MayDay Post by Dimeji – My Pikin

So here’s an interesting 6part story by Dimeji and he came up with the novel concept of putting each episode up as a story chain on different blogs. Here’s the 5th of them. Follow the link at the end for the finale on Dimeji’s blog.

Mayday Dimeji


My people dem say ‘to born pikin nahin dey pain woman pass’ but make we tok true, woman wey carry belle for 9 months, wey lie down push comot when all the doctor and nurse dem dey look her yansh, know sey make your pikin die go pain pass. How people go take hear am, sey d pikin wey you born, wey suck your breast, wey you send go school, don finish, do graduation party, tie your gele gogoro make everybody look you dey jealous you just kpai like fowl.   How?

Na so dem talk sey my pikin Olufemi just follow go. Olufemi temi, omo ade, omo ayo, areemo ile baba re, arole mi.

Ha. Aye ma nika o.

Everybody dey house dey cry, hin papa just dey inside room, lock door no gree comot come see all the people dem wey come greet am. Dem talk sey Femi don go. Na lie. Na me born am.  The time wen femi still small, no be me dey know wen hin injure for school? No be me dey clean d injury dem, dey put dettol and plaster? Na me get my pikin and my own pikin, omo temi, never die.

When dem two boys come house today, talk sey dem see Femi dead body for one house wey dem go yesterday hin papa jus fall for ground begin dey do like person wey get warapa.  Useless man, everydey wen d pikin dey house no be so so curse e dey curse am?

“Useless boys, Stupid boys, good for nothing, just like your morrar”

Now e hear sey d boy die e dey roll for ground dey shout “my graduate”. Graduate wetin? No be me dey sweat to carry all my profit from my shop pay all d pikin school fees wen e dey go school go study engineer? D man go look us two dey give money to hin small wife because she go school, she be graduate. Well, my pikin too don become graduate afterall, graduate cancel graduate.  When dem dey do ceremony, na hin cap white pass, na hin shout pass, do party for d whole street dey announce sey hin pikin na graduate. Shior!

Na me get d pikin and my pikin never die. Dem for gree me look d body make I show dem say hin never die. Maybe e dey sleep e no wan answer dem. But Olufemi mi must answer me, emi iya e.

Now I dey look dem dey put hin body for ground, white cloth, I dey beg him papa, make dem no bury am today, make I call Pastor B come. I tell am, sey Pastor B go call my pikin, e go wake, sey na sleep e dey sleep and even if e don die true true, Pastor B go pray, the prayer go wake am. Alahji look me talk sey I dey crase, sey make I go meet my pastor but before sun touch ground dem must to put my pikin for ground.

Na so I jus dey dere dey look dem, won ti e fi posi sin, after them finish dem carry go, I jus dey here dey look the grave. Na only dat Morenike girl remain, iyen ni tie, she jus tanda dey look me. Hmmmn, maybe na she femi wan marry true true, tori pe, before na hin friend Abisola dey find Femi come, den as Femi and Abisola fight, she con dey come find am for house, I go see dem two from my shop dey enter, one time sef I catch dem dey play love play. I want talk, but if I talk Femi go carry mouth, no go chop my food until I beg am. I leave am ni o, after all omo Abisola yen o ti e le wa, even though she sef still dey come do love play for we house, woo Morenike, Abisola, ki ni iyato?

Ha! Femi no even marry, give me one grandpikin to carry. Shebi before if I ask am he go talk sey money no dey, e dey find job. I dey tell am, sey Pastor B don talk am, sey d job wey e want, e go find. But Femi no go comot go find am. E go siddon make d job come, d wan wey come sef e go talk sey d money no reach, sey no be d wan wey e want be dat. E reach somewhere, I come carry my money, all d money wey I get for dis world, give am make e start dat hin business. Na d business con kill am. Olufemi o!

I don call Pastor B sha, e never finish. My Pastor go come, we go do am like Lazarus, e no mean, my Femi go comot from dat ground. My phone begin dey gring, na Pastor B be dat, e don arrive, as I reach gate, return, dey carry Pastor come d place wey dem put am, with Morenike, nahin I see Olufemi mi dey comot from d ground. I shout ‘Pastor! Halleluyah! God has done it!’. Nahin Pastor B cover my mouth, sey no be God be dis.

Morenike jus dey shake for my back.

Pastor B still dey cover my mouth Femi come begin dey waka. I wan bite hin hand, my pikin dey waka comot,  he want make e lost?

“Sister. Listen to me. I did not feel the power of the Lord leave me. This is a machination of the devil. Let us see where he is going first. It might be a coven that wants to use his body. Eaters of flesh and drinkers of blood, then we shall call the Lord down in their midst”

Yeeeeeeeeekpa! Dem wan use my pikin do small chops.  Na so me I follow Pastor B dey follow Femi. Him just dey run, people dey give am space. We dey drive for back, dey speed sef, because the kain run wey my pikin dey run ehn, Jesus! E be like dat time wey dem dey do race go tell david sey Absalom don die. We pass 3rd mainland enter Ikoyi, my pikin still dey go fourforty.

When we stop, we dey front of one big house, Morenike talk sey na here awon ore Femi talk sey dem come work yesterday.  Femi jus dey look dier gate, tanda dey look am. We jus park far small dey look femi. Small time hin waka come back small jus run, jump am. Femi jump d whole gate. All the gate. From ground. Reach up. Gbam. Inside compound. Pastor eye open, my mouth follow open, Morenike jus dey hold chest. True true o! Na witchcraft o! Dem wan chop my pikin.

We jus dey the car dey look like mumu. Some two people dem just appear for d front of the gate, jump am, dem no even wait small, look ground.

“Aha! The coven is arriving. We must attack now. We must!”

I comot my gele, tie am for waist, we must deliver my pikin today by fire by force. “Morenike oya je ka lo“. The girl jus dey look me like panla. Let’s go and do the Lord’s work o de n gbon. Mscheeeeeeew. Me and Pastor B come go d gate. As we near am, pastor B come open hin suit remove one small stick wey get red cloth, d tin be like omorogun but with all dem nkan agba ti won ko si are e, juju ree!

“Ahan. Pastor. But warrisdis. Have we not supposed to go with the powers of Gods almighty”

“Iya Femi, don’t worry. You don’t understand. This is a different level of grace. Let us go in, I will explain later. Show you how to sit in the lap of God. But for now, remember, the Bible says we must be as wise as serpents in this wicked world.”

Na so we go o, as we rish d gate Pastor B push am, d gate dey open, nahin everybody come dey jump since morning. Hian. The house big o! Be like Ooni Palace. As we dey waka go, Pastor B dey hold hin stick dey speak in tongues, I jus dey look my own. When we rish door, one breeze just blow, push the door plus me plus Pastor B for ground. I open eye, Pastor B just dey lie down dey look. Iro o. Dem wan begin chop be dat o. Nahin I run enter, my people, wetin I see. Femi dey dere dey hold Abisola, Femi dey drink im blood. Eaters of flesh and drinkers of blood. Olufemi! Na hin papa pikin!








Boiling Pot Of Madness – 4

Here’s the 4th and final episode of Boiling Pot of Madness, a collaborative work by Dimeji (@iStalkWriters) Femi (@DisFemiSef) and Harold (@HaroldWrites). One writer wrote each of the first three episodes, picking up from where the other left, completely at liberty to develop the story as they please. Interesting experiment. The finale was written by all three together. Enjoy.


Dimeji Femi Harold

Margaret slammed her phone to smithereens after she was done venting her anger to Afonja. These boys have gone mad, she thought. They had completely re-written the plan. This wasn’t what she had envisaged. All she had wanted, and had asked of them was to disrupt the elections, not….

The whole country was now in chaos. The governors were either missing or dead. Same goes for honourable members of the legislative houses across the federation. The country borders have been infiltrated by unknown elements. She, herself would have been dead meat by now. But for her awareness and prompt kamikaze driving, she would have been assassinated the other night. She had to relocate to a relatively unknown part in Abuja to avoid prying eyes. These infidels were laying siege to the country!

And where the hell was the President? The last she saw and heard of him was his presence at the Election ground in Otuoke right before the explosion. She knew he wasn’t dead – the security forces did not find the President’s remains at the venue. Where could they have taken him to? What were they up to?

Margaret thought of ringing Gideon Wosu. She picked up another phone of hers and dialled his number, but just before the call could connect, she dropped it. That would be dangerous. If she spoke to him, he would know she was still alive.

She rubbed her palms as she continued pacing around the room.

What if he knows I am alive, what does it matter? I have already called Afonja, and the news would still get to the rest that I am alive.

“The hell!” she exclaimed, then picked her phone and dialled Gideon’s number the second time. He didn’t pick on the first ring.

As she listened to Gideon’s ring back tone, the events of the night were she had met the group flashed through her mind.

Three months before the general elections, the President had called for a special meeting with the security institutions. The subject matter was obvious – how to ensure a fair, free and safe election. The polity was getting heated up. A break out group from the bokoharam – the Al Shubeb were posing a few security challenges in the north; some dissatisfied former militants and members of the now-dissolved Niger Delta militants amnesty program were plotting a national protest for non-payment of amnesty dues. On the political scene, the Northerners were aggrieved that a candidate of Northern origin was not picked as the ruling party’s Presidential flag bearer. A couple of political associations had vowed to make the country a boiling pot of violence for the injustice done; The East also felt pained –  they had hoped for an igbo Presidential candidate. A few elder statesmen spewed angry words in the media; the West were not left out in this furore. They felt they deserved a candidate of western origin too…

Margaret had listened carefully to the submissions of her colleagues in related Federal security parastatals on how to contain the situation if any threats were posed. And as the head of the SSS, she made a contribution or two of her own too.

Right after the meeting at the Presidential quarters, she made a few calls to her alliance. She informed them on the direction with which the country was going.

It was then she was given some intelligence report that the Al Shubeb and some dissatisfied former militants were meeting in a fortnight. Whatever the agenda was, she never knew and she never cared. She stole a cue from the report. What if she could unite the four most dreaded outlawed groups in the country for a common cause? What if she could bring together the MEND, OPC, MASSOB and talk the BOKOHARAM out of their cease-fire operation? What if…..

As she paced around the room reminiscing on the events of the pre-election period, a call came through her phone. She did not recognise the number and so did not bother picking. The phone rang the second and third time. She ignored it. Then an SMS came through.

Leave the room tonight…

The message was as short as a clock hourly hand. For the first time since the assassination attempt on her life, Margaret felt a cold chill run down her spine. What did the message mean? And more importantly, who was the sender? How did they know where she was?

After the assassination attempt, she had relocated to the suburbs and was now holed up in a cheap hotel room. Did they trace her down there? Or did they tap her call to Afonja and traced the address? Was her phone bugged?

Margaret quickly redialled the number which sent the message. The voice on the other end was feminine.

“I should not be talking to you….” it said.

“Who are you?” Margaret cut in.

“Who are you?” Margaret repeated. “Talk to me!” she barked.

“Who sent you? How did you know where I stay? Why should I leave tonight?”


Margaret could feel her pulse beat faster. The tension was getting to her.

“Gideon says you should leave tonight,” the voice said and the line went dead.

Before Margaret could get a grip of the situation at hand, she heard a knock on the door. She was startled, but kept quiet. The knock came again. Then she heard the words, “Room service.”

“I..did… not order for anything.”

“You have a delivery.”

“Leave it at the door.”

Margaret could hear footsteps fading away. She waited for a while, and then approached the door. She looked into the peephole but did not see anyone. After a few seconds, she slowly opened the door. A parcelled box lay on the floor. She quickly retrieved same and shut the door.

Inside the box were a number of photographs. The images on the photos looked familiar. On closer scrutiny, Margaret discovered that they were pictures of her little daughter, Ngozi.

“Bastards!” she exclaimed.

Ngozi Ogoegbulem was Margaret’s eight year old daughter from her failed marriage. Right before the elections she had sent her daughter to go stay with her mother in the coal city of Enugu, her hometown.

What do they want from me? What do they want from me? Who is behind this?

Only one name came to her mind: Gideon Wosu. She made to dial his number but stopped midway, and dialled her mother’s instead.

“Nne Mama,” her mother teased on the other end. “Kedu?”

The calm in her mother’s voice put Margaret’s mind at rest. She was certain all was well.

“Mama I’m fine. How is Ozi ?”

“She’s fine. She’s currently playing with her friends in the yard. Any problem?”

“Umm no Mama,” she said abruptly and dropped the call. She knew if she stayed any longer on the phone her mother would suspect all was not well and she did not have the time to explain.


The wall clock ticked. It was 6:00 pm. Margaret quickly packed a few clothes and documents into her backpack. She had to leave as the caller had instructed. Where she was going, she had no idea. Just as she made for the door, she felt a tiny object burst through the door and whiz past her right leg. A little movement to the right and the object would have hit her. Margaret gasped and paused for a moment. Another sharp tiny object burst through the door again. This time it missed her head by a hair. It was then it dawned on Margaret that her worst nightmare was now a reality – she was under attack. She immediately fell to the ground, laying low. More bullets burst through the door. Margaret’s eyes roved round the room, her heart pounding heavily. Was this her end?

She spotted a rectangular hole on the wall meant for an air conditioning unit. There was no such unit. Instead, the hole was covered with pieces of brown papers.  Could she make it there in time before her assailants gained entry? Throwing caution to the wind, she darted towards the hole, pulled out the carton and climbed through. Rolling over and thumping to the ground on the other side, Margaret found herself in the parking lot. She heard the door from within the room crash to the ground under heavy pressure. Powerful footsteps could be heard roaming the room.

Margaret left the spot, surreptitiously tiptoed around some vehicles, found her way out of the parking lot and unto the dusty streets. Then with all the energy left in her, she ran for dear life.














Good day y’all. Another week, another episode of Boiling Pot of Madness. Hope your weekend was good, we here enjoyed it. @HaroldWrites is at it again, enjoy the writeup, don’t forget to follow the blog to get email notifications, like us on Facebook and you can follow us on twitter. Enjoy it!

It had been about week now since the election day mayhem. And just as the country was in disarray, same went for AkwaIbom state too. The State was devoid of any form of recognised previous government as the leaders of the old ruling political class were either killed or missing. The leader of MEND, General Gideon Wosu had appeared on selected south-south media channels to declare control over the region. He had said he and his troops now oversaw the south-south geopolitical zone.

“Today, I bring you good news,” he had said in a live telecast. “The days of exploitation by irresponsible and corrupt government officials are over. I and my colleagues have come to liberate our people. This region has been the backbone of the forgone entity called Nigeria but we have never enjoyed the dividends of our natural resources. We were manipulated by the colonial masters, abused by the military dictators and marginalised by the so-called democratic governments. We cried and begged for what rightfully belonged to us, but no one listened. We fought with words and blood, but never succeeded. But today, the Almighty has shone his mercy on us. We finally succeed in our struggle and stand in victory. Let it be known to all men henceforth that the region once known as South-South shall from this day be called The People’s Republic of Boma! We shall strive to achieve our collective goal, for this land is the people’s land! Long live The People’s Republic of Boma!”…

The international community had condemned the coup in the country and had threatened intervention. The United Nations had released a statement reprimanding perpetrators of the coup, saying it was sabotage on humanity and the rule of law. Some G8 nations had offered any form of assistance to bring the culprits to book. The United States government in particular had promised to capture the leaders of the four militia sects. In response, the militia leaders had promised war on foreign nationals within the country if the international community attempted to carry out their threats.

At the government house in Uyo, Gideon Wosu sat in council with his advisers and right-hand men. The week had been a very eventful one. After the taking over of different parts of the country by his fellow rebels, Gideon had immediately set forth to appoint interim heads of the different states within his region. These heads had limited powers and were directly answerable to him. They could only execute directives in their states after due consultation with and approval from him.

At the Executive Council meeting in the government house, Gideon and his cohorts plotted the distribution of oil revenue to the different regions. There had been a little disagreement as to how much revenue should go to Cross Rivers, Port Harcourt and AkwaIbom – the three major oil producing States in the region – as against the other smaller oil-producing states.

As Gideon made to make a final pronouncement, his phone buzzed. He stole a glance at the number calling. It was Afonja, the military leader of the OPC.

“One minute gentlemen,” he said and made for his inner office.


The four militia groups had not communicated as a group since the coup. They had signed a pact to take over the country in a collective effort, but keep their distances and rule over their respective zones thereafter. So it was strange that Afonja would call.


“Gidi, we have a situation here,” Afonja said.

“What is it?”

“Margaret is still alive.”

The words sent chills down Gideon Wosu’s spine. Ordinarily, he should not be scared of an adversary’s presence; the forces of the four militia groups could grind anyone to pulp. But Margaret was not just any adversary. She was THE adversary. She knew too much about their military operations and strategies. She had literally squeezed the information out of them at the meeting where she had converged the four militia heads. This was her only demand in exchange for intelligence report about the state of the country’s security. She knew who were who within their ranks, where they got military support from, their contacts abroad, their hideouts within the country etc. The only thing they had kept from her was their plan to modify her plan. She had wanted them to only disrupt the presidential election. They saw it as an opportunity to take over the country.

They had felt comfortable relaying their other secrets to her because they knew she was dead meat any way. They would take care of her right after they took over the country. But they had failed.

“What? I thought Al Mustapha was supposed to take care of her? What happened?”

“His boys failed. Twice…”

“But how is that possible? She is within his territory. How could she have escaped him? Where is she now?”

“We don’t know, but we have reports that she’s planning to aid the US government into our land….”

“Our land, you mean your land? I hear you call it ….”

“I mean the four zones.”


There was a brief silence. Both men were weighing in on their options. This was going to be another war, one which they really weren’t prepared for. After the election day take over, they were already fast running out of military supplies.

“Call for a meeting,” Gideon said “They want war? We’ll give them war.”





















Hey everyone! Another great Monday morning to you all. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks eh? Well we’re back with another installment of BPOM to kick start your week. Today we have @DisFeMIseF at the helm. Please give it a read, leave a comment and share the post. It’s important to get the word out as writers depend on this a lot. Thanks. You can follow the blog to get email notifications of new posts, you can also like our facebook page, we’d love that. And of course you can follow us on twitter @ideaniverse. Cheers!


The tension was so palpable it could be cut with a bread knife

The location was secluded, the meeting clandestine and the topic, inflammatory. The four warlords sat around a table silently sizing each other up. Al Mustapha, with his long beard and little beady eyes sat deep in thought. He was the head of the dreaded Boko Haram. To his left sat Gideon Wosu. Arrogant, selfish and greedy, with his large face and large hands was in the process of speaking his mind. He was the leader of MEND. He did that all the time, speaking his mind. His brash and brazen approach towards everything won him very few friends and loads of enemies. Next up was soft spoken, but extremely dangerous Francis Ngigo, he was the leader of the MASSOB. He rarely spoke, but it was said in different circles that he was a ruthless and cruel man. He tortured his prisoners. He had killed countless people and was seen to be without a shred of mercy. He sat with a look of supreme calm on his weathered, but likeable face. Then of course, there was Afonja, leader of the OPC. His large nostrils were flaring as he thought of all the things going on.

They were the most dangerous men in the country

And now they all had the same problem


How one woman could cause men as powerful as these so much problems was a mystery, but here they were, worrying about her and what she was going to do. Afonja himself was seething, he was the one that she had called first and he was irritated by her insolence. Why couldn’t she just die in peace, like the rest of the people he had ordered killed? Didn’t she see what they were trying to do? They were trying to build a stronger bunch of nations, a place where there was no strife, no war, no tribalism, and people could live in peace with one another and be happy. In every revolution, there had to be sacrifices, and Margaret was the biggest sacrifice in this one. She should be honored to play that role and grateful to be given the opportunity.


Wosuhit the table with a large fist

None of the men flinched

“How could this happen?!” he roared.

Afonja found all this a tad dramatic, but Wosu had always been the dramatic one, his people needed him to be that way, so Afonja felt it worked for him

“I thought Al Mustapha was to take care of that miserable woman Margaret?”

Al Mustapha raised an eyebrow

“You seem to forget…” he said in heavily accented English “That we all picked them together” he finished coldly

“Yes” retorted Wosu “But they were your guys, you said you had used them before and that they would not fail. We all put our trust in you and you failed us”. In Afonja’s head, he was saying ‘speak for yourself’ but in reality he kept quiet. Someone needed to be blamed and blaming Al Mustapha at the moment seemed logical.

Al Mustapha was looking at Wosu with a look of pure loathing. If eyes could kill.Afonja decided to be diplomatic

“This is not a time to be sharing blame. That was in the past, the question now is: what are we going to do?”

“We kill her of course!” said Wosu

Afonja rolled his eyes. Duh! As his teenage son would say when someone stated the supremely obvious. But these were men who only knew how to kill, so making such an exclamation was probably not the wisest course of action

“Yes Wosu, killing her would be convenient. But how do we do it this time?”

All the men fell silent. That was a question that they all had to mull over. Wosu wondered if the threat to her daughter had gotten to her. It had been a desperate move, a move that in hindsight was probably not the wisest. He had known all along that she was still alive; he just needed to seem surprised. If the other warlords knew about his little faux pas with the daughter and everything, they’d be very miffed, and you didn’t want to miff these guys unless it was absolutely worth it. Wosu just decided to keep quiet, they were smart men, they would come up with something.

“We could send another set of assassins” suggested Afonja

“We can’t use assassins anymore. She would be on high alert for them, they’d never get close” said the quiet Francis

Afonja sat deep in thought, this was stupid. How could one woman have them all wound up like this?

“How about we…” started Al Mustapha

“How about we what?” said a voice

The men turned their faces towards the sound

They paled

It was Margaret

Wosu made to get up, but Margaret whipped out a gun and pointed it at him

“Sit!” she ordered.

The proud warlord complied

Francis was calm. That was always his disposition

“So, what can we do for you Margaret?” he asked as if he was talking about the weather

“Well I don’t know Francis… said Margaret her eyes scanning the room and taking it all in and also watching her hostages to make sure none of them made any sudden movements

“How about you leave me and mine alone and also stop this foolhardy plot of yours”

“How did you even get in here?” said a clearly enraged Wosu

“You seem to have conveniently forgotten that I am the director of the SSS. I have a specific set of skills. You’ll find your men unconscious and when they wake up, they would be tied up with no recollection whatsoever.

“It was pretty smart of you to pick this place. The lack of security was a little surprising though, but I guess that more security would have meant that more people would have known about this meeting. So it was really only logical for you to have just one guard each for company. And because of the blatant mistrust you all have for each other, I have the only gun in the room”

The warlords just stared at her, quietly seething

“I see, you’re planning my murder. So, here’s the thing: I don’t want to die. I also want you to put a stop to your operations immediately, surrender publicly and we can go back to the way things used to be.”

Afonja couldn’t believe his ears

Was she joking?

Surprisingly, it was Francis who spoke first.

“Margaret dear, you know we can’t do that. We would crush you and whatever army you think you have” he smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. They were cold and soulless. He was angry, but Margaret didn’t care.

She held all the cards now

“You say ‘We’ like you’re all friends or something”

“We share a common goal, yes” replied Al Mustapha

“I wonder how true that is” mused Margaret

Afonja didn’t like where this was going

“Woman! Don’t waste our time. What is this all about” said the ever impatient Wosu “You’re one to talk Wosu, seeing as you tried to have me killed again. And you also tried to threaten me with my daughter”

Francis raised an eyebrow. Al Mustapha had a very smug smile. Wosu felt himself going red

“You little bitch” muttered Wosu thinly. He hated her with every fiber of his being right now.

“Or Al Mustapha, What are you smiling about? Isn’t it true that you already have sleeper agents in the new territories being formed by your counterparts and bombs that have been set in major cities and landmarks?”

Al Mustapha stopped smiling

“You know the north can’t rely on agriculture alone. Well they could, but you’re unwilling to wait for the period it would take to build an economy on the back of agriculture. So you plan to terrorize the territories of your counterparts and wage a jihad and take over them”

Wosu was shell shocked, as were the other men in the room

“Well, Mustapha, who’d have thought you had it in you” said Francis lightly

“YOU BASTARD!” bellowed Wosu

Al Mustapha looked at the others defiantly.

“I have no need to explain anything to you. How do we know that Margaret isn’t lying?”

Margaret smiled “I am the director of the SSS, I have links with almost every intelligence agency in the world. A few phone calls and all your plans have been revealed to me. The Americans are watching, as are the Chinese. They are just waiting to see what you will do and then act accordingly, to their own interests”

“I see. So this is probably accurate information” said Francis

“I see you look pretty calm Francis” said Margaret

“In fact I am” replied Francis

“You still plan on realizing the dream of Ojukwu. A Biafra, a nation for your kinsmen”

“It is a noble endeavor; I see no shame in wanting to create a nation for my people. A place where they can call home and be at peace with themselves”

“Charming” mocked Margaret lightly “Did you also tell your cohorts that you intend to make Lagos a vassal state and that if refused you’d destroy the entire state so that no one would have it?”

Afonja’s eyes nearly popped out of his head

“Was that your plan all along?” he asked

Francis’ smile was gone. His lips were pursed and his neck was suddenly bulging with veins

“And Afonja.”

Afonja felt dread

“You want Lagos too don’t you? And also Edo state, which could be said to be partly Francis’ territory… or Wosu’s

Wosu glared at Afonja

“HOW DARE YOU!” he said

“How dare i?” asked Afonjaincredulously“Edo has a lot of Yoruba speaking people and places and we intend to take full advantage of the oil found there. You have other territories that can provide you with your oil. So, we’re taking this on.”

“Over my dead body” said Wosu

“Then maybe that’s how we’ll take it” retorted Afonja

Margaret smiled

“Well, there you have it. You all are disgusting maggots that are going to kill each other anyway. But troops from other nations are coming into our borders as we speak and I’m going to give them information about every hideout, every stronghold, every tidbit of information I have on you all. Unless you surrender…and quickly

“Gentlemen?” said Margaret with a grace she did not feel. And with that she took her leave, walking out the door as if she owned the place, an unquestionable air of victory surrounding her.

There was silence

The warlords looked at each other with a new layer of distrust and disgust

The foxes had just been outfoxed

They were all thinking the same thing

War was inevitable now.

















Good morning good people. Hope you had an amazing weekend. A s with all good things, Boiling Pot of Madness has also come to an end. This finale piece is written by  @iStalkWriters. An amazing read. It has been fun, we hope you enjoyed it. Make sure you give it a read, leave a comment and share with people. If you haven’t read the story, please you can read them here (, here (, here (, here (, here ( and here ( Thank you again for reading and for your continued support.

Next week, @DisFeMIseF would start a short series that promises to be great, please look forward to it. Follow us on twitter, like our facebook page and follow the blog so as to get email notifications of new posts and stuff. Enjoy!


When Margaret left the room, she had walked out with the only gun, but, in a room with men who had killed before they had lost their virginities, a gun was only one in an array of weapons to be found in their bare meeting room. Afonja was staring at Francis Ngigo, his disgust at Gideon Wosu’s drama forgotten. All he could think of was an Ife tuntun without Lagos state and this bastard Francis wanted to claim it for his own or destroy it.

Francis wanted out of the room, everybody had a secret but his plans to claim Lagos had just been irreparably jeopardized. He hadn’t gotten his sleeper cells in place yet. Now that Afonja knew of the plot, it would be doubly hard to pull off. He pushed up from the table, important as it was, winning Lagos wasn’t his biggest problem anymore, if Margaret was right and she probably was, Al Mustapha had plans to terrorize all the other regions, he reached for his belt, the buckle was fashioned out of pig iron, swung at the right angle, it would kill a man on contact.

Sensing danger, Al Mustapha stood and backed away from the table. There was a small knife lodged in the heel of his slipper, he eyed Francis warily, the igbo were quick to attack, he had to be careful. Afonja’s eyes followed the tension, he reached into he trousers and retrieved his ring, he slipped it on as Al Mustapha backed away muttering incantations under his breath.  Francis might be vile, but Mustapha was going to betray them all, the man had no honor.

“Gentlemen, sit, let us discuss.”

Gideon Wosu was on his feet, the walking stick he usually carried with him in his hands, its ivory handle now held promise of a brutal beating the way he carried it like a weapon.

Afonja and Francis got up.  Francis’ voice was quiet when he spoke. “There is nothing to discuss, you are no better than the cancer I sought to free my people from when I agreed to this coalition.  The pigs in politics would lie and steal and stab each other in the back and let civillians suffer for it. That will not be my legacy. Biafra is already a great nation and she has a bright future, her rebirth shall not be marked by war. I will pull my men out of Lagos, you can have your Ife tuntun,” Afonja scoffed, Francis ignored him  “Mustapha will remove his people from all Biafran territories, we will leave this room and never meet again, I will end Margaret once and for all. We shall broker with the Americans and the Chinese. Assure them that their business interests will be safe in all our territories. After the first decade, feel free to expropriate.  I bid you adieu gentlemen, you are not welcome in Biafra.”

Gideon let his stick slide through his palms till he was holding it by the handle again. “Do we have a deal?” Afonja grunted, Al Mustapha nodded. Francis made to walk out of the room. Outside the door he made his way to the small tray where their cell phones had been deposited, the others were behind him. He punched the number in from memory, “Nnamdi, mechaya.”

They all left the building, ignoring the men tied up in the lobby, Gideon kicked the young recruit that was supposed to be guarding him as he walked by.  They all dialed for alternative transportation. Out of inherent distrust more than anything else, they each had a small kill force in close proximity.  When their vehicles arrived, they grunted their good byes and made to leave, then Afonja turned around and put a hand on Al Mustapha’s shoulder “Brother, I pray that we never meet again” then he turned, slipped his ring off and got into his vehicle all the while muttering under his breath. As they pulled off, Afonja, Gideon and Francis made calls to their respective bases with the same instruction, “Fire on the North”

When Al Mustapha first saw the creature in his back seat he was deep in thought. He had managed to convince himself that Francis was right, a peaceful co existence was best, why kill and maim, the North could rebuild itself, it could prove them wrong. The creature laughed. Short and black with tiny horns. He gasped, the men in the front turned to check on him, they saw nothing.  When they told the story later, they said he started off screaming Shigidi and when he stopped, he made a single phone call and dropped dead.

Al Mustapha stopped screaming when he remembered the ring, Afonja’s hand on his shoulder, he knew it was over but he wasn’t going down without a fight, he ignored the little demons that now filled every space in the car except those filled by its occupants the rest of whom were oblivious to the abominations. He dialed his second in command, what he meant to do was punish them all, Gideon, Francis and Afonja, especially Afonja.

“Initiate Operation Peace and Unity”. The man at the other end stammered, “Si … Sir?”  Al Mustapha hummed out the last few lines of the first stanza of Nigeria’s national anthem, he chuckled at the irony before he died. In minutes, missiles were launched from every military base in the North and they were heading for the rest of Nigeria. Those missiles flew over thousands of ground troops from the South, East and West heading in the other direction. War had begun.


War meant nothing to Nnamdi, he was exceptionally single minded. Some might say obsessive, Margaret was his current obsession.  Nnamdi hated failure almost as much as he hated poverty or being told that he could not do something. Which is why when his sisters had laughed at his dreams of going to MIT, too small minded to think that the life he saw in the magazines brought to the village by their more fortunate relatives could ever be theirs, he killed their father to gain enough sympathy to follow a relative to Lagos.

When his relative refused to permit him to further his education, he cracked his head open with a standing fan and cleaned out his wall safe. He made it to MIT, away from poverty and since he became an assassin he had never lost a target till Margaret and her cute Lexus.




He had found her soon afterwards but he had watched from a distance. The only person who knew that he knew her whereabouts was Francis Ngigo, the savior of the east, the man who trained him. He had wanted to execute her at her rundown motel, Francis asked him to hold off, he had followed her, watched her subdue the men guarding the meeting, admiring her skill and savoring his moment of satisfaction. Watched her go into the room and come out, he ought to have gone in to make sure Francis was okay but he would not let Margaret out of his sights.

So when she got into a grey sedan, he followed in a beat up Honda accord. She wasn’t speeding, this was Lagos, the streets were not as accommodating as the Abuja freeways. They were on the 3rd mainland bridge when Francis called, ‘finish this’ he had said, Nnamdi did not respond. He pushed the overdrive button on the shaft of the automatic gear stick and planted his foot. The Honda shot forward.

Margaret was in the last lane, as far away from the sheer drop to the lagoon below as possible. She didn’t sense any danger until the Honda rammed into her quarter panel, sending her hurtling sideways into the center of the bridge, the impact of the first collision pushed the car closer to the wrong edge, amidst the screeching and the futile attempts to swerve, the US Government issued Chevrolet she had gotten from the embassy was overturned, engine fluids leaking out.

Nnamdi walked over to her car, things had calmed, traffic had started to build up behind them, people were assessing the damage to their respective vehicles. She was crawling out of the car, pistol in hand, he crushed her ring finger when he first brought his boots down on her hands, the scream was stuck in her throat. He knelt beside her drinking in the moment, her helplessness.  He let her crawl away from him, trying to get away, towards the carnage behind them.  His Honda was still in the last lane, untouched. He let her get far enough away to hope before he took three quick strides, leaned downwards and in a single motion, almost elegant but undeniably grotesque, snapped her neck.

That was when he noticed the silence. It was too quiet. Everyone was staring upwards, at a flare. The flare in the night sky got larger as it approached. Nnamdi knew what it was, but he was too shell shocked to step out of the way of the missile, not that it would have mattered, nobody on the bridge survived. Nnamdi didn’t feel a thing.


Across the atlantic, there was another meeting of powerful men going on, there were representatives of the Chinese and American governments and scattered among them, the leaders of the largest capitalist organizations in the world. They all stared at the scaled digital map of Nigeria projected on the wall, it seemed almost peaceful. A few days ago, the map had been spotted with red dots. Those dots were crisis areas, explosion, riots, looting, any breach of the peace whatsoever was represented by a little red dot.  Beneath the map, a blinking number stated the death toll beginning from election day, it updated automatically as reports came in, right now it was reading slightly above 100,000. It was election day and the Country was taken down from within.

The men inside the room could care less that a regime was toppled. Regimes were transient but business, money was eternal. So they waited and schemed trying to decide how best to protect their interests. They had hoped a military ruler would emerge, one that could be bribed and would have no difficulty with furthering their cause without pesky distractions like human rights and the rule of law. Now, with this talk of secession, they were considering saving Nigeria from herself, marching on the country and appointing an interim government. It would draw criticism from the international community, but a lot was at stake.

Michael Famutimi faced the room. He had been smuggled out of the country after Margaret had left the office that evening. Airlifted to Ghana by helicopter and then flown to the United States. It was he who had found a way to convince the Americans and Chinese to unite their efforts. Now that the map had lost its spots, they seemed uninterested, prepared to accept the secession.  He couldn’t have that, he wanted his home, his Nation, Nigeria.

“Gentlemen, Nigeria is still yours for the taking. If we let this happen from now on you will be dealing with four countries, four goverments, four lunatics. They might pretend to preserve your interests but you should know better. How about assets that fall within different territories, there would be new immigration rules in place,  and these men hate each other, make no mistakes. How do you manage accessibility to your investments? Look at her he said, pointing at the map, she is beautiful, she is worth saving!”

All eyes were on the map when someone gasped. Michael Famutimi turned around and had a heart attack. The peaceful grey was gone, the map was almost entirely red and at the bottom of the screen, the death toll counter was rising so fast the change was a blur. The room went silent when Michael Famutimi hit the ground, then a phone rang out in the room, decorum was shattered with the sounds of assistants, informants, partners, calling in to tell some of the most powerful men in the world what they already knew, there was nothing left to save.

Boiling Pot Of Madness – 3



I’ve been on the case of freeing the Nigerian Citizen, Yusuf Ishaq held by security agencies for live-tweeting since hence didn’t post early. Our voices are rising and I ask that you join to pressure the government to disclose his whereabouts and release him or charge him to court.


Today, we have @DisFeMISef with the continuation of BPOM…believe me when I say today’s post is so totally awesome and jaw dropping..Share comments and feedback with us, would mean a lot to us all..Enjoy


Dimeji Femi Harold

Afonja smiled.

Everything was going according to plan. Better than planned even. The nation had had no idea what hit them. He smiled again. Finally, his people would no longer have to live with those barbaric and uncivilized northerners, nor would they have to grapple with the thieving Easterners, nor would they have to suffer those idiot slouches from the South.

OluwaseungbogboAlayaki was a big man. He had a high forehead and deep set, cruel eyes. He had a large nose with comically large nostrils. And his black lips were small in comparison to the rest of his face. He was the leader of the OPC. His followers had decided to call him ‘Afonja’. Afonja was the equivalent of a Field Marshall in Ilorin which was then under the control of the Oyo empire. Afonja had engineered a successful rebellion that had taken Ilorin outside of the Oyo empire’s rule.

This was exactly what the present day Afonja was doing now. He was taking his Yoruba people outside the rule of this oppressive country, ruled by people who were not fit to tie his shoelaces. It was a fitting name.

The OPC had dwindled. They were no longer the force they once were. Oh, he remembered with fondness and nostalgia all the mayhem they had caused in the late 90s and early 2000s. When the military faction had just broken off from the main party, led by their dear leader Ganiyu Adams.

Afonja was the next head.

He had vowed to take them back to their former glory. They had been feared. They had been revered. Those days were coming back.

He was looking over reports from various specialists on issues regarding boundaries for his new nation. The land of the Yorubas. He chuckled to himself as he imagined naming the country ‘New Ife’ or ‘Ife Tun Tun.’ Yes! That had a nice ring to it. He also had his computer before him giving him the latest information on what was going on. The easy part was over, now was the hard part.

They were going to have to negotiate peacefully with his other warlords as to how the nations would be divided. He still had his eye on Kogi and maybe even Edo state to add to his ‘Ife Tun Tun.’ He was liking that name more by the minute. The biggest problem was going to be Lagos. Afonja knew that the Yorubas had claims to it, but he was sure the other warlords were going to make a play for it too. He had a couple of plans on how to deal with these inconveniences though. He’s started putting them in motion ever since the plan had been revealed to them.

This brought him to think about the ‘Iron Lady’ Margaret. He laughed. She thought she was smart bringing four warlords together, but she was way over her head here. He had to hand it to her though, her plan was brilliant, but she was too much of an idealist. This was all for the best, this way, everyone would be happy. His belief was that the best thing for Margaret to do was to disappear, that was unlikely though, as he fully expected her to be dead by now. There had been no place for her in the grand scheme of things. She had played her part brilliantly. When she had told them of the plan to execute the Executives and how to go about it, the opportunity was glaring. In fact, it was he who had persuaded the others to agree to the separation. The politicians that could have stood in their way were either dead or too scared to do anything. Margaret was too much of an idealist to agree with the plan for separation. She was gooey eyed and believed that with the executives out of the way, the nation could move forward in peace. Afonja knew this was impossible. It was impossible simply because it was never meant to be in the first place. So on hearing the plan, Afonja just tweaked it a little. In separate nations, they could all progress. It was a pity Margaret had to die. But that was the way it was, sacrifices had to be made.

An assistant came in. He saluted and held out a phone.

“Sir, won pe yin”


The assistant didn’t respond, but he looked uneasy. Afonja grabbed the phone.


He heard the voice on the other end and froze.

He couldn’t believe it.

Speak of the devil.

It was Margaret

Afonja tried to stay calm.

“What the hell was that? I don’t remember agreeing to this?”

Her tone irritated Afonja. She was a woman, she had no right to talk like this, like she was ordering him or looking down on him. But he kept his cool and answered,

“We made a few adjustments to the plan”

“And I wasn’t a part of it,” Margaret asked. “You tried to take me out of the picture?”

“I’m sure you understand Margaret, it’s for the greater good” he answered smoothly.

She was incensed.

“No! No! No! No! No! No! No!” she exclaimed. She was silent for a while. Then she exhaled. “You will all regret tangling with me.” She said this in a quiet, dangerous voice. Afonja had to admit he was a little uneasy.

“We can work this out Margaret. Come, let’s have a meeting.” She didn’t answer. He knew she was considering it.

“Goodbye Afonja”

“Wait Margaret, let’s try a…”

She had hung up. Afonja gritted his teeth. The nerve! He gripped the phone rather tightly. Then he stopped himself. He relaxed.

This was just an annoying little obstacle, an inconvenience to the greater plan, he’d take care of it, and her.

She wants a battle ehn? Oh, she’ll definitely get one.

Afonja smiled.

Boiling Pot of Madness – 2

Today’s post is by the very efficient Dimeji @iStalkWriters, give it a read, leave a comment and share with everyone. Have a lovely day. Cheers!

We’ll be starting a book club very soon. Details should be up on the blog on Monday. 


Dimeji Femi Harold

There were screens on every flat surface in the room. They dotted the walls, the table, even the peephole on the door had been replaced with a state of the art infrared camera that could read heat signatures. It was connected to a screen on the side of the door where the occupant would ordinarily peer through to catch a glimpse of his guest.

There were no guests here. Everyone who came into this room had a reason for being here. A reason and clearance. You had to have a reason for being in a titanium bomb proof room buried 20 feet beneath the famous Zuma Rock accessible only by a special tube service which connected the room to Aso Rock, the National Assembly and the SSS headquarters. On a regular day the room would be completely empty save for the skeletal staff that operated in shifts to keep the machinery in top condition for a day such as this.

The room was full with nondescript men, clearance tags pinned to their chests all in a mad rush but going nowhere. They were moving helter-skelter like flies trapped in a bottle, each afraid for their lives, their nation and of the only woman in the room.

Miss Onyebuchibe Ogoegbulem was seated on a dais at the rear of the room where she could watch everyone but she could barely notice the flurry of activity. “Ogo” was what her mother called her, Margaret or Madam for everybody else. Her reputation had earned her the name of the former British PM. Her eyes were glued to the screens around the room. It was election day, 2015, the day touted as the day to replace June 12, 1993 in the annals of Nigeria history. Today would definitely make the history books but not for free and fair elections.


The first report had come in about an hour ago: the Lagos State Government House had been attacked. The SSS had been slow to respond. Then there were reports of explosions in Ibadan, Enugu, Port Harcourt.


Margaret was strolling in the compound of her top secret government-allocated villa when the explosions occurred. Eye witness reports claimed that Eagle’s Square erupted from the centre – like it was a volcano. The tremors shook the foundations of her villa. Her driver and bodyguard, Musa had dived out of harm’s way, completely forgetting his mandate to protect her. Margaret was still.

She had the benefit of foreknowledge so she knew exactly what was going on. That knowledge did not make the reports any more incredulous. When the reports of the kidnappings started to come in she could feel the men around the room simultaneously become apprehensive. With each new dial-in reporting another kidnapped Governor, they would all move a little faster, work a little harder, to locate the remaining and identify the perpetrators. They were completely unprepared.

When Michael Famutimi, a 71 year old veteran who still came to work because he said stopping would kill him, stood up and announced in dignified solemnity “The Eagle has been taken. I repeat. The Eagle has been taken” the room fell into deafening silence. Everyone was holding their breath. Margaret was the first to let hers go with a sigh. Then chaos followed: trained men and women in utter panic, as though letting go of the breath they held at bay had unleashed terror into the room. Perhaps it had, but not for Margaret, her sigh was one of relief.


They had done it. She had actually doubted that they could. But they had. Reports were still filtering in. RotimiAmaechi had just been taken, in a Peougot 206 of all things. The perpetrators had rammed into the convoy hurrying to return him to the safety of the government house from his polling station. The Lexus SUVs the Governor insisted on using were no match for the brutal force of the Ford F150 King Ranch the perpetrators had used.

She was proud of them, proud of herself. Because today was the birth of a New Nigeria. She had obeyed Nigeria’s call. The past few years she had become more and more disgusted with the politics of the Nigerian democracy. She could hear Nigeria calling to her, begging her to rid it of the vermin at the reigns of Africa’s giant. She obeyed.

For months she tried to do it on her own – assassination attempts via poison and the likes, but they always seemed to survive. She had once taken a shot at an Emir who was secretly funding the Islamist terror group Boko Haram, pulled the trigger herself from the rear seat of a Mercedes Benz G500. The monarch had been in critical condition but after two weeks in a Saudi Arabian hospital under heavy guard he had begun to recuperate.

It was frustrating for Margaret, having to try and fail, while the nation was in a steady decline. Then she hit gold in the most unexpected place. The groups she had spent her career hunting. She recognised something of herself in them, a passion for Nigeria, they were obeying the call just as she was. So she had gotten in touch with four of them, the most powerful; MEND, MASSOB, OPC and the terror of the moment, BOKO HARAM.

The night of the meeting where all their leaders had been convinced that a major arms deal would take place. They had been about to tear each other apart in the conference room when she walked in. They fell silent partly because they all knew her and her reputation partly in fear that they had come to the end of their respective lives. Then she began to speak and she laid out the plan and they agreed. She knew they would. Even the date had excited them, the day scheduled for the continuation of the old would be the birth of the new. New Nigeria.Shekau had whispered the phrase at the end of the meeting and they had all repeated it. They were kindred spirits, combined in their love for a nation in ruin and all they wanted was a new Nigeria.


So when the screens flickered and the images switched to a stage with the Nigerian flag as a backdrop everybody was surprised but Margaret. By the time anyone found out that the transmission was possible because of her override codes Nigeria would be safe. The whispers of confusion died out as the four most wanted men in the nation casually walked onto the stage together. To the people at home, some of these men were unknown, enigmas but to the people in this room, they were more familiar than family.

There was movement in the corner of the screen then one after the other, the kidnapped governors were ushered onstage at gunpoint. As the leaders claimed responsibility for the carnage, as they coldly executed each erstwhile sovereign she felt a swelling pride, a sense of accomplishment.

Shekau stepped forward. “Today is the birth of a new people. For the past 55 years we have lived in an arranged union. A union a product of as much thought as it takes to draw an image on a map. Named by a harlot. Today that is no more. We stand before you acknowledging and respecting our differences. The reason we have been struggling to create one Nigeria for half a century is because it is not meant to be. Today, Nigeria is no more.”


Margaret was in shock for the first time that evening. She left the room without picking even a pin. There had to be some mistake, a joke. This was not the plan. She got into her car, the black Lexus LS350 F roared to life as though sensing her urgency, it screamed its way onto the express as she headed straight for her villa. She needed to think, to strategize. Her confusion was responsible in part for her failure to notice the two F150s that were bearing down on her till it was almost too late.

The men in those trucks had been handpicked from all four sects, they were the best. The driver, Nnamdi, an MIT trained bomb specialist and car enthusiast chuckled and wondered to himself what kind of woman would drive a sports salon with matte black paint, blacked out lights and black rims, it was like a yahoo boy’s wet dream. When Margaret finally noticed the trucks, she smiled in her rear-view, flicked a switch on her dashboard and put her foot to the floor, hard. When all the lights in and on the Lexus went out and it suddenly rocketed out of reach of his headlamps, instantly blending with the night, Nnamdi’s question was answered.

Boiling Pot Of Madness – 1

So whilst I’m on break, fiction here on tlsplace is not. I’ll be posting a 4-Part series over the next weeks. It’s a collaborative work of three writer – Oladimeji (@iStalkWriters), Harold (@haroldWrites) and Femi (@disFemiSef). It’s called Boiling Pot of Madness, and I must tell you, it’s something. Read and enjoy. This 1st Episode is by Harold.


Dimeji Femi Harold

The Bayelsa State Coordinator of the NYSC, Mrs. Osarodion Eboma arrived as early as 5.30 am at the NYSC secretariat, Yenagoa to give a quick pep talk to corps members who were successfully recruited as ad hoc staff for the elections. Today was a memorable one in the history of the nation. Apart from it being the most anticipated election in the annals of the country’s history, it also marked exactly one year since the Islamic Militia sect, Boko Haram embraced the amnesty package given by the Presidency in 2014.

The international community had lauded the wisdom of the President in being proactive in packaging an efficient amnesty deal with the Islamic sect, even though till date no one knew the exact terms of the deal. Whatever it was, no one really cared anymore since the deal had proved to be successful. Ever since the leader of the Islamic militia sect announced on Youtube in 2014 that they had agreed to cease fire sine die as a sign of embrace of the amnesty deal, the country had experienced unprecedented safety. Boko Haram actually kept to their word; they went into oblivion – like they never existed. And as a sign of support for the country’s election today, they had posted a Youtube video the day before, wishing the country a successful election. Such was the harmony which existed between them and the country.

Mrs. Eboma kept her talk short, simple and straight to the point. She admonished the corps members who were awaiting vehicles to take them to their different polling units to shun electoral malpractice of any form. She charged them to make their country proud as history would forever remember this day and relegate June 12, 1993 into eternal abyss if today’s election could manage to surpass the standard set by that election. She made them understand that they held the future of their country in their hands.

After the talk, corps members were led to different buses within the premises and each bus on being filled up, departed for neighboring local governments.


At the large compound of Junior Boys Grammar School in Otuoke, Ogbia local government area, Bayelsa State, the crowd which covered the field as early as 7.00am was like sand at the river bank. Everyone came this early in anticipation of the President’s arrival. It was earlier announced that the President would be casting his vote here in his home town in Otuoke. Personnel from the various security outfits in the country manned different spots. The NSCDC controlled the crowds, the Police escorted INEC officials and staff, the FRSC controlled vehicles, the soldiers stayed in nearby bullion vans…


The international media also made their presence felt, not just in Otuoke or Bayelsa, but throughout the country. The CNN, BBC, Aljazeera and CCTV were amongst the most visible international media houses spotted in different states.

Here in Otuoke, the CNN had their bus stationed within the compound of Junior Boys Grammar School. A reporter was seen interviewing a host of people.

Voting materials arrived in no time, and accreditation of voters began. There were widespread reports of peace, calm and decorum in different states. The turn outs were also quite impressive across the federation. Local media houses were already reporting that history was truly being made. By 9.00 am, most pooling units in different states had concluded accreditation of voters and the voting process had already begun.

Governor Godswill Akpabio was captured on NTA as he cast his vote in Ukana Ikot Ntuen village, Essien Udim LGA. His face beamed with smile and happiness. It was as if he had foreknowledge about something positive.

Senator David Mark had earlier in the day commended the efforts of the INEC on TV. He confessed to never experiencing such efficiency exhibited by the electoral body. Governor Babatunde Fashola was seen with his wife casting his vote in a community square in Isale Gangan, Lagos State. Governor Jonah Jang was also captured dropping his ballot paper into a box somewhere in Plateau State.

Some minutes before 11.00am, it was announced that the President had arrived Junior Boys Grammar School in Otuoke, Bayelsa to cast his vote. All local and international media switched attention to him. History was about to be made. The President that would be responsible for the freest, fairest and safest election in the country’s history was about to exercise his electoral franchise.

He was escorted into the school premises by a host of dignitaries, security personnel and loyalists. He waved at cameras as he made his way to the ballot box. The crowd applauded and sang his praise as he inked his paper. They hailed the bravest president the country ever had; the man who fought the Boko Haram epidemic with charisma rather than with combat; the one who gave Nigerians back their lives.

Just as the President was about to cast his vote, an orderly could be seen hurrying towards him. He handed a phone to the President. The President placed it by his ear. In no time his face was wrapped in a frown. He looked disturbed. The crowd stopped clapping. Everyone wondered what the person on the other end of the call was saying to the President.

In that silence, some could hear the President mutter, “What?” He wiped his face and said, “When?” Then he signaled to the I.G of Police who was in his entourage. They both whispered to each other in disturbing silence. Some members of the crowd could however make out some words like “Alausa” “Government House” “Attacked.”

The I.G appeared to be nodding to every question the President asked.



The electronic media houses started running the news. The Government House in Lagos had just been attacked. Gunmen who had infiltrated the premises had taken the security by surprise. They had burst through the massive gate with a tanker and launched a missile immediately at the Government House. Sporadic shootings rented the air as scores of bodies fell to the ground. The Ikeja Shopping Mall which was situated close to the government House was also hit in the attack. Masked gunmen had rushed into the venue, shooting uncontrollably at every living thing within sight.

After about fifteen minutes of sporadic shootings, the Mall was razed and brought down with grenades. The CNN reported casualties to be in the region of 3,000 bodies.


Somewhere in Uyo Local Government Area of Akwa Ibom State, children were playing football at the Methodist Church field by Oron Road. Their ball rolled off the pitch on to the busy road. One of the children waited for the vehicles on the road to slow down before making an attempt to pick the ball up. As he bent over, a bullet whizzed through thin air and struck him in the centre of his head. His mates panicked and scampered towards his lifeless body. At that point they saw a car screech to a stop before them and the doors opened. Some masked men with cutlasses rushed and lashed at the boys, slitting every one of their throats.

At the central roundabout of the city popularly known as Bipers, a bomb detonated, dismembering over 200 bodies in the process. The Ibom Tropicana, a leisure resort experienced a similar happening. The twenty-story edifice was brought to unidentifiable debris with bombs.


Somewhere in Plateau State, a group of people gathered under a shelter, watching a football game between Chelsea and Wigan. The score line was obviously favoring one side as the lowly-rated Wigan side was running with a 4-1 lead, and with less than five minutes of stoppage time, the Chelsea faithful felt they had had enough for one day. They slowly made their way to the exit door as fans of rival clubs, Arsenal and Manchester United chanted, “one by one, them don they go!”

As the door screeched open, the shelter exploded in flames. A bomb had earlier been planted at the spot. 132 bodies scattered all over the place in unidentifiable pieces.

Four other attacks were reported in Jos, Wase Town, Riyom Town and Miango.

Al Jazeera reported over 5,000 deaths.



The President stood shell-shocked at the revelation from the I.G of Police. The country was under some siege. There were numerous attacks in different states at the same time. The country’s borders were also reported to be breached by unknown forces. The securities at the borders were caught unawares and consequently overpowered.

Across the nation, market places, community squares, tourists spots, worship centres, election polling units, school boarding houses, and even the very roads where commuters plied were suddenly overtaken by blood-seeking masked men.

“What’s going on? Tell me you have everything under control,” the President whispered. Before the I.G of Police could respond, some gunshots not far from Junior Boys Grammar School rented the air.

“Your Excellency, we have to leave now!” the I.G screamed. “We have to get you away from here!”

The gunshots drew nearer. The crowd at the school field scampered in different directions. The President was being surrounded and hurriedly led towards a chopper by a group of fierce-looking security personnel.

In the scuffle, he yelled at the I.G, “What’s going on?! Talk to me!”

“Your Excellency, we can’t say much for now,” the I.G mumbled. “But I can confirm to you from information reaching me that some state governors have been reported missing….”

“What? What do you mean “missing”?”


“How many?”

“28 and counting, Sir.”

They were now by the door of the chopper and the President was being assisted into it. Then it happened. An explosive rocked and everywhere was in flames.


Announcing NS Publishing

Hi everyone, got an email from Myne Whitman of Naijastories that made me smile today. For those of us that grew up reading the Pacesetters series, it is music to our ears. Myne has been using her platform to drive story telling in Nigeria for a while now, and it was one of the platforms that gracefully agreed to put some of my writing up in the early days of blogging. So for everyone, here you go.


Naija Stories is now an imprint of NS Publishing Ltd, a new publishing and marketing company dedicated to developing and distributing Nigerian written content through eBooks, paperbacks, audio, websites, mobile apps and other channels. NS Publishing believes that by nurturing writers and readers, it will help develop engaged, empowered and educated Nigerians, as well as contribute to the economy through their business.
Many people say Nigerians don’t read, but NS publishing begs to disagree based on the evidence of flagship website,, and the rate at which foreign fiction and non-fiction books are sold in the markets. What may be underrepresented is the production, distribution, and sales of quality Nigerian leisure books outside of what is demanded for educational purposes through school curriculums.
To change this aspect of Nigerian reading culture, NS Publishing has developed our special branded Naija Stories genre series, which feature romance, horror, mystery and crime, all in easily accessible language that will draw in readers who want to read for enjoyment. With relatable stories, the short length of the books and their recognizable characters will keep readers coming back for more.
Using home-grown authors – 100% of NS authors are Nigerian and 80% live in Nigeria – means that writing will become a profitable career for young talented Nigerians in this sector. NS Publishing intends to replicate, in the leisure books publishing sector, what Nollywood and Afropop has done in making Nigerian movies and music globally popular.
After being comatose for decade since the demise of the Pacesetter series, NS Publishing is kickstarting a publishing industry that will not just throw up literary stars every five years, but one that’ll support writers, graphic artists/designers/illustrators, cover models, and will prooduce works that can be translated to the stage or adapted to movies, or given life by voice-over talents in audio books. They see a billion naira industry in the future, and are heading there.
NS Publishing will produce great stories and books, and other literary content targeted at a broad base of emerging and established readers, and across different age groups and mid/low income communities. Their paperbacks will be pocket size and pocket friendly, and they promise never to sell a book more than N500.
The success of website has informed this current project, to bring selected Naija Stories to paperbacks, selling and marketing books – pocket-size popular fiction books – directly to Nigerians where they can be found. Some of these places include intra-state or inter-state bus stations, higher institutions, fast food locations, and more.
Look out for the Naija Stories books and if you would like to order please contact Check out their website for more details.
Here are some of their titles.
wiping-halimas-tears-front Icatha-Front Lagos Hanky Panky Front Our Ram is Haram Front Rachel-Academy-Heroes-Front Reflections of Sunshine Front seeing-off-kisses-front The-Best-Laid-Plans-Front

Eze Goes To School – 4

Here’s the 4th Episode of Eze Goes To School by Walter Uche. It is the final episode of the series I’ll be posting on tlsplace but here’s the good news. Uche has written up to 28 Episodes on his blog. Read those and other stuff from him here and follow him on twitter @Walt_Shakes. Also be on the lookout for his book, he’s working on it as we speak. As I say, I’ll always be glad to bring you new writers and do my bit to let everyone know great writing is happening here in Naija and to encourage these writers. Enjoy.


Eze Goes To School

The morning after the visiting day

It was something that woke me up this morning. I would like to say it was the melodious chirping of a songbird, one of the many that appeared to be nesting on the orange tree growing in the backyard of my hostel, by the window beside my bunk.

I would like to say it was Joseph, the early bird that he is, shaking me awake, so we could go and pluck the mangoes growing in the small orchard that belonged to Hope House’s House-Master, Mr. Ndubuogu. The man was a wicked man, and we gave him his comeuppance by ravaging his mango trees. When he wasn’t looking, of course.

I would also like to say it was the jerky motions of my bunk as Ibuka shifted and turned about in his sleep on the bed above mine. Or the dripping tap-tap of his urine as it leaked through his bed onto my body. I was very upset the first time that happened. And the second time. And the third time. Let’s just say, I’ve been begging our House Captain, Senior Ifeanyi, to change my bed position from underneath Ibuka for some time now.

I would like to say – and this is my favorite part of this guessing game – that it was the gentle and arousing touch of Anulika’s lips against my cheek, that kind of morning kiss that I’ve seen actors give each other in American films.

It was none of these scenarios. Instead, I was nudged awake by a smell. An odd smell, a familiar smell, a richly-putrid smell, one with a malodorous strength so great it was able to reach into the deep recesses of my sleep and yank me up, awake. I blinked open my eyes and it slammed against my nose with increased ferocity, drenching my olfactory senses.

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes as I turned my head on my pillow. Ibuka was standing by the window, staring wide-eyed out at the backyard.

“What is that smell?” I complained in a voice made hoarse by sleep. For a millisecond, I entertained the idea that the smell was coming from his body.

“It’s shit,” he answered.


“Shit! It’s shit!” he wailed. And he turned to look at me. His eyes had that distressed wildness in them that I’ve come to associate with one of his hysteric moods. “Shit everywhere – all over the backyard! Shit-shit-shit everywhere!”

“Shi–what? What are you talking about?” I rose from my bed and hurried to his side to look out the window. To behold the sight of – how did Ibuka put it again? – Shit-shit-shit everywhere.

All the senior hostels for every one of the four Houses in my school are square, U-shaped structures, and each wing (comprised of four dormitories) of each hostel shared a backyard with the next hostel. This backyard is a small expanse of land which separated this wing of Peace House (my House) from the next wing of Dignity House. At the beginning of every term, due to a lack of sanitary attention, it was usually an expanse filled with towering weeds and tangled shrubbery. We would then have to hack them off with our cutlasses and keep the whole area trimmed for the duration of the term. Looking out the window now, the entire parcel of land – the half that had been designated as the property of Peace House – had been defaced by small pockets of faeces here and there. They were littered everywhere, an ugly, smelly sight, with swarms of flies fluttering and buzzing delightedly over them.

“We are in so much trouble,” Ibuka breathed out, echoing my thoughts.

The words had barely left the vicinity before his lips before we were startled by a roar coming from the pavement outside our dormitory. “ALL PEACE HOUSE MEMBERS – RUN OUT TO THE QUADRANGLE NOW! DON’T LET ME CATCH YOU SLEEPING! OUT! OUT TO THE QUADRANGLE NOW!”

The bellowing voice of our House Captain jerked the students in my dormitory still on the beds up from their various positions of repose, most of them tumbling down from their bunks in their haste. Ibuka and I exchanged a look of abject terror before the door of our dormitory was sent flying open. The door swung in sharply and slammed against the wall behind it with such force the wood vibrated. Filling the doorway was our House Captain, Senior Ifeanyi. He was squat and powerfully-built, with a round, turret-like head mounted atop lumpy shoulders and a thick waist that attested to an affinity for heavy food. He had one of those impressive physiques that made me wonder oftentimes if he was truly in his teens. Surely, someone built like that ought to already be in the university, running around with a gang of cultists or something.

But I didn’t have much time to dwell on that thought at the moment. There was a heavy scowl on his face, and the fire in his eyes made us shrink back from him. One of his muscular hands clenched one end of a slender, wiry cane.

Yep, we are in serious shit. No pun intended there.

“You are all still standing, eh?” His voice was a low grumble and his anger was unmistakable. “Instead of running out to the quadrangle, you are still standing and looking at me, abi?” Before the words had properly left his mouth, he swung the cane at the nearest – and in my opinion, unfortunate – boy. The cane whistled through the air and cracked against the boy’s body. He screamed. But Senior Ifeanyi was already on the move away from him; with an agility that was amazing in one so bulky, he lashed out at another boy. All of us were now scurrying about in the room, like an intrusion of cockroaches suddenly disturbed by the presence of a human, trying to dart past him to the relative safety of the courtyard outside, whilst attempting to escape the flying wrath of the cane. The cane sang this way and that, eliciting cries of pain from whoever it struck; I snatched Ibuka’s hand – he was already crying – and steered him towards the doorway. I was slender and nimble, and was positive I could escape the wrath of the cane. But Ibuka, with his corpulent stature, was another story. We had almost made it to the door – my frightened eyes clashed with Senior Ifeanyi’s enraged ones for just a millisecond – and then he pounced. The cane scythed through the air; I heaved Ibuka forward and out of harm’s way; he lurched forward, and I feared he would trip and fall. But my worry was short-circuited when the cane landed on me, cutting a path across my back. The stinging sensation birthed rivulets of pain that spread out from the point of infliction to other parts of my body. I cried out and tears quickly pooled in my eyes as I clutched at my back, running out to join the throng of frightened boys who were gathering in the quadrangle. Joseph was already out there, holding a sobbing Ibuka close to him.

Moments later, Senior Ifeanyi pranced out of my dormitory and continued on to the other rooms, making sure he had flushed every single student out to the courtyard. While this was going on, I spotted Senior Olumide, one of the few Yoruba students we had in the school. He was also our House prefect, the assistant to Senior Ifeanyi. He was this tall, sunken-chested boy, with an emaciated look, small, calculating eyes and an effeminate attitude. Right then, he was leaning against one of the metal pillars that stood on the pavement, inspecting the cuticles of his fingers and appearing uninterested with the chaos unfolding around him.

But I knew better. Senior Olumide was as mean as they come. Despite the fact that he was the antithesis of Senior Ifeanyi, the calm to Senior Ifeanyi’s storm, the earth to his fire, the reason to his bluster, Senior Olumide had a mean streak that reared its ugly head every now and then. Once, by way of punishment, he had ordered Ben, one of the SS1 boys in Dorm 5, to assume the angle 90 position – a sitting posture against the wall, hands stretched out, knees jutting out, with nothing to support your bottom but air –, and he placed an empty metal bucket on top of Ben’s outstretched arms, warning the wretched boy not to let the bucket fall. The boy had shuddered and sweated and sobbed throughout the hour he suffered the punishment. When he was finally released, his convulsing legs could barely hold him up.

Finally, when we had all been flushed out and assembled in the quadrangle – I stood huddled up against Ibuka and Joseph, in the midst of a multitude of JSS3s, SS1s and SS2s –, Senior Ifeanyi assumed a position on the pavement beside his assistant. “So, all of una,” he boomed in vernacular, “una don chop una visiting-day rice and garri finish, come carry shit mess up everywhere for back, abi?! Una hide-hide chop the rice finish, e get any of una wey say make him carry small come give your House Captain? Eh?!” he barked, stabbing us with his angry eyes. No one dared answer, either in the affirmative or negative. I suspected no one had extended that singular act of kindness to Senior Ifeanyi. Junior boys tended to be ungenerous with their visiting day goodies, especially when it came to extending that kindness to the SS3s. “Stingy boys!” he hissed. “Wicked boys! Wetin happen to toilet, eh? Una no see toilet go shit, na for outside better pass.”

But our lavatories are a joke. You see, it may be a water closet system, but in actual fact, it is just a glorified pit toilet. No, scratch that – a pit toilet is better. There is no running water and no one can be bothered with fetching water to flush, so students defecate indiscriminately until the bowls are overflowing with all sorts of discolored, smelly gunk. The SS3s had to cordon off a part of the lavatory for themselves, making it our task to clean that section and fetch the water for them to use when they had to stool. The other toilets were then left to suffer the excretory rampage of the junior students, constantly teeming with our faeces, most times spilling over to the floors and making navigation in the toilet a tiptoe chore. I could barely remember the last time I defecated in the toilet; the smell was much too offensive. My friends and I preferred going about our business in the abundance of bushy terrains that dotted our school environment.

Senior Ifeanyi was still spluttering with rage. “God don catch una today! You see all that shit wey dey back” – he jabbed an indignant finger in the general direction of the backyard – “all of una go pack am. All of you. But first” he brandished his cane – “Oya! Start coming one by one.” He advanced a few steps towards us and the body of students tided back from him in terror.

“Ifeanyi, wait, wait,” Senior Olumide intoned, finally lifting his attention from his fingers and straightening from the pillar. He fluttered his hand in a gesture to stay Senior Ifeanyi. “Don’t flog them.” His voice was soft and silky with a hint of a lisp, and his diction was perfect. “That’s not punishment enough.” My blood ran cold at the words. That mean streak had woken up. “They will still get rid of all the excrement, but they won’t be flogged. That’s too kind.” He then fixed his baleful gaze on us. “I want you all to squat and start frog-jumping. Now!

Amidst whimpers and groans, we promptly hunkered down on our haunches and started bobbing up and down on our heels. Up-down. Up-down. Up-down. The thing with frog-jumping is, when you start doing it, it doesn’t seem like a tough enough punishment. But if you persist, the pressure that builds up on your knees and the muscles of your thighs and legs unleashes the kind of throbbing pain that is quite unimaginable. And Senior Olumide had us do it for close to an hour. We wailed. We begged for mercy. We wept. We promised to be good boys. Some of us pledged our next visiting-day rice to the prefects. One or two hapless students tearfully shouted their protestations that they were asthmatic patients. But they remained unmoved. Our piteous cries rent the early Sunday morning, sorrowful enough to touch the hearts of even the most unfeeling of angels. But Senior Olumide had gone back to inspecting his nails, and Senior Ifeanyi moved about in our midst, his cane held ready to lash out at anyone who wasn’t frog-jumping appropriately.

Finally, after a whispered conference between the two of them, Senior Olumide waved us to a stop, and at Senior Ifeanyi’s curt command, we all hobbled about, with shaky limbs and tear-streaked faces, to get rid of all the – you know it – shit-shit-shit everywhere.

Here’s a direct link to Episode 5 of Eze Goes To School on Walter Uche’s blog

Look out for the episode of Baba Risi’s Court I’ll be posting next Monday and then we’ll start the new series A Little Bird Said the week after.