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Hey guys, it’s my birthday. Here’s a post to commemorate the day. Enjoy, and share. And oh, leave a “happy birthday” msg for me in the comments. Thanks, and much appreciated :)

He woke up happy, it was his birthday
He wondered what his family would say
Freshening up, he went down for breakfast
Stooping low to stroke the cat
Everyone was in a hurry, no time to talk
His dad said goodbye and dashed off to work
His mum hurried them off to the bus
Sitting next to his sister, he was at a loss.

At school his friends shook his hand, and “Hi”
His girlfriend said with a kiss and a smile
Grabbing his hand they walked to her class
Another kiss and a pat on his ass
He shambled to class as the bell rang
Not wasting time, his teacher was a strict man
He sat in his class, very surprised
When would anyone realise?

Now school was over until tomorrow
He walked to the bus, kid sister in tow
His girlfriend had said she would be busy
There was an assignment she had to complete
He sat on the bus thinking “Now I know it
“They’re planning a surprise, everyone is in on it”
With that he relaxed and smiled at his sister
Of course, no way no one would remember.

Calmly he paraded his house all day
Still no one had anything to say
It was almost evening, time was running out
He wondered what his surprise would be about
The time is eleven, he’s losing his mind
At 5 past midnight, he’s startled to find
He was wrong five minutes before
Today is the day, not the day before
His phone rang, it was his girlfriend
As his kid sister ran in with a present
Wrapped in a hug, his parents in the doorway,
Holding their gifts, singing “Happy birthday”.

Let It Go

Let Baloon Go

In my hands, I hold a letter to you.

On the table before me are your letters to me.

They contain our promises. Our exchanges. Our smiles, our joy, our happiness.

But because of what I’m about to do, as if all at once, I remember a lot of the things I have let go. All the times I had to whisper my goodbyes, let go of my dreams, hopes and wishes.

“Let it go,” my father had told me as I stared with dismay at my first bicycle, wrecked at the hands of my brothers and cousins, without even a chance to ride it.

“Let it go,” my mother had told me as she ripped one of my favourite shirts to shreds because of how old it was. On my bed was a new set of clothes I didn’t want.

“Don’t worry about it too much, just let it go,” my brother had told me when I was refused my visa to study abroad.

“You’ll get it next time dear. Don’t let it get to you. Just let this one go,” my sister had told me when I failed the entrance exam to a university after studying so much.

“She’s dead.” my uncle said, as I cradled the corpse of our pet monkey, Ribsy. “I’ll take her. Give her to me. Let go.” And he wrestled her from me.

“There’s not much we can do sir. It’s non-refundable. Just let it go,” the booking agent had said when my trip to Italy fell through.

“Let them go,” I told myself as I watched some of my friends leave for various reasons.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” an ex had told me as I tried to apologise. “It’s just time to let it go.”

Goodbyes. Resignation. Love.
Slowly I have let go one by one.

And now, my heart feels that familiar twinge of pain, surpassing any I have felt before.

But I do differently from what I always did when this time came.

I whisper my goodbyes, let go of my disappointment, negativity and cowardice, and I gird my heart and my mind as I pick up my lighter and set a flame to the letter in my hand.

Once again, I’m letting go.

But this is the last time I will let go.

And this time, I’m letting go of letting go.

I will never let go again.

Egbemawei D. Sammy

Love You More

They were the perfect couple.

No one was happier than the other. They were both blissful.

Everyday was a good day, and they went through each day with the same enthusiasm.

When they met, they met with the same level of joy and expectation.

When they played, they played with abandon, holding nothing back.

Each could see the depth of the other’s love.

There were moments they stared each other in the eyes, revelling in the beauty there.

Their hours together were gold, and the minutes were diamonds.

There was peace and love and no jealousy or distraction of any kind.

Until one day, one said to the other: “I love you”, and instead of the usual “I love you too”, the reply was:
“I love you more.”

This was the beginning of the end.

P.S – I pose a question to my readers. Who do you reckon said “I love you more”, and why?

Egbemawei D. Sammy


We hate our friends for different reasons
And love our enemies in particular seasons
Our desires fuelled by actions or words,
Expressions or thoughts, hugs or swords
But sometimes a sight to look forward to
Is a feature that makes people so beautiful
Not their face, lifestyle, warmth or heart
But some people were made for one purpose:
To smile.

Fighting For Our Own

We rowed, to battle we rode
We soared, to battle we crawled
“To freedom, to victory,” we roared
“To arms, to arms,” they called.
We had for too long borne the pain
They had for too long reaped our gain
With anger, with hate, for justice we went
With power, with disdain, their forces they sent.

We landed, we banded, with knives and pitchforks
They laughed, our ragtag group couldn’t make them baulk
Our leader on his horse, his sword held above
Called out our intentions, an honourable move
They laughed and then charged, to them it was fun
We called out our charge, the battle was on.

Hours later, the cries of battle still rung
And at my side my blood-stained sword hung
Madness, my soul disturbed by a deep sadness
It was wrong, there would be no victory song
For my belief, for my family I had staunchly fought
I had sliced, I had diced, I had killed, I had shot
My peace came when an arrow found my heart
For we had known the end from the start
In death I had hoped to be proven wrong
But my comrades were dead, I was the last one.

Family – Dear Diary

A story from ‘The Family Series’ by the writer of Family – Chapter 5.
Enjoy a different take on Father, titled Dear Diary by Gideon.



Sometimes when I’m bored I like to play eyewitness and describe myself to myself. Short, balding, a little too round around the belly, with very dark brown eyes and tiny wiry beards like I’m sixteen. Well I wish I was sixteen, I was one hot sixteen year old.

Puberty screwed me, looks-wise anyway, but my life has turned out well. Proud owner of a chain of businesses, currently working on my second doctorate, and I’m just thirty-two. I’m married with two lovely children, twin boys, Thierry and Henry, yeah I know, we arsenal fans are weird like that.

Oh, one very important thing about me, I HATE my dad…like I HATE the man so much if he were on fire, and I had a glass of water, I’d rather water a cactus.

It wasn’t always this way, I remember in my third grade I was the only one in all four arms of the class who said his dad was his favourite parent; everyone else wrote a comprehension about their mothers. *shrugs*
Well its all in the past.

Sometimes we go through experiences so distressing, we can never get ourselves to say what happened out loud; we are too ashamed about what we’ve had to go through that we pretend it didn’t happen. Not because we are forgiving, but because reacting would draw suspicion and questions we’d rather not answer.

I’ve had one of those scarring experiences.

I’d share with you an excerpt of my diary…but honestly, I’d rather not relive the events of that day.

September 12th, 2010
Dear diary,
A part of me died today. That part of me that loves and trusts people unconditionally, it’s dead.
Today redefined what a shitty day is.

Vaccinations on the farm failed and in two hours, over 1000 birds died.

On the ride home, my right rear tyre picked a nail and I had to change the tire under the pouring rain.

To compound my annoyance, I left my phone in my pocket all the time I was in the rain and the stupid phone got soaked and refused to come on.

So I got home in the pouring rain, soaked to my briefs, annoyed and frustrated and unable to call anyone to come open the gate for me. I had to climb the barbed wire fence to let myself in, tearing my trousers and bruising my thigh and shin.

I was furious, but in fairness I could understand why my dad and nursing wife would be asleep in this cool weather. Besides it was barely 11am and they didn’t expect me home till late in the evening.

Life doesn’t prepare you for the real shocks. There’s no background music increasing in its intensity till you walk in on your dad screwing your wife while your twin babies are sleeping nearby.

I can still picture the defiant smirk on his face and the horror in Addie’s.

What’s worse is I can still remember my weak response, slumping on a chair in a heap and crying like a fool. What was I to do? It was my dad for Pete’s sake, my hero.

I’m writing this because I’ve decided to forget this happened. This is my escape, my therapy. My dad should have known better. I can’t even divorce my wife because word of her infidelity would get out, so I am still ‘happily married’.

For some reason, this line from a famous poem keeps playing in my head: “The distance between you and your father should pull closer, not push farther”.
I wish…


Gideon blogs at
Please pay a visit to his blog and enjoy.

You can view the previous instalments of the Family Series here:
Family – Chapter 0
Family – Chapter 1
Family – Chapter 2
Family – Chapter 3
Family – Chapter 4
Family – Chapter 5
Family – Chapter 6

My First Literature

Once upon a time I was in the Press Club in SS1 (Year 10), an invisible spectator. And as with a lot of school events at the time, I was happy being an invisible noise- and trouble-maker.

If you were as naughty as I was, you wanted few people to know your name and be able to tell what class you are in.

But one afternoon I headed to the club, intending to lounge at the back and doodle away or chat with my friends Moses and Chiedu as usual, when something unusual happened.

The teacher in charge – I can’t remember who it was – walked in, and the class scrambled to our seats. He calmly wrote five rhymes on the board and turned to look at us.
This was unusual, and as expected, he had our attention.

“I want you all to write a poem for me using these five rhymes,” he said simply, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a 50 naira note. “The winner gets this.”

Now this was before the 200 naira note was in circulation; by this time, 50 naira was gold.
Interestingly, another teacher (let’s call him Teacher 2) heard this as he was passing by, and from the window he produced another 50 naira.

Immediately all eyes sparkled and went from the money to the words, calculating.

“When you finish, submit it with your name and class to the staffroom,” Nameless Teacher said. The moment he walked out of the door, there was a mad scramble.

I turned beside me to see my friends scribbling away frantically, almost forgetting the goal was the one with the best poem, not the fastest writer.

Since I had never written anything that rhymed before, I was at a loss as to what to do. I considered calling it quits and told them both, but Chiedu was looking at me as if, true to my nickname, I was a psycho.

After a very brief lecture from Chiedu and on a dare from Moses, I took half a sheet of paper, wrote my lines, and submitted them to the staff room, as confident of winning as I was confident the moon was square.

Two weeks later, I was standing in line at an unexpected afternoon assembly, after our break, trembling nervously as Teacher 2 walked up our class line, asking for me by my full name.

Again I repeat: if you were as naughty as I was, you want few people to know your name and what class you are in.

Frantic and desperate, I was trying to remember what I had done lately that warranted this, and how I could deny and lie my way out of it.

When I was pointed out to the teacher, he looked me up and down and from the look on his face I knew I was dead.

That is, until the forgotten competition was announced, and the names of the runners-up were called, and their poems were read out.

I was bored by the time they got to first place and started reading the poem. Idly I wondered: why do these words sound familiar. Until –

“The winner is…” and my name was called out and I was marched out in front of the whole school, with the sole of my shoe torn, my clothes dirty, my hair unkempt from my earlier roughhousing.

I was a dirty kid, and I knew it.
And now everyone else could see it too.
But who cared!? I was grinning with 100 naira clutched tightly in my raised fist.

Billy the Third

Thanks to everyone who contributed in making the Family Series a success.
Thanks to the writers and readers as well, it was a fun journey.

You can view them again here:
Family – Chapter 0
Family – Chapter 1
Family – Chapter 2
Family – Chapter 3
Family – Chapter 4
Family – Chapter 5
Family – Chapter 6

That aside, enjoy Billy the Third.


Some things happen to make you question your knowledge. To question what you knew to be true without a doubt.
But how do you respond when your truth turns out to be wrong?
This is one of those things.

Billy is pregnant.
I’m shocked.
How did this happen? (Obviously, Billy mated with another goat, duh.)
But this is shocking.
I’m sure I checked.
Billy was male!

I came up the stairs sometime last month, and I closed the door at the top of the stairs when I entered my room. After 10 minutes I was disturbed by a persistently bleating goat, only to come out and see Billy trapped. As usual, the ever-courageous Billy had braved the stairs to enter our domain to forage for food.

After some hanky-panky and blurry pictures taken, I’m shocked to see swinging goat-tities.

Kunle and I were taken aback. I’m not the only one who thought Billy was male, apparently so did he. Unless I don’t know my sexes as well as I thought I did, what happened?

I was only gone a few weeks!

So now Billy’s pregnant (shakara don end o), and I’m wondering if sex-change is available in the goat world now, for this was a serious surprise.
I even considered changing her name to Shilly – the she-Billy – but too many people know her as Billy already.
I’ve even been jokingly called papa-Billy.

But since I’ve left Iganna and finished my teaching duties for my youth service, I won’t be around to see the new kid drop…and indeed, to document the antics I’m sure Billy will pass on to the new generation.

When leaving, I looked around, saying goodbye to everyone and the place that has been my house for the past 10 months. In front of the lodge, Billy and Kid were lying in the shade, and I smirked as I realized I would miss these two female goats.

So, regardless of the people around me, I waved and said my goodbyes to them both, got on the bike with my luggage and off we went.
But let me say it here again.

Farewell Billy, farewell Kid, and thanks for your interesting antics over the past year.
It has been fun writing about you two.

Family – Chapter 6 (Mother)

Welcome to the final instalment of The Family Series.
Here is our next guest writer, my brother Warepamor with Mother.
Please enjoy, share and comment.

You can view the other instalments here:
Family – Chapter 0
Family – Chapter 1
Family – Chapter 2
Family – Chapter 3
Family – Chapter 4
Family – Chapter 5
Family – Chapter 6


“…And for God’s sake, if no other,
Do not murder your mother.”


“If you are reading this post, if its day or night, if your mother is still living treat your mother right.”

Mothers are a unique and exceptional parent in the family. They display great strength and courage from conception of a baby to delivery of the baby.

They spend extra time and attention in the upbringing of a child, teaching, guiding and directing the child in the proper ways of life. A thousand times a child may err but the mother will never deny or reject the child even if a father does.
They draw the child close to themselves to correct and educate the child to bring about a positive change in behaviour in the child.
They also inspire and encourage their children to strive to become reputable and responsible personalities in the society.

A Mother’s own words are “Don’t let your conditions or challenges today affect your spirit of excellence and vision for tomorrow”.
They are usually strong, determined and against all odds will go to any length to see their children excel in life.
They express immeasurable quality of love and care towards their children, they train their children in a Godly manner to fear and to love God.

Another mother’s own words are: “Appreciation is a Medicine”. Appreciate every little gift no matter how small either from man or God. When you show appreciation more gifts will be given to you.

Appreciate your mother. A call or a text saying “I love you and appreciate all you have done for me” or by buying her gifts from time to time, and obedience to her instructions will do a great deal.

Mothers know best every detail about their children, they are one of the colours in the world.

To every mother out there, You Are Appreciated ♥. God Bless You.

- @WarepamorSammy

Family – Chapter 5 (Father)

Welcome to the fifth instalment of The Family Series.
Here is our next guest writer, Gideon with Tears For My Father.
Please enjoy, share and comment.

You can view the other instalments here:
Family – Chapter 0
Family – Chapter 1
Family – Chapter 2
Family – Chapter 3
Family – Chapter 4
Family – Chapter 5
Family – Chapter 6


“…The distance between you and your father
Should pull closer, not push farther…”

Like all sad tales this story begins happily, my definition of ‘happyness’ anyway.

Urrrrghh, urrggh.. (Dip your finger deep into your throat, you hear the sound now? Yeah, that’s the one.)

“Dude, you are gonna puke out your oesophagus, then you’d have only half of your small intestine”, Noah said bursting out into a fit of laughter.

“Nice one Einstein”, I shouted back, “Didn’t know your oesophagus was part of your small intestine. How’s your gizzard by the way moron”.

I washed my face, tossed the empty plastic bottle by the side of the road and jumped into the car. I’m riding shotgun with Noah and three girls we picked up from the first pub by 7pm. It’s almost 2am and the night is still young. According to Mandela (Noah swears the great man said this), “After the third pub hit the club.” Who are we to disagree? HAPPYNESS

God bless whoever thought about soundproof club toilets, I reason as I jogged then made a dash for d’arena’s convenience room.

“Emma, its almost 4am, this had better be good” I scream into the phone as I pick up. “Emma are you there? Emmanuel…”

I strain my ears and then I hear a feeble voice I can barely recognise as my brother’s. He had obviously been crying.

“Justin, daddy’s dead”, he manages to say. “He died in my arms Justin, I held him while he jerked and stiffened bro”, *pause* “I felt the life leave him. Justin you should have come to see him, the old man died with a heart heavy, with regrets. His last words were ‘tell Justin to please forgive me’.”

I don’t really remember what happened after he hung up. I know I drank a lot, and maybe I cried in front of one of the girls but its all a blur for me. I remember the stench from the man beside me on the last leg of the bus ride home. In spite of how mad I thought I was with my dad, news of his demise broke me. Running my hands through the scar on my face I realised the hurtful things I couldn’t let go off didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t care about his infidelity, it didn’t matter that he threw us out of the house in the middle of the night so his 17 year old mistress could move in the next day.

All this time my anger felt justified because of the pain he caused my mother, but now it seemed petty. The man suffered enough, why was I so hard on him? Karma was quick and ruthless.

Even my mother, the aggrieved one, forgave him ages ago. Maureen, my ex step mother, his 17 year old mistress, fleeced him dry. Siphoned all of his pension and took off with my father’s friend, whose smart counsel it was for my dad to abandon his first family. Oh, turns out the child they had together was my dad’s friend’s as well. OUCH.

I’m way past the emotional scarring, you’d be amazed how much hurt we can get past once we stop obsessing about it. The scars from the physical abuse are really just scars, like the ones from soccer injuries and wounds from silly pranks gone wrong. I should have forgiven him when I had the chance to, I didn’t.

Now I’m writing this instead of going to the cemetery for his burial. I knew I’d miss the burial, I always imagined I’d be in some pub grateful the scumbag was dead, but I’m missing this because I’m too ashamed to be there and publicly mourn the man I refused to forgive.

The distance between you and your father should pull closer…….HAPPINESS


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