaned and turned over slowly to rest on my back. Lying on my back, breathing heavily, I gazed up at the moonless sky and wondered if I had finally run amok. What was I doing outside in the dead of night, holding a broom and attacking harmless creatures? What would my dear mother think of this? The woman would most assuredly blush in abject mortification. Dad would give me his best Pete Edochie-look and say ” you are joking with your life.” My sister would roll her eyes and chortle endlessly. My brothers would grin and say, “Shit, Ishi you don dey craze. Don’t worry ehn, as long as you haven’t yet entered the market, there is still hope “.

Craze. Yes, that must be it. I must be losing my mind here. Wasimi was fucking up my mojo and playing with my mind.

“Shit, what I need is a break from this madrefucking place,” I breathed to myself.

Abashed, I dragged myself up, dusted my smarting elbows and limped back to my room. I remembered the broom I had wanted to commit murder with and limped back to get it. If I didn’t get it, by morning time it would be ‘borrowed’ by Mr Nobody and that would be the end of the broom.

When I got back to my room, the gaddem door refused to close properly and lo, it seemed I had stepped on my glasses in my insane rush to annihlate the sick goat that had so scared me silly. FUCK! 😡

(Pardon my french)

That same morning I made a call to a very good friend of mine serving in far away Ikare-akoko, pleading, nay, DEMANDING to spend the weekend with her, her programmed schedule be damned. By noonday, my knapsack slung over my sore and aching shoulders, my NYSC cap fixed firmly on my head, my face set like a flint, and without a backward glance, I trudged determinedly to the expressway and set about flagging down vehicles. I had to get out. I just had to. Either that or have a nervous breakdown.

About ten minutes later, a very modest cream coloured Mercedes Benz car slowed down and stopped a few meters from me. I quickly jogged to the car and peered through the open window at the face of Chairman.

Wasimi Chronicles-“The Day Fish Grew Legs”

Life continued in that little roadside hamlet called Wasimi. I hardly fraternised with other corp members for reasons that, years later, I have mot been able to fathom.

I’m a reserved person. I have always been a reserved person, and I sank further into my shell in Wasimi. The harsh realities of living in a jarringly new environment made me retreat, like a tortoise in the face of danger, into my shell of introversy. The folks who would have made life a bit more interesting and bearable, corpers and civilians alike, had an unflattering fondness for my knees and waist, hence, I chose to take my chances with the Wasimi farmers, turkeys, goats and ‘kotonkan’. At least these set of creatures are predictable. Well, except for the goats… Dear reader, do you know that goats eat fish??!! 😮

I made this startling discovery the day I kept two roasted ‘eja Hawusa’ (Hausa fish) outside. I had bought the fish in Ondo main market some days before,and since I wasn’t ready to use them,I left them outside my mud hut to dry in the blazing sun. Less than ten mintes later, I came out to spread my laundry. After spreading, I was about to re-enter my hut when something stopped me.

Something seemed . . . off . . .

Standing under the hot sun, feeling hot and icky, I was still wondering what was amiss when my eyes casually fell on the tray I had placed the fish. The tray lay gleaming dully in the midday sun, sans fish. Before I could stop myself, I howled “What da fuck?!!” (I usually resort to french when I’m upset). Who was the bloody thief that had stolen my fish in less than ten minutes????!? Had they been timing my movements?!?

My neighbour, Mummy Nurse, attracted by my rants came to enquire what had upset her bespectacled, usually reserved, quietly intense corper neighbour. By this time my glasses lay askew on my face and I was foaming at the mouth. I know its just fish but I had had serious plans for the fish, and besides I paid good money for it, so I deserve my money’s worth, right?? 😡

I reported this spectacular theft to Mummy Nurse, liberally spraying her face with spittle while I was at it. She conducted her investigations and it was discovered that my neighbour’s nanny goat was the only creature abroad in the less than ten minutes it took for my fish to grow legs and dance off merrily into the sunset. I suddenly remembered that the goat had rigmaroled the area shortly before I came to drop the fish, and she had stood a little distance off, keenly watching me as I innocently placed the fish outside in the sun.

I thought goats ate only grass! So goats eat fish???!? Mummy Nurse solemnly answered in the affirmative. I was . . .embarassed. Good thing nobody was around when I was letting rip the stream of “shits” and “fucks” .

In a rage, I confronted the owner of the goat. He was mortified. He apologised profusely to ‘Aunty Corper’, searched high and low for the four-legged thieving little beast to trash,to no avail (she had probably being robbing another hapless person in another corner of the village), crossed the fairly busy Ondo-Akure express way to Iya Sumaila’s shed and bought me shawa fish. Shawa is a tasteless, cheap ass oily fish.

I had no choice than to accept the fish.I couldn’t ask for Hausa fish because it’s quite expensive, and he would have had to go all the way to Ondo town to get the fish.

I don’t know why, but till this day I wish I had caught that goat and used her for goat meat peppersoup. 😡

Wasimi Chronicles-“Fire and Electricity”

A house burned down in Wasimi. Well, at least a mud hut. Whether the hut was a house or no is not the issue here. The issue is that it was once someone’s dwelling place, and the tragedy occurred around 8pm that fateful evening.

Prior to this event, I had settled down after I was given a pep talk by the oldest corp member there, a batch B corper name Nedu. He sat me down and tried his best to encourage me, assuring me that the place wasn’t as bad as it looked. When he told me this, my eyes became peppery and red and it was all I could do not to start bawling there and then. I could envision a very drab year ahead of me.

I was going to be the only female corp member in the midst of five guys and the prospect filled me with dread. Thankfully, the guys were very nice and they took me under their wings. There was JP, who flirted with me at every given opportunity, Akeem, Azeez, Uba and Nedu.

We often gathered to charge our phones in Uba’s hut every evening. He was ingenious enough to have connected a wire to the barber shop next door, so that whenever the barber put on his generator, his little room would have electric power. Most times Wasimi never had power. According to JP’s friend, a tall lanky guy named Lucky, the transformer was always ‘blowing’. Whether the transformer ‘blew’ by chance or design, we never could tell {though I suspect it is the latter}, thus every night everyone in the neighbourhood went around armed with desktop chargers and every model of phones known to man. We were therefore lucky that Uba, a mechanical engineer, had the foresight to rig us some electricity. It saved us the stress of having to rigmarole up and down the village in search of where to slot in our chargers. For someone like me with two phones, it was a big relief.

That evening, everyone was in a foul mood. The weather was very sultry, mosquitoes and God knows what else were feasting on our sweaty bodies with reckless abandon and the whole atmosphere felt oppressive. Nearby a group of farmers were chatting away happily. I continually threw baleful glares in their direction whilst slapping and scratching my body. “How can anyone be happy on night like this?” I asked myself.

Restlessly I got up to check if anybody’s battery was full so I could charge mine; it was getting late and I badly wanted to go back to my tiny room where my companions were ‘roaches and rats, to rage at the heavenlies and NYSC for bringing me to this backwater village.

The normally amiable John ‘JP Da Josman’ Christopher noticed my movements and snarled “Ishi don’t disturb my charger!”.

I barked back, “I’m not disturbing your phone!!”. JP usually made it a point of duty to flirt with Your’s Truly at a every given opportunity, but not so this night because everyone was in a foul mood indeed.

Without warning, I heard anguished and terrified voices screaming ” ile n jono!! Jesu gba wa o, ile n jono!!” (trans.A house is on fire, sweet Jesus!!). The voices reveberated through hot night and jolted everyone.

I wondered which raggedy ass mud hut had caught fire. Everyone rushed out of the hut to behold a dilapidated building burning merrily. It felt like a dream. I had never had the misfortune to witness a house burning so I could only gawp in shock. My guys rushed to the scene of the fire while I stood at the entrance of the room, leaving me alone with the charging phones. Immediately the broad shoulders and muscular and hairy chests exited the room,my eyes rested on the cluster of charging phones and batteries in the corner of the room. An evil gleam came into my eyes.

Ignoring the anguished and terrified screams outside, I pounced on the unattended batteries and set about disconnecting phones and replacing them with mine. This done, I went outside and did my own share of sympathetic screaming, after which I rushed back to guard my phones jealously.

Corper Akeem ‘Akeembo’ Aremu, a very dark complexioned, dimunitive, tribal marked version of Iron Man rushed into the room, beheld my treachery with the phones and promptly usurped the remaining unattended charging phones with his own with amusing alacrity. When he had connected all his phones, my partner in crime winked at me and declared expansively that he wanted to go back to watch “that bush conflagration” {his words ;D}.

Hours later,when my guys returned and beheld Akeembo and I’s shenanigans with the phones,a very vigorous quarrel broke out.

Wetin be my own; the koko be sey all my phones charge wella. . . 😀

Wasimi Chronicles-“First Impressions”

The night was oppressively hot, as it was wont to be in Wasimi. In the distance, I could hear a kid bleating. I had sworn deep in my heart that one day, I was going to take a very big stick, hunt that annoying kid down and bash its brains out. The damn goat must be possessed! Once it was 12am, the satanic goat usually came out from wherever and began its infernal bleating. It was so annoying. Just one of the thousands of things that irritated the hell out me in Wasimi.

Rolling restlessly on the hard mattress beneath me, my mind went down memory lane to the first time I set my eyes on the primitive roadside forest hamlet called Wasimi…

I had departed the orientation camp on the 31st of March, after receiving my posting letter on the 30th. When I opened the letter and saw I had been posted to “Kind Comprehensive College, Wasimi”, I was first of all struck by the name ‘Kind’. What kind of instituition was named ‘Kind’ for crying out loud??

Clad in my ceremonial crested vest, stiff khaki trousers, jungle boots and profusely pespiring under the blazing afternoon sun, images of gentle, well behaved children rose before my mind’s eye. Okay, Kind School must be a school filled with model students. Good. I went to ask the soldiers in camp if they knew where Wasimi in Ondo East Local government was located, but they had no idea.

‘O well’, I thought, ‘must be a quiet little town’. Just how little, I was soon going to find out.

The bus I boarded from the orientation camp to Wasimi first took me to Ondo town in Ondo West local government because I didn’t know where this rather strange sounding town was located. When we got to Akure garage, in Ondo, I informed the driver of where I was going to. He told me that I should have spoken up during the journey because we had passed my destination. However, he graciously offered to drive me back to the ‘town’.

I remember wondering just where this ‘town’ was located because we had passed hardly any sizeable communities on our way to Ondo town, save for some dismal mud houses and desolate looking buildings at the road side. On the journey back to Wasimi, I looked out for a sign, anything that would indicate where the town was located. I saw nothing, except forests, mud houses, roadside fruit and vegetable kiosks and more trees.

A nagging suspicion began to form in my mind and my heart began to beat madly in my chest.

Suddenly the driver pulled up in front of a bush path by the roadside. When I disembarked, from where I stood, I could see a very shabby building in the middle of a forest. I remember I had seen this building earlier on my way to Ondo town. But why did the driver stop here, of all places?

“Driver”, I asked, my voice trembling in trepidation, “why did we stop?”

“This na Kind College”, he answered, confirming my suspicion.

My maniacally beating heart stilled, and went into a free fall straight into my churning, acid filled stomach. I was…embarrassed. The building looked like it had been abandoned since the previous decade. I looked further down the road… Heavens, Wasimi was no town, it was a tiny conglameration of mud houses!!

So this is where NYSC had banished me to for the next one year? Dear God!!!

“Manage am, sister. Dat na NYSC for you” the driver said sympathetically when he noticed my unconcealed chagrin. I barely managed to stammer out something incomprehensible in response.

He boarded his vehicle, revved the engine and drove off, leaving me at the roadside surrounded by luggage, my mouth a gaping hole in my face, and my hands linked on my head in disbelief. . .

I had nowhere else to go. Even if I had, I was hampered by my mammoth luggage. I had gotten carried away when packing for camp. My elder sister, who had served two years earlier even encouraged me to pack all ‘packables’, so as a result the amount of luggage I had taken was like those of a new bride being ushered to her groom’s house.

Holding back my tears of consternation and impotent rage, I had no choice but to head to the ugly building in my line of sight to introduce myself to my prospective employer. O, this was just awful. Awful!!!

Troubled by discomfiting memories, I sighed and rolled around restlessly on my bed. Everywhere was eerily silent. Overhead on the black polythene nylon ceiling, lizards and rats had finally gone silent. They usually went on countless errands during the day. Even the neighbourhood turkeys had gone to sleep. At daytime, the turkeys gobbled endlessly, and for some strange diabolical reason known only to them, they chose my window as the base for their heated and extremely noisy debates. Annoying.

My employer didn’t waste time in drafting an acceptance letter. I was going to teach three subjects for a miserly salary of four thousand naira a month. I was also allocated a ‘palatial’ mud house complete with a cooking area and makeshift bathroom. There were no toilet facilities however, so I would have to pay visits to the bush when nature called.

‘Wow, fresh air when shyting. How lovely’, I thought cynically.

I accepted my lot with a lot of silent grumbling and cursing. As I settled in as best as I could, I was introduced to a whole lot of aggravating things, chieves among them that blasted night watchman of a bleating baby goat and…the sandflies…

O sweet Jesus, the sand flies!

Oh God, the sand flies!!

Dear God, the sand flies!!!

The Yoruba call them “kotonkan”. Wasimi is a forest agrarian settlement, so these Lilliputian disseminators of gargantuan misery were in blefuscan numbers. When you wake up in the morning, they were there to kiss you good morning. At noonday they were your constant companions, at night time, they bid you goodnight. These insects ministered to your arms, legs, neck and any other exposed part of your body with single minded ferocity.

Just how nasty these insects are was made known to me one cool morning. After stopping myself from going to the toilet for days after arriving Wasimi, I had had no choice but to allow nature take its course because the stench of mine own farts was threatening to knock me unconscious. So early that morning, I sneaked off to the bushes close to school to do my business. I had barely spent two minutes relieving myself when they attacked my bum with vengeance. I tried to hold them off by squeezing my butt tight, tighter than a politician’s fist around a cash bribe, all to no avail. When I could no longer endure this painful assault to my bare buttocks, I gathered my wrapper and fled. I was chased out of the bush like a thief caught with the neighbourhood chicken.

Back in my tiny room, I hissed at the recollection of the undignifying event.

“God help me,” I mumbled. ‘This place is screwing up my mojo…”

New Series

Hi folks. I’m going to start a new series titled “Wasimi Chronicles”. This series will narrate my NYSC experiences. For some of us who passed through the compulsory one year of precious time wastage, we always probably look back and shudder non-stop, while some others shake their head and smile at pleasant memories.

I belong to the former category 😡

I hope you enjoy the journey for as long as it lasts. Happy reading 🙂

High Priestess


Mob actions are an ugly aspect of the Nigerian society. Many times I have asked myself if they can really be justified. I remember a very long time ago when I was still a child, my neighbour’s son and his friend were stripped naked and beaten red, purple, black and blue by an irate mob. They were caught red handed trying to steal some NEPA meters during the dead of night. Another neighbour of mine was also stripped naked, beaten to an inch of his life and forced to trek for hours in the hot sun carrying what he had tried to steal; a very harassed looking goat that bleated non-stop in terror while the ordeal lasted. Then of course there were the bonfire spectacles which I was always fortunate never to witness. I usually passed by the charred remains of the alleged thieves after the action had gone down, and spit in disgust.

I was too young then to fully appreciate the significance of what I had witnessed. Not until many years later, when I was in my final year in the University of Lagos, when I witnessed another one of these spectacles was I able to fully understand the tragedy inherent them.

That day, I had gone to school to harass my project supervisor, Dr J.G Nkem-Onyekpe, to sign my project because it was way past the official deadline and he was yet to sign it. The man was forming busy { alright to be sincere, he really was very busy, but who cares?}, but I was able to “persuade” him to give me my own copy; signed or unsigned, I cared not.

After he had handed me the fruits of my countless visits to the cafe, several months of painstaking research and shameless copy and paste and, I vamoosed from his office.

When I got to the bustop, I was forced to squeeze my considerable, but shapely form into the back seat of the tattered jalopy bus because it was the last going my direction in the garage. The bus was very tight and we the passengers were squeezed together like sardines. I on my part had part of my buttocks resting on my co-passenger’s thigh; we were that jampacked. Each time the bus bounced when it entered one the ubiquitous potholes on Lagos roads, I attempted to shift my butt, to no avail.

So there I was, hot and sweaty, hemmed in between the window and an equally sweaty young man emitting a very unfragrant aroma from his armpits {our Yoruba brethren will say the dude was not ‘fanimorous’}. Somewhere around the back streets of Onipanu, the bus ran into a traffic jam. While we waited for traffic to ease up, I noticed a crowd in the distance. As the crowd came closer, I realised that the crowd was made up of mostly school children and a few young adults. They were brandishing whips, sticks and other blunt objects. They were preceded by something that looked like . . . a walking scarecrow. . . :-\

As the effigy came closer, I realised it was of the masculine gender, and o the horror, it was stark naked!

I couldn’t believe my eyes .

I hadn’t seen such a spectacle since my childhood days in Jakande Estate, when Yours Truly formed part of a motley crowd that followed a butt naked madwoman around for miles on end for the sheer fun of it. I even recall stoning her with a half-eaten unripe mango . . .

Remarkably, the young man was hung like a horse. Good heavens.

A girl-child sitting in front of the bus with her mother, piped incredulously “mummy, see big willy pom pom!”. Chagrined, her mother quickly hushed her up and covered the child’s bulging eyes with her hands.

Ayup. Willy dangled from side to side, a gargantuan pendulum, couched in a thick thatch of coarse hair, caressed gently by the mild noon breeze.

The boy couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. His lips were swollen twice its normal size and there were stripes of vehement and gleefully administered lashes all over his body.

As the crowd passed by the vehicle, I noticed, from the corner of my eyes, a dark, sinuous hand emerge from the crowd and give our young thief a resounding slap on the back: the kind our Yoruba brethren call ‘abara’. The thief jerked involuntarily with pain, and as he did so, Willy turned in my direction and waggled its massive head rudely at me.

I blushed :-[.

What a disgrace. I have brothers and younger cousins, and I would never want such a terrible disgrace on them, may God forbid. This boy was so young, though to be honest, he looked very hardened. I wondered what he had stolen. Since the crowd was majorly made up of school kids, I could guess he had been caught in a school yard trying to steal something. Maybe somebody’s school bag or something.

Despite the youthfulness of this motley mob, I earnestly prayed the crowd was not headed to the nearest fuel and used tires depot. The blood thirsty and idle touts could decide they needed to watch a bonfire and go hijack fuel from a roadside hawker. I had read of a story where a balckmarket fuel seller was beaten to a pulp when he refused to release fuel for a human bonfire.

I voiced my profound sadness at this tragedy to my fellow passengers, but they looked at me askance, while my unpleasantly fragrant friend on whose thigh my butt rested on, asked me:

“Na who send am make e go tif?”

Indeed. . . :-[