Scouring through the papers the other day reading up on the latest calamity that mankind had chosen to inflict on themselves, I came upon a rather disturbing story.

This elementary school homework sef… most times I’m not sure who the teachers are tasking; the kids or the parents! In my daughter’s school the assignments are designed in such a way that the parent is deeply involved.

The downside of my day job is that when things get intense that make-believe world can become my reality and other than close family members and their needs (oh my kids are guaranteed to bring me down to terra firma with a bump!) very little else penetrates.

The downside of my day job is that when things get intense that make-believe world can become my reality and other than close family members and their needs (oh my kids are guaranteed to bring me down to terra firma with a bump!) very little else penetrates. So I can go days, sometimes even weeks without seeing a newspaper headline.

I wonder if she had any premonition of how that day was going to end for her… I’m sure her main focus was simply to get through the high profile night without any mishap. No doubt the organizers would have talked her through the process, and as her citation was being read, she must have been going through her acceptance speech through her head.

Ol’ boy! Middle age is here man! Not so much in terms of looks oh but your body reminds you every now and again that “things ain’t what they used to be”; but mainly it’s in the thought processes. I don’t have death on mind but more and more, I find my thoughts turning towards ‘legacy’.

I find contradictions not only in the ‘big things’ but in the small things of life as well. The other day she (my last daughter) was whistling. Some new skill she has acquired. When it registered, the first thing that came out of my mouth was “stop whistling!” Then I asked myself why … why she should stop whistling, after all I whistle… a lot of the time, especially while I’m playing my music in the car.

I wonder if she had any premonition of how that day was going to end for her… I’m sure her main focus was simply to get through the high profile night without any mishap. No doubt the organizers would have talked her through the process, and as her citation was being read, she must have been going through her acceptance speech through her head.

I no talk am? Barely had her body been lowered into the grave that her erstwhile ‘husband’ who reportedly stormed out of the funeral ceremony because the sitting arrangements were not to his liking wants to publish a tell all book about Whitney… low-life! Once again, a o ni ba olori buruku pade! Enough said.

One day, give or take about seven years ago, I was in my kitchen with a much younger friend when a certain song that took me way back came on. As I screamed in delight and began to sing along, she squeezed up her face in that annoying way younger people do when they come across something they consider ‘old school’ and said…

Another day, another hall… another group of ‘eminent national leaders of thought’ gathered, to find the way forward for Nigeria. And they were there in their numbers, the usual suspects and quite a number of the ‘unusual ones’. And as expected, there were also those who saw it as a great opportunity to re-invent themselves and re-write present day history.

We’ve all been in a variation of this scenario: snarled up in a traffic jam for any length of time only to get to the top of the road and realise that the cause is another one of those illegal, mobile ‘toll gates’ set up by members of the Nigerian Police Force in the guise of ‘stopping and searching’

My poor beloved country… our own dear native land… nothing captures the craziness of these times like the cover page of one of our local dailies during the week.

From the start, I was appre hensive about the outcome of the general strike. I’m not sure what I was expecting but there was a certain weariness of having been there, done that with nothing to show but the proverbial tattered t-shirt.

The loss of a child at birth is heart-breaking; forget that you may not have even named him or her. A healthy, thriving baby should be the reward for nine months of labour.