Sagay’s Twitter Beach Party 1

When he followed her back in a blink she felt warm all over– a pleasurable sense of being desired. She had a crazy mental picture of the tall well built guy snuggling behind her, warming her back, and cupping the curve of her bum like a spoon. She cast the thought away. Newly wed women weren’t meant to think such things.

In the days that followed, she read his tweets like a self-help manual, trying to get behind the brown eyes and the bright smile. She soon learned that he loved fast cars, rooted for Manchester United FC and hated indomie noodles. She also learned that he lived in Lagos, was single and liked Jazz. They were a match, so far.

Pius wanted to know why she was always smiling when she fiddled with her phone.

“Nothing dear, just these silly readers. Gosh! Honey can you imagine there’s another list on!”

Pius would walk out in a huff. She would stretch and zoom Dafe’s latest avi.

It would have gone on like this forever: she, a secret admirer, Dafe, another tall muscular guy in aviaspora, Pius none the wiser, but Sir Sagaysagay ( ) had to host a Twitter party, fifteen minutes away from her house. And Dafe had to ask her to come with him.

She couldn’t of course. What woman in her sane mind sneaks out of her home to see a stranger? On her honeymoon? Especially after the Cynthia incident? Her marriage was just four months old, darn it. Yet, a plan to attend was already born.

It was a simple plan. All she had to do was get her hair messed up. Pius couldn’t stand unkempt hair, he would be the one to chase her off to the salon. She would get neat Ghana braids done while he was at work and then dump a old wig on it. On her way home to the party, she’d discard the wig and viola! New hairdo. Yes, that would work.

That would work just fine.


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Sweet Mother

Columba let himself into the small, dim room with a flask of hot water and a stash of towels. It smelled of urine, stale food and sweat. He flung open the windows and gulped in fresh air; this cross wasn’t becoming any easier to bear. But what choices did he have?

Behind him, his mother stirred in her sleep. She had wet herself, the smell of fresh urine melded with the old and he thought he would faint. Holding his breath, he picked the plates of half eaten food and dumped them in a heap outside.

When he re-entered the room, she was awake.

“Dominic” His mother said, as she fumbled with her beddings.

“No Mama. It isn’t Dominic. Dominic has been gone for five years now.”

Mama Bessie burst into tears. “My darling Dominic. You were the best child I ever had. Why did you have to leave me now? Why? Why?”

Columba grunted. He wanted to shake his mother till her teeth rattled. He wanted to remind her that Dominic had been a rogue, a thief. He wanted to recount the nightmare Dominic had put them through when he got arrested for possession of illegal fire arms; to talk about Mama’s wrappers and gold Dominic had stolen and sold for a pittance to the Hausa men at Gbogobiri. He wanted to say that getting shot by a firing squad was just what Dominic deserved. He kept quiet instead and dumped the smelly soaked sheets in the blue plastic bucket.

He walked into the bathroom and mixed the hot water with cold. Returning to the bed he undressed her. He tried to avert his eyes from her failing sagging body; the grey pubic hair, the flat, flaccid breasts. He failed. It was hard to believe this was the same woman that had been admired in seven villages for her beauty. It was very hard. Dumping the soiled clothes into the same blue bucket, he wished he could afford disposable adult diapers. Wishes weren’t horses, in any case Columba wasn’t good at horse-riding.

An hour later he was through. His back ached from the bending and turning, cleaning and rinsing. Mama Bessie looked almost pretty in the her fresh clothes. Strands of silver hair curled around her purple scarf. He had to cut her hair, soon.

“Mama, bye”

Mama Bessie didn’t answer. He let himself out.


Work was the usual conundrum: pale paper-white kids in late stages of severe malaria, un-booked pregnant women appearing in active labour and accident victims. He did his best to help them. There was so much one could do when patients came in with a hundred naira or less. Drugs and materials where released on a ‘Pay before service basis’. Columba couldn’t count the number of patients that died because they couldn’t pay the medical fees; he didn’t try.

“Doctor! Doctor!”

Someone was calling him. The locals believed the men in the hospital were doctors and the females nurses. It made his male colleagues happy and the female doctors peeved. He was ambivalent. He wasn’t a doctor, he was a nurse. Calling him one didn’t help his pay check and kept Dr Emily laughing. He had to do what Dr Emily asked him to whether he liked it or not. She liked to send him around and bark at him when locals watched in horror; her way of asserting her position. Calling him doctor only reminded him that he never got admitted to read Medicine, it was fresh pepper, sprinkled on his pain.

He rushed there to find the patient still; eyes staring ,mouth gaping. Her relatives were a screaming, praying, wailing mass. He pressed her eyes shut and prepped the body. He couldn’t help noticing she was about his age.

Dr. Emily accosted him on his way out.

“Columba, see me in my office please.”

His stomach kissed his toes. What had he done now? Reluctantly he made his way to her office. It was a small room with faded green blinds and furniture that was decades old.
Dr Emily sat and beckoned on him to do same.

“I am going on a three day casual leave tomorrow. I have to leave a little early to get set for my trip. We just got this box of emergency supplies from the Ministry. I would like you to take stock of them and start using them at once.”

Columba exhaled. Dr Emily was travelling! This was good news.

“Please be very careful with the Zeophyl and Adremonal. A fast intravenous bolus of either can be lethal. Take every precaution before administering. If you have a difficult case, do not hesitate to refer.”

And that was how he found himself in possession of two potent cardiotoxic drugs in one afternoon.

Over the next few days he considered the possibilities. Euthanasia was illegal. Punishable by death. He loved his mother; but watching her lose her body and now her mind was too much for him. Besides no one would know a thing. An autopsy was unheard of.
There would be no witnesses. Mama Bessie was ninety-six. No one would ask the cause of death. His other siblings were faraway in Lagos, Ibadan and Zaria. They didn’t know what he went through everyday. If they did, they didn’t care.

A few minutes later, he made up his mind.


Mama Bessie was awake when he got there.


His pulse jumped and raced. She hadn’t called him that in two years. Most times she called him Dominic and occasionally Francis. He tried to swallow, the pebble in his throat wouldn’t let him.


“What did you learn in school today?”

Relief washed over him in a wave. She hadn’t magically regained her mind. She was still senile, still receding into the comforts of her foggy memory. He felt bad about sending his mother to the afterlife but if she was of sound mind he would find it impossible.

“A lot Mama. We added sums and did some English.” He said. Not a lie, he had balanced the books at the hospital emergency unit. And he had checked up ‘asphyxiated’ in a dictionary.

“Good boy. Make sure you pay attention at school so you can be a good doctor when you grow up, okay?”

“Yes Mama. I want to give you a little medicine to stop your waist pain. Lie still. It won’t hurt much.”

Mama Bessie lay as she was told. He drew the Zeophyl and Adremonal into 5ml syringes. He fetched the transparent strips of plastic from his pocket and used them as a tourniquet. She had prominent veins.

“Do it quickly, Columba.”

A chill raced up his legs. So she knew what he wanted to do. Tremors racked his belly and he felt dizzy for a moment. He fled outside for some fresh air and a chance to think. How could he be doing this? How could he kill his mother?

Somewhere in the distance, speakers were blaring Mbarga’s Sweet mother.

Sweet mother, I no go forget you,
For the suffer wey you suffer for me…
Stop. Stop.
Stop. Stop.
Stop. Stop.
Make you no cry again o!

Tears tumbled down his cheeks and he let them fall. Self-disgust filled him like a foam frothing over a beer glass. He couldn’t do this. Mama Bessie had been been there for him in every way. Granted she had never loved him the way she doted on Dominic or pampered Francis, but she hadn’t hurt him either. And now she knew. She knew!

He made his way back to the room, to clear away the drugs and leave. He met Mama Bessie smiling and still. With a syringe sticking out of her arm and an empty one on the floor.

The Proposal

He was sure he hadn’t heard right. It couldn’t be. Annabel wasn’t asking him to marry her. By Ja, he barely knew the girl!

He fought to keep his face from frowning. What does a man say in a spot like this? A replay of the girls that had turned him down flickered before his mind’s eye like a cheap movie. He remembered the shame he felt; and the relentless self examination. He’d lie awake at night wondering why they didn’t want him. He would watch the same girls flock to men that were richer, taller, cuter, better. He would replay the scene a million times and the raw gutted feeling would wash over him. He was unwanted, inadequate, unloved.

Now she waited for his response.


What had he said? It slipped past his lips before he had a chance to pull the words back.

“Emmanuel! Oh my goodness! You are amazing!”

She jumped on him and he inhaled her fresh musky scent. She wasn’t a bad girl. If he played his cards right the next few weeks would be the best ever.

He pulled her closer and kissed her knowing there would be no protest. No games. No “Stop. I am not ready for this”. All the while planning how he would break up with her without risking his life, or ruining hers.

Dear Japh, A Robust Response

Dear Japh,

Compliments of the day. I trust that all is well with you and yours. Congratulations on your recent job appointment and for your ProMaCon ambassador award. Nigeria is richer with people like you on her. I wish you more appointments, more recognition, more awards and more influence.

I happened upon your article ‘WalterGate: More Seamy Questions For Pastor Biodun.’ [ ] this morning.

The article was well written. I applaud your diction, punctuation and style. Despite its considerable length, it keeps readers glued to the end.

Permit me, however to respond to some issues you raise there (and perhaps, to others that have lurked in the shadows over time).

A. It is bad form to boast about offerings. Christ taught that we should give in secret. Declaring you give offerings in ‘hard currency’ was not a virtuous action. Defending yourself by saying you’ve given in dollars since you were in school is adding audacity to iniquity.

B. If you decide to give to a church, of your own freewill, in any currency, hard or soft, that does not make you a member. It doesn’t make you a church leader. It doesn’t make you an International Pastoral Conduct Arbiter (IPCA). Every church has structures for handling allegations of pastoral indiscipline. We will do well to honour them.

C. Calling fellow christians zombies is uncouth. If you profess Christ, you should know this.

D. If you love COZA as much as you claim to, drumming up sentiments would be far from you. You would assemble your Waltergate claimants and pass their claims to the right authorities. Quickly.

E. Threatening to ‘expose other pastors’ is childish and comes with consequences. Do what you think best and stop courting applause.

F. As long as the earth remains there will be issues, allegations, disagreements and counter claims. It will be such a waste, if you decide to use your position and influence against the Gospel, rather than for it.

Thank you for your time.

St Naija.

Why I Followed You

You made so much sense during the Occupy Nigeria protests, it was as close to a handshake as I could get.


Your avi. Dang!


When I read through your TL, I had to keep my thumbs bent, else I would retweet 4/5ths of it. You are a kindred spirit.



Your love for God caught me off guard. It was so fresh, so strong, so irresistible. I couldn’t help myself.


You tweet the most fascinating links. Thank you.

Your stories are a letter from a long lost sister. Following you was a reunion. Welcome.

With a bio like that it was a done deal. Of course nothing says it better than a random sampling of tweets.
Thank you, following you saved me thousands in newspaper bills. My gratitude is boundless.


An act of kindness. Help for your struggling hustle. Alas, you didn’t appreciate this. Check. You have eight followers now instead of nine.
Mutuality. Who are you? That when an OverLord follows you, you don’t jog back? Ah! I know better than that.


You were that one true P I had to set. I will, just haven’t gotten the liver yet.


Reading your tweets light up my day like a thousand golden lanterns.

You feed my muse. She has spun five characters of your antics. Don’t stop. Please. My Nobel is in you somewhere.

You followed me when I was an egg. Nah, we are stuck. For-web-ever.
Your support, RTs, defence, Voltronism and loyalty are unparalleled. Justice is dead, yes. But I wasn’t her murderer.

You knew just the right reply to send at the right time. You are a keeper. That is for sure.
Your graphics. (^•^) (‘-‘) (•’_’•)

Your wisdom. Reading your tweets is a trip to depths of the profound. Yes, I would do it again and again.
Your kindness. No one else noticed when I lost my cat. You are special like that.
Fawning. Yes, that’s what it was. We all have our heroes. You were mine before the ship hit the rocks.
Curiosity. Maybe if I follow this guy I will find out what so fabulous about him.
Hope. If I follow maybe she will too.
I dunno. Maybe it was just meant to be. 😉

Why I Unfollowed You

I clicked follow by mistake.

I wanted us to make it work but 30 tweets a minute was out of my league.

You spammed my TL . Do you have to cc everyone from the Pope to Lucifer? For a 200 word rant? Seriously?

We rubbed each other the wrong way. When I tweeted ‘Guys Rule’, you had to say ‘Girls Rock’. When I opined– ‘The patient dog got the meat’, you remembered ‘the early bird got the fruit’. it was inevitable.

How can you tweet nudes by 10 am? Are you the only applicant in the world? Abeg.

Two months. No tweet. No retweet. No sign. Sorry love, Twitter is done real time.

A Direct Message in the first two minutes, asking me to buy something. Say what?

You wouldn’t follow back, even though you followed just 30 people. C’mon man.

How could you say Michelle Obama wasn’t fine? Did your glasses break or someone stole your eyes?

It was high maintenance. Can’t you exist for 24 hours without cursing Mr President? Can’t you see the man has it rough already? What makes you think you’d do better? Seeing that you are a single man who can’t even lead a wife and a kid?

It was a matter of principle. The good book said “cut off anything that would keep you from heaven”. Reading your R-rated tweets, threatened my mansion.

You stole my tweet.

I was just being kind, doing to you as you had done.

Your handle. Jesus didn’t rise for me to follow Lucifer’s Boo, Maneaterrrr and DevilDame, you make this thing hard.

I have a bible. The least you could do is to give me your testimony or translation. Sorry, there’s only so much TL room.

You are a ghost. You hover on my follower count. No Retweets , no mentions, no thing-am-abouts. No. That wasn’t the plan.

Your avi is eww.

Your unfollower tool said 200 people did it. I felt left out.

Twitter for Blackberry won’t give me a mute button. So I did what I did.

I am sorry. It is not you. It is me.
I un-followed you but please, don’t un-follow me.

Why do you unfollow people? Share with us in the comments. 🙂