“The biggest change in my life since this happened? Hmmm. It’s hard to pick one thing. It’s a lot, you know? Well, if I had a gun to my head and absolutely had to pick, I would say sex.”

“Sex and peeing.”

Not like I wanted this to happen, but I always thought that if it did, it would be in a rowdy place, like under the bridge in Ikeja or under the bridge in Oshodi. Somewhere badass at least, just so I wouldn’t have to watch people snicker when I tell them about it.

In hindsight, I should’ve known the second it happened. I think I did, actually. I felt a tingle in my nether regions. But at the time, I thought it was just me finally discovering my love for being choked.

I realise the backstory is needed here.

It was a Friday afternoon. The ice cream parlour was packed and there was a long ass queue, which made sense because the sun was out in all its fiery glory. As with any queue containing Nigerians, there was a scramble not unlike that one scene from that Brad Pitt zombie movie no one remembers. At some point, I noticed that the girl in front of me would sigh whenever I mistakenly bumped into her. I understood her pain (it was an uncomfortable situation to be in) but I became irritated after a while because who the hell shit in your oatmeal, am I right? I tapped her shoulder and (in what I think was a calm voice) asked her to relax. I was going to explain that I was only bumping into her because of all the pushing when this happened:

After people around got her hands off my throat, she stormed out of the shop angrily. People asked what I did and I said nothing. Was the experience weird? Yes. But I really couldn’t be bothered at the time because her leaving meant that I got to get my ice cream on time.

The ice cream (vanilla and strawberry with bits of Oreos and waffles scattered in) was DELICIOUS btw.

It wasn’t until I got home and was doing my usual “Daniel Craig on the beach in Casino Royale” impression in front of the mirror in my underwear that I noticed something different.

There was no bulge, which was weird because there was supposed to be a bulge. Not to brag, but my bulge was huge. A thing of legend. If I had a dollar for every compliment I’d gotten…

I’m sorry. I’m digressing.

Not seeing a bulge sent shivers down my spine so severe that I had to freeze for a bit to let the feeling pass. With shaky hands, I slowly pulled down my boxers and saw… nothing.

My penis was gone.

The entire area was so smooth it could’ve passed for a Ken doll’s crotch.

Legend has it that Mariah Carey is still threatened by the high-pitched scream I let out that day.

You can probably tell already, but my mind’s first defence against traumatic events is countering it with humour. This is why the first thing that came to my mind after screaming is this comic strip I saw a few years ago about what people who steal penises do with them.

A sound I can only describe as a chuckle mixed with a sob escaped my lips. This led to a full-on nervous breakdown, brought on by the thought that after drinking so much water earlier in the day (ice cream included), I’d have to pee at some point and with my penis gone, I had no idea how that was going to happen.

I paced around my dimly-lit room naked, wondering if the magic used to do this was also strong/considerate enough to rework my anatomy so I could still pee some way. (Out of my ass, maybe?) And then I had my worst thought:

“What if the magic didn’t care? What if my insides remain the same and my bladder just keeps filling with pee and explodes because there’s no outlet?!”

I must’ve fallen asleep at some point because a strong wave of nausea woke me up. I sprinted to the bathroom and assumed the position over the toilet, wondering if I’d somehow gotten food poisoning on top of everything, when a warm, salty liquid began filling my mouth.

It was pee.

This was when the full effect of what had happened finally hit me. When all the pee was out, I sat on the floor next to the toilet, retching and crying. When did this happen?? I Was this my life now? Would I have to do a “Linda Blair in The Exorcist” impression every time I had to pee??

What was I going to do? I couldn’t tell anyone. I’d trend online and become known as the guy who pees out of his mouth. No way. So I kept my mouth shut. Until now. And that’s only because you’ve promised to keep my identity a secret.

It’s been six months. Peeing is still torture, but it’s either that or internet infamy, so I’m good. I still have sex btw. I’m not going to explain how, though, because Nigeria isn’t ready for that yet.

If you’re wondering how I found out that the girl from the ice cream parlour was the culprit (even though it should’ve been obvious given the series of events), she told me. She somehow got my email address and sent me a long ass message explaining why she did what she did. Apparently, during the scramble at the ice cream shop, she believed that all the times I bumped into her were my attempts to rub my penis on her butt. So, she punished me by taking it.

I haven’t given up hope, though. I mean, I may have found a way to live with my current predicament, but I still want my penis back. I haven’t been able to find her so I’ve been sending messages to the email address she messaged me with.

Fingers crossed hoping she replies one day.

Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

The post What It’s Like To Have Your Penis Stolen appeared first on Zikoko!.

Every week, Zikoko asks anonymous people to give us a window into their relationship with the Naira. Some will be struggle-ish, others will be bougie–but all the time, it’ll be revealing.

The subject of this week’s story just hit 18. He’s also at his first 9-5 ever, as an intern. When he’s not in Nigeria as an intern or on holiday, he’s a student in the UK.

When was the first time that you wanted money and your parents were like, what for? 

I think it was that time I wanted money for a website I was working on – I’d already spent £350. I spoke to a company that was supposed to do it, and they quoted $5000.

Then my parents asked, “How do you intend to get the money back? Have you thought about it? What sources of revenue will bring it back?” I couldn’t figure this out.

It made me start asking myself what the point of making something people could use, but still not have a way to sustain it. 

Especially since it was something that would have running costs after.

Did you get the money eventually?

No. That was the end of the website. It’s interesting, school always encourages you to feel like you can do anything you want – and it’s true. But there’s a balance of opportunity cost. You can do this, but are you going to have the time? Are you going to be able to look at it properly? And most importantly, are you going to get it back? 

That’s when I started tracking how much I made from commissions, how much I spent on equipment, and on financing the projects I was working on.

How old were you when you asked for the money? 

16. I’d had other expenses before. Like there was this app that I needed to pay 100 dollars to keep on the app store. And they paid for that. 

What are the things you do that fetch you money? 

Graphic design and photography. I started designing when I was 14 – self-taught. Then album covers for friends in 2015. I charged like ₦5000 for each –

– Mad thing, but you just mentioned the naira for the first time. 

Hahaha.

Okay, back to the things that fetch you money.

I didn’t earn a lot, because Nigerians didn’t see the value in it at the time. The question is, was I not finding the people who were willing to pay? Was I not good enough at the time? Or were people not just ready to give money to a 16-year-old?

Anyway, by the end of 2017, I was charging £100 per logo and £30 for posters. 

What are some interesting things you’ve heard about money from your friends? 

A couple of things. I’ve heard someone say she has to marry a rich husband. I think that was half a joke though. Hopefully. Then there are the ones that say, “It doesn’t really matter for now, my parents can cover stuff. Why am I bothered?” 

Why now though?

I feel like I have a privilege I want to take advantage of. I don’t need to pay rent and I still get financial support from my parents, big time. At this point, I’m still making massive loss in a sense, because my expenses are way more than I’m making on my own. 

I still have that advantage for the next two or three years. The way I see it, I’m making a time investment now, buying equipment now that I can, and setting things up properly. By the time I’m no longer under my parents’ care, the investments I’m making now, would make it easier for me. 

If you come out of uni and you don’t have a job or means of income, it puts you at a disadvantage, because now you’re thinking about taking your life into your own hands. I feel like that’s what puts a lot of people into system jobs – it’s not really what you want to do, but it’s what’s available to you. 

I want to avoid that period where I’m like, what the hell do I do?

That makes sense.

Truth is, there are friends in my circle that will probably get big ass grants from their parents as soon as they finish school. I might get that too, but the way my parents are, it’s not going to be something I’ll get easily. Also, there’s that part where I just want to make something of myself.  My grandparents weren’t rich – in fact, they were on the verge of being poor. But my parents managed to make something of themselves. So I’m like, why do I have to wait for my parents when I can just improve on what they’ve already started? 

That’s an interesting way to look at it.

I also think generational wealth can be a massive ego dump on kids. It can make kids feel like they’re better than other people. It’s one thing to be better off than other people, it’s another thing to think you’re better. It can be dangerous when you start to feel like the latter.

Okay, let’s talk about your monthly income.

I only just started getting a set monthly income – I’m currently in my first 9-5 as an intern.

People tend to have fixed expenses. But for me, my allowance from my parents is mostly meant to be lunch money.  So, food is 60k. Then I spend 10k per week on cabs. I use cabs when my folks’ car is unavailable – that sounds bougie AF. Then I have a bunch of subscriptions: about 24k in total.

Do you feel like you should be earning more money? 

Yes! I undercharge big time. One thing you can’t change is perception. If I was 25, doing the things I’m doing now, I’ll probably be able to charge a thousand pounds for a logo. When you’re working with a 25-year-old, you know they have bills to pay, and you won’t want to do them a disservice. Also, I don’t have that much work experience, so people don’t trust me very much even after seeing my portfolio. It’s like people aren’t sure if it’s a fluke or a valid representation of skillset. 

If I was producing this type of work at 25, I’d be earning way more. 

How much do you imagine you’d earn if you were 25 today?

That’s a good question. I’ve never thought about that. Assuming I stop working 9-5, and some things I’m trying to put it in place is set up the way I want them to be, I’ll be able to make about £3000 a month. I dunno if I’ll be working in Nigeria, but if I work here, probably a mill a month. Now that I’ve said this, I would probably have to check back when I’m 25 to see if I was just chatting kid shit or not.

How much do you think it would cost to fund age 25?

Like, if I had to pay for everything myself? Per month…? Wait. How much is rent?

Let’s start with where you live, how much do you think it costs? 

I have no fucking clue. How much is rent? Wow, there’s so much you have to think about when you’re old. Filling your car up with petrol. Electricity bills. Food. Faaji. I don’t know how much that costs! I can’t even start to think about it.

You see, this is one of my fears because the money I’m making now doesn’t mean much. Someone actually working might spend it on petrol in a month.

By the “money I’m making,” are you talking about the 165k?

Okay… This is so confusing because I know that the average earning for an entry-level person in Nigeria is between ₦50k and ₦200k per month. This has me fucked up because I feel like rent for a house where I live will be more than that. Unless I’m delusional. How much does a bank teller earn? 

About 50 to ₦80k.

Yeah! That’s actually what I’m actually referring to. I’m so confused as to how someone would earn ₦30k from a full-time job and not be dead. 

That’s minimum wage, and I know a couple of people who earn less. 

How does a person even survive? Where would you live in Lagos? You can barely live on a bank teller’s wage in Lagos. How would you do this on a minimum wage…? That’s quite scary! How do you hack this? 

What do you think? 

You can squat…? 

That’s the thing – growing up the way I did, you don’t get a full insight into the way Nigeria really is. It’s almost unfair to us, because without understanding exactly what’s going on around you, how do you even begin to help? A lot of people my age say that Lagos is actually a great place.

In your circle

But there are people living in a manner that seems impossible on paper. When we don’t see that, you start to ask, who’s done us the injustice; is it our parents? Probably. Because when you don’t see that, how are you supposed to even appreciate what you have? How do you even begin to think of how to help the country as a whole or the people on the other end of that shit? 

Going to work every day made me realise that low-income earners are packed into some areas, and no one cares about them. I saw people bathing outside, not because they chose it, but because the communal shower space is open, visible from the street. It’s like slum living. 

It is slum living. 

Everyone has privileges, but when did you first realise yours?

Between the time I was 8 and 10, and probably from a couple of places. My parents had people working in the house, and I think from that point, I noticed some differences. We’d travel, but the domestic workers didn’t. I wouldn’t say that’s when it became apparent. At that time, it was just like, that’s life. 

But then, the true realisation came in this period of my life. It was last year I started to realise that one of the reasons Nigeria is the way it is, is because a lot of the things we use are imported ideas. Remnants of colonisation. If you ask me, the reason Nigeria looked and felt better just after white people left is that the information was just passed down. 

After that – and this is theory – more and more people started migrating to cities. When people come from less developed places, they pick up what’s left of what was taught. Enforcement isn’t as strict, and people start to get away with more and more, the level of how well stuff works just degrades. And more people come in and pick up the remnants and bad habits. 

Another thing as well is, we’re not very innovative. We haven’t thought for ourselves how to make stuff work for us. And the only way these people can learn how stuff should even begin to work properly is from exposure. And you can only really gain exposure by going to places where things work the way they’re supposed to. 

My new point of realisation was that, not only are people not financially empowered, they are also – for lack of a better word – not mentally empowered. Because there really isn’t much thinking going on.  

How are you supposed to think about what you can’t conceive? What does a person working in the market think about on a day to day basis? It’s hard to think about much when you’re in hardship, because all you can think about is, “Where is my next meal coming from? How much have I made today?” 

Coming to the point where I realised that thinking about innovation is not evenly spread among Nigerians is the point where I realised my privilege properly. 

Okay, okay. Let’s talk about other stuff. What’s something you really want but you can’t afford? 

A car. I actually really want a car. I’m currently borrowing my mum’s car, but I want to borrow as little as possible. I want everything to be clear, like “this is my own person as an adult.”

You’re in a hurry to adult. 

That’s what my parents say. There’s the thing about ‘waiting to be matured’ that people say. I don’t get it. It’s not as if we’re getting stupider as a species. Why do I have to be babied? I don’t believe you can truly accept responsibility until you’re given responsibility. Raising kids without giving them responsibilities is kind of dumbing them down. 

What are old people’s assumptions about 18-year-olds and money that piss you off?

Because I spend a lot, people assume that I’m not saving for the future or something. I’m not stashing money now so I can get things that’ll help me stash money later. Another fucking assumption is that I dunno how much it means to be an adult. Because… apart from rent and shit… Wait.

Hahahaha.

Okay in retrospect, it’s actually true. I dunno. But a lot of people feel all the money I get goes to enjoyment. 

Let’s talk about enjoyment. What’s a good day out?

Probably spending 10 to 15k on one meal. Fuckkk. That’s my guilty pleasure. Not much else. I don’t actually spend much on wayward enjoyment. 

Financial happiness. On a scale of 1-10. 

Right now? I’m very fucking happy. I think I’ve finally reached a point I wanted to get to. At this point, I can say that if my allowance was taken out, I won’t be affected. I’ll still be able to run as my own person. 

The constant struggle to be your own person.

Pretty much. 

What’s something you wanted me to ask that I didn’t ask?

The only thing missing is how much my parents spend on me, which I honestly dunno. Like, kids are just one big ass investment. But it’s probably pushing £50k a year. 

How much of a chunk do you think that takes out of their finances? 

I wouldn’t even know to be honest. 
Oh wait, I just checked the listing of the house when they bought it.

How much did it cost them?

₦150 million.

This story was edited for clarity.

Check back every Monday at 9 am (WAT) for a peek into the Naira Life of everyday people.
But, if you want to get the next story before everyone else, with extra sauce and ‘deleted scenes’, subscribe below. It only takes a minute.

Every story in this series can be found here.

The post How Does This Intern Net ₦165k In A Month? appeared first on Zikoko!.

Young people reading might not believe this but there was a time when you actually had to leave your house to do stuff like bank transfers or settle utility bills. It wasn’t that long ago too. Ten years ago, you had to fight your way through long lines in front of the PHCN office, bank, DStv office, etc. But that all changed when USSD tech came into the mix.

Here are 6 ways USSD codes have made our lives easier.

1) You can now buy airtime from the comfort of your home without having to deal with that annoying, thieving vendor who always adds 20% to the prices.

Say goodbye to daylight highway robbery.

2) You can now buy credit for other people. Like that babe you’ve been trying to impress.

Her or your mother, who you actually haven’t sent credit to in months. Shame on you.

3) Paying your DStv bill without having to interact without having to go to their office and deal with all the paperwork.

Paying in cash and writing your details in a notebook is so 2009.

4) Transferring money to someone without having to wait in biblically long lines in the banking hall.

All the standing and pushing and “Uncle, I’m in front of your back oh!“

5) Check your account balance as frequently as you want when you’re expecting money.

Because constantly having to go into the banking halls to ask a customer care person signals to the person that you’re desperately expecting said money because you’re broke. And you don’t want people to know that.

USSD banking was created so that banking transactions would no longer be stressful or dependent on time and location. This is what First City Monument Bank(FCMB) wanted for its customers when it launched its own USSD service. All any account holder with FCMB needs to do is dial *329# to register (on any phone type) and they’re all set to bank on the go!

The post 5 Ways USSD Codes Have Made Life Easier appeared first on Zikoko!.

There’s so much music out there that it’s hard for even the most loyal fans to stay up with their favourite artists or what’s new and hot right now. That’s why we’ve created #BumpThis – a daily series that features the one song you need to listen to, every day. Don’t say we never did anything for you.

He may not know it, but Ghanaian DJ & Producer, Juls played a big role in making Ghanaian highlife a vital part of Nigerian pop. Yet another skill of his, as shown on his new project “Colors” is tapping talented upstarts from across Africa for incredibly smooth summer tunes.

Oxlade was relatively unknown when he grabbed attention for crafting the melody of Blaqbonez’s “Mamiwota” last year. Just over a year later, and the Surulere, Lagos singer is one of 2019’s best revelations.

Oxlade’s dexterity with melody seems ready for a larger audience, and on “Angelina”, he proves it by perfectly complementing Juls’ sparse production and Falz’s comedic raps. The song sounds mostly like the soundtrack to a raunchy night hopping through town with a temporary love interest – a point that Falz passes across with lines like “Omo this your figure eight e dey slay guys, If I bust 16 you go change mind, na all her 36 she take smile.“

Angelina captures what we love the most about all three collaborators; and for Oxlade, shows that he can hold his own beyond the safety of the Underground scene.

Listen to “Angelina” here.

While you’re here, let me tell you about a little something we’ve been working on. It’s called Poppin’, a weekly dispatch of what matters in pop culture + insider gist, reviews, freebies and more. If it sounds like your deal, sign up to our tribe here.

The post #BumpThis: DJ Juls, Oxlade & Falz’s “Angelina” appeared first on Zikoko!.

Nowadays, if you’re in the mood for some local entertainment, all you have to do is hop to a cross-dressing Nigerian comedian’s Instagram page, turn on Africa Magic, or (if your soul is dark) scroll through Instablog9ja.

As a 90s baby who grew up in the 2000s, I hdid different things. As a child, local TV shows were my primary form of entertainment for years.

Cartoons were great (and judging by all the new anime on Netflix, they still are) but local television was more relatable. For long, my entire week revolved around Super Story. When I developed a taste for anarchic humour, Fuji House of Commotion took its place. Shows like those showed me multiple views of Nigerian life that I couldn’t get anywhere else.

Of course, that’s a massive world of realities. But over time, I found that my favourite shows were those with a family as the central cast. They still are. Family life in Nigeria is special, for lack of a better word and there’s no better way to see the many varieties in full splendour than on Nigerian TV.

That said, here are my 5 favourite families from Nigerian Television shows through the years.

• The Johnsons (from “The Johnsons”)

I got into this show just as I was leaving the safety of my parents’ house for the jungle that is the Lagos job market. If there’s any show that captures the mischief typical of eccentric Nigerian kids (and a cheapskate father), it’s this one. The Johnsons are a lower–middle-class family – but that’s where all the normalcy ends. The father, an amateur scientist played by funnyman Charles Inojie, is one of those middle-aged men who won’t stop reminding people he got an A in Physics. His family is just as dramatic. His wife, the family’s semi-educated matriarch tends to mispronounce words loudly.

Their kids are a mess too. Chinedu Ikedieze plays the first son, who’s as problematic as he’s smart. His brother, played by Olumide Oworu is a lily-livereed mummy’s boy who will do anything for a girlfriend. Blessing, the last of three, loves attention so much she ran away from home because she wasn’t getting enough. The Johnsons are a family of misfits, but they are lovable in all their flaws. One minute, you’re wondering how a family like this can work, then you realise just how well they complement each other.

• Chief Fuji’s Family (From “Fuji House of Commotion”)

The family that struck the fear of marriage into the young hearts of Nigerians in the 2000s. If there’s one TV family I never wanted to join, it was this one. Fuji House of Commotion was a spin-off of “Checkmate”, the iconic Nigerian series by Amaka Igwe. While Checkmate is remembered for nuanced stories, The Fuji House was, at first look, pure chaos.

Chief Fuji, as the main character was called, was the centre of it all. Of his three wives and one mistress, only one – the first wife played by Toun Oni – did not have an insane capacity for troublemaking. Add half-a-dozen men in their 30s who are fine with being overgrown babies + a dozen children and you see why the title makes perfect sense. Chief Fuji’s house was a barracks, refugee camp, rehabilitation centre and cultural hub, rolled into one.

What appealed to me about the Fuji family was how it managed to reflect all the troubles you’d typically expect from such a large, multi-tribal household. But it also showed how it could work; for every new dispute, the family would manage to reach a compromise and keep moving. Such examples of resilience and multi-tribal unity are rare on Nigerian TV, even if I would rather live on crackers than join that family.

• The General’s Family (Extended Family)

You probably remember “Extended Family” as the show that brought comedian Bovi to the limelight. This 2000s show revolved around a family with a very stern father, referred to as “The General” (because what else would you call a dictator ruling over his own tiny (family) nation). The general’s main goal at the start of the series was to raise successful and well-behaved kids.

Enter his two nephews. Bovi, in particular, seemed bent on undoing all the general’s hard work with his get-rich-quick schemes and loyalty to his old lifestyle. I’ve come to realise that I may like this family in part because of my childhood. I’m partial to TV families that feature rascals and how they navigate their relationships with stern authority figures. Great comedy also helps.

I’m ashamed that I can’t remember their names, but my conscience will block my throat if I don’t include this.

• Family Circle

How do you make a list of Nigerian TV families without Family Circle? Apart from being one of the more popular series of the 1990s, the show did a great job of getting into the nitty-gritty of Nigerian family life. From disputes with extended family members to dealing with impressionabl kids, Family Circle touched everything with nuance. Sadly, there’s very little record of this show on the internet of things (or in my brain, for that matter, which explains why I can’t remember the characters’ names)

Unlike many other shows on this list, comedy wasn’t the main vehicle. Instead, we were introduced to a regular family, with regular ideals and problems, trying to live a regular life. And sometimes, being regular is special enough. There’s also the part where the family head, played by Norbert Young, was the definitive stoic father of the 1990s. Let’s just say he reminded me of someone I knew.

HONOURABLE MENTION:

• The Soundtrack (Everyday People)

This is hands down my favourite Nigerian TV show ever. I loved everyone and all the families on this show. Everyday People was perhaps one of the most-watched TV drama series of the 1990s, largely because many viewers could see themselves in the ensemble cast. The show was as close to reality as you could get with a scripted series in the 1990s; that’s how real the stories were. But what kept me coming back was the soundtrack. I still remember the words. The families weren’t that bad. But man, that soundtrack was special.

While you’re here, let me tell you about a little something we’ve been working on. It’s called Poppin’, a weekly dispatch of what matters in pop culture + insider gist, reviews, freebies and more. If it sounds like your deal, sign up to our tribe here.

The post Meet My Favorite Nigerian TV Families appeared first on Zikoko!.

On April 1, 2018, my phone rang. The lit screen read ‘Dad’, but my father had died in February.

“What horrible thing had I done that my dead father was calling me from the grave?”

I answered and steeled myself for what was to come. After the longest three seconds of my life, my sister’s voice came through on the other end. Now, she didn’t call me with my dead father’s phone as an April Fools’ prank; she just didn’t possess enough self-awareness at the time to understand the terrifying nature of what had just happened.

Those three seconds of anticipation were longer than the longest one minute of my life, which was the amount of time that passed between when my sister called (weeks earlier) to tell me my father had been involved in a car accident and when my half-brother eventually told me that my father had died.

I was travelling through Benue in a bus filled with strangers around 9 pm on a Saturday in February when my sister called to frantically give me details about the accident. He’d run his car under a parked trailer while travelling home. He was already dead at the time of this conversation but no one had told her yet. 

Attempts to reach my mother on the phone were unsuccessful, so I settled for my half-brother who was failing in his effort to provide a soft landing for me.

“You have to take it like a man, you hear?” he said over the poor connection.

“Guy, just tell me what the fuck is going on,” I replied in frustration, knowing I could soon run into a stretch of road where the connection would get worse.

He confirmed that my 60-year-old father was indeed dead. I hung up almost immediately.

I’m not sure when it happened, but I had developed a nonchalant attitude towards death a long time ago. When I lost a friend to death at 10, it didn’t weigh too heavily on me, even though we were close. At the time, I simply put it as being too confused by the finality of death. 

When I was 13, my uncle died.  Midway through my loud, rolling-on-the-floor performance, I realised that even though it made me sad, I wasn’t really torn up about it;  I was only mirroring what everyone else was doing to not feel left out, especially under the prying eyes of the sympathisers that thronged our compound that evening.

My nonchalance with death continued to grow over the years, but I had never lost anyone so close to me that the feeling would be challenged, until my father.

When I got the news, I was in a bus headed to Taraba to spend a week with people I considered family during my service year in 2015, It was my first vacation in the  two years since I left home to work in Lagos. Other than imagining all the terrible ways my father’s death would affect my mother, the most terrifying thing on my mind after hearing about his death was that I might die that night too.

I had spent a great chunk of the trip wondering how my family would take the news if they were told that I died in an accident on my way to Taraba, especially because they had no idea I was making that trip.

So when I received the news of my father’s death, the thought became more chilling and I wondered if my mother could take such a call about me on top of what she already had to deal with.

I quickly found out that my father’s death didn’t do much to challenge my nonchalance towards death; I didn’t feel the sting.

Sure, it made me sad, and I was concerned about all the ways it was going to affect my very large family in the short and long run, but it didn’t shatter my world as you’d expect for someone whose father just met a tragic end. It made me feel guilty of being a terrible son.

I tried my best to cry in the darkness of the bus, but I realised I was forcing it and attempting to openly act grief, so I gave up.

Then I decided to fill the hole growing in me with ensuring the rest of my family was good. For context, my father was quite prolific with women in his days, so he married three wives and had nine kids (that we know of), who lived under the same roof.

I called my sister to be sure she had been informed and sent her money to travel home in the morning. I didn’t have the right words to console her; I suck at the entire grieving thing.

I called my other half-brother and then one of my half-sisters to talk through what had just happened, all the while trying to reach my mother. 

I couldn’t get a hold of her until close to midnight, this time from a hotel room in Taraba. She sounded better than I feared she would.

She made things easy for me; the words I had hoped to use to console her, were the words she said to attempt consoling me. Months later, I would find out that she was acting her best on the phone to not bother me about how she was taking it.

I spoke with my sister again before bed and she asked me the one question I had been dreading all night – “When are you coming home?”

To postpone what I believed was going to be a harrowing conversation, especially with someone of my sister’s disposition and considering the situation, I told her it would depend on how burial plans turned out. At this point, I had already lied that I was on a work trip to Benue State, conveniently not mentioning Taraba because that could trigger suspicion that I was on a joyride.

Of my father’s nine children, four of us weren’t living in our hometown anymore, the other three were planning to return the next day. My half-brother, my father’s eldest, was in Kogi State, only a couple of states from Taraba. I could have told him that we could travel back together, but I didn’t want to go home.

Before his death, my father worked in a neighbouring state, so he was absent a lot during my childhood, only ever around on weekends when he would mostly hang out with his friends, brothers, and cousins in town. What he helplessly lacked in physical presence, he made up for in responsible support.

He cared a lot about his children and was especially interested in making sure that we were properly educated and took advantage of privileged opportunities. Sometimes, he was even openly loving.

I remember when I returned home from Taraba some months after my service year and he hugged me  and said he missed me. It was a hug I was eager to break away from, but it was one of the best moments we ever shared. He never put it in so many words, but I’m sure he was very proud of me and I loved him for it.

The night of his death, I remembered how, when I was a child, dressed in his shorts and white singlet, he’d sit me down every two weeks and dye my natural dreadlocks black to make sure it never turned brown.  It’s a memory that sticks out whenever I think about him. 

These memories made me feel guilty that sleep came easily that night in February when I’d just heard of my father’s death. “Am I this coldhearted?” I asked myself.

My sister called the next morning to tell me the burial had been fixed for Thursday, before asking the dreaded question about coming home again.

“I won’t be able to make it,” I said as I prepared myself for what I knew was definitely about to come.

“Is it because of work? Can’t you tell them your father just died? What’s wrong with you?” she asked, trying to make sense of my decision.

It would have been easy to use work as a cover, but I was insistent that it was a personal decision that I wasn’t too interested in explaining to her, mostly because I didn’t fully understand it myself.

She didn’t take my decision too well, and she expressed that in many words, but I’d learned to deal with her over our many years together, so it wasn’t particularly hard to just let her vent. I understood.

I had to call my mother immediately to explain my decision before my sister did, and, again, she calmly accepted it, ever the great actress.

My decision to not go home to pay final respects to my father in death wasn’t one that took a lot of thinking, but it wasn’t one that I took lightly.

I realised that the way I wanted to mourn my father —  in silence — was one that would never conform to the circus our home was about to become – a revolving door of sympathisers who would say too little, or say too much; sympathisers who’d tell you to take it like a man because the women were now looking up to you; sympathisers who’d demand that prayers be made to send him off to heaven even though he was hardly ever a religious man; sympathisers who would, despite their good intentions, do nothing to assuage your grief.

I didn’t want to be a part of that circus; I wanted to process in my own way, cut off from the rest.

I was particularly ticked off by my siblings’ behaviour in the initial hours of my father’s death; a few of them posted his pictures on their social media feeds, announcing his death.

While I do realise it’s hypocritical of me to criticise their own grieving process while I wanted to be left alone with mine, I was mostly ticked off because theirs affected mine.

I only told a few friends about my father’s death.  A friend who I hadn’t informed saw my siblings’ social media feeds and put up a condolence message, with my name, on his own WhatsApp status before calling me. Another friend I hadn’t spoken to in years saw his message and reached out on Facebook to message me his condolences.

My sister called again at some point to say the family picked out Aso Ebi to wear for the burial ceremony and asked if I wanted mine cut even though I wasn’t attending. 

“None for me,” I remember telling her with exhaustion.

In the year that has followed since my father’s death, I haven’t been able to fully convince myself that it was the right or wrong decision to not attend his burial ceremony, but I have learnt to accept that it cannot be undone and that I’m fine with it.

A couple of my friends would ask what kind of relationship I had with the man, perhaps hoping I would say it was bad so they could make sense of my decision, but I loved my father, in the ways that I know to love.

On the day he was buried, miles away from his final resting place, I did my best to shut out the thought that he was being put in the ground and would be gone forever; but, of course, my siblings put up pictures on their social media feeds to make sure I, or anyone else, didn’t miss anything.

The very first time my father’s death really hit me as a real thing was a week later when I had to put down an emergency contact on the bus manifest on my way home. He was always my emergency contact and the realisation that he could never be that any more was haunting.

I eventually made my way home seven days after I first received the news of his death. Seeing his grave for the first time is not a feeling I know how to properly put in words, not even now. It was upsetting that the man I’d known for all of my life was gone in the blink of an eye while doing something he’d done for at least half of his life — driving.

I don’t remember our final phone conversation, not anymore, but the last time I saw my father was in December 2017 when I went home for Christmas. He travelled for work on Boxing Day and I was out with the rest of the family to see him off in the darkness before dawn, a darkness from which he was to disappear from me forever.

I left for Lagos the next day, but he had believed I was going to stay behind until after the approaching New Year. When he returned home to find that I was gone, he called to express his mild disappointment with my absence in another one of our usual 30-second phone conversations (we’re both not men of many words).

Sometime around October after a gruelling workday, I dialled my dead father’s phone number half hoping that he would pick the call. He didn’t, of course, so I left him a voice message that I was well aware he’d never be able to listen to. I told him that I missed him, and that I probably haven’t mourned him as deeply as I should have, but that I loved him regardless. It was unusually longer than 30 seconds this time.

I have never shed a tear over my father’s death, and I’m not sure it’s a thing that I’ll ever do; but sometimes, I wonder if I’m just keeping all the grief stored away in some hole inside and that I might just explode someday when it’s full to the brim.

Is that something I would like to happen to rid myself of latent guilt? I’m not sure, but if such a day does come, I hope it doesn’t kill me.

The post Performing Grief appeared first on Zikoko!.

Do you know the only thing that tastes better than your mother’s cooking? Free food. Depending on how much free food it is, it could even taste better. I don’t know what it is about free food that gets the average Nigerian going. All courteousness goes flying out the window at a party when leftovers are offered. And the theme of the party suddenly changes to ‘survival of the fittest’.

The way you feel about a restaurant can go from ‘you’ll have to bind and gag me to get me to come here again’, to ‘ok I’ll give this place a second try’ when the manager declares your starters on the house. But what if you could always ensure that each time you walked into a restaurant you got a free starter, or desert or, wait for it…the entire meal free. *gasp*.

For the true chopist at heart, here’s a useful guide to help you get free food at your favourite restaurant when you hit your monthly spend quota. And no, none of it involves dining and dashing. We like to keep it classy over here.

The good old birthday trick

Recommended for a free dessert.

Do you know what works like a charm every time? The good old birthday trick. You and a group of two or three friends walk into a restaurant and order some food. In the middle of your main course, your friends start to sing the birthday song. Not loud enough to be a nuisance, but loud enough to get the attention of the waiters and the manager. For maximum effect, I’d recommend you also whip out party hats. Unfortunately, it’s only good for dessert for one in most cases. So you and your friends should take alternating turns and never go back to the same place twice in six months.

Congratulations you are engaged

Recommended for free booze.

The most efficient way to get glasses of champagne or wine on the house is to fake an engagement. I think it goes without saying that this only works for two people of the opposite sex, because well Nigeria is just not there yet, and no one is going to aww your LGBT engagement. If you do find yourself in a more progressive space, a same-sex engagement will work like a charm.

The guy gets on one knee and professes loudly ‘(insert name), love of my life, will you marry me’. And watch the restaurant’s crowd go wild. Phones will be whipped out, random strangers will work up to you to congratulate you. and the manager will have no choice but to indulge you, even if it’s for the crowd’s benefit. If it’s a decent place you could even get a whole bottle free.

It’s a celebration of life

Recommended for free starters or if the owner has a heart, the entire meal.

You and a friend or two walk into a restaurant dressed head to toe in black. You all look distraught, and every time the waiter tries to take your orders, someone burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears. No actual tears have to come out, you only have to make hacking noises into your hands or on the shoulder of one of your friends. Take a cue from Patience Ozokwor when she has just been caught poisoning yet another husband.

Eventually, a manager comes by your table and as one of you continues the theatrics, the other explains you’ve all just come in from the funeral of a loved one. Now I know you might think this is extreme, but you won’t think so when the manager declares your entire meal on the house.

Is there a doctor in the house?

Recommended for an entire free meal.

Is there a swanky new restaurant you’ve been dying to try. Or a particular meal that’s just a little out of your budget, like let’s say the 90k gold plated steak at Circa? Faking a medical emergency is one way to try it out for free. Rolling your eyes back and slumping out of your chair, while your friend calls for help should do the trick. If you are organized you should have a getaway car ready to whisk you to the nearest hospital immediately, as you conveniently forget to settle your bill. Of course, I can’t guarantee you that someone from the restaurant won’t be sent to tail you to the supposed hospital. But I think it’s worth a shot.

I think my water just broke

Recommended for an entire free meal.

If you are tired of waiting for your summer body to come back from war and want to put your stomach gut to work, this is for you. I know you were offended when that security guard assumed you were pregnant just after you had two plates of Jollof, but for this trick that’s actually a good thing. You already have the gut, so there’s no need to buy a costume, which by the way is just plain distasteful. All you need to do as you walk into the restaurant is fake a waddle. You could lay the groundwork as you order your food by making a special request because you are pregnant. Like asking the waiter for ice chips. So now at least one person knows you are pregnant. When you are almost done with your meal, -it’s important for you not to finish it- pour a glass of water on the floor when no one is looking and say your water just broke.

Excuse me, there’s hair in my soup

Recommended for a free main.

This is another classic. Of course, you don’t have to find actual hair in your food, or be distasteful and put some of yours in it. You just have to make enough noise about it to make the waiter believe there really is something there. This works great for when you buy a meal you realize you don’t like or when you are halfway through the meal and you realize you really won’t mind a second plate. Depending on how dramatic you are, one of two things always happens. It’s either you are given a fresh new plate even though you almost cleaned out the first plate and charged for the price of one. Or you are given a fresh new plate and not charged at all.

Disclaimer: Use this guide at your own risk. Neither I nor Zikoko can be held liable for any damages that might ensue.

The post The Chopists Guide To Getting Free Food appeared first on Zikoko!.

Those who know me are aware of the fact that I’m obsessed with movie wigs. I had a Twitter meltdown after the trailer for Aquaman was released and I saw Mera and Atlanna’s wigs. Famke Janssen’s lace front being hella visible throughout the entirety of X-Men: The Last Stand stressed me TF out. And it’s only a matter of time before I get thrown out of the cinema for screaming at the screen during every Halle Berry movie.

When it comes to old school Nollywood, I tend to give them a pass because there wasn’t much they could do with a ₦50,000 budget and a movie production time of three days. So I just watch and laugh my ass off.

Here are 13 of the wildest ones I’ve seen recently. Shoutout to @nolly.babes and @yungnollywood on Instagram.

1) This frizzy wig.

I can’t explain why but it makes perfect sense that Patience Ozokwor would be caught wearing a Bride of Frankenstein-inspired wig. Just add stripes of white dye at both sides and the look is complete.

2) This blonde wig

Clarion Chukwurah (much like fellow actress and style icon, Eucharia Anunuobi) has always been adventurous when it comes to fashion, so I knew she’d definitely be on this list. The wig’s stiffness, coupled with the fact that I can see her real edges made this even more delicious.

3) This brunette mess.

“Excuse me, ma’am? Mufasa and Simba called. They want their manes back.”

4) This platinum wig.

Regina Askia stole this wig from the set of the X-Men movies and you can’t tell me otherwise.

5) This Daenerys-inspired wig.

6) This snake hair wig.

I’m so sad because I know they had to behead Medusa to make this wig.

7) What even is this?

The perfect representation of “classy in the front, garbage fire at the back.”

8) The spiky wig.

Middle-aged women in the civil service took this wig and ran with it. They still haven’t given it back.

9) This (probably dead) moderately-sized forest animal moonlighting as a wig.

I keep expecting the wig to squeak and jump off her head.

10) This wool wig.

She came ALL the way through serving Raggedy Ann realness and you know what? She served hard. I have no choice but to stan.

11) THIS WIG!

Me: (In Michelle Obama’s voice): “Hey queen! Girl, you have done it again. Constantly raising the bar for us all, and doing it flawlessly. I’d say I’m surprised but…”

12) Whatever the hell this is on Emeka Enyiocha’s head.

The wig looks like a tangled mass of fat shoelaces and I’m so confused.

13) This braided bob wig with FRINGE.

Leave it to Eucharia (and Clarion Chukwurah) to make the bold fashion statement no one else will. QUEENS OF STYLE.

The post 13 Wigs From Old Nollywood That Are Just Fabulously Insane appeared first on Zikoko!.

I’m not proud of everything I’ve done in my rather eventful life. I look back at that time I ran away from a bunch of kids trying to mug me in 2011 and shake my head in regret. There’s also the time I went to a Constitutional Law lecture in a pair of jeans and got the dragging of my life. But none of that comes close to the 2000s; the decade I let peer pressure get the better of me.

The 2000s are iconic for many things; every other person had Y2k fever, and the lyrics to Will Smith’s “Will 2k” were gospel. Good times. Who woulda thunk that barely years later, I’d be rocking corduroy trousers big enough for my entire body to fit in? If you look at the photos of you and your best friends from that era, you’ll get my point better. The 2000s were a dark time, a time when we collectively decided to dress like badly drawn cartoon characters.

Now that street fashion is more popular than ever, and more fashionable people are looking to past decades for inspiration, we must make sure nobody ever decides to bring these fashion fads back.

• Anything With ‘OBEY’ On It

The first time I saw a shirt with “OBEY” written on it, I assumed it was a PSA. Like the United Nations had sponsored a program to get Nigerian children to be more obedient. Then I began to see it on TV, on the backs of people who have never obeyed any instruction in their lives. Man, every young Nigerian male who was alive and had spare cash in the 2000s rocked something with OBEY on it. The ‘OBEY’ clothing line was vital in bringing streetwear to the masses (and our people at Aba did their fair share to help). To be fair, their designs are pretty cool. Nah, they’re not. I’ve seen enough OBEY for 60 lifetimes.

• Boot Cut Trousers

What do you know about walking around in trousers that feel like they’re hiding an entire village and its citizens. From time, trouser cuts have been the first casualties of fashion trends. So I reckon people were excited when the boot-cut thing (or bell bottoms, as some call them) showed up. They shouldn’t have. Except that you’re trying to smuggle your extended family into another country, there’s no alternate reality where these trousers make sense. Imagine walking and waiting for the bottom half of your trousers to catch up with you. There’s also the part where the trousers would swallow your shoes, with no regard for how much you spent on them. Never Again.

• Supra Hightops

Christ. These ‘sneakers’, which was the ruse they were sold under, look like what happened if Wall-E spent too much personal time with a leather ball. Yet everybody I knew, boys and girls wanted to rock a pair in 2008. Supra fever was so intense that it was tied to dance moves like the Dougie and an entire batch of baby-faced rappers. To be fair, they stood out; a pair of Supras look like Optimus Prime is hugging your feet with your trousers all scrunched near your knee. Hightops aren’t bad; a nice pair of 23s will prove this point. Supras just don’t work.

• That Shirt & Sweater/Waistcoat Combo

Yes, Bayo. I know you’ve seen all those interviews of Jeff Bezos where he’s stylishly decked in a dress shirt and a nice sweater. I know you want to be like Bezos. I wanted to be a young, hip billionaire too. So I let my friends convince me to dress the part – by wearing waistcoats over dress shirts in the midday sunshine, with a patriotic ‘Nigeria’ pin for effect. Guess who’s still poor? Me. Certain philistines still dress like this, but we must raise awareness and kill this virus before it overwhelms the entire population.

• Multicoloured Snapbacks

I blame Wizkid and “Holla At Your Boy”. You see, when a young, talented singer who’s supposedly in his teens shows up and grabs all the (ladies’) attention, it’s only understandable that every potential baby boy wants to look like him. Hats, or face caps as they are also known, had been a thing long before Wiz. But when he began to show up everywhere in snapbacks of varying colours, the mandem followed suit. Then, unimaginative Nigerians began making theirs, complete with meaningless terms like “SWAGGER” embossed in hideous colours. Snapbacks are still a part of popular culture, as Wizkid will show you any day. But the 2000s were a dark time we must never return to.

HONOURABLE MENTION

No matter what you do, you just can’t beat this one. It’s trying to live forever.

• Colour Blocking

Want to see what a person looks like when they manage an outfit that combines all 9 primary colours? To be fair, you’ve probably seen it already. Colour blocking is essentially a display of graphic design. People rock items of very different colours, supposedly to create a diverse visually-pleasing palette. What I see is pure, unadulterated confusion.

While you’re here, let me tell you about a little something we’ve been working on. It’s called Poppin’, a weekly dispatch of what matters in pop culture + insider gist, reviews, freebies and more. If it sounds like your deal, sign up to our tribe here.

The post These Nigerian Fashion Trends From The 2000s Must Never Make A Comeback appeared first on Zikoko!.

Hello, fellow human.

Is your house currently overrun with rats? Are you unable to keep food in your cupboards for fear of rats getting to it? Are you terrified of leaving your fingers and feet exposed at night because rats will chew on them while you sleep? Do you watch in horror as the adult cat-sized rats in your house climb walls and ceilings like fucking mutant monstrosities?

If yes, I’m so sorry. Your house must be an alternate universe’s version of the apartment in the movie Joe’s Apartment, and sis/bruh, you should really consider moving.

That being said, if you’ve chosen to fight back and reclaim your house, here are ways you can do that.

1) Set traps.

As bait, use foods they can’t possibly resist, like fish or human flesh. Don’t bother using cheese because Nigerian rats don’t roll like that. This is not a Tom & Jerry episode. Feel free to experiment with a bear trap if you have a mutant rat problem.

2) Set one of those rat glue boards.

For when you can handle the blood and gore that comes with regular rat traps. Place food in the middle and any rat that tries getting to it will get stuck as soon as they get on the board.

3) Set poisoned food.

Again, use foods that smell good. Stuff that’ll be difficult to resist. You can scatter the poisoned food in small bits around the areas you know they hang out (lol) or you can make it look like leftovers by putting it in a plate. (Some rats like the challenge and taboo of eating human leftovers.)

4) Place poisoned food on a rat trap and put that rat trap in the middle of a glue board.

Think of this like the “two condoms at a time” theory. One of them is bound to work.

5) When you catch one rat, throw it in the microwave.

Cook that nigga like you’re defrosting a chicken. Make it seem like a scene out of a Saw movie. Put on some super depressing music (opera, maybe) to really set the mood.

6) At the brink of death, retrieve the rat from the microwave and place it in front of an air conditioner. When it starts to relax, plunge a butter knife into its chest.

Butter knife, because the goal here is to impale it, not slice it in half.

7) Hang the rat (butter knife still in its chest) in a public place. This will act as a warning to other rats to stay away.

Only then will you be free. You’re welcome.

The post How To Properly Deal With A Rat Infestation appeared first on Zikoko!.

I don’t cook. For some reason, I always feel the need to reiterate this inconsequential fact about myself to anyone I meet in the first hour of conversation. Young or old, female or (mostly) male, we could be talking about the fact that the sky is blue and I’d just slide it in there. I have a couple of theories as to why I do this, but none of them have ever rung true. 

With potential suitors, I tell myself it’s so they know right off the bat that I don’t conform to traditional gender roles. More often than not, my declaration is met with a scoff and something along the lines of – “I’m sure I’d be the one to change your mind.” After 6 odd years of dating, it still hasn’t happened. 

On the other hand, I have never been able to figure out why I do it with women and casual male friends. I came up with a theory recently. Cooking has been an integral part of my identity for as long as I can remember. Even as I revolt against it, I cannot help but associate myself with it in some way. Women who don’t cook, don’t care enough about it to go on and on about it the way I do, but I do because I was raised in a kitchen. 

“The only part of the house that is firmly etched in my memory is the kitchen.”

At the time I moved out of my parents’ house, we had moved houses three times. We moved out of the house where I spent my formative years in 2012. Details about the house have already begun to fade from memory, but I remember there were two African fruit trees and an avocado tree in the garden and that I used to pick the efirin for pepper soup from the garden. I don’t remember much else. My mum has a bit of a green thumb and likes to grow some of her vegetables. In a recent conversation with her, she complained about how she has never been able to grow plantain as she used to in my childhood home, and only then did I remember that we grew some plantain trees. 

The only part of the house that is firmly etched in my memory is the kitchen. I remember the pantry with its weather-beaten wooden shelves and endless stacks of repurposed butter buckets. I remember the laundry with its old fashioned sink that was never used for laundry, but came in handy when we made ogi from scratch. You see, I remember the kitchen so well because I grew up in it. 

How young is too young to start cooking? 

The first time I was left to prepare a meal on my own, I was 10. My mother had travelled for work and left just my dad and I behind. It was just a 24-hour trip, but it meant I was responsible for catering to his lunch and dinner until she came back the next day. She had made some soup for lunch and I was only meant to prepare Eba to go with it. I made it so badly my dad had to go to the kitchen to rectify it. That was 14 years ago and it’s the only time I’ve ever seen him make anything in the kitchen. I could probably count how many times I’ve even seen him walk into the kitchen. 

The first time I told a friend I had been cooking since I was a ten-year-old, she told me it was impossible. We were both 18 and for her, cooking was completely optional and only something she did to amuse herself. Even though her mother bore the sole responsibility of cooking, she didn’t want her daughters to be pressured by it. She didn’t particularly enjoy it, but it was her own cross to bear. At home, we had gotten to a point where I wasn’t just expected to take on my fair share of the cooking responsibility, I was expected to completely own it. You see, my mother had paid her dues and it was time for her to pass the baton to her daughters. My sister who was in medical school was barely around and even though I was in school, I soon found myself tailoring my holiday schedules around my father’s mealtimes. 

When making personal plans I was obligated to factor in the fact that his breakfast must be put on the table by at least 10 am. I had to be back by 3 pm to make his lunch and his dinner went on the table by 9 pm. As any 18-year-old would, I revolted. On some days and they weren’t very many, I’d take off in the morning and not come back till just about the time dinner was to be ready. On most of those days, I only did this to escape the kitchen. But for the most part, I carried out my obligations dutifully. I was in school for most of the year, and the holidays only ever lasted a few weeks. So I’d grit my teeth and make pots of soups and bowls of rice. 

It was a given that no more than a week into any holiday, my mother and I would be at each other’s throats over whose duty it was to cook. My father never got involved as long as food was put on the table when he expected it to be, our little tiffs were really no concern of his. I don’t remember the details of all our arguments, but I remember the one and only time she got physical. She had woken me up at 5 am to wash the skin off some beans so we could make Akara for breakfast. Sulking at being woken up so early I washed the beans halfheartedly hoping she’d tire of my slow progress and do it herself. Instead, she snapped at me and I snapped back, telling her that cooking for her husband shouldn’t be my responsibility. She threw a plastic bowl at my head and lunged at me. Luckily a house help was there to intervene but the bowl had left a cut. When tempers simmered down, we went right back on cooking and breakfast was on the table at 10 am.

The most peculiar thing about how much cooking we did at home was how little eating went on. My mother cooked for herself separately, because she and my father had very different palates. And it was very rare for all 5 children to be at home at the same time. For the most part, aside from my parents, it was usually only my younger brother -who was exempted from kitchen duties because he owned a penis-  and I at home. So how were we spending seven to eight hours in the kitchen? 

My father is a very picky eater. Except he’s out of town, he only ever eats at home. He doesn’t like pepper and likes his food fresh. He’s very health conscious so his meals have to be a perfect balance of carbs, greens, proteins and fruits. He doesn’t like to eat the same meals two times in a row. So if he has Jollof rice for dinner today, he’d prefer to have potatoes the next day. He also didn’t eat very much, and odds that he finished all of the food put before him were slim. When you put all of this into consideration, it’s easy to see how one can spend seven to eight hours a day cooking for one person. 

Don’t kiss the cook, feed her

I’ve always found cooking to be such a chore, I have little or no energy for anything else after. And that includes eating. There just something about standing for that many hours chopping, boiling, pounding and frying that takes away my appetite. So the more I cooked, the less I ate and I inadvertently lost weight whenever I was home. I soon learned to survive on half a meal a day and was so slim, it still surprises me when I notice my newly acquired love handles in the mirror. Cooking made me miserable and I figured out pretty early on that the only way I could avoid it was to move out of my parents’ house. And so at 22, I did and even though they are still in the process of coming to terms with it, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. 

On acceptance

Moving out gave me some insight into a couple of things. For a very long time, I held my mother responsible for my cooking woes. After all, no one else’s mothers was asking them to come home from school on the weekend to cook for their fathers because they had to be out of town. The way I saw it, she was only doing it to punish me. Now I realise she was doing it because it was the only way she knew how to cope with the impossible role she was occupying. She was a woman who at the peak of her career with a full-time job was expected to also play the role of full-time housewife. Even though she grumbled and complained, she performed and she expected the same out of me because she couldn’t imagine things being done any other way. I like to think that in my rebellion I’m finally showing her that it can be.

I no longer resent how much cooking was a part of my life growing up, on some days I’m even grateful that I can whip up a pot of Banga half asleep. But these days I’m more focused on the eating side of things(link VRSUS) and focusing on letting all of the other wonderful and things that also define who I am take the spotlight. 

The post What She Said: What Happens When You Are Raised In A Kitchen? appeared first on Zikoko!.

We want to know how young people become adults. The question we ask is “What’s your coming of age story?” Every Thursday, we’ll bring you the story one young Nigerian’s journey to adulthood and how it shaped them.

What’s a good word to describe the feeling of comfort in an imperfect situation? ‘Lethargy’ sounds like I’m lazy – I’m not. My mother says you can leave me in a spot as the world collapses and I’ll stay put until something comes close. I move at my own pace, even in the worst situations. I’ve been called many things for this: lazy, unbothered.

Before those monikers, my role was being the only son of a customs officer. It was an important position. My father was a driven man who gave a bigger share of his life to working and got married in his late 40s, decades after his mates. My mother was 25 at the time they got married. I was born the next year. In family photos of outings during my childhood, we look like three generations – one stern, grey-haired man in flowing traditional wear, a fine woman in her 30s and a little child. 

We lived in Bashorun, Ibadan. In the 1970s, it was reserved for wealthy civilians and influential military men. When I was growing up, it wasn’t as exclusive, but life was good.

I went to the best school in Ibadan. My dad’s name got me in and his money kept me there. On the best days, usually Fridays, I’d return home to him and my mum, a full-time housewife, sitting over drinks in the shade of the veranda while the driver pulled into the compound. 

Once, when I was 12, I returned from school early for the wrong reasons. The look on my mother’s face changed from fear to shock when I told what happened.

A classmate had made me the butt of a nasty joke, so I played a more practical one on him. He wasn’t the first person in my school who unknowingly sat on a pencil, but my mischief bruised him so hard, he bled. Knowing hell would break loose if his parents showed up, the principal sent me home.

I returned with my dad, apologised and stepped out of the principal’s office on his instruction. That was it. Nobody laid a finger on me, not even him. I swear. I guess people in their 60s don’t get surprised easily. If my father was ever fazed, it happened before my lifetime. Granted, he had the range to solve his problems and every family member’s. But he’d make them drink and talk about random things first.

It was his way of getting them to relax. It gave me the impression that people tend to overreact to issues. Perhaps, he wanted them to see that.

I know boys say their fathers are their heroes, but when I look at my father’s photos, I see the only man I’ve ever wanted to become. My dad and I were an unlikely pair. Between spending weekends with him and sitting at his feet while he talked to guests, I only ever looked up to one person: him.

My fairytale was cut short on the 16th of September 2009. My father was 66 when he died – peacefully, I assume, in the backseat of his car on a trip home from Lagos. They say he lived a full life. I don’t know. All I felt was emptiness.

I should have been in my third year studying Psychology at the University of Ibadan when it happened. It was when things had passed and cooled off that I told my mom I hadn’t been a student there for over 6 months.

I was placed on probation after the first session and advised to work on my grades or be withdrawn. But I was too distracted. I had everything I wanted and a two-bedroom at Agbowo. At the end of the first semester, I didn’t have enough attendance to write exams. My time at U.I was done. It became official when the session ended.

My mother was disappointed, but she no fit carry two things wey dey fight to be the one wey dey pain am pass, so she gats fix wetin dey her power.

Strings were pulled and I got into the pre-degree program at The Federal University of Technology, Akure (FUTA). Everything started well. Raw regret fuelled a new level of diligence. Starting afresh was simply humbling. But I soon noticed I was on the fringes. It didn’t help that my mum had become tight-fisted after my dad passed. I couldn’t beat them, so I joined them. 

I was doing things like travelling to party in Abeokuta for the fear of missing out. FUTA isn’t well-run, so I could skirt the problems that got me sent away from UI. I could catch a cruise, miss classes and pay for grades. I graduated as a 25-year-old who lived a 19-year-old’s life. Youth Service at the Broadcasting Corporation of Oyo State (BCOS) was next, from 2016 to 2017. I practically lived at home.

I think people are eager to project their responsibilities so they can appear more serious adults than others. What’s that? Why would you want to prove you’re better at suffering than others?

I haven’t held a full-time job since BCOS. I can afford not to. My father left everything to my mother and me.

I live with my mother and help manage his investments. That’s making sure no-one sells our land, houses are maintained and tenants pay rent on time. I spend my spare time with friends, travelling or exploring small business openings. Ibadan is a big place and opportunities are opening. Taxify launched here recently. More people are moving from Lagos. Soon our nightlife will start popping properly. I have to get in on that action.

I know people say stuff about me and the money, especially family. A lot of it comes from envy. Is it my fault that my dad left money behind? Am I to blame for being an only child? 

My mum has suggested I get a full-time job. She once asked if I would like to move to one of our flats. Why should I leave a house that’s big enough for me, my mum, extended family and friends, just to prove a point? For what though? In a country where the reward for hard work is getting by? Half the people who yarn about me want to be me.

Am I adulting? Yes, but I think if you ask most people, they’ll disagree because of my privilege. But what does it matter? I like what I have and I don’t see the point in plunging myself into adversity to prove something.

I miss my father a lot. Maybe I’d have a better sense of how I’m doing if he was still here. It would be fun to ask if he thinks I’m doing okay.

The post 28, Cruising and Living With My Mom appeared first on Zikoko!.

There’s so much music out there that it’s hard for even the most loyal fans to stay up with their favourite artists or what’s new and hot right now. That’s why we’ve created #BumpThis – a daily series that features the one song you need to listen to, every day. Don’t say we never did anything for you.

Nigeria’s emerging alte r&b/pop scene has many gems. Tems is one of the best at making music as an experience, whether it’s disgust at an unfaithful lover on “Looku Looku” or the fervour of infatuation on “Mr Rebel”.

After the singer’s brief silence, Tems’ new release, “Try Me” shows off her vocal range and why her brand of fusion brims with potential. Tems’ voice often carries undertones of pain, most notably on “Shadow Of Doubt”, her collab with Show Dem Camp. On “Try Me”, an upbeat song about ill intentions, it makes her sound confident. It’s fitting for the production, a lively beat influenced by 2000s pop.

“Try Me” lets Tems flex her chords in a manner that is as easy on the ears as it’s defiant. She’s sure of herself even if as she sings, those who should complement her have worse plans, “Why you want to stop me? Try to challenge me?“, Tems sings, helped on by a cheeky marijuana reference. She’s a voice that you’ll hear a lot more of in years to come.

Stream Tems’ “Try Me“.

The post #BumpThis: Tems’ “Try Me” appeared first on Zikoko!.

While Nigeria toiled at the African Cup of Nations in Cairo, another team of footballers strove to do their country proud in the world’s football mecca. 

AK Marvelous, the Nigerian team was minutes away from possible elimination. 

Under Sao Paulo’s glowering sun and in just under 20 minutes they had played two games. Their first game against Kenya ended in a 3-0 victory.

Then, they decided to watch their next opponents, Neymar Jr. Five, court-side, play ahead of their second game against them. This team was a special selection of players from different countries. A dream team if you will. But they were losing. They had gone five goals down against Brazil. The Nigerian team was confident they would defeat them. They exchanged assurances amongst themselves that the team was a walkover. They laughed as their soon-to-be opponents conceded goal after goal. 

The Neymar Jr. Five defeated Nigeria 5-0. 

After the defeat, the Nigerian team headed for the bleachers. At first, an argument threatened to break out amongst them. Blames were traded. The leader of the team, Teslim Ayomide immediately shut it down. He acknowledged they had taken their opponents for granted. He gathered his team in a circle. He calmly pointed out where everyone including himself had made mistakes. He asked for ideas on how they could beat their next opponent, Brazil, supposedly the best technical team in the competition. If they did not win, they would not progress to the next round.  

“That was the best part of the tournament for me. The motivation. The talks. The adrenalin. We didn’t care who we were playing next. We knew we had to win,” recalled Lukman Olagoke, one of the team’s players. 

Around the Nigerian team, other teams – 42 of them, from across the world – played, won, lost, strategized against opponents, screamed at each other. 

The teams had travelled to Brazil for the Red Bull Neymar Jr tournament, the biggest five-a-side competition in the world, now in its fifth edition. It is held at the Instituto Projeto Neymar Jr, a football institute set up by Neymar and his family, in Praia Grande, a beachside municipality in São Paulo. Neymar is one of the biggest footballers in the world, and Red Bull, the biggest energy drink company in the world, that promises to give its drinkers “wings”. It is a fitting partnership. 

The AK Marvelous team had emerged triumphant in the national stage of the tournament, beating 35 other teams in the country to represent Nigeria in Brazil. Across the world, over 100,000 players from 40 countries had competed to be at the finals. 

The tournament was a very entertaining change from what the average football fan might be used to. Each game ran for only 10 minutes or ended when five goals had been scored. No goalkeeper was allowed. When a goal was scored, a player from the conceding team had ti leave the pitch. Each team had five players and was allowed two substitutes. Yet, it was clear in Sao Paulo that no matter what surface, no matter what the rules were, football inspired the same amount of emotions: a lot. Playing across a surface that would otherwise be a quarter of a regular-sized football pitch and for only ten minutes, players were as passionate, driven and hungry for victory as they would be on a bigger stage. 

As such, the tournament was rich in highlights. It felt like a model United Nations of football, featuring a diverse group of teams that are not seen often in international tournaments like Georgia, Qatar, Kuwait or Mauritius. It produced refreshing David v. Goliath results that might be unlikely in professional football competitions (Panama 5 v. England 1 // Hungary 5 v. Brazil 0).

It reflected where the world is or should be going in terms of integration and diversity. Qatar’s team, for instance, was entirely made up of non-indigenes from Mali. The Japenese team had a half-Dutch player. The English team had two Nigerian players. In other cases, the make-up of the team was striking in ways that had nothing to do with dual nationalities. The Oman team, for instance, was made of family members: uncles and cousins. 

The Ibadan-based Nigerian team, not to be left out, also, had a compelling story. As recent history goes, Ibadan is no longer known for producing top footballing talent in the country. Its most successful team, Shooting Stars FC last won the Nigerian Premier League in 1998. Yet the AK Marvelous team defeated better-fancied teams from Lagos and Port Harcourt. The team was created from the genius of their coach, Mr. Akeem Moshood. He registered for the competition and assembled the team through selections he made himself and word of mouth, through other footballers’ contacts.

Before the Red Bull Neymar Jr competition, the seven-man strong team had never played together. The coach made champions out of them anyway. What they lacked in harmony initially, they made up for in determination 

“The manager seemed like someone that wanted to help nurture young footballers. I was fasting the day I was called up to join the team. We had practise the same day. I had already trained in the morning and I needed to conserve my strength,” Olagoke recalled.  

“After the call, I didn’t care, I had to leave immediately to join the team to train and play. It was not hard settling in.” 

Outside of AK Marvelous, all seven men play for different amateur teams and football academies in Ibadan, staying fit and keeping ready for a golden opportunity to show their talents on the global stage. The Red Bull Neymar Jr. tournament was the perfect chance. 

When it was time for the final group game against Brazil, the team was sufficiently amped up. Their game had invited considerable attention. The games in the tournament were played simultaneously across three courts but Court 2, most central was where most spectators were focused on.

Perhaps the spectators also knew about the footballing history between Nigeria and Brazil, because they soon gathered from the other courts in large numbers.

The referee blew the whistle for kick-off. The Nigerian team seemed to have decided to invite pressure from the Brazilian attack – wait for an opening and then counter-attack. The decision bore fruit after three minutes. One goal for Nigeria, one Brazilian player off.

Cheers echoed around the stands. There was apparently no love for the home team. In seven minutes, AK Marvelous scored four more unreplied goals, defeating the “best technical” team in the competition, 5-0. 

Soon after, they had to play against Kuwait in a playoff round after finishing second in their group. They lost and exited the competition. But they do not think they lost at all. 

“Travelling to Brazil to represent your country is very big,” Olagoke said matter-of-factly. And it is. While there they also got to meet their football idol, Neymar; and players from other countries, bonding over the beautiful game they love. There were many opportunities to be inspired by the sheer talent on display, accomplishments, pride, the game can bring, which AK Marvelous fully took advantage of. 

And that too, Olagoke reckons, is a kind of victory.

The writer was in Brazil at the invitation of tournament organizers Red Bull. All photos courtesy of Red Bull. 

The post From Ibadan to Sao Paulo appeared first on Zikoko!.

(A look at the events surrounding the protests of August 5.)

If you’re reading this, you’re already too late. All the cool people got it a day early because they’re already subscribed to our newsletter – Game of Votes.

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So quick question: Where are we going as a country?

Back to the late 20th century, it seems. Is the “newly sworn-in” President Bubu scared that someone that is not his clone is coming to take over from him?

What did a great man once say?

A great man once said, “Hell is empty, and all the devils are in Nigeria.” No, it wasn’t you, Shakespeare. That great man, whoever he is, was however correct. 

Let’s take a look at what he was talking about: 

President Bubucakes insists he respects the rights of citizens to protest, but described organisers of the #RevolutionNow protests “as individuals merely seeking to attain power by violent and undemocratic means”. He insisted that the era of coups and “revolutions” were over. Could he be afraid of something? Could he be having a serious case of PTSD? I mean, it was in this same August in 1985 that he was overthrown in a coup led by General Ibrahim Babangida and other members of the ruling Supreme Military Council (SMC).

A look at the backstory:

Sowore, a human rights activist, who ran against President Muhammadu Buhari in the 2019 elections declared a protest on August 5. The point of the protest was to demand a better Nigeria. Incase Bubucakes was unsure, protests are an action declaring disapproval. We helped him check

Then what?

Then the Department of State then arrested him and said (and you’re not reading this wrongly), that his call for protest was “threatening public safety, peaceful co-existence and social harmony in the country.” The public relations officer of the DSS, Mr. Peter Afunanya then went ahead to define what a revolution was and assured citizens that there’ll be no revolution on August 5. 

Jokes on him: While there was no revolution — revolutions tend to happen over time — there were protests which went ahead despite Sowore’s arrest.

Here’s what happened during the protest: 

In Lagos, the police claimed that the protest was treason, and fired teargas. They checked people’s phones and arrested the individuals they could arrest. 1998 called, they want their tear gas back. 

They arrested protesters in Osun and brutalised a woman and a journalist.

Under the sun and in the rain…

Despite heavy rain, protesters in Abuja weathered the storm and went ahead to protest. And if the rain couldn’t stop them, surely the police taking over their original venue the Unity Fountain, did not stop them. All they had to do was change locations. If the NYSC anthem was the theme for their protest, there would be a consistent emphasis on this part of the lyrics: “under the sun and in the rain.”

In Ibadan, the police laid siege at the main gate of the University of Ibadan to prevent the protest. They were successful in doing this but also succeeded in creating fear in the students and University occupants. Counteractive if you asked me. 

In Kaduna, the story is quite different. It is suspected that residents of Kaduna State may have shunned the protest because of the court ruling on the foreign medical trip request of the leader of the Islamic Movement in Nigeria, Sheikh Ibraheem El-Zakzaky. Do you know who was excited all this time? Bubucakes of course. A report has it that that President Buhari was elated that Nigerians “ignored” calls to join the #RevolutionNow protests.

Is this time any different from Occupy Nigeria of 2012? Not really. According to the National Secretary of the Committee for the Defence of Human Rights, Olayinka Folarin,“The word revolution is a predated statement that was even used by the people in government today, including President Muhammadu Buhari. In 2012, Goodluck Jonathan did not stop our nationwide protest at Ojota, and the people in the present government participated. They have become tyrannical and have started unleashing mayhem and terror on the good people of Nigeria after they took office.” 

What’s that you said? Gbas-gbos. 

As of today, a court has ordered the detainment of Sowore for 45 days while the police investigates the allegation of instigating the public and seeking a change of the present administration order than the provided constitutional means of doing so. against him.

Meanwhile, while Buhari is claiming that the Era of coup is over and that the ballot box was the only constitutional means of changing government and a president in Nigeria, the Aare Onakakanfo of Yorubaland, Gani Adams has pleaded with Buhari to not take us back to the military era.  

What’s it gonna be Nigeria?

We love you like family, that’s why we’re telling you to share this story with your friends and get them to subscribe here. Read past issues here.

The post Every day, Nigeria Strays Further From The Light of the 21st Century appeared first on Zikoko!.

Even with its booming restaurant scene, getting good food in Lagos is a struggle. Mostly because Lagosians tend to focus on aesthetics more than giving quality service but that’s an article for another day.

So getting good food in Lagos is a struggle, but even getting any food at all past 10 pm, damn near impossible, especially if you live on the Mainland. For a city that never sleeps, it’s surprising that there are so few late-night food options. But there are at least some options that will keep the hunger pangs at bay till morning, and won’t give you food poisoning.

Olaiya

109 Akerele Street, Surulere
Closes: 11:00 pm

I don’t know what heaven might look like to you, but any place I can get Amala 24/7 comes pretty close. You can’t get that with Olaiya but I’m pretty content with being able to walk in and by Amala at 10:30 pm. And if you are about to ask why anyone would be eating Amala at 10:30 pm, this is where I tell you to mind your business.
Even though their official closing time is 11:00 pm, on very busy days like Friday nights they can be open till about midnight.

The Place

Admiralty Way, Lekki Phase One
45 Isaac John Street, Ikeja GRA, Ikeja
Open 24 hours

The only place (no pun intended) with the most to offer in terms of variety on this list has to be the place. Not all of their outlets are open round the clock but I’m a hundred per cent certain their outlets at Lekki Phase and Ikeja GRA are open 24/7. I like how at least one outlet on both the Mainland and Island offer this service. Representation matters guys.

Midnight City

Online service
Open from 9:00 pm to 4:00 am

The whole point of Midnight City is to cater to Lagosians looking for late-night eats. That’s why they don’t even bother opening till 9:00 pm. Even though they have an address listed online, I only know them to be an online service. The great thing about them is that everything from Burgers to rice is on their menu. The downside though is that they only operate on the Island.

Drinking game idea: Take a shot every time you try to engage a service and they tell you they only deliver on the island.

Urban Fuxion

Food truck
Monday – Thursday: 11:00 am to 11:00 pm
Friday & Saturday: 11:00 am to 5:00 am

I’m such a huge fan of Urban Fuxion and if you’ve been reading these Chopist articles you’d know that. Urban Fuxion is perfect for those hazy nights when you stumble out of a club with way too much alcohol in your system and not enough food in your stomach. They are a food truck, so they are not always in one place, but you can find their schedule here.

Domino’s

Some outlets stay open till 12 am

It’s very interesting that I didn’t know this about Domino’s until I started researching for this article. Domino’s might not be my top 3 favourite pizza places, in fact, it’s not even in my top 10 but the fact that there is an outlet in almost every street and corner is beyond convenient. They’ve also changed the game with their new smallie pizza, which means you are not stuck having to buy a whole box of pizza when you are feeling peckish at 11:00 pm. You can find out when the Domino’s near you closes here.

Road Chef

Admiralty Way, Lekki Phase 1
4 Ologun Agbaje Victoria Island
Open 24 hours

Given that the phrase ‘best places’ is literally in the title of this article, I was torn about including Road Ched on this list. The first and only time I ate at Road Chef I got severe food poisoning. However it was one time, and I’ve never seen anyone else complain so I guess the odds of it happening to you are slim enough to risk it when you find yourself hungry at 3:00 am. I’d stay away from their RoadChef classic with cheese though.

Prime Chinese

860A Bishop Aboyade Cole St, Victoria Island
Open 24 hours

Prime Chinese is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. They also deliver round the clock and delivery is free. Which is why I’m so bitter that they are only available on the Island. Even though delivery is free, they do have a 4,000 naira minimum spend for deliveries which you’d barely notice if you are ordering with a group of friends.

The post Best Places For Late Night Eats In Lagos appeared first on Zikoko!.

Since he first announced himself with “Tonight”, Nonso Amadi’s music has never been defined by his roots or particular influences.

A self taught producer and vocalist, he’s become one of the faces of the new sounds coming out of Nigeria. As the internet propels this new wave and inspires collaborations like “War”, his 2017 EP with Odunsi, Nonso Amadi has played in his lane.

He’s earned a reputation as a loverboy, mostly by capturing young adult emotions in music that blends his love for internet-era R&B with the melodies of Afrobeats, pop and soul.

The title of his new EP’, “Free” suggests liberty or release; to no longer be confined or imprisoned. It’s an interesting prospect for a reserved artist who’s carved his niche of emotive pop songs.

On “Never”, the album’s opener, Nonso shows why liberty is this project theme. Over the spacious sound of drums and airy chords, Nonso talks about the pressures of having the whole world on his shoulders and “why he’s been so shy from the start”

For one seen as a preppy pop act, it’s somewhat surprising to hear him get so vulnerable. Yet, it’s a neceasary moment from an artist who’s eager to move beyond what he’s become known for and sets the tone for the EP.

While “Free” starts on a sombre note, any fan of Nonso’s work would expect Free to have its share of love songs and they won’t be disappointed. On “Better”, he taps Simi for a stripped down ballad about making effort in relationships. “No Crime”, the album’s lead single, is Nonso Amadi in his bag, a love song that’s become a playlist staple since its release.

“Free” is glorious in the moments when Nonso Amadi gives himself the liberty to go beyond the familiar. The album’s title track, starts as just another airy R&B track before it kicks up into a more melodious take on Afro-swing. It’s fitting that on the song, he asks a lover for space to do what he wants.

On “Go Outside”, he taps the globetrotting Mr Eazi for a dynamic song that combines his love of Afrobeats with lyrics that paint him as an assured ladies man. It’s far from the delicate loverboy who shows up on the final track, “What Makes You Sure?’, a plea for his lover’s trust.

The 6-track EP is proof that Nonso Amadi is no longer afraid to create on his terms. On a project with high profile collaborators like co-producers, Juls and Spax and diverging subjects, he achieves a seamless listen that should be the precursor for a new chapter of his career.

The post Nonso Amadi Is Not Afraid To Create On His Own Terms appeared first on Zikoko!.

“Sometimes, I think God is punishing me for something I did, which makes no sense because I’m a freaking ram. I don’t see what horrible thing I could’ve done to be cursed with self-awareness.”

“Well, maybe that one time I hit a handler in the crotch with my horns. He was being a douche (i.e. physically aggressive for no reason) so he kinda deserved it.”

I’ve tried warning the others about what’s coming but either they don’t understand me or they’ve chosen not to listen. In the past few days, our brothers have been carted off one by one. And even though, we can all see them being tied up and forced into the boots of cars, my dumb ass brethren STILL believe the “chosen ones” are being taken somewhere better to become pets. I feel like I’m stuck in that Ewan McGregor and Scarlett Johansson movie from 2005 named The Island. Or that one scene from Animal Farm where Boxer the horse is clearly being taken away in a Knacker’s van to be killed (because he’s injured and now considered a liability by the pigs) but they lie to everyone that he’s going to the hospital.

I shouldn’t even know what movies are.

I know what really happens when one of us leaves. They’re taken to a house and fattened up in preparation for the Muslim holiday, Eid-el Kabir, during which they are eventually sacrificially murdered and eaten. (Something about honouring Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son.) The only reason I haven’t been bought yet is because of my less than desirable look. You see, the humans want fat rams and I’ve been on a hunger strike, which means that I currently look like those models who, in an attempt to stay skinny, only eat cotton balls dipped in juice.

Apart from being fucking horrifying, the sacrificial process is super gross. The humans hire a butcher (i.e animal hitman) who shows up with his assortment of knives. By this point, the ram knows what’s up and is freaking out like crazy so the butcher ties its legs to avoid being accidentally kicked in the nuts. The butcher then slits the ram’s throat, leading to blood being spewed everywhere while its body jerks about. When all the blood has been drained, the butcher blows air into the ram’s corpse through a hole cut in one of the legs. This makes it easy for him to shave the ram’s wool off.

The ram’s corpse is then disembowelled and cut into pieces to make cooking easier.

I honestly don’t know how I know this.

I don’t know what this says about me but all this cooking talk is making me super hungry. It’s been days since I ate anything and I’m so tired, I can barely move. So what’s the point? What’s the point of anything when none of my kind can understand me.

I just realized that the only choices I have are:

• Death from sacrificial murder.
• Death from starvation.

Excuse me while I go get some food.

Click here to read other stories in the NIGERIAN HORROR STORY series.

The post Nigerian Horror Story: Eid-el Kabir appeared first on Zikoko!.

There’s so much music out there that it’s hard for even the most loyal fans to stay up with their favourite artists or what’s new and hot right now. That’s why we’ve created #BumpThis – a daily series that features the one song you need to listen to, every day. Don’t say we never did anything for you.

Lady Donli has never been too shy to let us into her journey or more importantly, the mind and emotions that drive her decisions. Her impressive catalogue is a run through an individual’s evolution from an awkward teenage prospect to a self-assured woman. It is perhaps why “Enjoy Your Life”, the title of her 15-track debut album sounds like a decision made on a night at the beach after years of chasing her dreams.

“Corner”, one of the project’s standouts shows why that title and the decision are perfect. In the last few months, Lady Donli has added a more contemporary, highlife element to her music. Merged with her jazz leanings, it’s produced a smooth, mid-tempo sound that’s a perfect entry point for fans across generations.

The song opens with a choral rendition that feels lifted from an Igbo highlife song, or more recently, folk hits from the 1990s. Donli sticks with that feel as she sings in a hushed tone about a love interest who’s playing tricks or ‘corner corner’ on her. The Cavemen, a stellar band who she’s worked with on songs like “Cash” provides a minimalist bed of live instrumentation. It’s perfect for Lady Donli to evoke her inner Madam, with help from Van Jess, a Nigerian-American R&B duo composed of sisters Ivana and Jessica Nwokike.

Seen by many as the First Lady of Nigeria’s much-vaunted Alte scene, the new album from Lady Donli (or Madam President to you common folk) sounds like a journey through decades of Nigerian sound.

The culture is more than safe in her hands.

Listen to “Corner” and the “Enjoy Your Life” album on Apple Music and Spotify.

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There’s so much music out there that it’s hard for even the most loyal fans to stay up with their favourite artists or what’s new and hot right now. That’s why we’ve created #BumpThis – a daily series that features the one song you need to listen to, every day. Don’t say we never did anything for you.

Whenever the emerging singer/songwriter Daniel Benson, also known as Buju, posts a snippet or recording on Twitter, it’s usually followed by fans asking for a release date and pushing it to the far ends of the internet. His newest single, “Spiritual” has its origin story in this pattern.

After posting a snippet, Buju asked his fans to help secure a guest verse by Zlatan, a demand which the rapper, one of the hottest properties in Nigerian music, eventually granted after he was tagged in a ruthless flurry of tweets and Instagram posts.

On “Spiritual”, Buju and Zlatan combine for a song that shows the best of both artists. Beats By Steph, a close collaborator of his, provides a slow-paced, piano-driven beat that’s right down Buju’s lane as he purrs his desires to a well-endowed woman. As you’d expect, Zlatan’s adlibs punctuate every other line.

Melody, not energy, is Buju’s forte and as such, Zlatan offers a worthy complement. His verse is typically high-energy, and he stays on topic. While the beat often feels a bit laid-back, it’s more proof of Buju’s preferred sound than anything else.

Stream Buju & Zlatan’s “Spiritual” on Apple Music & Spotify.

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The post #BumpThis: Buju’s “Spiritual” w/ Zlatan appeared first on Zikoko!.