The Blind Side: by Chinyelu Adum

People say love is blind! That’s one of the greatest lies of all times. Love can see…and clearly for that matter. Yes love has eyes. How could I have been so blinded? How could I have been so foolish to allow my emotions to be-cloud my reasoning? I thought those goose bump on my skin when I thought about him was love. How would I have ever imagined that because we completed each other’s sentences meant that we were soul mates? Who said those rumbling noise in my tummy whenever he held me meant we were meant for each other? If I had known that love was far from being a feeling maybe I would have seen the warning lights. But no, I chose to be blinded by my own emotions, lusts I would call it. Who would have known he was a beast? A perfect deception, a chameleon. A pathological liar! Each day I curse the day I met him. I blame myself for being so stupid.

It all began on a beautiful Wednesday afternoon. We always had a brainstorming section with representatives from the different units of the organisation and there were about thirty of us. The conference room we usually had our meeting was occupied so we had to make use of an alternative meeting room which was much smaller. There I noticed him. He was well groomed, his shirt was well starched, and everything about him smelt freshness. He was handsome. Yes, he was the most handsome man in that room.

He turned to me and gave me the cutest smile ever…my crush!!! My heart skipped…I must have fainted but thankfully I was seated right behind him.
“How are you today? My name is Kennedy and yours is?” He asked. His eyes danced over my body with a smile still plastered on his face. He was handsome. I must have been tongue-tied. I barely nodded feeling stupid…” Diane” I croaked. Gosh I couldn’t believe my voice…I turned away from him feeling embarrassed.

“I noticed you were quite uncomfortable so I had to adjust my seat” He continued and extended his hands to me “By the way I’m Kennedy. I turned to him, shook him while he held on to my hands much longer than a handshake required. I pulled away gently still feeling awkward.
”I would like to have your number if you don’t mind so that we can chat sometime.” He said with a wink while I smiled for the first time after the awkward moments.

“Nice dentition” he said this time adjusting his seat beside mine.
“Thanks” I replied blushing hard. I would have turned red if I were light skinned. He handed his phone to me while I typed in my digits and handed his phone back to him.
“Thanks. Would buzz you up as soon as I can”. Thank God this briefing is over”.
“Yeah”. I said with a sigh of relief.

Days passed into weeks and weeks into months. I have never been happier. I was living in another world. A perfect world of roses, castles, exotic places. I was in love. Everything I did radiated love. He was the song I sang, I could breathe him. It was heavenly.

Kennedy was a typical description of what most women want in a man – tall, dark and handsome. He was also rich. That was an icing to the cake. He was sensitive to my needs. We went to the most exotic places, I could swear he was the most caring man I’ve ever met. We barely quarrelled and when we had misunderstandings he was the first to make up. Within three months we were already engaged. The proposal was just like a fairy tale. Everyone was happy for me. My mum especially, that I had finally gotten my own husband. I was the envy of my friends.

Two weeks to our wedding, while we were dining at Four Points I noticed his pensive mood.
“What’s the matter Prince? I have never seen you like this before. Is everything OK?” I asked pulling close to him.  “You barely touched your food” I asked half concerned and irritated at the same time.
We had both been stressed due to the wedding preparations and it was his suggestion that we had a dinner at an exotic restaurant to unwind.
“I can’t do this. I thought I could….I just can’t!” I was thrown aback, confused and scared. What the hell was he talking about?
“I’m gay Diane!” He continued this time looking at me as if he was waiting for me to absorb the information he had just given to me. I was both dazed and speechless.

It all dawned on me. The day I had paid an unexpected visit at his place and stumbled on a naked guy on his bed with tissue all littered on the bed and floor while he was in the kitchen and his ridiculous explanations. The numerous cancelled dates with the excuse of his line manager needing him urgently. I opened my mouth to speak but could find no words. Tears rolled down my eyes.

“I’m sorry baby. I really thought it could work out. I thought with you things will be different. I was willing to make a fresh start…” he trailed off. I couldn’t take it anymore, I couldn’t just sit there and watch my world crumble before me, I ran like I was chased by the devil himself and then there was screeching sounds and blackout!

>Chinyelu, a graduate of the Federal University of Technology Owerri, is a Content Writer and Search Engine Optimizer (SEO) for

Remembering My Grandfather 2: by Tarkaa Moses

I grew up with religious grandparents who did all they could to bring me and my siblings up in the way of the Lord. This included no gadgets, no plaiting of strange hairstyles, no makeup, prayers every morning and night, church every Sunday and any other day of obligation, no going out and of course, some serious whooping when you did otherwise to top it all off. I’m sure most people can relate to this, it’s the typical Nigerian way of training your kids. But I’ve always
been curious and at 9, I stole a neighbour’s Hint Magazine and digested it in a night.

My sister was also as curious as I. When my sister’s menses started, she already knew how to take care of herself. My grand mum was liberal enough to teach us sex education in fairness; however I can’t forget the fast one my sister tried playing on her.
Grand mum: I saw blood stains on the toilet seat, how did it happen?
Her: (frowning) Am I the only one in the house? Why ask me?
Grand mum: Ever heard of menstruation?
Her (still frowning and thinking): Yes, I see it at the back of my New General Mathematics textbook.
Grand mum started laughing and said that’s measuration and not menstruation.
At that point she told her to be careful with those ‘Street Uncles’ because she had the tendency to be loose. She had told me not to be those rascals who argued all day under the mango tree behind our house. Thanks to her training, I turned out to be the sex educator among my peers.

So, we got the basic home training from our grand mum on how to cook, clean and behave. She had told my sister to remain a virgin till her wedding night (It’s always the “wedding night,” won’t the two parties involved be tired and spend the rest of the night talking and analysing how the food finished and who gave the best gift? Why can’t it be the night after the wedding when things are relatively calm?)

My grand dad was always the quiet type who said nothing but complained to grand mum if we did something off like, say, forget to clean his shoes, or that his whiskey and scotch had been refrigerated.

We learnt many lessons from them, and listened to their (grand) parental lies too. In the last publication, I promised publishing the lies.

My grand dad told me that oil spots on the street were little kids that got run over because they didn’t hold anyone’s hand while crossing the street. He always said it anytime I tried forming big while walking the road with him. I would succumb, but the little pretty eyes across made me feel so timid. He had also told me that replacement batteries for my toy weren’t sold in the stores. That when it stopped working, that was the end. I remember wanting him to get me those coned ice creams on our way from church and he said when the ice cream vendors were playing music; they had run out of ice cream.

The old guy said people got 10000 words per month. If one reached the limit, they couldn’t physically speak until the new month began. Anytime I was especially talkative, he would say,”careful now, I have to think you are up over 9000 by now.” That automatically shut me up. He also said the diseased bulges you’d see on trees were kids that
wandered into the woods alone and got swallowed by trees.

My grand mum wasn’t exempted. I don’t know who lied better or worse, but when I was about 4 or so, she told me if I lied, the devil would stick his pitch fork through the ground and pull me down to hell. At that time, we were in Sokoto for a conference for Knights of St. John. It was hot. I figured we must be close enough for him (the devil) to do that, I was a very honest child for a while. As kids, she convinced us that the people at the bus stops were thrown out of the cars because they misbehaved. We were perfect angels until my dad actually took us in a bus. After all, no one could throw us out of our bus.

Grandmother would tell us when we didn’t eat all our meal, “think of all the starving children in Sudan that don’t have anything on their plates to eat.” I still don’t know how eating all my food helped the children in Sudan!

Takaar Moses

Click here to read Remembering My Grandfather 1

Respecting People’s Choices: by Onyinye Ndupu

Why do you get angry when people’s dream and ambition looks nothing like yours?
You want to own a car, build a duplex, get a steady means of income, get married and have 3kids before you are 30. Someone else wants to travel around the world, live in a small house beside the beach, eat 200 different dishes, learn to speak new languages, and probably fall in love. And you think you are more serious?

A guy I know bought a car. While I was congratulating him, others where tugging him and asking him why he did not buy a land? They all turned into business advisers and I couldn’t stop shaking my head. The car is what he wants, so why do you think your ‘land’ suggestion is better? Its every mallam with his kettle. This is the 21st century.

Your dream is superior to none. Everybody’s ambition is important as long as it makes them happy. Don’t try to convince or discourage anybody. Just work towards yours.
While owning a range rover is very important to you, don’t look down on someone whose priority is owning an original butterfly sewing machine.

Onyinye Ndupu

FACE OF THE CAVE FOR THE WEEK (Appreciation of Beauty and Excellence)

This week’s faces of the cave.
In a few words; Surv Jeff Emmanuel is a great guy. He is one of the coolest dudes I know and his good looks is the icing on the cake! And Pretee is really down to earth, smart and she is so stunning too! Let’s take a peek into the world of these two.

Name: Preteemah Ojoma
State: Kogi
School: Kogi State University

Profession: Banker
Likes: Organised serene environment, (parks)
Dislike: stingy /greedy people.

Hobbies: Reaching out to humanity, Web surfing
Quote: “Attaining and surpassing that which folks thought you could never achieve is the best form of victory. Don’t ever allow people’s perspective about you kill your dreams. Listen to everyone’s advice but sieve out the chaff cos when you stand for all you will fall for anything.”

Contact: 08150210008

Name: Jeff Emmanuel
State: Abia State
School: ATBU Bauchi

Field: Surveyor
Likes/Dislikes: humility/pride
Hobbies: writing, reading and football

Favourite quote: “History will be kind to me for I intend to write it”—-Winston Churchill

Contact: 08064952739

To qualify for the next Face of the cave series
*Have your profile be a clear face shot.
*Give a brief description of yourself and please make sure to include your likes, dislikes and hobbies.
*Submit them to the chatterbox team within four days from now via bbm pin- 2898fd68 or inbox Bismark Ekenedilichukwu Benson on Facebook.

Cheers to the new Face of the cave!

Share your thoughts on this week’s faces in the comment box.
We’d also love for you to stay in touch with us! The best way to keep up to date is to subscribe to Bismark’s cave. You can do this by tapping the ‘follow’ option.

Quote of the week-
“It is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation.” — Herman

How to Prepare Your Beans Like A Pro- Bismark Ekenedilichukwu Benson

I’d be surprise to visit a Nigerian home on a weekend and I’m not served beans. Many folks I know who’ve got busy lives and an over packed schedule hardly prepare beans on week days, except on few occasions. Usually, it is reserved for weekends simply because of the amount of time that goes into it’s preparation, From the sieving/ picking process to waiting long for your beans to get tender enough to eat.

Everyone and their grandma knows how to cook beans, but not everyone knows how to make beans SEXY. So as a foodie, I decided to show my readers how i get down in the kitchen when i prepare beans/ewa/bonzo/­ agwa..depends on how it’s called in your own geographical region. Take this as a free tutorial. You know I value you.

– to teach y’all a few things about how to get your beans on fleek.
– to put our ladies to shame and further prove the saying that, ‘What a woman can do, a MAN can do better’.
– for you to finally throw away your boring 1927 beans recipe and adopt ‘Beans-mark’s’ recipe. You’ve got to enjoy good beans for once. Ha!
– for you to eat well and stay alive for me. I love you, And finally…
– to display my selling point and husband material quality in full glare of the public.

Now pay attention. Watch and learn; I’m sure you don’t want your beans looking like a sacrifice rejected by Amadioha

I don’t want you to cook something you’ll eat and be releasing bomb and fire-cracker sounds repeatedly from your backside- you know how it is when someone starts messing like a faulty ‘I-pass-my-neighbour’ generator.

Beans (white or brown), palm oil, crayfish, a cube of seasoning, salt, two onions, fresh pepper (better when it’s not in powdered form), sliced vegetable (ugu), dry fish (kpanla) it’s optional.

1. Shine ya eye when picking your beans. Be patient. We don’t want to have rocks, stones and weevils in our beans, right? Good!
2. Wash beans gently twice and put it in a pot, add water and let it cook for 10-15 mins.
3. Drain water with a filter. (Notice, it’s dark and dirty) This way you remove the storage chemicals used in preserving the beans.
4. Add fresh water again, and your parboiled beans as well. Add a pinch of salt. You don’t need much salt in beans, it’s got it’s natural taste, A sprinkle of crayfish (better when it’s grounded). Add fresh pepper. It adds colour to your beans.
5. Add your dry fish…those “small small precious kpanla fish”..
5. Add Kaun Potash (AKANWU), To tenderize your beans easily. It’s optional. I don’t use it. Your ewa-agoyin sellers do.
6. I like my palm oil to come in towards the end, beans taste better when the oil is still fresh and a bit raw in taste.
7. Add Sliced Vegetable (Ugu).

Cook the beans for fifty minutes to one hour until it is very tender.
Serve with fried plantain, fresh banana, soak garri or bread.

– Watery beans is a no no! Eat that one alone and purge alone biko.
– Strong, dry chaff-like beans ain’t better either.
– Oil-less beans is the worst of all. If your beans doesn’t grease or stain your lips, cut it out and accept that you may need to improve your cooking skills.

Ok! Class is over. Any questions?


Celebrating One Year of Blogging Experience

*Victor, abeg cue the music!*

One year don waka…
we still dey carry go…

(Music plays in the background)

In every corner, there’s a story. You can tell a story about anything that you want and have fun with it. This is what Bismark’s Cave is basically all about. It’s not just the regular gossip circuit; we share random stories, some occasional silliness, we discuss real issues, health, sports, jokes, life…everything.
For me, It’s been a blissful journey.

I still remember some years back when I nursed the idea of putting my ‘hobby’ (getting creative) on a professional platform. The constant pressure from a few friends, followers and well-wishers to start up a
blog, reinforced this idea.
Prior to this year, it used to be just a social media affair.. So, this long-held idea was realised with my friend and partner (Victor Ede) on 13-10-2015. We kicked off activities on Bismark’s Cave with the naughty and humorous article titled “No Bra Day”- aimed at promoting breast cancer awareness and to help raise money for research. To be sincere; I was nervous and shaky that very day.

The fear of under-performing gripped me.. I didn’t know how my first article will be received by my first readers, worse still, I was unsure of my target audience. Fortunately, the feedback I got was quite encouraging.
Since then it’s been a rewarding experience. Over 12,000 views and counting. By my assessment, I think the stats is fair enough for a rookie blogger. Lol

It’s been a bumpy ride I tell ya. Preparing time-bounded columns slated for specific days can pose as a daunting task. Sleepless nights, the calls… Throw in problems like poor network, cost of data and PHCN wahala. All these got me contemplating on whether to end this small venture. Oh yes! Some days I’m at my lowest…
My publisher, Victor would also complain and cry when things get really rough, yet he never stopped bringing his A- game to the job. *Thumbs up man*

We also faced the challenge of delivering contents suitable for our desired audience while juggling blogging with our careers.
In all of these, I draw my strength from our interaction, your love and support.

They are so many, I’ll mention a few most memorable moments-
Top on the list is the success of my fictional works ‘The life of a Lagos Whore’ and ‘Campus Affair’. Both stories are still getting massive positive reviews!
The Interview with the extraordinaire Nollywood makeup and prosthetic artist and African Movie Academy Awards nominee (Hakeem Effect). That interview was huge; in fact the number of views on the blog sky- rocketed!
One of the best stars we interviewed was Ugovinna; talented rising star and headies awards nominated artiste.
Featuring extraordinary talents like Oscar Ukonu (the artist) also comes to mind.
I’ll also like to include my beautiful and handsome Faces Of The Week features.

Our Very 1st FOC

Big thanks to our former/present contributors. Engineer Michael Onyegide took us into the world of sports for a season. Doctor Ejike Udeze gave us an insight into health and wellness.
I’m also appreciating my content creators and guest writers; Tarkaa Moses the pen god, Maduabuchi Innocent, Michael Okoye, Akhigbe Samson- the Nigerian wedding crasher who never fails to amuse us with his wedding experiences. I’ve got much love for our bad-ass writer Ebuka Umerah, the sassy Onyinye Ndupu, and the ever controversial Sylvanus Omoniyi…so many others too!

Thanks to our regular commenters and loyal supporters-
Okechukwu Adum, Johnmark Onyeka, Debbie Roy, Saviour Williams, Esther Abbey, Emmanuella Christian, Vanessa Amaka, Pablo, Uzoamaka Cherry, Chukwuebuka Frank, Charity Abason, Onyi Amaka, Mike Ike, Leo Ikoju, Precious Okoro, Augustina Enechile, Grace Ayabimeh, Adunola Theresa (mama tee), Henry Sydney, Tarkaa Moses, etc.
Thanks to everyone who subscribed to my newsletter, and receive messages whenever I publish something new.

We’ve been doing free adverts you know… Now it’s up to you to support our ministry till we get to the permanent site…lol

Three hearty cheers to Bismark’s Cave!

Bismark Ekenedilichukwu Benson- Brainchild of Bismark’s Cave
Victor Ede- Publisher

Then Came Silence: Written by Okafor Ugochi Winnie

THEN CAME SILENCE, a scream and then silence. The blood-stained object falls, clattering as it kissed the floor and descended into wriggles like salted earthworm before laying still, dead. Ese, engulfed with shock, stared at the corpse and then back at me.

*** *** *** ***
He came in, wearing his knowing smile – I had not reported the previous incident to Aunty Ese. He breezed past me, brushing his hands, his warm skin against mine and I froze in my stead, frightened.
Aunty Ese does not notice, she never will. Unless, I tell her. Sometimes, it beats me why she never suspects anything.

Okafor Ugochi Winnie is an undergraduate of English and Literary Studies in the University of Uyo, Uyo. She is a lover of literature and sports and has her non-fictional work featured in an anthology published by Brittle Paper in the celebration of Nigeria’s 56th independence. She hails from Imo state.

Aunty Ese is not really my aunty; I’m not blessed with such a fate. I’m only doing what people on the fringe side of life do; being her house help. She works at wherever she works – it doesn’t bother me – and whatever her job was, it never afforded her the luxury of staying at home often. I was handed the sole responsibility of taking care of the house – all that pertained to it, and of course, that didn’t include sleeping with her husband.

Her husband, a wily cat of a man, armed with stealthy eyes, must have felt cheated; starved of his marital rights. It was only a matter of time before he began making advances at me. And boy, that man doesn’t give up! Long before he began to express his hostility towards my refusal to meet his sexual demands, I had already noticed his travelling eyes around my body, groping every contour, much to my disdain and horror; to his pleasure and satisfaction. It wasn’t long before I slumped into the pressure, before I became a sex toy.

Why did you open your legs wide – isn’t that the only question these people ever ask? Of course, it was against my wish. He violated my body, defiled it, using it to remind himself that he was a man; a man who had been starved of sex for long but had finally been rewarded for his patience, with a 16 year old orphan who was only trying to stay afloat in the waters of life. Once or twice, I had fought back, struggled to rescue some pieces of my shattered dignity from his wrecking hands, to rescue my womanhood from his clutch, but failed effortlessly. The last time – yesterday – I had tried to stand my grounds, I had been beaten and raped, again. A shard of the broken bottle, which acted as evidence of my little resistance, had pierced his right foot and provoked him to anger, beating me till his hands hurt. He raped me while trying to strangle out the remaining breathe in me. I had lied to Aunty Ese that I had been bruised in the market while trying to separate a fight when she questioned me about the bruise on my face. She shouted at me, warning me to mind my business next time, as though I had not been doing so before her husband bashed into my life.

*** *** *** *** ***
They are both crouched in a sofa, watching a family series on African
Magic. I try to act normal and serve the fruit drink I had just made from the bananas and oranges he brought home from his farm at Ikorodu. I look up, my eyes catches his as he smirks at me. His gaze returns to the TV when Aunty Ese looks at him, holding out a glass of juice to him.

I am angry at her, she never sees anything even when it is staring right
in her face. She has never looked like one to suspect her husband’s infidelity as truth. The drama on TV has her piqued interest, and so, she does not see him throw a kiss to me and chuckle; chuckling at my fear, my defenselessness, and at my cowardice to let it all out to his wife. I proceed to my room, crying my soul’s hurt out until it can bleed no more. I hear her say goodnight to him and saunter to the room they both share. Her job takes lots of toll on her and often, she goes to bed before everyone. The TV still speaks, and I know he is waiting, waiting for her to finally drift off to sleep before he comes for me; the meek lamb waiting to be slaughtered. Minutes breeze past and I hear the TV go mute. I quiver in fright. His footsteps draw closer and I cry again, my soul giving chance for the bleeding to resume. He comes in, smacking his lips again, like he did the previous night, and the night before the previous night, and maybe, like he would do tomorrow night. He shuts the door behind him. Slowly, he undresses
himself, his brown eyes shining with mischief, lust, and fury. I draw close to the wall near my window. I can’t shout: no one would come to my aid. I smell his cologne, his hot breath greets my face, my neck is violated by his lips and his strong hands grips me, my soul accepts its fate. I close my eyes and lose myself in his lust.

I wake up with a start. My heart is bugged, scared that he may come inside again to hurt me; defile me. I sit still, waiting for my racing heart
to successfully finish its course – running. My eyes slowly explores its environment, darting from one end of the room to another. The memory of the previous night floods my mind, mocking me once again. Aunty Ese is set for work, he is not. I hear her call the family doctor to ask for a prescription of drugs to buy and administer to him – he is sick. I know he is feigning it; he couldn’t be really sick, after such a rough night with me. She asks me to take care of the house, to take care of him. From the corners of my eyes, I see him smile his knowing smile. I realize that this ailment is a sham, a wicked scheme employed by him to molest me again. I smile servilely, I was in for a bigger problem. She leaves me with the doctor’s number: to call in the case of
an emergency, and hurriedly leaves for work, leaving my overused body at the mercy of its tormentor-in-chief. I can’t tell anyone, not even when she calls again to check on his health, which was at its best state after nourishing himself with my battered body. He is gone now, fast asleep, I think.

I hate myself. I want to die. The emotions in me begin to conflict, anger and hatred and vengeance gaining grounds. I am led by the trio into the kitchen, towards the utensil section. I pick up the red-handle knife and walk like a zombie, in tears, to the room upstairs. I draw closer to him, the blade shining with my hate, anger, pain, frustration and the humiliation I had stored up in me. I clutch the knife harder, every nerve in me exploding in fury in a moment of adrenaline rush; I was getting my revenge. I raise the knife, praying silently that my heart doesn’t fail me, and it doesn’t. Everywhere is silent, even my breathing had slowed down, my heart is racing with the tempo of my emotions. He senses that someone is near him and opens his brown eyes; for the last time. He screams in fright as I let the blade brush through his neck, slicing his throat open. His body wriggles from the bed and falls to the floor. I feel at peace. I drop the knife, satisfied. I turn to leave and I am met with Aunty Ese’s terror-stricken eyes.