The Unending (Unnecessary) Battles In Nigeria

Hampered by work and restricted by time, I haven’t written anything here in more than two weeks, since six types of suicides. Thankfully, Sylvanus Omoniyi comes to my rescue with this article. It is hot, it is bleak, it is prophetic, and it is, most crucially, useful. Enjoy

Nigerians are angry. They are not smiling. The country is so hard that people get angry at the slightest provocation. You must be careful of the things you say. There are people who are probably waiting for you to make one false move so they can use your mistake as the casket to bury you. Bury you alive. It looks like everyone is looking for someone to crucify.

Fights everywhere. Blackmail. And even curses. You need to guard your head. Don’t come on Facebook and start acting like a king when you are not even a palace guard. Most people will lose their jobs in real life because of the things they engage in on social media. And some may be harmed or even lose their lives because of their social media presence.

It is even harder for the female folks. You know yourselves. You engage in Facebook battle with people anyhow. People you know that you can’t face in real life. You challenge everyone with words because you think you are famous on Facebook and you can get away with anything. I just pity you. Facebook warrior. Social media Arnold Schwarzenegger. Jackie Chan of subs. Go on.

You don’t know some of the people you battle with. I have heard stories of people getting molested in real life because they couldn’t control their buccal cavity on social media. Some have been killed. A man who does not have the paraphernalia to battle does not engage himself in singing the songs of war. It is dangerous. The time is coming, and now is, that people will be judged by their social media idiosyncrasies. Many will lose relationships. Many will lose jobs. Many will lose their dignity.

It is happening already. Many more will lose their privacy, their essence, and confidence. Many will remain unmarried and bitter. Some, unable to stand the havoc they let loose, will consider suicide. And lots more. You’ll hear of these things and you will remember my words. Don’t pretend to be what you are not. No. Don’t do that. You don’t need it.

Don’t drag yourself into trouble because you want to impress your fans and followers. You’ll turn to look back and you will realize you are the only one standing. Be wise. Diplomacy and modesty are required online, especially for the emotionally and psychologically weak. You may choose to argue with me that you are not weak but when the balloon bursts, you will come back to your senses. I have delivered what the gods sent me. He that has an ear, let him hear!

Sylvanus tweets @SylvanusOmoniyi





You sit by the lush lawn that overlooks your steel gate, reading a magazine while sipping from a glass of chilled citrus drink. The weather is mild; shining from the back of a dark cloud is the sun, gazing weakly at the world. A passing breeze toys with your hair, blowing them over your face. You didn’t put out a hand to hold them in place, rather you let the breeze nudge them about.

The once gentle breeze gathers into a howling wind which snatches the magazine from your
hand, throwing it feet away from you. You gave a chase, both hands lifted in mock panic, to retrieve your costly magazine. The wind gets excited, doubling its might and swelling your gown like ball wears worn in the western world. You pause in your pursuit, the magazine has been hurled over the fence and you stand holding onto your gown smiling.

You remember Miracle running not too long ago, after a piece of paper she’d been sketching on, stolen by the wind. The thieving wind, you called it. You equally remember how she had laughed when the wind blew up her skirt, you see her gleaming eyes filled with shocked pleasure as she paused to gather her skirt. You remember how you had ran out to her, how you two giggled until the
drizzling rain turned to a mighty downpour.

You remember too how you took turns drying each other’s body, and how you stayed up all night watching her unsteady temperature. Miracle is a fragile one and easily catches cold.

The falling rain brings you out of your nostalgic trance. You turn and flee to shelter while the tears you don’t notice mingle and fall with the rain.
Anger masks your face, stretching it to a frightful angle. You pace in short quick strides, rounding an imaginary table a thousand times. Miracle stands by the sink, playing with the water that runs over her fingers. Her face is frozen, void of any emotion. She raises her
face and looks at you briefly, now you see the defiance in her eyes. You cannot help notice she dons a turtle-neck sweater which is black and thick over a knee length gown; you wonder if she is cold.

You stop right before her. Your eyes are pleading and teary, and your lips shakes from threatening sob.

‘Please,’ you whisper, fighting the sobs. You take her hands in yours.
She moves out of your semi embrace, furiously wiping her eyes with the cuff of her
sweater. She is strong willed and stubborn, just like you.

‘Mother.’ There is plea in her voice. ‘Years ago while in college you had me. You had nothing; no friend nor family to support you, yet you had me despite the mockery and scorn.  Had you aborted me, would you have had me with you today?’

You sit down, letting the tears flow, looking at your sixteen years old Miracle and grasping the meaning of her words.
You ache from what the world would say to her, how the world would treat a teenage pregnant girl. Seventeen years ago you were there yourself, and the pains you passed through still clings to your heart. The world has not changed much in seventeen years. You hug your daughter, weeping with the same unity you had giggled with under the rain.
Vin giggles as you tickle him. The sound of his laughter brings light to your heart. You set him down and watch him crawl happily to his pack of toys.

Months ago, you had sat watch over your teenage daughter and her growing belly. From
the first to the ninth month, fearing that things might go wrong any second. You stood by her against the world and fought her battle with her.

When Vincent was born, you had wept profusely, hiding your face from the excited nurses. You had cried for your daughter’s safe delivery, you had cried at her bravely, but you cried more for wanting to get rid of this angelic being that did
you no harm. All for the sake of what the world will say.

The birds are chirping happily outside, and Fat Jo your dog runs after them, playfully barking up at the sky while clawing at their faint shadow on the ground. You are at the lawn, not reading though you have a magazine on your laps but watching Vin in a slightly oversized cap play with his kite. He is two years old and calls you mama. Far, from the north, the wind came calling. Blowing off Vin’s cap and hurling both it and his kite over the fence.

He turns to you with wide eyes,
laughing, you run to him laughing. Your laughter mingled with Jo’s barking as you all run around playfully.

You lift your grandson to your back, his giggle fused with yours as you run from the falling rain. You are afraid he will catch cold. Fat Jo barks excitedly, running after raindrops. Your dog loves water a lot.

Your voice is sleepy. You sit rocking him to sleep, singing a lullaby. His petite angel-like face cuts your heart. The guilt is still there, although you didn’t get to destroy this happiness.
Nonso Serah Uchechukwu has been published in this blog under the name Serah Donald Mbachu. She sent in this from Owerri. You haven’t seen the last of Serah here.
If you wish to guest blog here, contact me on

Tweets to @Oke4chukwu