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  1. My mother always proclaimed that I was a child with a secret. She said I had that look of someone who was up to no good, like a cat, caught stealing fish from the pot. Perhaps, this was the reason I got beaten severely for the things that I knew of, and those that I wasn't within a mile radius of. Whenever anything happened at home and with my siblings Elo and Ameh, my mother would say that it was me. One time Elo, my elder brother after Sunday school, had broken a plate, he admitted his transgressions to my mother but somehow I had been the one writhing from the pains of a horsewhip on my bare back. I would sit in my spot and cry, hoping that one day, my real mother would come for me. Then, one evening, I was at my spot as usual, and nurse Abike returned from work. I greeted her warmly as she asked me how my day was before entering into her single room in the compound of about 20 rooms. As usual, she dropped her bags and started to take off her clothes. I watched her from the little hole in her netted door and blushed so deeply that the fires of the sun waxed cold in comparison. I was transfixed as I spied her pale fair skin that looked like a baby's bottom freshly spread with powder, I knew she would feel the same. I caught a glimpse of her breasts, wishing that when I do grow my own pair, it would look even a little like hers. I swallowed hard, with a fire that I couldn't name, with a desire so forbidden that I looked away for a minute. When I returned my eyes to her, she was donning a wrapper, she knotted it tightly around her chest and at 11 years of age, I wanted nothing more than to be Nurse Abike's wrapper. My mother caught me again, sitting idly at my spot, with a look I couldn't fathom and with the wonder on her face came the thunder of her palm against my back. "Lazy child," she screamed, "will you go inside and start washing the plates!" she completed. It was then I understood her, I finally understood what it was that I was hiding, my little secret, something that nobody would ever take away from me. When you're a child living in a home where there seems to be no love, just survival, you'd quickly learn to escape. I started to escape my body to a better place very early in life. Whenever I could, I would sit in my spot and travel with Nurse Abike to a place I called 'wonderland.' She was always happy to come with me. I would hold her hand as she sat me down to comb my kinky, long hair. For her, even my hair behaved. She would comb and oil my scalp before carefully making my hair into cornrows. She would sing to me and I would inhale deeply her sweet flowery scent. I would attempt to hug her once she finished making my hair and it was always here that something, someone would disturb my daydreaming. I never got to know how it felt to be hugged by Nurse Abike. *********** When I was 12 years old, we had the highest number of children ever recorded in the neighbourhood. It was the prestigious seven years festival held in my village. Families from all around the world of the 'Ohe' ancestry travelled down to participate and they came with their children. I would make my first friend ever in life, Oye. I would also join them in enacting a play about the adults in our lives. Oye, out of the blue chose to be Nurse Abike and I fought tooth and nail to be 'Brother Victor,' a neighbour in the next house whom we all knew liked Nurse Abike and would sometimes sneak into her room. "But you're not a boy," cried Felix, one of the city boys who was probably visiting the village for the first time. "And Oye, is not Nurse Titi, or you, our father. It's a play, anybody can be anything," I replied tartly. It was a long fight but Victor, a boy from the next house, made it easier when he finally spoke up and said he wanted to be mummy, a role that everyone assumed would be mine seeing as I was the last girl without a role. "You see, Victor wants to be mummy, and he's a boy," I said, clapping my hands dramatically. Everybody grudgingly accepted the role reversals and that little play, at the far back of my childhood home would become the single most important incident of my life. I kissed Nurse Abike, on the lips and touched tongues with her and a river I didn't know was inside me burst free and flowed. I kissed a girl and it was the only thing I was sure I wanted to do in this life. The play was disrupted by the sudden arrival of my father. A smallish man who never smiled but was the kindest person I knew. He was never around though. He was a driver who was always cross country and was home anytime we saw him. I loved my father more than anything in the world and I was always so happy to see him, but that evening, I stood fixedly at my spot, disappointed that I would not get to disappear to a corner and do what adults did in secret with Nurse Abike. My father alighted from his beaten Golf 4 and opened his arms for me to enter. It took a while but I finally ran into him for a hug. ******* A week later, I would encounter cold, hard blackmail by my one adversary, Iyin. At school, he had confidently asked me to surrender my lunch to him. I had imagined if he had swallowed a fly through the nose and wondered what gave him the audacity to request something like that from me. "You will see," he had simply said, snapping his fingers at me. I paid no mind to him and continued about my day. I forgot all about the incident and proceeded home with my elder brother. At home, I met my mother sitting solemnly in the sitting room with food and water waiting for us. She took our bags and asked us to sit and eat. The whole situation was so weird that I started to shake with fear. "I said, eat your food and drink your water," she ordered calmly. I knew I was in for it. I started to eat and cry, the palm oil jollof rice tasting like sand in my mouth. I guess I must have been taking too much time to finish because my mother dragged me to the room and locked the door behind her. That day, she beat me with an assortment of items. The broom came first because she said that I was possessed and that she'd always known, the cane came next, the belt, the folded cable wire, and to top it up, the horsewhip. I think that I must have fainted that day, because there still is a blank in my head that I cannot remember till date. I awoke when I felt cold water being poured on me and once my mother confirmed that I was still alive, she resumed whipping me with the horsewhip. I rolled on the floor in my own urine, my nose and eyes both working in unison to ensure that my face would not lack water. I swore in languages that I didn't know I could speak to never do whatever it was that my mother was beating me for but she did not stop till she had her fill. If I had survived that day, I was so sure that just like Enoch in the Bible, I would never experience death again, that I'd be taken up in a chariot and horses because what is death that I didn't die that day? "Next time, when you hear the word 'kiss' you will run," she said in conclusion and left me a puddle of my own secretions. That evening I bathed and sat at my spot with every part of my body swollen and raised with welts. I watched Nurse Abike through the hole as usual. That evening for my sake, because she somehow knew that I needed it, Nurse Abike turned slightly towards the hole and I saw her body a little more clearly. I quickly turned away as my heart thrashed mindlessly against the walls holding them back. It was then that I knew that I would die for my secrets. **** At age 15, Nurse Abike had gotten married and moved out of the compound to her husband's house and my life seemed empty. It felt like my first divorce and heartbreak all rolled into one. I had attended the wedding but I kept playing scenarios in my head of running to the altar and snatching Nurse Abike away from the ogre holding her captive against her will. I mourned this loss for a long time but Joy would transfer from 'Hope Alive international school' to my somewhat local school and she would attempt to replace Nurse Abike. She could only try. My attraction to Joy was mainly that, if Nurse Abike were ever to have a child, they would look exactly like her. She had the same fair pale skin that always reminded me of a paper that was soaked in olive oil. Wasn't that the sort of thing that was highly flammable and could burn? It didn't help that Joy was very smart and then one day, our English teacher had asked us one after the other what we would like to be when we grew up and Joy had said 'Nurse?' At break time the same day that I found out that Joy wanted to be a nurse, I buried my head inside my jotter as I wrote the most intense love note anyone in the history of humanity had ever written and hid it in Joy's biology notebook. I called myself her mystery lover and signed it as such. I watched her curiously from the corners of my eyes as she read the note. I will never forget the smile that clung to her lips as she searched the class room for signs of her mystery lover. I focused intensely at the chalkboard as the biology teacher rambled on about the 'classification of living things.' I even put up my hand to answer the question he asked, anything to remain a mystery. ***** A few weeks after the first letter, I was at it again, this time on my bed, scribbling words that would make Cupid giggle with shyness on a piece of paper, giving it my all, my best calligraphy. I can not for the life of me remember how or when but I fell asleep from daydreaming and writing and when I awoke, my mother was standing over me, the letter in her hands. ***** Cold crept into my body and I started to shake. A cold sweat broke on my forehead as I jumped from the bed to my knees in perfect athletic form. "Mommy, it's not what you think," I cried. She shook her head in disbelief as she started to lock my room door to prevent me from escaping. "You this girl, you are hell bent on rotting in my hands. There's something about you that is boy crazy and I must teach you a lesson," she said, "before you bring pregnancy to me in this house," she finished. That day, the woman I called my mother, ground red pepper and inserted it into my vagina. She said that it would quell all the raging emotions I was feeling for whomever that boy was that I was writing to. She locked me in my room throughout the weekend and beat me whenever she had the chance to. It was that weekend that I decided that even if Jesus Christ in all of His glory came down to me and told me that this woman was my mother, I would tell Him to his face, that He was telling lies. ***** I resumed school and resumed wooing Joy with even more gusto. What could be worse than pepper, I had seen it all. I added gifts to my letters and the joy I felt whenever I caught that wildly beautiful smile knew no bounds. One day, after school Joy walked up to me on my way home. Elo had graduated from secondary school and Ameh was in another school so that left me alone most times. "Wait, I want to talk with you," she called shyly to me. I pretended not to hear as my heart started to beat haphazardly, without rhythm. I had never spoken with her. Heck! I could count how many words I'd ever said in school. Although, in 'wonderland' I had come clean and told Joy how I felt about her and she had kissed me in return. I tried to shake myself awake, was this real, or was I just in 'Wonderland' again. I walked faster, hoping to get away from her, hoping that it would discourage her from saying whatever it was that she wanted to say. "I know it's you, I know you're my mystery lover," she said breathlessly. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around to face her. She stopped too and tried to catch her breath. Did she really know or was she going around to accuse everyone that she could. This was a trap, she couldn't have known but our eyes met and I knew that she was telling the truth. "You did well masking your handwriting but your letter 'h' when you write 'the' is a giveaway. I've known it's you," she said again with a coy smile, even more beautiful than the one she gives whenever she opens my letters. I thought that I loved Nurse Abike, but this thing that I was feeling right then, starting from my scalp and cascading all over me to the sole of my feet was more than love, it was Moses's mother putting him a basket on a river and waiting endlessly for him to be given back to her, it was God, giving us water, it was the opposite of what my mother felt for me. I smiled, perhaps for the first time that she'd known me, and I turned around and continued walking home. I never looked back. ****** At home, I entered my room and cried till I felt blood gather in my eyes. I felt seen, I felt loved, I felt alive and this secret that I had carried from when I was little was still mine to keep but now I was sharing it with Joy and I hoped to God that my mother would never know enough to ruin it. ******* The next Monday, when I returned from break time, it was my turn to smile wildly. Lodged neatly in my mathematics textbook that I'd left on my desk was a letter. Tears rolled down my eyes as I read the last words- 'I luv u.' Those words had never been spoken to me before and the implications of it tore me deliciously apart. Someone in this world loved me and they meant it. ******** Joy started to come to my house and I to hers. The first time I visited her was the most awkward day of my life up until that point. When I knocked and her mother opened the door, she pulled me into a hug and thanked me for befriending her daughter. A hug was something I only got in 'wonderland.' Her dad greeted me fondly. The whole atmosphere of the house was something that I never imagined possible. There was no shouting, no screaming, no name calling, just healthy banter and hugs. I did not feel at home and I could not wait to leave. It was in Joy's room that we would share our first kiss. I still didn't speak much to her but in my head I told her how beautiful she was, how scared I was and how she was the only thing in my life that stopped me often from throwing myself off a mountain. "Do you still love me?" she asked softly and I wondered what madness would ever make me stop loving her. I shook my head in the affirmative and smiled. As an afterthought, I cleared my throat and said faintly, "I do." She smiled back and shifted closer to me till a piece of paper couldn't pass between us. She looked in my eyes before she kissed me. If my mother had beaten me till I reached the gates of hell and hell vomited me back for a tiny kiss in a play, she would definitely go to hell with me and hand me over to the devil personally for this one. If I thought I had kissed before, then I was the greatest liar to have ever existed. Joy was not of this world, neither was her kiss. How could anything wake me up when I always thought I was awake. What was reality, what was 'wonderland,' and what was a dream. This has to be a dream. I wasn't supposed to feel these in reality, my body wasn't supposed to be capable of feelings and emotions like this. My body shouldn't have the capacity to know pleasure, who taught it, I've only ever known pain. What were these new feelings that my physical body was bringing me? I leaned into the kiss as our mouths opened up for each other. It was too good, I'd die of an overdose. I stopped the kiss and said, " bite me, please, bite me." I resumed the kiss and waited for it, that jolt of pain and she bit me, softly, too softly. "Harder," I cried fervently. I tasted the blood and the pain zinged in my head as I welcomed it, there, my friend. ********** What do you call a body that has no one inside? Situations beyond my control had forced me out of myself and now I was in 'wonderland,' hovering over my body, watching what was being done to it. My mother held hands with the Reverend and my father stood aside stoically as my body was beaten with brooms and as candle wax melted freely into my skin. "Who are you?" the Reverend asked again and again as he continued to whip my body. The thick bundle of broom was now drawing blood from my skin. My body deserved its own award, it had never betrayed me. It had guarded my secret zealously. My eyes knew how to see without showing because I had watched Nurse Abike for years and my mother had never known. My loins that often stirred in forbidden desires had never told me, my secret was safe with me and my body until I had trusted someone else with that secret. Joy had betrayed me. I was right, she could never have been Nurse Abike, she could only try. Nobody could ever be Nurse Abike. I had come home one day from school and found Joy with my mother. In my mother's hands were all the words that I'd spent hours stringing together, in her hands I found my raw beating heart, my secret. "I should have known that you would be something as perverse as a lesbian," my mother spat with disgust. "You evil manly spirit of lesbianism, leave this child now, I command you," the reverend continued. He released my mother's hand then turned and twisted maniacally. "Hmmmmmmm," he cried, "Beelzebub, prince of the dark, a strong manly spirit with evil desires, hmmmmmmm." The Reverend in his flowing white robe twisted and staggered with a strange spirit. In a sane world, I would be the one asking him what spirit possesses him. I imagined that it would be the same one that worked diligently for my mother. "This is strong. It is too much. I cannot," the Reverend said suddenly. My mother fell to her knees crying as she clutched the Reverends leg. "Please sir, help me, I have no one,help my daughter, I love her and do not want to lose her to the devil, please," she said. "I know what we will do. You will bring a he-goat, we will sacrifice it, bury it and on the seventh day, we will dig it up and perform a bathing ritual for her. This should ward off the evil spirits," the Reverend said solemnly. I chuckled. She loved me? That love that feels like hot coals burning into my skin, the love that tasted like hot chilli inside of the most intimate part of me, love, the type that made me want to throw myself in front of a moving truck. My mother's love was a curse, a big black rock that was intent on crushing me. My mother's love tasted black in the back of my throat. I knew what love was, and love is Nurse Abike. **** We were in my room this time, mainly because I could not visit Nurse Abike in her matrimonial home. Her legs and mine twisted together like twigs from a tree and I could not tell where I began or ended. "I want to marry you," I suddenly said, lifting my head from the book I had been reading. My tongue had since loosened and I had discovered that I actually had a voice, that I had things to say. Nurse Abike was often enthralled whenever I spoke and just watching her nod to my words felt like the only thing I needed from life. I often felt like I could just die now, I was happy enough, I was content enough, so much so that I could just curl up in her laps and die. "Girls can't marry girls but we can be together forever," she said softly as she always spoke. Together forever, I liked the sound of that. I could not wait to grow up, ditch my mother, snatch her from her undeserving husband and run off to somewhere nobody would know us. "Do you still love me?" I asked again, restless. I was always afraid of the day that she would stop loving me. The day that I would search for her and she wouldn't be there. What if one day, I came to 'wonderland' and she wasn't there? She didn't reply to me with words, she pulled my book off my lax fingers and moved into me. Her eyes met mine and told me things that I would never be able to hear without bawling. She held my head in between her palms and started to drop little kisses all over my face, it felt like me, suckling at my mother's breast, it was nourishment.I had this intense feeling that I could die now.
  2. DAKAR - Several hundred protesters rallied Sunday in Dakar to demand that homosexuality be made a crime in Senegal, according to AFP journalists. It is not illegal to identify as gay in the deeply conservative Muslim nation, but same-sex activity is already punishable by up to five years in prison. Religious leaders and civil society figures addressed hundreds of jubilant protesters, who had gathered in a central square for the rally organised by And Samm Jikko Yi, a civil society collective that promotes "correct values". Ousmane Kouta, a representative of a student religious group, told the crowd that Senegal is a country of faith and values. "It is homophobic and will remain so forever," he said, to cheers and chanted slogans. Aminata Diallo, a member of an association for young Muslims, told AFP that she attended the rally to protest homosexuality and demand its criminalisation. Other protesters were more extreme. "We will kill them, or we will burn them alive. We'll never accept homosexuality," said 56-year-old municipal official Demba Dioup. Senegal's government has repeatedly ruled out legalising homosexuality. Senegal's President Macky Sall has previously stressed that gay people are not ostracised in the nation of 16 million however, and that the same-sex activity ban reflects cultural norms. Consensual same-sex relations are legal in 21 of 54 African countries, according to a 2019 report by the International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association. Source
  3. MissBanks

    Who’s the Boss?!

    It’s been a hot minute and I only realized how long it’s been when I saw a scene in a movie that made me feel like I needed to run back here to scream with so much glee 😁😍💃 So...anyone seen who’s the boss? It’s a Nollywood movie on Netflix with Funke Akindele, Sharon, Blossom and other super amazing actors. Go and watch it then guess & whisper what I’m so excited about...hehe I literally lit up and couldn’t believe it...wanted to just celebrate “our little win” hehehe But yeah let me not spoil it 🙊🤐go have a look ladies 😁😍💃 xo
  4. Cutie

    Faithful Servants

    Happy Sunday y'all. It's pays to be loyal and faithful, not just to God but to your partner as well. So for those who have just one partner God bless you. Those who have none and are waiting on the lord for one, God bless us. Those who are keeping themselves for the right person God bless them. And for those who haven't committed the sins of sicissor and fingers yet, God bless you. The rest of you can go to church and pray for your own blessings cause I don't know you.😂😂. Happy New week fellas🤸🤸🤸🤸.
  5. Calllaris

    Temmie Ovwasa Debuts

    (Extracts from her interview ) Temmie Ovwasa’s debut album is irreverent and unapologetically gay Her debut album, E Be Like Say Dem Swear For Me, released on 29, November 2020 reflects her character trait exquisitely. The twelve-track album managed a seamless transition from rage to heart wringing romantic longing, to a sultry raw passion that could give the average Nigerian parent instant stroke. All of these she managed to render in belting vocals, husky whispering that tickles the senses, and delightfully grating baritones that command your ears. Listen to track 4, titled Osunwemimo, you will be forgiven if you assume she only sings in silky vocals and dripping passion. She will then jar you back to the reality of her versatility and her unapologetic non-conformist personality with any of either the album’s intro, Iyalaya– where she sings“I don’t kiss ass but I f***k it though, f***k your morals I just learn the rules just to break them all” in a crisp unwavering voice that conveys rage with an undertone of playfulness. 7th track, I Don’t Give A f***k About You, she sings about meddlers who think they can tell her what to do and she replies unequivocally over and over, “NO.” * “I put all of me into this,” Temmie said She is right. She is in every song, and not just because it is her voice singing it. It is her emotions, her personhood which she holds close to her heart but will share with others on her own terms. You are also pulled into her struggles trying to put in the work while dealing with a depression that makes it near impossible to function, fighting naysayers who told her she will fail just like the rebels before her, and her moments of sheer joy brought on by a love that transcends the mundane nature of life. And of course, there shines through a fierce hard won pride in who she is – a woman who is comfortable in her skin. * In Ayefe, Temmie sings,“I hated love songs for a very long time. They reminded me of everything I never had. Then I met you and I realised, love doesn’t have to hurt.” It is a story as old as humankind, yet hearing her sing it feels like a rebirth. Like a meteorite piercing earth’s stratosphere to be reborn into a ball of fire. The (gay) love she sings of is as old as time too, but repressed for many hurt-filled generations, it is reborn in pride for those of us who are alive and for posterity. “This is the first gay album in Nigeria,”.Temmie said. * Temmie left her record label of 5 years – YBNL, some two months ago, not for the reason many speculated - being gay. Even thoough She had been outed around the same time by gossip blogs; Instablog9ja and Linda Ikeji. Misogyny and homophobia actually were her reasons for falling out with YBNL; "I will watch as one artist after another gets signed and their music pushed by the label. It was like my music is for me to record and listen to by myself.” Her feminist politics is not news to anyone who has followed her career to date. She is after all“Miss “I don’t f***k with the patriarchy,”as she sang in Never Gon Blow, echoing what everyone around her said about all the reasons they think she will not turn out a huge success in the long run. “Tone it down Temmie,” “Smile more Temmie,” “Why are you so angry,”– she has heard it all and more. It is something almost every woman has heard. “In the years my music wasn’t released, many male artists have had their music released. It is like as a woman you have to work twice as hard to attain the kind of recognition men get by default.” For her, the fight against the patriarchy is personal, as it should be for every self-aware woman and minority group. *** I mean, what do you expect when the album is named E Be Like Say Them Swear For Me.”?! -C
  6. There is a huge chasm between African-Americans and African immigrants in the United States. That chasm has widened over the years. It has caused deep animosity between many African-Americans and their African immigrant cousins. The chasm has prevented African-Americans from participating in the current economic boom in Africa and it has shut many African immigrants out of opportunities for economic advancement here in the United States. The problem stems from deep misconceptions, sometimes fueled by the U.S. media. Astonishingly, many African-Americans believe that Africans are backward and primitive. Some make crude jokes about Africans or do not acknowledge the great contribution Africa has made to the world. For their part, many African immigrants buy into the erroneous notion that African-Americans are lazy and violent. They do not appreciate the great sacrifice African-Americans made, through advocating for their civil rights, to lay the foundation for Africans to be able to come to the United States and live in a country where both blacks and whites have equal rights, at least in theory if not always in practice. The different experiences of the two groups To understand the deep division that exists between African Americans and Africans, one first has to examine the background of the two groups. Before migrating to the United States, most Africans have typically dealt with white Americans who went to Africa as Peace Corps volunteers, missionaries, doctors or teachers. These Americans acted as mentors and guardians to the Africans and developed positive relationships with them. When they come to the United States, it has been my experience that Africans can easily identify with white Americans because they understand each other. Before migrating to the United States, the majority of Africans have had little to no direct negative experiences with whites. They simply do not hate them. On the other hand, most African-Americans grew up in black neighborhoods where they learned from older generations the history of slavery and the cruelty it inflicted on the black race. Furthermore, they have usually experienced firsthand and in their communities the legacies of racism that still exist in the United States. With this background, many African-Americans are not generally predisposed to trust white Americans, and they look down on those African immigrants who express respect or admiration for white Americans. How they react to racism and discrimination A fundamental difference between African Americans and African immigrants is the way they react to racism and discrimination. African Americans usually see racism as the main cause of poverty among their people. They are also quick to point out instances of perceived racism, even in circumstances where it is ambiguous, unclear or more complex than simple racial bigotry or discrimination. A classic example is the currently large African-American population in prison. Most African-Americans feel that the only reason there are so many African Americans incarcerated is their race. They blame police discrimination and lawmakers who make laws weighted to punish blacks. For Africans, after suffering many years in civil wars, military coups and other problems, they are happy to be in a country that offers them freedom. They are ready to integrate into the American culture without getting involved in the lingering racial conflicts. They do not typically get involved in the ongoing civil rights struggle – and that has angered many African-Americans. How they react to adversity Perhaps the greatest difference I have seen between African immigrants and African-Americans is how they react to adversity. Most African immigrants to the United States came here for economic advancement. They do not have any political agenda. They are willing to take any job and do not blame the “system” when they fail in their endeavors. Most African immigrants to the United States often live in mixed neighborhoods instead of black neighborhoods and they easily integrate. African immigrants know who they are. They are not easily offended when someone tries to put them down. They know where they come from and why they are here. For African-Americans, there is often a tendency to blame slavery for most of the problems they face today. For instance, when African American students fail in school, some educators blame slavery and do not look for other factors. However, the time has come for African Americans to realize that while racism still persists, the best thing they can do for their children is to teach them to take full responsibility for their actions. Fathers need to take care of their children and young women need to stay in school instead of having children. It is only when black people, be they from Africa or America, unite to instill discipline and respect for each other that the chasm that has divided us will narrow. Then we can finally work together to remove poverty from our people both here in the United States and Africa. Source
  7. Simone Biles is the last person international gymnastics officials should be using to try and make a point. In an effort to deter other gymnasts from trying skills they are not physically capable of doing, the International Gymnastics Federation watered down the value of a new element Biles plans to do at the world championships. That’s right. Penalize the reigning world and Olympic champion, who is almost cautious when it comes to adding difficulty, for the potential recklessness of others. “Am I in a league of my own? Yes. But that doesn’t mean you can’t credit me for what I’m doing,” Biles told NBC after learning of the decision this week by the women’s technical committee. “They keep asking us to do more difficulty and to give more artistry, give more harder skills,” she added. “So we do, and then they don’t credit it, and I don’t think that’s fair.” Every element in gymnastics is assigned a letter, which corresponds to a numerical value. An “A” skill is worth a tenth of a point, and every letter in the alphabet that follows is an additional tenth. So a “D” skill is four-tenths of a point while the rare “J” skill is worth a full point. Biles is doing two new skills at worlds: a triple-twisting, double somersault on floor exercise and a double-twisting, double somersault dismount off balance beam. The triple-double was valued as a J skill, while the double-double was only deemed to be an H. After widespread criticism of its decision, the women’s technical committee (WTC) released a statement Friday explaining its reasoning: “In assigning values to the new elements, the WTC takes into consideration many different aspects; the risk, the safety of the gymnasts and the technical direction of the discipline,” it said. “There is added risk in landing of double saltos for beam dismounts (with/without twists), including a potential landing on the neck. “Reinforcing, there are many examples … where decisions have been made to protect the gymnasts and preserve the direction of the discipline.” Translation: Some gymnasts are trying to pad their scores by chucking skills they have no business doing, and we need to protect them from themselves. There’s no shortage of hypocrisy in that rationale. If the federation is so concerned with athlete safety, why allow I and J skills in the first place? If Biles’ double-double is going to encourage gymnasts to take risks they shouldn’t, wouldn’t her triple-double do the same? And, while we’re at it, why not allow gymnasts to do a warm-up on the floor before event finals? Most bothersome, though, is that the federation has ignored the means it has to keep irresponsible impulses in check. In addition to the difficulty score – the sum value of all the elements in a routine – there is an execution score. If a gymnast insists on trying a skill he or she has no business doing – some of you vaulters, you know who you are – hammer them on the E score. Source
  8. MENA

    Bobirisky party!

    Last weekend Social media was going crazy about Oshi badest!(Bobirisky). The whole issue of the Lagos State police depriving him of celebrating his two days party which he claimed he spent 19 million in preparation. Now do you think Bobirisky went to far being so out there considering the laws against Lgbt in Nigeria? The police stopping his party on the day of the event do you think is the best approach? Please drop your opinions.
  9. President Muhammadu Buhari has noted with deep concern, reported attacks on Nigerian citizens and property in South Africa since August 29, 2019. Consequently, the President has instructed the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Geoffrey Onyeama, to summon the South African High Commissioner to Nigeria and get a brief on the situation; express Nigeria’s displeasure over the treatment of her citizens; and assurance of the safety of their lives and property. President Buhari has also dispatched a Special Envoy to convey to President Cyril Ramaphosa his concerns and also interact with his South African counterpart on the situation. The Special Envoy is expected to arrive in Pretoria latest Thursday, September 5, 2019. Source
  10. The Instagram celebrity alleged that many gay men in Africa are dating beautiful women just to stay and look normal. He also told women not to feel they are responsible for their failed marriages because some gay men have gotten into unwanted cages called marriage just to be socially acceptable. Oyemykke wrote; HES JUST NOT INTO YOU. A lot of GAY men dating beautiful women just to stay & look NORMAL. A lot of Bi men are in unwanted cages called marriage just to be socially acceptable. He wrote; Homosexuality, Lesbianism , Pedophilia & these other topics are issues we need to discuss . The more we frown at them instead of discussing them, the more pain we cause ourselves. Do we bring our guns & shoot them all? Or do we find means of understanding what we could do to help the society?? #HumansNotDemons For clarification sake , I did not say any of these above mentioned groups should be legalised. I said they are topics we need to discuss instead of frowning upon because they do exist. Pedophilia can be sickening to myself & yourself but it’s still very much being practiced in Africa. As a matter of actual fact, it’s more acceptable there than Homosexuality is ?? ( all because HOMOSEXUALITY is frowned upon in the religious books ) It is important to get my point instead of replying just for the sake of it. We have issues that need to be tackled, addressed & brought to light not tuck them under the Beds. Source
  11. Faithless Hijabi I'm a Hijabi and I kissed a girl At 15 I fell in love with my best friend. Luckily she felt the same way about me. We went to the same school and hung out together all the time. Being raised in a conservative society we weren’t accustomed to hanging outdoors so we would often visit each other at home instead. When the feelings I had for her dawned to me, I wasn’t ready to accept it. How could I accept myself feeling for someone of the same sex? That was wrong was it not? Or at least that’s what I grew up learning. Every time I allowed those feelings to get the best of me I fell into a pit of regret. All the hateful slurs I encountered on a daily basis on Islamic sites saying things like “they are disgusting” “they are inhumane” “it’s immoral” “it’s not normal” “they must be mentally f***ked up” “Allah will burn them in the fire of Jahannam” and the fatwas released calling for the death penalties for them, made me more miserable and reluctant to accept what I was. I remember our first kiss, it was magical but back then I didn’t allow myself to feel anything except for guilt and regret. I cried myself to sleep the next few nights feeling like I had terribly sinned. I grew up hating myself for being what I am. I prayed more every night in hope that Allah would forgive me and then cried myself to sleep because I really couldn’t shake my feelings away. I missed her but I was stuck between my religion and my relationship with her. She understood my situation and in spite of my indecisiveness, held on for as long as she could. She knew she loved me and somehow that was enough for her. I wish I had the courage to realise that she was enough for me too. But instead I put an end to our relationship and started publicly endorsing homophobia in attempt to shun out the fact that I, myself was part of the LGBT community. I was a lesbian. I advocated against the LGBT community on social media platforms as well twitter, Facebook and Instagram. Even after I left Islam I wasn’t ready to come to terms with who I was because of the hatred towards the gay community that was rooted inside me. I constantly felt like there was something wrong with me and that my parents would suffer because of that – The idea of having a lesbian daughter is worse than anything else in this society. The idea that you support the LGBT community is so alien to all the Muslims around me that most don’t even fathom to acknowledge its existence. All this wavering thoughts threw me down a deep hole of depression and took up most of my teenage years. I was immersed in feelings of guilt and regret for years only because I loved someone from the same sex. It took many years of therapy and a long journey of self discovery, care and self love to get where I am today - Although I still wear the hijab and could be categorised as a closeted ex Muslim, my only regret is that I lost the love of my life to someone else because I couldn’t love. her the way I should have. Beyza* is a Turkish ExMuslim, from a conservative Muslim family. https://www.faithlesshijabi.org/post/kissedagirl
  12. A friend sent this to me, and it got me cracking up, so I thought to share. What are your thoughts?
  13. The Premier League is back: Rivals ready for another thrilling season. Who will get their hands on the Premier League trophy this season?
  14. Beyonce blowing up the internet again with this powerful song! Lyrics Brown skin girl Your skin just like pearls The best thing in the world Never trade you for anybody else Singin' brown skin girl Your skin just like pearls The best thing in the world I never trade you for anybody else, singin' She said she really grew up poor like me Don't believe in nothin' but the Almighty Just a likkle jeans and a pure white tee She never did forever be nobody wifey, yeah So while I may not pretty boy, your heart is amiss Play it like a villain 'cause she caught in a wave Tonight I am walkin' away Lined up my mind, on the grind, yeah, yeah Tonight I might fall in love, dependin' on how you hold me I'm glad that I'm calmin' down, can't let no one come control me Keep dancin' and call it love, she fightin' but fallin' slowly If ever you are in doubt, remember what mama told me Brown skin girl, ya skin just like pearls Your back against the world I never trade you for anybody else, say Brown skin girl, ya skin just like pearls The best thing inna di world I never trade you for anybody else, say Pose like a trophy when Naomis walk in She need an Oscar for that pretty dark skin Pretty like Lupita when the cameras close in Drip broke the levee when my Kellys roll in I think tonight she might braid her braids Melanin too dark to throw her shade She minds her business and whines her waist Gold like 24k, okay Tonight I might fall in love, dependin' on how you hold me I'm glad that I'm calmin' down, can't let no one come control me Keep dancin' and call it love, she fightin' but fallin' slowly If ever you are in doubt, remember what mama told me Brown skin girl, ya skin just like pearls Your back against the world I never trade you for anybody else, say Brown skin girl, ya skin just like pearls The best thing inna di (about the) world I never trade you for anybody else, say Oh, have you looked in the mirror lately? (Lately) Wish you could trade eyes with me ('cause) There's complexities in complexion But your skin, it glow like diamonds Dig me like the earth, you be giving birth Took everything in life, baby, know your worth I love everything about you, from your nappy curls To every single curve, your body natural Same skin that was broken be the same skin takin' over Most things out of focus, view But when you're in the room, they notice you (notice you) 'Cause you're beautiful Yeah, you're beautiful The men dem gon' fall in love With you and all of your glory Your skin is not only dark, it shines and it tells your story Keep dancin', they can't control you They watchin', they all adore you If ever you are in doubt, remember what mama told you Brown skin girl (brown skin girl), ya skin just like pearls (brown skin girl) Your back against the world (oh) I never trade you for anybody else, say (no, no) Brown skin girl (brown skin girl), ya skin just like pearls (brown skin) The best thing in all the world I never trade you for anybody else, say Brown skin girl Your skin just like pearls The best thing in the world I never trade you for anybody else, singin'
  15. Sony is crowdfunding a wearable that could be an absolute game-changer for future heatwaves. The device, called Reon Pocket, is essentially a wearable air conditioning unit that blasts cold air down your neck. Sony explained: “Reduce the discomfort due to various temperatures such as hot summer outings, crowded train heat, cold winter outings, etc., and get comfortable in summer and winter.” Around the size of a credit card, the device sits in a special undershirt with a pocket at the base of your neck. The device connects to an accompanying app via Bluetooth, where users can set the temperature they’d like. According to Sony, during testing, the Reon Pocket was able to reduce users’ body temperature by 13°C, or increase it by 8.3°C. While this all might sound too good to be true, sadly as always, there’s a catch. At the moment, it appears that the device will only launch in Japan, so it’s bad news for us Brits. Prices range from 12,760 yen to 19,030 yen (£95 to £141). We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed they’re ready before next year's heatwave! Source
  16. Nicole Chilaka-Ukpo, a German woman married to a Nigerian man, apologized to black women for the injustice done against them and for being made to feel like they were inferior to women of other races. She said women of other races try everything to look like black women, yet black women have been taught to dislike the way they are She wrote: dear black queeni know we have done you wrong, done you wrong so many times, on so many levels, abused and oppressed, then and now, in shackles then, in mental bondage now, we have done you wrong, we have failed you. failed to protect you, failed to honour you, failed to give you credit, failed to praise you for who you are. but instead we glorify every copy but you. we glorify big lips, curvy bodys, curly/kinky hair and your braiding arts, the way you talk and walk, we glorify all that on everybody else BUT YOU. but no more.we see you.your hair that defines gravity,your skin that absorbs the sunlight and glows from within, your features that often leave other women jealous running from the tanning bed to the next available plastic surgeon, to get just a tiny bit of what you are naturally blessed with. we see you, you carry the dna of humanity, you were the first woman to walk earth, and we all arose fromyou. you have been humilated for everything you are, but you will eventually be celebrated again, for everything you have become.dear black queen,no matter how light, no matter how dark your skin is, you are perfectly made. rise black queen, rise ?? and with you, the black nation will arise again ??#NoJusticeNoPeace Thoughts?
  17. Nollywood actress, Nse Ikpe-Etim has revealed she won't be able to have a child for the rest of her life because she has no womb (uterus). While speaking at an event tagged “Conversation With Nse” in Lekki, the actress told her audience that three- years ago she was diagnosed with Adenomyosis, a condition whereby the inner lining of the uterus breaks through the muscle wall of the uterus. She said, “I was told I couldn’t have kids. And so, I had to have a hysterectomy (removal of the uterus) to make me have a life again and to stop going through what I was going through. And I’m literarily telling women and men, it really doesn’t matter if you can’t bear children. What really matters is what you would do for the world, for the universe.” Recounting when she was first told by the doctor that she would have to remove her uterus to live a normal life, she said, “Tears dropped and then my husband squeezed my hand. It was reassuring there was someone there and it was telling me that this is reality, my reality.” Speaking further, she revealed the ordeal made her fall into depression. “I didn’t think there was any point anymore because my society taught me that I have to be a mother to be appreciated and every time I went online, I would have one troll or two say ‘you never born? But I’m thankful that that didn’t break me. I’m thankful for Nollywood.” Source
  18. A friend of mine said : "Most Nigerian girls are boring in bed, and they have no imagination. All they do is lay down or finger. They can't kiss, eat pussy, or fuck properly. They are allergic to foreplay, and sexual playfulness. Fucking with them is an exercise in patience." What are your thoughts?
  19. The Commercial Executive Director, Tropical General Investment Group, Dr Onyekachi Onubogu, has called on Nigerians to reduce their salt intake, saying too much of salt could contribute to liver damage. Onubogu said this in Lagos during the inauguration of a new seasoning cube known as Terra Cube, adding that seasoning and salt must be consumed moderately to avoid kidney disease, as well as high blood pressure. “I do not think the rise in kidney diseases has anything to do with seasoning, but one of the things Nigerians told us during our research is that they want less salt in their food. We have made sure that the salt content present in the new seasoning is minimal compared to what we already have in the market. “It is not about flavouring your food; it is about bringing out the best in it, health-wise and quality wise,” he said. Source
  20. An insight into the ordeals of an African generation constantly exposed to the trendy western liberal lifestyle in a socio-culturally undynamic society replete with homophobic and patriarchial discrimination . The two central characters, Charles and Amanda are millienials from diverse cultural backgrounds who face severe political, cultural and religious prejudices against their gender and sexual identity in a society where such discriminatory practices are supported by government laws and policies. Charles Oputa is the son of the disciplinarian and moralist. He is also the heir apparent to a multi-million dynasty. Right from childhood he was up against societal backlash against his perceived weird personality. Later in life, he has to take a decision between pursuing self identity or living up to his domineering father's puritan expectations. Belinda Ikeji, is an Afro-American daughter of a Nigerian immigrant whose claim to her late father's fortune is undermined by her paternal relatives' bias against her gender and sexuality. Their paths in life pitches them against morally corrupt hypocritical individuals whom the society celebrates. In a battle that may lead to death or imprisonment, do they back down or follow their hearts in the search for love and self identity. To get the book on Amazon, click here.
  21. Novelist, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, who has lived in Lagos on and off for a decade has written an essay for Esquire's new Travel & Adventure issue, in which she reflected on life in Nigeria's biggest city, Lagos. Read below: Lagos will not court you. It is a city that is what it is. I have lived part-time in Lagos for 10 years and I complain about it each time I return from my home in the US — its allergy to order, its stultifying traffic, its power cuts. I like, though, that nothing about Lagos was crafted for the tourist, nothing done to appeal to the visitor. Tourism has its uses, but it can mangle a city, especially a developing city, and flatten it into a permanent shape of service: the city’s default becomes a simpering bow, and its people turn the greyest parts of themselves into colourful props. In this sense, Lagos has a certain authenticity because it is indifferent to ingratiating itself; it will treat your love with an embrace, and your hate with a shrug. What you see in Lagos is what Lagos truly is. And what do you see? A city in a state of shifting impermanence. A place still becoming. In newer Lagos, houses sprout up on land reclaimed from the sea, and in older Lagos, buildings are knocked down so that ambitious new ones might live. A street last seen six months ago is different today, sometimes imperceptibly so — a tiny store has appeared at a corner — and sometimes baldly so, with a structure gone, or shuttered, or expanded. Shops come and go. Today, a boutique’s slender mannequin in a tightly pinned dress; tomorrow, a home accessories shop with gilt-edged furniture on display. Admiralty Road is cluttered, pulsing, optimistic. It is the business heart of Lekki, in the highbrow part of Lagos called The Island. Twenty years ago, Lekki was swampland and today the houses in its estates cost millions of dollars. It was supposed to be mostly residential but now it is undecided, as though partly trying to fend off the relentless encroachment of commerce, and partly revelling in its ever-growing restaurants, nightclubs and shops. I live in Lekki, but not in its most expensive centre, Phase 1. My house is farther away, close to the behemoth that is the oil company Chevron’s headquarters. A modest house, by Lekki standards. “It will be under water in 30 years,” a European acquaintance, a diplomat in Lagos, said sourly when I told him, years ago, that I was building a house there. He hated Lagos, and spoke of Lagosians with the resentment of a person who disliked the popular kids in the playground but still wanted to be their friend. I half-shared his apocalyptic vision; he was speaking to something unheeding in Lagos’s development. Something almost reckless. So forward-looking is Lagos, headlong, rushing, dissatisfied in its own frenzy, that in its haste it might very well sacrifice long-term planning or the possibility of permanence. Or the faith of its citizens. One wonders always: have things been done properly? Eko Atlantic City, the new ultra-expensive slice of land reclaimed from the Atlantic Ocean, has already been mostly sold to developers, and promises Dubai-like infrastructure, but my reaction remains one of scepticism. I cannot stop imagining the ocean one day re-taking its own. My house had required some arcane engineering, sand-filling, levelling, to prevent the possibility of sinking. And during the construction, my relatives stopped by often to check on things. If you’re building a house you must be present, otherwise the builders will slap-dash your tiling and roughen your finishing. This is a city in a rush and corners must be cut. "Nigeria is to Africa what the US is to the Americas: it dominates Africa’ s cultural imagination " Lagos has an estimated population of 23.5m — estimated because Nigeria has not had a proper census in decades. Population numbers determine how much resources states receive from the federal government, and census-taking is always contested and politicised. Lagos is expected to become, in the next 10 years, one of the world’s mega-cities, a term that conceals in its almost triumphant preface the chaos of overpopulation. Nigeria is Africa’s most populous country — one-in-five Africans is Nigerian — and Lagos is Nigeria’s commercial centre, its cultural centre, the aspirational axis where dreams will live or die. And so people come. From other parts of Nigeria, from other West African countries, from other African countries, they come. Skilled workers come from countries as far away as South Africa while less-skilled workers are more likely to come from the countries that share a border with Nigeria. My gate man, Abdul, who has worked with me for six years, is a striking young Muslim man from the Republic of Niger, Nigeria’s northern neighbour. In his small ancestral village, Lagos was seen as the city of shining lights. He longed to leave and find work in Lagos. To live in Lagos and return twice a year with the sparkle of Lagos on his skin. Nigeria is to Africa what the United States is to the Americas: it dominates Africa’s cultural imagination in a mix of admiration, resentment, affection and distrust. And the best of Nigeria’s contemporary culture — music, film, fashion, literature and art — is tied in some way to Lagos. If Lagos has a theme it is the hustle — the striving and trying. The working class does the impossible to scrape a living. The middle class has a side hustle. The banker sews clothes. The telecommunications analyst sells nappies. The school teacher organises private home lessons. Commerce rules. Enterprising people scrawl their advertisements on public walls, in chalk: “Call for affordable generator”. “I am buying condemned inverter”. “Need a washerman?” Perhaps this is why corporations are not viewed with the knowing suspicion so common in the West. “Branding” is a word entirely free of irony, and people use it to refer even to themselves. “I want to become a big brand,” young people brazenly say. Big companies adopt state schools and refurbish them, they organise deworming exercises in poor areas, they award prizes to journalists. Even the too-few green spaces in public areas are branded, a burst of beautiful shrubs and plants defaced with the logo of whatever bank or telecommunications company is paying for its upkeep. This is a city of blurred boundaries. Religion and commerce are intertwined. Lagos has a Muslim population but, like all of Southern Nigeria, it is a predominantly Christian city. Drive past a gleaming modern building and it might be a bank or a church. Huge signboards advertise church programmes with photos of nicely dressed pastors, and on Sundays the city is as close as it can get to being traffic-free, because Lagosians are at rest, back home from morning service. Pentecostal Christianity is fashionable, prayers are held before corporate board meetings, and “We thank God” is an appropriate response to a compliment, or even merely to the question, “How are you?” This Christianity is selectively conservative, it glances away from government corruption, preaches prosperity, casts ostentatious wealth as a blessing, and disapproves of socially progressive norms. Women are to submit to their husbands. Hierarchies matter. God wants you to be rich. But it also unites Lagosians; people who attend the same church become surrogate families, and together they attend large vigil services more exciting than music concerts, where urbane men and glamorous women sing praise-songs deep into the night and in the morning return to their well-paid jobs in the high rises of The Island. In Lagos, ethnicity both matters and doesn’t matter. Lagos is ancestral Yoruba land and Yoruba is spoken widely, but it is also Nigeria’s polyglot centre, and the dream-seekers who have come from all parts of the country communicate by Nigeria’s official language of English and unofficial lingua franca of Pidgin English. Some areas are known as ethnic — the Hausa sector where working-class Northern Muslims live, the areas with large markets run by people from my own southeastern Igbo ethnic group — but none of them are affluent. With wealth, overt appeals to ethnicity retreat. One of the ubiquitous yellow ’danfo’ buses that cruise the clogged city Always Ready, Monochrome Lagos / Logo Oluwamuyiwa My cousin lives in a lower middle class area, heavily populated by Igbo traders. Once, on my way to visit her, the car stuck in traffic, a hawker pressing his packs of chewing gum against my window. Gabriel my driver of 10 years said to me, “Ma, your bag.” A simple reminder. I swiftly moved my handbag from the back seat to the floor, pushed it under my seat. My cousin was robbed in traffic on her way home from work, a gun to her head, her bag and phone taken, and beside her people kept slow-driving, face-forward. And now she has a fake bag and a fake phone that she leaves on display in her front seat whenever she drives home, because robbers target women driving alone, and if she has nothing to give them they might shoot her. My brother-in-law was also robbed not far from here. He was in traffic on a bright afternoon, his windows down, and someone shouted from the outside, something about his car, and he looked out of the window and back to the road and in that brief sliver of time a hand slid through the other window and his phone was gone. He told the story, later, with a tinge of admiring defeat. "To live in Lagos is to live on distrust. You assume you will be cheated" He, a real Lagosian who had lived in Lagos for 40 years and knew its wiles and its corners, and yet they had managed to fool him. He had fallen for the seamless ingenuity of Lagos’s thieves. To live in Lagos is to live on distrust. You assume you will be cheated, and what matters is that you avert it, that you will not be taken in by it. Lagosians will speak of this with something close to pride, as though their survival is a testament to their fortitude, because Lagos is Lagos. It does not have the tame amiability of Accra. It is not like Nairobi where flowers are sold in traffic. In other parts of Lagos, especially the wealthy areas on The Island, I wouldn’t hide my handbag in traffic, because I would assume myself to be safe. Here, security is status. Lagos is a city of estates; groups of houses, each individually walled off, are enclosed in yet another walled fence, with a central gate and a level of security proportional to the residents’ privilege. The estates not blessed with wealth lock their gates before midnight, to keep out armed robbers. Nightclub-goers living there know not to return home until 5am when the gates are opened. Expensive estates have elaborate set-ups at their entrances: you park your car and wait for the security guards to call whomever you’re visiting, or you are given a visitor’s card as identification, or you are asked to open your boot, or a jaunty guard walks around your car with a mirror lest you have a bomb strapped underneath. In a city like Mumbai, which is as complicated as Lagos, it is easy to understand why the expensive parts are expensive just by driving through them, but in Lagos one might be confused. Mansions sit Buddha-like behind high gates but the streets still have potholes, and are still half-sunken in puddles during the rainy season and still have the ramshackle kiosk in a corner where drivers buy their lunch. High-end estates still have about them an air of the unfinished. Next to a perfectly landscaped compound with ornate gates might sit an empty lot, astonishingly expensive, and overgrown with weeds and grass. live in Lekki and dream of Old Ikoyi. British colonial government officers lived in Old Ikoyi starting in the Twenties, a time of mild apartheid when Africans could not live there and could not go to the “white” hospital, and could not apply for high-profile jobs. Today, Old Ikoyi has about it that stubborn, undeniable beauty that is the troubled legacy of injustice. With its leafy grounds, and trees leaning across the streets, it reminds me a little of my childhood in the small university town of Nsukka, an eight-hour drive from Lagos: quiet, restful, frangipani trees dotting the compound, purple bougainvillea climbing the walls. And so I find myself wishing I lived in Old Ikoyi and mourning its slow disappearance. Gracious columned houses are being knocked down for tall apartment buildings and large homes with unintentionally baroque facades. “Beware of Lagos”, I heard often while growing up on the other side of Nigeria. Lagos was said to be a city of shallowness and phony people. There were many shimmering, mythical examples of this, stories repeated in various permutations, with the characters from different ethnic groups, and small details changed: the suave man who drives a Range Rover but is penniless and lives on the couches of friends; the beautiful woman who parades herself as an accomplished business person but is really a con artist. And who would blame them, those self-reinventors so firmly invested in their own burnished surfaces? "You can talk your way into almost any space in Lagos if you look the part and drive the right car" Here, appearance matters. You can talk your way into almost any space in Lagos if you look the part and drive the right car. In many estates, the guards fling open the gates when the latest model of a particular brand of car drives up, the questions they have been trained to ask promptly forgotten. But approach in an old Toyota and they will unleash their petty power. Snobbery here is unsubtle. Western designer logos are so common among elite Lagosians that style journalists write of Gucci and Chanel as though they were easily affordable by a majority of the people. Still, style is democratic. Young working-class women are the most original: they shop in open markets, a mass of secondhand clothes spread on the ground under umbrellas, and they emerge in the perfect pair of skinny jeans, the right flattering dresses. Young working-class men are not left behind, in their long-sleeved tucked-in shirts, their crisp traditional matching tunics and trousers. And so Lagos intimidates with its materialism, its insolence, its beautiful people. A young woman told me that when she was considering entering the Miss Nigeria beauty pageant she decided not to try out in Lagos, even though she lived there. “Too many fine babes in Lagos,” she said. And so she went to Enugu, her ancestral hometown, where she believed her chances were better. Young people complain of the dating scene. Nobody is honest, they say. Men and women perform. Everyone is looking for what is shinier and better. “Why do you choose to live in Lagos, then?” I once asked a young woman. Every time I ask this of a young person dissatisfied with Lagos, they invariably look puzzled to be asked, as though they assumed it to be obvious they would never consider leaving. Everybody complains about Lagos but nobody wants to leave. And why do I live here? Why didn’t I build my house in Enugu, for example, a slow, clean, appealing city in the southeast, close to where I grew up? "Lagos has a dynamism. An absence of pallor . You can feel it in the uncomfortable humid air" It is clichéd to speak of the “energy” of Lagos, and it can sometimes sound like a defensive retort in the face of the city’s many infrastructural challenges. But Lagos does have a quality for which “energy” is the most honest description. A dynamism. An absence of pallor. You can feel it in the uncomfortable humid air — the talent, the ingenuity, the bursting multi-ness of everything, the self-confidence of a city that knows it matters. The only real functioning Nigerian port is in Lagos, and business people from all over the country have no choice but to import their goods through there. Nigerian business is headquartered in Lagos; not only the banks, and the telecommunications and oil and advertising companies, but also the emerging creative industries. Art galleries have frequent exhibitions of Nigeria’s best artists. Fashion Week is here. The concerts are the biggest and noisiest. Nollywood stars might not shoot their films in Lagos — it’s too expensive — but they premiere them in Lagos. The production of culture works in service to Lagos’s unassailable cool. There are some things of conventional touristic appeal. The last gasp of Brazilian architecture in the oldest parts of Lagos, houses built by formerly enslaved Africans who, starting in the 1830s, returned from Brazil and settled in Lagos. The Lekki market, where beautiful sculptures and ornaments blend with kitsch, and where the sellers speak that brand of English reserved for foreigners. The National Museum with its carefully tended flowers outside the building and inside an air of exquisite abandon. The Lekki Conservation Centre, a small nature reserve, with bounteous greenery and some small animals. The first time I visited, with a friend, I asked the ticketing person what we might hope to see. “No lions or elephants,” she said archly. The highlights are the gorgeous birds, and the monkeys, and the sheer surprise of an oasis of nature in the middle of Lagos’s bustle. The nearby beaches are dirty and overcrowded but the beaches one reaches by taking a speedboat across the waters are clean, dotted with beach houses, and flanked by palms. The restaurants in Lagos are owned by a Lebanese “mafia”, a friend once told me, only half-joking. Nigeria has a significant Lebanese presence. They very rarely inter-marry with Nigerians, and I sense in some Lebanese employers a unique scorn for their Nigerian staff, but their roots in Nigeria are firm. They are Lebanese-Nigerians. And they own many restaurants, and their mark is obvious in the ubiquity of the shawarma. Young people go out for a shawarma. Kids ask for shawarmas as treats. There are, of course, Nigerian-owned restaurants. The chains with basic, not untasty food, the mid-level restaurants that dispense with frills and serve the jollof rice one might have cooked at home, and the high-end restaurants that labour under the weight of their own pretensions. There are quirky shops that cater mostly to a new Lagos tribe, the returnees: young people who have returned from schooling in the US or Europe with new ideas, and might for example suggest that a thing being “handmade” were remarkable, as though hand-making things were not the Nigerian norm. They represent a new globalised Nigerian, situated in Nigeria, au fait about the world. It is the breathing human architecture of Lagos that thrills me most. For a novelist, no city is better for observing human beings. On Sundays, when the roads are not clogged up, I like to be driven around Lagos, headed nowhere, watching the city. Past bus stops full of people with earphones stuck in their ears. A roadside market with colourful bras swinging from a balcony, wheelbarrows filled with carrots, a table laid out with wigs. Fat, glorious watermelons piled high. Hawkers selling onions, eggs, bread. In gutters clogged with sludgy, green water and cans and plastic bags, I imagine the possibility of a clean city. Lagos is full of notices. “This house is not for sale” is the most common, scrawled on walls, a warning to those who might be duped by real estate shysters. Near a mosque, where a fashionable young woman in jeans and a headscarf walks past, is this in green letters: “Chief Imam of Lagos Says No Parking Here”. From a bridge, I look across at shirtless men fishing on flimsy canoes. The secondhand books spread on low tables have curled covers, copies of Mastering Mathematics beside How to Win Friends and Influence People. On these drives, I think of how quickly fights and friendships are formed in Lagos. A yellow danfo bus has hit another and both conductors have leapt out for a swift fight. People make friends while queuing — at banks, airports, bus stops — and they unite over obvious jokes and shared complaints. At night, there are swathes of Lagos that are a gloomy grey from power cuts, lit only by a few generator-borne lights, and there are areas that are bright and glittering. And in both one sees the promise of this city: that you will find your kin, where you fit, that there is a space somewhere in Lagos for you. Source
  22. Get in here GOT fans. What are you looking forward to this season? Sucks that the show is ending!
  23. The founder of Jesus Intervention Household Ministry, Ejigbo, Lagos, Chizemdere Ezuma has been arrested for allegedly sodomising, prostituting and infecting underage boys with HIV virus. According to The Nation, he was arrested at his residence after an informant notified the police he had resurfaced, three months after he was declared wanted. It was gathered that the suspect climbed his ceiling where he hid for over two hours to evade arrest when detectives stormed his home few days ago. The suspect was declared wanted after an alleged male prostitute, Prince Chinecherem, was arrested and charged to court after a 16-year-old victim, Anthony Ikem, made revelations that implicated them. Ikem, who was found sneaking out of the suspect’s home with a polythene bag containing used condoms and other items, was accosted by neighbours and he confessed he was one of several sex partners of the pastor. Ikem also confirmed that the Ezuma usually gave them to service some of his male clients including VIPs. The teenager was taken to the hospital for checks and it was discovered he was HIV+. It was gathered that some residents of the community were worried he was corrupting their male children and initiating them into the club, hence, their keen interest to see that he was arrested and prosecuted. Findings revealed that Ezuma was moved to the Gender Section at the Police Command Ikeja, yesterday afternoon, following pressure from certain quarters in the division to release him. In his confessional statement to the police, Ezuma claimed he usually paid the boys N2,000 for sex. Investigation showed that he brought about 15 boys into his apartment where he forcefully penetrated them all through the anus. “The reverend confirmed he is HIV+ and has been receiving treatment for over three years. So, he knew he was HIV positive and still infected his victims and clients with it,” said a source. Source
  24. Hello Girls, I see a lot of logic in Maya's (God bless her soul) popular saying: "When people show you who they are, believe them the first time." With regards to a romantic relationship, does this rule apply or do you think there should be an exception to someone for instance who may have treated you badly while you two were dating?
  25. Chinese emperor Ai of Han, fell in love with a minor official, a man name Ding Xian, and bestowed upon him great political power and magnificent palace. Legend has it that one day while the two men were sleeping in the same bed, the emperor was roused from his sleep by pressing business. Dong Xian had fallen asleep across the emperor's robe, but rather than awaken his peaceful lover, the emperor cut his robe free at the sleeve. Thus "the passion of the cut sleeve" became a euphemism for same-sex love in China.- The samurai practice age-structured homosexuality, which was called shudo. Ordinarily a samurai served his daimyo with honor and was expected to follow his lord in death. However, Mitsushige dislike the custom and asked his beloved samurai Tsunetomo to reject it upon his own death. Ironically, this break with tradition led to the samurai code being written down. Tsunetomo lived to retire into the mountains, where he dedicated to a young visiting samurai. His commentary would become the Hagahure, a seminal guide to samurai culture. Mahmud of Ghazni founded the Gaznavid empire and ruled as a sultan. He fell in love with Malik Ayaz, a Turkish slave, and their relationship became the epitome of idealized love in Islamic legend and Sufi literature. As the story goes, Ayaz asked Mahmud who the most powerful man in the kingdom was. When the sultan replied that it was himself, Ayaz corrected him, claiming that in fact Ayaz was the most powerful, since Mahmud was his slave. The "slave to a slave" became a favorite trope in Persian literature. Khnumhotep and Niankhkhnum were ancient royal servants who shared the tittle "overseer of the Manicurist in the palace of king Niaserre." The two men are dipicted on their joint tomb in one of the most intimate poses allowed by Egyptian artistic conventions: face to face, with their noses touching. Niankhkhnum means "joined to life" and Khnumhotep means "joined to the the blessed state of the dead" together their names means "joined in life and death." They are believed to be the first same-sex couple in recorded history. ~ R.G.L
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