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Tuesday 23 August 2011

He should be Tall, Handsome both physically and financiallyy, be loving, be...etc etc

This is a story about 2 ladies. One day they had a discussion about the type of man they wanted to marry.

Dupe: Oh, my man must be tall, dark, handsome, rich.....oh, and God-fearing. I am talking ‘Denzel-fine’ not just ordinary fine. I am 5 feet 5 inches tall, so when I say tall -- I am talking 6 feet tall 'minimum': any guy that is not that tall should go and jump inside well and should not even bother talking to me o (she hisses).

Lola: what if he’s not 6 feet tall? what if he’s not handsome? would you reject such a man?

Dupe: Can you see how goodlooking and attractive I am? I can’t be with a wo-wo guy o, GOD forbid bad thing! (Dupe proceeds with glossolalia. Lola joins in too. They both 'glosso’ for about 30 seconds....oh, for those that don’t know what glossolalia means -- it means ‘speaking in tongues').

Lola: you know you shouldn’t focus too much on looks. The handsome guys are likely to be womanizers o. Do you want to share your guy with other women?

Dupe: Are you telling me this because you know that I know that your boyfriend Kunle is not fine? I have already told you to dump the guy. You are a fine girl, what are you doing with that *WOGGLY* thing (SEE MEANING BELOW)? He doesn’t have money or looks. He’s like your height - 5 feet 5 inches. Imagine!!. As for me, if someone like that toasts me, it means dem no born am well...I will slap the he-goat. .yes, someone like that toasting me is like an insult. Abeg, make I hear word jo! You better hear me now for the sake of your children. If you marry that woggly thing, HA....your children will be woggly like him, they won’t be fine like you...
but me, I want a fiiiiiiiiiine guy - the type of guy that when the ladies see me they will be so envious. For example, you can see my boyfriend Sola, he is a total bloke, see how fine he is. Compared to Sola, your ‘thing’ of a boyfriend is like thrash can. Oh, my boyfriend is 6 feet 2 inches and cool. Abeg, dump your wo-wo thing my friend. I can introduce you to Sola’s friends - fine boys, they have the looks, the height, the money.

Lola: I don’t want anyone apart from Kunle. Just be careful, don’t get hung up on looks and money, there’s more to life than the exterior, try to look beyond that and see the inner beauty.

That was a while back. Let me tell you what happened to the ladies. Lola married a guy called Soji (one of Sola’s friends that Dupe introduced her to). Soji is a very goodlooking guy (according to the standards of the ladies, don’t ask me what those standards are....I honestly do not know). Lola didn’t marry her college sweetheart Kunle: SHE DUMPED HIS ARSE (she accepted that he was woggly and ...hey, she was thinking about how their children will look and decided it was best to dump the guy).

As for Dupe, she did not marry Sola (he dumped her during NYSC for a finer babe named Rolake). However, Dupe is happily married to a dark, handsome, rich.....oh, and God-fearing guy (he’s 5 feet 5 inches tall but so what!!!...she doesn’t wear high-heel shoes anymore). As for how goodlooking the guy is? People say that he’s almost as fine as (and I quote) ' the male version of Grace Jones'!

NB. Definition -- *WOGGLY, WOOOOO, WOGULIE, WOGGLIE, WOGGLILICIOUS, WOGGI-WOGGI* --- (regarding a physical visage) a 'shocking' 'unsettling' look about someone capable of instilling fear, anger, rage, confusion, prayers, screams, constipation, diarrhea, miscarriage, fainting or a combination of all these emotions and physiological upheavals.

Friday 19 August 2011


Dear friends, yes the title is a bit overdramatic but to me its kinda like a Life or Death Matter as its so close to my heart.

I write this blog on behlaf of my good friend, Amechi. We have been friends for over 11 years so you can imagine the bond.

We grew up vIrtually together, went through ups and downs but lost contact when i moved to London and she to Abuja.

Please take what I am about to tell to you very seriously, I recently went to Abuja on an officialm visit and met up with her again. SHE HAS DRASTICALLY CHANGED! At her biggest she was a uk size 12, now she is a uksize 4 with a potruding belly...all the food she eats gets injested by...guess what..fibroid... She went to the doctor and was told some parts of it was calcified. My friend is a very spiritual person and doesnt believe in western medicine and such, however i was able to part convice her of the seriousness of her condition. Now I have made private enguiries and found out that the bill could be more than a million naira. Note that I am blogging on my own (she will never ask me to do this) plus Infact if she knew I was doing this, our friendship will probably end. I am doing this out of love..I dont want to loose my friend, she has already beeen through A LOT in this life but thats for another day


But for you to find some compassionate pace in your heart to discreetly purchase her items or /and services.

1.My friend is an artist (a painter),here are a few examples of her work:

2.She is a fashion designer, she does Nigerian fashion, but here is her sample for an arabian wedding:

3 She sells jewellries examples are

she arranges flowers for occassions..

Please if you are interested in her work, do buy from her and help in a little way to save her life. She can be reached by email at or by telephone (+234) 07040585298 or (+234) 08033073865. Please just call and say you were recommended by a good friend of her and is interested in purchasing certain quantities of her pieces, or you would like her to design an outfit for you or make a piece of Jewellry to your standard. You would love her work and also might be saving a life.

Please, please, please find it in your heart to purchase her items and be a blessing to her in her present condition and may such help,love, empathy and blessings to a virtual stranger come back to you from the four corners of this earth

Thanks to all who read this, called and made some purchases

Thanks to all who read and called

Thanks to all who read and prayed

Thanks to all


p.s: I write with heavy heart, just Ii case of any changes in this situation, This is how I choose to remember one of my quirky BFF'S

Wednesday 10 August 2011

LIVING IN NIGERIA- from the eyes of a British person while London's burning..??

He wrote this piece in his blog and considering what is happening in London right now, I mean the riots, I couldnt help but share it....

Routine Life
I have now been in Nigeria for over 7 months, and things are going pretty well. The depression of the first few weeks are now but a distant memory and time is passing quickly. Like in all hardship postings, you need to quickly get into a routine to get through the days and stop time dragging, and that’s pretty much what I have done. In case anyone is wondering what a typical day in the Nigerian oil business looks like, here it is.

I am woken up at stupid o’clock by some b*stard cockerel which lives on the undeveloped plot beside by apartment building. It belongs to a family of somewhere between 10 and 15 members who have built themelves a shack for sleeping in but conduct pretty much the rest of their lives outside on the dirt ground. Dawn breaks in Lagos at about 6am, whereas this damned bird kicks off its racket at about 4:30am, every single morning. It’s the only thing I’ve seen in Nigeria that is early. I have not seen any shop selling air rifles in Lagos, and an AK-47 is too inaccurate, so I have been unable to silence it. Instead, I have taken to putting in ear-plugs for the last hour or so of sleep after I’ve been woken up. So really, my day starts at 4:30am.

At 6am I leap out of bed, remove the ear-plugs, and jump in the shower. Fortunately, the water is reliable and hot, which makes a change from Sakhalin in two aspects. Having squashed any ants which are wandering around my wash basin, making off with the soap, I have a shave and get dressed. Fortunately you don’t need to dress too smartly here. Working amongst the French, you soon realise that wearing anything Lacoste is considered smart (or at least patriotic), and no Frenchman will ever tell a Brit to go home and change out of his Lacoste polo shirt. So, getting dressed isn’t half as fiddly as it sounds.

I eat breakfast, which consists of cereal mixed with ants (for added protein). I then go downstairs past the snoozing halfwit who doubles as a security guard and hand the keys of my car to my driver, who lives in another time zone and had to get up an hour before he went to bed in order to be at my place at 6:45am. Having a driver in Lagos is not a sign of wealth or class, it is a sign that you are not insane enough to try to negotiate traffic which is more dense and less organised than a cattle stampede in which local miscreants ram the cars of white drivers in order to extort compensation monies. Besides, timewise, your driver is not paid to drive. He is paid to snooze in your vehicle once he has found a parking space – which is usually in the playground of a nearby school, or on a pavement somewhere – and wait 10 hours for you to go home. Anyway, I leave the compound (yes, we live in compounds. For those who think this is something we shouldn’t be doing, try living wherever you do without a front door for a year. This would be an act of equivalent stupidity.) at 6:45am and settle down in the back seat to read a book for the next half an hour, during which we will cover the 4km between my residence and the office. I try to concentrate on the pages and ignore the blaring horns, suicidal motorcyle taxis drivers with their unfortunately non-suicidal passengers, and the constant jerking of the vehicle. There are two movements to vehicles negotiating Lagos traffic: sudden acceleration and violent juddering halt. Half the problem is that there is no right of way at intersections: whoever can get their nose in front of the oncoming traffic far enough to persuade the drivers it is in everybody’s best interests to slow down or stop is the one who gets to proceed three metres. As a result, it is possible for as few as four cars to result in a traffic jam. The other half of the problem is a combination of drivers’ determination to switch lanes as often as possible for no discernible reason, and the ego of those same drivers. Once somebody has managed to get into one lane it is imperitive that he tries to re-enter the lane he has just left, usually having travelled no more than ten metres in the meantime. A gap of more than a metre is sufficient to try to squeeze your 3m car into, something which is made easier if the driver you are carving up doesn’t object and accelerate to close the gap, which he always does. In fact, drivers in Lagos react to somebody trying to enter a lane in front of them as if they’d just come home and found their daughters raped and the perpetrator still standing there. I’ll go into the reasons why some cultures’ inability to concede anything or compromise whatsoever leaves them shit poor in another post, but the same applies on Nigeria’s roads. Remove the egos and you’d have half a chance of free-flowing traffic. When you look around, the actual number of cars is not that high.

Eventually I get dropped at my office which is an impressive looking, glass fronted building. Well, it’s impressive provided you are looking at only the outside, and then preferably from a distance of not less than a mile. There is an underground car park which nobody is allowed to park in, so everyone parks on the nearby pavements instead, meaning the pedestrians have to take their chances in the road. The road at that point is covered in an inch of brown slime. I go into the building, through the lobby featuring marble panels fitted by somebody who had neither a spirit level or plumb line, and wait for the lift. There are three lifts, only two of which ever work at any given time, and often it is just the one. The lift has no logic system whatsoever, they don’t communicate with each other meaning both lifts are often on the same floor (there are ten), and they have an overide system meaning the owners of the building, who have offices at the top, can bypass all other floors should they so desire, and they often do. So it is not uncommon to be waiting three or four minutes for a lift and watch it sail gaily past you. Once you’re in the lift, and assuming you have been in Lagos long enough to have gotten used to the appalling stench of unwashed bodies and grease marks on the glass walls, you have to tell some cretin, who lives on a stool placed in the lift, which floor you want to go to. Half the time he is not listening because, the attention span in this city averaging at around two seconds, he is busy talking to somebody else or playing with his phone, and so you have to ask him a few times. If you lose patience and press the button yourself he will grumble as if you’ve tried to fly an Apache helicopter without the necessary training, presumably thinking if word got out people could press lift buttons all on their own he’d be out of a job. Actually, he is needed, because the lift buttons all reset themselves randomly and they need to be re-pressed or the lift just stops. Sometimes the lift just stops anyway and the whole system has to be reset. I heard a story about one bloke being whisked to the very top whereupon it whacked into the buffers then dropped like a stone for a floor or two before the emergency brake came on and it descended, at a snail’s pace, to the basement. The whole cycle repeated itself twice more before he could escape.

On my floor I am squawked at by somebody who is simultaneously the security guard and the weakest link in the floor security system. Like in Sakhalin, the prime suspect in any office theft is the security guard. Unlike in Russia, they security guards don’t dress up in Spetznaz uniforms all ready for massacring a Chechen village; instead they wear slightly gay gendarme uniforms, complete with Foreign Legion style hats. I guess it makes the French feel more comfortable. The security guard on my floor doesn’t like me much, because I don’t bother signing in on the sheet of paper he keeps on his desk. I don’t bother because when I go to leave, he asserts his minimal authority by hiding the piece of paper and making me ask for it, and I’m not playing this sort of game with anyone dressed like a gay gendarme.

My office isn’t too bad, except it is miles too hot, we have 6-8 power cuts each day, the toilets resemble those of a Salford nightclub, and we are not allowed to store paper copies of anything because the weight might cause the floor to collapse (seriously). The view is not too bad though, not least because I can see amusing instances of extreme idiocy on the street outside my window at regular intervals, and the transformer mounted on the pole outside often blows up with a satisfying bang, a bright orange flash, and a puff of blue smoke whenever it rains heavily enough.

I start my work day by checking my emails and deleting those which all oil companies send out warning of IT issues on random servers located in other countries. I then spend the day…well, I’m not going to go into this. There is enough material here to write a book, and that’s without using anything that could be considered company confidential. Some of the stuff you encounter in the Nigerian oil business would make Catch-22 seem like a serious tome of philosophical discussion. I witness daily instances of personal and organisational buffoonery which would be impressive even for the army. But all told, I rather like my job and I’m doing rather well by most accounts, and I’m not about to jeopardise that by writing something which will incur the wrath of anybody that could see me unseated. So, with that, I work as well as I can without murdering anybody or laughing loudly in people’s faces until lunchtime.

We take lunch in a building 200m down the road from our own, a journey which is more perilous than any undertaken on this continent by Henry Stanley. Because the cars are all parked on the pavement, you have to walk in the road, which is full of maniacal motorcylists and impatient, retarded motorists. The closer you get to the building where we eat, the deeper the water gets to the point where, even in the middle of a drought, you have to cross the road to avoid a huge lake of stinking brown water with stuff floating in it which would be kicked out of an open sewer for breaching the dress code. Yes, they built the road beneath the water table. Darting between the cars, you hop over a little rivulet, a tributary of the huge brown lake, and mount the pavement, hopping over a log which has been blocking the path since I arrived and nobody has bothered moving. Maybe it’s considered sacred? I did notice teeth marks on it. You jump over a tyre, squeeze between the bonnet of a car and an abandoned stall, walk five metres, drop off the pavement into some filth to skirt round some concrete thing which has been built in the middle of the pavement with no obvious purpose, taking care not to disturb the bloke sleeping on the cardboard at your feet. When mounting the pavement a metre or so further on, you need to dodge the stack of knock-off DVDs being sold under the tree, patiently waiting for customers to clear the way before proceeding. You go past a bin of rotting plantains, situated beside a drainage hole which looks like that thing in the desert Jabba the Hut tried to push the goodies into in The Return of the Jedi. It is honking. You cross the entrance to the school, which doubles as a car park and hang-out joint for all manner of weirdos, and squeeze past the fat cow selling plantains from a stall which blocks the whole pavement save for six inches. You get to the corner of the street where a restaurant is doing a merry trade, consisting as it does of half a dozen breezeblocks turned on their ends to serve as chairs and a woman putting crap into a wok over an open fire and selling it to the diners as crap which has been heated up a bit. It’s not the most relaxing setting for a meal, and I cannot recommend taking your loved one there for your anniversary meal, because the corner is packed full of phone card salesmen, an outdoor barber salon, crates of soft drinks being picked up and put back down, and a few dozen blokes doing what blokes do best in Lagos: standing around doing nothing. By now the pavement consists of mud with some random blocks sticking out of it, but even this is better than the street which is at this point covered in an inch or two of black sludge with all manner of detrius in it. You have no choice but to step into it and cross over. All of this you do in sweltering heat with tropical humidity. If the smell hasn’t put you off eating for life, you carry on.

You then go through a small reception room which is full of people who honk to high heaven and are standing about gormlessly for God knows what purpose. You squeeze past, get out the other side, and into the canteen where you join the queue for food. To be fair the food isn’t bad. I mean, those who went through the siege of Leningrad might have eaten it eventually, and who are we to be more fussy than they? It is free, after all. The menu is divided in two: local and continental. The local food consists of cow leg, sheeps innards, goat pepper soup (which would have justified the Iraq War twice over had Hans Blix discovered it in one of Saddam’s installations), fish in a curry sauce which looks as though it could be used to dissolve fire-bricks, mashed yam, polythene bags containing what looks like mud, turkey legs which would worry the dentist of a Rhodesian ridgeback, and a soya porridge which smells like the stuff you feed cows on a dairy farm back home. The continental food is made for us lot, and consists of a half decent soup with a main course of chicken with rice or spaghetti. I don’t like the rice much, so I tend to eat chicken and spaghetti, which I have done almost every day since I got here. Sometimes I have something different, such as spaghetti and chicken, but usually it’s chicken and spaghetti. This is washed down with some boiled fruit drink which, if they’ve remembered to make it the night before, is chilled. Otherwise it is still hot. This is eaten on rickety chairs opposite somebody who, if you’re lucky, is mannered enough to use cutlery and not spit bones out onto the table. There are several benefits to working where I do in Nigeria, but the staff canteen is not one of them.

Returning from lunch is the same pantomime as on the way, only in reverse. The afternoon is generally less hectic than the morning, a period of quiet reflection where half the company think of new and innovative ways to stop the other half getting anything done. By 5pm I’ve normally had enough and am outside calling my driver to untangle the car from the random pile of vehicles in which it is parked and pick me up. The way home takes a little longer, about 40 minutes, with the extra time used by dozens of street hawkers standing in traffic waving all manner of wares from knock-off watches to tumbler sets to shoe racks to bananas to bound volumes of the complete works of William Sheakespeare.

If the traffic isn’t too bad I’m home by 5:45pm or 6pm and within ten minutes of that I’m usually in the gym. Remember the fitness regime I entered into when I first came to Nigeria, and talked about here? Well, it’s still going strong, 4-5 times per week, and I look and feel quite a bit different than I did last August. It kills the time, tires me out, and enables me to loaf in front of the TV or computer without a nagging feeling that I should be doing something else. Most nights I’m cooking something, or else I’m eating what I cooked the night before, after which I try to do forty minutes of French study from a textbook at least three nights per week. That’s not going too badly, either. It’s an awful lot easier than Russian, and once you’ve learned Russian grammar a lot of French grammar makes sense. Je t’adore, Я тебя люблю, it’s all pretty much the same, isn’t it? I’m rubbish at speaking it though, preferring to nail the grammar before really trying to converse, although my French colleagues have to endure my mangled greetings and questions occasionally, something they seem not to mind one bit. I find French much easier to understand than speak, whereas with Russian, for me, it’s the other way around. And reading French is easy, it’s almost the same as English, again compared to a block of Russian text.

If I’m lucky my TV will be working and I can spend the last hour of the day watching something or other. As I said in my earlier post, self-disciplined lives tend to be pretty dull (and I am remarkably self-disciplined here save for an incident last weekend which involved a big Norwegian bloke, three bars, two nightclubs, Solichnaya vodka neat from the bottle, loss of memory, a 5am finish, and me being sick), but it’s the routine which makes things easier to manage and the time go more quickly. Fortunately, it’s hard for life to be dull when you live and work in the world’s largest and most populated lunatic asylum.

Tim Newman

Personally, considering some areas burning or about to be set ablaze/looted in London even as I type, I feel life is ironic with the riots and how it (and other factors) are affecting the stock market...I also feel God has a very 'wickid' sense of humour. What do you think?


Friday 5 August 2011

All these bellies and big bum business sef (is it obvious that am beefing the exercise routine)ing)

Yes I am still ranting about exercising :-(

Well I guess from yesterday's blog the only thing one can do is....wait..fashying fellatio, cunnlylingus, kissing, hugging, sucking, feeding via lips, talkless of chandeliers, reverse cow girl, nibbling of earlobes, and so on. As a virgin I dont know many of these things o, but with how much chatter they get from the internet,the must be very fun thing to do as a married couple

But heh, hope virginity doesnt stop lapdancing o, heeeh, it better doesnt, cus am trying to perfect the art with my favourite chair oghenebikoooo!!

Down to the main blog, So as my mum and I were going for the usual routine exercise which consists (for me) of walking, jogging a bit, walking some more, drinking water. Ignoring the footballers, volleyballers and other ballers. Ignoring the runners, the aerobics experts, the otakara dancers. I call them Otakara cus if its not lap dancing snkae dancing or 'getting your eagle on' WHATS THE POINT???? Note that my mum is a much much more serious weightwatcher than I am and can quick walk round the field 25times if she wants, she is just slowing down for my lazy ass to catch up.

Anyway before I digressed, so as I was avoiding them pumped up athletes and panting y way through, i got this epiphany! I was suddenly thinking of prominent females in our society surely SURELY they have big bellies and butts. I mean come of it, this woman is not huffing and puffing like me na

Neither is she,-->
and she is presently a very very hot 'commodity' right now

And oh please, leaving the world of politics lets not even go to entertainment. Cus if we do we just have to paste this lady's picture---> and say full stop!!!

And while some are huffing to loose theirs, others are gaining recognition for theirs.

Carol Voderman just won the award for Rear Of The Year 2011 alongside male winner, Strictly Come Dancing professional Anton Du Beke.

Before now, the British media has been obsessed with derriere of Pippa Middleton (sister to Kate Middleton, who got married to Prince William in April)which in my humble opinion is hardly visible.

Whats wrong with British people anyway? I mean, Pippa doesn't even have a rear in that dress. It's weird that it seems to have got so much attention. She has to bend very low for it to actually show that I agree with the thought that Pippa's bum can only be entered for "invisible thing of the year"

All in all as I see through the glaze of fatigue to the gate of my house, I thank God for two women, of different sizes, for loving their belles and bums.

Falls into bed dreaming of this -> NIce huh?

Or even warmer, cosier and better this -> .God knows what he designed oh! LOL.

(Disclaimer: referring to their poses not one of their website was advertising oh. :-)


p.s: Is it me or there seemed to be no fat women in the bible?

Thursday 4 August 2011

I dont wanna I dont wanna I dont wanna wait in vain.....

Then the Lord God made a woman from the rib he had taken out of the man, and he brought her to the man. The man said, 'This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called 'woman,' for she was taken out of man.'

Marriage is an important issue in the Christian life. Vast numbers of books, magazines and marriage counseling resources are dedicated to the subject of marriage preparation and marriage improvement.. The general theory is that there is the 'one' who was specially created to be your life long mate.

What Does the Bible Says About Marriage?

Gen. 2:18, 21-24
The Lord God said, 'It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him'...and while he was sleeping, he took one of the man's ribs and closed up the place with flesh.
Then the Lord God made a woman from the rib he had taken out of the man, and he brought her to the man. The man said, 'This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called 'woman,' for she was taken out of man.' For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh. (NIV)

Here we see the first wedding. We can conclude from this account in Genesis that marriage is God's idea, designed and instituted by the Creator. In these verses we also discover that at the heart of God's design for marriage is companionship and intimacy.

What Does the Bible Say?
• Marriage was designed for companionship and intimacy.

My simple question is, how long are you willing to wait for that one?

Tuesday 2 August 2011

to cougar or not cougar

Abeg this jogging, bicycling, malarkey get as e be, better stick to dancing and lap dancing... you cant tell me this lady (Andressa) didnt loose any weight by only jogging and gyming, she must have maintained her figure by doing all THIS jare....

Meanwhile I have recently found myself admiring younger men..Does that make me cougar? Younger as in (22/23 but built like an athlete ooo) Final year(like saying still in university/college or NYSC, 0r just graduated uni/college/ Job Applicanttypes, etc

Can I still be a cougar if my regular age mates, older and far far older men also expect me to treat them like kids?

Plus my age mates seem to have let themself go to fat thinking money is all they need to get a relationship, well what the heck about those groups of ladies wey no dey find money ( have their own darn money) ????

I mean I came across an ex of mine so we did the obligatory hug and boy oh boy the rolls of fat i felt in the area which was supposed to be his chest and belly mentally reminded me of (owo/ banga soup) this really oily, very soft and squishy dish ..yukky! that bad! not attractive!!!!!

So does that make me a cougar?

As we all know from my depressed state here yall know my mama has forced me hubby hunting so i meet up with all sorts and will blog about them through time.. Like this guy, same age as me, lets call him 'Dude Sat', He is ok, a recluse amd geek, is self sufficient but wont do cunninlingus? cus its the same mouth he uses to talk to his mum? But expects fellatio? I was bored of the whole discussion and was outta there in a jiffy, I mean I know I am a virgin but GET THE BEHIND ME ALL MANNER OF SELFISH PEOPLE!!!

or the other i got introduced too, (4 years older than me) he seemed normal, slightly too thin (for his age) at first, until i noticed that; not only does he spend time in my house (in the name of 'love') he expects his 3 square meals served in a similar manner i serve my dad, the high chief and this includes quality of food. obviously every tom, dick and ubong, knows that just as with fine girls, fine food na better money kill am...but nooo, he just eats and eats like my house is a U.N/RedCross/ETC-sponsored ration food store in the middle of a war torn zone! Plus when i speak he uses bible verses to quieten me..shey he don catch ALHAJA BRINGI BRINGII FOOD Abi no be money dem dey take cook food and what about my other needs?

Then the last one (almost 10 years older than me) after almost instantly promising marriage i find out he has a 10 and 5 yr kid in nigeria so HE shuttles between uk and bayelsa..i know for sure now cus he just left for london yesterday without even letting me (in Lagos) know!!!

my people dem see mumu (doormat/someone they can use selfishly) for my head????? Or am I a "BAD" choosy girl? if so there were many bad girls in the bible read Bad Girls of the Bible and What We Can Learn from Them

Feeling really lonely, just need companionship not sex, this song captures it, or does it?

So close to paradise, but closer than I should be
It’s like I’m along for the ride, it happened unexpectedly
Promised myself that I wouldn’t ever love again
But you make me feel something, my mind’s always on you
I was standing in the rain (I thought about you)
I was riding on the train (I thought about you)
Feeling high like I seem to do
Every time I think about you
Saw two lovers start to kiss (I thought about you)
Had to hold back the tears (I thought about you)
Other girls no more exist
All because I think about you
Nothing seems to help, I don’t even know myself
I’m trying not to think of you, but a heart does what it wants to do
Pass you by, see you smile and I must admit I get
So emotional, I think I’m falling for you
Bought a pillow for my room (I thought about you)
Heard Alicia sing a tune (I thought about you)
It sends my rocket to the moon
Every time I think about you
Right from this heart of mine (I thought about you)
I wanted you every time (I thought about you)
What I feel is so divine
And it’s all because I think about you
But I’m constantly reminded
Reminded that you’re only someone who I’d like to know
You don’t know me, you’re my private fantasy
You’re with me, constantly in my mind
Had a lovely day today (I thought about you)
Wasn’t hard to get through (I thought about you)
Seems to happen easily
Every time I think about you
Took a walk with myself (I thought about you)
Wish it could’ve been with you (I thought about you)
But every star in the sky came out for me
And it’s all because i think about you

Now am I will just stop there. Thats all for now. But wait oh, anyone else not yet the age of cougar (35-60+) per se but feels cougarish? or have these wierd dates with guys they want to share?

p.s cougar: An older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man ref: but used in this situation as an older woman who for various reasons just finds younger men attractive

Any volunteers? I know its a semi taboo in our culture and all so you are free to publish *anonymously* or with a *fake name* ;-)


Monday 1 August 2011

Fat women don suffer oooo (from one of the fat bloggers)

Caught this from Mena's blog

Men no dey look u again?

Dog dey chase you for road?

You go market and dey think sey you be Malu?

Ah! My Sister that mean your borry don Wowo finish.

But no cry o. No go Babalawo. Tell your mama make she no fast for you again because Man Catcher by Body Wowo don come to your rescue.

Once you don wear am finish, Men go just dey follow you yanfu, yanfu.

Make you wear Man Catcher today and unwowo di wowo for your borry.

then took pictures of myself in unflattering position and came to the inevitable decision to take this exercise malarkey more seriously, one tiny step at a time