Ramblings Of An Angry Nigerian: IN PURSUIT OF GIRLFRIEND

I am not blogging about politics this week. I am too young to come and die because of Nigeria. I’m not being patriotic? Whatever. If patriotism entails losing my life screw it! There are 170 million problematic people in Nigeria. Don’t let anyone talk you out of your life by deceiving you that your one death will save 170 million complications. A certain Jesus of Nazareth has laid his life for the the world including 170 million PP (problematic people). Any other crucifixion is counterfeit. The only thing I can say on politics, if I must, is to invoke Thunder on Nepa. For two weeks now I have only seen light three times: six hours, three hours, twenty-five minutes. My being online is largely dependent on the generosity of my landlord. Nepa, Exodus 14:14 to you!

That’s all. Let’s talk girlfriend.

For a while now I don’t disturb any girl and no girl disturbs me. There are one or two crushes but no energy to toast anyone (let them ask me out na. There’s nowhere it’s written that a man must do the asking, I strongly stand for gender equality–and the unalienable right to toast and be toasted). Well, Nigerian girls have more use for their time than asking an Angry Nigerian who is also broke out. So I was left unasked.

So I lowered my ego and decided to do the axing.

But to convince myself I was doing the right thing I decided to draw three cardinal reasons for going into relation ship/boat.

1, To make Linda Ikeji jealous.
2, My mother said something like I should looking around. Hehehe.
3, Every nigger has a girlfriend except mee!!
3B, I just want to touch a female breast (hehehe, only kidding… aswear Pastor, only kidding! Sorry for swearing).

So I drew out my strategy. But something worried me. Few days before I decided to go into a relation boat I saw something like this on social media:

When you are happy and settled and begin to save, and prepared to accomplish something worthwhile the devil will come and give you a girlfriend.

Perhaps this was the writing on the wall for me. Or was it just the evil antic to keep me off the good things of girls and keep me subdued in perpetual girllessness? I shrugged. I will go, If I perish I perish.

First strategy was buying that Hausa perfume that smells in your body for one week. Two, I brought out my Sunday best. Then I became extremely friendly. Normally I am a frowner. 90 percent of the time I am frowning, 9 percent I am sleeping, 1 percent I don’t know where I am. But I began to smile, smile, smile, sheepishly, sheepishly, sheepishly. Then I committed suicide, I got a German accent. I would enter a bus smile at everyone and say, “Gild afteneen every barger.” I had this shiny one thousand naira note in my back pocket while I strolled the streets looking for a stranded girl to help. I saw a lone girl standing by the road waiting for a cab and I tumble to her. “Hoy boiby, are ye streendid?”

I don’t know what pissed them off more, my Hausa aroma, my false smile or my German English? But I soon ran short of girls one hundred metre radius of me.

So I went and dipped myself seven times in the Niger and got rid of my mallam scent and the fakest accent. I looked at the mirror and I looked like somebody I know.

I continued to hunt and eventually met the following girls.

Babe One

I met her at the ATM. I was there to empty my UBA account and close it. I did that but one thousand naira wouldn’t come out, insufficient fund. I didn’t see why I should leave that huge amount for a bank that had done me so much. So I tried to recharge my phone with it. Then they took a new form, incorrect password. You must be kidding. I tried again, incorrect password. But I just withdrew with this password two seconds ago! I tried again… Click, your card has been retained, contact your bank.

I approached one of the security men who told me to wait for the ATM man. He pointed to this lady whose ATM card has also been seized. She was a stunning sight even with her worried expression. Tall, dark, in tight polo, firm jeans trousers with the poise of a model. I was tempted to resuscitate my German accent, “Thoy soized ya cord?” I didn’t. “Hi.” “Hi.” The voice of an angel. I gladly told her we had

“Hi.” The voice of an angel. I gladly told her we had the same problem. She smiled. Milk white teeth and said she had called the ATM guy and he was coming. While waiting we started a small conversation. I learned she was a student of Nekede Polytechnic, and lived in Awka but came to visit an aunt.

By the time the ATM guy came it was already dark. He got our cards out and we lined up again. Her turn came, she slotted the card in, seized, again!

She wez streendid!

I stepped up. “I am here for you.” She told me that what she needed was transport fare but I insisted and got her cold something before she boarded the bike. We exchanged numbers (of course!!!) and in that Beyonce voice she said, “I will give you a call.”

When I arrived home, I saw the call. Potential Bae calling. It was like listening to music. She thanked me for the help, said warm flattering things, made my heart swim before saying good night.

Hurray! I have done it.

As I was stoking my ego, the call came again. This girl can’t have enough of me! She said she couldn’t sleep and wanted to just talk. Ah ha, let’s talk! And we talked, talked, talked (for forty-five seconds) and would have talked till the Second Coming but she remembered an important call she was to make, could I please send her small credit?


I was in bed already for the night, but I dashed off and got the card. My area is a poor area so 400 naira card was the highest I could get. Although the last time I recharged that amount for myself was in May 1982. I sent it in under five minutes after the request.

Thanks honey, came the message. I went to bed fulfilled. If tomorrow someone calls for those with girlfriends to come out, I would rush out. Her call woke me up. Sleepy head, she teased. Hmmm. Good morning beautiful. You have a beautiful early morning voice, she lied. But it filled my belly with happiness. By the time the call ended I was boiling in a smitten temperature.

Around nine she called. Yes, love. She said she was in the bank but can’t reach the ATM man. Could I please send small credit so she could call the man.

Of course. Gimme a minute. But I took ten minutes. I am a busy man now. And it’s not as if I had a carton of recharge cards waiting on my desk, in this economic confusion. I sent 200 naira card. She called to say a quick thank you and promised to talk to me lerra.

But she didn’t call lerra, and throughout the day. She didn’t call at night. The next morning, no call; afternoon, no call. Evening, I called Potential Bae.

“Hi babe.”

“Who’s this?”

I stopped breathing. “It’s me.”


I swallowed my ego. “Me, Kingsley.”

“Kingsley from where?”

On Christ the solid rock I stand
All other ground is sinking sand
All other ground is sinking sand…


Babe Two

This one is from Edo. Came for holiday in her sister’s family place. Fair, average height, full of things and graceful. And really dazzling to the eye. So all the guys began to rush for her attention. These are guys who had girls and who were looking for number two or number three. I had no one. Life is so unfair.

I wanted to pull out of the crowd so I put my lazy brain to use, I went to the provisions shop where she bought things and spoke with the owner, a very understanding Nsukka guy. I told him anything the girl bought was on me. Tell her to keep her money then write it down, I will foot the fecking bill.

Yes sah!

You see, I have a way of making the mountain come to Lai Mohammed. She would look for me. Two days later, no one looked for me (except my landlord, to torment me). So I went to the shopkeeper, after a terrible Arsenal performance, livid, to cancel the bonanza. How much is the bill?

3,865 naira!

“What! You are a kidder! What is she buying that’d cost that much? Is it not normal noodles and chocolate and chewing gum?’

“Ah, the girl has high taste…”

“With my money? And she doesn’t even have the decency to look for me. Do I print money? Cancel, cancel! Lemme see the record!”

As the shopkeeper made for the record someone tapped me on the back. I turned. It was the Edo girl.

“You must be the guy paying for my purchases…’ British accent. ‘I have been looking for you. I want to warn you”–and she shut her eyes pointing a long finger at me. “Never you ever, ever in your lifetime pay my bills again. I can afford my bills…”

“Yes ma. But I haven’t done any harm yet. In fact, I have un-never the bills. You can settle it. Less than Four thousand.”

She flinched a little. “Is it that high?”

I smiled. “Ask the guy.” I made to pass her.

“Wait… Actually, you can pay for this one but subsequently” (she shut her eyes) “never ever dream of…”

“Better open your eyes and count out the money.” I hissed.

“It’s like you have hot temper.”

“You don’t know me. I am Abacha’s number two, a Stalin fellow of the order of Mussolini…”

And she burst out laughing. “Hey, you are funny!”

I looked her in the eye and saw remorse. Some girls can be real proud, You are funny been their way of saying I’m sorry. We locked eyes for a couple of seconds. “We can’t be shouting at each other like this,” I said. “How about we go sit on that bench and talk things over?” “Alright.”

For the next two hours, we talked real intimately. She had this romantic way of talking, tapping you three or four times in the lap or shoulder before making a point. I sat with an intelligent frown, hmming, chipping brilliant points and making philosophical analyses. At the end of the day, I had her number, her pin, her Instagram and Facebook usernames. Atta boy! She even pledged to visit me sometime. Oh! Finally, she stood up to go.

We held hands and began to walk towards her gate, few blocks away, real slowly, 0.01km per hour. At the background someone was singing Have You ever been in Love. It was Celine Dion’s tone and lyrics all right, but the person was singing in John Okafor (Mr Ibu) Okafor’s voice.

Warris that supposed to mean?

Tweets to @Oke4chukwu


The thought of searching for a new job sapped him of energy, and filled his breathing space with steel. He remembered the hell before he got this lost job. The office doors he had knocked on, the patronising looks of saucy secretaries, the curt dismissals of half-educated managers, the false sincerity of relations (‘I will call you as soon as I hear anything’… ‘If only you studied accountancy!’); the mocking concern of the neighbours—‘You never get work?’ ‘I am still looking around’, bastard!

Now, he would be lonely as failure has no neighbourhood. People would pity him, and attempt minute conversations but he would be alone in his joblessness, bored with life, dissatisfied; then he would bow with frustration, then helplessness, then self-loathing; at this stage he would contemplate suicide more than once. He wouldn’t kill himself, not physically. But he would die, become invisible, shut out on his grave of failure. Like a corpse, he would drag his carcass to the construction site where a thousand youths were assembled, craws sharpened, ready to kill for one of the twelve slots to carry blocks; he would work if, luckily, the foreman was an ex-classmate.

‘Never again,’ he said aloud. He was walking on a busy street. ‘I will never allow that,’ he said even louder. Let them think I am mad, fools!

For the second or third time in his life he wished for the quick gratification of alcohol, he wished he could just stuff his troubles in the oceanic storehouse of drunkenness and forget it for hours, for a night, for now. But he couldn’t even if he wished. He didn’t have the money and he didn’t have the courage to sideline his woes for a minute—what if he returned to his senses and his woes had wrecked him?

He turned and began to walk back the way he came. He would go back to the newsroom and ponder in solitude for a moment or two, think reasons into his being. He wouldn’t go home now, the dreariness and bleak atmosphere in the house would maim him. No, he would go to his working place and be. He would sleep there if he had to.

James was angry to see Celine in the newsroom. She sat at her desk, a beautiful image,  sweating over a piece of paper she was writing on.

‘What are you doing here?’ He couldn’t hide his anger.

‘Sorry, I will soon leave your father’s house for you.’ She didn’t look up.

He turned to go.


The ice-cold of the call stopped him. He turned. ‘What is it?’

‘What is on your mind?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean, James, you have something eating away your heart. Share it. A problem half-shared is a problem solved.’

He nearly smiled at her corruption of the ageless idiom. He unleashed his own cliché. ‘You won’t understand.’

‘Try me.’ She urged. ‘Does it have to do with your meeting with the editor?’

He looked at her. This girl was no fool. Of course not many of his colleagues believed him when he said the editor had only called to congratulate him over the impressive sale of the last edition. But not dull Celine, Celine shouldn’t have a clue!

‘Talk to me, boy.’

He didn’t mind the boy. He sat down and unburdened his heart in her ears. Talking to her was the guise to recounting the whole mess to himself, making sure, erecting bricks of reality in a fantastic yarn. He told her everything, nearly everything, how he suffered before he got this job, the pressures at home, the uncertainty, the absence of employment electrons inside of him to run the search for jobs. ‘Heck, I am thirty-two and should be talking about raising a family,’ he concluded.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and he sat, hunched on his desk, depressed, chewing himself and hating the vulnerability that he had opened himself to; one doesn’t tell one’s colleague everything or nearly everything; one…

She placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder. ‘I think I have something for you.’

He looked up, suspicious. ‘What?’

‘Let’s go talk in my place.’

He began saying no, indeed he did say no but didn’t say it out. The firm plea in her eyes stopped him, and the innocence in her face demanded obedience from him. But there was something dubious about her innocence, something worrying, like a warning…


He stood up and followed her out.

Tweets to @Oke4chukwu .