LifeList Series: 60 Things A Man Should Never Do, No Matter How Long He Lives (part 1)

LifeList Series: 60 Things A Man Should Never Do, No Matter How Long He Lives (part 1)


[Note: this is the first  of my LifeFacts series.  If you have a suggestion for a topic,  please send to me at]

Heads up everyone! This post is a mix of standard English, and Nigerian pidgin English for emphasis,  and/or for convenience.

It has come to my attention that dudes tend to be idiots sometimes.  I mean,  some guys dey fall hands wella. In this series,  most points will be based on macho and cultural preferences.
Disclaimer : I’m creating a list,  not drafting a law so there’s no penalty for not agreeing (you’ll still have to bear the consequences though). Not agreeing to any of these facts doesn’t mean your evil,  it only means you’re wrong (and clueless).
Here are the first 30 Not To’s. As a man,  you should NEVER EVER:

1) Remove your shirt in public –  unless there’s plenty of sand and a large body of water nearby.

2) (i) Admit to watching any movie on Telemumdo. (ii)  Actually watch Telemumdo.

3) Cry while watching any movie apart from Brian’s Song,  or A Walk to Remember.

4) (i) Compete for the Mirror –  they’re pretty much meant for the women; (ii) stay longer than  ten minutes in front of the mirror.

5) Ask a woman “Hey,  you got a license for that ass?”

6) Spend more than five hours a week playing video games. –  Chinedu Uzonnaji, take note.

7) Correct someone’s grammar unless (a) you are asked to do so. (b)  you are paid to do so (c) the person is both under the age of eighteen and your own kid.

8) Sit while a pregnant woman has to stand.

9) (i) Fail to study for an exam. (ii) fail an exam because of this.

10) Fake an American accent –  in public, or when trying to hit on a girl.  Puh-leeeeaaaassseee!

11) Use the bathroom in front of any woman that isn’t a nurse (including your wife)

12) Ask a cop,  “You ever shoot anybody with that thing?” 

13) Argue with a cop –  you were caught,  own up. Accept defeat.  The only thing you’ll win in that battle is a hot cell and a cell mate named Haywire.

14) catwalk –  for whatever reason. In Nigeria,  you could serve time (14 years) for that. Inugo?

15) Wear too tight or too short jeans that shape your package. Ndi Ara!  Everyone’s okay playing the guessing game.
It’s worse if the colour is pink,  green,  yellow, or red. Some guys dey try sha.

16) criticize another man’s wife in front of him.

17) Know the Full lyrics to a Miley Cyrus song.

18) Go a year without reading a book –  any book.

19) Expect praise for something you are meant to do.  (eg: pay the bills,  care for your family and friends,  work for a living).  Guy, How far na?

20) Relax and gel/curl/fry your hair.  Come on!  You shouldn’t compete with your woman –  and she shouldn’t have to help you gel your hair. Shuu!

21) Forget where you came from or who helped
you to get to where you are.

22) Lie to a kid by telling them they can be
anything they want to be. (Most likely, they

23) Post drunken pictures—of yourself or
anyone else—on Facebook.

24) Wear sunglasses at night,  in the mall,  inside the church,  or on your fore head.  There are worse ways to define the word “gross”!

25) Use the words” fuck” or “bitch” whole talking to your parents. Really? 
Na amadioha go fire you if you try am.

26) Look longingly at your mother’s breast. You need a shrink  if you’ve ever done that.  Seriously!

27) Hang anything—your cellphone, your keys—on your belt.
You’ll never get laid again. True story.

28) Pluck your brows. It’s okay to groom. It’s okay to like a
woman who grooms. It’s not okay to groom like a woman.

29) Scratch/massage/adjust your balls on public, or in front of any woman.
E dey sweet sometimes,  but try to do it when alone.  And try not to masturbate while at it.

30) Eat a banana in public –  for whatever reason. Please do Not try this…  Ever!

Okay,  there you have it. 30 more to come in 24 hours.  Does anyone disagree? agree? Have anything to add?  Visit the comment box,  I’d like to hear your thoughts.

Don’t forget to use the Like,  and Share button.

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Post by By Amadieabasi Udofa



By Ama Udofa.


Most people who own Facebook accounts log in to have fun: share pictures, follow the latest trends, debate sociopolitical issues, and whatnot. Hymar David, however isn’t your regular Facebook user.

Hymar David  is currently finishing a degree in English and Literature in the University of Benin, Nigeria. He is an emerging writer with a unique writing style. If you have read his stories online, chances are, you must have noticed the unusually shocking/emotive approach to his storylines, the occasional heart-stopping, mindscrewing twists, the thought-provoking messages that his stories always carry, and the tantalising aftertaste they usually leave on your tongue after reading.

Hymar was a member of the Farafina Creative Writing workshop class of 2013. Armed with experience, he has gone ahead to create a niche for his writing, online.

Earlier this year, Hymar almost singlehandedly organized a Facebook-based flash fiction tournament. The idea behind the competition he  named ‘The Flash: ECLIPSE’ was to promote emerging writers, and the art of reading and writing pint-sized prose which feature bursts of creativity. Many of the writers who partook in the competition have undergone tremendous improvements ever since. Some of them have gone on to publish their works in reputable online magazines. One of Hymar’s stories in the tournament was shortlisted for this year’s Ake/Air France Prize for Prose.

The structure of The Flash: ECLIPSE (TFE) was quite unique and unusual. Nothing like the popularity contests where writers have to hunt solely for votes if  their stories are to stand any chance. In TFE, after the call for submissions, a shortlist was drafted by a panel of judges which included top Nigerian literary names such as Pearl Osibu, Ikhide Ikheloa, et cetera. These final sixteen writers were then placed in groups of four where they battled to progress, African Nations Cup style. Match-ups were set, theme prompts given, and writers duelled. Public voting complemented judges votes.  The contest ended after three weeks which featured quarter-final, semi-final, and final stages. The overall winner got thirty thousand naira, while the runner-up went home with ten thousand Naira. The other two semifinalists walked away with five thousand Naira each for their efforts. During the competition, all stories were posted anonymously and writers were prohibited from soliciting votes so that stories that won were based on merit, and not merely popularity.

Hymar David is a passionate writer. He literally breathes by writing, and while he is unhappy with the comatose literary situation in Nigeria, he desperately yearns to ameliorate it. His thoughts:

“Nigerian writers are talented, we sabi the thing. It’s just that the infrastructure for constant development is not there. While writing can’t be taught, it can be honed. It can be polished, the jagged edges chipped away. How many MFAs do we have in this gigantic country? None! The Americans have structure, they have programs for writers, that’s why writing in America is a big deal. They are churning out new talents consistently. The American publishing industry is running on billions. Not publishers asking to publish emerging writers for exposure. Are we going to eat exposure? We are not serious here. Our mates are honing new talents that in five or six years would beat us in the Commonwealth and Caine prizes, we’re here organizing popularity contests that promote popular chaff instead of quality. All we have to show in the last decade or so is Chimamanda…How many real publishing houses do we have in Nigeria apart from Farafina and Cassava publishers?

Every year, Nigerian writers (myself included) wait for  Commonwealth to  call for entries so we can submit stories we’ve worked on all year, and hope to at least get shortlisted so that Penguin or HarperCollins see our names  and maybe send us a mail and ask to see our works. Same thing with Caine prize. Even the Farafina workshop I attended last year, the number of entries should give you the idea of how desperate and restless the Nigerian writer is.”

Hymar has a passion to help upcoming writers grow, and that he is still a university undergraduate without a regular job does not deter him. This is evident in the current project he is working on — The Flash: BLACKOUT, a supercharged version of The Flash: Eclipse, billed to hold in January next year. The winning prizes have been upgraded —The winner will go home with One Hundred thousand naira, first runner-up, Fifty thousand naira, while the remaining semifinalists will make do with twenty thousand naira making it the highest paying Nigerian prize for writing. These figures are not fixed as Hymar intends to even bump them further if he gets more sponsors.


On how he started writing, here’s what he had to say:

“I write because there are things I try to say but can’t because my voice won’t let me. When I was little, something happened to my voice. It became difficult to talk. Actually, I had trouble breathing while talking. And the words I tried to say, when they came out, sounded choked like there was this lump  in my throat. I stopped talking unless spoken to. I would get funny stares when I talked to people. I still get them.”

Apparently, Hymar’s greatest longing is to see literature in Nigeria grow and blossom into serious business. He feels that one reason Nigeria’s education issues arise  is because indigenous writers are not taken seriously. Over here, writers have to be published by foreign press before they are even noticed. This is why he, along with fifteen other talented writers recently worked on and published a short story anthology titled ‘Tales From The Other Side.’ They made the book free, and it is available in pdf, online at

Hymar David is a true example of one who turned a disability (speech problem) into an ability. In fact, his greatest fear is to end up average. “Dreams come true, but you have to wake up for them to,” He says.

War of The Flags


This is the world we live in. Where we are told what to, and what not to pray about. And called morons for our prayers.

You don’t have issue with Non-gays making the rainbow profile pic, yet, when when it comes to dead French [innocent] civilians, it becomes an Issue.

And don’t even bring this issue about racism, or prejudice. Didn’t the Obamas join the #BBOG campaign?

Besides,  methinks you can pray for both Nigeria and France in the same prayer session. God no be pay-as-you-go MTN wey go charge you for extra seconds of prayer. God isn’t a low-RAM smartphone either. Him Sabi multi-tasking wella. Whatever happened to the proverbial stone used to kill multiple birds?



This was Dedicated to Joe Aito of The Dark Notes on his birthday. I  decided I should share.

Down in the abyss
Where you will sit
Biding your time
Nurturing your bloodlust
For so much hope lies
In you, the last in your bloodline
Being one not of the dust.
Dracula awaits
The vamps await
His followers he sends out
to find the chosen ones
The ones with any special gift
Any at all
Whether they may sit
waiting to devour  souls
Or they roam
Ripping souls
From flesh. O damned ghouls
But his followers have found none
O special one.
With frustration, he  yells:
‘Is there no-one else?’
But none answers.
So,  here we are
Round your infernal  pit
We will feed you blood
Thick, red liquid
Till you mature
Then you will roam the earth
and devour their souls
and rob them of their flesh
Until then
You are the only hope
For us  the lost and the damned

Late Night Poetry- The Bard

Late Night Poetry- The Bard

It’s been quite some time I wrote anything worth publishing. I’m glad to be back. I hope to be more frequent here, hence forth. In the meantime, Do read this pint-sized poem.

The Bard

My pulse would race
When I was told you would
leave me
To stagger
Into the embrace of the reaper of grim

Hope was lost
Broken, unbroken
Three years later
Dark swoops lingered, unending

But now I remember that
Because I wrote you down
On these pages
And stored you
In the deepest crevice of my heart
You will live forever

Prosper Ifeanyi Emeh’s Short Story.

Good day everyone. I have for you, an enthralling short story told beautifully by one kain writer like that and edited by yours truly. ‘one kain‘ because I been think say I lazy before I meet this guy. Him dey like form modesty but well, e nor dey move me. Make him dey there dey deceive himself. *Yimu* Without further ado, I introduce Prospero Ifeanyi’s short story Have a good read.


Continue reading “Prosper Ifeanyi Emeh’s Short Story.”

Flash Fiction Sunday


Happy Sunday folks! Here’s a piece I wrote during The Eclipse Flash contest earlier this year. Do read, I’ll love to hear from you. If you’d like to send your own pint-sized creative piece, to be published, send message to my E-mail including a complete story of not more than 350 words. Cheers!


The room was cold and moist. Nonso saw his reflection in the window – a perfect replica of the dying man that lay before him. There was something about the faded blue covers that nauseated him.

Nonso had avoided hospitals all his life but here he was, in the private ward where his dying Pa lay. There were deep shadows and wrinkles under his eyes. A distressing reality loomed in his mind. The fact that they hadn’t talked in years bothered him. As his old man lay here, Nonso knew his father’s end was near. He would never get the chance to tell Pa how he really felt.

*           *         *         *          *        *         *

Nonso had lost his wife and son in a car crash. Rehab helped little. Every night before he slept, he wished he would wake up with amnesia. The past eight years were a blur now. Dr. Chiamama said he’d snapped like a twig during Harmattan. He didn’t feel any better now as his only family left was his father, whom the grim reaper eyed intently with ambition.

‘I forgive you Pa.’ He sighed, even though he knew Pa couldn’t hear him.

Nonso felt giddy, and as he said those words, he had to resist the urge to puke. Who would have thought he would ever say this? The seething hate he felt all those years when his father would come home drunk, and would hit him for no reason. He didn’t feel the same way now, as he watched his Pa take his final breaths.

Pa made a ratlike noise and it was his name: ‘Nonso….’ He did not move. Pa’s last word was his name. A summons, to which he did not respond…he did not weep, and it pained him that he could not weep for he had no more tears. In the depths of his being, in the recesses of his weakened conscience, a gaping vacuum hung. Could he have searched it, he might find consolation. His head started to pound as he muttered the words:

Dear Lord. Give me strength.

Saving Okon

I just stumbled on this. I had a good read. And a huge laugh. Ha ha!


iq-khampha-kenh14--03a-3178aOkon burst into the small room with grave expressions of disappointment and sadness sitting across his little face. Mama Okon and Papa Okon were seated on the old, worn-out sofa in the middle of the room when he came in.

Today was the end of the first term at school when report cards were distributed. Okon had come last but one in a class of fifty two students the previous term. He has always come last but one every term. Mama Okon and Papa Okon had threatened to disown him if he came last but one this term.

When they saw the expressions of sorrow on his face when he burst into the room, they knew it had happened again. Papa Okon slowly rolled the big morsel of fufu in his hand, his mouth agape, as he stared at his unintelligent son.

Okon walked to a seat and sat, unperturbed by the…

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