Calls (7)

About Me

My name is Abosede Omoakholo. Everyone calls me Bose. I’m a reluctant illegal immigrant. I never planned to leave Nigeria. Lagos was good to me. I had a good job as the deputy branch manager of one of the biggest banks in Nigeria. But, love brought me to America. My fiancé, Tunde, was in Baltimore. Now, love has shredded my heart to pieces. My only refuge is my diary. I started writing it on the plane three and half months ago. It’s taken me until now to have the courage to share it.

I will share a NEW ENTRY EVERY MONDAY.

Read my story 

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Coming to America
I woke up for the third time in five hours. I’m flying across the Atlantic Ocean. I’m going to America to meet the 
love of my life, the father of my unborn children.
I woke up because the flight attendant was offering me another meal. They feed you a lot on these international 
flights. Anytime I flew within Nigeria, all I got was a bun that could shatter the plane’s window if you fling it 
at it.
But on this flight, it was food every two hours. Good food too. I couldn’t even pronounce some of the meals on the 
menu.
Now I know why all those rich and powerful Nigerians travel abroad and return with puffy cheeks and potbellies. 
It’s the airline food.
I took the warm meal from the hostess and shoved it in my mouth. Unlike the other meals, this one was tough on the 
teeth.
“It’s a hot towel, ma’am,” the hostess said as she tried hard not to laugh.  “You use it for the face.”
I almost died out of shame.
Back home, I was what you’ll call a city girl. I grew up in Lagos, the city that is really a metropolis but we call 
a city because that was what the British colonialists called it and someone has not thought it was time to call it 
a metropolis. I went to the University of Lagos, one of the most urbane universities on the continent. And, I was 
an assistant branch manager in a bank on Broad Street, a place some call the financial capital of Africa.
In Lagos, I was an “it girl”. But, on this plane, I had just acted like the ultimate bush girl.
I smiled sheepishly at the hostess as she moved on to the next passenger. I looked around; saw everyone wiping 
their faces with their towels. I did the same.
“Don’t worry about it,” says the middle-aged white woman next to me, “I used to do that all the time too”.
I knew she was trying to make me feel better. No one chews a hot towel twice. But, it still felt nice to hear it. I 
nodded my thanks.
“Where are you flying from?” she asked.
Well, there goes my attempt to blend in. I was hoping people would think I was from England because I boarded the 
plane in London.
“Lagos,” I answered.
“Where is that?” she asked.
“Nigeria,” I replied.
“Oh, the place where they send those fraudulent e-mails and faxes,” she added.
“Pardon, me?” I shot back with a frown.
“I get the e-mails all the time,” she continued like a doctor passing the death sentence on a patient.
All of a sudden, I’m angry with his woman. I have watched a lot of MTV, BET and CNN to know enough of the American 
culture. I know a lot of Americans are good people. But, I also know some of them like to pass judgment on things 
they know little about as if they were Jesus Christ on the throne. I wasn’t going to let this woman off the hook.
“So, where are you from?” I asked.
“Roanoke, Virginia” she answered proudly.
“Ah, the American South!”
“Yeah”
“Your great-grandfathers came to my country with the Bible and stole millions of my people. Turned them into 
slaves.”
I had never seen a white woman turn morbid pale that fast.
“That is not a nice thing to say,” she fumed.
“You think what you said was a nice thing?” I asked..
“You think everybody from the South was a slave trader?” she shot back.
“You think every Nigerian is a criminal?”  I asked. This was funny; we were answering questions with question. 
Maybe she’s a Nigerian in disguise because that is what we do in Nigeria, we answer questions with questions.
“It’s not the same thing,” she said.
“Oh yes, it is,” I responded.
She pouted, turned away and looked out the window at the bluish skies. I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back 
to how I came to be in a plane headed for Baltimore Washington International Airport.
I had dreamt of this trip for four years. But, it was coming two years sooner than I had planned. Or, we had 
planned.

 

The Day Before America
I have come to America for my Tunde. He is the love of my life, the ordained father of my children, the man I would 
spend the rest of my life with.
I met Tunde Oluyomi six years ago. I was 21 and he was 27. I was an advertising executive. He was a journalist. I 
was from the Ishan tribe. He was from the Yoruba tribe. I lived in Oshodi on the Lagos mainland. He lived in Sango 
Ota, on the outskirts of Lagos.
We had very little in common.
“Why you dey always show me your break light?” he asked me one day in Pidgin English after I’d dropped off an 
advert copy for his newspaper.
“What do you mean,” I replied in my polished English. I’d just graduated from the University of Lagos with a Second 
class upper degree in Economics and I wasn’t going to waste my tongue speaking Pidgin English. That language was 
for illiterates.
“Every time I say hello, you just whisper hello back and scram,” he complained.
“Okay, hello, “ I answered and proceeded to theatrically count from one to three.
“See, I’m not running away. I just have to go,” I told him after I counted to three.
He laughed, showing a perfect set of white teeth that contrasted beautifully with his chocolate skin.
“Can I take you to lunch some time? I really want to know you,” he asked boldly, as if he was rolling the dice.
“I’m a busy girl. I don’t do lunch,” I answered.
We both knew it was a lie. But, we both knew he wouldn’t call me out on it. That would be the ultimate romance deal 
breaker.
“Breakfast, lunch, dinner, weekday, weekend – name it. I’m there,” Tunde offered.
“I’ll see you around, Bros,” I replied as I walked away.
“Bros” was a romantic death sentence. It means “big brother”. It’s worse than the friend zone. It’s the “never 
ever” zone. Tunde knew it as soon as I said it. But, he never relented.
He sent me a romantic e-card every day. He sent me bouquet after bouquet of flowers. He bought me chocolates and 
sweets. And, he never showed his face to pressurize it. He always sent a driver from his office.
Most boys in Lagos don’t pamper girls. The older men do. But, that’s why they’re called sugar daddies. The girls 
are toys – mistresses who balance the drudgery of married life. The sugar daddies buy their mistresses cars, rent 
them posh flats and fatten their bank accounts. But, it’s never a permanent thing. One day, a younger girl always 
takes the place of the mistress.
Lagos boys are not romantic. They are bottom line guys. Dinner, movie, club then your back on the mattress. Tunde 
was different. He romanced me as if he was consulting a romance magazine. I am a good Catholic girl who had 
promised God and my mother that I would keep my legs closed until my wedding night.
But, Tunde grew on me. Two days before Valentine’s Day, I called him.
“Will you be my Valentine?” I asked boldly.
I was breaking another little dating rule for girls in Lagos. Never ask a guy out. It diminishes you. But, I felt 
really good about Tunde. I didn’t think about it. I just dialed the phone and said the first thing that came to my 
mind.
I will always remember Tunde’s joyous laughter on the phone. It was a delight. I wish I had saved it on my 
voicemail. It would have been the perfect ring tone.
My parents didn’t approve of him. He was a “Yanmiri”, a Yoruba boy that should not be trusted. I don’t even know 
what the word means. But, I know it’s a bad word.
His parents didn’t approve of me for the same reason. I was an “ajeokuta ma mumi” which meant “he who eats stone 
without drinking water”. It was originally meant to describe people of the Ibo tribe. I wasn’t Ibo. But, to a 
Yoruba in the Nigerian tribal politics, if you’re neither Hausa or Yoruba, you were Ibo. It came from suspicion 
built during the civil war.
The funny thing is, although I am Ishan, I was born in Lagos and I have lived there all my life. I have only made 
two trips to the village. The first time was for an ill-fated Christmas vacation that was cut short because my 
grandmother claimed one of my grandfather’s other wives was a witch and had promised my head at a big witches’ 
meeting. The other trip was for my grandmother’s funeral. But, in Nigeria, you’re from where your forefathers were 
from.
Tunde’s mother told him I am an “Ogbanje” because I was fair-skinned. An “Ogbanje” is a child that made a pact with 
the spirit world to die young. They come to this world to torture their parents. They always die at very important 
periods in their life cycle. Since I already had a university degree, Tunde’s mother was convinced that I had made 
a pact with the spirit world to die on my wedding day.
“You’re just postponing sadness, Tunde. You will remember what I’m telling you on your wedding night when she drops 
dead,” she counseled Tunde.
But, nothing could come between Tunde and I. We had two great years together in Lagos. We were inseparable. He was 
one of the rising stars in political correspondence in Nigeria. Politicians called him every hour of the day.
With Tunde’s encouragement and active support, I went back to school part-time, got a masters degree in Banking and 
Finance and got a job in one of the new banks in Nigeria.
Tunde was very ambitious. He set goals he had to meet at certain ages. He wanted to be an editor by 30. He wanted 
us to be married when he was 31. We would have our first child when he was 32. All I had to do was say Amen. I 
loved my man and I thanked God everyday for him.
Then, Tunde decided to write a weekly column about the plight of the people in the oil-rich but devastated Niger 
Delta. In Nigeria at that time, it was the easiest way to die. During the brutal Abacha regime, journalists were 
jailed. In the new political dispensation, journalists simply disappeared.
Tunde was offered bribes and political appointments if he’d simply report the speeches and press releases of the 
politicians and let the Niger Deltans continue their decades of suffering. But, my man had a conscience as big as 
the ocean. He stayed on the side of the people.
After a couple of attempts on his life, Tunde and I decided it was time he fled the country. He would go abroad, 
study for a master’s degree and return when the situation was better. We even had dreams of owning our own 
newspaper. He would run the publishing side and I would run the business side.
While he was gone, I also embraced my new life as an emergency nun. Men offered me the world if I would go out with 
them. I always said no. I was going to wait for my Tunde.
“The way you’re going, this useless boy you’re waiting for will need a drill to get inside that vagina when he gets 
back,” one exasperated colleague told me after six months of trying to get me to go out on a date with him.
My father also had plans of his own. He wanted a man that would take care of me, not a boy who ran away from his 
country. He promised me to a politician from my state who was a few years older than my father, had three wives and 
had a breath that stank like rotten cheese.
“If it’s abroad you want to go to, I can re-locate you to New York after we marry. I have a house there. You’ll be 
my American wife,” the politician told me the first time I met him at my father’s house.
It all came to a head one, weird day two months ago. My father had called me that morning and said I should make 
sure I come over to his house after work. I was worried all day. I thought something was wrong. I thought for the 
briefest of moments that someone in our family had died or had a terminal illness.
When I got to my father’s house, the politician was waiting. There was a used car outside the house too. It was a 
gift for my father. My father was over the moon. He had worked for the government for thirty years and he couldn’t 
afford a bicycle. Now the politician had given him a car. My fate was sealed. I would marry the old man. I had no 
say in this matter. My father’s word was law.
“He can’t do that. My family brought him wine before I left. We are traditionally married,“ Tunde cried on the 
phone when I told him later that night.
“I think the politician’s money has made him crazy. He now has selective amnesia. You have to save me, Tunde,” I 
cried back.
“What are we going to do?” he wailed on the phone.
“I don’t know! I don’t know! If I can get a visa, I would come over there,” I replied between sobs.
“Don’t even try those embassy people. It’s just another heartache,” he advised.
“You have to come up with a plan, Tunde. My father man is planning to marry me off before Christmas,” I pleaded.
“I’ll work something out. I promise. No one can take you away from me,” Tunde professed.
But, Tunde could not come up with a good plan. For our sake and our future, I had to take matters into my own 
hands.
One morning in September, I rounded up my brother and two sisters. We went to the American embassy and applied for 
a visa.
We had to go to the embassy before September runs out because the politician decided he wanted to do the 
traditional wedding during Independence Day in October. He was running for office and he wanted to use the wedding 
as a rally for his supporters.
The embassy rejected my application. But, they gave my youngest sister a visa. There was no logical reason why she, 
a jobless graduate, got a visa while I, a gainfully employed banker, did not.
But, it all worked according to my grand plan. The reason we all applied for a visa was a shot in the dark that one 
of us would be lucky to get a visa. My siblings and I look alike. If my brother had gotten the visa, all I had to 
do was cut my hair.
Three days before my traditional wedding to the chief, I jumped on a British Airways flight bound for America.
During the stopover in London, I made two calls.
The first was to my father. I thought he would blow a lung or rupture his kidney in anger. But, all he did was 
curse me. I didn’t mind the curse. In Nigeria, we all know curses are local – they don’t travel across the ocean.
Then, I called Tunde. He was so stunned I was on my way to him that he couldn’t quite express his happiness.
I was happy. I was free. I was going to meet my man. In America.In America
“The World Bank, huh? Is that like Bank of America or Citibank?” asked the Immigrations Officer as she looked at my 
passport.
She looked black. But, she could also have been Latina. Or, bi-racial. You can never tell with these Americans.
But, my bigger problem was that I couldn’t really make out what the woman was saying. No matter how much CNN, BET 
and MTV you watch, nothing prepares you for an American accent when you hear it face to face.
“Pardon me,” I said.
“You’ve not done anything wrong, no need to ask for a pardon,” she replied.
“I meant can you repeat the question,” I said.
“Is the World Bank like Bank of America or Citibank?” she asked.
“It’s like the Bank of America, only this time for the whole world,” I said because I had no clue how to answer the 
question. There are no two World Banks.
But, this woman was no ordinary cookie. She takes her job seriously. She cannot be fooled easily.
“You traveled all the way from Africa for a two day meeting?” she queried.
“They won’t let me stay away longer in my office,” I lied.
Her smile faded by a slight shade. Trouble. I dug in.
“Plus, my sister is due any day now. She’s married to a no-good guy who is in prison. I’m on standby on three 
flights every day. If she goes into labor right now, I’m turning back,” I lied.
It’s crazy the things you do for love. I am a church going girl who gives ten percent of her salary as tithe to the 
church. And, I’m Catholic – they don’t enforce those Old Testament rules in the 21st century. I always frown at 
lying and deception. Now, I was Ms. Deception. All because of my Tunde. All because of love.
The immigrations lady shot me an affectionate look. I could swear I saw tears floating in her eyes.
“I so know what you’re saying. My sister is pregnant too and her man is in jail. I don’t know what she’s going to 
do,” she blurted out.
She stamped my passport and passed it to me without another question.
My heart raced with delight. My palms were sweating. Even though the hall was fully air conditioned, I could feel a 
line of sweat dribbling down the back of my neck.
I am officially in America!
“Thank you,” I said.
“I love your accent by the way,” the immigrations lady said.
“Thank you,” I replied and hurried away before she realized I was an impostor.
I wanted to jump up in joy. But, I had to be composed for a few more minutes.
Just to show me how lucky I would be in this America, God arranged it that as I got to the baggage carousel, my bag 
was rolling down the chute. America is going to be good to me.
I got my luggage and strolled towards the arrival hall. I could see people in the arrival lounge waiting to receive 
their guests.
Then I saw him. My Tunde. He was holding a bouquet of flowers and several balloons. He had the biggest smile on his 
face. I was so happy I wanted to cry. I would have run to him if my luggage wasn’t slowing me down.
I was a few steps away from the arrival lounge when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and saw the 
glowering face of a customs officer looking at me. His dog bared his fangs at me.
“Please come with me,” the custom officer said.
It was an order. Not a request. He turned sharply, took his place beside me and marched me to a room at the far 
corner of the hall. As I walked beside him, I could feel my heart slipping into my stomach.
The door opened and I stepped into a room with poor, shadowy lights. Two large, intimidating men stood at either 
end of a table. They stretched their rubber gloves for effect, as if choreographed. I saw a sinister smile curl up 
on the face of one of the men.
I swallowed hard. I’ve seen this before. In the movies. Anal probe. It all adds up. I’m from big, bad Nigeria. I 
must surely be here with some drugs hidden in my bowels.
I set down my luggage, took off my jacket and started undoing the zipper of my trouser.
“What are you doing?” the man who had not been smiling barked at me.
“Getting ready,” I answered tamely.
“Getting ready for what?” the smiling agent who was no longer smiling shouted.
“You want to do a search, right?”
“You hiding something?”
“No”.
I zipped my zipper back up. Perhaps the Americans have a new, more sophisticated way of searching for drugs that 
didn’t include anal probe.
The officer who had led me in took my luggage and dumped them on the table. For the first time, I noticed the 
yellow tag on my bags. It wasn’t there when I left Lagos. My mind was racing with a hundred thoughts. What did I do 
wrong? After all I’d gone through to run away from Lagos, I couldn’t go back. Besides, my father’s curse was 
waiting for me too.
“Do you have any banned food, agricultural produce or dairy in your bag”, one of the officers asked.
“No,” I replied.
One of the officers unzipped one of my bags. He flipped through the neat rows of clothes, magazines and books until 
he discovered the five bounded herbal roots in a plastic bag at the bottom of the bag. The second agent grabbed 
what looked like an x-ray of my bag from the top of a file cabinet. They compared the plastic bag and the x-ray 
image and nodded in agreement. Then, they turned to me with that snarling smile of a boxer who has just shoved his 
helpless, hapless challenger into a corner and is winding up for the kill.
“What is this?” the agent with the sinister smile asked.
“Herb,” I replied.
“Like weed?”
“No, it’s a drug”.
“A drug!” they chorused.
“Yes. A traditional drug,” I replied.
“You know penalty for trafficking drugs in the United States?”
“I am not trafficking. It’s for my private use”.
“Finally, a honest criminal!” the agent with the sinister smile declared.
I didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that my medicinal drug, albeit of the traditional variety, was being 
confused for a hard drug. At that moment I didn’t know that in America, a herb can be a weed and a weed can be a 
herb. I also didn’t know that in America, a drug was called a medication.
Panicked, I told my first truth in America.
“I brought it as a precaution, in case I have malaria,” I said.
“You take drugs for malaria?” the non-smiling agent asked.
“Yes. It’s an African treatment. It’s faster than normal drugs,” I replied.
“You’re calling a medication a drug?” the agent who brought me in asked.
“Yes. We call a drug a drug or a medicine. But, medicine is too long,” I told him.
The agents shared a curious look. I could tell they were confused. Working at an airport like this, I’m sure they’
ve heard a lot of things. But, I guess they’ve never heard this.
“I tell you what, you prove that thing is what you say it is and we’ll let you go. If not, your ass is off to 
jail,” the agent with a sinister smile declared.
“Can I have two bottles of sprite or 7Up please?” I pleaded as two lines of sweat dribbled from my scalp and down 
my neck.
“What for?,” the smiling agent asked.
“To prove myself,” I replied.
“You sure you don’t want a coca-cola? You know, ‘coke is it,” the agent with the sinister smile said with a sneer.
“I’m sure, sir,” I muttered.
“How long is it gonna take?” he asked
“At least four hours,” I responded.
My mind was in a riot. I was not going to bring the herb. But, my mother had insisted. She said she read once that 
when people had malaria overseas, they sent them to Liverpool. Thanks to the game Americans call soccer, my mother 
knew Liverpool was not in America because the city had a big football club in England.
She said the Americans would put me in a cage with dogs and send me to Liverpool where I would arrive with rabies 
and other diseases the English can’t treat. In the end, a very short end, she emphasized, they would dig me a hole 
and wait for me to die.
But, with these five bounded herbs, I can be my own doctor. Once I felt the chills of malaria, I can soak them up 
in a bottle of gin or sprite and wait a few hours until the medicine seep into the sprite. Then, I can let the 
herb-juiced sprite or gin loose on the malaria. It was better with gin but I know these agents will laugh me to 
prison if I asked for a bottle of gin.
The officer who had marched me in returned with two bottles of Sprite.
“You want anything else?” he asked
“Yes, can I have my Bible? It’s in my briefcase,” I replied tamely.
“Sure”.
He opened my briefcase, removed my Bible and handed it over to me.
I soaked two sticks of herb in a bottle of Sprite, closed the lid and opened my Bible to the book of psalms. I may 
be in the land of Christopher Columbus. But, even Columbus bowed to one God. I was going to pray to that God. I 
opened my Bible to the book of Psalms.
“Psalm 23 ain’t gonna help you,” the officer chuckled as he and his colleagues left the room and shut the steel 
door.
I was on Psalm 122 when the door opened again. The agent with a sinister smile and the unsmiling agent entered.
“What you got?” asked the agent with a sinister smile.
I opened the bottle of sprite with the herbs. The color had changed. I grinned. I can now prove my case to them. 
Then, I tasted it and cringed. There was still too much sprite and too little herb.
“It’s not fully ready but a pharmacist can confirm the medicinal content,” I told them, spewing what I later learn 
was called bull shitting in America.
“In this place, we’re the doctors, lawyers, nurses and pharmacists. As a matter of fact, we’re the judge and jury 
too,” the unsmiling agent said.
The unsmiling agent grabbed the bottle, smelt it and frowned.
“It don’t smell like sprite no more,” he declared.
“Well, if you put shit in water, it’s gonna smell different,” the agent with a sinister smile answered as he fished 
a handcuff out of his pocket.
The unsmiling agent tasted the herb-juiced sprite and flexed his jaw.
“It kindda have a kick,” he declared.
Curious, the agent with a sinister smile took the bottle and examined it for several seconds.
“Fuck it, I have insurance. Might as well use it if I have to,” he declared.
He takes a sip. Then a little more. He sets the bottle down, shoots me a confused look for a few moments then turns 
to his colleague.
“It sure tastes like a goddamn syrup,” he said.
The agents looked at themselves for a few seconds. It felt like a lifetime. Finally, the unsmiling agent shut my 
bag, put the handcuffs back in his pocket and smiled.
“Welcome to America”.America at Last
Five hours and forty-three minutes after the plane landed, I was finally free. I was in America. Tunde was waiting 
and worried.
“What happened?” he asked as soon as I walked out of Customs.
When I told him, he laughed so hard tears were streaming down his eyes. Then, he grabbed me in those firm, muscular 
arms of his and lifted me up right outside the arrival hall.
“Welcome to America, my darling,” he said in a soft, happy voice.
I looked at America in the fading light and shrugged in surprise. I had imagined a sunny city with people so happy 
it’s infectious. I had even glimpsed the sun and seen the people from the customs area.
Now, it was dark and gloomy and a little bit chilly. It was late September. I’m told this is the fall season – the 
prelude to winter. People were wearing knickers and shorts. But, I was freezing.
If it ever gets this cold at any time of the year in my country, they may well declare a national emergency. Not 
that it would help much though because the last time a president declared a national emergency, it was about the 
infrequent power supply. At that time, we had power six hours every day. After he declared it a national emergency, 
we were lucky to have power six hours every week.
But, why worry about the cold, I told myself. I was with the love of my life.
“I told you, didn’t I? Our children will be Americans,” Tunde said, reminding me of a promise he made to me on the 
phone during one of his thousands of calls.
“And I told you, there is no place like home. We will stay here for a few years and go back home,” I responded.
“You call that place a country! With all those illiterates in power,” he hissed.
At that moment, Nigeria was the farthest thing from my mind. I was in God’s own country. Why worry about the 
devil’s backyard? I pulled Tunde closer and kissed him. His lips were cold and chapped. But, it was the best kiss 
I’ve had in four years. Heck, it was my first kiss in four years.
“I’ve made the best plan for your start in America,” Tunde announced. “Tonight, we sleep at the Hilton. Tomorrow, 
we’re going to Atlantic City for the weekend. It’s going to be a blast”.
I wanted him to keep talking. I loved that he was still a romantic. I loved the sound of his voice. I even loved 
the faint lisp that creeps into his speech sometimes. He was cute. He could be sitting on a toilet right now and 
I’ll think he’s the cutest thing on God’s earth.
I didn’t want to go to a hotel or to Atlantic City. I wanted to go home and cook him a true Nigerian dinner. I 
wanted to get in bed with him. I wanted to start working on a baby as soon as possible. I wasn’t getting any 
younger. I was 27. And, I know a grandchild would heal the rift between my father and I.
“Just have a child as soon as you can, your father will forgive you. A new child solves every problem,” my mother 
advised me on my last night in Lagos.
But, Tunde has a plan and we have to stick to it. That’s what a good wife does.
Just so we’re clear, dear diary – Tunde and I are legally and traditionally married. He paid my dowry before he 
left Lagos. His family brought yams, wine and bags of rice to my family. Unknown to everyone but my two sisters, 
brother and Tunde’s best friend, we were also legally married.
On the morning before he left for America, we drove to the registry in Lagos Island and took out a marriage 
license. The reason we kept it a secret was because we are Nigerians and we like big wedding parties.
We had to get married before a priest then throw the mother of all parties – a party that was sure to disrupt 
vehicular traffic in our neighborhood. It’s the only way we know how to do weddings in Nigeria. It doesn’t matter 
if the next day, we’re as poor as church rats again. All that matters is that for one day, we were the talk of the 
neighborhood.
As soon as we got into the hotel room, I pounced on Tunde and drained every fluid in his groin. I woke up three 
times during the night just to catch up with my sex quota. Four years is a long time for a girl to go without. 
Tunde was so sore he screamed when water poured on his penis in the shower in the morning.
The next morning, we got in his car and headed for Atlantic City. My America journey was about to begin.

Heartbreak
Something is bothering Tunde. He’s not saying what it is. But, a girl can tell.  It’s the way his gaze drifts into 
the distance when he should be ecstatic. It’s the slow, deliberate way he chews his food. It’s in the way he looks 
at me when he thinks I’m not looking.
“Is everything okay?” I asked on our second night in Atlantic City.
“Yes, why?” he replied.
“I don’t know. I just feel something is on your mind,” I said.
“You worry too much, my darling,” he re-assured me. “Come on, get dressed, there’s a nice club I want to take you 
to.
“We can sleep in tonight. I have jetlag, “I protested.
“If we stay in, you know we won’t sleep,” he replied with a knowing wink.
“Well, I’m not getting any younger. My goal is to have our first child within a year,” I confessed.
“You’re not God. You can’t force these things,” he said.
“Heaven helps those who help themselves. It’s in the Bible,” I responded.
“We have plenty of time. I want to show you some of my latest moves,” he pleaded.
I gave in reluctantly. I don’t want this man wasting his energy on the dance floor when we can be using that energy 
to make babies. But, a girl needs to keep her man happy.
Tunde has indeed learnt a lot of dance moves. Back in Lagos, he was like a programmed robot on the dance floor. 
But, now on the dance floor, he’s moving like a leaf in the wind. He could move in so many ways you’ll think he was 
a ballerina in a previous life. We were a hit on the dance floor, well, Tunde was. Half the night, I was stealing 
glances at the many girls who wished he was dancing with them.
I woke up very early this morning. It was time to return to Baltimore, Tunde’s base.
I had dreamt of Baltimore for four years. Tunde has told me a lot about it. I could picture people eating seafood 
at restaurants. I could picture Tunde at work in his small newspaper office. I could picture the town home he 
bought a little over a year ago in anticipation of my coming over.
I was eager to start my new life.
Tunde slept longer than usual. Sometimes, I felt he was looking at me but when I turned around, his eyes were 
firmly closed. Maybe I was too eager to leave this crazy city with the gamblers, drunks and casinos, and go home 
with my husband.
Finally, he woke up and looked at me with such sad eyes I thought someone had died.
“What’s wrong, darling?” I asked.
“There is something I have to tell you,” he started mournfully.
Whatever it was, I knew it was bad. But, this is why we’re partners, I told myself. We can face anything together.
“What is it?” I asked.
“When I told you I had my papers, I wasn’t telling the truth,” he continued.
“You’re still illegal?” I asked.
“No, I’m legal now,” he replied.
“Well, it’s all a matter of details. You don’t have to tell me anything if it makes you feel bad,” I assured him.
“It’s the way I got it,” he said.
“Tunde, don’t worry. You got it. I’m here. We have each other. That’s what matters to me,” I told him.
“I had to marry a girl to get my papers,” he muttered sadly.
I burst into laughter. I have heard about this and know people pay women to pretend they are their wives so they 
can get a green card. I was laughing out of relief. I was relieved that my Tunde was still the same. He never lies 
to me.
“It’s okay, darling – I hear everyone does it,” I reassured him.
“You’re sure?” he answered with a frown.
“Oh, yeah – you did what you had to do,” I told him.
“Oh, thank God. I was worried,” he exhaled.
I pushed him on the bed and started kissing him.
“You are all that I care about,” I told him.
“You don’t know how relieved I am. We’re gonna have to make some adjustment for the next year or so?” he said.
“You’re still paying her?” I asked.
“Technically,” he replied.
That was a red flag. When Tunde dribbles himself into a tight corner, he always throws out the word, “technically”.
“How technical?” I asked.
“Well, um, we kind of live together,” he muttered.
“What?” I screamed.
“I had to do it for real or she won’t buy it. But, don’t worry, I have about ten months left before my permanent 
green card comes,” he said, rushing the words, maybe in the hope that I wouldn’t hear every thing. But, my ears 
have never been more alert.
“You are married!” I yelled.
He had no answer. He couldn’t say a word.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I screamed.
“I tried,” he replied.
“Holy Mary mother of God!” I exclaimed.
“Listen, honey – just bear with me. You’re the most important person to me,” he pleaded.
He kept going on and on. He pleaded, cried and pleaded some more. I think this is what they call a shock because my 
mind went blank. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t cry.
In my haze, I heard him say he already told “Sandra”, that was the name of his wife, that his younger sister was 
coming from Nigeria and was going to stay with them until she sorts herself out.
I left Nigeria to be with the man of my dreams. In America, I was his sister.

My Husband’s Wife
Sandra is a plump, colorless, pasty white woman with a voice that sounds like metal grinding on metal. She is 
twenty years older than Tunde. She is the kind of woman I knew Tunde would not give a second look. Tunde is her 
third husband and she looks at him like you would look at a favorite puppy.
I guess the green card makes a man do strange things.
What Sandra lacked in looks and figure, she more than made up for with personality. She was kind, caring and had 
everything you look for in a big aunty. But, she was my husband’s wife. That made her the devil.
“Hey, Ralph, you brought my new sister home!” she screeched as she ran over to the car to welcome us.
It took me a few moments to realize he was talking about Tunde. I didn’t know he had become Ralph. His parents 
didn’t name him Ralph. He’s a Moslem. His first name is Ramoni.
I nodded subconsciously at Sandra. I couldn’t look at her. I feared I would jump at her and tear her into pieces. 
So, I looked at the floor. She thought it was the way Nigerians showed respect.
“You see the resemblance, sweetheart?” Tunde asked as he kissed Sandra.
“Oh, yes – honey. Almost spitting image,” Sandra declared.
I felt like throwing up. I felt like running away. I felt like screaming. But, all I did was shake my head and 
force a grin.
“I’m just trying to make my baby happy, sweetheart. You don’t look like him. You’re a very beautiful woman,” she 
whispered as she hugged me.
I was limp in her arms. I guess my body was cold too because she pulled away and gave me a really strange look.
“Are you okay, darling?” she asked.
“She has a cold. It’s never this cold in my country,” Tunde offered before I could say anything.
“Oh, poor baby. We need to wrap you up and get you some tea and soup,” Sandra said as she hustled me into the 
house.
A chill ran up my spine as I sat in the cramped living room. I couldn’t look up because the sight of their wedding 
picture was giving me a massive headache. Her hand touching me made me squirm. Sandra thought I was shivering with 
cold.
“Poor you. We’re having an unusually early cold draft this year,” she said as she handed me a cup of tea.
“Thank you,” I muttered as I sipped the tea. It tasted like poison. I loved it. I wanted to die.
Tunde pranced around like a kid in a toy store. He was making an African soup in the kitchen and acting like all 
was well.
Half an hour after we got into the house, Tunde brought me a tray with a bowl of egusi and pounded yam on it.
“Your favorite food, huh?” he beamed.
I wish I’d taken an acting lesson in Lagos. A lot of people were. Everyone wanted to be part of Nollywood. Except 
poor, stupid me. Now, I regretted it. If I had been part of a movie in Lagos, this would be a piece of cake.
Sandra was watching me keenly. I felt like I was in front of a shrink. I hate shrinks. I hate to be analyzed. In my 
country, if your health required the attention of a shrink, you were unofficially categorized as “crazy” and cast 
off. I was determined not to allow Sandra analyze me.
I swiped a mound of pounded yam, swished it around the bowl of egusi and slotted it in my mouth. It felt like a 
thorn as it slipped into my stomach. I was beyond caring. I stuffed myself. Tunde was happy. Sandra was amazed a 
smallish woman like me could eat that much. She didn’t know I was trying to gorge myself to death.
Then, I gagged and threw up. All over the white rug.
I expected Sandra to blow a lung. But, all she said was, “poor baby, we have to get you to bed”.
The best lie Tunde told on my behalf was my cold. Sandra took me into the guest bedroom and tucked me under layers 
of blanket.
“Get some rest. When you wake up, you can have some soup. I never liked any of that white flour thing Ralph eats 
anyway,” Sandra said as she left the room.
Later I found out that Tunde had told Sandra that he was working back-to-back double shifts at his nursing job then 
driving to New York to pick me up. Then, he called from New York that I missed my flight so he was staying an extra 
day in New York. That was how he finagled the Atlantic City trip.
I didn’t even know Tunde was a nurse now. When he called me in Lagos, he told me he worked in a local newspaper. He 
told me he has a Masters degree in journalism from Columbia. He told me he missed me and was scared he won’t know 
what to do with me when we meet again because he hasn’t been with a woman in four years.
He fed me lies. And, I ate it all up. I hate the word love right now. Love sucks.
I couldn’t sleep that night. How could I? My husband was making love to his wife in the next room. Americans don’t 
build walls with bricks. They use wood. Sandra wasn’t a quiet woman in the sack. She ran a play-by-play account of 
their lovemaking.
I also couldn’t help but realize that today was the first day of October, the day the old politician was going to 
marry me. I could be laying beside him right now and planning a move to New York as his American-based wife. I 
could have moved to New York, got myself a lover or two on the side and when he comes to town every other month, 
I’d pretend he was the center of my universe.
I had little to lose. Life expectancy in Nigeria was below fifty. The man was in his sixties. He was already on 
overtime. With a little luck, he’ll be dead in a couple of years.
But, I ran away from it. I ran to doom instead.
I drifted to sleep hoping I would die before dawn.My Life Sucks!
I did not die.
I woke up to an empty house. I think I half-expected Tunde to take the day off on my first day in his house. In 
Nigeria, you can call off from work at the last minute and everything would be fine. But, as I would find out 
later, in America, you don’t do that. Every hour counts. You have to pay the bills.
I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone anyway. When I woke up, I listened hard to make sure there was no one in the 
house. Then, I got up and found the note under the door.
“Aya mi, hope you had a good night. I’m off to work. There is food in the fridge. I’ll see you later, oko re to to, 
Tunde” the note read.
For the first time in my life, I felt like killing someone. If Tunde was in the house at that moment, I would have 
taken a kitchen knife, carved out his heart and hung it on the front door as an example for every dishonest men.
His note basically said, “My wife – hope you had a good night. I’m off to work. There is food in the refrigerator, 
I’ll see you soon, Tunde, your true husband”.
This man is not only a lying, cheating scumbag. He’s also heartless.
I walked around the house in a daze. I didn’t eat the food in the refrigerator. I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was 
filled with grief. My heart was aching. I hated myself.
How did my life get to be like this? Why didn’t I take the hint in Tunde’s voice when we talked on the phone before 
I left Lagos? Now, I can see why he didn’t suggest I run to America when I told him my father was trying to marry 
me off.
I didn’t feel bad for myself. I despised myself.
I was due for a promotion to branch manager in two years in my bank in Lagos. It was a position that came with a 
car, a house, a cook, a steward and a big expense account. Before I left Lagos, I had a flat, a used car and a 
maid.
I left all that for love. I bought a ticket to hell.
Tunde came home first. He had that stupid grin he always wore on his face when he was excited. Stupid me, I used to 
think that grin was cute. Now, I can see it for what it really is – a silly look on a grown man’s face.
“I left work early. I did some shopping for you,” Tunde enthused as he handed me a bag of clothes and shoes.
The bag slipped off my hands and fell to the floor. Tunde grabbed it and shot me a confused look.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Somehow, that question snapped something in me. I grabbed the bag from him and flung it at the television. Tunde 
ran to the 42-inch television, catching it before it crashed to the floor. He steadied it back on the wall and 
turned to me.
“You think this is easy for me?” he asked.
“Stop patronizing me. I am not a fool. I’m not going to play your silly games!” I screamed at him.
“What games? This is for us, our future. I need the papers for us,” he pleaded.
“There is no us. There is you and there is me,” I yelled.
“I know you’re angry. But, just reason with me right now,” he said, holding my hand.
“Don’t you ever touch me,” I said as I yanked my hand away.
“You can’t do this. If Sandra knows what’s up, we’re both fucked. We’ll both be in Lagos before the weekend,” he 
pleaded.
“That’s your bag of wahala”, I replied as I stomped up the stairs to the guest bedroom and slammed the door shut.
I didn’t open the door for the rest of the day. I don’t know what lie Tunde told Sandra. But, she didn’t bother me 
that night.

Read more…
Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg and his company are suddenly facing a big new round of scrutiny and criticism about their cavalier attitude toward user privacy.

An early instant messenger exchange Mark had with a college friend won't help put these concerns to rest.









According to SAI sources, the following exchange is between a 19-year-old Mark Zuckerberg and a friend shortly after Mark launched The Facebook in his dorm room:.

Zuck: Yeah so if you ever need info about anyone at Harvard

Zuck: Just ask.

Zuck: I have over 4,000 emails, pictures, addresses, SNS

[Redacted Friend's Name]: What? How'd you manage that one?

Zuck: People just submitted it.

Zuck: I don't know why.

Zuck: They "trust me"

Zuck: Dumb fucks.

Brutal.

Could Mark have been completely joking? Sure. But the exchange does reveal that Facebook's aggressive attitude toward privacy may have begun early on.

Since Facebook launched, the company has faced one privacy flap after another, usually following changes to the privacy policy or new product releases. To its credit, the company has often modified its products based on such feedback. As the pioneer in a huge new market, Facebook will take heat for everything it does. It has also now grown into a $22 billion company run by adults who know that their future depends on Facebook users trusting the site's privacy policy.

But the company's attitude toward privacy, as reflected in Mark's early emails and IMs, features like Beacon and Instant Personalization, and the frequent changes to the privacy policy, has been consistently aggressive: Do something first, then see how people react.

And this does appear to reflect Mark's own views of privacy, which seem to be that people shouldn't care about it as much as they do -- an attitude that very much reflects the attitude of his generation.

After all, here's what early Facebook engineering boss, Harvard alum, and Zuckerberg confidant Charlie Cheever said in David Kirkpatrick's brilliantly-reported upcoming book The Facebook Effect.

"I feel Mark doesn't believe in privacy that much, or at least believes in privacy as a stepping stone. Maybe he's right, maybe he's wrong."

Again in Kirkpatrick's book, Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg puts it this way:

"Mark really does believe very much in transparency and the vision of an open society and open world, and so he wants to push people that way. I think he also understands that the way to get there is to give people granular control and comfort. He hopes you'll get more open, and he's kind of happy to help you get there. So for him, it's more of a means to an end. For me, I'm not as sure."

Facebook declined to comment about Mark's attitude toward privacy.

Read more…

Nine people have been arrested after ransacking the headquarters of one of India's most famous Hindu holy men, Paramhamsa Nityananda, after a local television played a video that appeared toshow him in bed with two women.

Nityananda seems to have gone into hiding before the villagers attacked his compound, some 19 miles from the southern city of Bangalore. 100 police officers are now reported to be protecting the ashram, which houses a variety of Nityananda's followers.

A Hindu holy man, Swami Nityananda is reported to have over 2 million followers and has over 11 ashrams in India and 26 in different countries around the world.

The video tape of the swami, though relatively tame by Western standards, has greatly angered both his followers and critics. One villager told the BBC, "He is a high-flying Swamiji doing fraud on innocent people, he should not be spared."

The Nithyananda Mission ashram released a statement calling the video "a mix of conspiracy, graphics and rumours".

A Hindu holy man in India has denied any wrongdoing, days after video emerged apparently showing him engaging in sexual acts
with two women.

A spokesman for Nithyananda Swami said he was at the Kumbh Mela festival and would soon "clear the air".

In a video released on Sunday, the guru said he had done nothing illegal and
the scandal was "a false campaign".

His ashram near the southern city of Bangalore was vandalised last week after TV channels broadcast
the video..

'Nothing illegal'

In a message on his official website on Sunday, the guru asked his followers
to remain calm and patient.

"I assure all of you that nothing illegal has been done by me or my organisation. We are in the process of
collecting evidence to establish this lie and the motive behind this
false campaign," he said.

Swamiji, as he is known to his followers, said he would soon provide an explanation and answer all
their queries.

"There is total transparency at the ashram and all allegations of illegal activity are baseless and motivated," ashram
spokesman Satichandananda told a press conference on Monday.

Meanwhile, cases have been filed against the holy man in the southern city of
Madras (Chennai) for "outraging the people's religious sentiments".

The guru's followers allege the video was created and distributed by a
jealous inmate of the ashram in a bid to defame him.

Last week the ashram called the footage "a mix of conspiracy, graphics and
rumours".

Nithyananda Swami has a huge following in southern India and the video shocked his devotees and angered locals.


WATCH: This appears to be the original broadcast, but can't say for certain (CONTAINS MILDLY EXPLICIT CONTENT)


Read more…

Nigeria should be divided into two nations to avoid further bloodshed between Muslims and Christians, said Muammar Gaddafi, the Libyan leader, according to a BBC report.jpeg&STREAMOID=K4Kkb5XXQ3MTKBZasT5yIC6SYeqqxXXqBcOgKOfTXxQVYbv$eKZGfsfEt_68sEfHnW_PgxgftuECOcfJwS6Jtlp$r8Fy$6AAZ9zyPuHJ25T7a9GKDSxsGxtpmxP0VAUyHL6IDcZHtmM2t7xO$FHdJG95dFi6y2Uma3vSsvPpVyo-

He made this call in a speech to students, where he praised the example of India and Pakistan in 1947 saying the “partition saved the lives of millions of Hindus and Muslims.”

According to the Libyan leader, splitting Nigeria “would stop the bloodshed and burning of places of worship,” Jana, the Libyan news agency quoted him as saying.

Mr. Gaddafi, former chairman of the African Union, described the recent Jos violence as a “deep conflict of religious nature” caused by the federal state, “which was made and imposed by the British, in spite of the people’s resistance to it.”

He described the partition of India as a “historic and radical solution.” Old India nation split in 1947 into a Muslim Pakistan and Hindu-India.

The Libyan leader has a history of making such boisterous calls as he called for the abolishment of Switzerland last year, saying the Swiss land should be divided among Italy, Germany and France.

The BBC also reported that a senior Nigerian diplomat said he was not taking the suggestion seriously.

Read more…

By Chioma Igbokwe

advertisement

Visualize a scenario where you are fast asleep beside your partner and at 2.00am, the ring tone of your phone disturbs your sleep. With your eyes heavy with sleep after a hectic day and retiring to bed just an hour earlier you pick the call only to hear the voice of a stranger you never met.

The voice is that of the opposite sex. You try to fix a face or incident to it but cannot. While you battle with ‘I can’t remember who you are’ interjection, he/she insists loudly that you gave him/her appointment to call you because you would be sleeping alone in your room.

He/she further puts you on the spot that you had always talked at such hours in the past and you are merely pretending not to know the caller. Your spouse at last takes the caller for real and counts you a liar who deliberately put up denial to save face. Problems arise from there and at last the relationship crashes.

To you, this is just a conjecture. But to many Nigerians, it is real life drama that changed the course of their lives and happiness. Despite the gains of free midnight calls offered subscribers by GSM operators, many Nigerians have such adverse stories to tell about free midnight calls that became a monster to them. To such persons who have suffered the negative impact, the free calls are not worth the trouble and the effects they inculcate.

“It has caused more harm than good to the society, the individual and families”, said a respondent who fumes at the hazards. Before the promo started any child who is awake till 1.00am must be a student who is seriously preparing for his or her forthcoming examinations. Then with the dilapidated state of the power sector, such a person would risk the effect of candle to the eyes and burn it for hours just to ensure that he/she graduates with a good grade.

But today the reverse is the case, at 12.am on the dot, children and adults, especially the singles embark on compulsory vigil just to tap into the gains of free calls that enable them talk sense and nonsense endlessly. A phone user who cannot spend three hours in a church or mosque for vigil will have his eyes wide open because of midnight call till morning. Some use the opportunity to engage on conference calls where families would seize the opportunity to chat.

Others use it as an avenue to engage in fraudulent act while most use the period to woo and toast ladies or men, even the married. Saturday Sun found that such clandestine raunchy calls are laden with romance and deep frolic that go beyond the ordinary level. And there is no need to emphasise that these midnight call have shattered and destroyed marriages and other relationships.

One of such victims of free romantic midnight calls is Jide Adesanya who lamented that it was midnight call that crashed his marriage, which he had been managing to stabilise. “I am a divorcee today because of midnight call. I was battling to save my marriage, which was on the brink of collapse because of a mistake I made in the past.

I had promised my wife that it would not repeat itself, till one night that I had convinced my wife to spend the night in my room. The grave mistake I made was not to switch off my phone. At 1.00am, with my wife in my arms my phone rang. Blood of Jesus, I pleaded hoping that my wife did not hear. I was about to switch off the phone when she asked me to answer the call, as it could be an emergency.

Could you believe that it was a voice of a woman who claimed to know me? I tried my best to pretend it was a mistake. Only for the idiot to call back insisting that I used to be her lover.

Even when I told her that I am a married man she insisted that we could always handle the affair the way we had always done. My wife got mad and that was it. Till date, I have not seen this woman who I have been begging to come help me clear the crisis that broke my marriage. Today, my marriage is over but what I do is to arrest anyone that dares call my number at night.”

Mr. Paully Onyeka blamed midnight free calls for his children’s poor attitude to reading at night and thereby performing poorly in school. “The advent of GSM has caused more harm than good especially among our children. The problem is not the midnight call but the fact that these phones are accessible. If you decide not to buy a phone for your child, one way or another, they will raise money and buy one.

I am not saying that it is not good that these products are cheap and affordable all I am hammering on is that it they have caused more bad than good to Nigerians. I was shocked one day when I woke up at 3.00am and heard voices. I quickly grabbed my cutlass and moved towards the direction of the noise only to discover that it was from my 13-year-old son. He was making a call at that unholy hour. This is a boy that has been performing badly in school, instead of reading he spends his time making irrelevant calls. How can this boy stay awake in class when lectures are on? No wonder the, performance of our children is dwindling by the day. I suggest that free midnight call should be abolished. If they want to subsidise, let them reflect it on our tariff.”

Nnenna, a journalist decided to find out who and how on earth a crippled man was able to get her number and wake her up at 2.00am. “At 2.00am, my phone rang, my husband who was by my side woke me up to pick the call. Scared that there might be an emergency, I picked the call.”

She was disappointed and relieved when he discovered that it was an unknown person.

How did you get my number? she queried and the caller, a man confessed that he asked God to ensure that whoever owns this number would turn out to be a friend. Nnenna explained that she is married and lying beside her husband. The caller who identified himself as Steve encouraged her that their relationship would be the perfect one since he was also married. He told her that the only way to control it was for her to learn to sleep in her own room.

With the consent of her husband, Nnenna decided to follow up the matter by conceding to the man’s request. They agreed that Steve should call her every Friday at 4.30am to help her wake up and receive the call. In the course of their discussion Nnenna sought to know why he chose to call an individual who he had not met. Steve’s excuse was that he has never been lucky with women. Ladies always abandon him because of his looks and the fact that he has no money. His wife, Steve lamented left him and followed another man. He decided to embark on such calls to try his luck if he would be able to get one who will agree to befriend him.’’

According to Chika Agina, a banker, midnight call is meant for irresponsible men and women who have no value for their health, thereby use the opportunity to shop for trouble. “I do not make midnight calls and would not take it lightly with anyone who calls me at such an ungodly hour. Irresponsible men or women use it as an avenue to toast the opposite sex. Any man who toasts a woman through free call is a beggar. Initially, when the promo started, I was one of those who stayed awake till 5am, just to chat with friends who wanted to. But gradually it started telling on my health.

As a banker, I had terrible errors in my job, I slept while counting money and I paid dearly for over paying people. It has no gain and I wish that it would be abolished so that people will value every call they make since they are paying for it.” Taiwo Oluwadare, student makes free night calls strictly to save cost and the night is a very peaceful time to discuss at length without fear of anyone eavesdropping.

I make night calls to save cost and also to be in relaxed mood to talk as tortuous moment in the day may not let me attend to some people especially my friends and relatives. No unknown person has called me in the night but it has cost me a dearest girlfriend. That night, I received the call and the person said I should guess who was calling, but unfortunately I mistook the person for an old girlfriend. That made my girl part ways with me bluffing my apology.

Although Chigoziem Ehirim, businessman, admits that the promo saves costs, he however warned that Nigeria is not strong enough to cope with the after effect on their health. “I make midnight calls because, its saves money. The disadvantage is that it takes your sleep away and the next day you become stressed up. Because of the effect on my health, I stopped the habit. Despite the economic benefit, I would want it to be banned. You receive all kinds of useless calls from people who are out to ruin your life. People abuse free things and this free midnight call is one of them. The habitual callers have ruined homes, the children no longer read their books or study because they spend their leisure time on phones.”

Tayo 14, is rather happy with free night calls. To people of his age bracket, it is the only source of communication since their parents would not afford to buy credit for them. “It is very good, since my parents will never buy credit for me, I wake up at night and call my friends. MTN is doing that promo for the sake of children who do not have the money to buy credit. We can talk for hours and when it is about 4.00am, you go to sleep so that you can function the next day.” A nurse, Chikezie Okezie, could not hide his face in shame as he voiced out that he makes midnight call frequently although it is not healthy.

“I make free night call but I have to sacrifice the next day with serious headache. It saves cost but has its own disadvantage. I suggest it should be banned as, it will curtail the abuse by children who will prefer to talk throughout the night and sleep during the day. I am preparing for JAMB and you can’t believe that if I decide to do midnight call I will not blink an eye, but once I pick up my book, I will doze off. It’s terrible but still saves cost.”
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MEND calls off "ceasefire"

MEND says after careful consideration and extensive consultation, the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND) today, Saturday, January 30, 2010, has decided to call off a unilateral ceasefire ordered on Sunday, October 25, 2009. This ceasefire was ordered in the hope that the government of Nigeria would consider true dialogue founded on a sincere desire to bring justice to the people of the Niger Delta, and true peace to Nigeria. Acting like a victor over a conquered people, the government rolled out a list of its plans for the Delta which it assumed would end decades of agitation, promising at the same time to deal with all who remained dissatisfied with its lame effort to re-dress the injustice in the Niger Delta. It is sufficiently clear at this point in time that the government of Nigeria has no intentions of considering the demands made by this group for the control of the resources and land of the Niger Delta to be reverted to the rightful owners, the people of the Niger Delta. The government and oil companies believe the spirit of agitation in the Niger Delta has been blown away with the bribing of a few thugs it has labeled stakeholders. They assume giving alms to the youth of the Delta will secure installations. "Concessions" suggested by the government in its bid to "address" the injustice in the Niger Delta include ceding10% of its stake in the joint venture partnerships to oil producing communities and 9% to other interested Nigerians. This suggestion is preposterous! The same government that is unable to maintain or repair the death traps called roads or the archaic rail facilities in Nigeria, is promising to build super highways and modern rail lines through the Niger Delta using funds it hopes to realise from divesting 19% of its shares in the joint ventures partnerships. Which is an oil producing community to the government of Nigeria? The Nigerian government in all its wisdom defines an oil producing community as one where oil installations are sited; where oil is drilled or where flow stations and other facilities relevant to the continued bleeding of the Niger Delta and exportation of its mineral resources are found. Does this government not realise that all surrounding communities are sitting atop the same oil deposits and would be producers if their communities were drilled as well? By this crude definition, the government will consider Kaduna state and other Northern states where pipelines pass through to the refinery in Kaduna, oil producing states. What gives this government the right to share the resources of the Niger Delta between its cronies in ceding this suggested 19 percent? The Nigerian government claims ownership of the Niger Delta where it dares not do so in the North. The land in the North belongs to Northerners while the Niger Delta belongs to the North as well. Communities in the Niger Delta without installations suffer the effects of gas flaring, spillages amongst others so why does the Nigerian government not consider these communities in all its planning? The answer is simple. This government is hoping it can divide the people of the Delta in order to govern and plunder the Niger Delta. The government and oil companies are hopeful communities with oil installations, designated oil producing communities and rewarded for having these facilities on their soil, will safeguard such installations. Fortunately for the people of the Niger Delta, no one will be able to safeguard any installation from attack by our fighters. All who have misled the government and oil companies into such inanity will be put to shame. All companies related to the oil industry in the Niger Delta should prepare for an all-out onslaught against their installations and personnel. Nothing will be spared. In this phase, we will extend attacks to oil service companies which have experienced a boom as a result of the misfortunes of oil producing companies, repairing pipelines destroyed in attacks. The Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta warns all oil companies to halt operations as any operational installation attacked will be burnt to the ground. Oil companies are responsble for the safety and welfare of their workers and will bear the guilt should any harm come upon their staff in the event of an attack. By now they should know the military Joint Task Force (JTF) cannot protect their installations or staff in the event of an attack. We thank all patriotic and justice loving citizens of the Niger Delta and Nigeria for their unwavering support, overtly and covertly. The Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta will not capitulate until the actualization of our dream; the emancipation of the Niger Delta from the clutches of the Nigerian government and collaborating oil companies.
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From Alemma-Ozioruva Aliu, BeninA SOCIO-CULTURAL group in Edo State, the Benin National Congress (BNC), yesterday called on the Federal Government to intervene in its fight to prevail on the British government to return Benin artifacts carted away since 1897.The group also urged President Umaru Musa Yar'Adua to return 27 oil wells belonging to Edo, which were ceded to Ondo and Delta states by the administration of General Ibrahim Babangida.They also called for amnesty for the 27 soldiers sentenced to life imprisonment in Akure for mutiny.In a letter to the President and signed by the association' s vice president and secretary, Omowemwen Imadiyi and Osazee Erhiamato, the group said it would not hesitate to begin mobilisation with a view to instituting legal action against the British government to force it to return the artifacts.It argued that Britain's continued retention of the "historical and ancestral" materials ran contrary to diplomatic relations between the two countries."It will be fair and patriotic for the Presidency to review its foreign policy relations with Britain within the context of the backlog of oppressive tendencies, which have undermined Nigeria's collective aspiration - to be together for peace, progress and justice, as any attempt to downplay these fundamentals of unity and accord will have far-reaching negative effects on our national integrity, if not now, certainly later."The Benin National Congress as you may well know is a foremost pan-Edo socio-cultural organisation that has been at the forefront of the struggle for the just and unconditional repatriation of all Benin artifacts, which were looted from the palace of the Oba of Benin, 'primitive' museums and the shrines of the people of the kingdom under the pretext of colonialism" , they added.The statement said the ceding of Edo oil wells to other states was an injustice and depletion of the state's revenue, which is needed for its development.The group urged that the soldiers be granted amnesty, since according them, it was discovered that they were actually shortchanged by their superiors.
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