Mindviewers Stories

EPISODE THREE

A period of joy changed dramatically to a period of sorrows and pains for me. I returned from an errand my mum sent me and when I stepped inside the house, I could sense that something was really wrong. There was Vera, her parent and 3 of her friends sitting down in our parlour. When I stepped in, I was asked to sit down, my mum asked if I knew Vera, I replied in the affirmative. I was asked how close we were, “just friends” I replied. Vera’s dad then asked if I knew that Vera was pregnant, I said no. But looking at their faces, I knew they did not believe me. Vera that I had not seen for two weeks was three weeks pregnant and she is accusing me of being responsible for it. I was very much surprised mostly at my mum for believing Vera, for I was very close to her more than my dad and I used to let her in on my secrets. I was questioning Vera for lying on me and my parent for believing her. My parent and I got into a heated argument in front of Vera, her friends who were standing as witnesses and her parent who were threatening to arrest me. I was slapped twice by my dad. With tears in my eyes, I pleaded with Vera to speak the truth but, she was quiet all through. After much heated arguments again, Vera and everybody left our house with the dad promising to bring police to arrest me.

My situation went from bad to worst. After Vera with her parent left, my dad began to rain abuses on me, saying I brought disgrace to his name even as he agreed to take me as his sons and am rewarding him with this kind of situation and disgrace to his name he said that and went inside. I asked my mum what that meant and she said I am not Mr Olaniyi’s son. I was shocked and in tears again. She said she was raped by a man called Alhaji Musa, who was her boss then. She became pregnant but the man had denied the allegation even when taken to court. My dad accepted that she kept the child on the ground that the child is only going to be a boy to stay in his house but if a girl, she would be given to the orphanage. And so it was a boy, born after three still births all males. But my dad has not being really happy just for the fact that the first male child from my mum was not his child. When I was discussing with my mum, my dad went inside, took all my Certificate and everything that bears his name and destroyed them by fire. He then ordered me out of his house and their lives forever forbidding me from ever stepping foot in his house again. My younger ones pleaded and pleaded even in tears but my dad was adamant, my elder sister Nike, was not around and so I took few of my clothing’s and left to a world of my own in confusion, anger and pain. I cried to God, but it was as if he too was silent. That night, I went to Vera’s house pleading with her to say the truth and clear my name, but she remained silent, in fact, her father released their dogs on me leaving me to run for my life.

to be continued......
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All it takes is a particular time frame and all your values are depreciated.
I am a girl who believes in friendship and the power of ties. Something above mere acquaintance, something similar to blood or family. I would fight any who aims to harm the other, honestly.

Sometime late last year, this friend that I had trusted, someone I had made a close companion, someone I took as family, hurt me without realizing it.
Funny enough if opportune to read this, won't phantom out that I write about her.

Surely, there are disagreements sometimes but this time, I feel stabbed. Funny enough that I can't wrap my head around a particular fact that made me dread this friendship but I loathe the imagination of what she had inflicted.

A tiny insight...
... A sister's enemy, I made an enemy.
Isn't that what a sister should do?
But what happens when the enemy becomes friends with your sister, and they look at you like the real enemy?

Jugging through my thoughts today and with the new year, I promise to put an end.
Not to the friendship.
I'm putting more exclamations to boundaries. They would hear from me less, and see me rarely, and just then, they would wish for what had been, for what it was an unsaturated friendship.
I put a stop when I'm disrespected.

Maybe my English is too complex to understand, but I write from the depth of my heart.
This is my story.
Good night.

In the whispering savannah of Benue, where baobab trees stretched like ancient sentinels and the Benue River sang its serpentine song, lived Awashima. Her eyes, the color of sunbaked earth, held a spark of defiance that flickered against the weight of tradition. Born under a crimson moon, marked by the Ijov oracle as "bringer of storms," Awashima was condemned before she drew her first breath.

Her childhood was a dance with whispers and fear. Villagers avoided her, mothers clutched their children closer, and even the elders cast wary glances. Yet, Awashima refused to be a prisoner of the prophecy. She roamed the sun-drenched fields, barefoot and fearless, befriending the wind and learning the secrets of the whispering grasses. She studied with the village's oldest woman, Mama Abaji, who spoke of a world beyond the Ijov's pronouncements, where fate was not a fixed tapestry but a malleable clay waiting to be sculpted.

Years passed, and Awashima blossomed. Her laughter echoed through the fields, and her wisdom, nurtured by Mama Abaji's teachings, blossomed like the hibiscus flowers that adorned her braids. The fear surrounding her softened, replaced by curiosity and respect. Yet, the memory of the prophecy lingered, a shadow at the edge of her joy.

One scorching summer, the Benue River, usually a life-giving serpent, shrank to a cracked whisper. Crops withered, the air hung heavy with dust, and whispers of the Ijov's prophecy once again poisoned the air. Desperation gnawed at the villagers, their eyes turning towards Awashima with unspoken accusations.

But Awashima, her brow furrowed, refused to succumb to the weight of destiny. Mama Abaji's words resonated in her ears: "Fate is not a cage, but a canvas. We are the weavers, and our choices the threads." This was her moment to weave a new thread into the tapestry of her life.

Drawing upon her knowledge of the land and Mama Abaji's herbal wisdom, Awashima ventured into the parched hills. Days bled into nights, her sandals leaving imprints on the sun-baked earth. Hunger gnawed at her belly, but the fire in her eyes remained undimmed.

Then, one dawn, she stumbled upon it: a hidden spring, nestled between whispering rocks. Its waters, cool and life-giving, shimmered like a promise. Awashima knew this was more than just water; it was a defiance of the prophecy, a tangible thread woven into the tapestry of her fate.

Returning to the village, Awashima led them to the spring. Under her guidance, they built channels, their hands sculpting the land to quench the thirst of their crops and their hopes. As the rains returned, coaxed by the spring's gentle song, the village bloomed anew.

In the face of their bountiful harvest, the whispers of the prophecy finally faded. Awashima, once marked by fear, became a symbol of defiance, a testament to the power of choice over destiny. The villagers learned that fate was not a rigid hand holding the strings of their lives, but a malleable clay upon which their own actions could leave an indelible mark.

From that day on, Awashima continued to weave her tapestry, not with fear and submission, but with courage and wisdom. She taught the villagers the language of the land, the whispers of the wind, and the power of choices that defied even the pronouncements of oracles. For Awashima knew, and the village soon echoed her wisdom, "Only fools try to understand destiny, for the wise ones know it is in forging their own path that they truly find their fate."

And so, in the whispering savannah of Benue, bathed in the golden light of a new dawn, a village danced to the rhythm of a different prophecy, one woven not by fear, but by the defiant spirit of a young woman who dared to rewrite her own story.

(Not a true life story)

"Be careful on your way home, so you don't get lost”
Those were mama's words
In my thought, those were mere words
Now I'm grown and I know more
Those words mean more

Home is not confined in those walls
Home is more, home is where I belong
Home is Love
Home is the heart mine longs for
Just like mama's words

On my way home, I hope I don't get lost.

The rooster crowed, a rude alarm from my phone shattering my fragile peace. My head throbbed like a yam pounded by Madam Azege, and sunlight, sharp as her tongue, stabbed through the window into my room. A groan escaped my lips, heavy with the echoes of last night's Beer dance and the sweet, potent palm wine. My feet, leaden weights anchored to the bed, refused to cooperate.

Mass. Mama Atese's disapproving stare flickered in my mind. The image of Father Mark's booming sermon on the perils of late-night tomfoolery sent another wave of nausea rolling through me. No, there was no way I could face the church today, not looking like a masquerader who'd lost his way back to the bush.

Suddenly, a glint of salvation caught my eye. My priced rooster, Dagbo, strutted outside, his crest as magnificent as a chief's feather headdress. An idea, as cunning as a bush rat, snaked into my head. With a groan that was pure acting, I stumbled out, clutching my stomach like a woman about to deliver twins.

"Mama!" I wailed, collapsing onto a stool. "My belly! It twists like a python trying to swallow a calabash!"

Mama Atese, bless her gullible heart, rushed to my side. "Ah, Wan wamma!" she clucked, concern furrowing her brow. "Is it the beer again? That devil brew!"

"Beer?" I croaked, my voice as weak as a newborn chick. "No, Mama! It's... it's Dagbo!" I pointed dramatically at the strutting cockerel. "He... he cursed me! Said I danced like a hippopotamus with two left feet!"

Mama Atese gasped. Curses were no laughing matter in our compound. With a hurried prayer, she chased Dagbo away, muttering about jealous roosters and ancestral wrath.

By the time the church bells pealed, I was tucked in bed, a steaming bowl of macaroni warming my soul. Mama Atese sat by my side, fanning me with a magazine, her face etched with sympathy. And although a mischievous giggle threatened to burst from my chest, I managed a feeble smile. After all, who could attend mass with a cursed belly and an offended rooster chasing their reputation through the village?

So, dear Father Mark, forgive my absence. The blame lies not with laziness, but with Dagbo's vengeful spirit and the delicate balance of one's reputation in the eyes of their Mama. Perhaps next Sunday, when the palm wine has settled and Dagbo has forgiven my dancing skills, I shall offer my penance at the altar. Until then, let the spirit of laughter guide me through this day of well-deserved rest.

This morning, I asked my niece to sweep the veranda and she refused stating that it would still get dirty after she sweeps it so there was no need to sweep it.

I was taken aback and angry by her response but decided to let her be.

Minutes later, she came to remind me that they were yet to have breakfast and that she was hungry.

I asked her, "If you eat this food now, will it hold you till evening?"

She innocently said, " No o. 2 hours and I am hungry again"

I said no need for you to eat then.

She asked why and I told her there was no need to eat if you would still feel hungry in 2 hours.

She wanted to protest and I reminded her about her judgment when I asked her to sweep the veranda.

This year, I no go gree for anybody o😂😂

In the cause of our Christmas break I and my younger brother duke decided to have a tour to my grandmother's house, a place filled with charm and mystery. As we explored, we encountered a long bench and dark cooking pots, each holding untold stories. My grandmother, a guardian of tradition, shared the secret of enhancing flavors through the art of cooking with firewood.

Amidst the unfamiliar surroundings, we were treated to a feast of pounded yam and native black okra soup with stew—a culinary journey that left an indelible mark on my taste buds. Every bite became a celebration of heritage.

Yet, the joy of the tour was tinged with a hint of sadness. My grandfather, an elusive figure in our family narrative, had left this world before we could know him. The void left by his absence echoed through the halls, a poignant reminder of the passage of time.

Despite this, the visit became a tapestry of emotions, weaving together the joy of discovery and the sorrow of untold stories. In those moments, we found solace in the shared laughter and the warmth of family, creating a new chapter in the book of our shared history.

In the heart of Naija as the clock tick-tocks into 2024, two friends, Tunde and Chinyere, decided to welcome the new year with a unique celebration.

They gathered at Tunde's house with plenty of jollof rice, fried chicken, and a playlist that could make even the grumpiest neighbor dance. As the countdown began, they each held a list of New Year resolutions.

Tunde, being the optimistic one, declared, "This year, I go learn how to fly, become Naija's first flying man!"

Chinyere laughed, "Tunde, you no go fit fly, but I go join you to learn how to turn jollof rice into gold. We go call am 'Jollof Alchemy.'"

As the clock struck midnight, they tossed their resolutions into the air, hoping they'd magically come true. Instead of fireworks, imaginary jollof rice and flying Tunde cutouts filled the room.

Their neighbors, hearing the commotion, joined the party. One aunty exclaimed, "Ah, na so this New Year dey do magic? Make I join!"

So, Tunde, Chinyere, and the entire neighborhood spent the night laughing, dancing, and imagining the wildest resolutions.

As the sun rose on January 1, 2024, Tunde looked at Chinyere and said, "E be like say flying fit hard small, but who know, maybe our jollof alchemy go bring us gold rice!"

And so, in the spirit of Naija, where laughter knows no bounds, Tunde and Chinyere welcomed the new year with dreams as big as the imagination and a promise to turn every moment into a celebration.

EPISODE TWO

In preparation for my third UME, I started attending JAMB classes. February 2002, there was a heated argument between my dad and me. He called me “money waster” with no future ambition. I was deeply hurt and spoke back at him. He almost disowned me that day. He told my mum to return me back to my father that none of his sons would dare talk back at him like that. All this happened because I was not able to iron his cloth, I was trying to explain to him that there was no light before I left for tutorial class by 4pm. Then he flared up that I am even talking back at him. Everything was settled after two days as things began to move as usual.

I practiced so hard for UME 2002 that I began to put some of my friends through in what had become my best subject, Mathematics. That was when I met Vera. Vera was a pretty girl but very hostile especially to boys. I wanted nothing to do with her. But we attended the same church, her house is close to mine and now, we were attending the same tutorial classes. She was not that bright, she and some other of my friends used to come to my house in the morning and we would solve some Maths problems together, study other subjects and meet in the evening to proceed for tutorial class. Vera began to come closer to me which made Johnson jealous because he had an eye for Vera, but she had rejected him on many occasions. I made it clear to Vera that I am not interested in any relationship of any kind and she said there is no problem. I began talking to her about changing her ways and becoming friendly as a lady should be. Her character began to change as she got closer to me and heeded to my advice. I taught her how important it is to study and practice the word of God and stay connected to Him. There was a remarkable transformation going on in her life and I was happy and grateful to God about it.

In the month of May 2002, we wrote the UME. We were all highly expecting a very good result and so it was. I had 225, Vera scored 216 some of my other friends scored very high. It was now time to prepare for post-UME. I was very happy. My birthday came and went, I even had a gift from Vera. But all of a sudden, I did not hear from her again. I did not see her in the church, neither could I reach her on the phone. I wanted to check on her at home but I had never been at her place before.
to be continued......
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. I reflected on the previous session and semester, acknowledging that my nonchalant attitude towards my studies had been largely driven by distractions and the allure of spending time with friends. I realized that in order to accomplish my academic goals, I needed to channel a little more energy into reading and reclaim my focus.

It wasn't that I didn't care about my studies; on the contrary, I was deeply passionate about my chosen field. However, the appeal of socializing, the ever-present temptations of procrastination, and the comforting ease of simply going with the flow had led me astray. The consequences were palpable – missed deadlines, subpar grades, and an unsatisfactory sense of fulfillment.

This semester, I was determined to make a difference. I sought to consciously distance myself from the fleeting pleasures of distractions and refocus my energies on my studies. I committed to setting boundaries with friends, making time for both socializing and study, and approaching my responsibilities with a newfound determination.

Yet, I was under no illusions. I knew there would be obstacles on the way. It would require a constant battle against procrastination, the courage to say no to invitations when necessary, and an unwavering dedication to my educational journey. And amid the daunting prospect of these challenges, I turned to a source of strength that I had often overlooked – my faith.

I sought God’s guidance and help in achieving my newfound goal of reading prowess, fully aware that I could not face this uphill journey alone. I prayed for the resilience to withstand the allure of distractions, the wisdom to discern when to balance social activities with study, and the fortitude to overcome the obstacles that lay in my path.

Once upon a time in Nigeria, two friends, Chidi and Ngozi, decided to venture into a unique business that would change their lives. They thought it over carefully and decided to sell talking parrots.

So, they went to the market and bought some exceptionally articulate parrots. As they were setting up the birds, one parrot looked at them and said, "Oh boy, this market is a serious business!"

Chidi and Ngozi were utterly shocked. They stared at the parrot as if it were a magic trick. The parrot continued, "If you want to sell us, we should be on salary. This is no small job we're doing."

The friends, unable to believe their ears, began conversing with the parrots. The market turned into a comedy show as the parrots talked about everything – politics, jollof rice, even relationship advice.

Crowds gathered, laughing until tears streamed down their faces. One woman exclaimed, "If I'm buying a parrot, it has to be this one. It will entertain me at home!"

And so, Chidi and Ngozi became market celebrities. They sold all the parrots quickly, and soon, they were organizing parrot talk shows every market day.

From that day forward, when you heard a parrot talk in Nigeria, it wasn't a sign of craziness; it was the handiwork of Chidi and Ngozi, making parrots speak better than some people. Their business became the talk of every household in Nigeria.

Born to a family of six, I am the second child and first boy of the family. James Gbenga Olaniyi is my name. I was brought into this world on the 6th of June 1983. According to my mum, my dad was over-joyed having had his first male child who was not a still-birth as there had being 3 still-births by my mum all males before my elder sister, Nike came to be. My life have not been a life of pleasure from the beginning. There have being a lot of ups and downs.

I wrote my WAEC examinations in the year 2000, I also had a very high score in UME, 225. But when WAEC results came out, I had a D in English Language which thwarted my hope and ambition of going to the University at an early age. Although people say I was still young, I did not believe because I had dreams of finishing University at the age of 25. But that was not God’s plan for me. I wanted to study Petrochemical Engineering. But, the Almighty had a great plan for me.

I wrote UME again in 2001, having cleared my papers by writing WAEC/GCE in 2000, but still no admission. I was just at home. I did all the clean-up, cooking and all other house chores. Whenever there was an error of any kind in the house, I was called for query. I had to answer to it. It was a frustrating experience, but it thought me a lot as regards taking care of home. My dad a very nice man, but very strict, he disliked anything or anyone going against his rules and will not hesitate to punish anyone who goes against his rules. All of us kept his rules and he loved us all except that I had always questioned his love for me ever since my mum gave birth to Isaac, fourth child and second boy, my dad became hostile to me, he started treating me as if am not his son, the case got worse when John and Samuel were given birth to. I began to presume that something was wrong somewhere, but I do not know where or how and why it is so.

I remember the day when I bought the power bank. I was so excited to finally have a solution to my phone's battery problems. I spent quite a sum of money on it, but I was okay with it. After all, it was an investment, and I was sure it would serve me for a long time.

However, today, as I was mounting my bike, the power bank slipped out of my backpack and fell on the ground, breaking open and leaving me disappointed. I was paranoid that the fall might have damaged the charging port, rendering it irreparable, and now I may have to budget for a new one.

As I continued on my journey, my mind started racing. I started calculating the cost of a new power bank, and the expenses were something I was not looking forward to. I had already spent so much money, and now, I had to spend even more - it was overwhelming.

After I returned home, I quickly rushed to check if there was any way to fix it, but I was not sure what to do. I plugged in the cord and connected it to my phone, hoping it would work. To my delight, it started charging, and a little joy crept in, relieving all the worries I had been carrying on my head.

Relieved and happy, I realized that it was not damaged after all, and I could continue using it.

But then, as I glance at the power bank here with me as I type, I feel this sadness.
It's been just a while since I bought it and now I'll have to risk losing it any moment. Even though it's still charging my device at the moment but I know I should start budgeting for another.

In a lively Nigerian village, two friends, Ahmed and Chioma, hatched an unusual plan to teach animals how to speak proper English. They believed it would be the best business ever.

Ahmed, brimming with optimism, declared, "Chioma, picture this – goats and ducks chatting in perfect English! It's a genius idea!"

Chioma, always up for a good laugh, agreed. So, they rounded up animals from all over – Samuel the talkative sheep, Ngozi the loquacious lizard, and even Emeka the eloquent elephant.

On the first day of school, Ahmed walked into the classroom with a serious face. "Good morning, students. Today, we'll learn how to say 'How are you' in proper English."

Samuel the sheep bleated, "Sir, 'How are you' means the same as 'How far,' right?"

Ahmed nodded, impressed. "Exactly, Samuel! You're quite the scholar!"

As the days went by, the school turned into a comedy show. Ngozi the lizard spoke better grammar than some English professors, and Emeka the elephant attempted Shakespeare with his trunk.

One day, a cheeky parrot flew near the school, overhearing them speaking high-level English. It squawked, "Ah, see book people! I must join this school."

The parrot entered the class, saying, "I can speak English, but please, let's chat in simple language. This grammar is giving me a headache."

The whole class burst into laughter. From that day, Ahmed and Chioma's school for talking animals became the funniest place in the entire village. Even the parrot joined the class, and they taught it in straightforward English.

And so, in the heart of Nigeria, animals became professors, and laughter echoed through the school for talking animals.

As soon as I stepped into the party, my feet were already plotting against me. With each step, I staggered like a newborn calf on an ice ground. It was a miracle I didn't fall over face-first onto the dance floor. But I persevered, determined to conquer the treacherous unsteady heights of my high heels.

As the music blared and people gyrated around me, I realized I had no clue when to shout or cheer. The entertainer on stage was busting out impressive moves, twirling and flipping. But instead of screaming my admiration at the right moments, I ended up shouting at the most inappropriate times. My attempts to blend in were comically futile.

Undeterred by my lack of party prowess, I threw caution to the wind and unleashed my inner dance warrior. I bounced on my limbs with rigorous energy. My moves were so wild and uncoordinated that I created a force field around me, as if everyone was trying to avoid being accidentally hit, lol.

To my surprise, instead of laughing at me, people around me joined in the absurdity. Soon, we were all engaged in synchronized chaos, dancing like lunatics with no regard for coordination or rhythm. Laughter filled the air as we stumbled and twirled, turning the dance floor into a market.

I managed to connect with partygoers who, like me, were just there for a good time. We shared stories, exchanged laughter, and bonded over our lack of dancing abilities.

By the end of the night, my feet were throbbing, and my laughter echoed in my ears as I struggled toward the exit. As I bid farewell to my newfound party comrades, I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Who would have thought that a night of stumbling and inappropriate shouts would turn into a night of unforgettable memories and laughter?
I sure did enjoy myself and y'allhere can join me next time😆.

I was hanging out at a public joint and I met a drunkard who made me laugh until my ribs almost cracked. He's name? Tajaa!
Here's one of his jokes. He called it Banana Bread.
Tajaa gave the following recipe and method of how to make Banana Bread.

Recipe for Banana Bread
Ingredients:
2 Laughing Eyes
2 Loving Arms
2 Well Shaped Legs
2 Firm Milk Containers
1 Fur Lined Mixing Bowl
2 Large Nuts
1 Large Banana

Method:
1. Look into Loving Eyes.
2. Fold in Loving Arms.
3. Spread Well Shaped Legs.
4. Squeeze and massage Milk Containers gently until Fur Lined Mixing Bowl is well greased. Check frequently with middle finger.
5. Add Banana - work in and out until well creamed.
6. Cover with Nuts and sigh with relief.
Cake done when Banana becomes soft. Be sure to wash mixing utensils and don't lick the bowl.
He gave me a warning this: If cake begins to rise leave town immediately.

[Please, it's just for fune] 🤣🤣😂😂

Once upon a time for inside Naija, two friends, Chijioke and Ifeoma, decide say dem wan build the tallest suya stand for the whole village. Dem yarn say e go reach the sky.

Dem begin gather wood, borrow pot from Mama Ngozi, and even negotiate with Chicken Republic for partnership. As dem dey set up, dem dey yarn jokes to keep people happy.

One day, as dem dey arrange suya, Chijioke talk say, "Ifeoma, this suya fit fly pass airplane sef!"

Ifeoma laugh, talk say, "Chijioke, if e fly, I go chop am for mid-air."

People wey dey pass hear the tori, dem gree gather to see the 'Sky Suya.' As dem dey chop, the tallest suya stand for Naija dey yarn joke pass comedians.

But wahala start when one kite wey never chop since morning fly pass. E see the suya, come carry Chijioke's own. Chijioke run after the kite, "Kite! Bring my suya back!"

Ifeoma, with tears from laughter, shout, "Chijioke, na you wan chop am for mid-air abi?"

Na so the village turn to comedy central as dem see Chijioke dey chase kite for suya matter. From that day, the 'Sky Suya' no reach sky again, but the laughter wey e bring for Chuckleville no get part two.

Once upon a time a daughter complained to her father that her life was miserable and that she didn’t know how she was going to make it.

She was tired of fighting and struggling all the time. It seemed just as one problem was solved, another one soon followed.

Her father, a chef, took her to the kitchen. He filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire.

Once the three pots began to boil, he placed potatoes in one pot, eggs in the second pot and ground coffee beans in the third pot. He then let them sit and boil, without saying a word to his daughter.

The daughter, moaned and impatiently waited, wondering what he was doing. After twenty minutes he turned off the burners.

He took the potatoes out of the pot and placed them in a bowl. He pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. He then ladled the coffee out and placed it in a cup.



Turning to her, he asked. “Daughter, what do you see?”

“Potatoes, eggs and coffee,” she hastily replied.

“Look closer” he said, “and touch the potatoes.” She did and noted that they were soft.

He then asked her to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard-boiled egg.

Finally, he asked her to sip the coffee. Its rich aroma brought a smile to her face.

“Father, what does this mean?” she asked.



He then explained that the potatoes, the eggs and coffee beans had each faced the same adversity-the boiling water. However, each one reacted differently. The potato went in strong, hard and unrelenting, but in boiling water, it became soft and weak.

The egg was fragile, with the thin outer shell protecting its liquid interior until it was put in the boiling water. Then the inside of the egg became hard.

However, the ground coffee beans were unique. After they were exposed to the boiling water, they changed the water and created something new.

“Which one are you?” he asked his daughter.



“When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a potato, an egg, or a coffee bean?”



Moral of the story:
In life, things happen around us, things happen to us, but the only thing that truly matters is how you choose to react to it and what you make out of it. Life is all about leaning, adopting and converting all the struggles that we experience into something positive.

I sat under the great Mango tree as my mind traveled to an incident in my teenage hood.

The great Mango tree as it was called by many is located at the middle of our great compound. It is characterized with thick branches, which makes it a likeable habitat for bats and birds of all kinds.

Underneath it is often known for its serenity, which makes it a good place for relaxation after the tedious day work.

At night, it is unusually still with occasional screeching of bats from the tree.

A rumor circulated once, the content of which was that the great Mango tree habour witches, who meet there at the dead of the night to perform their nocturnal act.

Owiya osese is a traditional right that has been handed over from generation to generation. It is often said by the older generation as initiating young women into womanhood. Parents of these ladies cook all kinds of local dish and invite peers and people from afar and near to celebrate with them.

On this particular day, mama brought all kinds of food home for our consumption.

Being of the opinion that, e better make belle tear than make food waste, I ate till my stomach was bulging out of my clothes like a pregnant woman.

Mama warned be severally but I refused to listen as I relish on the varieties of local dishes set before us.

I knew I was in for something big when I could not sleep in the night and kept belching disgustingly.

There seem to be a turmoil/war in my tummy and I kept tossing from side to side.

It was exactly 1am and I felt the urgent need to relief myself. I scampered away from my sleeping siblings. Search frantically for a black leather for what is known as "Shot put" with a hand grabbing my behind to aid myself from spilling the solid mineral stuck in between my Anus on myself.

I opened the door quietly and dashed out. Spread the leather wide on the floor and bent almost immediately as my Anus made the "kpa kpa sound".

Relief washed over me as I finally relived my stomach of it's prison.

Just when I was in the middle of the act, I lifted up my head and beyond there was a white figure standing grotesquely under the great Mango tree. Its heights seem to increase every seconds and unfortunately it was gazing right at me.

I swallowed hard as at that moment, even the poo I was pooing deserted me. Realization dawned on me that, masquerades often parade the entire community at night during this festival.

I was trying to collect my thoughts together when the first stroke landed on me. Every sound seem to fade away as pain shot from the spot to my brain.

I dashed up and another stroke met my buttocks. I unconsciously moved my hand from the previous spot to my buttocks as I let out a loud cry.

I ran with the speed of a hind as that particular masquerade started calling out to the others.

A hand grabbed me from behind and another pinned me to the floor as they delt few strokes on me.

I stood up apprehensively and ran inside the house closing the door almost immediately.

I cried all through the night as I nursed the pain inflicted on me by the masquerades.


I made a resolution that day, never to eat more than necessary and dissolved my contract with gluttony.

I chuckled quietly as I remembered the event of that day once again.

It has been 24 years already and that event formed the earliest part of my teenage hood.