• “A Week In The Life” is a weekly Zikoko series that explores the working-class struggles of Nigerians. It captures the very spirit of what it means to hustle in Nigeria and puts you in the shoes of the subject for a week


    The subject of today’s “A Week In The Life” is Jimoh Adamu, a 27-year-old bus driver. Jimoh tells us about the inspiration behind the famous quotes on his bus, how the Lagos state Keke ban set him back, and his quest for a better life.

    MONDAY:

    I wake up before my alarm. I set it for 5 a.m., but I’m up at 4:30 a.m. today. I freshen up. It’s almost 6 a.m. by the time I’m ready to leave the house. I do some preliminary checks on my bus — oil level, water and tyres. When I’m done I set out for my park at Ikeja.  I live in Agege, and because of the hold up around that side, it takes me one hour to get to Ikeja. 

    There’s no parking space for all the buses at the park, so we’re loading in three’s. It’s not my turn to load so I go to a side street to call Opebi passengers for sole. As I’m calling passengers, I’m also using one eye to look out for Taskforce, LASTMA, Police, and the biggest werey of them all — Anti one way. If anti one way catch you, you don die be that. Thankfully, there’s no wahala before my bus gets filled up. I lock my door, and I do one go-come trip from Ikeja to Opebi.

    As I drive back to the park, I see that it’s finally my turn to load passengers. Before I can join the queue, one faragon van has chanced me. My bus is korope, so I try to avoid wahala with anyone. I ask the faragon driver why he entered my front like that and he starts to shout “sho ya werey” and other curses. 

    I take a deep breath.

    I don’t say a word. Mostly because I can’t be exchanging words with anyone. If I say something and he punches me, that’s a mess up for me. I just remind myself that this work is temporary, and it will end one day. I tell the other driver to load his passengers while I find somewhere to wait. 

    I can’t wait for this week to end. I’m already dreaming of all the sleep I’ll sleep on Sunday. 

    TUESDAY:

    Transport business is hard, and this hardness always makes me think about my life.  I’m thinking of how I started my career by doing labourer work carrying pon pon. Then I went to my daddy’s business of selling building materials. During my time there, I had one girlfriend and during our play I impregnated her. That was a wake-up call that I couldn’t raise a family on the money from selling building materials. So I carried all my savings of ₦200,000, and I asked my mummy to help me get a used Keke Maruwa. After some time of hustling with the  Keke, I bought a brand new one for ₦600,000. 

    Not long after I started paying bills and taking care of my family, the Lagos State Governor banned Keke. The six months it took me to get a buyer for my Keke was the worst period of my life because I was just watching my savings go down. I became so broke that my mummy — who is 70 years old — started feeding me. I felt terrible in that period because I went from feeding her to being fed by her.

    My mummy was so sad that she went to find someone to give me Korope on hire purchase so I could start work. After I got the bus, I went back to my old keke route. I had not worked for long before Taskforce arrested me three times in two weeks. The first time they collected ₦18,500, the second-time they collected ₦15,000, the third time ₦20,000+

    I was frustrated. 

    I had to take loans to pay taskforce, so I couldn’t pay the bus owner for two weeks. The owner wanted to collect his bus but my mum went to beg him and promised that it wouldn’t happen again. At that point, I was ready to return the bus but I told myself to never give up, and that was the first thing I wrote in front of the bus. My mum then told me to be careful on the road because she could no longer afford to repay loan or beg if I got arrested by the task force. She reminded me to consider that she was the one now feeding me. 

                                                    Image credit: Tall Brown Boi

    I felt bad for forgetting about her sacrifice. In that mood, I wrote “If your parents count on you, don’t play the same game as those who count on their parents. Remember you left home to feed home.” When Kekes came back on the road and ruined all my money plans with the Korope, I felt hurt. That’s when I wrote “Turn that hurt into hustle. Turn that pain into paper.”

                                                        Image credit: Tall Brown Boi

    The first time I caught myself thinking about my hustle, I wrote on my bus “Hopefully one-day real change will come because I believe everything in life is temporary.” 

    Reading those words on this kind of low mood day has given me some ginger. I know I will make it. I must make it.

    WEDNESDAY:

    I love my wife. In my head, she’s still that girl from when I was selling building materials. My wife doesn’t stress me and she’s very understanding. She understands that I’m paying ₦30,000 per week to the owner of the bus so there’s usually nothing left for flexing. She doesn’t say buy me this or buy me that because we are managing. 

    Our major expenses are food for the house and my son’s school fees. I still can’t believe that my son is four years old already. As soon as he grows older I know that driving a bus will no longer be able to cater for my expenses. I know because I’m currently still struggling to pay rent and raise the balance of my child’s school fees. 

    On the road today I’m just looking for a helper. Someone that can introduce me to anything legal that’ll be providing better money for me. A job that I know that if I hustle I can at least pay rent, send my child to school, and still give my mum money. I’m tired of working from 6 a.m to 7 p.m six days a week. I’m tired of leaving the house early, coming back home late and not spending enough time with my family. I’m tired of adult life.

    But if I don’t show up, who will help me?

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    THURSDAY:

    Thank God it’s Thursday. Because then it’s Friday, Saturday, and then Sunday — my day of rest. On Sundays, I sleep like I’m on drugs. Once I eat breakfast like this, I’m gone for the whole day.

    I don’t know how long I’ll have this amount of energy. With each passing age, I’m just praying for strength. “God please give me the power to keep driving at this pace for two years after I finish paying the owner” If I’m focused the way I am now, I should save enough money to leave this business. I’ll then take the money and use it to buy land for farming. After that, I can build one structure on the land for me and my wife. I want the location to be far away; no Police, no LASTMA, no Agbero wahala. I don’t want any disturbance.


    Check back every Tuesday by 9 am for more “A Week In The Life ” goodness, and if you would like to be featured or you know anyone who fits the profile, fill this form.

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  • Citizen is a column that explains how the government’s policies fucks citizens and how we can unfuck ourselves.

    In November 2019, 24-year-old Kola* visited his Local government office to register for his national identification number (NIN). When he got there, the staff told him that they weren’t working as one of their members had been slapped. “I was like, why should that stop everyone from working? Then I tried to call the line of their bosses [that I found on Twitter] but the line just kept ringing, and I never got a response,” he says of the experience.

    Kola* had been hoping that someone with more authority would mediate the situation and get the staff working again. But that never happened and he had to find another local government office to complete his registration as he needed his NIN to unfreeze his bank account at the time. 

    Lydia is another Nigerian who has found the process of reaching out to a local government to be virtually impossible. “In September last year,  I needed to produce my tax identification number for work.” the 25-year-old says.

    “I decided to go to the state’s website and read up on what needed to be done. The website was [and is still] a mess. Broken links, incomplete pages, no links sometimes, and unclear information. Then I decided to call the local government’s helpline. I called these people consistently for over a week and it would ring but the handler would end the call on me. I kept trying to reach them and eventually one day the handler sent me a message asking me to send them a text. I sent a text message and until today no one has responded.”

    Why Is The Local Government So Important?

    The local government is designed to be the most immediate channel through which Nigerians can reach the government. Nigerians have the right to engage with their local government chairperson regarding any changes they would like to see happen in their environment. Some of the functions of your Local Government include:

    • construction and maintenance of roads, street lightings, drains and other public highways, gardens, open spaces or such other public facilities as prescribed from time to time by the House of Assembly of a state;
    • The naming of roads and streets and numbering of houses;
    • provision and maintenance of public conveniences, sewage and refuse disposal facilities;
    • registration of all births, deaths, and marriages.

    But how often do Nigerians reach out when they need to make a complaint about the poor state of the roads in their neighborhood or the deplorable state of their local government schools?

    Kingsley Esene, a lawyer we spoke to believes that the communication line is not as strong as it should be. “Many Nigerians hardly reach out to their representatives even though at the National Assembly there is a mechanism put in place that can enable you to know and be able to reach out to your representative,” he says. “If you take 10 Nigerians and ask them if they know their rep like senator or house of rep, maybe it is only 1 out of the 10 that will know. We are not a politically conscious people as we might claim to be.”

    Why Are Nigerians Unwilling To Reach Out To Their Local Government?

    For many of the Nigerians we spoke to, the main problem is the lack of strong communication structures. There is also the case of many not knowing how best to reach out to their local government. 

    “The thing is I’ve never bothered with anything that has to do with an inquiry in my local government because I feel it’d either be a total waste of time and money or I’d just get frustrated and finally, aired.” 20-year-old Tobi* says.  “If I ever go to my local government for an inquiry of any sort, just know I was desperate.”

    Kingsley Esene tells us that the local government’s limited power, which is often overshadowed by the state government’s authority is another factor that slows down progress in communities and makes communicating with our local government difficult. “The way our federalism is being run, our local government is almost none existent. The state government has assumed most of the responsibilities that ordinarily should be for the local government. The reason for this also is because the local government does not get its allocation directly from the federal government like the state government.

    The allocation goes to the state government who in turn gives whatever they like to the local government. And because many of the local government chairpeople are stooges to the governors, they don’t say anything or fight back when they receive their allocation. So most of the allocation that much local government gets from the state is just going into satisfying recurrent expenditure,” he explains.

    How Can This Be Fixed?

    Kingsley Esene believes that any necessary change of attitude towards how Nigerians communicate with their local government officials will begin with building stronger communication structures and ensuring that people have minimal trouble reaching their representatives.


    “If we had a functional local govt system, the complaints will be attended to faster since your local govt is close to you, there will be in a better position to access that complaint and address it. For example, some inter street roads that are bad can be repaired by the local govt but you see such roads still being repaired by the state government maybe after waiting for years here is supposed to be like a public complaint department or office in every local government.”

  • “A Week In The Life” is a weekly Zikoko series that explores the working-class struggles of Nigerians. It captures the very spirit of what it means to hustle in Nigeria and puts you in the shoes of the subject for a week.


    The subject of today’s “A Week In The Life” is a drug dealer. He talks to us about his process for baking edibles, how he almost lost a knee cap, and his plans to set up a cartel if his japa plans fail. 

    Editor’s note: The views expressed are those of the subject and in no way represent the views of Zikoko.

    MONDAY:

    Even though I spent the whole night getting high, I’m up early. I work as a baker-drug dealer, and I start my day on the “legal” side of my business — baking edibles. I sell almost everything that gets people high: brownie cookies, cupcakes, gummy bears, puff puff. The beauty is that I can publicly advertise these products as “happy brownies” or call them by another name because it’s an “if you know, you know” business. It’s through this front-facing part that customers looking to buy loud, LSD, molly —  I draw the line at crystal meth and heroin because I can’t deal with crackheads — and shrooms contact me. I take pride in my baking skills, and I’m always tweaking and challenging my recipes.

    Today, I’m making cannabutter. I heat up my flowers for 30 minutes to “wake” the weed up, then I crush it into fine particles. The next step is to melt the butter. I mix the fine particles with the melted butter under low heat for another 30 minutes until it changes colour. I’m confident that the liquid butter has absorbed all of the weed, so I strain it in a sieve. Once it cools, food is ready to be served. My plan is to use one portion of the butter to bake and to sell the other part. I take a quick glance at my phone and realise that I’ve gotten orders for cannabutter already. I thought I’d get a chance to lie down, but there’s work to be done. I’m going to have a quick shower, make plans for delivery and label my butter “prescription” keep out of reach of children. Eat with bread or fry with eggs. 

    TUESDAY:

    I once tried to grow my own batch of weed but it wasn’t cost-effective. The quality and potency of made in Nigeria weed significantly differ from the imported stuff — this country doesn’t support growth in any form. I have different plugs depending on what drug I’m looking for. I have one plug linked to a smuggler and another plug that’s the plug of all plugs. Because of the tendency for violence in this business, and the fact that I’m always looking over my shoulder, my plugs are people I’ve known for a while. One is a childhood friend while the other is someone I’ve also known for a fairly long time. My business model is simple: I collect an advance of drugs, sell and remit an agreed-upon sum at a due date. I also try to distance myself as much as possible from the product, and my business is mostly cash-based. There’s also a covert distribution system in place that I can’t reveal. 

    I spent today thinking about how you can’t be too careful in this business because if trouble comes, people will cut off your head. I don’t blame anyone for snitching — they’re not Jesus so they can’t die for me. Worrying doesn’t help anything, that’s why I’m going to distract myself by watching a movie. All I can really control is my being careful and to constantly remind the people I work with to be careful. 

    WEDNESDAY:

    I’ve gotten into all kinds of trouble from selling drugs. Police trouble. Customer trouble. And failing to meet my repayment schedule, which almost led to me losing a knee cap. It all started when I collected a batch of molly and agreed to deliver the profit in a week. Things were going smoothly until my village people looked into my matter. A few days before repayment was due, I got into an accident while making a large delivery. And I lost almost half of my stock. I panicked and went underground. When my supplier didn’t see his money, he came to my house to look for me. It was interesting because he brought a gun and was prepared to bear the loss and leave a bullet in my knee. I quickly took responsibility and explained what had happened. Let’s just say that I’m glad that I still have two functional knees.

    Thankfully, all of that is in the past now. 

    I’ve had a long day of fulfilling customer orders, and I’m looking forward to this evening. My girlfriend is coming over, and we’re going to chill and relax. Her support is one of the things that keeps me going. Not a lot of people would openly associate with a drug dealer but she’s different. In fact, one of the reasons she’s dating me is because I’m a bad boy. I guess we’re both addicted to the thrill of life. 

    THURSDAY:

    I got fucked up last night, and I wake up late today. The first thing I do is check my phone, and I see a message from one of my friends whining me about how cool my job is. I guess it’s easy to glamorise what I do because of how pop culture has white-washed drug dealing. This business is profitable enough that I can pay my school fees in millions per semester, and you can make fortunes in a year of dealing drugs because you have a repeat customer base addicted to your product. But the truth remains that it’s still a very dangerous job. I started dealing drugs because I couldn’t afford to pay school fees after transferring schools. Every day I make a sale, I keep asking myself: what if someone snitches and I get locked up forever? That’s my education down the drain. But what if I somehow see my education through? That means I’ll be set for life. These thoughts are why I’m constantly risking the odds. 

    The most difficult part for me as a drug user is the discipline to not get high on my own supply, and the grit to constantly keep my eye on the target. I pay for my drugs in full without any discount. I give myself achievement points to reach before I allow myself to buy drugs. And I never remove money without being accountable. 

    FRIDAY: 

    Policemen are your friend as long you settle them. I’ve had instances where policemen have stopped me, extorted me and tried to befriend me. Someone once gave me his number to call him anytime I got into trouble along a particular route. Another time, while being searched on suspicion of dealing drugs, a police officer was telling me he knew a plug for where to buy loud at wholesale price. It’s crazy thinking about the fact that these are the people meant to protect us. I can’t help but think that outside of drug dealers, policemen are liaising with other criminals. I’m fairly certain that kidnappers and ritualists are having a field day with the system.  

    It’s easy to judge me and say I’m ruining my life, but the system failed me. In my old university, I was told that the entry-level for graduates studying my course was ₦20,000. That’s not even enough to cover half of the cost of the professional exams I had to write. In a society where people only respect your pocket, I had to fall in line and jazz up. In a year of dealing, I’ve gone from being scorned at home to being respected. I’m now the person who takes care of utilities and stocks the house without asking anyone for nada. 

    The only reason I’m selling drugs is that I’m still in Nigeria. I’m currently working my way through school to become a full stack developer. The next step is to find my way out of this hell hole. 2022 must not meet me here. If, for some useless reason, I’ve still not escaped, I’m just going to set up my own cartel. 


    Check back every Tuesday by 9 am for more “A Week In The Life ” goodness, and if you would like to be featured or you know anyone who fits the profile, fill this form.

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  • Last week, we spoke to babies about finding themselves in Nigeria against their will. Now, we’ve spoken to a few more frustrated inanimate objects for our Interview With… series.

    We sat down with some of the most luxurious cars in the world to tell us their experience on Nigerian roads.

    Tesla

    Please, I am a Tesla, not a Toyota put some respect on my name. Have you seen the roads? Ehn? Because you have 24hrs light in your Ikoyi house doesn’t mean you can drive me on your Lagos roads. They even tried to ‘’service me’’ ah. Elon Musk should come and carry me, please. I am tired of Nigeria.

    McLaren

    As you can see, I’m beautiful, exotic and fast, which means I really wasn’t made for the mess that is Nigerian roads. It’s so annoying. They buy me and put me in their house like I’m just for decoration. Maybe buy a Honda instead.

    Bugatti, Abuja

    I only come out of the house on Sundays when they want to do ‘’Need for Speed Abuja edition’’. Abuja roads are a little good, so I’m not even suffering like my mates in Lagos. Those ones are seeing life.

    Bugatti, Lagos

    Hay God. Have you seen me? I was stuck in traffic for 5hrs! 5hrs. I’m supposed to be fast, but it seems my owner thinks I’m only good for showing off because I don’t understand. Buy a Range Rover, please, stop stressing me.

    Koenigsegg

    So far, no one has bought me, but I know Dino Melaye is already indicating interest. I’m hoping he goes bankrupt before the purchase, Inshallah. He wants to subject me to boredom and under-use like the other cars he has in his house.

    Hyundai Kona Electric Car

    I’m not even ‘’luxury’’ per say, but it’s still hilarious that they brought me to Nigeria. Is there even light to see road that they want to be using electric rechargeable cars? Lmfao. They’ve unveiled me now, let’s see what follows.

    Ferrari

    I was built for speed oh, but they will be driving in 20km/hr Lagos traffic. I don’t even remember my function again. All I get now is ‘’Aww I saw one fine Ferrari in traffic’’ or ‘’That’s the Ferrari I told you about’’. Is that my work?

    Lamborghini

    I’ve been in the mechanic workshop for almost six months, something small spoilt in me and the mechanic fixed it with Honda spare part, that’s how I packed up. I’m better here sha than on Nigerian roads.

  • “A Week In The Life” is a weekly Zikoko series that explores the working-class struggles of Nigerians. It captures the very spirit of what it means to hustle in Nigeria and puts you in the shoes of the subject for a week.


    The subject of today’s “A Week In The Life” is Debbie, a stripper. She tells us about how stripping changed her life, why she wants the Nigerian police to do better, and how she plans to fund her dreams of living an expensive life. 

    MONDAY:

    My days are unpredictable so I have no fixed time to wake up. On some days I’m up early because I have to leave my house for an appointment. Other days, like today, I lie on my bed pressing my phone until 10, 11 a.m. My work revolves around anything entertainment-related — stripping, acting or video vixen — and Mondays are usually slow. I get up from the bed and set up my camera because I’m tired of being idle. I’m going to record myself dancing, singing and just having fun. When I’m done, I’ll upload the video on my social media pages and reply to any comments. While setting up, I remind myself not to forget to satisfy my craving for beans and plantain after I’m done shooting. 

    Before I return to my camera set up, I have to defeat an enemy called low inspiration. So I seek the help of a trusted friend called Igbeaux. I can feel myself loosening up and my appetite roaring in the background after some puffs. While I’m running through what I want to shoot in my head, and figuring out what part of my room to use, NEPA takes the light. Well, there goes my ability to create content and be useful today.

    TUESDAY:

    Today was better than yesterday mostly because I spent my time reminiscing. Anytime I see how far I’ve come with stripping, I can’t help but thank God. People don’t believe me when I tell them nobody taught me how to strip — I learnt from watching other girls on the pole and practising over and over again. Sometimes, I’d fall and hit my bum bum. Then I’d go home to massage it while telling myself, “We move oh.” I no longer try to learn too many moves because some routines are hard abeg. It’s not every routine a stripper must know. 

     I remember being scared, shy and happy when I started stripping. On my first day, I couldn’t even pull off my clothes. I remember summoning the courage to remove my bra and subsequently turning to face the wall. It was the money I picked up at the end of the night that gave me ginger to continue. 

    https://twitter.com/debbchina1/status/1337745160365543425?s=20

    There’s a big difference between American strip clubs and Nigerian strip clubs. In Nigeria, there’s a belief that people who go to strip clubs are devilish people, and there are people who come to strip clubs and say they don’t want strippers to touch them. Regardless of all this, I still hustle and make my money. Depending on the club you work at, and how people turn up, you can make ₦40 – ₦50k in one night. Other nights, you can make more or less than that. Funny enough, the highest amount I made in a night — ₦100-000 – ₦200,000 — was from one house party and not even a club.  

    There’s money in stripping, and there’s also a lot of wahala, but most people don’t see that.

    WEDNESDAY:

    People assume that strippers aren’t meant to be in a romantic relationship. That’s their business because I’m seeing someone. To be honest, the reason the relationship works is that my boyfriend is a crazy person and I’m a shameless woman. He always says he’ll do worse things than stripping if he were a woman. The fact that he knows my story ensures that my job —  giving lap dances and customers touching my boobs or tapping my ass — doesn’t pain him. Sometimes, he’ll tell me, “Go get your money, girl.” I love him so much, and I pray God keeps us together. 

    My mum is also aware of what I do for a living, but I’m not sure if my dad knows. Funny story: my junior sister is also a stripper. One weekend she came visiting and begged to follow me to work. Even though she was just a spectator, she picked almost ₦40k from the floor that night. And that was how she started her stripper career. 

    Sometimes I think about how every fucking thing in my life has changed. In the past, I’d cook jollof rice to eat for four to five days because I couldn’t afford what I wanted to eat. Now, I barely cook. I also couldn’t afford to help my siblings financially, but now I’m chief of the house. And for me to be the chief, you know I got it. Hahaha.

    THURSDAY:

    At work today, we’re discussing the many dirty names Nigerians call strippers. It’s funny when people say we’re opening our body to make money. In reality, everyone uses what they have [brain, connections, body] to get what they need. I don’t care about what people have to say. Well, except for the Nigerian police.

    I demand better treatment from the police because they’re always harassing strippers. If I dress sexy or the way I like, policemen talk to me anyhow. When policemen stop me on the road, I don’t smile and I guess that increases their anger towards me. How can I be smiling with people who raided our club during the Covid curfew and took me to the station wearing only a pant and a bra? I ended up paying ₦70,000 to conduct a Covid test that turned out to be negative. 

    I can’t even afford to be spending money anyhow seeing as strip clubs haven’t fully re-opened. It’s house parties we’re managing for now. If this Covid thing hadn’t disrupted all of 2020, by now I should be counting millions. Instead, everywhere red and the brokeness choke. 

    FRIDAY:

    It’s up to the stripper to determine if they want to move things forward with the client or leave it alone at just dancing. When clients request a happy ending, I tell them I don’t do that. I’m happy that even without the happy ending, I still make money. I’ll forever be grateful for my decision to move from the mainland to the Island because it increased my earning potential. Mostly because there are no big strip clubs on the mainland.

    I love expensive life, and I spend today thinking about the fact that I’m on my way to living the kind of life I wish for. Although my life is currently not expensive, I still love it. In addition to stripping, I also make and sell my own perfumes and perfume oil.  I also sing at events somewhere in that mix. Before I sign out from being a stripper, I must have my own strip club and ensure that all my queens learn how to make their own money.

    I know God is going to do many things in my life, but I just don’t know where he’s going to start. Until that time comes, I’m married to capitalism.


    Check back every Tuesday by 9 am for more “A Week In The Life ” goodness, and if you would like to be featured or you know anyone who fits the profile, fill this form.

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  • Have you ever wondered if your guardian angel made a mistake when assigning your new-born self to a country?

    Take this quiz and find out where you really belong:

  • “A Week In The Life” is a weekly Zikoko series that explores the working-class struggles of Nigerians. It captures the very spirit of what it means to hustle in Nigeria and puts you in the shoes of the subject for a week.


    The subject of today’s “A Week In The Life” is a medical practitioner who has been taking care of a sick parent since last year August. He tells us about the frustrations of the healthcare system, the mind-blowing financial costs and the emotional tolls an illness exerts on a person.

    MONDAY:

    My days are so similar that they’ve become a blur — it starts at 6 a.m. and ends at 9 p.m. From the minute I wake up and take my bath, I’m running errands: get X tests done here, buy Y drugs at another place, run to Z place to get blood. I’m always on the move because there’s usually a lot happening with a sick person. My first errand today is buying antibiotics outside the hospital for my dad. I start my waka by making a few calls to pharmacies to compare the prices of the medicine. After securing a decent price, I make arrangements for pickup and delivery.

    It’s 4 p.m the next time I look at a clock. Between running around to pick up medicines and calling my mum for updates about my dad, I wonder where my day went. I also don’t remember if I’ve eaten today. But I don’t have time to ponder over this because I have to take over from my mum in the ward — we alternate the cleaning and feeding of my dad — while she goes home. Depending on my dad’s mood when I’m done feeding him, we either have a conversation or he asks to sleep. He’s in the mood for a conversation today, so I pass time with him while waiting for the doctors to start their evening rounds. I can’t wait to leave the ward, get food and sleep because the cycle begins again tomorrow.

    TUESDAY:

    When the doctor told me that my dad’s condition was multiple myeloma, I cried because I had no one to vent to. Multiple Myeloma is a cancer of plasma cells, and one of the symptoms is brittle bones. The damage to my dad was so bad that his hip removed from its joint. I’ll never forget the days leading up to his admission at the hospital. We were always home alone [Mumsi had to go to work]. One morning, I broke his hand while trying to move him from the bed to a chair. One minute I was trying to move him and the next, I heard a loud kpa sound. I was so scared because I had never seen so much shock and pain on my dad’s face before. For his sake, I had to compose myself and reassure him that it’d be okay.  I called his physiotherapist immediately I left his room, shouting, “My daddy’s hand has broken. It has broken.” Even though the physiotherapist gave me first aid tips, my mind was still not at rest. I experienced flashbacks where I’d relive the memory of the bone breaking throughout that week. In the middle of a task, I’d hear the kpa breaking sound and become sad all over again. This memory is why I can’t complain about the hospital stress because I know whatever pain I’m going through, my dad is going through times ten of it.

    It’s sad to say this but I’d been shielded from reality as a medical practitioner before this. Being on the other side has shown me what patients and their relatives pass through. My mum and I had to rent a hotel outside the hospital because the “living area” allocated for patients’ relatives is jam-packed because we’re in the middle of a pandemic, and the general building design is not old people friendly. 

    One time my dad needed blood and I kept following up with the blood bank for three days without show. It wasn’t until the fourth day when I went to the blood bank with a friend, who was a medical practitioner in the hospital, that they finally attended to my dad’s case. I was livid and people had to hold me from losing my shit. It’s crazy that I had to know someone to get blood. Since that day, I started wearing my scrubs to the blood bank and the ward since we’re all mad. 

    WEDNESDAY:

    My dad got admitted at the hospital on a Thursday, and I remember thinking to myself: “The health care system is fucked.” My first introduction to the anyhowness of the system was when I had to carry my dad on a wheelchair to the last floor twice. Apparently, there was light but the elevator wasn’t working. I know I paid at least nine people ₦500 here and there to either help me lift my dad or fast track his settling in. That first week was also difficult because we didn’t have access to my dad except during visiting hours, and he required constant attention. In retrospect that first week wasn’t bad. At least compared to the weeks that followed. We still had peace, and he was still responding to chemotherapy. If only we had known that the coming weeks would show us pepper. 

    THURSDAY:

    You’re one illness away from poverty doesn’t hit home until it happens to you. It can only be experienced, not explained. When my dad got admitted, I thought we’d just do chemotherapy then surgery and we’d be done in a month. LMAO. 

    After the surgery, it has been one complication after another — respiratory distress, swelling of the body, low PCV. And we’ve had to run tests to locate the problem. At one point, I was averaging about ₦60,000 per day on tests and drugs. Then we had to switch him to a class of antibiotics because of postoperative complications, which cost ₦10,000 for one. I died when the doctor said he was going to need 15 vials. This is minus surgical implants, diapers, money for surgery, dressing gauze, irrigation solution for wound dressing. It was that day that it clicked in my head why my customer told me I had spent over a million naira on drugs alone. Illnesses are not only financially draining, they also drain you emotionally. I’m constantly having to reassure my mum things will turn out fine. Today, one of my uncles was crying over the phone because he couldn’t send money to help us, and I also had to reassure him that it’d be fine. The curse of being an only child is having to be strong for everyone even when you’re clueless about how to get money for drugs. 

    Same today the nurse came to tell me that my dad exhausted his Clexane [a drug to prevent bedridden patients from developing a clot] and I couldn’t say anything because it’s a non-negotiable daily drug. At ₦2700 per vial, we’ve been buying the drug for him every day for almost seven weeks. I’m at my wit’s end, and I’m tired of this place. Even though it’s less than two months, it feels like I’ve been here for six months.

    FRIDAY:

    My mum is a superwoman abeg. Has she been scared? Yes. Has she been composed? Yes. Has she shown up? Double Yes. Her presence has made this ordeal a bit bearable.  I don’t feel completely alone anytime I see her. It helps that she’s a positive soul with so much good vibes. Sometimes she’ll call me to say “Daddy finished eating his food, and he ate it all by himself.” Other times I’ll see her petting my dad to eat and my dad pretending not to like the attention and fuss — he knows he can’t try serenre with me because I don’t have time. 

    Yesterday my mum was looking stressed, so I told her to go home early to rest. Today, she came back looking refreshed. I feel bad anytime I remember how this whole ordeal made me selfish to her. As a result of the emotional stress from running around, I didn’t realise I was transferring aggression to my mum. It wasn’t until a friend pointed out my aggression to me that I saw I had been too caught up in how I was feeling to remember that my mum was feeling the same way too. I apologised to her, and I’ve become less selfish. I like how refreshed she looks so I’m going to tell her to take a few more days off. I really can’t afford for both my parents to break down at the same time. I can’t afford it.

    God, I know I’ve questioned you during this period, but I pray my dad’s quality of life goes up and he gets better. We deserve this rest. I haven’t gone home in seven weeks, and I’m looking forward to sleeping on my bed. I miss my friends. I miss my old life. I just want things to go back to normal. 


    Check back every Tuesday by 9 am for more “A Week In The Life ” goodness, and if you would like to be featured or you know anyone who fits the profile, fill this form.

  • Waking up every day as a Nigerian living in Nigeria is an excruciating experience, but thanks to the ever-kind people at Zikoko, we have come up with a few realistic ways you can get out of this country before this country finishes you.

    1. Jazz

    Yes, you heard us correctly. You may be afraid to contact the jazzmen in your village so your village people don’t ruin your plans, but thanks to technology, you can now find them on Instagram. Be ready to pay oh; we hear they don’t come cheap.

    2. Dreaming

    What better way to get to your dream country than actually dreaming about it every night. Stare at pictures of the Canadian flag, keep doing this till you get the desired effect.


    3. Night Bus

    In case you’re not a dreamer, the night bus is your next best bet. Take the bus going out of Nigeria, go to the nearest park and ask for whatever bus is leaving Nigeria. 

    4. Legzus

    All hopes have failed for you to fall into this category but we get it, leaving Nigeria is a must. Start your journey by 12 midnight, but before you start, please cover yourself in the blood of Jesus and ensure you use google maps to lead you through the best routes.

    5. Aladdin’s Magic Carpet

    Go to the nearest call center and tell them to link you to Aladdin.  Don’t tell them why you are calling him sha, so they don’t chance you. When you reach him, beg him to borrow you his carpet because your life depends on it. We hope he says yes.

    6. Anoint Your Passport And Go To The Airport.

    We have heard the testimonies, so we advise you try it out. Anoint the passport, when you get to the airport, tell them your pastor said they should let you in. Don’t worry, it will work.

    We have told you all these now oo, last to leave Nigeria is a fool.

  • Are you even Nigerian if your parents didn’t tell you not to collect food from strangers, classmates, neighbours, because they didn’t want you to be initiated into witchcraft?

    Because I was interested in knowing if anybody ever got initiated, I put out a call for stories. Here are the answers I got.

    Emem.

    I was 6 at the time, and a new student in Primary 2. My seat partner was a girl called Oyiza. Becoming her seat partner meant that her best friend had to move to another seat, and she hated it. It soon became a serious issue, very serious that teachers had to intervene. They made us ‘hug it out’ in front of the whole class.

    I was skeptical of the ‘hug’ as a solution to everything. Oyiza had been mean towards me, she tore my notes, lied against me, and hugging her was the right solution? But they were our teachers and they knew best, so I went along with it. The next day, Oyiza brought me candy.

    In retrospect, I shouldn’t have taken it. But we were turning a new leaf, so I collected it and licked. My weird dreams began that night. In the dreams, I was being sent to retrieve bones and skulls for a skeleton queen. And there was a condition: I had to arrive on time or I would die at the end of the mission. The dreams went on for three more days before they stopped. For a while after that, whenever I wished something bad on people, like sickness, it would happen.

    This was when I became convinced that I’d been initiated, I became scared and confessed to my parents. They took me for deliverance and I missed school for a week. When I returned, Oyiza had transferred out of our school.

    Mirabel.

    This happened back when my parents needed someone to stay with their younger children while they were away at work. My mother spoke to her relatives and they brought someone from the village, a young girl whose age I can’t remember now. She was older than me and my twin sister, but we were very young, so she wasn’t that old. Perhaps in her late teens. She would cook, and do the necessary things, but most importantly, she looked after us (me, my twin, and my younger brother) while our parents were away at work. Naturally, we were close to her. After all, she was the only older figure in the house with us.

    One day, we were playing in the house and she carried one of our teddy bears and said she would use it to communicate with her boyfriend, Kelvin. Right there, she started talking in a very weird voice.

    “Kelvin, Kelvin, I summon you!”

    We thought it was a joke, that she was play-acting to entertain us. But she wasn’t. She told us she was sending him madness. It didn’t exactly make sense to us, but nobody pressed her further. Now, there was this other lady in our apartment block who was friends with our maid, and who, in our maid’s later confession, happened to be a witch too. One day, they were both licking ice cream. The lady offered it to me and my sister. I’ve always had a sweet tooth, so I collected it and licked, but my twin sister refused.

    Not long after, things started to go bad in the family. Money issues, and my parents were fighting a lot, so my mother attended a prayer meeting with the maid. I wasn’t taken along, but it was during this prayer meeting that she confessed.

    In the story that we were told by my mother, the plan was to initiate me and my twin, but according to her confession, our orisa ibeji was too strong for her to penetrate. We went for deliverance after that, and she was sent back to the village.

    Dorcas.

    I was 3 and we had a housemaid, Aunty Lara. My mum had always warned that I let her know whatever I eat or I’m given outside, but one day, I took a stroll with Aunty Lara and she bought me fried fish. She asked me not to tell anyone, but I told my mum about the fish. Aunty Lara was angry, and I apologized because she really liked me a lot.

    I slept in my parents’ room that night. When I woke up in the middle of the night to pee, I saw different types of birds trying to take me away. I screamed, and my parents woke up and began to pray and call Holy Ghost Fire. I kept screaming. Eventually, “fire” caught one of the birds and it melted on the floor. Then the rest disappeared. That was when Aunty Lara knocked on the door. The conclusion my parents drew was that I was to be initiated with the fried fish. I went for deliverance, Aunty Lara too. But deliverance or not, she had to leave our house. Life continued, I grew older, we relocated and I forgot all about it.

    About 10 years later, I went to visit my family friends who took over that house from us. When I went into the room where the incident happened, I saw the stain from the melted bird. So I asked them, “You people didn’t clean this stain?” and they said “What stain?”

    Apparently, I was the only one who could see it. My mother swears Aunty Lara was really a witch who confessed that she wanted to initiate me. But which African mother won’t? I’m not even religious now, and I have psychosis. It’s a condition that affects the way your brain processes information, and it causes you to lose touch with reality. You might see, hear, or believe things that aren’t real. So, while my mother confirms the incident, it could just have been my mind in a state, because to me, there’s no logical explanation for the whole incident.

    Anjola.

    My father was abusive. He often hit me and my mother, and one day I told this girl, my classmate, that I was having problems at home. I didn’t know about her; I just needed someone to share my story with and she was available. One day, she told me that she could give me something that would help me do anything to my dad because he was the root of the problems. All I just had to do was eat whatever she brought for me. I wanted to be done with my father’s abuse, so I agreed. I was 8, same as the girl.

    She started bringing boiled egg, boiled plantain, banana, eko (agidi), moin moin. I ate it for like a week and then she told me that after school the following day, I would follow her to a place where I would be given the powers. I said okay. I didn’t want my mother to be worried if I came home late the next day, so when I got home that Thursday, I asked for permission to follow the girl. That was when my mother started asking questions and I answered everything. My mother beat the hell out of me. She said, “So you want to be a witch? You want to be a witch, abi?”

    After beating me, she took me to a church where they did deliverance for me, white-garment style. They lit coloured candles around me, burned incense and told me to kneel down inside the circle of candles. Then they flogged me with a broom, and gave me something to drink. I vomitted for two days straight.

    By the time I was going back to school, my mum told me to avoid the girl. I didn’t want to, so I went and tried to talk to her, but she was running away from me. The next day she didn’t come to school and that was the last I heard of her.

    Yetunde.

    I wasn’t initiated but I came very close. This is why I dislike Amala till date.

    I was 7 or 8 then, and we had a housegirl. She was about 16. My mum was pregnant and she needed extra hands since me or my siblings weren’t old enough to assist her, so she reached out to her friend who brought the girl. My father enrolled her in school, and her duties were to prepare our meals, clean the house and assist the cleaning lady to wash our clothes. I often joined her to do whatever she thought I could handle, and we soon became so close that I started to follow her about. I was young and gullible, and I had no sister figure, so she filled that gap.

    But my father soon began to suspect her. Her spirit, he said, was antagonising his. He is a traditionalist, and sometimes calls himself a herbalist, so he knows things. He kept the suspicions to himself; I think he wanted to have concrete evidence.

    And then my dreams began. In it, a cloaked figure was always trying to grab me, but just before it happened, I would blurt out “Jesus! Jesus!” and be jolted awake. I thought I could handle it, so I never told anyone. Once, I told her about the dreams, but she didn’t look fazed. I did not read any meaning into this.

    Until the night she served Amala. That night, my mum told her to prepare Amala for the house. When she was done, she dished everyone’s portions in separate plates as always. But for the first time, she specified which food was mine and which one belonged to my siblings. That was what spiked my father’s suspicion.

    He told her to serve him my food instead but she insisted that the food was meant for me and no one else. My dad insisted too, and she declined vehemently. According to her, the portion she dished was the size I always ate. I didn’t see the big deal, but it was already becoming an argument. Finally, my dad ate the food, and she became angry.

    When he ate the food, my father felt something in his body. But whatever it was, it didn’t work on him, because he wasn’t her target. That was when she began to shout that the food was for me and not my father. She was hysterical. She confessed that she put something inside my Amala, and that the food was the last stage of my initiation. She confessed that she went to meetings too. It then clicked that she was the reason for the dreams because the meeting days coincided with the days I had those dreams. Her luggage was checked, and we found some of my personal items, including my hair comb.

    My father can tell a more detailed story about this period. But I don’t want to ask him because it would bring back memories. Since that time though, he has been very protective of me. And we never employed another housegirl after that.


  • Co-written by Zikoko Contributor @Adahna


    If you’re still getting Nigerian Law School horror flashbacks year later, this post is for you.

    1. When you see your name on the list, and you’ve been posted to your choice campus.

    YES!!!

    2. When you get to class in week 2 and see all the textbooks people already have.

    Hian! Didn’t we all just resume?

    3. When you wear your favorite white shirt and class gets cancelled.

    What a waste.

    4. When they send you back home because your shirt is off-white not snow-white.

    Can you not?

    5. You, whenever you hear “Snap test”:

    Who did I offend?

    6. Whenever Lagos students heard “Ijesha, pass the mic.”

    NLS Horror Story: Microphones.

    7. When you get to see all the girls in their natural state for law dinner.

    Wow!

    8. When week 13 reaches and you find out half the books you bought were a waste of money.

    See money I could have used to eat.

    9. Whenever you have to say “as the court pleases” to that demon Judge.

    Monday morning

    Even if they are insulting you.

    10. When the firm you get posted to tells you that you need to do a test before they can accept you.

    What is this stress?

    11. You, thinking about how you’re going to fill your log book:

    God, help me.

    12. When portfolio assessment season approaches and you start hearing, “Fail portfolio assessment and you won’t get called to the Bar.”

    Let’s hear word.

    13. You, calculating Scale of Charges and Accounting and wondering what Further Maths is doing inside Law.

    Is this my life?

    14. When everyone starts remembering God 3 weeks to Bar finals.

    Oh! You can pray now?

    15. When finals are close, and you’re still getting confused by ‘in the north vs in the south, in Lagos vs in Abuja, PCL vs CA, CPA vs CPC’

    I’m dead.

    16. When you remember that you are expected to memorise everything and you begin to have a panic attack.

    Jehovah!

    17. When one lawyer comes to give a speech about how “Bar finals are not that serious…”

    Better leave this place.

    18. When Bar final week finally reaches and there is a paper fixed for everyday.

    You people are mad.

    19. When you remember after your Criminal litigation paper that the answer you wrote was for Civil litigation.

    It’s all over.

    20. When you remember ‘your lowest grade is what you graduate with’ and you begin to calculate your future.

    Chineke!

    21. When you hear that they have released results.

    It can’t be.

    22. When you get the liver to check and see that you and your guys passed.

    Time to go and buy wig and gown.

    23. When you can now proudly respond to ‘D LAW’, ‘D BARR’ and ‘COUNSEL’!

    Finally!