Good news everyone: this is our last blog post for the year! Difficult as it is for some of you, our admiring readers, to believe, we don’t actually sit crossed-leg on the writing table, smoking profoundly on a kick-ass pipe, while the Good Lord inspires us with all these awesome posts.  Hell, no! We work at these things, bro! These freaking blogs are actually brow-sweating work, just slightly below being forced to watch a Nollywood video for 12 hours without a toilet break.

You will know true fear.

And by the time you watch the 18th pre-movie trailer, you will know true fear.

And that’s why over the months, we’ve been chuffed at your appreciation, admiration and even the rare insults too. In fact, we wake up on mid-nights just to re-read your comments and count the page views one by one.

"Oh yes, keep it coming. Keep it coming...."

“No time for porn, man. Next post is tomorrow.”

That said, today’s post, in the usual end-of-the-year fashion, is a quick introspection and an opportunity to ponder on all those missed calls we had during the year from unknown phone numbers. Who called us? Why did they call us?  Would they ever call back? Was it some new business or a secret admirer? We may never know the answers to these most intricate of life’s questions. But what we know for sure is this: for those of you who have been brave enough to keep checking out our weekly editions—congrats—the size of the FG’s recurrent expenditure got nothing on your balls! And that’s even more true for you, ladies!

Your balls are the cornerstone of this blog.

Your awe inspiring balls are the very cornerstone of this blog.

Unfortunately, though, your continued approval of our blog, dear readers, means our divinely inspired mission to annoy the hell out of every Nigerian, until we get banned in not less than 30 states, is becoming less and less realistic. Accordingly, this increase in page views is very sad news for all of us here. However, while we think up new strategies to get you raving mad until you smash your internet devices against the wall as you scream for our heads, we will continue to bring you our best combination of polite sarcasm and social irreverence. Meanwhile, our lesson has been learned: Nigerians have a high tolerance for boolsheet.

It's like:"Hey Boolsheet, you want to use my toothbrush, and sleep with my wife? Sure, why not?"

It’s like:”Hey you, Boolsheet, you want to use my toothbrush, and sleep with my wife? Sure, why not?”

This tolerance for the most insipid and transparent of political, social and religious lies is more painful than a triple cockscrew wound up the anal cavities. It is even more painful this year, 2012; because, when in January, the country’s masses and not-quite-masses came together to protest the dumbfuckery of Goodluck Jonathan’s fuel subsidy removal, there was, quite almost, the possibility of a welcome change in the affairs of the country.

Also the possibility of electing an awesome fir jumping president

Also, the possibility of electing us an awesome fire-jumping president.

For a brief, but clear moment, the Nigerian people actually held political power—and the machinery of government was clearly submissive. But that moment was lost as soon as it came, because, when you have power without a plan, you will either lose the power or lose your life. So we lost the power, no thanks to the trickery and cowardice of the unions—as well as our own clueless stance—and went back to our freaking everyday lives: solidly grounded on Omotola’s Twitter verification and D’banj’s “Oyato” fiasco.

"Occupy Nigeria is sooo old school, bro. Karen Igho got slapped! That's gist!"

“Occupy Nigeria is sooo old school, bro. Karen Igho got slapped! That’s fresh gist!”

And what were the costs of January? What were the gains? Some people died, the rest of us live on.  In retrospect, the protests could easily have been an imaginative  and adventurous post on Omojuwa or Ekekee for all the difference it has made so far. The union leaders are alive and well, Diezani is yet to die zanily or otherwise, fuel has been scarce for several months, the reform in electric power is on paper only, Jonathan has publicly ascribed the January protests to the work of paid brigands, Abati’s apostasy has become even more sinful and Karen Igho is still getting slapped by security guards.

"Are you going to blame me for that too?"

“What? Are you going to blame me for that too?”

Of course, as we’ve pointed out before, we are also to blame for a lot of our woes. December is almost over, and a new January is around the corner. The oracles have been evasive on where this country is headed or how it should even be headed. And maybe, that’s the problem—maybe there are no fucking oracles and maybe we hold the key to the next year in our own hands.  And like all those missed calls from unknown numbers, maybe you shouldn’t just wait for a call back—sometimes you gotta go out there, stalk and kidnap a phone company employee, torture them till they agree to trace the unknown number for you, and then you find out who the hell was calling you. It’s your call, baby. But it’s also too much work (like these blog posts), so while we sincerely wish you Merry Holidays and a Happy New Year, we are quite sure we’ll be back on this blog together, in the New Year, yarning the same old gist.



  1. Yo!!! Beautiful round up… there is one Monday to go 31st, your calender missed something? … Merry Holidays too… and we will be back next year to read your yarnings… Our beautiful Monday companion.


  2. Oh! From me here, its GEJ fault that Karen got slapped. Everything is his fault mehn, the guy is just one mumu dundee.
    Kidnapping a phone company employees sounds awesome, I won’t ask for those fucking missed calls though, it’ll be NOIstic ransom demand. Everybody wan hammer, me too no dey miss that.
    Incredible way, the way your mind works. I totally dig this and was laughing, but this is serious mehn!


  3. #OccupyNigeria, January 2012.

    I remember going round (looking suspiciously deranged, perhaps) asking people, telling people: “We must march. I have done this before, follow me, lead me. We must march. We have kettled ourselves here, we must march. We must be a moving mass. Where are the student union members? March with me”. But they said to me “Ma’am, the band is set to play and keep people here, we cannot dismantle that. It is okay, we will protest from here”.

    I moved on from person to person, from the igbo-smoker through a crowd where my phone was deftly picked off me, to the woman who was begging for alms, to my old school mates (Dupe, you still dey do Aluta??) onto the stage (Bimbo Akintola gave me a kiss, Seun Kuti hugged me cos he was remembering my brother) and I said again “we must march, please. Let us lead the people to Alausa and do a our sit-down protest there. Let Abuja see we are marching in Lagos”.

    But no. The music lulled everybody. It dimmed my mind to beat like my tired heart and both must have slurred to my feet which had become extra-heavy.

    All the artistes were out, true. Everybody wanted air-time. I was sweating. The air was dirty. Refuse was rising in the air. Through the haze, I saw how dirty Lagos was.

    What am I doing here? If I died now, they still will not march for me. What am I doing here? I am here for my beautiful daughters. I will go on.

    But on Day 5 with tears in my eyes, I said to my husband “It is over, let’s go home”.

    I got home, downloaded all my pictures. I looked long and hard. This opportunity will never come again, I thought.

    I wonder if that was prophetic.

    But I forget myself. Blame that on you, Ayo. Blame that on yourself and Karen Igho. Brilliant piece. Merry Christmas.


  4. “Diezani is yet to die, zanily or otherwise.” This is hilarity. Ayo, I just love you. PS- did karen really get slapped by a security guard? I should read that! Lolz.


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