The Scriptwriter


The atmosphere in the cinema was charged. The air of mystery was very strong; no one knew what would happen next. The heroine was in serious trouble. Her situation had been getting worse with the progression of each scene.

The hero had been captured and was shackled in the dungeon. The blood of the heroine was about to be spilled. The villain was getting the victory and laughing heartily. It was a loud and bitter laugh. Everyone that had tried rescuing the heroine had been violently eliminated from the story. The only hope was the hero, but he was nowhere to be found.

The heroine was still in distress. The villain approached her, flashing his devilish grin and brandishing his shiny dagger. Evil was winning and good seemed to be losing the war. The movie was turning awry. The movie viewers were tensed. They shifted restlessly at the edge of their seats. They wanted to know how this story would end.

Suddenly, the villain lifted the dagger above the heroine, ready to strike and the movie audience started murmuring audibly. By this time, some people had their faces in their palms, they couldn’t bear to watch anymore. Some others had jumped up from their seats in apprehension. Everyone was exhibiting one form of anxiety or the other. Everyone... except one man!

The man sitting beside this exceptional man noticed the calm demeanour he had, and wondered why he wasn’t moved by this movie that seemed to shake even the most stone-cold heart. After a while, the seat partner looked at him again and kept wondering what was wrong with him.

He finally braced himself to ask the question that had now occupied his mind. ‘Excuse me sir. What exactly is wrong? Can’t you feel in tension in the air? Can’t you see the heroine is in trouble and about to go down? Can’t you see the hero is nowhere to be found? Can’t you see that evil seems to be prevailing over good? Why do you remain so calm? Are you so cold-hearted that such a strong movie scene cannot move you, when everyone has almost pissed in their pants?

The exceptional man smiled gently and replied, ‘Oh no sir. There is no need for me to be moved, I was the one who wrote the script of the movie!’

This above... is my true life story. I fret no more. The scriptwriter is control.


The Sins of our Past: Bad Generation


This is not  fiction.

My family moved to a 3-bedroom flat on the street I currently stay, two weeks before my second birthday. Almost all the houses in the estate were storey buildings of several 3-bedroom flats. However, there was this building that looked out of place in the estate. It was the only unpainted building, and the only face to face building. 

At about five years old, I was already conscious of the difference in our status in life. My friends and I referred to the kids living in that house as 'children of the uncompleted building’. It wasn’t that the building wasn’t completed, but for us, the building just looked to out of place for us to see it as ‘complete’.

We went to private schools, there barely made it through public schools, we went to universities, they learnt trades or became miscreants. We had cars, they did not. We gossiped about them, they gossiped about us. We said they were unruly, they said we were proud. That was the normal life we lived.

It was Blessing I first heard the word 'Bad Generation' from. I don’t know how the name came about, but I think her family must have started referring to ‘children of the uncompleted building’ as the Bad Generation kids, because of the little mischief the caused here and there. They played on the streets, their clothes were dirty, they rolled bicycle tyres with sticks, they could not speak English, they talked without respect, etc. So I guess no one argued when they heard them being referred to as the Bad Generation kids.

Before long, this name caught flame in the mouth of every single person in the estate. They were no longer the ‘children of the uncompleted building’. They were Bad Generation, everyone’s father called them Bad Generation, everyone’s mother called them Bad Generation, every single person called them Bad Generation. It was their label, it was normal. Whether the bad generation kids were aware that we called them by this name, I am not sure. Even if they knew, I am not sure they would have understood the meaning of the name.

My estate was quite peaceful and free of violence and the likes. This is because, when I was young, there was a period when armed robbers tried tormenting my estate, so our parents formed a vigilante. Our fathers had guns, and they took rounds to protect the estate. If a thief was caught, he was shot in the leg and then handed over to the police. No arguments! After a while, robbers never came to the area. They were scared of my estate.

By the time we were teenagers, some of the Bad Generation kids dropped out of secondary school. Blessing and her family moved to their house in Ikorodu. Ada, my second friend, moved out of area with her family and later moved to their own house. A lot of my childhood friends left the area. But not my family... my father built a fourteen bedroom mansion directly opposite the three bedroom flat we lived, and so unlike my friends and their families, I was stuck on my street, at least, until a man decided to change my surname and move me out of my father’s house.


Many fathers moved out of the area, the former landlords we met there grew very old. There were only two middle aged landlords. My father and a man we called Mr Glory. Because of this inevitable occurrence, the vigilante started losing its protective hold over the estate.

At this time... the Bad Generation kids had grown. For most of them, they had turned out to be bad, just like we had spoken negatively into their lives. Their numbers had increased, because they had brought friends of theirs to live with them. Some of them became vocational workers, some of them became miscreants, one of them was a confirmed armed robber, none of them was educated. But at least, my estate was still peacefulThen...

My father died... mid age...

My house is like this very big dead house. Loads and loads of rooms, with no one to sleep in them. I live in the house with my mother, brother and sister. My mother gets home earliest, which is 7.00pm. The rest of us start getting home around 10.00pm. We live in a monumental waste. The Bad Generation kids cramp themselves in their face to face rooms, rooms smaller than the smallest room in my house, approximately about seven people in each. The gap between my family and theirs has grown wider over the years but no one blinks at this. It was normal. We all kept minding our businesses.

After my dad’s death, this left Mr Glory to protect the area. Somehow, the new set of young fathers who had moved to the estate were not as active as our fathers had been. Maybe it is because thought they had nothing to fear.

Mr Glory had seven children, but one of them refused education and home training, and turned out to be a thorn in his flesh. He became just like the Bad Generation kids, caused problem for his family, smoked weed, destroyed his father’s properties, beat people up and did every kind of bad thing one can think of. No one said anything, it was not our problem, it was Mr Glory’s problem and he would do well to sort it out. Then again...

Mr Glory died... mid age...

The Bad Generation have multiplied... they torment the estate. They organised robbers to steal the cars of estate residents. After the incident, guns and hard drugs were found in the building beside Mr Glory’s, something that could never have happened if Mr Glory were alive. We now live in fear, the cause of our insecurities resides with us, but there is nothing we can do about it for now.

In the past, when we were young, we laughed at them, we called them names, they were the Bad Generation kids, we were the good ones. Now we have grown, we are educated, we have good jobs, we have cars. They torment us, rob us and steal our cars. It seems the sins of our past have caught up with us... poke their fingers in our eyes... laugh at us... right in our faces.

* The name of Mr Glory has been changed to protect the identity of the person

Thank You... and other matters

Good day people, First of all, I want to thank everyone who nominated me for the liebster award and the 11 tags. Relentless builder, cee, mindshade, Michael onobite, simply mee, 9Ja Great and sugarspring. Please, forgive me if I left your name out. Thank you so much. The picture below is for you all.


I am so sorry, I won’t be doing any blog awards or tags for now. Believe me, it is for reasons so silly to explain on blog right now. But I believe I have been blog-friendly enough to be forgiven this one time. I am so sorry and on my knees and rolling on the floor right now. Abeg, forgive me. I won’t do this next time.

Something has been bothering me for a while, it is about the Print On Demand (POD) service for my book to take care of readers outside Nigeria. I realised that readers were going to be getting the book at a price I considered to be expensive ($20.00) and there was nothing I could do about it. The POD people slammed a high price on it because I demanded that the book be printed in colour cos of the cartoon drawings inside. The irony of it is that the print quality of the copies in Nigeria is far higher than the ones these POD service are offering o. I did not use the normal novel paper (bond paper), in order the book a magazine feel because of the drawing in it. I also had the cover embossed. This efizzy I put in my book shot up my printing cost in Nigeria to more than twice what it would have cost me to print a normal novel, yet, the Nigerian copies are more than 100% cheaper than these POD people.

I did this effect for my printed copy because I believe in going all the way when I want to do something. I believe content is key, but presentation must be on point. I want to give everyone a reason to be proud to have the hard copy of the book on their bookshelf and I want the book to be able to market itself, even in my absence. After doing the blog giveaways, I even had the book re-edited and got rid of all the annoying grammatical errors that were threatening my career as a writer and editor.

After thinking and thinking about this POD issue for weeks, I decided the only way to present a cheaper alternative will be to put the black and white copy up for sale, which is what I have done. At least, readers will still be able to understand the stories, drawings or not. So for readers outside Nigeria, the kindle edition is $5.99, paperback (coloured) is $20.00, paperback (no colour) is $11.99. Click here for more purchasing info. 

For readers in Nigeria... my people... the ones who will get the embossed cover... the ones who will get the matt paper, instead of normal bond paper... well... we’ll see in camera next week.

The God of Visas


This article of mine was featured on Information Nigeria some weeks back. I am sure you will enjoy it and have one or two things to comment. Read on...

‘I hope you all brought your International Passports as we announced last week. Everybody, raise your International Passports. Lift it high to the heavens.
I decree and declare that, in Jesus name, your passports will never be denied visa. Favour will accompany your passport wherever it gets to in Jesus name.
You have to be careful of the people you allow to touch your passport. Some of you allow people touch your passports anyhow, not knowing that those people want to draw you back in life. They don’t want you to have the opportunity to travel so that life can be good for you. So they rub fetish things on their hands and touch your passport and that is why you keep getting denied visa.
Now, raise your passport again. I cancel the effects of every negative contact your passport has made. I decree and declare that you will never be denied visa anywhere your passport reaches, in Jesus name.
I challenge you today, after this anointing service, go and apply for that visa. You and all your family. You won’t be denied.’

This is just a brief summary of the exact scenario I witnessed in a church recently.
Is it just me or is there something wrong with this scene? If we don’t think there’s something wrong with it, then maybe we are facing a bigger problem than I envisaged. This is the level of desperation that the Nigerian system has subjected its citizens to. A life where 6 months Visa has now become a prayer point. And when the Visa is obtained, the whole church dances as a show of thanksgiving for 5 minutes. It is not a good sight to behold. This is synonymous to misery. Where going to another man’s land has become the main essence of some people’s Christianity.

At this service, I could see the reactions of the congregation to these prayer points. The zeal was apparent on their faces, as they lifted their passports high. They kept shaking their head and prayed fervently to God to make the ‘impossible to become possible.’
In my own opinion, some people have decided to take advantage of the vulnerability of suffering Nigerians and used it to trivialize the Christian walk. We now conduct International Passport anointing services. The pastor here portrayed the situation like getting out of Nigeria is synonymous to living a better life. It was as if, once you get out of the country, your life will suddenly be better. There was no talk of job opportunities there, no talk of education, nothing. Just get out of Nigeria and you will immediately start walking on streets of gold.

They failed to mention that the reason why some Nigerians are being denied Visas is because they don’t fill their forms accurately. Some don’t have enough means to take care of themselves when they get to this ‘Promised Land’, some don’t even have where to stay when they get there. But we must all try their luck and apply, mustn’t we? Who knows, the anointing might work when they CES officer sees our passport, so he will refuse to check our application and automatically give us Visa to his country. And woe betide us if we are denied, oh well, the witches caused it.

Well, as it is the culture of the average Nigerian to blame someone, I must also look for someone or something to blame for this appalling scenario I witnessed. But who? Is it the government that doesn’t ensure that Nigeria is not a country in which every single citizen is dying to run out of? Is it the pastor that has decided to base his anointing on anointing passports, rather than people? After all, he must make a living. Or is it the desperate citizens that have decided to turn a blind eye to the endless opportunities in this country, even though it seems like we are going down by the minute? Who exactly will my blame wand point to if I spin it? Well, I refuse to spin it for now. After all, the saying goes, it is the instrument of your need that God will use to draw you closer to him. And what is the need for most Nigerians now? Visa to the Promised Land.

The True Story behind the book – Antonyms of a Mirage

So for people that have read the book, people that are still reading, people that haven’t read and everyone... I am sure you are all wondering how such a book came to exist. You will all agree that you had never seen the concept of the book before. Well, I hope sha, I might be wrong. The truth is that I, myself, had never seen the concept before. I would like to be able to boast and say, this concept was mine, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. So if no one had ever seen such a book before and the concept wasn’t mine, how exactly did this come to being? Read the true story behind the creation of the book below.

As most of you know, I am not a romance writer, I haven’t published a thriller yet, I am not a mystery writer, I just write. I write whatever comes to my head because I have to write. If you have read the preface to the book, you will understand that. I write, write, write. I can look at you, get into your head and write anything that comes out. The thing is that I never write so that I can publish or sell a book. I Just Write. In fact, maybe I should rename this blog IJUSTWRITE. Lol.

I never intended to publish a book or be an author. Sometime last August, I was about to sleep, and (I am about to get spooky and spiritual here, so be careful) God showed me my book. He told me to take all my write ups and write some few more and make it a book. I couldn’t believe it. My write-ups were scattered. They couldn’t be categorised, they couldn’t be classified. Some were funny, some were bitter, in fact very bitter that I wondered how a happy girly like me could write such. A lot were introspective. They were just all over the place. A combination of my articles was like an irritating concussion rice that a bachelor would hurriedly put together so he wouldn’t go to bed hungry. So, I told God, ‘since I just write, what exactly will I say this book is about?’ People will say I am scattered.

Here was the reply. You will arrange the articles, classify them into sessions and they will be defined by different characters. This is because the writer has split personalities that are struggling in her head. When one character finishes telling different stories, another character will come and kick her out. You will depict them with fighting pictures.

I was so excited when this conversation was going on. My head suddenly started aching. It was pounding seriously. I wanted to sleep but God was talking. I had to shout STOP, STOP, I want to go and sleep. Please, Lord, STOP. I couldn’t sleep because of the excitement and the headache. I kept seeing the book in my mind, just like some of you have seen it.

People, the only problem was.... I never saw the Cover Page, and God did not tell me the Title. I don’t know why, but I guess that’s the way He wanted it. Seven months later, the book was with the Graphic artist and I was still begging God for a Title. You all know the story behind how I came up with the title. If you don’t know it, click here.

As for the cartoon on the cover page, the cartoonist came up with the idea. I told him I wanted a drawing depicting split personalities, something people will grab instantly without me having to explain it to them. I told him that I wanted someone looking into a shattered mirror and seeing six different personalities at the same time, but he said the personalities falling out of her braids will be better. I am not a choosy person, so I just rolled with his suggestion.

The book is 136 pages, 44 articles, 70% of which were never intended to be published. This is why you will find some true life scenarios there like Atilola and Her Yuppy Sugar Daddy, My Daddy is Samson, etc. mostly written by the comic one. Although, out of 44 entries, only about six are true scenarios of mine. I believe that if I wrote because I wanted to publish, I would have never ended up with such a book. I know myself. The concept was never mine!

Antonyms of a Mirage will therefore come to you in volumes. The reason is this.... I Just Write!