Posted in LIFE, POETRY

building memories by su’eddie vershima agema

i build memory
one block tenderly placed on another
of love and disaster; right steps and wrong songs
time cementing each with sorrows savoured, lessons learnt

slowly, materials disintegrate
shattering what once was me

the years wither to dust
and I am left to start building afresh
lost in sands that have become my now




  • Su’eddie Vershima Agema (First published in Ake Review 2016)
Posted in FICTION

The Roman’s Strength (A short story) by Hymar David


They stood outside the tomb, hugging themselves tightly against the biting cold. Their weapons hanging idly by their sides, their backs against the tomb’s wall.

The darkness was thick. They could barely see the shapes of each other. One or two cursed in low tones.

” Raca!”

Jemiah was the youngest of the soldiers, the most zealous and outspoken. His companions held him in disdain. He was too keen to impress, he was always doing more than the job called for, working longer hours, volunteering for the harder tasks. What does the little beardless fool want to prove, they asked among themselves.

Jemiah pretended he didn’t hear the whispers. He pretended he didn’t see the furious glowers as the leader of their band heaped praises on him after leading the successful capture of that delusional crackpot Rabbi called Jesus.

Now, he stood ramrod straight and alert, his spear gripped firmly in his hands, his eyes straining to peek through the veil of darkness. They had told him to be on the lookout for a band of deluded followers of the dead rabbi who might try to steal the body and claim he rose from the dead.

” Bring them alive,” was the order.

Jemiah and his cohorts had been waiting for a few hours now. But the only sounds they had heard so far was the wind whispering into the ears of the grass, the murmur of night ghosts and spiritwalkers that his widow mother had told him about when he was a little child.

The only thing they saw was the unreadable face of darkness. The face of blank nothingness. Voids.

They hadn’t brought lamps. They hadn’t wanted to scare the would be grave robbers away. Jemiah could hear the heavy snoring of some of the soldiers. He tsked in disdain. The era when Roman soldiers were rugged, no-nonsense and very brutal custodians of the laws of the lands were numbered.


What’s that? His eyes flew wide. His grip on his spear tightened and he turned sharply.

He saw nothing but he knew what he had heard. No, he didn’t know what he heard. He only knew he heard something. He just had no idea what it was and where it had came from.

” Wake up, dogs.” he yelled.

Jemiah was also despised because of his utter lack of regard for rank or age. He was half-Jewish. Roman only on his father’s side. He had been involved in training ground shouting and slanging matches with his superiors several times. Tall and built like an ox. He had the demeanour of a possessed bull when angry and his voice split eardrums when he yelled. Men thought five times before trifling with him.

The other men jerked awake. Someone, the leader of the expedition cursed. Jemiah responded in a mixture of Hebrew and Greek which he learned at school as a boy.

The sound came before Jemiah finished venting. The others must have heard it for the air was suddenly stirred with the sounds of boots stamping hard on the earth as the men came awake, spears making a swish sound as they were pulled from the earth.

” What is that?” someone asked.

As if to reply him, the air was suddenly shattered with a roar that knocked five men senseless on the ground, the others dropped their spears and stuck fingers into their ears. The ground shook beneath them and they removed their hands, flailing to keep their balance.

Jemiah cursed again as he fell, groping for his spear, feeling the earth beneath him vibrate like a demoniac under the possession of the whole hosts of hell.

The tremor stopped as suddenly as it had began. Jemiah got up quickly, still groping for his weapon. He collided with someone who was doing exactly the same thing, the man was mumbling something about the devil in a voice so filled with fear it infected Jemiah. His heart began to beat drumbeats of dread.

His hand came upon the cold metal. But feeling it did not give him even a misguided sense of courage. It was as if whatever it was that had just happened had ransacked his mind and heart and shook the last dregs of courage out of him. All he felt as he stood in the darkness was a deep sense of cluelessness and indecision. His feet trembled, itching to flee into the darkness. But Jemiah had never ran from anything. Not even when he got lost in a forest expedition one day and stumbled on a pride of lions having a nap under the shade of tall grasses. He had gripped his spear tightly and waited for them to attack. Lucky for him, the lions had just finished a heavy lunch and showed no interest in the human trembling before them.

Jemiah looked round, towards the mouth of the tomb. And his heart almost stopped.

He saw a man in shimmering white clothing. The man was tall, taller than Rufus who was six foot eight. And he had shoulders so broad they blocked the entrance into the tomb. Jemiah wasn’t surprised to see the stone rolled away from the tomb. The man standing before him had a body that suggested he benchpressed mountains for fun.

” Who are you?” Jemiah asked, hating how his voice trembled.

” My name is Gabriel.”

For a man so huge, he had a very soft voice. Each word seemed to have some kind of ethereal beauty wrapped around them. It was almost like a song.

” You came to steal the body of Jesus.” Jemiah accused, lifting his voice a couple of notches higher, trying to summon courage.

The man did not answer him. Jemiah gripped his spear and steadied himself, not knowing what he was doing but hating the feeling of helplessness that had wrapped itself round him like a widow’s black shawl.

He launched himself at the man.

Two wings protruded suddenly from behind the man. They shot out like lightning, one sweeping in a horizontal arc to knock the spear from his hand, the other slamming hard into his left side, sending him spinning into the air and crashing heavily on the ground, stunned.

The sound of frenzied footsteps told him his colleagues who had survived the tremor were running away.

” Dogs,” he mouthed, gripping his sides in pain.

The man, no, the angel moved from the tomb and seemed to float four feet in the air. Jemiah saw a strange glow emanating from the tomb.

Another angel came out and joined the first one. They seemed to converse briefly then they stared at him. Their eyes shone, branding fear into his soul.

From nowhere a voice that sounded like the roar of water from a burst dam exploded from above them.


Before Jemiah’s eyes, the darkness gave way. Lightning flashed across the sky in forked streaks. Midnight suddenly became noon. A sunless noon. He saw clearly the outline of his colleagues sprawled on the ground. Dead? Unconscious? He saw the angels as they hovered over the tomb, their wings spread apart. He saw the hill suddenly take on a strange shimmering radiance, he saw the flowering shrubs seem to grow a bit taller, brighter, the sky became bluer, the grass greener. The world more alive than he had ever known it.

He saw the dead man as he walked out of the tomb.

He knew it was Jesus because he came out staring at his hands. Pierced hands. Crushed hands.

A halo surrounded him, blazing brighter than any light he had ever seen. For some reason, Jemiah’s heart became calm, his fear vanished, his hatred for this man he had whipped and spat at a few days ago dissolved.

Jesus turned his head and stared at Jemiah. Jemiah saw two balls of bright flame shining in his eyes. He felt faint, a sudden wave of nausea enveloped him. At the same time, he felt happiness showering on him. Like water.

Just before he passed out into a darkness so long and deep, Jemiah had the time to reflect on the light he saw in the eyes of Jesus. He thought that the light was good.

E.H. David.



Protocols!-My hosts, Pastor Tunde Bakare, esteemed convener of the SNG, and Mr. Yinka Odumakin, irrepressible spokesman of the group, must be used to thankless jobs by now. After all, they were both at the forefront of a recent epic struggle to restore constitutional order in this country by liberating a self-declared formerly shoeless compatriot from the chains of uxorial fealty to the wife of his boss. The woman in question had held us all to ransom, running a ghost presidency, cabalized (apologies to my bosom friend, Patrick Obahiagbon) all the way from Saudi Arabia. As you all know, the Save Nigeria Group was at the forefront of that patriotic struggle. No sooner had the Beneficiary-in-Chief of the said struggle been liberated and helped to his rightful constitutional station in Aso Rock than he assumed the role of the nine ungrateful lepers who forgot to return and give thanks to their benefactor in the Bible.

But Nigeria’s own incarnation of the nine ungrateful lepers does more than just walk away from the scene of his blessing. He soon surrounds himself with the usual suspects, always the worst and perpetually recycled characters in our polity, who hastened to convince him to spit on the same people on whose backs he rode to constitutional validity. Down the road, when the same people rose up in response to another historical imperative of struggle, he had been sufficiently tutored in the art of placing a knife on the rope of the people’s legitimate struggle. Thus, in one fell swoop, Pastor Tunde Bakare, Yinka Odumakin, Femi Kuti, Seun Kuti, Joe Okei-Odumakin, and all the patriots who tirelessly conscientized our people in Lagos and the rest of the country to the task at hand were contemptuously dismissed as mobilizers of a motley crowd of sufferheads bribed with food, bottled water, and comedy.

You must understand therefore why I started by saying that my hosts here today, Pastor Tunde Bakare and Mr. Yinka Odumakin, must be used to thankless jobs. Indeed, so used are these gentlemen to the thankless job of patriotic nation building, so inured are they to the insults and sorrows of the terrain, that they may not even find anything amiss if I went straight to the heart of this lecture without first thanking them for the extraordinary honour and privilege they have accorded me by taking the baton of the distinguished SNG lecture series from Professor Niyi Osundare, Africa’s most decorated poet, one
of my immediate mentors in the business of thinking and writing Africa, and handing it over to me. By inviting me to deliver this lecture after my mentor’s passage on this same podium a few months ago, SNG has saddled me with a near-impossible act to follow. What makes my task bearable is the redemptive rite of passage known in my culture as iba!

To Niyi Osundare who was here before me – iba!
To Pastor Tunde Bakare and Mr. Yinka Odumakin who invited me today – iba!
To Mrs. Priscilla Kuye, Chairperson of this gathering – iba!
To you whose ears are here in this hall to drink my words – iba!
I pray you,
Unbind me!
Make my young mouth harbor the elder’s tongue
On which the kolanut blossoms to maturity
Grant me, I pray, the wisdom to render unto the Tortoise
That which belongs to Ijapa

Now that I have poured cold water in front of me, may my feet be rewarded with the kiss of cool and soothing earth as I set forth in this lecture! Pastor Bakare, Mrs Kuye, audience, have I earned the right to proceed with this lecture? Thank you. Nigeria’s betrayal of a certain Caesarian covenant with the Tortoise is at the root of every problem that has made responsible nationhood and statehood a mirage since October 1, 1960. If you are in this hall and you are above the age of forty, then you belong in a generation of Nigerians raised on a diet of folktales and other forms of traditional pedagogy. If you are not an “ara oke” like me and you grew up in the city, you may not have memories of returning from the farm with your grandmother and waiting patiently for storytelling sessions after dinner. However, you probably still got your own dosage of folktales from NTA’s Tales by Moonlight.

Growing up in Isanlu, my hometown in Yagba East LGA, Kogi state, I got my own stories principally from my mom and my grand aunty. We call my grand aunty Mama Isanlu. She is still alive and kicking well into her nineties. Tales by Moonlight on television was just jara, an additional icing on the cake whenever we were able to successfully rotate the antenna of my father’s black and white TV, suspended on a long steel rod outside, in the right direction for reception of transmission signals from Lagos. Mama Isanlu’s stories were the real deal. I particularly loved her animal tales. Animal tales are a sub-genre of folktales. There is usually a bad guy, a trickster figure, whose adventures and escapades kept us awake long beyond the telling of the stories. In the Yoruba tradition, that trickster figure is Ijapa, the tortoise, often trying to outsmart everybody, including his own wife, Yannibo.

This is where the problem begins. You see, the Yoruba corpus of folktales in which Ijapa operates as a trickster figure presents a worldview – what German philosophers like Immanuel Kant and G.W.F. Hegel call Weltanschauung – rooted in the twin ideas of the collective good and the commonweal. If we consider that the most basic philosophical definition of the commonweal is the idea of the welfare of the public, then we will understand why “imo ti ara eni nikan”, which we shall translate clumsily as selfishness because the English language is inadequate, is one of the most serious sins and character flaws imaginable in the worldview to which Ijapa belongs. The rounded personhood concept of omoluabi, which I explored fully in a public lecture in Detroit last year, is one of the cultural matrices of that worldview and nobody who undermines the collective good can be deemed a proper omoluabi. Indeed, if the tragedians of ancient Greece were working with the folktale character known as Ijapa, selfishness, the sort which constantly seeks to undermine the collective good, would be his hubris, his fatal flaw.

So engrained is this foible, selfishness, in the persona of Ijapa that even his own wife is never spared. Thus, after years of childlessness, Yannibo impresses it upon her husband to seek help from a babalawo. The babalawo prepares a delicious “aseje” – porridge – which Ijapa is instructed to take back home to his wife. The instructions were strict and severe. Only your wife may eat this “aseje”. But Ijapa won’t be Tortoise if he didn’t err on the side of selfishness. Oh, the porridge was delicious! Oh, the aroma wafted into his nostrils! Oh, how he salivated until the urge became too irresistible. He settled down under a tree and ravenously consumed that which was meant to help his wife get pregnant. And his belly began to swell. And swell. And swell. Shamefacedly, Ijapa returns to the babalawo, singing a song I am sure most of you know very well. Those of you who do not know the song surely have heard the kegite version of it made very popular by Tony One Week in his gyration album. Pardon my poor singing talent. I don’t have the gifts of Tonto Dikeh in the singing department but here we go:

Babalawo mo wa bebe
Ogun to se fun mi lere kan
Oni nma ma fowo kenu
Oni nma ma fese kenu
Mo fowo kan obe mo fi kenu
Mo boju wo kun, o ri gbendu
Babalawo Mo wa bebe, Alugbinrin…

As it goes for Mrs. Tortoise, so does it go for the rest of the community. They are also victims of Ijapa’s selfish wiles. In a society organized for the collective good, nothing tests the solidity of the social welfare system than famine. Therefore, during a great famine that threatened to wipe out all the animals in Ijapa’s village, the villagers discovered a coconut tree that was still yielding bountifully. In order that this life-sustaining bounty might go round, it was decreed that each villager was entitled to one coconut per day.
At your allotted time, you went to the coconut tree and intoned a song which caused a single coconut to fall from the tree and drop directly
on your back. Having the coconut drop on your back, I suppose, was deterrence against the temptation of greed.

Mr Tortoise gets to the tree at his appointed time on the first day and sings the magic song for his share of one coconut for the day. Your chorus, this time is “oturugbe”:

Ori mo so
Ori mo so
Okan ba ja lu mi inu mi a dun, ori mo so

One coconut drops on his back. Another day, another time. But, wait a minute, says Mr Tortoise to himself, what happens if I ask for two coconuts instead of one? I’m all alone by myself. Who is here to announce to the other villagers that I took more than my fair share of this communal property? If the other villagers are all mumu and they come here each day for one paltry coconut, what’s my own wahala? Ijapa, why you dey dull yourself like this? Shine your eyes now. Let me try my luck and see if this tree will give me two coconuts jare. So, our friend listens to the voices in his own head and sings:

Ori mo so
Ori mo so
Eji ba ja lu mi inu mi a dun, ori mo so

To his amazement, two coconuts drop on his back! He went home dancing and singing maga don pay! Another time, he asked for tree coconuts to drop on his back. Then four. Then five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Finally, he’d had enough of the daily trips to the tree. The voices invade his head again. What if I asked everything to kuku drop on me? I could take the entire load of coconuts home and hoard it, abi? When the storm clams down, I could even begin to sell some to trusted villagers at an exorbitant price and make a killing. So, to the tree he went and sang:

Ori mo so –
Ori mo so –
Gbogbo re ba ja lu mi inu mi a dun, ori mo so

I’m sure you all know the end of this story. A mountain of coconuts came crashing down on Ijapa, crushing his shell and causing him grievous bodily harm. Alas, as soon as Ijapa recovers from this near death experience with coconuts – perhaps the other animals took pity on him and rushed him to a German hospital for treatment! – he was onto his next prank, this time to cheat all the birds of the air who had been invited for a feast in heaven. Ijapa convinced each bird to donate a feather to him in order to be able to fly along with them to the party in heaven. The Nigerian practice of “mo gbo mo ya” was also trendy in the animal kingdom of Ijapa’s era.

As the animals got ready for the trip, Ijapa, the most cosmopolitan among the animals because of his wide travels, told everyone to take a new name, as was the norm in civilized climes. Naturally, Ijapa adopted the name, Mr. Everybody. Off they went to heaven. The hosts were generous. There was plenty to eat and drink. Oh, the hosts also announced that the feast was for everybody! Ijapa was of course quick to remind his fellow guests who everybody was. At the end of the day, he hungry and, therefore, very angry birds, took their feathers from Ijapa, flew back to earth, and abandoned him to his fate in heaven. If you want to know what subsequently happened to Ijapa, get Ambassador Abass Akande Obesere omo Rapala’s album, “Diplomacy”.

One crucial dimension to these animal tales in the Yoruba corpus is their didactic mandate. The lessons which these stories teach wear a severe warning label: do not behave like the trickster figure. Our case in point, Ijapa, takes intellectual ownership of his exploits extremely seriously. We, his human audience, are not in any way allowed to imitate Ijapa’s foibles. Even in the case of mixed tales, where the human and the animal worlds meet and their temporalities overlap, the human characters in those tales must heed the same
warnings as those of us who are external to the narrative process. Those of you who have read D.O. Fagunwa, Amos Tutuola, and their London-based literary offspring, Ben Okri, will readily understand what happens to man when he violates the fundamental condition for dealing with the animals’ actions in the tales. That condition, the covenant we must all enter into with the trickster figure, is to avoid plagiarizing his actions.

When Ijapa offers his picaresque adventures in folktales as a pedagogical canvass of behaviors that the individual must avoid, we know that those deviant behaviors almost always come down to two things. The first is greed, especially that form of greed which privileges consumption above all other areas of human experience, transforming the subject into an unthinking slave of Opapala, the Yoruba deity of hunger, the god of food, gourmandizing, and
untrammeled Sybaritism. Hence, Ijapa is at his most outrageous, most reprehensible when he elevates his belly above the collective good of society. In story after story, his punishment for the sin of excessive greed of consumption is swift. Often, he barely escapes with his life to return in the next story to enact another scenario of what we call wobia (excessive consumption at the expense of others). The second behavior to which the trickster figure in the folktales holds an exclusive copyright and which we are consequently not supposed to plagiarize is even deadlier than the first sin. It is individualism. Individualism is the father of selfishness and the mother of nombrilism. It is what enables the will to undermine the commonweal,
to harm the collective good.

It should be clear from the foregoing that Ijapa in these folktales comes from an ethno-national imaginary in which resides a specific welfarist vision of society and her institutions. The commonweal is the base of this vision. All the rules of social organization, all the institutions of society, including monarchy, have meaning insofar as they are able to guarantee the collective good and the commonweal. It is in fact safe to say that the commonweal is sacred. Ijapa’s sin during the party in heaven is worse than selfishness. By claiming to be Mr. Everybody, he was violating one of the most sacred aspects of his culture. The commonweal, the collective, the “us” is so important that even his language does not permit synecdoche in that area. When it comes to the sanctity of the collective, no part can represent or claim to be the whole. Ijapa’s language makes this clear in the proverb: “enikan ki je awa de”. A single person does not announce his presence in the plural by shouting: “here we are”!

In essence, you must always be conscious of your responsibility to the collective. For instance, there is a reason why that river or that stream is called “odo ilu” (communal river). Institutions and codes of behavior exist to guarantee equal and fair access to this river, especially in the dry season. To take more than your fair share of this water is a serious ethical breach, it is deviance of the sort that could give you an “oruko buruku” (bad name) in the community. Even the protocols of fetching water from that stream devolve from a deep-seated social consciousness, a certain respect for the collective
good. If you are the first to reach the stream, you do not just jump in and begin to cast your keregbe (gourd) or water pot all over the place. You have spent your entire life being socialized into responsible membership of the community with stories of Ijapa. Your traditional education emphasized the mandate not to be like Ijapa. You know that you do not want to stir the water in the river so vigorously as to make the water turn all brown with disturbed mud and particles from the riverbed, making it impossible for other members of the community to fetch water when they arrive.

In other words, you don’t want to “ru omi odo”. Above all, you also don’t want to start suddenly thinking of creative ways to divert the entire river – or 90% of it – for your own private use. That would be breaking the covenant with Ijapa not to plagiarize him. That would be violating all the life lessons you were taught about how to avoidbehaving like Ijapa. Do you want me to go on?

[Being the first part of the Save Nigeria Group public lecture delivered by Pius Adesanmi in Lagos]… The second part continues




Let There Be Light by Tochi Nicole Brown (a performance poem)

in the beginning, God said, "Let there be light!"
and there was light, and we pronounced it good.
so, light is good. that is established.
but is good light?
can good be light?
we were told that a chaste woman is good
we're listening, we said
oh, by the way, a chaste woman is a circumcised woman
we're no longer listening, we said
for that good is heavy
but a chaste woman doesn't get raped
a chaste woman doesn't show interest
a chaste woman ends her life to save her father's name
your good is too heavy, we replied
for it requires the woman to die, one way or the other
so your good is no good
and your good is not light
for it becomes the woman's burden 
to control the uncontrollable
is there any wonder why we no longer care to be chaste?
why die to be good?
why die to appear good?
stop. stop your re-creation!
let it be said that at the end, God said, "Let there be good!"
and there was good
because women were left as they were created
so we pronounced it light.

Tochi is a change agent, storyteller, author, consultant and entrepreneur. She has degrees in engineering. In 2002 she founded Tochi Inc specializing in personal development and critical human thought. In 2003, she founded One Thought Publishing Inc. She has international experience in product design and development, technical documentation and training, as well as in managing non-profit enterprises.

Tochi is the author of blogs, several books and CDs, as well as an accomplished speaker with the coveted DTM designation from Toastmasters International. She is a regular contributor to several online publications. You can contact her at


WHO IS SORRY FOR? (A Poem) by Gabriel B. I. Agema

Sorry is not for the government

It was Sokoto, Bakassi, Zaki Biam

now I feel like it is Boko Haram as we all bear the torment


Sorry is not for the government,

if Boko Haram turns us all to be like a farm

where all animals are damned.


Sorry is not for the government

since they allow it to repeat again

leaving us searching for the (in)sane


Sorry is not for the government

when it is said to the outsider

but not to the insider.


I say it again even as I cry:

Sorry is not for the government who lie

who wait to watch people die


Sorry is for me and you

as we choose to watch things repeat,

and never do anything about it.


Gabriel B. I. Agema


How to worship the Nigerian god – ElNathan John

How to worship the Nigerian god | Daily Times Nigeria.

The Nigerian god is one. It may have many different manifestations, but it is essentially different sides of the same coin. Sometimes, adherents of the different sides may fight and kill each other. But Nigerians essentially follow the Nigerian god.

This article is for all those who want to become better worshippers. If you are a new or prospective convert, God will bless you for choosing the Nigerian god. This is just how you must worship him.

First, you must understand that being a worshipper has nothing to do with character, good works or righteousness. So the fact that you choose to open every meeting with multiple prayers does not mean that you intend to do what is right. The opening prayer is important. Nothing can work without it. If you are gathered to discuss how to inflate contracts, begin with an opening prayer or two. If you are gathered to discuss how to rig elections, begin with a prayer. The Nigerian god appreciates communication.

When you sneak away from your wife to call your girlfriend in the bathroom, and she asks if you will come this weekend, you must say—in addition to “Yes”—“By God’s grace” or “God willing”. It doesn’t matter the language you use. Just add it. The Nigerian god likes to be consulted before you do anything, including a trip to Obudu to see your lover.

When worshipping the Nigerian god, be loud. No, the Nigerian god is not hard of hearing. It is just that he appreciates your loud fervour, like he appreciates loud raucous music. The Nigerian god doesn’t care if you have neighbours and neither should you. When you are worshipping in your house, make sure the neighbours can’t sleep. Use loud speakers even if you are only two in the building. Anyone who complains must be evil. God will judge such a person.

Attribute everything to the Nigerian god. So, if you diverted funds from public projects and are able to afford that Phantom, when people say you have a nice car, say, “Na God”. If someone asks what the secret of all your wealth is, say, “God has been good to me”. By this you mean the Nigerian god who gave you the uncommon wisdom to re-appropriate public funds.

Consult the Nigerian god when you don’t feel like working. The Nigerian god understands that we live in a harsh climate where it is hard to do any real work. So, if you have no clue how to be in charge and things start collapsing, ask people to pray to God and ask for his intervention.

The Nigerian god loves elections and politics. When you have bribed people to get the Party nomination, used thugs to steal and stuff ballot boxes, intimidated people into either sitting at home or voting for you, lied about everything from your assets to your age, and you eventually, (through God’s grace), win the elections, you must begin by declaring that your success is the wish of God and that the other candidate should accept this will of God. It is not your fault whom theNigerian god chooses to reward with political success. How can mere mortals complain?

The Nigerian god does not tolerate disrespect. If someone insults your religion, you must look for anyone like them and kill them. Doesn’t matter what you use—sticks, machetes, grenade launchers, IED’s, AK47’s.

The Nigerian god performs signs and wonders. He does everything from cure HIV to High BP. And the Nigerian god is creative: he can teach a person who was born blind the difference between blue and green when the man of god asks, and he can teach a person born deaf instant English. As a worshipper you must let him deliver you because every case of sickness is caused by evil demons and not infections. Every case of barrenness is caused by witches and has no scientific explanation. So instead of hospital, visit agents of the Nigerian god. But the Nigerian god does not cure corruption. Do not attempt to mock him.

If you worship the Nigerian god, you are under no obligation to be nice or kind to people who are not worshippers. They deserve no courtesy.

The Nigerian god is also online. As a worshipper, you are not obliged to be good or decent on Facebook or twitter all week except on Friday and Sunday, both of which the Nigerian god marks as holy. So you may forward obscene photos, insult people, forward lewd jokes on all days except the holy days. On those holy days, whichever applies to you, put up statuses saying how much you are crazy about God.

These days, the Nigerian god also permits tweets and Facebook updates like: “Now in Church” or “This guy in front of me needs to stop dozing” when performing acts of worship.

In all, the Nigerian god is very kind and accommodating. He gives glory and riches and private jets. And if you worship him well, he will immensely bless your hustle.

ElNathan John is a Nigerian writer, advocate and social activist. Find him here or simply Google him 🙂

(First seen on Atumercy)