I stumbled upon a post in a public forum where the writer opined it was better for adults to get married early in order to forestall the possibility of attending Parent-Teacher Association (PTA) Meetings at the age of 50. As expected, the controversial viewpoint generated varying comments from members of the group.
In a society that is obsessed with celebrities, fandom and sharing information no matter how confidential it is, fame and privacy are parallel lines; they do not meet.
She’s received heavy criticism for her less-than-encouraging words to auditioners who showed up for the Nigerian Idol music reality TV show. For someone who’s far more experienced and must have had her fair share of struggles on her journey to stardom, folks figured she should have been more empathetic towards the idol-hopefuls trying to achieve the same dream.
The euphoria that has trailed the announcement of Damini Ogulu, popularly known as Burna Boy was expected. We had been there before…waiting with bated breaths in periods of heightened anticipation that often ended up in disappointment when artistes like King Sunny Ade and Femi Kuti bagged multiple nominations that failed to result in the big prize.
And even when artistes of Nigerian origin like Babatunde Olatunji and Sikiru Adepoju were named winners, it felt a little weird to associate ourselves with their uncommon feat—a result of their foreign affiliation.
They are one of the most derided professionals in the cyberspace. Introduce yourself as a motivational speaker and you’ll probably hear a wave of giggles or sniggers. The prevalent notion is that motivational speakers are frauds. Sweet-mouth con artists who have mastered the art of creating rhymes out of a slew of words. They are all about bourgeoisie suits and impeccable grammar. Tools they employ to bamboozle their gullible audience with their gospel of ‘aspire to perspire’. As a result, it has become not just unfashionable, but also embarrassing to be called a motivational speaker.
Bretha was dad’s colleagues’ daughter. She was 23 years old. A white blonde with the most charming smile my ten-year-old self had ever seen. It was the first time she and her dad were visiting Nigeria, and indeed the African continent. Before then, dad had told us how Bretha’s dad presumed Africa was a place where people still lived in huts with thatched roofs, where there were no tarred roads, and monkey swung on trees. Dad hadn’t tried to convince him otherwise. Instead, he had fuelled his anxiety as the time he would be coming drew closer by telling him we also ate worms straight from a baby’s buttocks.
We have been here before. We are here every year the reality television show makes an appearance. Anytime, the Big Brother social experiment hits our screens, the moral police are always there, waiting in the wings to pounce. It’s amusing to see how they are never tired of deriding a show they claim to loathe so much. I mean…if I hated something or someone, I’d pretend they didn’t exist. I’d do everything to avoid it and do a mental block. This concept is however alien to critics of Big Brother Naija.
One look at you and they are convinced you are buoyant enough to fulfil their monetary needs.
Welcome to the world of online beggars.
These days, I am wary of responding to private messages from acquaintances or random social media contacts due to one ugly trend: Begging.
Wherever you turn, there’s someone itching to send you their account details.
They lurk on virtual alleys—from Facebook to Twitter to Instagram—seeking whom to fleece.
You could be ranting about COVID-19 and its impact on the world’s economy and someone would respond with their bank information asking you to do giveaway. The sense of entitlement and shamelessness displayed is something that should be studied in schools.
A first-class king is dethroned unceremoniously. To make matters worse, he is banished from his homeland; the land of his forefathers and a place where he once reigned supreme as paramount ruler. It was jolting news for the majority. The prospect of seeing a revered figure in the person of the Emir of Kano being subjected to such a treatment was not an event many envisaged, but it is no rumour. It happened.
Back when we were kids, we had friends whom we got tired of because they were clueless about boundaries. Sometimes, it was because they never knew when to make themselves scarce—they were too available. They would show up at our doors at odd times and stay for hours until we pretended we had to run an errand or go somewhere. They were our friends, we liked them, but soon that friendship got strained—a consequence of their lack of emotional intelligence. As young as I was then, I understood the unwritten rule: being friends with a person should not translate to choking them with one’s presence. I made a mental note to never be a nuisance to anyone (If I could help it) no matter how close I was to them.