Posted in Cave Tales, Uncategorized

I’m Getting Married – A Short Story written by Kvng David

“Guys!……. I’m getting married”, Kunle had said this words a million times in his heart but they were too heavy for his lips to pop out. His lips trembled as he attempted voicing the speech knowing fully well the horror he was about to unleash.
But, the words came out and they did when he wasn’t even intending. He stuttered as he voiced each word, letting it fall sequentially from his lips like rain drops from a tree after a heavy down pour. The words broke the silence around the smoky atmosphere, but everyone held a cold face void of emotions. It seemed no one had heard him, they were all soaked in the insanity the brown leaves were feeding them.

“Guys! I just said something”, frustrated Kunle yelled into the smoke filled atmosphere. Kunle was the only one without a wrap of weed between his fingers, he had been lost in thoughts for days, rehearsing the very lines he just spoke to his friends but none of that made him loose his mind as much as the response he received. “You said”, that was the only thing that came out from Soji’s lips followed by the thick cloud of smoke he let out through his nose and mouth.

” I said I’m getting married”, Kunle said, this time with enough confidence.
The words were audible enough, it caught the attention of the rest of his gang gathered there; Soji, Chinedu, Luku. Tension and Scorpion who happened to be the gang leader, despite the fact that he was the calmest. The gang gave a few seconds utter silence, as if they were analysing how stupid Kunle’s words sounded to the ear and like those
peeps from sunday school choir they uniformly bursted into the most frustrating laughter.

“Kunle, you wey no dey smoke come dey high pass us wey don take like ten wraps, which one be you are getting married”, Chinedu said sarcastically with a croaked voice joined by the continued laughter of the other gang members, this time even louder and much more frustrating. “Guys! I’m damn serious, I’m getting married and I’m leaving the gang”, Kunle yelled, his face bent down to avoid their faces.
” Kunle”, they all screamed at the same time. This time they knew he was serious. “Kunle, see if na joke just stop am oh!, wetin you dey yarn na, shey you don kolo? we dey reason how we go take clear our package this night, you dey here they cap nonsense, no allow me forget groundnut for your body oh!” Luku spoke loudly with a vexed tone.

“Luku! calm down, wetin dey worry you”, Scorpion cautioned him, and then turned to face Kunle who still had his head bent down, “Kunle, look my face well well, you dey sure of wetin you dey yarn so?” “Yes Cappo”, Kunle continued “Cappo, you too suppose know say I no for dey here if no be crayfish wey bend. I be graduate oh, a master degree holder. See! I really want to settle down and Cynthia has been worried about what I do for a living, I don’t tire to dey lie give that girl”, he had barely finished speaking when Tension interrupted, “wetin this one dey cap sef, see small pikin wey we dey help him life, you get liver open your dirty mouth wan break our rules, if you be graduate nko?, because say we no go school ba!”, Scorpion gave him a hand gestures indicating ‘keep quiet’, he grumbled few more words and then everywhere was silent.

“Kunle! You really sure say you wan marry? You really wan comot?” Scorpion asked, more specific this time, Kunle nodded in affirmation. Scorpion continued “no wahala, I no get problem with you oh! But na just one thing you go do”, “anything Cappo, I go do anything”, Kunle said out of desperation and a bit of remorse. Okay then, Scorpion continued “na you go deliver our operation tonight. Senator Mark say make we pull down one political rival and him entire family, I go give Mosquito everything wey you go need make him give you. By this time tomorrow we go dey here host party for your send off, just try deliver tonight”, scorpion concluded.

Kunle wasn’t comfortable with the condition, but he would do anything to live peacefully and start a new life with Cynthia. “So yarn us na, who be this girl sef” Scorpion teased him. Kunle smiled, the distance of his grin spread so wide it reached for his ears because he has been touched with a question that completed the circuit where his love was stored, sending electric signals to his mind, “her name na Cynthia, ermmm! We’ve been together for more than six years, she…”


“I told you not to worry about that Kunle, I have already spoken to my dad about you. I told him you are a master degree holder, he said after his senatorial election he would appoint you to manage his company here in Abuja…” *Bang! Bang!*, a knock came at the door interrupting Kunle’s phone romance. Kunle peeped through his window, it was his gang, they were all knitted for the night’s operation. He let them in.
“ermmm! Cynthia I have to go now”, Kunle whispered to Cynthia. “Baby! This night, where the hell are you going to” Cynthia stroked back. “Ermmm”, Kunle tried to figure out a suitable lie “I thought I told you I’ll be going to a friends bachelors eve tonight” Kunle stuttered.

“Alright baby, just take good care of your self, you know I can’t afford loosing you, I love you so much baby”, Cynthia said, with a mix of insecurity in her voice. “hey baby, I’m not a kid okay, I can take care of myself, I’ll call you when I’m back, I love you more”, they exchanged vocal kisses and Kunle hanged up the call turning to his friends that had been starring sarcastically waiting for him to finish up. “Mr lover boy”, Chinedu teased him, tapping his head and they all laughed.
Kunle really liked his friends but he just didn’t like the job. His only joy was that it was all going to end that night.


….. They were all gathered at Mr Nnamdi Kingsley, the target’s apartment, after leaving the gate man in a pool of his own blood. Kunle stared at the pleading figure of a man before him, shaking as though bolts of current were passing through him as they stepped into the house, he looked at the picture in his hands and nodded his head to his friends…*kpa! Kpa! Kpa! Kpa! Kpa!* they sank bullets into the flesh of Mr. Kingsley, his wife and two kids and afterwards laid their lifeless bodies on the ground. Kunle smiled and the gang smiled back at him, knowing the beautiful reason behind his smile.
“Boys! I think we have a company”, Scorpion whispered as he went into a room were he found a girl hiding under her bed, dragging her out from the hair to the parlour where the rest of the gang were.

“Kunle!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”, that was the last word she screamed before two bullet pierced her head as she fell lifeless on Kunle’s feet. Kunle couldn’t understand what just happened, he couldn’t admit that he had just killed his to-be in-laws, he had just shot the man that was supposed to make his life a living fortune. He couldn’t believe that Cynthia had just kissed the dust.
He stood there shocked, with her last word ringing in his ear like a track on repeat. He pointed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.


Scorpion, Luku, Chinedu and Tension were all gathered around their usual spot, the mango tree. The atmosphere was quiet except for the sound their lips made while they sucked out insanity from the weed wraps in their hands.
They reminisced every conversation they had the previous day, the happiness and boldness in little Kunle’s heart when he made those heavy statements. They made instrumentals with sticks and plastics they found around, gyrating as their usual manner was. This was the send off party they had promised Kunle the previous day. They filled their bellies with alcohol and their lungs with fumes until they all laid on the floor, wasted.
Out of drunkenness Scorpion’s voice broke the silence

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Posted in Cave Tales, Cave View, Uncategorized

Taking a ‘NO’ Like a Champ! – Mfonobong Emerald

All day yesterday, I had to suffer a colleague’s angry glares because she’d asked for a favour and I politely turned her down.
Being someone who’s come a long way from being unable to refuse, even at a great personal cost, I found her reaction very amusing. And it got me thinking.

This seems like a trivial subject until you consider the underlying psychological triggers and long-term effects.
There’s this un tamed sense of entitlement we all struggle with. We expect things from friends, parents, siblings, lovers, bosses, even internet strangers. When we don’t get them, by default, our disappointment transforms into aggravation. Aimed at them.

Next, vindictiveness steps in. We start planning to “do our own back”. Even though it takes a lifetime, payback, I will! Or, we take the high school route and keep malice. Un friend them, both literally and figuratively.
In the long run, we become dysfunctional people who further degenerate into creeps because we can’t handle break-ups. Radio-silence after sending a job application plunges us into depression. An outright “We’re sorry” sends you jumping off Third Mainland Bridge.

Learn to take ‘No’ for an answer. It’s good for your self-esteem.
Better still, understand that nobody owes you an explanation for saying no. Whether it is their refusal to lend you “ordinary 5k”, their inability to “house you for just one week even though they live in 20-room duplex”, or even something as petty as “No, you can’t borrow my pen”, they are within their rights to refuse.

It’s okay to be upset for a minute as long as you suck it up and move on. Move. On. Don’t become a vengeful, object-throwing, red-faced three year old.
Leave off trying to calculate if it’s a fault of yours or selfishness on their part.

P.S: As a bonus, learn to say NO. Please, learn. It’s a sign of strength. But the motivational speakers don’t tell you that.

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Posted in Cave Tales, Cave View

Your Real Name Is Your Surname – Written by Iniobong Leroi Umoh

Nobody really cares about your first name or nickname.
You are not successful until you join the elite league of men and women who are addressed all over the world by their surnames.
The moment you achieve a great feat, hold a foremost office or position in society, become famous etc, your first name pales into insignificance.

President Barrack Obama became the President of the United States of America and his Kenyan surname ‘Obama’ became the most powerful name in the world for 8 years. Many people do not know that ‘Barrack’ is his first name.
How many Nigerians know that their President’s first name is Muhammadu? Go out on the streets and make a survey, and I can bet you that less than 30% would be able to tell you the President’s first name.

The weighty surname cuts across all fields of human endeavour; sports, politics, arts/entertainment, academics, technology, religion, etc.
Do you know Lionel?
Do you know Messi?
Everybody knows Messi, not everybody knows that ‘Lionel’ is Messi’s first name.
How about Christiano?

Right now there are only five people in this world who address me by my surname. But If I become the President of Nigeria in 2027, everybody will be talking about Umoh. Nobody will mention Iniobong.
Newspaper headlines would read;
“Day of long knives! Umoh reshuffles cabinet, appoints ministers from Mars, Jupiter, and Neptune!”, “Power Drunk! Umoh declares state of emergency in Nigeria! Assumes absolute powers, takes over National assembly and Judiciary! Jails all law makers and Judges!”
“What is wrong with Umoh? Why all these policy somersaults? Is he crazy?”

Take a minute and reflect on your surname. Is it “sexy” enough? If your surname is ‘Ifod’ for instance, if you (If you are not too old) or your child becomes an English premier league footballer, you would have to deal with the consequences of your surname. You don’t want to see your son on the pitch with “Ifod” written on the back of his jersey. If he mistakenly scores an own goal in a crucial match, you won’t like to see screaming headlines like:
“Sabotage! Ifod buries Man Utd! Scores own goal!”
“Ifod has done it again!”

The sports betters and coupon players in the Akwa-Cross axis would point to his name as the cause and rain curses on him for cutting their ticket. They would petition the club to axe him from the team.

So ladies, before you marry that man, scrutinise his surname. Guys, if your surname makes you uncomfortable, go and do a Spiritual Renaming/prayers in a Church or do a change of surname in a newspaper.
If this post doesn’t make any sense to you, please pardon me, it was written under the influence of Amartem Forte.

P.S: There’s also the elite league of first name individuals. We might talk about this group someday.

*Ifod(Ibibio) = Witch(English) or Winsh (pidgin)*

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Posted in Bismark's Corner, Cave Tales, Uncategorized

The Real Bedroom Gist Between The Wellingtons

Adesuwa: So I leave my newly wedded husband for a minute to get dressed, only for him to pick up his phone and film our bedroom.
Would it have been so hard to stay off the phone in the course of our honeymoon? No tell me Bankole, would it? I should have known we also got married to that Iphone you’re always absorbed in…
Banky: Susu, trust me, I’m really devastated. (Scratches head) But remember, I’m Mr Capable! I promise to make it up to you in every possible way, I swear honey…

Susu: Interesting! How? Make me understand, Snapchat administrator. Because you’re not the one whose bare butt found its way to the net. (Takes another glance at Gossipmill page and sobs hysterically) Seems like a nightmare! (Sighs) So much for a lavish ceremony in Capetown!
Banky: No no no babes. We’ll survive this. Come on…You’re still the sweetest girl that everybody adores, regardless of this shit…

Susu: Oh please…stop talking big head. I can imagine how nosy folks and unsolicited counsellors with jealousy issues, like Omotola, would feel better about themselves right now.
Banky: Don’t mind her…She should swallow her advice, leave IG, and go and cook for Captain Ekeinde.

Adesuwa: 😀 😀 😀 😀 But It’s not funny anyway. How do we handle this mess?
Banky: We do another loved up photo shoot in say…the Bahamas, on a private island beach…and make haters chew out their hearts.

Adesuwa: You’re sure?
Banky: Definitely susu. I got this one. Remember we are #BAAD like that!

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The Beggars Plight – Written by Owie Osarhen Joshua

My name is Aminat and I understand only a few things. I understand that I have to wear a ‘sad look’ to every figure that passes by me and that i have to hold on with a firm grip to their hems so they can bless my hands before I let go.

I hear you people call it ‘begging’. Call it what you will, I do not understand it that way. I understand that not all of these people blesses my hands. Some sight me afar on my tattered clothing and give a wide berth, some shake their heads vigorously at me when I
come close and they move on even though I cling to them like a gnat.
Some pretend not to see or hear me, some even stone me with the ‘blessing’ and then, there are some that scares me; they shout at me, they are ready to bounce and tear me apart if I so much as take a step towards their direction.

This I understand.
Sometimes, I stand in the scorching sun for hours setting the sole of my bare feet on fire. I stand in the rain and I am soaked to my skin, my teeth chatters afterwards and I shake uncontrollably like a leaf. This I also understand.
I am made to follow my withered uncle who is blind. He holds on to my shoulders with a bowl in his hands and a long stick to hold his frame. I lead him through the big city sprawled before my eyes, through market squares, through shops, through the busy streets, through alleyways, through places I can become lost and I do all these for the ‘blessing’ and I understand it.

I also understand that because i am a little girl, people give me more of the blessing, people give me a second look when I wrap my tiny hands around their big arms. Kabiru, my half-brother, says he gets less of the ‘blessing’, he says no matter how much he tries, he is often chased away, he is often given the wide berth and often ignored. He doesn’t understand it but I do.

I understand all these because of what it stands for. This ‘understanding’ gives me food; it prevents the pangs of hunger from hitting me hard. This understanding makes Baba Musa happy, he is so much excited when the blessing is plenty. On such occasions, Mother cooks elaborate and I get to munch to my satisfaction. Otherwise, Baba becomes sour and angry like an active volcano. He becomes like a roaring lion seeking to devour Mother and my older mothers and it un-nerves me. Mother cries whenever he erupts like a volcano and it makes me sad, it makes me cry too.
I feel afraid because of this ‘little’ understanding sometimes. I feel trapped for a little girl of my age. I try to understand more than this little understanding that I know but i find myself continually lost in my perplexity.

I get to see men and women attired in the nicest clothes. Their children, little girls like me are adorned like a princess. They walk majestically and wear a cocky smile that rocks me from my feet when I see them. I do not understand this.
Exotic cars shoots past me like a bullet. I see them in various colours like a rainbow. Some are small and some are gigantic and they are always beautiful. I sometimes stand before them when they pause in their tracks waiting for that man, waiting for that woman sitting regally in them to bless my small hands thrust before their eyes.

I see these things and I like them; I want them. I see these people and I want to be like them. I love the names given to these things, I love the names given to what these people do.
Kabiru would look nice in a ‘suit’. He would make a fine ‘doctor’. He has this uncanny knack for treating my small wounds and bruises whenever I get one; I often wonder how he does it.
Fatima my elder sister ‘sings’ like an ‘angel’. Her voice is so melodious that when I hear it, it calms my fears, it dries my tears and it lulls me to sleep.
Me? I want to talk to people over the ‘Radio’. I love the voice of the lady that talks to people from that black box. Kabiru said she tells the ‘news’ to people. I do not understand that but I love the confidence in her voice, the way she seems so sure of what she is saying; she sounds like someone that isn’t confused.

I want things. I love things. Kabiru probably want a whole lot more than what I want. Fatima may also do too. But I don’t ‘understand’ this. I don’t understand why I can’t have them, why these people aren’t me, why I can’t drive that exotic car I so much love.
Whenever you see me, do not frown or give me the wide berth. Do not see me as the ‘beggar girl’ you claim me to be.
Rather, see me as the little girl who understand so little. See me as a little girl that is limited by this little understanding.

This understanding may stick me here forever. I am scared of it when it crosses my mind. I do not want to end up like Mother.
Fatima would soon be like her; I often see the Strange Man that comes to visit Baba Musa, I do not like the way his eyes rests on Fatima. They seem like a patient predator bidding its time to bounce on its prey.

Kabiru is not left out. He too is to become a servant to the Strange Man; to become one of his many boys who herds his cattles. Kabiru hates him. He told me he wanted to run away when Baba Musa told him about his decisions. He doesn’t tell me about his plans to escape anymore, maybe he understands it.

You see, I fear everyday that I may never understand beyond this little understanding and that is why I cry to you.
Help me to understand so I can become like the little princesses that I see everyday. Can you help the ‘beggar girl’ as you call me?.


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HER INTERIM LOVER – by Ehiakhamen Endurance

“But Tony do you think you can act the role?”

I swirled around in a move much quicker than I had intended. Shit! Way too fast. Not that I was really interested in any part of the movie that wasn’t showing on the TV but I didn’t want to reveal to her my excitement, at least not that easily. However, the words I had just heard were way too surreal for me to falsify any semblance of a macho. I could feel my stomach tie up in a die hard knot. The lump in my throat was going to choke me.

“What did you say?” I asked in a voice that sounded like a weak fart.

Lucie retreated defensively. That was probably not the response she was expecting. She blushed, bit her lower lip and ran her eyes from mine to somewhere around her feet. Her countenance was soaked in pure embarrassment.
“Nothing. Don’t worry.”

As much as I didn’t want to come off too strong, I wasn’t going to let that opportunity pass me by. There I was, sitting on the sky blue sheeted bed with the most beautiful woman that ever walked the Earth’s crust, on the receiving end of one of the most technical questions in humankind’s history. I couldn’t afford to flop that one. In her timid low-lit self-contain apartment, we were alone, like we always were. The way I loved it. It was always tantalising spending quality time doing quality things with Lucie, the top on the list being watching funny video skits and binge singing. She was always un shy around me and knew how to put my heart at ease.

This time was different though. It most certainly would have taken a butcher’s knife to cut through the tension that made its home in the air in the room. Her head was bowed, to my greatest agony as she sat in a relaxed yogi’s pose, probably cursing herself for allowing those words fly into my ears. My tingling ears.

“Lucie, please don’t do that. I just really want to be sure you said that. I’m not upset or anything. Okay?”

“I was asking if you would want to help me punish Justin for the next few weeks?” she asked as her chin rose ever so slightly, like she was trying to be sure it was safe enough to show her moist eyes to the dark world around her.

By nature, it wasn’t a strange question. Heck, it was borne out of the foolproof strategy I had mapped out for her under an hour ago. No woman deserved to be treated like a mere handbag. That’s except the handbag was from Valentino’s recent collections and priced at $250,000 but you get my point. I had given her the full script on how to end the treatment she was getting from her boyfriend. What was strange though was the fact that she was requesting that I co-star in ‘The Revenge’.

The plot?

Quite simple. Justin had been extremely ‘busy at work’, taking cordial pictures of himself with some girl that could only wish she looked somewhat like a silhouette of Lucie, at workplaces that looked more like the interiors of eateries and cinemas. They were workplaces for people alright. Just not him. And where did all that leave Lucie? A sad confused mess, unsure of herself and unwilling to cut ties with the one because of whom she was star-struck. So what could she do to scrape some sanity back into her being? That was where I got brilliant, again. After hearing my plan, she was all set to get herself a new work partner to carry out all those time-consuming yet laudable projects with, leaving Justin with no choice but to quit his job. Ding!

For Lucie, I always found it easy to wear my thinking hat. My mind effortlessly brewed like a meth lab every time she needed answers. I didn’t even think that much on my examination questions and I was a first class student. I had told her to spite Justin. Cook him up with hot jealousy and leave him to explode. Every guy will be a step closer to death if he saw some other dude encroaching on his lady. That’s if he cared about her though. That was what my plan was based on. But to be the lab rat for that experiment?

“Lucie are you sure of this?” I asked, silently praying she answered yes.

“Tony it’s okay if you don’t want to do it. I’ll just find someone else or possibly might not-”

“No, I’ll do it”, I cut in quickly. By now her eyes were glistening as bead after bead, warm tears dove down and formed a dark patch on her dark green bum shot. I hated seeing her cry. Gosh I couldn’t even bear to see her frown. I think it’s high time I explicitly made it known that I had a huge crush on Lucie. Ever since the day I first saw her two years back, I had been held spellbound. Even then, while accepting the ridiculous task, I felt like the most noble of men. I get to be with the woman I have always wanted, even if it’s just a show for the audience seated on Facebook and Instagram.

She smiled a faint smile. Probably she liked me too. Maybe just a little above that facet of racism known as friend zoning. Enough to not be grossed out by sharing a kiss with me. Or was she just happy to have things going her way. I didn’t know and honestly didn’t dwell much on that. I’d rather not.

“But please, let’s not get carried away in all of this. I still love him you know and you are a great friend I wouldn’t want to lose. It’s just a farce, so let’s keep it so. Please? I know Justin, this shouldn’t last more than three weeks maximum.”

Alas, I was still down at that bottomless pit. In that moment, I hated Lucie and every other girl that tossed me in there, with a beautiful plastic smile emblazoned on her face. Before me was a girl I liked, really liked, but couldn’t be with because she liked someone else who didn’t care two hoots. And I was crazy enough to accept to be the agent of tactical mimicry channelled at re igniting his interest. How stupid could I be. I mentally hissed and raised my eyes to meet hers. That was when I realised she had been staring, in wait of an answer. Those eyes. Those intimidatingly irresistible eyes I could never say no to.

“Okay. I understand. It’s a deal”, I nodded. Even I couldn’t believe the words that had just escaped my own mouth. They were that strange. But who cared.

The following three weeks were the craziest of my life. Ever. But they were the best too. I never knew my own plan demanded that much work. I was expecting Lucie would keep our arrangements under wraps. But boy! Was I wrong? Everyday, I met friends upon friends. Some outing today, another tomorrow, clad in the same pattern and colour of clothes each time we did (yeah, she did go as far as buying alike). I suffered severe bouts of dysentery in that period. How could I have forgotten that ice cream and I do not familiarise so well. Lucie was the dream fake girlfriend for any man though. I didn’t spend a dime on her in all that time, as against my earlier calculations. She specifically objected, every time. More than once, she made rich soups and stews for me in my apartment and stayed over twice. No, nothing happened. To my dismay. It was crazy having to be a boyfriend but not be a boyfriend at the same time. Crazy I tell you. The best part? Good ol’ Justin wasn’t even flinching. And then, all of a sudden….

“Tony I think I want this to continue. I want us to be a thing. For real. I think a part of me really likes you and I want to explore it. I want you to be my baby”.

Lucie made that statement on the eve of the twenty-first day of our hoax relationship. To say I was shocked would be down playing how I really felt. My upper lip deserted the lower one for what felt like ten minutes, as my eyes almost ran off to meet hers. Could she be serious about wanting me? Was she falling in love with me? I wasn’t sure. I still am not sure today.

It’s been seven whole years since that night and I still can’t find a befitting answer for that question. It still haunts me, like it did this evening.

“Baby, dinner is served. It’s your favourite”, my wife called from the kitchen.

The sweet sound of her voice and the pompous aroma of the delicacy brought me back from the surreal world I had been lost in. I rose from the red leather armchair I had sunk in, just as my wife walked into the dining room from the kitchen, carrying a wide tray and clothed in smiles that suggested a promise of some extra-curricular activities after dinner. I knew her that well. I reciprocated the gesture. I could use some play too. Just before my buttocks possessed the dining seat, I dropped the peach card I was holding in my right hand on the table. An invitation card.

‘Otukpo Luciana weds Ayodele Justin’ was it’s message.

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Cats and Bad Choices – by Eze Drizzy Jude

Nala’s boyfriend is a homeless guy.
I don’t have a problem with her choice of a mate. The heart wants what it wants. I’m attracted to weird, damaged, rebellious, outcasts of society too. And I’m her dad after all, so who am I to judge?

My concern however, is that the dude keeps running away whenever he sees me. I can’t say I blame him though. I’m a Nigerian parent after
all. But I’m a really cool guy. I just wish he’d give me a chance to prove that I’m not your average Nigerian parent, sha.

In his mind he must think he’s really smart. He and my stupid daughter. They think they’re using my head. They think I don’t know the particular side of the ceiling he follows to come into the house to see her every night.

I know but I act like I don’t know. Apparently they don’t know that I too used to be young and foolish once, just like them. Mtcheeew!
Nonsense and stupid children.
The most upsetting part is that he got her pregnant. She gave birth to triplets about a month ago. Still he won’t come to reason with me, let’s figure out what we’re going to do with those little rascals. Is that even fair?

He’s just irresponsible I swear.
And Nala is a feminist. She only needs a mate when konji catches her.
Shameless thing!
You know, I’m really starting to rethink this whole feminism thing.
Those women have no honour and home training cha cha! I mean, how do you get pregnant and give birth to triplets for a guy that hasn’t even paid a single dime on your head? Is she not mad?

As I’m talking, the stupid cat will still crawl through the ceiling this night to coman chop what it has not paid for.
Osho free!
Is that how things work in the animal kingdom? I need to sit down and have a chat with it, man to cat; let’s settle this thing once and for all.
I thought it’s only human beings that use to do sperm donor husband.

Why am I even telling you people my family problems. It’s not as if you care. I should have sent this to dear Amanda.
Anyway, I still need advice on how to deal with this situation between me and my cat’s boyfriend.

PS: Only mature advice please, no insults.

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Live In The Moment—Jeff Ugochukwu Emmanuel

He is huddled with his cronies the first time you see him at a shindig in Tandaale. You are about to descend into a seat when your friend starts to introduce the guys from across the table. There is something about the third guy that is profoundly different from the rest of his posse. Something acutely ethereal.

You freeze to take an inventory, stalling in a typical coquettish fashion, waiting for him to extend the first handshake, but alas, it is you who finally unfurls from your chrysalis. Something almost nondescript propels you to shoot your hand forward, shattering the intended frugality in that gesture. When his hand reaches into yours, it is soft like fluff. And for a moment, you are lost in the sensation. Your eyes catch his, but they come crashing down briefly, and for the first time since cradle, you shrink away under another’s gaze. You recall your hand promptly but It lacks the vim to retreat. You can feel yourself careening into somewhere unknown and distant.

The simple patterns cutting into his face are delicately superficial. When he smiles, just like he is doing now; it is as clear as burgundy and as neat as glass. A full white tablet dentition, lapped behind a sharply outlined cranberry lips; his crispy eyebrows arcing slightly down, imposing a distinct fanfare of genteel and clairvoyance. When his mouth moves to introduce himself, his voice nukes the stereotype box of what is particularly masculine or feminine, like something playing out of a tenor saxophone twining with a light basso. Your hand manages to peel from his. You nab yourself wishing you could lean in and kiss him.

He pours some brandy into your snifter. You are halfway into your drink when he asks you to dance with him. Your dance is awful. The request goads your heart against your chest. His touch is mollifying when his hand reaches into yours and interdigitates. It reminds you of Zihuatanejo and Sayulita—the way the water rolls to the coast every so often, making the undulating dunes straight, garbling every tiny little imperfection, bundling them back into a blind spot, and leaving in its wake a pristine seashore teeming with life. You are nestled together, moving lithely in the lead of his rhythm. Soon you are caught in a cauldron of bliss and tangible silence, cordoning off the plush music spooling in the background. You slant in nervously and kiss him, re-affirming the peerless awesomeness of God.

Regret comes pouring in. You recline and let your head droop, blushing. If you stay for another moment, you fear the expression sitting on your face will further give you away. That cannot happen. Women like you are too beautiful to woo men. The hunted cannot suddenly become the hunter. You apologise and excuse yourself to go to the rest room. A vertically challenged figure whizzes past but you don’t make him because you’re still reeling from that kiss.

You stop at the door, realising you don’t have the need for a rest room. Your mama’s words invade your thoughts: everyday is a precious gift to those who live it with their middle finger in the air, a festival of laughter for those who try to live in the moment. You spin around, nipping back the way you came, intent on spurting out exactly what you feel. The ground beneath rocks abruptly and tosses you in the near distance.

There is a wholesome darkness and silence only punctuated by flickering light bulbs and removed wails of pain and anguish. Your ears are tingling and everything seem to be happening from inside the back of your head. You scramble and manage to get on your feet, schlepping back. When you get to the ballroom, there is a bundle of mutilated bodies and debris.

This god of a man you had just kissed a moment ago is gone. Forever gone. You look at his dismembered body and see the face of God grinning right back. You realise, in that moment, that God indeed does have a bad sense of humour.

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Posted in Cave Tales, Cave View, Uncategorized

Toads for Breakfast! – by Francis Aquaticus

At about the age of seven, when i’d come back home from school, it was my pleasure to go and visit my cousin who hated going to school. We’d go into people’s farms plucking ears of corn and hunting for birds with our catapults and traps. This very day was however different, as we decided to observe a particular well filled with dirty water. It had attracted us because of the noise we heard. A noise which wasn’t strange to my cousin who had already begun ‘harvesting’ what I later came to call frog. Though we went home with a few ‘frogs’ it wasn’t until evening he had called me to have a taste of it. I did, but with an hesitation. You know what? It tasted nice!

Now, it has been years of my seeing a frog around, not to mention eating it. Luck did in fact come my way, when recently, at night I would hear the cries of this same creature, this ‘frog’. Because of my curiosity this time around, I had to go into studying to know if these creatures are poisonous or not. This is what I found out:

That “Poison dart frogs are well known for their brightly coloured skin. The bright colours warn potential predators of their toxicity” and that “they get the deadly chemical called lipophilic alkaloid from consuming a poisonous food in the rainforest.”

So when I did ‘harvest’ these amphibians eventually (as the pictures attest), I came to the conclusion that since I am not in a rainforest, they cannot be called or known as “poisonous frogs,” but toads.

Albeit, the cane toad, which is native to the Americans is quite poisonous and used as a biological pest control. Like the one in my bucket, it is eaten after the careful removal of the skin and parotoid glands. When properly prepared, the meat of the toad is considered healthy and as a source of omega-3 fatty acids.

Refreshingly, I think what I did ‘harvest’ eventually at night, is called the common toad. It does look like the cane toad, though all non-poisonous toads eaten by humans act like the asiatic toad.

I had also discovered that “the Asiatic toad plays an important role in traditional Oriental medicine. An extract of the toxins secreted by the toad, known as toad venom or chan-su , has long been touted for its medicinal properties. In addition, dried toad skins have been prescribed as remedies for dropsy and other ailments. More recently, Western medical science has also taken an interest in the toad. In 1998, an antimicrobial peptide was extracted from the toad, and patented.”

As I had prepared this toad meticulously and eaten it with all consciousness, I would ipso facto think about the weirdest names I would begin to bear apart from “toad eater”. For unfortunately, in 21st Nigeria, a lot of myths and traditions still ‘move’ about with un-scratched influences.

Personally, I do admire folks outside and within, who erect rat farms, cockroach farms, snail farms, grasshopper farms, pig farms, cricket farms, bee farms, and rabbit farms, etc. For despite many bias and prejudices, it has taken more than courage for such individuals to love what they do. After all, that meat, fish or vegetable you eat in your house today is another’s cultural taboo!

You can watch the video “how to prepare a toad” by David Francis-Aquaticus here or on YouTube with same title.

Bon appetitè

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Posted in Cave Tales, Cave View

You Are Not Your Hymen- Written by Eze Drizzy Jude

The cause of her sadness, she told her father, was that she’d “lost” her virginity to a boy and she’d been feeling pretty shitty about it.
She felt she’d lost a part of herself; like she wasn’t complete anymore.
Ben had never been able to put that word into context with virginity.
It saddened him how this unjust social construct had caught up with his only daughter.

And more so, how much it weighed her down. It just broke his heart to see her that way.
When he first had sex as a teenage boy, he felt everything but sad. He was elated.
He felt like a Jewish boy after his Bar mitzvah; he felt like he was finally a man. He wanted to brag about it amongst his friends. He felt like an eagle and he just wanted to soar the skies.
Such are every teenage boy’s feelings after his first time. Total bliss.
Except for those who were sexually molested as kids.
But for girls, it was pure misery. Because society so conveniently chose the female vagina as the most befitting place to put its moral beacon.
Well, not on his watch. Ben sought to put things in proper perspective for his daughter.

“When you look at yourself in the mirror, what do you see?” He asked.
“I see myself” she said.
“Do you look any less beautiful now than you were before your hymen was torn?”
she said, “I look just the same”.
“How is your reasoning capabilities? Do you feel yourself becoming less intelligent?” He asked again.

“No, I feel fine” she said.
“How about your savings account?” he asked, “have you had any fraudulent debits lately? A debit alert for the ‘non virgin’ tax perhaps”
“No I haven’t” she chuckled “that’s ridiculous dad”
“I know right”. Father and daughter both laughed.
“Dad, where are you going with this?” She asked.
“Honey”, he started, “I’m just trying to figure out what you’ve lost that’s so important to make you feel so bad about yourself. And as far as I can tell, you haven’t lost anything of real value.

You’re still as beautiful as ever, maybe even prettier.
You haven’t lost any points in your IQ. Trust me, daddy would know.
And you haven’t even lost any money; which is the least thing you could lose in this world by the way. So what exactly have you lost baby?”

“But I feel used dad” she said.
“Sweetie, are you a human being or a rental car people take for rides and dump when they’re done?” he asked.
“I am a human being” she replied.
“Baby, you can’t be used and dumped. If he’s too dumb to realize what an amazing girl you are and decides to walk away, that’s his loss not yours. It doesn’t leave a dent on your personality. Because you aren’t defined by what goes into your vagina but by the impact you leave on the world and in the lives of the people you love. Okay my love?”

“Okay daddy”.

At that moment, he saw the light return to her eyes. Like the rising of the sun after a stormy night.
He told her she’d be okay. Not that he needed to. She’s a smart kid, she knew it already.

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