BELOW THE LINES

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The truth is rarely pure and is never simple – Oscar Wilde

It all came to me, in its fast rhythmic sway like the wind. All it took was a little boy, with his worn out shirt and kind eyes. Then I remembered life. Children seem to have that effect on me, the glimmer of life in its most simplistic form. Maybe I think of innocence when I hold a child in my arms, but my mind is never an innocent place. So once again I might be wrong, very wrong. But then I end up considering the opposite…Death. I’m full of memories, some have me shivering when I think of them, I know they will never go away. Like the windy night in high school, when I’m asleep on my bed, till I hear the boy beside my bed gasping for air. Everybody jumped up at the sound of my screaming, they jumped to the inevitable silence. The cold corpse of the boy was taken away. The night never goes away; it stays with me till the sun comes up.

Everybody runs from the truth. The truth isn’t such a bad place, although it’s dressed in a bad way. The truth reminds me of the strict head teacher, the bald headed, dry skinned man that sent two girls away for looking for their erasers underneath their pants. He kept ranting, with emphasis on the word “Abomination”. Some weeks later they found the old man with the science mistress on his desk. Same desk that had seen so many dismissal letters, and listened as people begged for forgiveness. Bottom line is…. The truth is a bitch. The kind of bitch that’s scared nobody will find her attractive enough for the night. Yet we should listen to it, the bitch never lies.

Have you shared a conversation with a hooker? Not the loud screams as you smack whatever your hand comes across. Not that. Have you asked her for her name, if you haven’t then you could never ask her what she thinks you should do with your life?(does it sound crazy?) Well, guess what….. I have. Her words spiraled my imaginations. I listened and listened. Ended up handing her all the money in my wallet. Do you think I’m deranged? But I discovered the truth in that stuffy room that stank of sex. The hooker saved me. I found solution few meters away from cheap bottles of alcohol, and a basket loaded with used condoms.

Now, the hooker, the headmaster, the girls, you and i will remember the truth. It’s perhaps the most unwelcome visitor. A very unattractive bitch indeed, but she will come. Has she told you about death yet? About coffins and the soft cushions within it? It shouldn’t scare you my friend. A mind that doesn’t think of death can never achieve. It reminds us that we are not super humans, we never were. It tells us how much good we need to do while we can. A man that grips to life alone will definitely be reckless, selfish and dishonest.

Finally,

This piece is purely fictional. But death isn’t.

KINGS AND SUBJECTS

it will always be with us
it will always be with us

A very short word, yet it’s probably the most significant. It is something we all seek and eventually treasure once we possess. Acutely insatiable, it comes with its gregarious patterns. It attracts itself. It’s called Power.  From the beginning of creation, there has been a tussle for authority.  It is quite attractive and is never easy to attain, but in every generation, certain people must own it. Ride with me, as I carefully dissect the phenomenon called power. Haven’t you wondered how millions can die in a battle? Fighting for a cause they probably didn’t quite understand. Then, while the tears and anguish flow in. one little man, in a French suit, holding a rumpled paper in his hands climbs to the podium. He offers his condolences to the families of the departed. He doesn’t look remorseful, even though he created a war he didn’t fight in. That’s power.

Society has been carefully crafted. People have been made to see power as farfetched. Seeds have been planted in the heads of the masses, a certain level of false realism. People often believe power is not for them, yet, every day of our lives, we grapple with the inexhaustible urge for power. The only difference is that we are small fishes in small oceans. Let’s not limit our horizon by citing religion as a reason for our lack of thirst. Or perhaps our drinking from small streams.  Even religion enjoys power. People might say power is only in place to maintain order, but what is order? In my opinion order comes with a high level of control. And whoever holds the power to control holds our very breath.

Afro-maestro Fela realized how power was being misused in Nigeria. In one of his songs, he said “dem wan give us human rights. You can’t give us human rights”. As simple as the phrase is, it encapsulates everything I’ve been saying. Once you are at the opposite end of power, everything received is a gift. Water supply, electricity, food, shelter and clothing. These things are our rights, but we can see how every figure head promises the masses these things, just to get a feel of power. The masses will wait, till minds go weary, and eyes weaken.  All he wanted was power. Then some more power.

Not everybody can control substantial amounts of power. The inequality will always be with us. All we can do is recognize that certain people hold large amounts of it, and we can only benefit appropriately when we try to close the gap.  We can correct the system by speaking out, by giving ourselves a voice.  Remember this; there is no king without his subjects. The power mongers need us after all. We form the kingdom. Remember the Arab springs? How people changed the very cycle of power, by speaking out. What about the fight to end slavery in America. We can narrow it down to the small streams. Wherever we are, regardless of how little power we have.  The cycle can always be changed. May the odds be in your favour.

Recently worked with UNESCO world book capital and rainbow book club on an anthology.(see picture below) . It”s available in bookstores close to you. If you want the PDF file. contact me– dumebiphil@gmail.com. Cheers!

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THE STORY AS IT IS

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These hairy and brown skinned hands are never the same. It is not about fingers being equal, it’s a lot more. They all look alike, one fat thumb alongside four well partitioned fingers. But would you say your hands are like mine just because they move alike, and do things that mine would?  We can flip through every part of our body, every substituent that is fused together. Everything is similar, if it isn’t then you’re tagged abnormal. So even from the genesis of things, we were meant to be the same. But the truth is that characteristics are a constant, it is probably the only thing that is mutually shared between the elitist and savages. It’s a birthright. It is very easy to blend into the crowd, to spend every day thinking that two hands, a head and two legs are all you need to keep going.  You readily buy into that notion, after all almost everyone thinks the same.  That’s a lie that’s big enough to cripple your very worth.

I will not deviate today; I will not let the budding ideas in my head lead me away.  We would never be the same, because something stronger defines us. I can stand on a hill; I can watch the sun rise from its slumber. I can be in awe of nature and look on till the skies go dark. Yet I can never be like the man next to me. The both of us are savoring the moment together, we scream in unison as the lions roar from the dry lands just below us, he holds my hand as we climb the steep hill. I feel like I had met him somewhere before.

“Are you from Kigali. “I ask at last.

He looks at me for the first time; I see the scar below his eyes. I see that he has no teeth in his mouth.

“I am from Kibungo.”  His voice is hoarse, his mouth doesn’t move an inch, but I hear the words.

We are devoured by nature itself, the perfection of every edge and spot. I know he is also excited, even though he doesn’t say much. I do all the talking. I tell him about Mary, the prostitute from Gisenyi I had fallen in love with. I tell him about my inn at Byumba, I keep talking.  The smell of fresh leaves is so pleasant. I want to call him brother all of a sudden. I want to know much about him, but he barely says a word.

“What do you do in Kibungo?”

“I do nothing exactly.”

“Don’t you have a family?”

“Everyone has a family.” He sounds irritated now.

“How many children do you have?”

He sits on the ground. He draws his legs on the sand, and then he looks up at me. I see tears in his eyes now. His words are muffled up.

“The soldiers raped Sarah, they raped her while I watched .I could do nothing, I was helpless. I…I…saw it all. They slit my little girls’ throat…Oh…Oh…. They tied me up and set the house on fire. I was left to die.”

He stands up, he is still in tears. He doesn’t look back at me. I felt the tears run down my face. This man who had travelled several miles to have a feel of nature was not like me. We bonded so well, but then he had been through so much. He was stronger, he was tougher.

“You are not my brother.” I say.

He doesn’t hear me.

FOR BETTER FOR WORSE

“Bend down”

“Bend down” he screams once again.

You will think I am a soldier being warned of an incoming bullet. You might picture me in a camouflage trouser, a sweaty ash top, with my face covered in dust and an assault rifle in my hands. The screaming has no emotions in it. It’s the kind a commander gives to his soldier, a king to his servants. But you see, I’m no soldier and I’m in no battle field, I am just a woman in her house in Lagos. The yelling is from the man of the house, I must obey, I have no choice. So I go on my knees. His clothes will be off a few seconds from now, he will slap and hit me hard, Like its a one night stand and I’m a stripper he picked up from a club. Mind you, I am no stripper, just a loving wife, and a mother to my son Tunde. I said it, it’s been approximately thirty seconds, he is done with me now. He pushes me so hard that I fall on the pile of books at a corner in the room.

“Are you done Wole?”

“Enough with the stupid questions” he says, as he meticulously inspects what lies between his legs

“I just want to know for sure”

“If I hear another word, you won’t like what I’d do to you”

The oga of the house means every word he says. He is my general, I am to obey without questions. I must be subservient at all times. Unless I want to see his wrath. How can a fragile woman like me fight with a Titan?

“I’m sorry” I say

I’m forever indebted to the word sorry, it has become my get away ticket. It takes me away from Wole’s fists, sometimes the ticket is not paid in full and I still get a slap.

I mentioned camouflage trousers earlier; I have worn them for a long time now, not as clothes, but on my skin. The scars. Some are dry like kernels, others are fresh like ogiri. It wasn’t always like this you see, ten years ago when I met Wole at a church conference in Oshodi, he was so different and sweet.

“Your blessings have arrived”

He screamed from the pulpit, with his jump up trousers and dusty shoes. We all chorused the hallelujah. Wole was our prayer leader, always with the wine coloured bible,always having encouraging words to say. He asked me to be his wife on a rainy evening. I remember he knelt in front of the pulpit with a ring in his hands.

“Be my wife Angela, I promise to love you as long as I breathe”

I was excited, I jumped and screamed, he knew the answer before I could even say a word .

Now as I sit in this big house with the swinging chandeliers, polished floor and leather cushions, I’m not sure I understand what love is.

“Do you love me?” I asked him sometime last year, he had just come back from ą camp meeting. Wole is one of the biggest pastors in the country; I’m proud of him, trust me I am. I wasn’t quite sure he heard me, so I asked again

“Wole do you still love me?”

“You have me, that’s what is important”

I knew his answer came with ribbons and knots, he had sealed the question. All of a sudden love was now Wole. So long as I have Wole I have love. His presence is supposed to make me happy, I’m meant to scream and bend my head for him to pat, like his members do. I signed off for love not for this. I loved everything he was in Oshodi, and will gladly trade Lekki to go back to the Oshodi version of Wole. The Wole that wore faded shirts and jump up trousers. His Lekki version is killing me, eating me up like Termites would eat wood.

Tomorrow is a Sunday. I will wear my hat with the golden embroidery, and the gown I bought from my trip to England last month, with the brown shoes that can feed a family in Makoko for one week. I will wear a smile for several hours, nod my head and raise my hands up when Wole drops another rhema. His members would be shell shocked if they got to learn just a bit of their spiritual father. A man that screams “Bend down” before sex and tears my undies if I refuse, a man that dipped my face into the hot Eba I served him because there was no periwinkle in the soup. They will call me a liar; these people will jump from third mainland bridge if Wole tells them to.

Three years back, when I was still pregnant, Wole came back from the office very late one night

“Where is my food” he asked

“My love, I have been weak all day, I tried to go into the kitchen but just couldn’t”

“So what do you want me to eat? You expect me to stay hungry because you’re pregnant?”

“No honey, there is some food in the freezer, all you have to do is heat it up”

“Ok”

Few minutes later I felt an all too familiar kind of pain, I screamed. I didn’t have to turn around to know that he was using his belt on me, fast and hard strokes on my butt

“Wole, the baby, please the baby, please”

Those were the exact words I muttered. I slept sideways that night, If you have been pregnant before then I’m sure you know how uncomfortable that is. My stomach was heavy and sore, my butt was bleeding. When I gave birth to Tunde, Wole climbed the pulpit on the day of his dedication, he spoke about love and urged his members to make our marriage their mirror. I smiled and nodded my head, I did not want him to give me another face therapy at home, I was still nursing my bruised gum from the last slap.

I hear and read things about feminists,that women should be equal to men. But I also believe that the terrain matters a lot, if I was a single lady on the street with a placard in my hands that would be different. From where I come from these things are seen as an abomination. Even certain women disagree “why woman wan follow man hold ten” is what they say.

Physically Wole is stronger, financially he is too. If I leave my home people will mock me, and what will happen to my son. Its easier to criticise from outside, believe me its different once you are directly involved. Today I got a first aid kit, better late than never. Reality is an unscrupulous fellow. But I believe in it, and it says I must stick with Wole. For better for worse

Copyright

© Ceeflod.com . Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material on this blog and website without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to ©ceeflod.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. e-mail: Dumebiphil@gmail.com

THE STINK

Hi fam! Sorry for the long absence, was quite busy at the Port Harcourt World Book Capital Writers in Residence program. I’m here now, let’s get it rolling!

WHAT DO YOU STINK OF?

The lady says “you stink of cigarettes!”

The dude says “seems you’ve got cow dung in your bag, you stink!”

Ehm….. Not what I mean.

My number one turn off is body odour! That’s just a NO for me. There’s no excuse for smelling so bad as early as 8 am! That’s appalling!

Yes, that’s just nasty… but still not what I mean

I don’t mean the Ralph Lauren or Givenchy perfumes! That’s all superficial; it doesn’t go deeper than your skin. I’m referring to something deeper, and stronger. It’s the kind of smell that is perceived with the nose and then the eyes, legs, hands. The stink comes from your aura.

Every individual smells of something. Our five senses are interrelated in every way, I taste the soup with my tongue because my eyes have seen that it looks good, my nose has smelt it and it smells good, my ears have heard that there aren’t fights happening around; so I can pounce on the food.

Almost there now…….

Let’s shift the soup aside now. Will I be sounding ridiculous if I say happiness has its smell? The same for bitterness, malice, anger, depression, envy… they take control of your other senses anyway. You see the way an angry person behaves? Screaming, fighting, kicking things, breaking stuff……that’s just the five senses reacting to the smell.

Now if you say you don’t stink, then that means you stink of nothing! That’s really not good, it means you’re empty and you’re really not living life to its fullest. The stink just shows that you’re human.
When you stink of bad stuff, how do you think people around you feel? Here’s a practical example you can try out. Buy some garlic, get a friend to chew some, and let the friend stick with you for the rest of the day. Try to interact, you can reminisce on stuff…. By the end of the day you’ll get the scope.

Now we decide the perfume we wear, I decide mine. I’m a Calvin Klein dude, I’m sure you have your brand. You don’t feel the same way if you wear something else. You love your stuff and your stuff loves you, so you deliberately use it.

DELIBERATELY

The same way you can decide your character stink for the day. You can choose to stink of love, kindness, happiness. You are the pilot of your stink. Believe me, when you smell good you attract the right things and people to you.

LET’S WEAR THE RIGHT STINK!

You can read about my experience at the residency here

http://ngrguardiannews.com/artnew/184103-we-were-aesthetically-tortured-to-be-better-writers

Copyright

© Ceeflod.com . Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material on this blog and website without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to ©ceeflod.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. e-mail: Dumebiphil@gmail.com

KILL THE COCKROACH!!

Do you love movies? Ok yes you do…do you love action movies..I guess so! Who doesn’t… have you forgotten Jack bauer already? Do you remember the series..24! , if you do then you must remember that phrase…“Kill the cockroach”, the tyrant that used the phrase to motivate his child-soldiers, it was quite surreal watching small kids blow the heads of adults and it made me wonder how numb their conscience must have been. I know it’s all fictional but it was very believable and that’s why I think 24: Redemption will always be in a class of its own. Now whenever i see Hakeem kae-kazeem smiling in Etisalat adverts I’m always baffled, although he has made so much money by displaying his dentition I still prefer seeing him with the AK-47, howling out commands. Well, today is all about the cockroaches….have you noticed how we all get ruffled when we discover rats in our homes, the way they dash across the kitchen and make funny sounds at night. Our next point of action is always to eliminate them and so we fervently get down to work, can we say the same for the roaches that creep slowly? We don’t get frightened when we see them, we simply try to step on them with our shoes and if they manage to get away we simply let them go. Both of them eat up our food, clothes and books but one gets the serious scourge.

At this point it’s quite possible that you’re confused and probably wondering where I’m headed……just take a deep breath, we’ll soon be there. I always come up with different concepts and angles in order to nail the cross effectively. So what are the rats in your life? The things that scare us so much and we earnestly try to avert…sickness, accidents, Death…Certainly that, nobody wants to die. So we try our best to keep them away, but can we say the same for the roaches? Those things that creep all over us, that nibble on our very existence but it’s so hard to spot them out. They try so hard to equate themselves with normality. Low self esteem, doubt and dwindling aspirations…These are all typical examples of how the cockroaches attack us, the young man that was once budding with desires and dreams is now a claqueur for the rich, and has assumed that poverty is descendible…so since his grandfather was poor and his father is poor then poverty is most likely his birthright, so every day you take whatever life gives you, you tag satisfaction as what is available not what is attainable…..that’s the cockroach getting fat in your life. You manage to keep the rat away, you stay alive, you go to the hospital when you’re sick, you get married and raise kids…. You look alright, but alright is the story of millions in the world today. Alright is a valley, it gives you the rain and sunshine and enough to go on… but then there’s a mountain somewhere…you should have climbed or be trying to climb. The cleistogamous plants are colourful and look almost the same as the other plants in the bunch…..but when you take a closer look at them you’ll realize that they do not open up, they remain closed. When are you going to open up? When are you going to make records out of that voice? When are you going to get that role in a blockbuster movie? Are you trying to get out of the shadows?

I’m several miles away from perfection and I’m just like you…trying to get rid of the roaches in my life, I ignored them countless times and there have been repercussions but at least I’m doing something. I’ve been trying to weigh the effect the kill the cockroach chants must have had on those little boys, all they saw in front of them were tiny roaches but in reality they had several pounds of flesh and blood in front of them, they were brainwashed to the extent where their eyesight held no meaning. It’s one thing to recognise your problems; it’s another thing to see your obstacles as mere roaches. To see the big challenges in front of you as little, little enough to make you want to dive in almost at once without second thoughts…..to already see victory! Believe me when I say victory is place, a place we all need to visit soon, book your ticket now! Start killing the cockroaches.
So today I joint in the chanting

KILL THE COCKROACH! KILL THE COCKROACH! KILL THE COCKROACH!

Copyright

© Ceeflod.com . Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material on this blog and website without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to ©ceeflod.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. e-mail: Dumebiphil@gmail.com

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PGID: THE CAUSE BEHIND THE CURSE

The title “the cause behind the curse” is my calculative attempt to sum up something so heavy with few words, perhaps the caption serves as an augury for my next lines. I’m going to verbally operate on PGID and hope I can communicate effectively and entertain you as well. Today makes it two years since I started blogging, so it’s a special moment for me. When we tear up animals we are always mindful of their entrails, how bad they smell….so we carefully get rid of them. PGID is one human and societal entrail that’s been left for too long and now it has maggots popping out, it was never opened up in the first place, was never torn to shreds….its lifeless carcass lies by the river bank, it doesn’t have a hand to stir the water like Ebola or claws to hurt like HIV, its steady and defiant ooze is now a raucous of its own. In its solitary it has made some noise, just enough to catch my thirsty ears.

PGID stands for PERSISTENT GENITAL AROUSAL DISORDER. Its name is long….as long as its plague, it’s the menacing guest our parents warned us about as kids growing up. It’s a disorder we have no control over, it’s phenomenal….I use that word because its negatively unique……but it’s still unique. It is the persistent uncontrollable genital arousal in women and is largely unrelated to any feelings of sexual desire. Any form of vibration i.e. from mobile phones, generator sets, trains and sound speakers puts the syndrome into action and in most occasions it leads to orgasm. I read a story recently about a lady, she boarded a train on a very warm afternoon and just as the train left the station she started wriggling, writhing and moaning…she straightened her legs out as the unquenchable spasms kicked in. other passenger were shell shocked and majority of them assumed she was epileptic, but that wasn’t the case. She was simply having an orgasm…her fifth that day alone.

You know that saying? Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it all, some ladies always go the extra mile trying to get to an orgasm but the PGID’ERS can have ten in a single day!. It’s as mind wrecking as being raped, it is stringed with a sufficient level of decadence so “victims” lock their plights up. I watched an episode of A 1000 ways to die, the show has gradually become my favourite…it’s my “popcorn” show and exhibits the menacing ways people get a full stop to their lives, in the episode a man carnally took advantage of a PGID’er and would purposely set her phone on vibration and enjoy the show as she made loud moans on the couch with tears in her eyes. This people have no place for love in their lives, they are always likely to get sexually exhausted and see sex as a painful experience. I know it’s implausible but it’s everywhere, people are thriving with this disorder, my article today is just a microcosm, an attempt to shine light on something that has hobbled in the dark for so long.

Literature says it is caused by an irregularity of the sensory nerves and is more likely to happen to people that have had hormonal treatment. As much as there is no cure it can still be effectively managed, as much as there is a social barricade you can still reach out for help..There is always available help, help shares a common boundary with hope and hope is what keeps us going. So now you know PGID is real, you don’t take advantage, you don’t victimise them….You just offer hope. Its never a good thing when you can’t control your sexual desire, when your heart is not a connecting pipe to your deepest emotions…That’s how PGID exerts itself..don’t add another layer to the CURSE

Copyright

© Ceeflod.com . Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material on this blog and website without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to ©ceeflod.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. e-mail: Dumebiphil@gmail.com

BODY COUNT (18+)

You love life..the funfair and frenzy, you relish Friday nights, according to you it’s a perfect avenue to let go of the stress that’s been building up all week, so there you are on that leather couch, sipping from the glass cup in your hands, you’re not too drunk to notice the charming gentleman that’s been winking at you all night long, then in the few minutes that follow you dance with him and let him talk dirty in your ears. Two hours later your naked figure is lying on a bed, used condoms are littered on the floor and the gentleman is obviously fatigued and is knocked out….snoring. It’s a normal scenario for you so you simply go under the duvet and sleep on till morning.

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You find it difficult to ignore the ladies, everyday you walk along the road you come across beautiful ladies and you always try to get them to notice you. All you need is for them to smile at you…Maybe wink or blush…you just need a sign! Then you get to work, you’re a smooth talker so it’s quite easy to get them to believe you. You promise them the heavens; you make promises and profess a ‘specie’ of love deep enough to make Romeo and Juliet jealous, but all you want is ‘victory’, you see every lady as a game of poker and you only derive satisfaction when her legs are spread apart and you’re kneeling in front of her, struggling to get your condom on… the clock on the wall ticks and plays a perfect symphony for you while you enjoy the spoil.

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Two illustrations from very different angles but with striking similarities, sex is so easy to indulge in as long as you can find someone eager enough to “participate”. We even chase after sex like there’s an accolade attached to it, these days it’s as simple as sharing a cup of coffee, sex is now an occupation! It pays the bills, buys you the new phone and even gets you the job. Great sex is economically a good idea…..that’s how the society has made it look. A young man takes serious pride in bragging to his friends about how many “ladies he has laid” and the girls always want to have the richest “sex job”. Even when ‘accidents’ happen there’s no self-flagellation of any sort, no guilt and certainly no dent in our self esteem. The term guilt is frigidly relevant and doesn’t hold any ground with the ailing state of our moral pedigree. As much as we have made sex an expedient diet, how mindful are we of our body count? I’m sure a large number of us won’t be able to fathom what I mean by body count, it’s all about the number of times we have had sex. If you still know your count then you can give yourself a pat on the back! The concept was designed to help us checkmate and control our “sexual exploits”, it also indirectly helps to give us a stronger resolve to reserve sex for those “magical” moments. I came along a picture some days back with a very strong inscription and it read-

Every man you have sex with deposits and leaves a part of his soul in you…..how many soul ties are you walking around with?”

It’s a very short phrase but then its message is as strong as they come…we can decide to decrypt the term “soul ties” whichever way we want but the question that kept popping in my head was ….what if there’s a greater consequence for every body count? I don’t mean the STD’s or the “sin sermons”…what if there’s a lot more? Would you be more cautious when it comes to sex? I’m sure we are all aware of the answer! So why not start today? A drink in the club or money should never be a collateral for sex….we can start making our body count actually…COUNT!

Copyright

© Ceeflod.com . Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material on this blog and website without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to ©ceeflod.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. e-mail: Dumebiphil@gmail.com

DEMONS IN PRADA

Every lady likes to look good, and these days the thirst for fashion is at its thresh hold. Every year we see fashion constantly evolve like never before, there’s always a new blouse or a new skirt, and the desire to flow with the trend is insatiable. Personally, I love it when a lady stands out; it’s always an interesting sight when a lady captivates the crowd! The gentlemen fervently drool all the way but then I tend to wonder if fashion gives any insight to a ladies personality. What’s more startling is the fact that every lady looks beautiful these days, with the cosmetics and artificial hair! But the clothes and shoes only serve as a podium for every lady, yes! She sparkles and glows but that’s quite superficial and says nothing of her personality. The lady with the long heels might just be shallow; the woman with the bright clothes may just be cruel, but every ‘”modern dude” wants to judge a lady by what she wears and in most instances that’s the only attribute they look out for. The ladies have noticed this “change” so they invest all their time trying to look good, they stop developing their intellects and character, they leave their talents to gather dust. So beauty becomes their only goal, social media has not helped in any way, with facebook and instagram there is always a reason to dress good for the camera, so the society has beautifully patterned “pots” in all corners of the universe…..the only problem is these pots are empty! I know so far I’ve only been critical but at some point the cock has to crow! This is just a wakeup call to the ladies…definitely if you look sizzling you’ll have the attention of most guys, but what’s the duration of the admiration? A thousand likes on your facebook and that’s most of it! And your webs will certainly bring you guys that are all clogged up with lust. I have always been of the mindset that love is like the wind….it’s not seen its felt! Lust sees…..love feels! So ladies ask yourself today… “How well have I developed myself?” “Am I offering anything more to my society other than pictures?” These questions are pivotal to every lady that wants to take the self examination test. Every girl regardless of her social status or wealth is like a glass of palm wine, nature in all of its dynamicity gives room for “compulsory change”. With each passing day you keep fermenting, and with time you won’t be the “Cinderella” you once were. The beauty fades but the talent and quality stands strong, that’s all that matters. I’d love to take a Ferrari for a spin, I also hope to ride in a Bentley someday, but if I want to buy a car I’d certainly look beyond the grandeur of these motorcars and will earnestly consider the engine and its durability! I’m being quite metaphorical but I’m sure everyone reading gets the scope! The figure is great, the smile is stunning, the legs are amazing….most dudes will love to take a “ride’” or a quick spin! But when it’s time for commitment they will always consider the “engine”, they will weigh your character and evaluate your quality. I think I have scribbled enough words….so my ladies you can decide to redefine your perspective to life today, as you try to keep in touch with fashion today, don’t leave the “things that really matter” behind! God bless you!

Copyright

© Ceeflod.com . Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material on this blog and website without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to ©ceeflod.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. e-mail: Dumebiphil@gmail.com

VOICELESS

The hardest part in every piece I write is the beginning, sometimes I have to watch a movie, listen to music (in this case, Jaga Jaga by Eedris Abdulkareem), read a book or call on my intellectual alter ego, all in a bid to start this engine. You know why? It’s because right about now, I’m downright sure I have your attention, you see what I did there??? Beginnings matter, remember I said that, now let’s get to the story…
We domicile in a country where our resources get stolen out from under us. The bulk of it gets deposited in Swiss banks, the rest is used to grade roads, that were supposed to be tarred; sink a bore hole for a densely populated community, which private individuals can do; rehabilitate a quarter of an already dead school building; buy rice bags for market women; buy motor cycles (‘okada’) for university graduates, GRADUATES!!! & any other meagre deed you can imagine. What’s worse is the fact that they get overly appreciated for these bread crumbs they throw at us. We forget that these exiguous projects are only a tiny fraction of the job description of our beloved public seat holders. I was talking to a friend on this issue and he said something that I will always remember…
“Nigerians do not know what they really want, so they settle for less”
Do I blame the thieving politicians? No! It’s the majority I blame, we have no voice and even when we choose to speak, it fades with the echo and sometimes it fades faster than the echo. We give aspiring public officers this impression – “we need help, so help us, you can steal, but just help us”… Beginnings matter, and that’s the beginning we have created; the beginning of helplessness, so the politician is always in the vantage position, he/she doesn’t feel any form of obligation, just a sense of charity, if not why hold a ceremony to open two newly built classrooms, if its your job, why the ceremony, what’s there to celebrate? Should police men celebrate after every arrest? Should school teachers celebrate after every class? Should coffin makers celebrate after crafting coffins? Pause, think and keep reading…

This is not me complaining, it’s me trying to give you a voice, telling you that you deserve more, so demand more. You know how we all complain about the country, but when we really have a chance to change things we “moonwalk” away! We are the voiceless majority… Over 170 million people and yet the Nigerian dream has been hijacked by a few ungodly men who are willing to lie, cheat, steal, and even kill just so they can protect their ill gotten wealth. Edmond Burke once said “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil, is for good men to do nothing!”
The Patricia Etteh chronicle where she was alleged to have used 628 million naira to renovate her apartment, The Farouk/Otedola case of the 500 thousand dollars bribe, or is it the promise from Goodluck Jonathan that the money removed from the fuel subsidy will be used to uplift the country… These and many other cases abound, they have all been forgotten, even though they were never resolved… Why? Because we never spoke out; you are about to ask what good that would do but before u do, I’ll ask u this “have you tried?” We never found the need to ask questions, we never monitored proceedings, we don’t even try to hold government accountable! We are the majority that watch(ed) as the few steal (stole) their priced jewels. I’m calling for a revolution of the mind, change your perception, do something for your country, challenge misappropriation of funds, challenge the political mediocrity that is now the norm. Be the change, speak out, have a voice!
When will Nigeria ever get better? When you choose to use your voice…

Written by John Iyoha @johniyoha1
Edited by Ken Iguodala @kiguodala

Copyright

© Ceeflod.com . Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material on this blog and website without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to ©ceeflod.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. e-mail: Dumebiphil@gmail.com