Category Archives: Miscellaneous

Still a few tickets left for the FREE screening of Half of a Yellow Sun.


So apparently the quiz I set for the free tickets to the Half of a Yellow Sun film screening at the ICA in London was too hard. Thank you to all those who sent emails.

The answer I was looking for was something like ‘Biyi Bandele is the director of the HOAYS film based on the book by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie whose boy Elnathan is’ but never mind. Here is a new one. Much easier! (Let it not be said I kept the tickets for myself!)

Odenigbo is a character in which book?

1) Wuthering Heights

2) Arrow of God

3) The Lonely Londoners

4) Half of a Yellow Sun.

Remember, this is for a free ticket to the screening of the HOAYS film on Thursday the 20th of March.  I will post to anywhere in the UK.

Born-again virgin blood.

Can I just say, if you are a man – African or otherwise – who has sown all his wild oats and then insists on getting a girl from the village because of the likelihood that she will be a virgin, you deserve everything you get.

IMG-20140311-WA0000I know it probably isn’t real but it gave me a real chuckle. A part of me hopes it is real. It would serve some men right!


Throwback: Birthday playlist. Also Chris Mba is a sexy beast.

Now what kind of Nigerian would I be if I did not introduce my son to the only version of ‘Happy Birthday’ he should ever sing? Or these other fantastic songs that coloured every birthday party in the eighties/early nineties?

What  birthday party songs do you remember from your childhood? Let  me know  your birthday party playlist in the comment box!

And finally…(Thank you Waffarian for this!)

Anyone that tells me that Chris Mba is not a sex god is a liar and God is watching that person. Look at the manly forearm vein. Those superhero shoulder pads, sleeves well rolled. See that Soul Glo’, sef. Thank you Kessing Sheen! Whatever, man. Chris Mba is a legend.

I love villains. And maybe villainy.

The Riddler.
The Joker.

I was reading my latest rejection email for a short story (I should really have worked on it some more) when these came so I’ve had a bit of a mixed morning.

I customised them on Converse UK’s site and sort of forgot all about them in the previous weeks. Now they are here.  I am glad I chose to have the villains on. The Joker and The Riddler I have always related to. I like their recklessness, non-conformism, creativity and smarts. The late Heath Ledger has trumped Jack Nicholson as my favourite Joker – the scene where he burns all that money makes something inside me scream hysterically. In pleasure. Let’s not analyse it.

Green is my favourite colour too so the Riddler is right at home.

Anyway they came today and I don’t know if it’s all the up-and-down of emotions from my aforementioned mixed morning, but I am beginning to think my blog name tagged to the heel strip might be ever so slightly naff. No? Oh well. I have to wear them so serves me right. I did earn the cash for them but in my poor-man state they were not cheap so I’m afraid they will be glued to my soles till they fall apart. But hey, at least you’ll know me now. Come say hello if you see me limping along, dragging my broken sneakers behind me.

I should probably donate the equivalent amount to charity just to offset this bout of ‘creativity’.

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This is how you lose him.

Yours is not a friendship conducted on Twitter but that is where you find out anyway. It angers you, this rumour. But then something about it makes your breath hitch in your throat and you’re dialling dialling furiously hoping it is a lie.

The voice on the other end makes your heart pound. It is unusually tinny, a confirmation of sorts. But you still ask the question, stuttering, mumbling, evading. Your grief bursts out of you, searing, tearing, burning. It surprises you. You scream, you cry; the kind of weeping which cuts you in two. You fold over. You hear your child crying alongside you, scared of your reaction. It sounds like it’s coming from the TV. You cry in stops and starts. Stop; doubt, hope. Start; belief, despair. You think of his children.

You get in the car, picking up friends along the way. Grief ambushes you along the journey. Your mind fills with the absurd details of your friendship, distracting you. You cry some more when this tactic does not work. You hold your tears in check when you meet his widow. Your sorrow seems vulgar, brash in comparison. She has barely any tears left. She looks like a dish cloth, wrung out and left in that state to dry; twisted up.

You cannot sleep. You know you should. You tell yourself ‘Sleep deprivation helps no one’ but still you cannot. You think of his children again; all his hopes and dreams tied up in them. You think how he smiles when he tells you about them, how this smile cuts a swathe across his face. His smile. His hugs. How he hugged as if to completely absorb you into himself. How you wriggled out of them at first engrossed in your own anti-tactile bullshit.

Your head is full of snatches of conversation, impressions, whispered words, private jokes. Other people have private jokes and whispered words of their own. The internet is lighting up with them. You are amazed. It is amazing how many pieces of friendship are out there, how each one of them is a piece you did not know, precious, like buried treasure in a sunken ship. Great people have that ability. They make you feel like your friendship is the only one that matters.

You feel guilty for grieving. You recall feeling a twinge of pride? elation? when he said ‘Chale you treat me like an orphan you know’ because it somehow meant you were different. But you are not different. You are crap. A crap friend.

You think about the fights you had (because you fight with those you like). You think about the distance you put between you, between your other friends, convinced that the choices you have made mean you no longer have a place in their lives. You think about that phone call after his A&E stint; you defensive, him angry.

You took him for granted a little and now you want to make up for it a whole lot. But you cannot, not in this life. So you turn to your dreams. In your dreams, he is still dead. Your subconscious refuses to lie to you, to give you a desired ending – more time together.

And this is how you lose him.